JF04 - The Carnival Master (29 page)

‘It’s morbid …’ said Fabel.

‘It’s Catholicism.’ Scholz smiled. ‘We’re very big on memento mori. Have fun when you’re alive but remember that death and eternity is waiting for you. Like I said, it’s a concept we’ve refined and concentrated into Karneval.’

‘Why did you want me to see this?’ asked Fabel. ‘Do you think there’s some significance? The virgin legend and the Golden Chamber? According to Tansu, the rape victim seven years ago was attacked at the back of this church. And she was a virgin.’

‘I suppose it’s possible there’s a connection between that case and the killings. But I thought you’d want to see this. Both murders were in close proximity to St Ursula’s. Maybe all this,’ Scholz encompassed the Golden Chamber with a sweep of his hand, ‘has some special significance for the killer. Maybe he assumed that Melissa Schenker was a virgin. Certainly her lifestyle seemed to be pretty celibate. But Sabine Jordanski strikes me as someone who would have given up that status pretty enthusiastically some time ago.’

Fabel nodded. ‘But there must be
something
that brought these girls to his attention. Not just the fact that they had his particular taste in body shape. He’s seen them before the night he killed them. Somehow and somewhere there is a commonality.’

Fabel stared at one of the ossuary wall panels. It stared back at him from the dark sockets of a gilded skull. He turned from its hollow gaze and made his
way to the steps out of the Golden Chamber. ‘When we get back to your office, I’d like to go over the files again. I know we’re missing it.’

‘What we are talking about is committing murder.’ Buslenko leaned on the table and held Maria in a searchlight gaze. She hated his eyes. Bright and hard like diamond-cut emeralds. So like Vitrenko’s eyes. ‘Let’s be clear on that. We’re here to break the very law that it is your duty to uphold. You are a Murder Commission detective, Maria … you should know more than anyone that there is nothing that legally justifies the homicide of Vasyl Vitrenko.’

‘It’s morally justifiable …’ she said.

‘That’s not the issue. If we’re caught, you’ll go to prison. I just want to make that clear. If you want to walk away from this, then you can do so now. But go back to Hamburg … I don’t want you getting in our way here.’

‘I know the stakes,’ said Maria. ‘I’ll do anything to nail that bastard. He finished me as a police officer so I don’t see why I should act like one when it comes to bringing him down.’

‘Okay …’ Buslenko rolled out a street map of Cologne. It was no ordinary driver’s city guide and Maria guessed it was the kind of map that every intelligence agency in the world would have of cities in every other country. There were a number of small red squares glued to the map. ‘These are the centres – or at least the ones we know about – from which the Vitrenko outfit operates. We have good intelligence on these, but we know these aren’t the key locations. We know nothing about those. And we
can be pretty sure that Vitrenko has changed his appearance significantly. He could be right under our noses and we wouldn’t know it. But we do have intelligence on
this
piece of shit …’ Buslenko laid a photograph on the table. ‘This is Valeri Molokov, the Russian. In fact, in many ways Molokov is a Russian version of Vitrenko. The main difference is that Molokov is not quite as smart, not quite as deadly. And where Vitrenko sees himself as something other, something better, than a common criminal and still thinks he’s running a military operation, Molokov, despite having a police Spetsnaz background, is quite comfortable with his role as a common or garden mafia boss.’

‘Molokov was a police officer?’ asked Maria.

‘Again, not in the way you think of it. Molokov served with
OMON
, the Russian Special Purpose Police Squad, but was kicked out, ostensibly for corruption. With so many special-forces police on the take in Moscow, that takes some doing. Molokov did three years in Matrosskaya Tishina prison in Moscow for offences linked to people smuggling. Another difference from Vitrenko, who’s never been arrested, far less faced trial and imprisonment. The truth is that Molokov built his reputation as a contract killer. He’s now officially wanted for a whole range of crimes. Molokov hates Vitrenko but can’t do anything about the situation. He and Vitrenko were on a collision course and Molokov knew he’d come out worst. So Vitrenko was able to force Molokov into partnership with him, with Molokov very much the junior partner.’

‘Why hasn’t Molokov been extradited from Germany?’ asked Maria.

‘Molokov and Vitrenko are both living here under
assumed names. The difference between them is that Vitrenko is better at it – living in someone else’s skin, as it were. But the German police still don’t know what identity Molokov’s using or where to find him. And that’s where we’re ahead of the game.’

‘Oh?’

‘We have a location for him. More by accident than by design. Our main interest in Molokov is that he’s the highest-ranking member of the Vitrenko organisation who we can observe. Unlike you chasing around after small fry like Kushnier, Molokov could really give us a fix on Vitrenko.’

‘It sounds like there’s no love lost between them.’

‘There isn’t, particularly on Molokov’s side. Vitrenko has the power to keep him in check, but Molokov is a deadly son of a bitch. But there is a specific stress-point in the Vitrenko–Molokov marriage. Your Federal Crime Bureau here in Germany has a source of information within the organisation. Our intelligence suggests that Vitrenko believes the leak is from Molokov’s side. I took part in a failed operation to nail Vitrenko back on Ukrainian soil. One of Molokov’s top men, a thug called Kotkin, ended up dead, as did a member of our team who was supposedly on the Vitrenko payroll.’

Olga Sarapenko cut in. ‘What we need to know is if you are with us in this. Will you help us nail Vitrenko?’

Maria sipped her water. She noticed her hand trembling as she did so. Her wrists still ached from the rope they’d been bound with.

‘What if we were to do this legally? Locate him and get the BKA to arrest him?’

‘You know that’s not an option, Maria,’ said
Buslenko. ‘That would give him a chance to slip through our fingers. You for one should know how easy that is. Anyway, that is not our objective. We are here to put an end to Vitrenko. Literally.’

Maria looked at the Ukrainian. He held her gaze, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. This man claimed to be a policeman, knew that she was a police officer, yet was asking her to cooperate in a murder. There again, that had been the conclusion she had envisaged for herself. But how did she know that he was genuine? He could be anybody. He could be one of Vitrenko’s killers. But if that were the case, wouldn’t she be dead by now?.

‘Like I told you,’ she said. ‘I want to be there when Vitrenko is brought down. I’m in.’

Ansgar, so unused to the ballet of courtship, fumbled clumsily for the right words. Ekatherina, like a city guide helping out a tourist who had found himself on the wrong side of town, had had to help him with his halting and mumbled proposal that she should come with him to the Karneval procession in a few weeks’ time. Ekatherina made it easier for him by suggesting that they go out for an evening first; to a Ukrainian restaurant she knew.

Ansgar was no fool. He was, after all, at least fifteen years older than her and by no description a catch. And he knew that marriage to a German national would assure her permanent residency in the Federal Republic. However, he also believed that Ekatherina really did like him. But did she
really know about his true nature? His secret desires?

The Rhine divides Cologne in more than the geographical sense. Since the very first settlements the river had represented first an ethnic and then a social and cultural border. The inhabitants of the left bank, of which Ansgar was one, had always thought of their side of the river as the true Cologne, as opposed to ‘over there’. The Ukrainian restaurant that Ekatherina had suggested was ‘over there’, in the Vingst area of the city. The food was authentically Ukrainian. Ansgar also guessed that a large proportion of the clientele, and probably the management, was authentically Ukrainian mafia. He noticed several huddles of large men in black Armani, the regulation uniform of Eastern European gangsterdom.

The menu was in both Cyrillic and German but Ansgar allowed himself to be led in his choice by Ekatherina. As far as Ansgar could see, the Ukrainians had as many styles of
Borsch
as Eskimos had words for snow. Added to this was
pechyva, pampushky, halushky, varenyky, bitky
meatballs and a whole range of desserts. Ekatherina recommended that they should start with goose-breast
zakuska
followed by a starter portion of
hetman borsch
, then pork ribs stewed in beet
kvas
with
halushky
dumplings.

‘You can’t get more Ukrainian than that,’ she enthused and Ansgar could see that she was genuinely proud to introduce him to her culture and cuisine. When the waiter came over to take their drinks order, Ekatherina engaged in a lively exchange in Ukrainian with him. The waiter smiled and nodded.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘This is something you’ve got to try …’

The waiter returned with a chilled champagne-style bottle. He popped the cork and Ekatherina again took the lead and tasted it, nodding enthusiastically. After the waiter had filled his glass, Ansgar took a sip. His mouth filled with a fragrant effervescence.

‘This is beautiful,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Really beautiful.’

‘It’s
Krimart
,’ she said, gratified. ‘It’s from the Artyomovsk winery in the Donetsk region. It was founded by a German, you know. A Prussian. It was what Stalin and all the communist bosses liked to drink.’

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.

‘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
Kölsch
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
Kölsch
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.