The Carnival Master
( Jan Fabel - 4 )
Craig Russell
The Carnival Master
Craig Russell
Karneval in Cologne is a custom dating back to when the Romans founded the city. Its roots probably lie in the dark pagan past of the Celts who occupied the area before the arrival of Germanic and Roman invaders.
Karneval is a time when order is replaced with chaos, when the abstinence of Lent is preceded by abandon and indulgence. A time when the world is turned on its head. When people can become, for a few hours, someone else.
The Master of the Carnival is ‘Prinz Karneval’. He is also known as ‘seine Tollitat’ – His Craziness. Prinz Karneval is protected by the Prinzengarde. His personal bodyguard.
The German word ‘Karneval’ comes from the Latin ‘Carne Vale’:
‘Farewell to Flesh’.
Prologue
Weiberfastnacht – Women’s Karneval Night. Cologne. January, 1999.
Madness. Everywhere she looked was insanity. She ran through crowds of the demented. She stared around wildly, seeking an asylum: somewhere she could find refuge amongst the sane. The music thudded and screamed mercilessly, filling the night with terrifying cheerfulness. The crowd was denser now. More people, more madness. She pushed through them. Always away from the two massive spires that thrust up from the mayhem of the streets, black and menacing into the night. Always away from the clown.
She stumbled as she ran down the steps. Past the main railway station. Through a square. On and on. Still surrounded by the shouting, grinning, laughing faces of the insane.
She collided with a knot of figures gathered in front of a stand selling Currywurst and beer. The former German Chancellor Helmut Kohl stood in a nappy stuffed with Deutschmarks, laughing and joking with three Elvis Presleys. A medieval knight struggled to eat his hot dog through a visor that would not stay up. There was a dinosaur. A cowboy. Louis the Fourteenth. But no clown.
She spun around. Scanned the throng of bodies that now closed in her wake. No clown. One of the beer-stand Elvises staggered towards her. Blocked her path and circled her waist with his arm; said something lewd and latex-muffled. She pushed Elvis away and he collided with the dinosaur.
‘You’re mad!’ she screamed at them. ‘You’re all mad!’ They laughed. She ran on through a part of the city she didn’t know. Fewer people now. The streets narrowed and closed in on her. Then she was alone in a narrow cobbled street, dark and tightly lined with four-storey-high buildings with black windows. She pressed into a shadow and tried to get her breathing under control. The sound from the distant city centre was still loud: madly cheerful music mingled with the raucous cries of the deranged. She tried to listen through it for the sound of footsteps. Nothing. She stayed pressed into the shadow, the reassuring solidity of the apartment building at her back.
Still no clown. No nightmare clown from her childhood dreams. She had lost him.
She had no idea where she was: one direction looked the same as the other. But she would keep heading away from the maniac sounds of the city, from the looming black spires. Her heart continued to pound but her breathing was now under control. She hugged the wall as she moved along the street. The raucous music and laughter faded further but suddenly there was a new blast as a door opened and yellow light sliced across the street. She shrank back again into shadow. Three cavemen and a female flamenco dancer burst out of the apartment house, two of the Neanderthals carrying a crate of beer between them. They staggered off in the direction of the other lunatics. She started to cry. To sob. There was no escape from it.
She saw a church at the end of the street. A huge church, standing crammed into a cobbled square. It was a Romanesque building that at one time would have sat grandly with fields and gardens around it. But the city had closed in on it over the centuries: now it was squeezed on every side by apartment buildings, like a bishop jostled by beggars. A parochial house nudged into its flank. A bar-restaurant at the other end of its meagre square. She would avoid the bar. She would seek refuge in the parochial house. She walked towards it, suddenly startled by the image of a small, frail, frightened, broken-winged fairy in the black shield of a butcher’s shop display window. Her reflection. Her reflection hanging between pasted cardboard stars with special offers on beef and pork.
She reached the corner of the church. It loomed dark and austere into the cold night sky. She turned the heavy iron handle and leaned against the door but it would not give. She made her way towards the parochial house.
He stepped out in front of her from where he had been waiting, hidden, around the corner of the church. His face was blue-white in the dim street light, his over-wide painted smile dark crimson. Two flaps of green hair stood at a ridiculous angle from his otherwise bald head. She tried to scream but nothing came. She stared at his eyes: cold and dead and hard under the comical arches of his black-painted eyebrows. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry out. She couldn’t find the strength to break free and run. His hand, gloved in bright blue felt, snapped up and grabbed her throat. He pushed her against the wall and into the shadows. Lifted her onto tiptoe. In a single movement of his free hand he produced a necktie from the huge patch pocket of his oversized coat and looped it around her neck.
Now she struggled. The necktie burned her skin, crushed the arteries in her neck, closed her windpipe. No breath came to her screaming lungs. Her head swam. Her world darkened. And as he tightened the ligature around her neck, all she could do was stare into his face.
His grotesque clown face.
Part One
CLOWN DIARY FIRST ENTRY. DATED: 11.11 A. M. 11 th NOVEMBER.
CHAPTER ONE
14-16 January
1.
The commander of the MEK tactical assault team looked surprised to see Fabel squatting next to him, taking cover behind the large armoured van.
‘I was in the area and heard the call.’ Fabel predicted his question. He looked up at the four-storey block of flats white against the blue winter sky. Pristine and cheerful. Balconies with winter pansies. Mid-range cars parked outside. Heavily armed, black-uniformed MEK officers were rushing the occupants of the block out of the main door and along the street to where the ordinary uniformed police had hastily erected the perimeter on Jenfelderstrasse.
‘I heard you’d quit, Chief Commissar.’
‘I have,’ said Fabel. ‘I’m working out my notice. What have we got?’
‘Reports of a domestic disturbance. The neighbours called the police. The first local unit had just arrived when they heard shots. Then the guy inside took a pot-shot at one of the uniforms.’
‘Does he belong to the building?’
The MEK commander nodded his helmet. ‘Aichinger. Georg Aichinger. It’s his flat the disturbance came from.’
‘We know anything about him?’ Fabel slipped on the body armour that one of the MEK team handed him.
‘No record. According to the neighbours, never any trouble until now. The perfect neighbour, apparently.’ The MEK commander frowned. ‘He has a wife and three kids. Or maybe had. There hasn’t been much sound from the flat since the first gunshots. Four gunshots.’
‘What’s the weapon?’
‘From what we can see, a sporting rifle. He’s either half-hearted about it or he’s a lousy shot. The idiot from the first patrol car to arrive presented him with the perfect target by running headlong up the stairwell. Aichinger missed him by a metre. More a warning shot if you ask me.’
‘So maybe the family are still alive.’
The commander shrugged inside his Kevlar. ‘Like I said, it’s been pretty quiet since. We’ve got a negotiator on his way.’
Fabel nodded g
rimly. ‘Can’t wait. I’m going in to talk to him. Can you give me a man to cover me?’
‘I don’t approve of this, Chief Commissar. I’m not sure that I can allow you to put yourself at risk. Or one of my men at risk, for that matter.’
‘Listen,’ said Fabel. ‘If Aichinger’s family is still alive, then that could be a very temporary situation. If he’s talking to me, then he isn’t killing them.’
‘They’re already dead… you know that, don’t you?’
‘Maybe so, but we’ve nothing to lose, have we? I will just keep him occupied until the negotiator gets here.’
‘Okay. But I’m not at all happy with this. I’ve already got two men positioned on the landing outside the apartment. I’ll send another up with you. But if Aichinger doesn’t feel chatty, or if there’s any hint of things kicking off, then I want you straight out of there.’ The MEK commander nodded across to one of his team. ‘Go with the Chief Commissar.’
‘What’s your name?’ Fabel examined the young MEK trooper: young, heavy-muscled bulk beneath the body armour. Eyes bright and hard with excitement. The new breed. More soldier than policeman.
‘Breidenbach. Stefan Breidenbach.’
‘Okay, Stefan. Let’s go and see if we can talk our way out of you having to use that.’ Fabel nodded towards the Heckler and Koch machine pistol clutched to the MEK man’s chest. ‘And remember this is a hostage negotiation and a possible crime scene – not a war zone.’
Breidenbach nodded sharply, making no effort to conceal his resentment at Fabel’s remark. Fabel let him lead the way into the building and up the stairwell. Aichinger’s flat was on the second level and there were already two MEK men positioned there, pressed against the wall, faces hidden by helmets, goggles and flash masks.
‘Anything?’ Fabel asked the trooper at the top of the stairwell.
He shook his head. ‘All quiet. I reckon we’ve got a multiple. No crying, no movement.’
‘Okay.’ Fabel edged along the landing while Breidenbach trained his weapon on the closed apartment door.
‘Herr Aichinger…’ Fabel called towards the apartment. ‘Herr Aichinger, this is Principal Chief Commissar Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg.’
Silence.
‘Herr Aichinger, can you hear me?’ Fabel waited a moment for a reply that did not come. ‘Herr Aichinger, is there anyone hurt in there? Does anyone need help?’
Again silence, but a faint shadow moved across the frosted glass of the small square window set into the apartment door. Breidenbach adjusted his aim and Fabel held up a cautionary hand to the young MEK man.
‘Herr Aichinger, we – I – want to help you. You’ve got yourself into a situation and I know that right now you can’t see your way out of it. I understand that. But there’s always a way out. I can help you.’
Again there was no reply, but Fabel heard the sound of the latch being taken off the door. It opened a few centimetres. All three MEK troopers moved forward, keeping their aim locked onto the open door.
Fabel frowned a warning at the three MEK men.
‘Do you want me to come in, Herr Aichinger? Do you want to talk to me?’
‘No!’ hissed Breidenbach. ‘You can’t go in there.’
Fabel dismissed him with an annoyed shake of the head.
Breidenbach inched closer to him. ‘I can’t let you make a present of yourself as a hostage. I think you should go back outside, Chief Commissar.’
‘I’ve got a gun!’ The voice from inside the apartment was tight with fear.
‘We’re very much aware of that, Herr Aichinger,’ Fabel talked to the crack in the door. ‘And as long as you keep hold of that gun, you are placing yourself in danger. Please, slide it out of the door and we can talk.’
‘No. No, I won’t. But you can come in. Slowly. If you want to talk, you come in here.’
Breidenbach shook his head vigorously.
‘Listen, Herr Aichinger,’ said Fabel, ‘I’m not pretending it isn’t a very complicated problem we have here. But we can solve it without anyone getting hurt. And we can do that in easy stages. I have to tell you that I have armed officers out here. If they think I am under threat they will fire. And I’m sure that if you think you are in danger you will do the same. What we need to do is move back from that situation. But we have to do that one step at a time. Agreed?’
There was a pause. Then: ‘I don’t want a solution. I want to die.’
‘That’s silly, Herr Aichinger. Nothing… no problem… is so hopeless that it’s better to die.’ Fabel looked around at the MEK men. In his mind he could see only too clearly that there would be three dead children and a dead wife lying in the apartment. And if Aichinger was determined to die, then this could end with ‘suicide by cop’. All he had to do was run out onto the landing waving his rifle around and Breidenbach and his colleagues would gladly oblige him.
A phone rang somewhere in the flat. It kept ringing. The negotiator had obviously arrived.
‘Shouldn’t you answer that?’ Fabel asked the crack in the door.
‘No. It’s a trap.’
‘It’s not a trap. It’s help. It will be one of my colleagues. Someone who can really help.’
‘I’ll only talk to you.’
Fabel ignored Breidenbach’s reproachful look. ‘Listen, Herr Aichinger. The person on the other end of the phone is much better qualified to help you out of this situation than I am.’
‘I said I’ll only talk to you. I know that whoever is on the phone is just going to try to psychobabble me into believing he’s my best friend. I’ll talk to you. Only you. I’ve heard about you, Herr Fabel. You’re the one who solved those murders last year.’
‘Herr Aichinger, I want you to open the door so we can talk face to face.’ Fabel paid no attention to Breidenbach’s frantic signalling.
‘They’ll shoot me.’
‘No, they won’t…’ But Fabel felt the need to look pointedly at Breidenbach. ‘I’m ordering them not to shoot unless you do. Please, Herr Aichinger. Open the door.’
There was a long silence.
‘Herr Aichinger?’
‘I’m thinking.’
Another pause. Then the tip of Aichinger’s rifle appeared as it nudged the door fully open.
‘I’m going to come and stand where you can see me, Herr Aichinger. I’m not armed.’ One of the other MEK troopers grabbed at Fabel’s jacket sleeve as he moved towards the door, but he snatched it free. Fabel’s heart pounded and he used every adrenalin-stretched second to take in as much as he could. The man standing in the hall was as unexceptional as it was possible to be. In his late thirties with dark hair cut short and gelled, he had what Fabel would have described as generic features: not so much a face in the crowd as the face of the crowd. A face you would forget as soon as he was out of sight. Georg Aichinger was someone you would never notice. Except now. Aichinger had a new-looking sports rifle in his hands. But he wasn’t pointing it at Fabel. His arms were stretched taut and his chin pushed upwards as he jammed the rifle barrel under his own jaw. His thumb quivered on the trigger.
‘Easy…’ Fabel held up his hand. ‘Take it easy.’ He looked past Aichinger, along the hall. He could see, projecting into the doorway, the feet of someone lying on the floor of the living room. Small feet. A child’s feet. Shit, he thought. The MEK commander had been right.
‘Georg. Give it up. Please… give me the gun.’
Fabel’s step forward made Aichinger tense. The thumb on the trigger stopped quivering. ‘If you come near me I’ll shoot. I’ll kill myself.’
Fabel looked back at the child’s feet. He felt sick at the sight of them. At that moment he didn’t care whether Aichinger blew his own brains out or not. Then he saw it. Tiny. So tiny he could have missed it. But he hadn’t. A small movement.
‘Georg… The children. Your wife. Let us get to them to help them.’ Fabel heard someone move into the doorway behind him. He turned and saw that Breidenbach had his gun aimed at Aichinger’s he
ad. ‘Put it down!’ Fabel hissed. Breidenbach didn’t move. ‘For God’s sake, there’s already one gun on him – his own. Now lower your weapon – that’s an order.’
Breidenbach lowered the sights of his machine pistol slightly. Fabel turned back to Aichinger. ‘Your wife… the children. Have you hurt them? Have you hurt the children, Georg?’
‘Nothing makes sense.’ Aichinger said as if he hadn’t heard Fabel. ‘I suddenly realised that nothing makes any sense at all. I suppose I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, but then I woke up this morning and felt… well, I felt like I wasn’t real. That I don’t have a real identity. Like I’m just a character in a bad movie or something.’ Aichinger paused, his brow furrowed as if he were explaining something that he couldn’t fully understand himself. ‘There was this person, in my head, when I was a kid. The person I was going to be. Then it turned out that I wasn’t that person. I’m not who I was supposed to become. I’m someone different.’ He paused. Fabel listened to the silence, straining it for any sounds from the room beyond. ‘It’s all mad.’ Aichinger continued his tirade. ‘I mean, the way we lead our lives. It’s insane. The things that go on around us. It’s all shit. All chaos. None of it makes any sense… Take your colleague there. Just itching to put a bullet in my head. You’re here because I have a gun and I’m threatening to use it. He has a gun and is threatening to use it too. But that’s acceptable. Why? Because he’s a policeman. He’s supposed to keep order. Except it isn’t order.’
‘Georg…’ Fabel looked past Aichinger and down the hall to see if he could see the small feet move again. ‘The children…’
‘Do you know what I do for a living, Herr Fabel? I’m a “recruitment consultant”. That means I sit in an office for the greater part of my waking hours and find people to fill other offices in other companies. It’s the most pointless fucking waste of a life. That’s my life. That’s the me I became. I am one little hamster in his treadmill finding other hamsters for other treadmills. Supplying the meat to feed the big corporate mincing machine. That is what I spend my life doing. Where’s the sense in that? Thirty-odd hours a week. I calculated it: by the time I retire, I will have spent nearly forty thousand hours sitting at that desk. Forty thousand. It’s mad. I’ve always tried to do the right thing, Herr Fabel. Always. What was expected of me. Play the game according to the rules. Everything else is chaos, I was told. But none of this makes any sense. Don’t you see? All of the things I haven’t seen. Places I’ve never been.’ Tears streaked Aichinger’s face. Fabel tried to understand what he was saying; to grasp what could have caused such monumental grief. ‘It’s all illusion. We live these ridiculous little lives. Live in boxes. Work in boxes. Give ourselves to senseless work. Then we just… die. All because that’s the way we think it’s supposed to be. We think that’s stability and order. But one day I woke up and saw this world for what it is. Insane. There’s nothing rational or real or vital about it. This is the chaos. This is the anarchy. Well, I’ve done it. I’ve turned it on its head. On its head. This isn’t me. You’ve got to believe me: this isn’t me. I don’t want to be part of it any more.’
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