JF04 - The Carnival Master (9 page)

Fabel laid the case files out on the coffee table. Both victims had been in their late twenties, female, single. Their backgrounds showed little commonality. Sabine Jordanski had been a hairdresser. Melissa Schenker had worked from home: some kind of software designer. Where Jordanski had been the life and soul of the party, Schenker had been quiet, reserved and almost reclusive. Jordanski had been native
Kölsch
, born and bred in the city; Schenker had been an outsider from Kassel who had settled in Cologne three years before. The investigation had revealed no shared friends or acquaintances. No links. Other than the way they had met their deaths.

Both women had been strangled. There was evidence of manual strangulation and then the use of a ligature: the male neckties that had been left around their throats as a signature by the killer. Scholz had explained the possible significance of this signature:
Weiberfastnacht
was a key date in the Cologne Karneval calendar. Always held on the last Thursday before Lent,
Weiberfastnacht
was Women’s Karneval Day, when women ruled. Every woman in Cologne had, on Women’s Karneval Day, the right to demand a kiss from any man. It was also a custom that women had the right, if they saw a man wearing a necktie, to cut it in half. It was intended as a symbol of overturning the traditional authority of
men over women. In a more enlightened and equal cultural environment, the custom had become a bit of fun and nothing more. But Commissar Scholz expressed his belief that it meant a great deal more to the killer. He suspected that the killer was motivated either by a psychotic misogyny or a sexually motivated resentment of women. Scholz clearly felt that this view explained the post-mortem disfigurement of the bodies: approximately half a kilo of flesh had been excised from the right buttock of both victims. Fabel could see the Cologne officer’s logic, but thought it premature. He suspected that there was more to this killer than met the eye.

Fabel had lost track of time and realised he had been sitting going through the file for a couple of hours by the time Susanne came through, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

‘I woke up and you were gone,’ she said, yawning. ‘What’s wrong? Another one of your bad dreams?’

‘No … no,’ he lied. ‘Just couldn’t sleep, that’s all.’

Susanne saw the file open on the coffee table. The pictures spread out. Dead faces. Forensic reports. ‘Oh … I see. What’s this?’ There was more than a hint of suspicion in her voice.

‘I’ve been asked to look at a case in Cologne. Just to offer an opinion.’

Susanne’s face clouded. ‘You cannot afford to get involved with another case, Jan. Roland Bartz has been more patient than anyone could reasonably expect. He’s not going to wait around for ever. But there again, maybe that’s what you’re hoping for.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know damned well. You’ve dithered and
fluttered about like some reluctant virgin. I don’t think you can go through with it. I think that’s what all this is about. You can’t commit to leaving the police.’

‘That’s crap, Susanne. I
have
committed to it. I’ve resigned. I even turned down an offer from van Heiden and the BKA today.’

‘What offer?’

Fabel stared at Susanne for a moment. Her dark eyes burned in the soft light. He already regretted mentioning it.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘What offer?’

‘They want to create a new unit. A sort of Federal Murder Commission. A unit based here in Hamburg that could take on complex cases elsewhere in Germany. They asked me to set it up and head it.’

Susanne laughed bitterly. ‘Great. Absolutely marvellous. I spend all my time worrying about your state of mind because of the crap you have to deal with here and you’re off discussing how to increase your workload by seeking out cases across Germany.’

‘I told you, I said no.’ Fabel had raised his voice. He took a breath and lowered it. ‘I said no.’

‘What’s the matter, Jan? Did you nearly lose your temper? Did you nearly lose control there?’

‘Susanne …’

‘Don’t you realise that that is your problem? You’re so buttoned up. You were never meant to be a policeman, don’t you see that? If it hadn’t been for the sainted Hanna Dorn being murdered it would never have occurred to you to become one. For the life of me I don’t know why you felt you owed it to her to throw away your future and choose a job that otherwise you would never have
considered. Everybody goes on about what a great detective you are. About all the cases you’ve cleared up. But it’s screwed you up. I hear it, Jan. Every other night. The dreams. The nightmares. Don’t you see that you’re as bad as Maria Klee? You witness all of that horror and the crap that people inflict on each other and you screw it down deep inside. And if you don’t stop, you’re going to crack up. Big time.’

‘You see the same things. You delve into their minds, for God’s sake.’

‘But don’t you see that’s different? I
chose
to be a criminal psychologist. I trained for it. Prepared for it. I took every step towards my career deliberately. I chose it because it was the direction in which my interests and skills took me. Not because I was diverted into it by some northern bloody Lutheran sense of crusade.’ Susanne paused. ‘The difference between you and me is that I can deal with it. I can keep it out of my private life.’

‘I don’t know why we’re having this fight …’ Fabel sat down again. His voice was tired. ‘I keep telling you, I’m finished with the Murder Commission. With the Polizei Hamburg.’

‘We’re having this fight because you won’t commit to anything.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You know what it means, Jan. It was your idea for us to move in together, but we’ve been looking at apartments for months. It doesn’t matter what part of town, what type of apartment, you just walk away shrugging your shoulders. You can’t commit to changing jobs and you can’t commit to me. Why don’t you just admit it?’

‘How many times have I got to say this, Susanne?
I turned them down. Flat. And my resignation is final. In five weeks’ time I cease to be a policeman.’ Fabel stood up and placed his hands on Susanne’s shoulders. ‘And I can’t help it if we haven’t seen an apartment that I like. That doesn’t mean I’m not committed to you. You know I am.’

‘Are you?’ She pushed his hands away. ‘Then why have you been so distant? For the last couple of months. I don’t know what it is I’ve said or done, but you’ve been strange with me. Cold.’

‘That’s nonsense …’ said Fabel.

‘Is it?’ Susanne gestured to the case material on the coffee table. ‘And what about this? Is it nonsense that you’re taking on a new case when you’re supposed to be finishing up?’

‘Yes, it is. I told you. I’ve been asked to offer an opinion. That’s all.’

‘And of course you couldn’t say no.’

‘No, I couldn’t. Whether you like it or not, Susanne, I’m a policeman for the next five weeks.’

Susanne turned and went back to bed and Fabel stood silently for a moment, looking at the closed bedroom door. Then he sat down and turned his mind again to a distant city and the deaths of two young women in it.

Fabel suddenly became aware that daylight was beginning to fill his flat and a leaden tiredness his body. He had been reading, comparing, taking notes for over three hours. It remained the assumption of the investigating officer, Scholz, that the two victims had been chosen entirely at random. But Fabel had noticed something as he had examined the morgue photographs of the victims: despite the difference in their heights, both women had slightly pear-shaped
figures, with a fleshiness around their bottoms, lower belly and thighs.

Fabel read Scholz’s notes:

There is no evidence of pre-mortem disfigurement. The comparative lack of blood loss from the site suggests that the victims were first strangled with a ligature, and fibres found embedded in the abraded skin on the necks confirm that the ties left at the scenes were the murder weapons. Inconsistent fibres were found on the tie used in the first murder. These fibres were unusual in colour and composition: blue felt. Once the victims were dead, the perpetrator partially stripped them, turned them face down in the pose in which they were found, and then, post-mortem, excised a quantity of flesh from the buttock or upper thigh of the victims. There is clearly a significance in this disfigurement. The perpetrator removes the flesh symbolically. A point of interest is the quantity of flesh removed. It is possible by exact measurement of the excised area to calculate accurately the weight of flesh removed. In the first case, 0.47 kilos were taken, and 0.4 kilos were cut from the second victim. The similarity in weight seems too close to be coincidental and would suggest that the killer has some expertise in measuring quantities. There is also no deviation from or correction of his incisions. These two facts would suggest that he may be someone used to working with quantities of meat and could be involved in butchery or meat rendering as a career. Similarly, he may be a surgeon or otherwise medically qualified
.

The quantity of flesh removed may be
significant in itself. In each case it has been extremely close to the 0.45 kilogram measure. This equates to one Imperial pound in weight, as used by the British. This is not to say that the killer is a foreign national, more that ‘a pound of flesh’ is intended (as in the Shakespeare play
The Merchant of Venice)
and therefore is a metaphor for recovering justice from the victims. This could suggest that the killer was known to his victims
.

It is clear from the consistency of modus that the perpetrator of the first murder also carried out the second homicide. This, added to the symbolism of the tie left at each scene and the significance of Karneval, and the implied expression of psychosexual hatred of women all point to a serial offender
.

Fabel leafed through the file.
Weiberfastnacht
had another name.
Fetter Donnerstag
. Fat Thursday. A day devoted to gluttony.

‘No, Herr colleague,’ Fabel said under his breath as he re-examined the scene-of-crime images. ‘Our friend isn’t interested in collecting mementos. He’s hungry. His pound of flesh isn’t a trophy: it’s a meal.’

The phone rang.

They stood and stared at the three clear plastic packages on Anna’s desk: one containing an ancient-looking Walther P4 handgun, the other holding a carrier bag with cash and the third with a large dog-eared book in it. Each of them was sealed and labelled with a blue evidence tag.

‘We found it outside the store,’ said Anna Wolff, indicating the book. She was in charge of the case. ‘Philosophy. That’s what Tschorba studied – at one time, anyway.’

Fabel continued to stare silently at the evidence bags.

Anna ran through what had happened in the convenience store. The Turkish owner had said in his statement that Breidenbach had died bravely; that the young policeman had been determined that the robber would not go out into the street with a handgun. He also stated that he had got the idea to jump Tschorba from Breidenbach, who had told the gunman that he couldn’t take them both. As Timo Tschorba had fired the fatal shots into Breidenbach’s body, the shopkeeper had thrown himself at him. Tschorba was now in the cells, his swollen and bruised face bearing the marks of the encounter with the Turk. Once the shopkeeper had disarmed the junkie, he had rushed over to Breidenbach, but the young policeman was already dead. He admitted that when he had seen that, he had gone back and pistol-whipped Tschorba, who had cried like a child.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Fabel at last. ‘He was there. I mean Breidenbach. He was there at the Aichinger incident. He was the MEK trooper who came up to the apartment with me.’ He shook his head mournfully. ‘I behaved like an arsehole … I treated Breidenbach as if he were less of a policeman than me. Just because he was a tactical weapons specialist. I was wrong. He was a police officer first and foremost.’

Anna went through the statement, including Tschorba’s confession, the ballistics and forensics report and the initial observations from Möller, the
pathologist. Fabel took in very little. It was the Murder Commission mantra of dry facts and figures, of times and causes of death, of wounded flesh and rendered fabric. He had heard it so, so many times before. His thoughts still held him on a landing of a block of flats in Jenfeld with a young MEK trooper just starting his career as Fabel was ending his. He found he could not forgive himself for making sweeping judgements about Breidenbach’s motivations and ambitions. Fabel thought about Breidenbach’s youth, about how fit he had been, and then imagined him lying grey and blood-drained on Möller’s stainless steel autopsy table, sliced open, the vestigial warmth from his inner organs dissipating into the cool autopsy-room air.

After Anna’s briefing, he asked Werner to come into his office. This had become an almost daily ritual since Fabel’s resignation: the gradual transfer of responsibility to his friend. It had always been Maria that he had envisaged taking over, but that was simply not going to happen. He updated Werner on the caseload, confirming that Anna and Henk Hermann should see through the Breidenbach murder. When they were finished Fabel switched on his voicemail and took his jacket from behind the door.

‘I’m finishing for the afternoon. Got shopping to do,’ he explained to Werner. He indicated his desk, the files still lying on it from their meeting. ‘Why don’t you do your paperwork there? Might as well get used to it.’

Ansgar busied himself in the kitchen. To an outsider, a restaurant kitchen would seem the definition of chaos: orders shouted over the sound
of food sizzling or boiling, cookers and ventilators running at industrial noise levels, staff weaving between each other in a rushed ballet. But for Ansgar, his kitchen was the only place of true order that he knew. The dance of the kitchen staff, the rhythm of pan and oven: he orchestrated it all. No one ever had to wait too long for their order; no dish arrived under- or overcooked. His reputation was that of the artist tempered by the perfectionist.