The Carnival Master jf-4

by Craig Russell

  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.

  10.

  ‘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 Kolsch 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 Kolsch 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.’

  11.

  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 ph
ysiology 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.

  12.

  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.’