‘Or in you…’ said Scholz.
‘I think our killer has abstracted his sexual perversion and believes that he is enjoying a relationship with his victims far more intimate than he would by just having sex with them.’
‘By eating a slice of the victim’s arse he absorbs their spirit and becomes their soulmate?’ Scholz’s expression was earnest. Fabel laughed.
‘Something like that. But he had to start off somewhere. There is a chance that to begin with our guy was simply a sex offender… committing rapes, that kind of thing. Through time he might have added the cannibal element. Remember the Joachim Kroll case? In Duisburg in the late seventies?’
Scholz nodded.
‘Kroll was a rapist-murderer and he had an undetected career going back two decades. Then, at some point along the way, he decided to try some of his victims’ flesh. Interestingly, he took flesh from exactly the same part of his victims’ bodies – the buttocks and upper thighs.’
‘Do you think we have a copycat?’
‘No. Kroll wasn’t exactly an inspirational figure. He had a near-idiot IQ and was a pathetic loser type. He died in ’ninety or ’ninety-one. The similarities are coincidental. But I do think there’s a chance the Karneval Killer started off small. Assaults on women. Particularly involving biting.’
‘Yeah…’ Scholz poked his lamb thoughtfully with his fork. ‘You could be right. One of my officers, Tansu Bakrac, has a theory about that.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ll let her explain tomorrow. Basically she’s put a question mark over a couple of cases in the past. One in particular. I’m not so sure, though.’
There was a pause and the two men concentrated on their meals.
‘I was surprised when you turned up, Jan,’ said Scholz at last. ‘I was told you were packing the job in.’
‘That’s the idea,’ Fabel said. Suddenly he felt like talking about it. There was something about Scholz’s open, honest demeanour that invited confidence. A good thing to have if you were a policeman. ‘Officially I’m working out my notice. But I really don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. It all seemed so straightforward. Now I’m not so sure.’ He told Scholz about his experience on the way down: eating the salami roll while examining the photographs of Sabine Jordanski’s disfigured body and it not even crossing his mind that it wasn’t normal behaviour.
‘I get that all the time,’ laughed Scholz. ‘I put it down to being accustomed to it all. I say I benefit from professional objective detachment. Everyone else says it’s because I’m a pig.’
‘But that’s exactly what bothers me,’ said Fabel. ‘I’ve become too accustomed to it all. Too detached.’
‘But it’s what you do…’ said Scholz. ‘Think about what it’s like to be a doctor, or a nurse. It’s supposed to be all about saving lives, but the truth is that medicine is all about death. Every day a doctor will deal with a patient who is on their way out of this world. Some of them suffering terribly. But it’s their job. If they got emotionally involved with every patient, or spent their free time thinking about the inevitability of the same thing happening to them, they’d go mad. But they don’t. It’s their stock in trade. You can’t beat yourself up because you’ve become used to murder.’
‘That,’ said Fabel, with a grin, ‘would have been a very well-put point, if it weren’t for the fact that, as we both know, the medical professional comes right at the top of serial-killer occupations. Statistically, anyway. Also alcoholism… suicide…’
‘Okay…’ said Scholz. ‘Maybe not a good example. But you know what I mean. You’re a professional policeman. That’s what you are. And the reason you’re here is because you are considered the best in Germany for cracking this kind of case. Maybe it’s a mistake to deny that.’
‘Maybe…’ said Fabel. He sipped his wine and looked out of the window at the lamplit street, now decked with snow. Out there was a city he didn’t know. And in that city Vitrenko conducted his violent trade in human flesh. Maria was out there too. Alone. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
9.
They had just finished dessert when Scholz’s cellphone rang. He held up his hand in apology to Fabel and then engaged in a short exchange with the caller.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. ‘Another case I’m working on. That was one of the team letting me know that we’ve hit another dead end.’
‘A murder?’
‘Yep. Gangland stuff. A kitchen worker was sliced up with a meat cleaver.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t worry – it wasn’t this restaurant.’
‘You get a lot of organised-crime killings?’
‘Not particularly. And especially not of late. This one is Russian or Ukrainian mafia.’
Fabel felt an electric tingle at the back of his neck. ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. The Vitrenko-Molokov gang muscled their way in here about a year ago. Secretive bunch – all ex-army or special police. We think that the poor schmuck who got killed was caught passing information on to an official. But that’s the problem. We can’t find any department which was talking to the vic.’
‘Why do you think he was involved with an official?’
‘He was seen talking to a smartly dressed woman the day before he was topped. It was clear that she was immigration or police. But that’s what the call was about. She definitely wasn’t one of ours.’
‘Oh…’ Fabel sipped his coffee and desperately tried to look relaxed as he watched Cologne through the window. Maria. He turned to Scholz and held his gaze for a moment.
‘Were you about to say something?’ asked Scholz.
Fabel smiled. And shook his head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
4 February
1.
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.