‘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?’
‘I just wondered if it was a reaction to the attack. And if it was, why didn’t you move away from Cologne? You’re not from here originally, are you? Your parents live in Frankfurt, don’t they?’
‘You haven’t told them where I live?’ The sudden foreshadow of anger clouded Andrea’s expression.
‘No, no…’ said Tansu reassuringly. ‘We wouldn’t – couldn’t – give out information like that without your consent.’ Tansu cast a look in Fabel’s direction. He knew why. For some reason there was an atmosphere of hostility between him and Andrea. Mutual hostility. He could understand why she resented the intrusion of the police into the new life she’d built for herself. What he couldn’t understand was why he felt hostile towards her.
‘When did you get into bodybuilding?’ he asked.
‘It started after the attack. I had to have a lot of physiotherapy. I needed to build my strength up and the physio involved some weight work. It was then that I got the idea. To rebuild myself. To create someone new.’
‘But there was nothing wrong with the old you,’ said Tansu. ‘You were a victim. Do you blame yourself for what happened?’
‘No,’ said Andrea defiantly. ‘I know it was that bastard who’s to blame. But pretty little Vera Reinartz was too soft and weak, too pliant. She was too afraid. Maybe that’s why he picked her. Because she had victim written all over her.’
‘But your medical career…’ said Tansu. ‘According to what I’ve read you showed enormous promise. You could have excelled as a doctor.’
‘There are other ways to excel,’ said Andrea. ‘That was all part of the past. Of Vera Reinartz. Now I excel at something else. I started bodybuilding in 2000. I mean seriously. I am an expert on it, you know. Not just the sport or the techniques – the history, too. The philosophy of it. Do you know that the father of modern bodybuilding was a German? Eugen Sandow. He started out as a circus strongman and ended up setting the standards for all bodybuilding. He organised and judged the world’s first bodybuilding competition. His fellow judge was Arthur Conan Doyle, the British author who invented Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Sandow…’ said Fabel. ‘That’s the name you took… Why?’
‘I needed to be someone else. That’s why I became a bodybuilder, Herr Fabel. Like I said, a total metamorphosis. I needed a new name for a new body.’
Andrea leaned back and braced herself against the kitchen counter. As she did so, the veins in her upper arms protested hard and blue against the brown skin. Fabel saw the spasmodic twitch of a bicep, as if it had a life independent of its host body. Andrea caught him looking.
‘Do you find me repulsive?’ she asked. ‘Do you find the shape of my body a real turn-off? Most men do. But others… oh, you would not believe what other men are like. They come to the competitions, a lot of them. They come to watch me and the other girls. Do you know that perfect muscle tone disappears within an hour of each workout session? We pump up before each contest, then run through our routines. Not rehearsal – it’s to maintain that perfect tone till we go on stage.’ She leaned forward even more and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Do you know that some of our male fans come backstage before or after the contest. Little men who ask if they can touch us. Our bellies. Our thighs. Our arms. Just so they can feel the muscle at perfect tone. They do it out of admiration of the sport. Reverence, almost. But that doesn’t stop them having a little stiffy in their pants. You see, Herr Fabel, one man’s meat is another man’s poison… What, exactly, would your meat be?’
‘You said you knew the Women’s Karneval Night killer was the same man who attacked you,’ said Fabel, holding Andrea’s gaze. ‘Why? Is there anything about the night you were attacked that you’ve remembered over the years that maybe isn’t in your original statement?’
Andrea laughed bitterly. ‘Do you know, Herr Fabel, that even after all this time he still comes back to haunt me? The clown?’
‘I’m sure,’ said Tansu. ‘You can’t go through an experience like that without post-traumatic stress.’
‘No… I’m not talking about that. I dealt with that. All of this
…’ She stood up straight and flexed her physique. ‘I created this to put that behind me. It wasn’t just the rape. That bastard beat me so badly I thought I was going to die. Well, I did, in a way. Vera died and I survived. He left a broken body behind and I fixed it. I don’t have nightmares about the Clown who attacked me. No post-trauma panic attacks. I’d love to meet him again… then I’d break every bone in his body. That’s not what I meant when I said he still comes back to haunt me. The sick bastard writes to me.’
‘What?’ Fabel exchanged looks with the others. ‘How? E-mail?’
‘No. Letters. They arrive every few months.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Scholz. ‘Do you mean he puts pen to paper and sends it through the mail?’
‘That’s usually how letters arrive,’ said Andrea.
‘But that’s physical evidence. That’s a chance for us to track him down.’ Fabel couldn’t contain his frustration. ‘Why on earth didn’t you get in touch with the police?’
Andrea shrugged. ‘When the first one arrived, not long after the attack, I was terrified. But I was still her then. Soft, timid, pliant. Too scared to do anything. Then I decided to change my name and the rest all fell into place. Then the other letters arrived. Even after I’d changed my name and moved apartments. They don’t come often. But they did come.’
‘Have you kept them?’ asked Scholz.
Andrea shook her head. ‘I burn them now without reading them. But the ones I did read were all the same. Mad ravings. How much he wanted to do it again, how he was biding his time.’