Grave Intent Read online

  ALSO BY ALEXANDER HARTUNG

  Until the Debt Is Paid (A Jan Tommen Investigation)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Alexander Hartung

  Translation copyright © 2015 Steve Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Vor deinem Grab (Ein Jan-Tommen-Thriller 2) by Amazon Publishing in 2014 in Germany. Translated from German by Steve Anderson. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503950658

  ISBN-10: 1503950654

  Cover design by Marc Cohen

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Prologue

  Police Emergency Call—7:47 p.m., June 22, 2013

  “I’m standing at my own grave.” The voice was shaky and hard to understand over the phone.

  “What was that?” Emilia asked.

  “There’s a grave here. With my name on it.”

  Emilia hated the late shift on Saturday. The drunks were always having their little fun, calling the police and trying to pull her leg.

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No, no,” the man said, sounding confused.

  Emilia took a deep breath. She couldn’t let herself get worked up—these calls were recorded, after all.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Bernhard Valburg.”

  “Thanks, Herr Valburg. Where are you?”

  “At the cemetery.”

  “Which cemetery?”

  “Dorotheenstadt Cemetery,” the man said, though he didn’t sound certain about it.

  “Good, Herr Valburg. And you’re standing at your grave right now?” Emilia asked. Maybe the caller was some junkie tripping out.

  “I went to the cemetery this evening. It’s my departed wife’s birthday tomorrow. I always gave her roses when she was alive. Peace roses. She loved those, the yellow ones tinted with pink at the edges . . .”

  Emilia heard Bernhard Valburg swallow hard.

  “I didn’t notice anything at first, but then, when I went to get water for the watering can, I saw a newly dug grave. About a foot and a half deep—not near deep enough for a coffin. With a wooden cross, and a name painted on it.”

  “Your name?”

  “‘Here lies Bernhard Valburg,’” he read out loud. “‘Born December third, 1959. Died June twenty-third, 2013.’”

  “So the date of death is tomorrow?”

  Instead of a reply, only a sob came over the line. She wasn’t dealing with some crazy guy. This man feared for his life.

  “Herr Valburg?”

  No answer. Emilia nervously bit her lower lip. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.” His voice was just a whisper now.

  “Is someone else there?”

  “I’m all alone. I always go to the cemetery this late. Because it’s peaceful.”

  She had to help him, but all the available units were out on calls just then. And since there didn’t seem to be any immediate danger, it could be up to a full hour before officers got to him. Far too long. She had to get this Bernhard Valburg out of the cemetery. Otherwise the guy was going to lose it.

  “I suggest you use your phone to take a picture of the grave and the cross with your name on it. Then come on down to the station and report the incident to an officer here. They’ll look into it, get in touch with cemetery management. Maybe one of the staff saw something.”

  Silence.

  “Herr Valburg?”

  It took a moment for him to answer. “Yes.”

  “Are you following me?”

  “Sorry, yes,” he stammered. “Give me a moment. I’ll take a picture and come down there.”

  “Great,” Emilia said, relieved. The man’s voice sounded stronger now, not as shaky. He seemed to be pulling himself together.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  He hung up.

  The call from the cemetery was the last one Emilia got that night. Her shift ended shortly afterward; she left for home as soon as a colleague arrived to replace her.

  But she would never forget Bernhard Valburg’s frightened voice. The man never reached the police station.

  Chapter One

  A person’s house says a lot about him, Jan thought as he looked out a full-length living-room window onto a Japanese garden. A flagstone path led around a little pond. The placement of the slabs was so precise that it looked like they had been set with a laser. Beyond the pond were a small lawn and bushes in various shades of red, all aligned symmetrically. It would have been the ideal yard if only someone had been caring for it. But weeds grew between the stone slabs, a green film of algae stretched across the pond, and the overgrown bushes crowded the unmown grass.

  The living room told a similar story. The walls were coated with a silvery plaster that blended in with the marble flooring. A crystal chandelier hung above a polished cherrywood table, its glass clinking softly from the breeze coming in through an open window. Picture frames, still wrapped in brown paper, leaned against the wall, as if the owner of the house had no time to hang them. Near the table stood a rickety folding chair that looked more like it belonged in an IKEA showroom than on a lavish marble floor. The flat-screen TV was set on a cardboard box, its stand secured with duct tape. Cords ran through the room and into a socket in the open kitchen, as though the electrician had run out of outlets right in the middle of the job.

  A young female police officer was shining her flashlight along the window frames, searching for signs of breaking and entering. Her dark hair was neatly braided in a single plait, and she wore only a little makeup, no perfume. Although nothing about her looked suggestive, her dark complexion and elegant features gave her the aura of a mystical beauty more suited to ancient Egypt than to the Berlin police.

  Jan reached in his pocket, took out a stick of chewing gum, and stuck it in his mouth. Given that he’d been awakened shortly before five this morning, he hadn’t had a chance to see to his personal hygiene. At that hour he’d just been glad to get out of the house with matching shoes. But bad breath could wreck their first encounter.

  He straightened his hair and went over to the officer.

  “Detective Jan Tommen,” he said to her, holding out his hand. “I’m running the investigation for this case.”

  “Marie,” the woman replied, shaking his hand. She didn’t look impressed.

  Jan cleared his throat. “Did you know the victim, officer?”

  “No. I’ve been on night shift. They sent me over here after the body was found. The front door was open, so I went on i
n. When I saw the blood, I called for the crime-scene investigators.”

  “How long has the victim lived here?”

  Marie set down the flashlight and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She swiped at the display a couple of times before answering. “Sixteen months.”

  Jan was gazing at her phone in wonder.

  “A new notes app.” She showed him the screen. “I can enter notes and comments, pull in e-mails and briefs, then I copy it all onto the computer to create my preliminary report.”

  “Ahh,” Jan said stupidly. He refrained from reaching into his pocket and pulling out his little notepad. He’d catch up on his notes when he wasn’t being so closely observed.

  Marie nodded at him, picked up her flashlight, and continued her search.

  “So, over a year now,” Jan added, amazed. The place looked like the victim had only just moved in. Which meant the owner was either lazy, really busy, or never home. Who buys high-end furniture and has a Japanese garden installed only to let it all go to waste sixteen months later?

  Jan couldn’t wait to see what his investigation would bring to light. The first order of business was to learn more about the crime scene. He went over to the big table and knelt down next to the folding chair. A crime-scene tech was there now, taking a sample from a large dark stain.

  “Can you tell when the man was killed?”

  The tech shrugged. “Not from the blood sample.”

  “When can you know if this was the actual crime scene?”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard. We’ll compare this blood with that of the victim. If it matches, we can safely say this was the place. Zoe can help you with cause of death. She’s with the body now.”

  “Thanks,” Jan said, pulling out his flip phone. He made sure Marie wasn’t looking in his direction, then punched in Zoe’s number. He really needed to buy a new phone when he got the chance. His was four years old, an eternity these days.

  Zoe picked up on the third ring. “What?” she barked into the receiver.

  “And a good morning to you,” Jan said, smiling. There were some things a person could count on. Zoe being in a foul mood at this hour was as sure as the proverbial amen in church.

  “What’s so good about it?” she snapped, annoyed. “It’s six a.m. I haven’t had coffee yet and didn’t even have the chance to shower. The garbage truck broke down in front of my place, so it took a full forty minutes to get here. It’s raining, and here I am at a cemetery that was built before electricity. We had to patch together four extension cables just to get power to a lamp, which held for five minutes before the old prewar fuse went and blew. I had to hold a flashlight between my teeth just so I could tell corpse from tree.”

  She let out a deep sigh.

  “Plus, I’m standing practically up to my knees in mud, and it’s ruining my shoes.”

  “Your shoes?”

  “You know Christian Louboutin?”

  Jan wasn’t sure. “That the new guy in Forensics?”

  She let out a crabby growl. “And just when I think it can’t get any worse, the phone rings and a bonehead like you is on the line.”

  “Sorry to disturb. I just want to know if you have cause and time of death yet.”

  “Dead guy’s noggin is half-buried in the ground, the rain has turned this place into a swamp, and my colleagues in Evidence won’t let me turn over the body until each and every earthworm is catalogued.”

  Jan heard a lighter click.

  “Zoe, I wouldn’t be bugging you if I didn’t know that you can tell more from one glance than your colleagues can with a three-hour autopsy.”

  Silence on the line. Jan hoped he’d taken the right tack with flattery.

  Then she said, “I’m thinking his skull got bashed in yesterday evening.”

  “Thanks,” Jan said. “I’ll check in again later.”

  “If you must.” Zoe hung up.

  Jan went into the kitchen, turned away from the crime-scene investigators, and pulled out his notepad and pen.

  Victim: Dr. Bernhard Valburg. Residing at Dorenstrasse 24a since January 2012.

  Cause of death: Beating

  Date of death: June 23, 2013

  Likely scene of crime: Living room

  Where found: Dorotheenstadt Cemetery

  Perp: Unknown

  Jan shoved the notepad back into his jacket. Time to start investigating.

  Zoe leaned back on the bench and blew cigarette smoke into the air. Her blonde hair ran down her shoulders in unkempt strands. Her black leather jacket shone from the damp, and her tight-fitting jeans were spattered with mud. Dark-brown pumps with red soles stood on the bench next to her. Her naked feet rested atop the silver case where she kept her most essential instruments. Thanks to an overhanging oak, this was the only spot in the cemetery that was more or less dry.

  A few months ago, she’d been bored to death in Forensics. Day after day she performed autopsies in the same stark room with the same boring people. Working with Jan had finally given her the opportunity to be part of a proper investigations team. Still, she had imagined it was all going to be a lot cooler, somehow.

  What she hadn’t imagined was waking at five a.m., rushing to a cemetery in the rain, and standing with a flashlight in her mouth, eyeballing a corpse. And certainly not at the expense of her six-hundred-euro Louboutins.

  At least it was summer. She closed her eyes and dreamt of a coffeehouse with espresso brewing, fresh croissants, cherry jam, and maybe a layer of salted butter . . .

  “Dr. Diek?”

  A voice pulled her back to the rain-soaked cemetery She opened her eyes, not bothering to conceal her irritation.

  A young man stood before her. Judging by his smooth face, he was just barely eighteen. He wore white protective coveralls spattered with mud, leaving only his face exposed. If the overalls had been blue, he would have looked like a giant Smurf. The guy’s name was Roger, Robin, something like that.

  “What’s up, Robin?”

  “My name is Romir.”

  “Whatever.”

  “We’ve finished searching the crime scene. You can move the body now, if you like.”

  “That mean you guys are taking a break till I’m done?”

  The young man nodded.

  “Perfect.” Zoe stood, pulled out a ten-euro bill, and pressed it into the young man’s hand. “Go get coffee, then. Black, no sugar. And bring a couple of croissants.”

  The guy stared at the bill in his hand.

  “I’m not going to start till the sun comes up, anyway. You’ve got enough time to grab me breakfast.”

  Zoe sat back down, set her feet on the case, and closed her eyes again.

  “It won’t be light for another half hour.”

  “Right, and that’s how long I’ll be sitting here.”

  “According to regulations, you’re supposed to—”

  “Don’t care.”

  “But—”

  “Roger, look. My blood-sugar level’s about to bottom out. A condition that makes it extremely dangerous to be anywhere near me. For the morale of the unit and your general health, I need something to eat, and soon. Because inside this lovely case under my feet here? I have enough scalpels to create a dozen new crime scenes.”

  Zoe raised a merciful hand and waved the young man away. She heard him head off muttering, “My name is Romir.”

  Zoe descended back into her dozy half-coma. The sun still had not risen above the horizon. The rain had likely washed away all the good clues in this mudhole. But that bonehead Jan was right. She had an eye. She would find something.

  Chapter Two

  Chandu felt a bit hesitant entering the offices of Kripo—Kriminalpolizei, the Berlin Detective Division. A bouncer and debt collector, he never imagined he’d be coming here of his own free will. He tried to act inconspicuous, which wasn’t exactly easy, considering his size, his broad shoulders, and his imposing upper arms.

  There was more action in the lobby than at a shopp
ing mall on a Saturday afternoon. No matter where Chandu stood, he was in someone’s way. A panting woman loaded down with files bustled past him. He thought he heard a baby crying. Two uniformed officers escorted a drunk into the station; the man wasn’t done with his treatment and gave his aggravation free rein. Chandu was standing at a bulletin board, trying to get his bearings in this chaos, when a man approached him.

  “You must be Herr Bitangaro,” he said politely.

  “I am, sir,” Chandu replied, trying to hide his unease. The man was wearing a dark suit with a red silk tie and a pocket square. He looked like an old-fashioned dandy, his shiny hair slicked back with pomade.

  “My name is Patrick Stein.” When he shook Chandu’s hand cordially, Chandu could barely contain his surprise. Evidently Patrick Stein was overlooking the fact that the two of them had squared off in a parking garage eight weeks ago, when Chandu had almost blown a hole in the man’s forehead. “I recognized you right away,” he continued. “Not many people have such a . . . an imposing exterior.”

  “Uh, thanks. I’m working out . . .”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, Herr Bitangaro: you were a huge help to Jan in his last case. Your efforts really contributed to our solving the investigation.”

  “Don’t mention it. But Jan, he—”

  “Since you more or less belong to us now, I assume you’re here about the new case.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m really not too sure why I’m here.”

  “We could use your talents.”

  “Uh . . . okay. I guess that’s good. What are we—”

  “A most unusual murder.”

  “So what do I . . . Who are we—”

  “I’m almost envious of you getting it, but I have my own case to see to.” Patrick glanced at his watch and sighed. “Time flies. Nice talking with you, Herr Bitangaro.” He shook Chandu’s hand again. “If you ever have questions, you can always come to me.” He added a nod and headed off down one of the many corridors.

  “Telling me how to find Jan would have been nice,” the big man muttered.

  Once Patrick was gone, Chandu pivoted in place, hoping to see Jan or some other familiar face. He again had the sense of being in a crowded shopping mall, only now he felt like a three-year-old who’d lost his mother. He balled his fists and cursed at length—in his native Kinyarwandan, for safety’s sake. He was among cops, after all.