The Northern Cross (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel Book 2)

  Also by Hendrik Falkenberg in the Baltic Sea Crime Series

  TIME HEALS NO WOUNDS

  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 © 2015 Hendrik Falkenberg

  Translation copyright © 2016 Patrick F. Brown

  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 Das Kreuz des Nordens by Amazon Publishing in Germany in 2015. Translated from German by Patrick F. Brown. 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: 9781503939417

  ISBN-10: 1503939413

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  CHAPTER 1

  The night was calm and mild. The moon cast a silvery band across the nearly motionless sea. Even though it had been almost a month since the official start of fall, the late summer refused to go quietly. Its strength was waning, but it fought to hold on to each passing October day. The colorful leaves rustled in the slight breeze. A reddish glow on the horizon announced the rising sun. Fresh dew glistened on the grass in the nascent daylight. The first few birds pierced the silence, heralding the end of the night.

  The singing came to an abrupt stop when the hammering began. The steady rhythm of metal on metal tolled through the dawn. Soon the silence returned, and the birds renewed their claim on the breaking day. The uppermost edge of the sun was already peering over the horizon when the steady, though this time faster, sound of hammering began again.

  Someone out for an early morning stroll on this remote stretch of coast probably would have stopped and stood in astonishment. An eerie figure knelt on a grassy hillside that sloped gently toward the beach, its shadowy arm rising and falling steadily. Then the silhouette paused and shifted before striking the metal again.

  The final nail was slightly rusty, but its tip was so sharp that it couldn’t withstand the force of the blows. The resistance increased after it had pierced the flesh and hit a hard wooden beam. Labored breathing could be heard. Finally, after one last spirited swing, the defiant nail was firmly planted in the oak.

  Silence fell, and the sun climbed a little higher in the cloudless sky. Three massive nails covered in fresh blood, mixed with rust and iron, glimmered in the sun’s rays. With a grunt, the figure pushed the lower end of the wooden beam toward a hole in the ground until it protruded slightly over the edge. The grunting grew louder as the figure lifted the beam from the other end and placed it into the hole. Two hands filled the remaining gap with dirt to secure the base of the beam.

  The figure took a few steps back and admired its handiwork, which was now illuminated in the soft light. The figure captured the sight with a digital camera before tossing the hammer and shovel over its shoulders and quickly walking away. Not once did it turn around.

  The birds remained, eagerly demarcating their territory. A heavy wooden cross remained. Firmly planted in the ground, it looked as much at home on that hill as it would have on the top of a mountain. It was so large that it could be clearly seen from the sea. But only upon closer inspection would it be apparent that there was someone else on this secluded hillside. Arms spread wide apart and face turned toward the sea. Only the nails, which had been driven through the man’s wrists and feet, kept him upright. His body hung motionless on that immensely historic symbol, upon which so many others had taken their last breaths thousands of years ago.

  A brownish cloth was wrapped around the waist of the young man. However, unlike the itinerant Jewish preacher of two thousand years ago, he wasn’t wearing a crown of thorns and showed no traces of having been whipped. He seemed peaceful, almost floating above the ground, and were it not for the blood trickling from where the three iron nails had been hammered into his light skin, the scene might have appeared majestic. But when the first few drops of blood fell to the ground, they served as a reminder that wooden crosses were once a gruesome means of torture and execution.

  A gentle breeze toyed with the loincloth, while the immaculate body resembled a sculpture made of marble. He appeared lifeless until suddenly the crucified man trembled and opened his eyes. He struggled to raise his head, and though his vision was blurred, he gazed across the calm sea. Not a sound escaped his lips, and after a few moments his head fell back down. The sun had risen over the horizon by then. It shone warmly on the pale face of the man who, unlike his biblical precursor, would never rise again.

  CHAPTER 2

  A disgruntled Johannes Niehaus stepped off the bus and shoved his cold hands into his pants pockets. He had decided to leave his jacket at home that morning because it had been unseasonably warm lately. Unfortunately, he had no time to correct his mistake; this was his first day back at work after a special leave of absence, and he didn’t want to be late.

  Johannes reluctantly headed toward the station. The two weeks he had just spent with the national canoe team at their training camp in Szeged, Hungary, had passed by all too quickly. He had needed some time to process the grueling experiences of his first murder investigation and had wanted to take a breather from dealing with his new boss.

  It was expected that Hannes would be assigned a new boss after the involuntary resignation of his old one, Fritz Janssen. That this new boss would be Henning Federsen, however, came as a shock. His colleagues had been divided about Fritz, but not about Federsen. Hannes didn’t know anyone who found the chief detective even remotely likable. After Hannes’s first day working for him, he understood his colleagues wholeheartedly. At first, he had thought Federsen was having trouble adjusting. But after a week, he had been forced to reconsider.

  Hannes knew his colleagues also had differing opinions about him; as a semiprofessional athlete, he was sort of a part-time employee. And at thirty-two, he was one of the youngest detectives to have been taken off desk duty the previous summer. He had overheard others saying that the only reason he enjoyed so many privileges was because the head of the Criminal Investigation Department, Steffen Lauer, was a passionate amateur athlete himself. Hannes thought he might have been assigned to Federsen so all this talk about preferential treatment would finally end.

  Hannes pushed open the front door to the station.

  “You look like you’re already in a bad mood, and you just got back from vacation,” said a colleague, whom Hannes had almost hit with the do
or.

  “Sorry, Isabelle,” he said, deciding that it wasn’t worth pointing out that he was at a training camp. It was definitely not a vacation—especially since his longtime rival, Ralf, had also gone to Szeged and had made a point of pissing him off the entire time.

  “I’ve got a vague idea why you’re in such a miserable mood.” Isabelle grinned. “Federsen’s already in, and he’ll definitely be glad to have you back under his thumb.”

  Hannes muttered under his breath.

  “You’ll get used to him,” she said. Like Hannes, she was one of the younger detectives. “Things didn’t go well between you and Fritz at first, but then you started getting along.”

  “That was completely different. Fritz may have had his issues, but he wasn’t a jerk.”

  “Have you heard anything from him?” Isabelle asked. The sudden end to Fritz’s career was still a hot topic at the station.

  “No.” Hannes was always reticent when it came to questions about Fritz. “I can’t be late,” he said as he headed for the stairs, “otherwise this day will get off to a really nasty start.”

  But nothing could change his boss’s foul mood. Hannes had only seen him in a good mood once, and that was when Fritz had been kicked off the force.

  “So you’re back from your government-paid vacation,” Federsen said when Hannes poked his head through the door between their adjoining offices.

  “Anything happen while I was gone?”

  “What do you think? Now that I’ve got an assistant who’s always off training, I’m stuck doing all the work.”

  Hannes rolled his eyes. Everyone at the station knew Federsen had a knack for disappearing the moment there was a new assignment.

  “How can I help?” Hannes asked.

  “Until you’re caught up to speed, I’d prefer to handle it myself,” Federsen said and puffed his small but formidable chest. “Besides, I have a meeting in an hour with the chief. He wants me to present a couple of recommendations I had for improving the force. Ask your colleagues to fill you in.”

  There was no need telling Hannes twice. Relieved, he shut the door before Federsen had the chance to change his mind. Hannes surveyed his office. The remnants of its original use as a copy room were still apparent.

  Hannes wandered down the hall to find someone who could tell him what had gone on in the past two weeks. As it turned out, he hadn’t missed much. “At least, nothing your boss would have helped with,” said Marcel. Although Marcel was Isabelle’s superior, he was still a rank below Federsen. “We had a drug-related homicide—a guy was stabbed to death by another junkie—and a woman died of electrocution, which turned out to be an accident.”

  Back in his office, Hannes railed at Federsen for being an inveterate blowhard and wondered how he would pass his time. He would have no other choice than to press for a new assignment.

  However, his resolve faded when a red-faced Federsen stormed into the room and ordered Hannes into the adjoining office. Short of breath, the overweight detective plopped himself down into a swivel chair and scowled. Since Hannes had a pigment disorder that left him with one blue eye and one green eye, Federsen never knew which to look into. Federsen was a tiny man with a double chin and a face covered in acne and patches of gray stubble. Hannes could even see the red veins in his bloodshot eyes. The chief detective grabbed a cigarette with his nicotine-stained fingers and frantically tried to light it. He often flouted the station’s smoking ban in his office. Hannes felt Federsen was the biggest asshole in the city.

  “I was just about to present the chief with my suggestions for optimizing the internal structure of our organization when there was a news bulletin on the TV,” said Federsen. “A cross was discovered on some beach in the middle of nowhere. It must have been placed there recently.” He paused and savored the bit of knowledge he had with an air of self-importance, while Hannes wondered what could be so remarkable about a cross.

  “Is that against the law or something?” Hannes asked to break the silence and undermine Federsen’s smugness.

  “The problem, of course, isn’t the cross.” Federsen took a few loud puffs of the cigarette. “The problem is that there was a man nailed to the cross.” Federsen took a great deal of satisfaction in having impressed his subordinate. But then he quickly frowned again. “We both should take this case. I have already pointed out that we have a lot of catching up to do since you devoted the last two weeks to sports. But the chief thinks that my expertise is needed. Especially since there’s already a camera crew hanging around. We’ll head to the crime scene immediately. The medical examiner is already on her way, and from what I’ve heard, it’s not a very pleasant sight.”

  After parking the police car along the edge of a small rural road, Federsen and Hannes traipsed through two recently harvested fields. Hannes found it difficult to get used to Federsen’s driving style. It took him so long to shift into a higher gear that the engine seemed to be perpetually redlining. They both abruptly stopped when they reached the foot of a small hill.

  “What the hell . . .” said Federsen. Hannes couldn’t agree more.

  Before them was a gently sloping meadow, and a giant wooden cross was towering a quarter mile away. Even from this distance it was possible to see something that looked like a giant doll hanging on the cross. Hannes gulped and followed Federsen.

  A fresh wind blew from the Baltic Sea, carrying a salty, musty smell. Hannes felt the cold creep through the fibers of his thin wool sweater. The sky had clouded over, and a fine drizzle began to fall. Police tape fluttered from the metal poles which had been inserted into the ground around the cross. In front of the tape, a number of people jostled to catch what was going on. Hannes was surprised at how quickly the news had spread in this remote area.

  “Hyenas from the press,” Federsen said.

  “How did they get here before we did?” asked Hannes.

  “The cross was discovered by fishermen. They headed closer to shore and realized there was a man hanging on it, so they called the local news. They probably wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.” Annoyed, he spat on the ground. “Two young guys. After they lured the camera crews, they posted a photo on Facebook. The whole world has probably seen images of this mess by now. What a generation.”

  Federsen looked at Hannes, as if he were responsible for the behavior of others his age. When they reached the police line, Federsen pushed through the excited press pack. Hannes followed him with his head down, trying to evade the swiveling television cameras.

  “Can’t you hold them back?” Federsen said to the first officer he saw.

  The officer shrugged. “They’ve already filmed everything anyway. They had enough of a head start. It might be exciting to catch the evening news.”

  “Well, I better not see your face on there,” said Federsen. “Widen the police line. I don’t want to see a single one of those bums in five minutes. They’ve probably trampled over all the evidence.”

  While the scolded officer struggled to expand the radius of the crime scene, Federsen marched over to the cross. Hannes hastened to follow. He could see the black hair of the medical examiner, Maria Stern, who was staring with great interest at the wooden structure. Hannes nervously followed her gaze.

  The crucified man hung above the police officers with his arms outstretched and his head tilted forward. He was about Hannes’s age, and his body was remarkably toned. His amber-colored eyes were open and seemed to look directly at Hannes. It was only with great difficulty that Hannes was able to tear himself away from the blank stare. The deceased man’s dark medium-length hair clung to his head as a result of the rain that had recently started to fall, and water trickled down his bare, hairless torso. Hannes’s eyes moved from the man’s arms to his flat stomach to the linen cloth around his hips before finally resting on his feet. The right foot had been pushed over the left, and a single nail tacked both feet tightly to the wood.

  Hannes gulped several times but couldn’t prevent his body’
s visceral reaction. He quickly disappeared behind a nearby bush and vomited. Cold sweat mingled with the rain and ran into his eyes. He breathed deeply, then wiped his mouth on his wet sleeve.

  As the nausea subsided, anger and shame rose. His stomach had already proven to be a formidable adversary during his first murder case, which still drew some teasing from colleagues. He was so angry with himself for throwing up in front of his new boss and Maria that he reluctantly walked back.

  “Congratulations. Who knows what useful clue you just puked all over,” Federsen said. “Perhaps you’re better off sticking to sports if you can’t get used to the harsh realities of police work.”

  Hannes’s ears turned red with his embarrassment. Most of the other police officers stared at the ground, and it was clear the detective hadn’t gained any new fans by ridiculing Hannes.

  Maria was furious and glared at Federsen with her hazel eyes. In her outrage, her Spanish accent became even more pronounced.

  “Not everyone has a stomach of steel, Detective Federsen. And if you’re done with your alpha-dog routine, maybe we could talk about the victim?”

  Federsen looked at her angrily. His thoughts weren’t hard to guess. He couldn’t stand her. Actually, he couldn’t stand any woman in law enforcement. In his eyes, it was still a man’s world. A world for real men, not for wimps like his young partner.

  “Oh? Then why don’t you begin. Do you have an idea about the cause of death?”

  “Not yet. I have to examine the body more closely back at the lab. But”—Maria raised her hand just as Federsen was about to spit out a self-righteous response—“what immediately stands out to me is that the body shows no trace of a struggle or violence. Excluding the nails, of course.”

  “Are you saying that the guy voluntarily let himself be crucified?” Federsen let out a rare and unpleasant-sounding laugh.

  Arms crossed, Hannes observed his boss, who pulled another cigarette from a crumpled pack. It took several attempts until his lighter finally sparked a small flame. Federsen took a deep drag of the cigarette and blew the smoke in Maria’s direction.