Inspector Jörgensen And The Last Tear: Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

Inspector Jörgensen And The Last Tear: Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

 

 

Three gangsters are found dead. Inspector Uwe Jörgensen suspects a connection, because: all murdered belonged to a notorious Lebanese-Turkish gang, all have several tattoos in the shape of a tear. And - each tear stands for a murder!

 

Detectives Jörgensen and Müller are supported in this case by Tarik Yagmur, who had lived among the gang members for several years as an undercover investigator for the drug squad ...

 

 

 

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Oct 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223739203

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

Would you ever get a tattoo, Uwe? my colleague Roy Müller asked me.

That's not an option for me, Roy.

Why not?

It's just not for me.

My name is Uwe Jörgensen. I am a chief detective. Together with my colleague Roy Müller, I work in a special department called the 'Federal Criminal Investigation Group', which is based here in Hamburg. Our offices are located in the Hamburg police headquarters. We mainly deal with the area of organized crime. That's where we are specialists.

Roy and I were sitting in the canteen of the Hamburg police headquarters, enjoying what they call lunch. But lately, it's been more about health education for the staff - and less about keeping the Hamburg police fit and full and happy. Vegetarian days and such. It sounds as awful as it tastes.

Well, tattoos aren't for me, I said. I think it's better to be a blank slate, if you know what I mean.

I think so.

See!

I once saw a woman in a strip club in St. Pauli who had the giant atlas stitched on her stomach.

Uh-huh...

You know. The giant from Greek myth who carries the Atlas Mountains!

Yes. But my high school graduation was a while ago!

In this case, the giant Atlas did not carry the Atlas Mountains, but the woman's breasts.

Funny idea.

I think so, too, Uwe.

Then what's in it?

"Now it's a funny idea, and it might look good. But twenty years from now, when gravity has done its work: What then? Then the Atlas giant will no longer be wearing the breasts, but they will be hanging in his face and the woman will be a laughing stock."

That's why, for my part, I say hands off the needle!

Roy pushed his plate aside.

What's going on?, I asked.

You know what?

Yes?

We'll be getting another fish burger by the cart soon!

I glanced at my plate and then pushed it aside as well.

I think that's a good idea, Roy!

*

The bald man entered the tattoo studio in Hamburg. Something bulged under the tight-fitting blouson. A weapon.

Hey, I need a tear! said the bald man. And it's a little sudden. You'll be able to postpone your lunch break for that, won't you?

One tear - that meant a successfully executed murder, which his gang had ordered him to do.

Rahim Anas Menem looked up after the bald man entered his store - a tattoo parlor.

I've actually already closed, Menem said amiably. His voice sounded fearless. These tattooed gang members literally smelled fear in their counterparts and relished it. But Menem wasn't about to give them that satisfaction. Not anymore. These gangsters could detect fear in any subtle change in tone, as if they had a sixth sense about it, which came from having often been horribly humiliated and tortured themselves before being given the opportunity to bully others. But just as much they felt inner strength.

Menem was about fifty years old, the bald man not twenty-five. He shifted his gun, sat down on the chair near the window, and looked out onto the street. At least a dozen tattoo artists of varying degrees of talent had already tampered with the visible areas of skin on his body. Menem was in a position to judge. He was, after all, a professional. 

The bald man turned his head in Menem's direction.

Well will it soon?

I've never seen you here before.

Doesn't matter, does it? I'm just passing through. And this is our territory, after all. So I'm at home here. He grinned.

Menem had bought the chair from a dentist who had closed his practice for reasons of age.

I hope you can stand pain, Menem said. He retrieved the sliding cart with the needle and pushed a few buttons on the dentist's chair, whereupon the back slid back a bit and the man was raised to working height overall.

Are you kidding me?

My back is already broken. I don't bend over to get tattoos anymore. Now hold still and show me where you want that tear to go!

At that moment, a car pulled up outside. It was a blue van with tinted windows. The side door slid to the side. Like a tongue of flame, the muzzle flash of an MPi flashed from the shadows inside the van. The bullets shattered the window. The bald man, who was lying there at exactly the right shooting height, wanted to jump up. But he didn't get the chance. His body jerked under half a dozen hits. Again and again the bullets smashed through his clothes. His bloodied hand still clutched the handle of his gun, yanked it from his waistband with flagging strength, and pulled the trigger. An untargeted shot went off, hitting a framed, large-format portrait photo of a black-haired young woman, whereupon it fell to the floor. A hit to the temple and a second to the half-open mouth then sent the bald man sinking back onto the chair. He hung half over the backrest, blood dripping from his mouth, nose and ears. Also from a dozen other wounds spread over his torso and legs. He was no longer moving. His eyes were wide open, his gaze fixed.

Menem was lying prone on the floor behind the dentist's chair. He had instinctively protected his face with his arms. Now he felt the blood dripping down on him. Outside, the driver of the van let the engine roar. The vehicle roared away. The brakes squealed as he turned the next corner.

Rahim Anas Menem remained lying on the ground for quite a while and did not move. He was paralyzed. It was only when he heard the police siren a few blocks away that he awoke from his stupor and cautiously stood up.

The siren became quieter again.

This operation probably had nothing to do with the incident here.

No, it went through Menem's head. It can take quite a while before someone calls the cops here.

You shall not have died without the tear! thought Menem. The tear of a murderer ...

Then the tattoo artist took his needle and began his work.

2

Ah, that's hot!, Roy said and made a face. We were sitting in a kebab snack bar. Actually, we were waiting for an informant named Nureddin Ghasil. But Ghasil was already half an hour overdue, and normally you could count on him for punctuality.

Ghasil, a native of Lebanon, owned a hair salon two streets away. Every day at almost exactly 6:00 p.m., he went to this kebab snack bar to eat. At irregular intervals, colleagues from our department would approach him there. Ghasil was in his early seventies, an old man who had lost his pension during the last banking crash and was therefore forced to continue running his store until he could no longer hold a pair of scissors.

Three years ago, he and his wife had been badly shot in a shootout between rival gangs. The two had been completely uninvolved. Nureddin Ghasil had been limping ever since. His wife had suffered worse. She had succumbed to her injuries. Since then, Ghasil was no longer afraid. Of no one. He regularly provided us with information from around the clans and gangs. Drug trafficking, prostitution, gambling, weapons, protection money and illegal garbage disposal - anything that could make a lot of money was part of the business of these tightly organized gangs, which were known for their secrecy, their exceptionally brutal entry rituals and, above all, their uncompromising treatment of anyone they considered a traitor.

Externally, they were recognizable by their tattoos.

They called themselves Al-Kubba.

The niche.

Or the closet.

The German word Alkoven derived from it.

It was the niche of silence.

The closet that remained closed.

At least for outsiders.

One belonged to such a gang all one's life. The only way out was death or another identity.

It was extremely difficult to infiltrate undercover agents. Actually, only recruited gang members who wanted to get out came into question. But this was a rare occurrence - and apart from that, the people involved usually had only a very short life expectancy if their duplicity was discovered. Hardly anyone took the risk. The individual subgroups of the