The Carnival Master jf-4

by Craig Russell

  Fabel and Scholz exchanged a look. ‘Go on, Mila,’ said Fabel.

  ‘I started to scream and he stopped, but only to hit me. I pushed him away and screamed more. He had locked the door but I got it open and ran down the hall. Then the Polish girl and others from the hotel came to help. When we go back to the room he was already gone.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police any of this when they were called to the hotel?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘The manager in the hotel said he didn’t want no trouble. And the agency phoned me and said I was to say nothing. They didn’t want you, I mean the police, making trouble for them.’

  ‘So you went along with it,’ said Scholz.

  ‘I had to. But I didn’t want to.’ Mila looked out of the window across the Rhine to Cologne Cathedral, dark against the sky. When she turned back there was an earnestness in her expression. ‘Everyone thought it was nothing. That he just got – how do you say it? – that he got a little carried away. But they didn’t see him. They didn’t see his face or his eyes after he bite me. He was not human no more. He was become a… I don’t know what you say in German. We call such beasts vovkulaka in Ukrainian. You know… a man who become a wolf.’

  ‘A werewolf,’ said Fabel and looked at Scholz.

  3.

  Ansgar knew where she worked. He had followed her back from the wholesalers on Monday.

  He had sat in his car in the car park and waited for her. It hadn’t been as if he had had a plan: pure instinct had impelled him along a destinationless course. Maybe he really could have a normal relationship with Ekatherina. Maybe he could keep order in his daily life by allowing himself this little piece of chaos. After all, he had done that with this woman before. It was like a sign that he had happened across her again, after all this time. She obviously worked in the restaurant or hotel trade. It was a thought that had never occurred to him, that he might at some time encounter this woman again because she was in the same business as him. Ansgar had shadowed her as she pushed her low bed-cart stacked with purchases across the tarmac to where her small van was parked. Then he had followed her through the city to her cafe on the north-west fringe of the Altstadt.

  And today he had come back. The cafe had the anonymously trendy look of almost every coffee shop and the name AMAZONIA CYBER-CAFE was emblazoned above the large picture window. Ansgar smiled at the choice of name. He thought about going into the cafe: the chances were that she would not recognise him, but he couldn’t take the risk. Instead he watched from across the street.

  Ansgar looked at his watch. His shift started in two hours.

  He had until then.

  4.

  ‘Those papers looked pretty genuine,’ said Scholz as they drove across the bridge to Cologne’s Left Bank. ‘But I’d bet you anything you like that they’re fakes.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fabel. Mila had insisted that she was in Germany of her own free will and that she chose to do what she did for a living. She certainly hadn’t looked oppressed, but of course it was difficult to tell. Prostitution, legal or otherwise, was seldom a profession of completely free choice. And Mila’s reluctance to be seen talking to two policemen had to do with something more than the business she was in. Scholz had treated her with nothing less than contempt. Fabel liked Scholz, his laid-back manner and his friendliness, but the Cologne officer’s attitude towards women troubled him. Fabel had always had female officers in his team, but he had never had to make a conscious effort to do so. Everyone was picked on their merits. It bothered Fabel to see how Scholz was almost dismissive of Tansu, who was clearly a capable officer. And there was something about his manner with Mila that bothered him.

  The MediaPark on the northern fringe of the Neustadt area was a reasonably new element in Cologne’s landscape.

  ‘The Cologne Tower has only been open for about four years. There’s still quite a bit of office space to fill,’ explained Scholz as they circled through the streets looking for somewhere to park. Eventually they used an underground car park and walked through the chill drizzle to the bright glass and steel of the Cologne Tower. InterSperse Media was on the fifth floor.

  There was no reception as such and most of the people milling about the open-plan office space or working at workstations were in their twenties or early thirties. Everyone was dressed in casual sweat-tops or T-shirts and jeans. In environments like this, Fabel always felt he belonged to another era. Despite considering himself to be liberal-minded, he often found such situations provoked the reactionary in him: the northern Lutheran who believed that people should still dress smartly for work; that the only men who should wear earrings were pirates; that tattoos on women were uncomely.

  ‘Cool place…’ said Scholz, clearly untouched by the same conservatism. A fat young woman came over to them. Despite her near-obesity, she wore jeans and a top that left her too-ample midriff exposed. Predictably she had a piercing, a ring through her nostril.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a tone that suggested she would rather do anything else but help. Scholz showed her his police ID and her cloudy expression dimmed further.

  ‘We want to see David Littger.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait – he’s in a meeting.’

  Scholz smiled indulgently, as if she were a child who had said something cutely naive. ‘No, no… you see, we don’t have to wait. This is a murder inquiry so get him now or we’ll walk into his meeting. Clear?’

  The young woman stormed off, presenting the policemen with her bustling rotund figure from the rear.

  ‘She should be more willing to help,’ said Scholz. ‘Christ knows what our guy would do if he ever saw that arse. That would keep him in stew for six months.’

  Fabel laughed despite himself. The girl returned after a minute and sulkily showed them into the only meeting room, a glass box in the centre of the office. There was a large conference table with an impossibly thin computer-display screen in the centre, a cordless keyboard and mouse. Three media types stood up and left as Fabel and Scholz entered. Scholz spoke to the remaining man.

  ‘You David Littger?’ Scholz asked and sat down at the table uninvited. Fabel remained standing by the door. Littger nodded, eyeing both policemen suspiciously. He was in his early thirties, with cropped-short sand-coloured hair and stubble grown to disguise a weak jaw. ‘I’m Commissar Scholz, this is Principal Chief Commissar Fabel. We’re here to talk about one of the websites you host and did the design for.’

  ‘I’m afraid I will not divulge any such information. InterSperse Media is bound by strict commercial-confidentiality rules-’

  ‘Listen, pencil-dick,’ said Scholz, still smiling as if conducting a perfectly pleasant conversation with an acquaintance. ‘I am not here to fuck about. This is a multiple-murder inquiry and in my pocket I have a warrant from the Staatsanwalt’s office. If you force me to exercise this warrant, your offices will be closed to your staff, all of your files seized and your operation will be shut down for as long as it takes us to find the information we need. Now, you don’t want that and I don’t want that, because if I have to do that it will take me much longer to find the sick pervs who run the site. I will also take it as read that you have obstructed us for some reason. Maybe you’re into this scene as well and are more “hands-on” than you want to admit. In which case you and I will be seeing a great deal of each other over the next twenty-four hours. And it’ll be at my place, not yours.’

  ‘What’s the name of the website?’ asked Littger in a flat tone. If he was shaken, he didn’t show it. Scholz handed him a sheet of paper.

  ‘They call themselves the Anthropophagi,’ explained Scholz. He referred to his notebook. ‘It is, as they describe it, “an online meeting place for individuals and groups interested in the exchange of information on hard vore and cannibalism.” In other words, Sick Fucks Reunited. And your hip and trendy techno company put this shit on the web for them and designed their website.’

  Littger remained unperturbed. ‘I
remember it. We uploaded them on our server about six months ago. We do no maintenance on the site – we supplied a general design and a template for them to update. As for its content… we’re not responsible for that. We simply supply the door, the access to the web. But there is no regulation out there. The Internet is the Wild West. Anarchy. We can’t check up on every single site we host.’

  ‘And if someone puts up pictures of kids being raped?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘We have a zero-tolerance policy towards that kind of thing,’ said Littger. ‘But we need to know it’s going on before we can pull the plug and call you guys in.’ He sighed. ‘Listen, I’ll give you the name and address, but you’re going to have to serve your warrant. I’ll have all kind of shit from clients to contend with if you don’t. But I’m willing to cooperate, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t disrupt my business the way you said. I’ll point you to all the right information. I just need to be legally obliged to hand over the information.’

  ‘Ah, well… it’s not as easy as that, Herr Littger.’ Scholz made an I’d like to help but… face. ‘You see, if I do this through the proper channels and you blab to your clients, or even if the press get a hint that your company is part of this investigation, then God knows who’s going to find out about it before we’re ready. I am prepared to give you my word that no one will know where the information came from.’

  ‘You know something, Herr Scholz?’ said Littger. ‘I don’t believe you have a warrant.’

  Scholz’s smile disappeared and his expression clouded. ‘You want to put me to the test?’

  ‘No one finds out about this?’

  ‘Not unless Tons-of-Fun out there or any of your other employees blab. But they don’t need to know that we have had this discussion.’

  Littger leaned over the table and typed something on the cordless keyboard.

  ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Peter Schnaus is the guy’s name. That’s his address. It’s in Buschbell, a part of Frechen.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘I think we’ll pay Herr Schnaus a call. I take it we can rely on your discretion? I’d be most annoyed if Herr Schnaus knew in advance of our visit. In the meantime, could you put up the Anthropophagi site for us? There are a few questions I’d like to ask.’

  Littger shrugged and typed the address into the wireless keyboard. The site appeared. ‘What does Anthropophagi mean?’ he asked as the site loaded.

  ‘It’s Greek,’ said Scholz. ‘It means cannibals. In some folklore it refers to headless men, with their eyes and mouths in their chests, who feed on human flesh.’

  ‘Nice…’

  Fabel took charge of the mouse and navigated the site. There was a picture gallery, a forum and a section devoted to classified advertisements.

  ‘You see this shit?’ asked Scholz.

  ‘Yep,’ said Fabel. ‘Weird stuff, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well… yeah… but I expected to see all kinds of sick porn. But it’s just weird. The only thing I could see that could by any stretch of the imagination be deemed erotic was a series of badly doctored pics of some tart in a bikini being swallowed whole by a fish.’

  ‘That, believe it or not, is pornography for these people. It’s a fetish called vorarephilia. They get off by fantasising about eating someone or being eaten. The picture you described is what’s called soft vore as in soft core. It shows a human or an animal being consumed whole, without blood. Hard vore is when it involves the cutting or ripping of flesh with lots of bloodshed. Believe it or not – and this is pretty hard to believe – there are vorarephiles who get off watching nature programmes. You know, lions tearing antelopes apart and eating them.’

  Scholz shook his head. ‘Shit… like I said to you before, I sometimes can’t imagine how the hell people get to a place like that, where their idea of sex is so fucked-up.’

  ‘I honestly believe that this kind of crap on the Internet feeds it. It gives them a place to exchange their fantasies and to convince each other that they’re not abnormal. Sadists, paedophiles, rapists all do exactly the same thing,’ said Fabel. Littger shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘nothing to do with me’. Fabel clicked onto the classified ads section. ‘This is what we want… yes, here it is.’ He read one of the ads out loud.

  ‘“Love Bites”… nice title, huh? “Love-hungry predator seeks submissive prey for voreplay. Must not be fat, but should have a bottom ample enough to sink one’s teeth into. Genuine replies only. No professionals, only enthusiastic pears ripe for the eating. Apply to Lovebiter, Box AG1891”.’ Fabel turned to Littger. ‘You have any way of tracing who placed this?’

  ‘Only an IP address, and that could be for anywhere. He may even have used a cybercafe or a WiFi hotspot. And you can’t trace him through his credit card – he had to pay for the ad but there’s no secure credit-card facility built into the site. Advertisers have to send hard copy in to the PO box number listed, along with sufficient funds to pay for it.’

  ‘So this guy Schnaus may have the details of whoever placed the ad?’ asked Scholz.

  ‘Not necessarily. The advertiser could have paid by money order or might even have sent cash. But what Schnaus will be able to provide is the access password to get into the virtual mailbox for all the replies he got.’

  ‘We’ve got to find “Lovebiter”,’ Scholz said to Fabel. ‘He lives in the same dark place as our guy. He may be connected to him.’

  ‘He may even be him,’ said Fabel.

  5.

  Tansu was waiting for them when they got back to the Presidium.

  ‘Productive day?’ she asked Fabel. He ran through what they had found out while Scholz went into his office to check his messages and e-mail.

  ‘He’s going to be in a really bad mood for the rest of the day,’ said Tansu. ‘The police Karneval committee is going ape because the float is so behind schedule.’ Fabel looked through the glass into Scholz’s office and grinned. The Cologne detective was standing talking on the phone, his free hand intermittently running through his hair or gesturing to the empty room.

  ‘Listen, Tansu,’ said Fabel. ‘While we have the chance, I wondered if I could ask you a favour…’

  ‘Certainly, Herr Chief Commissar,’ she said, and smiled wickedly.

  ‘This is it,’ said Tansu. They had been to the home address Tansu had got for Vera Reinartz and there had been no one home. ‘This is her business.’

  Fabel looked across at the cafe. It looked bright and warm in the dull winter street. ‘What’s the name she uses now?’ he asked Tansu.

  ‘Sandow… Andrea Sandow.’

  As they entered the Amazonia Cafe, Fabel smiled to himself at the sight of one of the waitresses. She could certainly be described as an Amazon. At first, Fabel wondered if the waitress was in fact a man in drag. She was massively built, with muscles bulging on her exposed arms and straining at the material of her T-shirt, yet her make-up was heavily applied and the platinum blonde of her hair was as synthetic as the bronze of her midwinter tan. He found himself wondering where she would fit in with the theories of female beauty that Lessing, the anthropologist-cum-art historian, had expounded.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Fabel asked the waitress, ‘I’m looking for Andrea Sandow… I believe she owns this cafe?’

  ‘I am she.’ The Amazon pulled herself to her full height and regarded Fabel coldly with her brilliant blue eyes. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Fabel found himself speechless. He thought of Vera Reinartz, the pretty if mousy girl in the photographs; of the bright medical student always reluctant to have her photograph taken.

  ‘Frau Sandow,’ Tansu intervened. ‘Can you confirm that you were originally known as Vera Reinartz?’

  The mascaraed eyes narrowed in the masculine face. ‘What’s this all about?’

  Fabel took in the cafe. There were about a dozen customers scattered around the tables. ‘Listen, we’re police officers… is there somewhere private we could talk?’

  ‘Could you cover for me for a
minute or two, Britta?’ Andrea turned back to the three detectives. ‘We can talk in the kitchen.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Frau Sandow, you’ve undergone a considerable change,’ said Fabel. He eased sideways to allow Tansu and Scholz to follow him into the kitchen. Andrea Sandow, as Vera Reinartz was now called, was a good head shorter than Fabel, shorter even than Tansu, yet her physical presence seemed to dominate the cramped kitchen. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you from your photographs.’

  Andrea smirked. ‘That wasn’t a considerable change. It was a metamorphosis. Complete and irreversible. Now, what is it you want?’

  ‘We want to talk to you again about the man who attacked you,’ said Tansu. ‘I know it was a long time ago, but we think he’s attacked other women.’

  ‘Of course he has.’ Another contemptuous grin. Andrea’s jaw tightened with it, wide and strong, her cheeks creasing with deep dimples. ‘I know why you want to talk to me. I’ve been expecting you. It’s about those killings, isn’t it? The last two Women’s Karneval Nights?’

  ‘You think it’s the same man?’ asked Tansu.

  ‘I know it is the same man. So do you. That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward, then,’ said Fabel, ‘if you were convinced it was the same man?’

  ‘What would be the point? You won’t catch him. Ever.’

  ‘Why did you change your name?’ he asked.

  Andrea stared hard at Fabel. A man’s stare. ‘What’s that got to do with you?’