Jörgensen And The Case With The Big Boss: Hamburg Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

I looked at the photograph. It showed a dead man.

"The man is an Albanian citizen and was fished out of the Elbe the day before yesterday," Criminal Director Bock, my direct superior, explained to me. "Mr. Jörgensen, have you seen him before?"

"No."

"You have, after all, been warned from several quarters that someone has set a professional killer called 'the Albanian' on you."

"And you think this might be him?"

"There are several factors that point to that. And it's not just nationality."

"But we can't be sure either."

"No."

"What do we know about the circumstances of his death?"

"He took a bullet to the head. That's all we know. Unfortunately."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215712139

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.

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Jörgensen And The Case With The Big Boss: Hamburg Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

1

I looked at the photograph. It showed a dead man.

The man is an Albanian citizen and was fished out of the Elbe the day before yesterday, Criminal Director Bock, my direct superior, explained to me. Mr. Jörgensen, have you seen him before?

No.

You have, after all, been warned from several quarters that someone has set a professional killer called 'the Albanian' on you.

And you think this might be him?

There are several factors that point to that. And it's not just nationality.

But we can't be sure either.

No.

What do we know about the circumstances of his death?

He took a bullet to the head. That's all we know. Unfortunately.

I took a deep breath. I guess I'll just have to wait and see what happens then.

There is at least hope that this dead man is identical to the Albanian, Mr. Bock explained.

But even if that were the case, I don't think that would solve my problem, would it?

You mean the client could award the contract to someone else?

Yes.

It's not out of the question.

We never learned who the dead Albanian was.

Some casualty in some gang war.

Whoever I had pissed off out there enough to send a professional killer after me, I probably wouldn't drive until it was too late either.

What are you going to do, Mr. Jörgensen? asked Detective Director Bock.

I took a deep breath.

Keep calm and just keep going, I said.

There was no alternative anyway.

*

The night was freezing cold.

The killer used a screwdriver to almost silently pry open the window. Child's play. The Uzi submachine gun hung on a strap over his shoulder.

He grabbed her with his right hand and got into the small, neat bungalow. In the darkness, he was barely visible. He wore black pants and a dark brown leather jacket. He also wore a balaclava that left only the eyes of his face uncovered.

The leather jacket fit pretty tight.

Underneath he wore a bulletproof vest. Most expensive version. It could absorb entire bursts of fire from a submachine gun.

The killer was ready for anything.

Nothing could go wrong.

The man whose life he wanted to extinguish was now lying in his pillows. For hours the killer had watched this house in the middle-class part of St. Pauli.

And now the time had come.

Now he would strike and then be taken care of.

There was a flash in his eyes. He was fully concentrated.

Nothing could go wrong...

The Uzi was ready to fire.

One squeeze of the trigger and the lead thunder would crackle loose. It wasn't an elegant weapon, but it was one that you didn't need to be a crack shot to be sure of killing your opponent. Because any of the lead bullets would already catch the other and prevent him from reaching for the gun himself.

The killer crossed a spacious, conservatively furnished living room. A large television stood in the center. In front of it was a seating area with a low table and clunky leather armchairs. A grandfather clock ticked. Looked like an ancient heirloom. The ticking got on the killer's nerves a bit. It reminded him of a timer.

The door to the hallway was open.

Carefully, the killer inched his way there, Uzi at the ready.

Then he went on slowly.

Everything was quiet.

Silently, he crept across the PVC floor.

The door to the bathroom was ajar. The killer pushed it open further and looked inside. No one there.

Next to it was the kitchen. The bedroom was across the hall. The killer had scouted that out. Carefully he pushed down the door handle. Almost silently, he opened it with his left, while his right held the Uzi ready to fire at any time.

The moon shone through the window.

The killer quickly let his eyes wander around the room.

A door led into another room. And from there you could again get back into the hallway.

The bed was located in a corner.

Double bed.

The side of the head was in shadow, the rest was illuminated by moonlight. The killer could clearly see something round and elongated standing out from under the ceiling.

The body of his victim!

The killer took one more step into the room. He wanted to be absolutely sure and not give his opponent a chance.

Then he pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash flickered red from the short barrel of the Uzi. The projectiles smashed through the bedspread, through the wood and into the wall. Within a radius of one to two meters, the hail of lead literally sifted through everything.

Now it's got you, you bastard!, he thought with satisfaction.

The killer took a deep breath. Then he stepped to the bed.

He did not turn on the light. He didn't want any of the neighbors to see anything.

With a massive movement, he tore the ceiling aside.

He expected an unsavory sight, but he wanted to be sure. Absolutely sure.

He groaned when he saw what was in front of him.

Tattered bedding.

The realization was like a blow from a club. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a movement and whirled around.

Too late.

His opponent remained invisible to him. A clacking noise sounded and in the next moment a metal bolt penetrated the middle of the killer's forehead.

His skull burst like a melon.

The force of the impact caused the killer to stagger backward and slide to the floor by the doorjamb. The cramped grip with which his right hand had held the Uzi loosened. The gun slid sideways until the shoulder strap tightened.

2

St. Pauli is generally associated with the entertainment district, prostitution and autonomous squatters. But there are also apartment blocks that look like ruins and streets where even police officers dare to enter only in team strength.

But there was also a completely different side to St. Pauli. Here you could find attractive single-family homes and small stores. Employees and small businessmen lived here, for whom the horrendous rents in Hamburg Mitte were simply too expensive.

And in one of those bungalows was the crime scene we were called to that day.

I parked my sports car a bit off to the side. Emergency vehicles were parked everywhere.

Uniformed police officers were patrolling around and securing everything. I also saw the coroner's car.

Let's go, Uwe, said my friend and colleague Roy Müller, pulling out his service card.

Without such a credential, none of the policemen would let us up to the scene. We got out.

We showed our IDs to the first of the uniformed men.

Uwe Jörgensen, Criminal Investigation Department, I muttered at the same time. This is my colleague Müller.

The uniformed policeman - a burly man with broad shoulders and blue eyes - nodded.

He made a hand gesture.

Come on, you're expected.

Who's running the operation here?, I inquired.

Police Senior Sergeant Niehoff, the police officer explained.

We followed him into the garden. I knew Niehoff slightly. He stood there with his hands in his pockets and looked rather thoughtful.

The coroner seemed to have just finished his work. He came out of the back entrance of the house.

His face was as pale as the wall. He turned to Niehoff. More than I have already told you, you cannot expect from me yet.

I see, growled Niehoff, his colleague.  

The doctor switched his bag from his right to his left hand and then loosened his tie. He looked pretty worn out.

A man without a head is not a sight I can stomach well before breakfast either, he explained. His smile looked pained. Well then!

He turned around and walked