The City Park Killer Case: Hamburg Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

Two people are murdered in quick succession in Hamburg's Stadtpark. At first, the victims seem to have nothing in common. When there are more deaths, the investigators finally get on the trail of an octopus-like organization that extorts protection money from Germans of the Muslim faith in order to finance the holy war of Islamist terrorist commandos ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Sep 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201435509

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

1

I went on another sailing trip on the Outer Alster with the man they only call the Lebanese on the Kiez. Every now and then we meet for a kind of informal exchange: he, the demimonde of St. Pauli, and I, Chief Detective Uwe Jörgensen from a special department of the Criminal Investigation Department and the Federal Criminal Police Office, which deals primarily with major cases and organized crime.

We are already a unique couple, the Lebanese and I.

Since I saved his life in a shootout once, he owes me. But that's another story. I don't want to tell it now.

He gives me tips now and then that I wouldn't otherwise get. Unofficial information. Things you hear on the scene. Things that are told around - just not to people like me, who walk around with a police badge and probably without a badge and without any official insignia always seem a bit state-bearing and official-like, so that they are distrusted.

Sometimes the Lebanese invites me to one of his striptease places on St. Pauli. That's okay. It gets a bit more exhausting when I meet him in his shisha bar. This steaming and bubbling is hard to bear. I prefer to breathe freely. So it's best if we meet on his dinghy cruiser and sail on the Outer Alster. Besides, no one is guaranteed to listen to us.

Wallah, I heard that someone is coming to Hamburg that you should know about, said the Lebanese.

Who?, I asked.

Jaffar as-Zadik.

Uh-huh...

The name is Arabic.

Figured as much.

He should tell you something.

You can't have everything in your head. But he looks familiar.

Wallah, I'll spare you the data dump. The man is a top international terrorist.

Do you have any idea what he wants in Hamburg?

No. But I thought it best that you knew. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe whoever I heard it from was just talking nonsense, too. But I don't think so. He's generally very knowledgeable.

Probably no use asking you about who you know that from.

Wallah.

I know, it's part of our deal.

No questions about sources.

You must understand! The wells will dry up otherwise. But I bet your superiors will be happy to be informed beforehand if someone like Jaffar as-Zadik is in town.

I took a deep breath as the Lebanese man made a U-turn and we sat down on the other side of the boat. I just hope this guy isn't carrying a pack of explosives right now!

You always have to reckon with that with guys like that, Lebanese said.

*

A sunny afternoon in the city park Planten un Blomen, very close to the café Seepavillon. The water of the park lake glistened in the sun. Joggers and cyclists bustled along the boardwalks. Teenage skateboarders performed tricks. The booming bass of a ghetto blaster mingled with the buzz of voices.

The rider of a trekking bike skilfully rode between the crowds of passers-by. He was wearing cycling clothes and a helmet tapering at the back. Most of his face was obscured by sunglasses with mirror lenses. The biker stopped, propping himself up on his left foot. A cold grin played around his lips as he unzipped his fanny pack. His right hand reached inside. Fingers wrapped around the cold grip of a pistol.

The biker's gaze fixed on two men. One was tall, lanky and dressed in a dark suit. That alone made him stand out among the joggers and skateboarders. The other was short and broad-shouldered. He was wearing a brown leather jacket. The two were engaged in a rather gestural conversation. The man in the suit put on sunglasses. His face was red. The broad-shouldered man in the leather jacket was talking at him.

A skateboarder curved riskily around the two, also balancing a boombox on his shoulders. The man in the suit moved a little to the side.

The biker, meanwhile, gripped the handle of the pistol more tightly, took the safety off.

A good hunter has to wait for the right moment!, he thought coldly. A good hunter - or a killer!

That's the way it was.

That's what it came down to.

He watched as the man in the suit reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a padded brown envelope. The guy in the leather jacket literally snatched it, then immediately hid it under his jacket. He turned briefly, letting his gaze circle. He almost bumped into a jogger when he took a step to the side.

The killer now realized that he could not hesitate any longer. Otherwise it would become impossible to kill both men at once.

He drove off one-handed, still clutching the handle of the gun, but without taking it out of his fanny pack. He pedaled hard, had put the car in high gear, and accelerated. He stopped directly toward the two men, then yanked out the pistol. On the barrel was a screwed-on silencer. The man in the dark suit was the first to recognize the danger. His face contorted into a mask of terror. The killer's first shot hit him square in the forehead. The hit man staggered back, straight into the arms of a skateboarder.

Both crashed to the ground.

Meanwhile, the man in the leather jacket whirled around, pulled out a short-barreled Schnitter & Wesson revolver. He didn't get a chance to shoot. A split second before he could pull the trigger, the first bullet from the biker's silencer weapon hit him in the chest. The sound it made was no louder than being hit with a newspaper. The man in the leather jacket slumped, pressing his hand against his shirt. Red ran between his fingers. He groaned, tried to yank the arm with the revolver up again. But the arm no longer obeyed him. Motionless, he lay there.

Meanwhile, the killer biker let the silencer pistol disappear in his fanny pack, curved recklessly between the joggers and walkers. He brutally ran down a skateboarder. The man screamed as he took the handlebars in the side. The biker accelerated, then chased across one of the lawns. He reached one of the paths that led toward the nearby grove, a sometimes rather lonely and deserted patch of woods in the middle of the city park.

The passers-by stood there as if frozen.

It took a few seconds of shock before someone picked up their mobile phone. A crowd of onlookers formed.

A young woman with long brown hair down to her shoulders pushed her way resolutely through the passers-by. She approached the man in the leather jacket, knelt down and bent over him.

I'm a doctor! she shouted to the crowd. Why don't you call the emergency room?

The man was still breathing shallowly.

She bent over him, reached into the inside pocket of the jacket and took out the brown envelope. She pretended to examine him and administer first aid. No one noticed the needle that suddenly protruded from her keychain.

The young woman stabbed, took the brown envelope, and rose.

She pushed past a young man who was staring at her suspiciously.

How long is this going to take! The man is dying! she cried.

The sirens of the police and ambulance sounded in the distance. But by the time the emergency services reached the scene, the young woman had long since disappeared into the anonymous crowd of gawkers.

2

Chief Inspector Ralf Deggart greeted Roy and me at the crime scene. The two dead men had already been taken away by the forensic officers. Markings indicated where they had gone down.

Colleagues of the recognition service searched the surroundings for traces, while a dozen officers were busy questioning passers-by and taking personal data.

The rider of a trekking bike apparently shot two men deliberately and in cold blood, Detective Chief Inspector Deggart reported with a serious face. The man was gone so quickly that ... 

A man?, I made sure.

Deggart nodded.

"According to the witnesses, yes. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to see of his face. He was wearing one of those modern cycling goggles as well as a helmet. We've rounded up all the people we can get hold of. My men are searching the park now. But the chances of the killer still hiding