Fabel got up early the next day and arrived at the Cologne Police Presidium before Scholz. He waited in the huge entrance atrium, a visitor ID badge clipped to his lapel. It was strange for Fabel to be in another Police Presidium. It was very different from the Hamburg headquarters and Fabel found it odd to see uniformed officers still dressed in the old green and mustard uniforms, yet the Hamburg police had worn exactly the same until just two years ago. It was, he thought as he waited, so strange how quickly one adapts to change.
Scholz apologised a little too profusely for being late and took Fabel up to his office. Fabel smiled when he saw that the old prototype Karneval head had gone and someone had pushed files, phone and computer keyboard to one side and placed a new version square in the centre of Scholz’s desk. A yellow Post-it note with nothing but a large question mark had been stuck on the snout.
‘Very funny,’ said Scholz, turning it to face Fabel. ‘Better?’
‘Different …’ said Fabel.
Scholz looked at the head again appraisingly, sighed, and placed it in the corner where its predecessor had skulked.
‘I’d like you to meet the team I’ve got working on the Karneval Killer case,’ he said at last. He beckoned through the glass door and two officers came into the office. One was a young man who Fabel knew must have been in his late twenties to be a Commissar in the Murder Commission, but his skinny frame and pale, acned skin made him look more like a teenager. The other officer was a young woman of about thirty. She had a full figure and her hair was a mass of coppery-red coils.
‘This is Kris Feilke,’ said Scholz indicating the young man, ‘and Tansu Bakrac.’
Fabel smiled. From her name, Fabel knew that the female officer must be Turkish-German. He found himself wondering if the rich copper in her hair came from the ancient Celtic tribes who had settled in Galatia. The two officers shook hands with Fabel and sat down. Fabel noticed the informality between Scholz and his junior officers and wondered how disciplined they were as a team.
‘Okay, Jan,’ said Scholz. ‘We have only three weeks to go until Karneval. And as sure as bears crap in the woods, our guy is going to come looking for some more meat. For once I have the opportunity to prevent a murder rather than solve one. Or should I say we have the opportunity to prevent it. I’m afraid I just keep coming up blank. So we’re open to anything you have to suggest.’
‘Okay, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of getting a few things in motion before I came down,’ said Fabel. ‘You remember the Armin Meiwes case?’
‘’Course … the Rotenburg Cannibal?’ said Scholz.
‘Meiwes advertised for his victim. On the Internet. Gave himself the online identity of the Master Butcher. Twenty years ago, Meiwes might have gone through life with his fantasies remaining just that, fantasies. But Meiwes had the Internet. The Internet is the great facilitator. The great anonymous meeting place where you can share your fetishes and perversions with others. The exceptional becomes ordinary and the abnormal normal.’
‘You think there’s an Internet connection with this case?’ asked Tansu.
‘I think it’s possible that there’s some direct link. Before we go any further I think we need to understand how our killer thinks.’
‘God knows,’ said Kris. ‘He lives in a fantasy world, probably. A psycho.’
Fabel shook his head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Criminal psychologists and forensic psychiatrists don’t use the description “psychopath” or “sociopath” the way they did. These labels have become so common in the media that they’ve lost all value. People bandy around the word “psychopath” the way they used to use “axe murderer”. What we call a psychopath is better described as someone with an antisocial personality disorder. They tend to be devoid of feelings, of emotions, of empathy for other human beings. They never feel remorse. Most of them are easily identified because they’ve exhibited symptomatic behaviour since childhood.’ Fabel paused. He thought of Vitrenko: someone completely empty of anything human. ‘Serial killers generally exhibit personality disorders, but rarely are they psychotic. They know what they’re doing is wrong. A psychopath doesn’t. In fact, many psychopaths who have been successfully treated for their condition end up getting a truckload of remorse delivered at once and they commit suicide, unable to live with what they’ve done.’
‘So this killer isn’t a psychopath?’
‘I’m not saying that for sure,’ said Fabel. ‘But I think it’s unlikely. Serial killers tend not to have a single, solid personality but drift between identities to suit the situation, who they’re with, etc. Not multiple personalities, as such, but their own personality isn’t anchored. One thing they do tend to have is an enormous ego. The universe revolves around them alone. And that, along with the loose personality, is something they share with psychopaths. But the important thing is they’re not mad. I think your Karneval Cannibal needs to feel that he is not a freak. That he is part of a community.’
‘And that’s where you see an Internet connection?’ asked Tansu.
‘It’s a possibility. He needs a place where he can exchange fantasies, even compare notes or advertise for victims. I think that it is highly unlikely that your guy has never sat alone in the evening, huddled over his PC, and typed the word “cannibal” into a search engine.’
‘Granted,’ said Scholz. ‘But how does it help us?’
Fabel produced a file from his briefcase. ‘Before I came down, I got one of the experts in our technical section to give me a list of possible sites and forums that might interest our killer. Or at least those we know about. There are countless dark corners on the web to hide in. Anyway, I asked them to focus particularly on sites in German, and especially anything hosted from the Cologne area.’
‘Is that significant? I thought geography meant nothing on the Internet.’
‘It doesn’t. But if we find someone uploading a site with this kind of content in the area, then we’ve located a member of this … exclusive little community. Someone who might be able to give us a way in.’
Scholz examined the file. He winced a couple of times at some of the images. ‘My God … there are some sick fucks out there.’
‘And the Internet brings them together. That said, our killer may keep a very low profile indeed. He may regard himself as unique. But I reckon he has visited at least one of these sites.’
‘But?’ Scholz read the caution in Fabel’s expression.
‘But … Andrei Chikatilo, the Ukrainian cannibal in the eighties, Fritz Haarman in Hanover in the twenties, Joachim Kroll in Duisburg in the seventies, Ed Gein in the United States in the forties … all these cannibal killers existed before the advent of the Internet. There is always the possibility that he has ripened his fantasies in isolation. But I hope not. Everybody feels safe on the Internet. They think they’re anonymous when in fact they’re far from it.’ Fabel turned to Tansu Bakrac. ‘I’ve already explained to Herr Scholz, my feeling is that this killer may have had practice runs in the past. He tells me you have a theory about that.’
‘More than a theory. There are a couple of cases that I think are linked.’
‘Or maybe not …’ Scholz said doubtfully. ‘There’s nothing other than a Karneval connection to link them.’
‘What cases?’ asked Fabel.
‘A girl called Annemarie Küppers was found murdered in two thousand and three. She had been beaten to death. Whoever did it had been in an inhuman fury and had pulped her head.’
‘But she wasn’t strangled,’ interjected Scholz. ‘And there was no flesh removed. In fact, her underwear hadn’t been removed or interfered with either.’
‘You said there was a Karneval connection,’ said Fabel. ‘Was she killed on Women’s Karneval Night?’
‘No …’ said Tansu. ‘The day after. I’ll get you a copy of the file. Both files, in fact.’
‘What was the other one?’
‘This attack did happen on Women’s Karneval Night. In nineteen ninety-nine. A young medical student called Vera Reinartz was beaten, raped and partially strangled – wait for it – with a man’s necktie.’
‘She survived?’
‘Yes. And the really creepy thing is that her attacker was a clown. I mean someone dressed up as a Karneval clown.’
Fabel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s tempting to see a connection. But you say this girl was raped. Our Killer doesn’t have sexual contact. Was semen recovered?’
‘Yes. But the clincher for me isn’t just that the attempted strangulation was done with a man’s necktie … there were also bite marks all over her body.’
‘Okay, then,’ said Fabel, ‘I take it you’ve reinterviewed the victim?’
‘Sorry,’ said Tansu. ‘Another dead end, so far. Vera Reinartz dropped out of her medical studies at Cologne University. In fact she dropped out of sight too – about a year after the attack.’
‘But we must have a new address for her,’ said Fabel. ‘She’ll have had to register with the local police if she moved town.’
‘No trace of anyone with that name. But I’m still following it up.’
‘Maybe she’s dead. Shouldn’t this be a missing persons inquiry?’ asked Fabel. Kris had made coffee and handed him a mug. It had a printed clown and the motto ‘Kölle Alaaf!’ emblazoned on the side. Fabel knew this was Kölsch for ‘Cheers, Cologne!’
‘She’s not dead,’ said Kris. ‘She’s written to her parents a few times to let them know she’s alive and well but living, as she puts it, “a different life”. The letters have no return address but carry Cologne postmarks. The parents live near Frankfurt. That’s where she was from.’
‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘I think Tansu may have something with one or both of these cases. Let’s make finding Vera Reinartz a priority.’
‘What else did you do before you came down?’ asked Scholz.
‘I had profiles done.’
‘On the killer? Of course we did that …’ Scholz’s expression clouded.
‘I don’t mean on the killer. I have had psychosocial profiles done on the victims. I take it you checked out any possible points of convergence?’
‘Yes. Their paths never crossed, as far as we can see. Unless you can tell me something different.’ The clouds still hadn’t cleared.
Fabel smiled disarmingly. ‘Listen … I haven’t been going over the same ground as you because I think that you haven’t done your jobs properly. I’ve done all of this because you asked me to get involved and I have to do my own homework. Also, my perspective is different.’
Scholz nodded. ‘Fair enough, Jan.’
‘I know you’ll have done something similar,’ said Fabel, ‘but I’ve also had a psycho-geographic assessment done.’
‘Yes … we did the same. With only two killings to go on, our profilers said there wasn’t enough to plot a pattern. But they expressed an opinion that we’re not looking far from the city’s Altstadt.’
‘Did they pick up on the proximity of churches?’ asked Fabel.
‘It was mentioned, but dismissed. There are so many churches in Cologne. If there’s some religious significance, then I would expect the cathedral would figure. But even that would be difficult to assess. Cologne Cathedral is at the heart of the city and the layout of the streets radiates from it. You think this is a religious nut?’
‘Maybe. Not especially. It could be churches as buildings, rather than as institutions. As you say, Cologne has more than a few.’ Fabel grinned. ‘How do you three fancy being Cologne city tour guides for the day?’
It had been a week. Nothing. Maria had listened to the radio, watched the TV news, bought a Kölner Stadt-Anzeiger newspaper every day. She had probably taken the life of another human being, or at least seriously wounded him. Yet there was no mention anywhere of a body being found, or even of a BMW full of bullet holes being uncovered in a ditch somewhere. The Ukrainian had vanished into thin air. What she did find in the paper was a small piece about the murder in the kitchen of the Biarritz restaurant. She had made Slavko Dmytruk think that he could trust her. That she would keep him safe. Instead he’d been butchered because she had coerced him into talking to her.
The body of the Ukrainian had probably already been disposed of by his own people, or he had survived and they were nursing his wounds. In either case, they would be looking for her. But as long as she didn’t go near the bar or Viktor’s apartment, she reckoned she should be okay. And if they really had no idea about her identity or where to find her, then there was always the chance she could slip out of the city. Back to Hamburg. Back to her job. Back to her own identity.
But there had been a value in coming here: becoming someone else, something other than the object of self-loathing she had been for months, had allowed Maria to step out from under the phobias and neuroses that had piled one on top of the other until they had threatened to crush her to death. All around her were reminders of the forthcoming Karneval in Cologne, and only now was she beginning to understand how these people revelled in a few days of insanity, of chaos. The city became something else, the people in it became someone else. And after it was all over and they stepped back into their normal lives, they seemed to keep something of Karneval alive inside them. Maybe, she thought, that was what she had achieved.
God knew she had achieved nothing else. Whatever had possessed her to think that she could come here alone and track down one of the most dangerous and sophisticated organised-crime bosses in Europe? She saw now how hopeless and half-baked her pathetic little crusade had been. She would drop out of sight for another week or so; stay in her friend’s apartment, then go back to Hamburg. She would find a decent hairdresser and dye her hair back to its normal colour. She would don the clothes and personality of the old Maria, but without the neuroses. No one in Hamburg need ever know she’d been here.
Maria had to deal with the car. This second hotel was just off the Konrad-Adenauer-Ufer by the river and she had left the Saxo parked in the lot around the corner from the first. She would then drive it back to the garage she’d bought it from and let them buy it back for a fraction of what she’d paid. It had been an expensive car rental.
Maria was about to dress in one of her cheap guises but she checked herself and donned instead a smart designer suit that she had brought down with her. She was amazed at how well it went with her newly dark hair. She made up her face and looked at herself again in the mirror. Almost the old Maria. Except she made up her mind to pick up a late breakfast on her way to the car dealership.
Maria headed out of the hotel and walked with a renewed vigour and confidence. She had gone about two blocks when she became aware of someone close to her side and slightly behind her. Suddenly he was leaning into her and his fingers closed like a vice around her upper arm. Something that was unmistakably the barrel of a handgun was rammed into her back, above her hip.
‘Do exactly what I say.’ Maria felt a cold, hard fear rise in her as she recognised the accent as Ukrainian. ‘Get into the back of the van up ahead.’
The door swung open from inside as they approached the large panel van. Maria was bustled in by the gunman while a second figure, inside the van and unseen by Maria, swiftly pulled a blackout hood over her head. Something stung her arm and she felt a chill surge as something was injected into it.
‘This is where Melissa Schenker, the second victim, was found. Weiberfastnacht, last year,’ said Scholz. He, Fabel, Kris and Tansu stood at the alley mouth, hunched against the cold and drizzly sleet.
Fabel looked along the street. It swept around at the end but he could see a spire puncture the sky above the rooftops. He pointed in its direction. ‘What’s that?’
‘St Ursula’s Church.’
‘But the first victim, Sabine Jordanski was found near there.’
‘Yep. On the other side. Her apartment was on Gereonswall. But as I said, the significance is difficult to read. There are tons of churches throughout Cologne. And standing here we’re within range of at least four of the city’s twelve Romanesque churches – St Ursula’s, St Kunibert’s, St Gereon’s, St Andreas’s and, of course there’s …’ Scholz turned to indicate the other direction and held his arm out as if announcing a cabaret act. Fabel saw the massive, domineering twin spires of Cologne Cathedral soar menacingly grey-black above the city.
Fabel looked again at the place that just under a year ago had been a murder crime scene. It was a narrow alley between two four-storey apartment buildings. It was cobbled and swept clean. A row of recycling and waste bins lined one side, allowing room for only one person to pass. The bins had been there at the time of the murder. Fabel had seen the scene-of-crime pictures. Being there in person confirmed the instinct he had had when looking at the photographs.
‘It has always been assumed that the killer followed the victims. Picked them out from the Karneval crowds because of their physical forms fitting his agenda. But I think the selection has been made long before that. Weeks. Maybe months. Maybe he was on their trails during the evening, but my reckoning is that he knew exactly where they lived and overtook them or predicted their movements. I think he was waiting here for Melissa Schenker when she came home. In the dark, in this confined space, like a trapdoor spider.’
‘So he selected the locus well in advance? Not just the victim?’
‘Yep … and that makes him a whole different proposition,’ said Fabel. ‘Serial killers come in two types: the impulsive and the organised. The impulsive types simply respond to their appetites. They scratch when they itch. Cannibalistic serial killers tend always to be impulsive and that is what I thought we were perhaps dealing with here.’
‘Does it make that much of a difference?’ Kris Feilke’s acne stood out even more vividly against the blue-white of his chilled skin.
‘Yes, it does,’ said Fabel. ‘Both types commit a series of murders, both often take trophies, both have borderline personality disorders, both tend to be loser types … but there is a huge difference between them. Impulsive serial killers have below average IQs. Often significantly below.’
‘Like Joachim Kroll …’ Scholz referred back to their discussion in the restaurant.
‘Like Joachim Kroll. But organised serial killers usually have IQs way above average. And they know it. They are smart, but they’re never quite as smart as they think they are. Anyway, I’m beginning to think that our Karneval Killer is an organised type. A planner. Especially in this case. Melissa Schenker was an almost total recluse. That was something else that I noticed in the files you sent me. Schenker had practically no social life other than the two friends who were always trying to draw her out of her shell.’
‘That’s right. They were the ones who persuaded her to come out with them on Weiberfastnacht. Poor girls. I interviewed them. They were completely distraught and riddled with guilt. They felt that if they hadn’t cajoled Melissa to come out she would still be alive.’
‘They’re probably right. But what I don’t get is the selection of Melissa. Our killer is a tracker and hunter. He must have seen her somewhere outside her apartment.’
Scholz shrugged, as much against the cold as anything. ‘We checked. She was a very regulated person. She worked with computers. Designed games, apparently. Made a small fortune from it, not that you would have guessed that from her apartment. It’s the big thing these days, apparently. Everybody wants to get into it.’
Fabel looked down the street along the top storeys of the buildings. Melissa Schenker had lived on the top floor. The sky glowered back at him.
‘Is her home occupied?’
‘No. It lay empty for more than six months and then was sold. A property company bought it and they want to rent it out. Word gets around, though. People around here can be a superstitious bunch.’
‘Have they renovated or redecorated it?’
‘Not yet.’ Scholz grinned.
‘I’d like to see it,’ said Fabel.
The grin stayed in place as Scholz’s glove dipped into his leather jacket. He raised a bunch of keys and dangled them as if ringing a bell. ‘I thought you might …’
The apartment was pleasant and bright even on a day like this, but without furniture it was impossible for Fabel to place in it the personality he had got to know through reading Scholz’s file. The walls were white. The ceiling was high and dotted with downlighters which cast bright pools on the highly polished light wood of the floor, the gloomy blue-grey day outside pressing itself against the arch-topped windows. The main living area was a good size: open plan with a wide step up to a raised area.
‘That’s where she worked,’ said Scholz, who had followed Fabel’s gaze. Fabel nodded. There was a bank of power and data points along the wall of the raised area.
‘It looks expensive enough to me,’ said Fabel.
‘I didn’t say it wasn’t expensive,’ said Scholz. ‘It’s just that her earning bracket was way above this. She cleared over three hundred thousand Euros a year. It was her own business and even after she sold the games on to the big games producers she retained the copyright and earned a royalty for each game sold. Her friends said she loved her work. Too much.’
Fabel, who had been looking out of the window along towards the twin spires of the cathedral, turned to Scholz. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They were beginning to get worried about her state of mind. Melissa built alternative realities for her games. Invented worlds. Her friends said that she spent far too much time in this alternative existence. They were worried she was losing her grip on reality. When she wasn’t working on developing other worlds she was living in them, playing online games.’
Fabel nodded. ‘It’s called data addiction. Or hyper-connected disorder … Messing up your mind by spending too much time interfacing with technology and not enough interacting with reality and real people. It creates real mental problems. Interestingly, it is particularly rife amongst people with poor self-image, particularly poor body image. It’s their way of existing beyond the confines of their physical selves … the selves they are dissatisfied with.’
‘It would fit with what we know about Melissa …’ said Tansu Bakrac. She was standing under one of the downlighters and the copper in her hair burned redder. ‘The stuff we were able to access on her computers revealed a lot. She reviewed other games on forums, online stores, that kind of thing. Most reviews were a hundred to a hundred and fifty words long.’
‘Well, she was in the business …’
Tansu laughed. ‘We counted two thousand reviews over a period of two years. That’s about three hundred thousand words. And there was a lot of venom in some of them. Sarcasm and trying to sound smart. I can imagine she pissed off a few people.’
‘Oh?’
‘No … that’s a dead end. All her reviews were done through aliases. And anyway, it was easy to read between the lines. Her stuff had the mark of someone with no life venting their fury anonymously. And on top of that were the hours she spent playing games. We still have her stuff in the evidence room. You name the gadget, she had it. Like you said, anything she could use to avoid the real world. I didn’t think there was a name for it, though … I thought it was just a case of her being a saddo …’
‘But I don’t see a connection between that and what happened to her,’ said Scholz.
‘Maybe not. What happened to her computer equipment?’
‘We’ve still got it in evidence storage,’ answered Kris Feilke. ‘We thought we should hang onto it just in case she had met someone online. You know, given the kind of life she led.’
‘Had she?’
‘No. Not that we could see. I had one of our technical guys go through her computer files. I had to take him off it. It was eating up too much time and looked like a dead end. The main problem was that a lot of her stuff was protected by secure encryption which we couldn’t break. But from what we could see of her Internet history there was no hint of her meeting someone online.’
‘With someone as techno-savvy as Melissa, that means nothing. You would be amazed at what goes on. It’s my guess that if we could break her password security, I would bet that we would discover that Melissa had a very active social and sex life. Online. What about family?’
‘One sister. I don’t think they had much to do with each other. The sale of the flat was all handled through lawyers. No surviving parents.’
‘Current and former boyfriends?’
‘Nothing here. Melissa wasn’t from Cologne. She was brought up in Hessen. Very few boyfriends in her history. We had them all checked out. Nothing.’
‘I’d like to see her stuff. Later, I mean.’ Fabel looked around the flat again. This had been Melissa’s safety zone. Her secure space where she could live out her life by proxy in some digitised version of reality. Nothing bad could happen to her in here. Danger and fear were outside.
As they left the flat and headed back down to the street from which Melissa Schenker had been snatched and murdered, Fabel dwelt on how right she had been.
Andrea waited. Her head thudded with a headache brought on by deliberate dehydration: she had slashed her fluid intake over the last week to a cupful of water a day so that her body would burn the slightest reserve of fat to keep hydrated. There were half a dozen chairs in the dressing room but she sat on none. This was not the time to rest. It was the time to switch on every cubic millimetre of her body; to hard-wire her will into her flesh. Her heart hammered and electricity coursed through every sinew, every nerve, every swollen fibre. Andrea had pumped up with dumbbells five minutes ago, but now she ran through her routine, the poses she would strike on the stage, each an exposition of a specific muscle set. It wasn’t that Andrea needed to rehearse to get it right: it was that running through them ensured the optimal muscle tone.
First the mandatory poses: Double Front Bicep, Front Lat Spread, Abdominals and Thighs – one of Andrea’s best, because of the definition of her serratus anterior and obliques – Side Chest, Side Triceps, Rear Double Bicep. Then was the weak spot in Andrea’s routine, when she had to turn her back on the judges to do her Rear Lat Spread. It was then that the lack of definition on her glutes let her down. But she had put a lot of thought into the outfit she was performing in: it made the most of the lateral sweep of her shoulder-to-hip taper, drawing focus from her glutes. Her last mandatory would be the Most Muscular. From that she would segue straight into Crab Most Muscular, her first optional pose.
She heard the cheers of the crowd. The British Bitch had finished her set and it sounded like it had been a good one. Whistling. Stamping. The crowd bellowing. Calling Maxine the British Bitch wasn’t an insult, it was Maxine’s professional nickname, just as Andrea’s was Andrea the Amazon. Andrea and Maxine had taken part in a number of competitions together. When Andrea had done a tour of England, Maxine had put her up in Nottingham and Maxine would be staying at Andrea’s flat tonight. They had trained together. They had put on non-competitive exhibitions together. They were friends.
Except on the competition podium. On the podium you had no friends. Out there you needed no one and nothing except raw adrenalin and aggression. Anger, even. All hidden behind the broadest, brightest, most brainless grin. Out there, Andrea’s friend Maxine became simply the British Bitch. The one to beat.
Andrea heard more cheers as the next competitor was up. She would follow her. She needed the aggression. The anger. Andrea knew where to find the anger: it was a switch she could turn on at will. All she had to do was remember. As Andrea waited to be called to do her routine she allowed the raw fire of her hate and anger to fill her body in huge surges.
The knock came and one of the exhibition-hall staff swung wide the door for Andrea to exit. It was like a lion being released into the Colosseum. As Andrea the Amazon took long powerful strides past the attendant she heard a defiant, animal roar. And realised she was hearing her own voice.
Maria guessed she had been bundled into the trunk of a car. Or a van. But even that idea had seemed to drift away from her. The fact was that they had tied her wrists and ankles, gagged and blindfolded her, then put some kind of bag over her head. Finally, they had placed what she reckoned to be a set of industrial ear-defenders over her ears. It was all classic special forces stuff: total sensory deprivation to befuddle the victim. Time ceased to exist. Maria was aware that her mind had been cut adrift from her body; she was losing the concept of arms, of legs, of being connected to her nervous system. She wriggled and strained against the bonds so that the rope would burn at the skin of her ankles and wrists. It worked for an instant and the connection to her flesh was reestablished, then faded and the pain became a vague ache lingering on the periphery of her being.
Maria had had no idea how long she’d been in the trunk, or even that the car had stopped moving, until she felt hands on her body, lifting her from the van. She was placed on a hard chair and left for a few minutes, a new bond tight around her chest and binding her to the chair. The tightness of the rope around her wrists had numbed her hands and the ear-defenders and the blindfold and hood deprived her of any sense of whether she was indoors or outdoors. She thought of how people were executed like this. Deprived of sight and hearing, she wouldn’t even hear the cocking of the gun or sense the presence of her executioner. It would be sudden and immediate: her existence snuffed out in an instant. Probably not the worst way to go, she had thought, but still her heart pounded. Only a few days ago Maria had been surprised at how little she feared death. But she had learned to live again by being someone else; her life had regained some value for her. She wondered if they would ever find her body. She imagined Fabel frowning as he looked down on her corpse, her hair bizarrely dyed.
The ear-defenders were suddenly gone. The hood was snatched from her head. Someone behind her untied the gag. Maria’s pulse quickened even more. Maybe torture would come before death. The blindfold was removed. The sudden restoration of her senses disoriented her and she sat, her head tilted down, blinking in the harsh light.
Her eyes adjusted. A man and a woman sat opposite her.
She appeared to be in a small empty warehouse or industrial unit. The whitewashed walls were naked and broken by a double door at the far end and a large thick sliding metal door to Maria’s right. There was a track system suspended from the ceiling, punctuated by pendant metal hooks. She guessed it was some kind of disused meat-packing factory.
The woman stood up and snapped a glass vial under Maria’s nose. Something powerful hit her system and she was suddenly and painfully alert.
‘I want you to listen to me.’ The man spoke first. His German was thick with a Ukrainian accent. ‘I need you to concentrate. Do you understand?’
Maria nodded.
‘We know who you are, Frau Klee. We also know why you’re here – and that you are acting on your own and without the knowledge, support or sanction of your superiors. You’re completely isolated.’
Maria said nothing.
‘You may be an accomplished police officer, Frau Klee, but when it comes to this line of work you’re a complete amateur. It takes more than a cheap hair-colour job to turn you into a surveillance expert.’
Maria looked at the woman. She was young and remarkably beautiful with bright, pale blue eyes. She wasn’t someone who could merge easily into a crowd. The man frightened Maria. He had the same kind of green eyes as Vitrenko, with that strange, penetrating brightness that so many Ukrainians seemed to have. His hair was almost black, and his pale skin was drawn particularly tight over the Slavic architecture of his face. He had an efficient, lean-muscled look, but Maria got the impression that he was tired.
‘So what happens to me now?’ said Maria. ‘Why have you brought me here instead of just dumping my body in the woods somewhere? Nothing I know is of any use to you.’
The Ukrainian exchanged a smile with the woman next to him.
‘Frau Klee, we have absolutely no intention of doing you any harm whatsoever. As a matter of fact we intervened, to put it mildly, because you were going to get yourself killed. And very soon. Did you really think that Kushnier didn’t know you were on his tail within minutes of him leaving the bar?’
‘Kushnier,’ said the Ukrainian woman. ‘Maxim Kushnier. Former Ukrainian paratrooper. Low-level operative in Vitrenko’s organisation. That was as far as you got … a street-level captain who has probably never met Vitrenko face to face. How the hell did you expect to have Kushnier lead you to Vitrenko?’
‘I didn’t. I thought it was a start.’
‘And it was very nearly the end,’ said the man. He stood up and nodded to the woman who came round behind Maria and cut through her bonds. ‘We were tailing you. Not that you or Kushnier would have noticed. You were both two busy performing that waltz on the Delhoven road.’
‘If we were dancing,’ said Maria massaging her now-free wrists, ‘then I was leading.’
‘Yes …’ said the Ukrainian, with a conciliatory nod. ‘That was impressive. But while you were wandering about lost in the Rhineland countryside, we tidied up your mess.’
‘Dead?’
‘You got him with three shots. Shoulder, neck and one through the kidney. The kidney shot would have caused him agony. Fortunately for him he bled to death from the neck wound.’
Maria felt suddenly sick. She knew she must have hit him, but not finding the car had meant, until now, not confronting the fact that she had taken another human being’s life.
‘So, you see,’ the Ukrainian said, ‘you’re now officially working outside the law. As are we.’
‘Who are you?’ Maria took the glass of water offered by the woman.
‘We are your new partners.’
‘Ukrainian intelligence?’
‘No. We’re not SBU. Technically, we’re police officers. I am Captain Taras Buslenko of the Sokil. It means “Falcon” … we are an anti-organised-crime Spetsnaz. And this is Captain Olga Sarapenko of the Kiev city militia, similar to your Schutzpolizei. Captain Sarapenko is part of the Kiev police’s anti-mafia unit.’
‘You’re after Vitrenko?’ asked Maria.
‘Yes. And he’s after us. What you see here are the remains of a seven-strong special unit put together to come here and … deal with Vitrenko.’
‘You’re planning to carry out an illegal assassination on German soil?’
‘Isn’t that exactly what you had planned to do yourself, if you got the chance?’
Maria ignored the question. ‘You said there were seven of you. Where are the others?’
‘Three dead. There were two traitors in the group. We met at an isolated hunting lodge in Ukraine. No one knew about it. By the time we worked out it was two of our own and not an attacking force, we were already exposed. Only three of us made it out of the woods, then Belotserkovsky took it in the back.’
‘My fault …’ The pain showed on Olga Sarapenko’s face. ‘I was injured and he was helping to get me out.’
‘I was supposed to be providing cover,’ said Buslenko. A silence fell between them and Maria could see that they were somewhere and sometime else. She knew what it was like to live and relive an experience like that.
‘So why didn’t you re-form a complete unit?’ she asked.
‘No time and no point,’ said Buslenko. ‘Time’s on Vitrenko’s side. We have to get to him before he gets to us. Hopefully, Vitrenko will have assumed that we have aborted the mission … that Captain Sarapenko and I are running scared. We couldn’t be sure that if we did rebuild a unit that we wouldn’t have infiltrators again. But we know we can trust each other. There’s only one other person we can rely on …’
‘Who?’
‘You,’ Buslenko said, handing Maria back her handgun.
The crowd went wild. Andrea stood before them, her body dark and sleek with fake tan and body oil, her hatred and anger hidden behind a searchlight-white smile that beamed across the expanse of the hall. The music Andrea had chosen thudded hard and harsh in the hall and all the time she thought about the stupid, soft little tart she had once been. This, now, for all to see, was the real Andrea Sandow. Andrea the Amazon. Each pose drew a roar of appreciation from the crowd. She improvised a final optional pose at the end of her routine: Overhead Victory. Her biceps, which were bigger than those of any of the other competitors, bunched high with a rippling topography of vein and sinew. The crowd cheered and many rose to their feet. She stood down to Relaxed Front and bowed low to the audience. She turned sideways with a bounce and moved quickly to the side of the stage where the other competitors waited. Maxine smiled a broad smile and nodded respectfully through her applause. And with that Andrea knew she had won. All the pain, all the anguish and sacrifice had led to this point. What no one in the auditorium knew was that it wasn’t just her competitors she had defeated.
Maxine hugged her warmly and genuinely as soon as the judges announced their decision. Andrea felt like crying but, of course, the tears wouldn’t come. The other contestants congratulated her, but she could see that only Maxine was genuinely pleased for her. Andrea felt bad, knowing that if things had been the other way around she would not have been so generous.
‘We’ll get pissed tonight,’ Maxine said in English. ‘Competition’s over … a week of indulgence before getting back to the grind?’
‘The champagne is definitely on me,’ said Andrea and they entered the dressing room. Three people waited for them, one of whom she recognised as Herr Waldheim, a member of the competition’s organising committee.
‘This is Herr Dr Gabriel and his nurse, Frau Bosbach.’ Waldheim introduced the other two. ‘They are here on behalf of the bodybuilding association to do a random blood test, if you have no objections.’
‘Of course not,’ Andrea said and felt her jaws ache from the effort of keeping her smile in place.
At Fabel’s suggestion they left the car parked and he and Scholz walked to St Ursula’s. The church sat in a small square, hemmed in by neighbouring buildings. There was a bar-restaurant at one end of the square and a parochial house jammed against the flank of the church.
‘Where was Sabine Jordanski found?’ Fabel asked.
‘Over there, behind the church.’
Fabel and the others followed Scholz round the side of the church. As with the scene of Melissa Schenker’s murder, it was concealed from view. Another hidden death trap.
‘Where did she live?’
‘Her apartment was around the corner and over on Gereonswall.’ Scholz indicated the street that swept away from them.
‘Something doesn’t make sense …’ Fabel looked back in the direction of the city.
‘What?’ asked Scholz.
‘I’m convinced that the killer lies in wait for his victims. But the church is on the wrong side. She wouldn’t have passed by here.’
Scholz smiled grimly and shook his head. ‘She was with friends when she came home. They split up here and headed off. Even if she had come this way, the killer couldn’t have grabbed her. She was with witnesses.’
‘Then he must have either persuaded or forced her to come up here.’
‘Must have.’
‘That could mean that this specific church does have a significance. There was no sign of sexual contact?’ Fabel asked although he knew the answer.
‘None,’ answered Tansu. ‘No semen, no evidence of sexual assault.’
The four detectives stood looking at the ghost of a murder scene. The second they’d examined that day. Fabel was beginning to understand the dynamic of this small team: Scholz acted as if he wasn’t the boss, Kris and Tansu called him Benni and never Chef, but the truth was that he steered his team probably more strictly than Fabel did his. Kris was the apprentice: quietly gathering the gems of wisdom from Scholz’s feet. Tansu was strong-willed and intelligent, but still unsure of her feet and unwilling to challenge Scholz. It was clear that he had closed his mind to Tansu’s theory about the rape victim in ’ninety-nine. Fabel, on the other hand, could see her reasoning.
‘There’s something you’ve got to see.’ Scholz hunched up his shoulders against the cold and led Fabel towards the vast dark doors of St Ursula’s. Fabel followed him into the church, gazing up at the vaulted ceilings and the stained glass that burned dully against the winter light beyond.
‘Very nice.’
‘That’s not what I wanted to show you.’ Scholz guided Fabel to a vast reinforced door immediately to the right of the main entrance.
‘We’ll stay here,’ said Tansu. ‘It gives me the creeps down there.’
Fabel and Scholz went down stone steps into the crypt of the church.
‘This is open to the public during the day, but it’s monitored constantly by CCTV. And that massive door you saw is shut tight and time-locked at night.’
Fabel stopped in his tracks. The vaulted ceiling was whitewashed, with gilded details. Apart from that, it was as if the whole space had been lined with gold. But it was what the gold covered that fascinated Fabel.
‘The Golden Chamber …’ explained Scholz. ‘St Ursula’s is the second-oldest Romanesque church in Cologne. As you saw, the city has kind of encroached on its space, but there used to be an extensive graveyard outside dating back to Roman times.’
Fabel stared all around the chamber. The details on the walls were of bones and skulls. Real bones and skulls, pressed into the mortar of the walls and arranged in geometric patterns. Hundreds of them. Thousands. All gilded. The art of death. There were small alcoves pressed into the walls of the vault. Each contained a plaster bust.
‘Do you know the legend of St Ursula?’ asked Scholz.
Fabel shook his head. He was still taking in the detail of the chamber. So many dead. Gilded human remains used as ornament. It was awe-inspiring. And gross.
‘Ursula was a British princess who travelled here with eleven thousand virgins. Unfortunately, when they arrived Cologne was besieged by a horde of horny Huns from the East. Ursula and her virgins all died rather than lose their honour, or something like that.’ Scholz laughed. ‘You’d be pushed to find eleven thousand virgins in Cologne these days. Anyway, the story started out that there were eleven virgins with St Ursula, but you know what we’re like here in Cologne … we started off by bumping it up it up to eleven hundred, then eleven thousand. Anyway, there’s every reason to believe that there was some kind of martyrdom involving virgins around the fifth century. Story goes that they were buried in the graveyard here. When the graveyard was dug up, the Golden Chamber was built to house and display the remains. The truth is more likely to be that these bones date from across a couple of centuries. There are also dozens of ossuaries, and these plaster busts contain the remains of those wealthy enough to have a special place put aside for them.
‘It’s morbid …’ said Fabel.
‘It’s Catholicism.’ Scholz smiled. ‘We’re very big on memento mori. Have fun when you’re alive but remember that death and eternity is waiting for you. Like I said, it’s a concept we’ve refined and concentrated into Karneval.’
‘Why did you want me to see this?’ asked Fabel. ‘Do you think there’s some significance? The virgin legend and the Golden Chamber? According to Tansu, the rape victim seven years ago was attacked at the back of this church. And she was a virgin.’
‘I suppose it’s possible there’s a connection between that case and the killings. But I thought you’d want to see this. Both murders were in close proximity to St Ursula’s. Maybe all this,’ Scholz encompassed the Golden Chamber with a sweep of his hand, ‘has some special significance for the killer. Maybe he assumed that Melissa Schenker was a virgin. Certainly her lifestyle seemed to be pretty celibate. But Sabine Jordanski strikes me as someone who would have given up that status pretty enthusiastically some time ago.’
Fabel nodded. ‘But there must be something that brought these girls to his attention. Not just the fact that they had his particular taste in body shape. He’s seen them before the night he killed them. Somehow and somewhere there is a commonality.’
Fabel stared at one of the ossuary wall panels. It stared back at him from the dark sockets of a gilded skull. He turned from its hollow gaze and made his way to the steps out of the Golden Chamber. ‘When we get back to your office, I’d like to go over the files again. I know we’re missing it.’
‘What we are talking about is committing murder.’ Buslenko leaned on the table and held Maria in a searchlight gaze. She hated his eyes. Bright and hard like diamond-cut emeralds. So like Vitrenko’s eyes. ‘Let’s be clear on that. We’re here to break the very law that it is your duty to uphold. You are a Murder Commission detective, Maria … you should know more than anyone that there is nothing that legally justifies the homicide of Vasyl Vitrenko.’
‘It’s morally justifiable …’ she said.
‘That’s not the issue. If we’re caught, you’ll go to prison. I just want to make that clear. If you want to walk away from this, then you can do so now. But go back to Hamburg … I don’t want you getting in our way here.’
‘I know the stakes,’ said Maria. ‘I’ll do anything to nail that bastard. He finished me as a police officer so I don’t see why I should act like one when it comes to bringing him down.’
‘Okay …’ Buslenko rolled out a street map of Cologne. It was no ordinary driver’s city guide and Maria guessed it was the kind of map that every intelligence agency in the world would have of cities in every other country. There were a number of small red squares glued to the map. ‘These are the centres – or at least the ones we know about – from which the Vitrenko outfit operates. We have good intelligence on these, but we know these aren’t the key locations. We know nothing about those. And we can be pretty sure that Vitrenko has changed his appearance significantly. He could be right under our noses and we wouldn’t know it. But we do have intelligence on this piece of shit …’ Buslenko laid a photograph on the table. ‘This is Valeri Molokov, the Russian. In fact, in many ways Molokov is a Russian version of Vitrenko. The main difference is that Molokov is not quite as smart, not quite as deadly. And where Vitrenko sees himself as something other, something better, than a common criminal and still thinks he’s running a military operation, Molokov, despite having a police Spetsnaz background, is quite comfortable with his role as a common or garden mafia boss.’
‘Molokov was a police officer?’ asked Maria.
‘Again, not in the way you think of it. Molokov served with OMON, the Russian Special Purpose Police Squad, but was kicked out, ostensibly for corruption. With so many special-forces police on the take in Moscow, that takes some doing. Molokov did three years in Matrosskaya Tishina prison in Moscow for offences linked to people smuggling. Another difference from Vitrenko, who’s never been arrested, far less faced trial and imprisonment. The truth is that Molokov built his reputation as a contract killer. He’s now officially wanted for a whole range of crimes. Molokov hates Vitrenko but can’t do anything about the situation. He and Vitrenko were on a collision course and Molokov knew he’d come out worst. So Vitrenko was able to force Molokov into partnership with him, with Molokov very much the junior partner.’
‘Why hasn’t Molokov been extradited from Germany?’ asked Maria.
‘Molokov and Vitrenko are both living here under assumed names. The difference between them is that Vitrenko is better at it – living in someone else’s skin, as it were. But the German police still don’t know what identity Molokov’s using or where to find him. And that’s where we’re ahead of the game.’
‘Oh?’
‘We have a location for him. More by accident than by design. Our main interest in Molokov is that he’s the highest-ranking member of the Vitrenko organisation who we can observe. Unlike you chasing around after small fry like Kushnier, Molokov could really give us a fix on Vitrenko.’
‘It sounds like there’s no love lost between them.’
‘There isn’t, particularly on Molokov’s side. Vitrenko has the power to keep him in check, but Molokov is a deadly son of a bitch. But there is a specific stress-point in the Vitrenko–Molokov marriage. Your Federal Crime Bureau here in Germany has a source of information within the organisation. Our intelligence suggests that Vitrenko believes the leak is from Molokov’s side. I took part in a failed operation to nail Vitrenko back on Ukrainian soil. One of Molokov’s top men, a thug called Kotkin, ended up dead, as did a member of our team who was supposedly on the Vitrenko payroll.’
Olga Sarapenko cut in. ‘What we need to know is if you are with us in this. Will you help us nail Vitrenko?’
Maria sipped her water. She noticed her hand trembling as she did so. Her wrists still ached from the rope they’d been bound with.
‘What if we were to do this legally? Locate him and get the BKA to arrest him?’
‘You know that’s not an option, Maria,’ said Buslenko. ‘That would give him a chance to slip through our fingers. You for one should know how easy that is. Anyway, that is not our objective. We are here to put an end to Vitrenko. Literally.’
Maria looked at the Ukrainian. He held her gaze, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. This man claimed to be a policeman, knew that she was a police officer, yet was asking her to cooperate in a murder. There again, that had been the conclusion she had envisaged for herself. But how did she know that he was genuine? He could be anybody. He could be one of Vitrenko’s killers. But if that were the case, wouldn’t she be dead by now?.
‘Like I told you,’ she said. ‘I want to be there when Vitrenko is brought down. I’m in.’
Ansgar, so unused to the ballet of courtship, fumbled clumsily for the right words. Ekatherina, like a city guide helping out a tourist who had found himself on the wrong side of town, had had to help him with his halting and mumbled proposal that she should come with him to the Karneval procession in a few weeks’ time. Ekatherina made it easier for him by suggesting that they go out for an evening first; to a Ukrainian restaurant she knew.
Ansgar was no fool. He was, after all, at least fifteen years older than her and by no description a catch. And he knew that marriage to a German national would assure her permanent residency in the Federal Republic. However, he also believed that Ekatherina really did like him. But did she really know about his true nature? His secret desires?
The Rhine divides Cologne in more than the geographical sense. Since the very first settlements the river had represented first an ethnic and then a social and cultural border. The inhabitants of the left bank, of which Ansgar was one, had always thought of their side of the river as the true Cologne, as opposed to ‘over there’. The Ukrainian restaurant that Ekatherina had suggested was ‘over there’, in the Vingst area of the city. The food was authentically Ukrainian. Ansgar also guessed that a large proportion of the clientele, and probably the management, was authentically Ukrainian mafia. He noticed several huddles of large men in black Armani, the regulation uniform of Eastern European gangsterdom.
The menu was in both Cyrillic and German but Ansgar allowed himself to be led in his choice by Ekatherina. As far as Ansgar could see, the Ukrainians had as many styles of Borsch as Eskimos had words for snow. Added to this was pechyva, pampushky, halushky, varenyky, bitky meatballs and a whole range of desserts. Ekatherina recommended that they should start with goose-breast zakuska followed by a starter portion of hetman borsch, then pork ribs stewed in beet kvas with halushky dumplings.
‘You can’t get more Ukrainian than that,’ she enthused and Ansgar could see that she was genuinely proud to introduce him to her culture and cuisine. When the waiter came over to take their drinks order, Ekatherina engaged in a lively exchange in Ukrainian with him. The waiter smiled and nodded.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘This is something you’ve got to try …’
The waiter returned with a chilled champagne-style bottle. He popped the cork and Ekatherina again took the lead and tasted it, nodding enthusiastically. After the waiter had filled his glass, Ansgar took a sip. His mouth filled with a fragrant effervescence.
‘This is beautiful,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Really beautiful.’
‘It’s Krimart,’ she said, gratified. ‘It’s from the Artyomovsk winery in the Donetsk region. It was founded by a German, you know. A Prussian. It was what Stalin and all the communist bosses liked to drink.’
Ansgar watched Ekatherina eat and talk. Naturally, she did most of the talking, her German charmingly accented, but most of all Ansgar watched her eat. During the meal, Ekatherina worked hard to coax out of Ansgar some of the details of his childhood, family, what had made him want to be a chef. Ansgar found himself wanting to be more conversational; easier, more interesting company. Most of all, he wished he could sit here in this Ukrainian restaurant with an attractive young woman and be someone else: someone with a normal life and normal urges.
Ekatherina didn’t seem to worry about Ansgar’s taciturnity. She talked at length about her childhood in Ukraine; about the astounding beauty of the land and the warmth of the people.
Ansgar listened and smiled. Ekatherina was dressed in what he guessed was her best outfit. It clearly wasn’t expensive but it showed an element of taste. The white blouse was open to the third button and when Ekatherina leaned forward Ansgar could see the full swell of her breasts, pale and smooth. He appreciated the effort she had made. But all through the meal he sought to keep from his mind those dark fantasies that he had formed around her.
They took a taxi from the restaurant. The food, Ansgar had to admit, had been interesting. It was always a strange, even difficult thing for Ansgar to enjoy a meal in another restaurant. To start with, he was never treated as an ordinary customer: he had a reputation and anyone who knew anything about Cologne’s food scene knew who he was. Ansgar had been sure he had heard his name amongst the babble of Ukrainian words exchanged between Ekatherina and the waiter. The other problem he had was the way he had to try to leave his professional self outside and simply enjoy the experience for its own sake. The truth was that Ansgar analysed every mouthful, judged flavour combinations, assessed layout on the plate. Ansgar was an artist, and he liked to compare the brushwork of others to see if there was anything he could learn from it. Many subtle nuances that had been added to some of his most highly regarded dishes had been inspired by a cruder expression in some second-class eatery.
But tonight, as he slid into the back seat of the taxi next to Ekatherina, he felt his belly too full. For Ansgar, food was about quality, about the experience, rather than the quantity. He felt the heat of Ekatherina’s body as she leant against him. Ansgar was also aware that he had had more to drink than usual. It made him nervous: he felt braver; more likely to act on his impulses. On that greatest of all impulses. He also sensed carelessness and ease in Ekatherina’s movements. It was a dangerous situation and he fought to keep those images from his mind. Images of a fantasy that now seemed possible, even if only remotely.
Ansgar had intended to drop Ekatherina at her apartment. He had declined her offer of a coffee, but she had leant across and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his mouth. It tasted of coffee mingled with the raspberry flavour of the malynivka liqueur they had drunk to end the meal.
He paid the taxi driver and followed Ekatherina into her apartment building.
‘I used to go out with this girl who liked to be tied up, you know,’ Scholz leaned back in his chair and raised a bottle of Kölsch beer to his lips. ‘I mean really tied up. Really tight. Every time we did it. She couldn’t, you know, enjoy it properly unless she was trussed up.’
‘Thanks for sharing that …’ Fabel smiled wryly and took another sip of Kölsch himself. He started to feel that little bit light-headed. He felt the usual fear of losing control kicking in and made a decision to slow down with the beer.
‘I mean, it was like she couldn’t get off without it,’ continued Scholz. His frown cleared and he grinned. ‘There is a point to this, other than offering a window on my sordid personal life. What I’m getting at is that I have come across a lot of weird stuff in my professional life and a fair bit in my personal, if you know what I mean, but no matter how I try I cannot imagine how some sicko gets pleasure from eating other human beings.’
Fabel sat on the sofa and picked fussily at the pizza that Scholz had ordered for them on the way to his flat. It had been Scholz’s idea to collect the files, pick up a take-out meal and go over to his apartment. It was, he had said, going to be a long evening and there was no point in being uncomfortable.
‘I can honestly say there’s little I haven’t seen over the years,’ continued Fabel. ‘Professionally, I mean. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to get out of the job.’
Scholz smiled as he watched Fabel continue to pick at the pizza. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘They didn’t do a herring topping …’
Fabel laughed. ‘It’s funny,’ he said. ‘You lot down here make a joke about us in the North eating nothing but fish. Truth is, we tend to eat fish because we’re coastal people and that’s the most immediate source of food. And the way we connect with other cultures plays a part. You know there’s a Hamburg dish called Labskaus?’
‘I believe I’ve heard of it,’ said Scholz with a straight face.
‘Scandinavian sailors brought it to Hamburg. Then we took the recipe across to England. The British don’t have a clue if you ask them about Labskaus, yet they call people from Liverpool scousers because it was so popular there. My point is that our diets are shaped by what’s available and the contacts we have. Obviously nowadays you can go into any supermarket and buy whatever type of food you like, but the old, generations-long traditions tend to stay in place. It’s like we inherit a prejudice for or against certain foods. Which brings me back to our Karneval Cannibal … what I find strange is that we have always had a concept of taboo foods. Take pork. Even here, where you eat so much meat, and further south too, there are many people who have a problem with eating pork.’
‘What?’ Scholz looked dubious. ‘South of the “White Sausage Equator” …?’
‘Even there, amongst dedicated meat-eaters there are those who will not eat any part of a pig. Pork is the most common taboo food on the planet. The Muslims won’t eat it, the Jews are forbidden it, and there was even supposedly an ancient injunction against it amongst Highland Scots. It must have something to do with the similarity between pork and human flesh. I mean, we live in an age of xenotransplantation where genetically modified pig organs are being transplanted into humans. Tribes in Papua New Guinea talk about human flesh as “the long pig”.’
‘So you think it’s because it’s like eating human flesh?’
‘I think we maybe have some deep cultural memory of cannibalism. And our rejection of cannibalism is a part of how we define ourselves as civilised. Nineteenth-century European colonisation was often justified as saving the natives from themselves. And cannibalism was cited as the prime example of savage behaviour.’
Scholz sipped his beer. ‘We’ve deliberately kept the details of both murders away from the press. We told them there were elements that only we and the killer would know. We haven’t even confirmed a definite link. Like you say, there’s something about the whole concept of a cannibal being on the loose that scares the shit out of people. And the press would just love it.’
‘So you really had considered the possibility of the killer being a cannibal before I mentioned it?’
‘Yep,’ said Scholz. ‘But I wasn’t as sure of it as you were. I thought the weight of the flesh was perhaps the significant thing. A pound of flesh.’ Scholz said it in heavily accented English. He paused and contemplated his beer. ‘Do you think there’s any chance that our guy is motivated by something other than sexual cannibalism? Given that there’s no semen found at the scenes.’
‘Lack of semen doesn’t mean he didn’t ejaculate. Just that he’s been careful not to leave forensic traces. Or maybe he masturbates later, away from the scene. But let’s say we’re not dealing with a case of sexual cannibalism. Maybe he just likes the taste. The experience of eating human flesh.’
‘What’s to like?’
‘Well, there is one theory that because of the complex proteins in human flesh some people actually get a high out of eating it. A sort of euphoria. Others believe that they gain life-giving complexes that can’t be obtained from other meat sources. But there’s a natural imperative against cannibalism. In both humans and animals it tends to cause prion diseases … mad-cow disease, kuru, that sort of thing.’
‘Could it just be that the killer is simply experimenting? That he just wanted to find out what it was like to eat human flesh?’
‘I like a nice steak now and again,’ said Fabel. ‘But I don’t think I could go into a field and slaughter a cow to get one. We tend to keep the source of what we eat at a moral arm’s length. An American journalist bribed a mortuary attendant in Paris to get a piece of fresh human flesh and wrote about the experience of cooking and eating it. Tasted like veal, he said. Anyway, it’s a hell of a leap to kill – and kill twice – just to satisfy your epicurean curiosity. I would put my money on him fulfilling some kind of sexual fantasy with these murders.’
Scholz gathered up the pizza boxes. While Scholz was in the kitchen, Fabel took in the Cologne detective’s apartment. It had all the hallmarks of a bachelor’s apartment: a combination of the practical and the slovenly. There was a range of house plants dotted around in various stages of dehydration and death: Fabel had to resist the temptation to ask for a watering can. The bookshelves, however, were packed but orderly and Scholz had a spectacularly wide range of DVDs, arranged in alphabetical order by title. This meticulous organisation shouted out from the chaos of Scholz’s flat. There were a handful of surprisingly tasteful art prints on the walls and a poster for a Cologne production of Macbeth. Fabel recalled the Shakespearean reference in his report. Scholz came back with two more beers and cleared room for the files on the coffee table.
‘You like Shakespeare?’ Fabel asked.
‘Some. Never in English. My English isn’t good enough. But I love the story of Macbeth. I remember seeing the Orson Welles version dubbed into German, when I was a kid. I just loved the character. So totally evil and ruthless. But given the case we’re looking at Titus Andronicus would be a more appropriate text.’
Fabel smiled. Scholz’s impressive knowledge of Shakespeare was at odds with his appearance and demeanour.
‘At one time I thought about becoming an actor,’ Scholz said, almost embarrassedly. ‘The idea of playing at being other people appealed to me more than being myself, I suppose.’
‘It’s a strange leap from acting to police work.’
‘It was never a serious idea,’ said Scholz. ‘My dad was a policeman and a very … well, practical sort of man. He kinda killed the idea and I sort of drifted in to being a cop.’
‘Theatre’s loss …’ Fabel smiled. He tried to conjure up the unlikely image of Scholz playing Macbeth, his ultimate villain. Suddenly another ultimate villain came to mind and Fabel felt something heavy in his gut. ‘How’s your other investigation going?’ He tried to make his tone as conversational as possible.
‘The Biarritz thing? It’s not, really. To be honest, I’m taking a bit of a back seat on that one. Other interests, you see … the BKA and Organised Crime are all over it like a rash.’
‘Oh?’
‘I mean, I’m still involved. Anything they find out that’s germane to the actual murder will be passed on to me, but I get the feeling there’s a much bigger picture. From the involvement of the BKA task force I reckon it’s to do with the Molokov–Vitrenko outfit.’
‘I know it well. Particularly Vasyl Vitrenko. Our paths have crossed.’
‘Really?’ Scholz raised his eyebrows. ‘A dangerous path to cross, from all accounts.’
Fabel smiled grimly. It was difficult to assess how much Scholz knew about his history with Vitrenko and he didn’t want to point him in Maria’s direction. At least, not yet.
‘This woman your victim was seen talking to …’ Again Fabel tried to keep his tone chatty. ‘You know, the one the witness said was talking to the victim a day or two before he was killed. You said she seemed to be official. Police or immigration. Did you ever get to the bottom of that?’
‘That’s the strange thing,’ said Scholz. ‘We still can’t link her to any official body. Maybe she just looked official.’
‘Yeah …’ said Fabel, taking a sip of his beer but watching Scholz’s face as he spread out the files on the coffee table. ‘Probably nothing to do with anything …’
‘Oh, I don’t know … This BKA Vitrenko–Molokov task force seems pretty desperate to find her. Or for me to find her for them.’
Andrea’s post-competition, pumped-up toning made it easy for the doctor to access a vein. The nurse then accompanied Andrea to the toilet and waited outside the cubicle until she came out again with her urine sample. Throughout the process Andrea maintained a friendly demeanour which was as genuine as the big, stupid grin she used when she was on the posing stage. She even joked with the dour little nurse, although Andrea actually felt disgust and hatred for her weak, flaccid face and formless body.
Andrea wasn’t too fond of the doctor, either. He was an arrogant, unsmiling little man who did not speak to Andrea other than to order her to hold out her arm.
‘When will I get the results?’ asked Andrea with a smile, although she felt like twisting the smug little doctor’s head from his shoulders.
‘You don’t get the results. They go directly to the governing body. They will advise you of the results. But I do give you half of each sample so that you may have them tested independently should you wish to contest the results.’
Andrea crushed the impulse to smash her manicured fist into the smug face. ‘There won’t be anything to contest.’
The doctor stood up, placing his accoutrements back into his case. ‘My dear lady, I am a physician. I have been involved in testing for the governing bodies of a number of sporting organisations. And I will tell you something that is an absolute and undeniable medical fact – not an opinion, a fact – and it is this: muscular hypertrophy is a male phenomenon. Specifically muscular hypertrophy such as yours. Women can build muscle through weight training, but to a much lesser degree. Only men can achieve the kind of muscle mass you have developed without resorting to banned substances. Even men in middle age lose the mass and definition capacity they had in youth. Why? Because their testosterone levels begin to sink. Testosterone, Frau Sandow. The kind of quantities that only occur naturally in younger men. Men have nearly ten times the testosterone level of women.’
‘Are you accusing me of cheating?’ The smile had now gone from Andrea’s lips. Her muscle-widened jaw set hard.
‘I am accusing no one of anything. I am merely stating a medical fact. You could not have achieved your build without taking considerable quantities of testosterone. All this test will ascertain is if there is sufficient in your system to test positive. But, I dare say, you have calculated it all out. I mean, with this competition coming up.’
Andrea stood up suddenly, raw anger burning in her gut. The doctor snapped shut his bag, unperturbed. ‘Unusually high levels of aggression are a common side effect, Frau Sandow.’ He looked her up and down. ‘And I have to say you are a singularly unhealthy individual. I can tell from your halitosis, the dandruff from your scalp and the inflamed rims of your eyes that you are very seriously dehydrated. Please take my advice as a physician: take fluids, and plenty of them.’
Andrea pulled herself to her maximum height, drawing in her abdomen and flexing her shoulders. ‘I suppose you think this is being unfit?’ she laughed.
‘As a matter of fact, I do. You have already done serious harm to your internal organs. The regular dehydration alone will have done God knows what to your liver and kidneys. My guess is, Frau Sandow, that you have used testosterone as the base of a steroid stack. But given your pronounced vascularity,’ he said, pointing to the veins bulging on her forearms and biceps, ‘my guess is that you thought you could get away with using boldenone. The bad news is that boldenone has a detectable half-life of nearly six months.’
‘What you don’t know,’ Andrea smiled masculinely, ‘is that I am infinitely more knowledgeable about human physiology than you imagine. Like I said, you won’t find anything in those tests. And what if I have taken steroids in the past? It should be legal. It’s part of what we do, like a high-protein diet.’
The doctor and the nurse headed towards the door. Dr Gabriel turned and shook his head mournfully. ‘You are a disgrace to your namesake, Frau Sandow. And I am hoping that Eugene Sandow is no direct ancestor of yours. His vision for this sport was to replicate the ethos of classical gymnasia. To achieve perfect symmetry and balance. To shape – not to misshape. What people like you have done is to take a great sport and turn it into a freak show. As I said, the organising body will notify you of the test results.’
Andrea was left alone with Maxine, who placed an arm around her huge shoulders. ‘Don’t you worry about it, love,’ she said in English. ‘You’ll pass these tests, no problem. What was that old guy going on about, anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ said Andrea and smiled. ‘Nothing at all. Let’s go out on the town tonight, just like you said.’
But deep down inside the dark fire roared. She thought of the pompous little doctor and, worst of all, that snotty cow of a nurse standing there silent, reproachful and so submissive. They were so sure of themselves. But what they didn’t know was that she was as smart as she was strong. There would be nothing to find in the sample.
She would go out on the town tonight with Maxine. But soon, very soon, she was going to have to release the heat of her anger.
While Scholz went into the kitchen to get himself a beer and make Fabel a coffee, Fabel laid the photographs of both victims side by side on the coffee table: images in life and in death.
‘I was talking to this anthropologist before I came down here,’ he called through to the kitchen. ‘He was an expert on the ideal of female beauty through the ages. Not so much what is beautiful but what we regard as beautiful. There was a time when these two women would have matched that ideal perfectly: slightly pear-shaped, slim upper body with a little flesh around the hips and belly. Right up until the First World War, in fact. Then came the flapper, then the hourglass, then the skinny.’
‘So what’s your point?’ Scholz emerged from the kitchen and handed Fabel his coffee.
‘These women had the wrong shape for today. They might have wanted to do something about it.’ Fabel started to rummage through the files.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Scholz.
‘Gym memberships, diet clubs … any hint that they were considering cosmetic surgery … liposuction, that kind of thing.’
‘But there was nothing really wrong with them …’ Scholz joined the search. ‘I mean, their shapes weren’t that unusually heavy around the backside.’
‘You would be amazed at what lengths women are prepared to go to over the slightest flaw.’
Ten minutes later they had assembled a selection of options, all for Sabine Jordanski. She went to a private gym twice a week, took regular beauty treatments at the salon, went swimming every Wednesday when she had the afternoon off. There was nothing at all for Melissa Schenker.
‘There has to be something.’ Fabel ran his hands through his hair.
‘Maybe Melissa Schenker wasn’t so obsessed with her shape,’ said Scholz. ‘She spent her life in her own little electronic universe where what she looked like didn’t matter. A world without form.’
‘Okay.’ Fabel read more of Melissa’s file. ‘What’s this … The Lords of Misrule?’
‘Her biggest hit. A role-playing computer game she developed. Very complicated. Apparently she was working on a sequel to it when she died.’
There was an image of the game’s cover. Three mythological types – a warrior, a priestess and some kind of warlock – stood on a mountain, a fantasy landscape swirling around them.
‘The Lords of Misrule …’ Fabel read the English title aloud again. ‘The world turned upside down. The Days of Chaos. The Fool Made King. It’s all very Karneval. Maybe this is where our connection lies. Melissa spent so much of her time in an electronic world, maybe that’s where she crossed paths with our killer and Sabine Jordanski.’