Free JF01 - Blood Eagle by Craig Russell Page A

least a medium build.’
    ‘That narrows it down to about ninety per cent of the male population of Hamburg,’ said Fabel, without sarcasm and more to himself than to Möller.
    ‘All I deal with is the physical evidence, Fabel. Although I am intrigued by the victim’s obvious regard for her own health and fitness.’ Möller laughed. ‘I don’t have the benefit of your experience of the underside of our city’s life, but I wouldn’t have imagined that the average Hamburg prostitute places much importance on her health – or that of her clients.’
    ‘That depends. She appears to have been high-end – taking care of her body would be an investment in … well, her product . But you’ve got a point. There’s not much about this victim that fits. Did my guys take her prints?’
    ‘Yes, they were over earlier.’
    ‘Okay. Thanks, Herr Doktor Möller,’ Fabel made for the door. ‘I’ll get your full report this afternoon.’
    ‘Fabel.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘There’s one more thing …’
    ‘What?’
    ‘There’s an old wound on the right upper thigh, outer aspect. A scar.’
    ‘Bad enough to be a distinguishing mark that could help us identify her?’
    ‘Well, yes, I think it increases your chances considerably. But it has more significance than that …’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Möller turned back to his computer and punched a few keys. ‘I’ve got the photograph from the digital camera loaded into my report. Here it is.’
    Fabel looked at the screen. A picture of the woman’s thigh, the skin bleached white. There was a round mark with a lateral scar and some puckering around it. It had the look of a faint and ancient lunar crater. Möller punched a key and another image appeared. This time it was the back of the thigh. Instead of being pale, it was a lurid purple-red. Post-mortem lividity: the body having lain on its back, gravity had drawn the blood to the lowest points.
    ‘Do you see here,’ Möller tapped the screen with his pen, ‘the corresponding scar on the other side? They were very faint scars … perhaps five or six years old. Do you know what they are?’
    ‘Yes, I do,’ said Fabel. After all, he had two similar scars himself.
    Möller leaned back again in his chair. ‘I would think that that should narrow things down a little in identifying her … I mean, how many young women in Hamburg have been treated for gunshot wounds over the last ten years?’
     
    It rained heavily. Despite the downpour Fabel felt the urge to get out into the open, to allow the rain and the moist air to purge his clothes and his lungs of the musty odour of the morgue. His car was parked a couple of streets away and by the time he reached its shelter his blond hair was plastered to his scalp. He drove down towards the docks of the Hafen district. Within a few minutes the vast cranes that lined the banks and quaysides of the Elbe started to dominate the skyline. Fabel called his office on his cellular phone and asked to speak to Werner, but got Maria Klee instead, who explained that Werner was checking in with the surveillance team who were tracking Klugmann. Fabel told Maria about the gunshot wound on the body and asked her to carry out a thorough search of records covering all Hamburg hospitals and clinics from about fifteen to five years ago. By law any hospital or medical professional treating a gunshot injury was obliged to report it to the police. Maria pointed out that there was a chance that, if this girl was a prostitute and had been injured in some kind of underworld shoot-out, then the wound may have been treated unofficially by some bent medic. Fabel told Maria that he thought that was possible, but not likely.
    ‘Any other messages?’ he asked Maria.
    ‘Werner left a message to tell you that an appointment with Professor Dorn has been set up for tomorrow. Three p.m.’ Maria paused. ‘Is Professor Dorn some kind of forensics expert?’
    ‘No,’ said Fabel, ‘he’s a historian.’ He paused