Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

The taint hung faint but growing in the air. Oliver knew the causes of it, understood the science behind it: the smell of cellular degradation escaping from the large open wounds, the pooling of stagnant blood in livid blotches in the lowest points, the odour leeching out through the skin. But no matter how scientific the explanation or professional the understanding, it was still quite simply the smell of death. He took a deep breath, picked up a large-bladed scalpel and held it poised for a moment as he looked down on the corpse, already split with large gashes, before him.

25-26 January

There was no such thing as a slow day at the Speisekammer and Ansgar Hoeffer always arrived at the restaurant early for his shift. He was the Head Chef and saw his duties extending beyond when he officially clocked on and off. It was, after all, his reputation that had been behind the Speisekammer’s growing success. The restaurant was doing the best trade it had known in its ten-year history. When Ansgar had first taken over the kitchen the Speisekammer had closed on Wednesdays. Now it did brisk midweek business for both lunches and evening meals. People came from across the city and beyond to savour Ansgar’s fusion cuisine which combined the best of German dishes with influences as varied as Thai, French and Japanese. And that was quite an accomplishment in Cologne: there were thirty or more world-class restaurants in the city. Even the delicatessen attached to the Speisekammer was benefiting from what Ansgar had done to elevate the restaurant’s reputation amongst Cologne’s discerning diners. Not that this had gone unnoticed or unrewarded. Ansgar was amongst the highest-paid chefs in Cologne and the owners, Herr and Frau Gallwitz, had even talked about making him a partner. Ansgar had responded positively but cautiously to this suggestion: he had enough common sense to realise that the Gallwitzes’ offer was as much motivated by sound commercial acumen as by any fondness for Ansgar who, even by his own admission, was a rather cold and distant man whose entire passion seemed concentrated on food. Everyone knew that if Ansgar moved to another restaurant, the greater part of the clientele would move with him.

Ekatherina, the Ukrainian sous-Chef, was waiting with breathless anticipation when Ansgar arrived. She hadn’t changed into her whites yet and was still wearing her crop-top T-shirt. The T-shirt accentuated the swell of her breasts and her midriff was exposed: Ansgar tried not to look at the stud that pierced through the flesh of her navel. She looked up at him with her pale blue Ukrainian eyes that sparkled even brighter with morbid excitement.

‘Have you heard about the Biarritz?’ she asked in her heavily, sexily accented German. Ansgar shook his head. He knew of the Biarritz, but it was in the Gulaschsuppe league: tourists and business-lunch specials.

‘What about the Biarritz?’ he asked and stole a look at Ekatherina’s breasts.

‘One of the kitchen staff has been murdered. The day before yesterday.’ She nodded her head gravely as if this added credibility to the statement.

‘Oh?’

‘Chopped up,’ Ekatherina said. Deliciously.

‘What do you mean?’ Ansgar felt his heart begin to race. He looked into Ekatherina’s electric-blue eyes. Why did Ukrainians have such bright eyes?

‘Someone cut him up with a meat cleaver.’ Ekatherina was clearly excited.

No, thought Ansgar. No, not that. Anything but that. Don’t talk to me about that.

‘It was awful,’ said Ekatherina. ‘And in the kitchen, too. There were bits of him all over the place. Like meat.’

Ansgar had taken his coat off and held it draped over his arm in front of him, hiding his erection.

‘Did they catch who did it?’

‘No. And it was a Ukrainian who was killed. But he was an illegal.’ Ekatherina said this with another solemn nod. Ekatherina was proud of her legal status. She had been in Germany for five years and viewed the more recent arrivals from the East with some disdain. ‘Horrible, though, isn’t it, Herr Hoeffer? I mean, with a meat cleaver

…’

Ansgar nodded curtly and headed into the kitchen, his coat still held before him.

Maria sat outside the bar. She guessed that, living so near, Viktor would be a regular. She was not disappointed. She took a note of the time he left the apartment with his tarty girlfriend; it was almost exactly the same time that he had come into the bar on Sunday. Maria felt sick. The weight of the food she had eaten sat heavily in her gut. She had taken dinner in the restaurant before coming out and that, combined with the two other meals she had eaten that day, was causing her unaccustomed body to protest. But it was nerves more than anything that was making Maria nauseated. She could not believe that she was about to do what she was about to do. She had spent the entire afternoon experimenting with her new palette of cosmetics and trying on different wigs and outfits. But instinct had told her to go with her first idea in its purest form. She now looked like Anna Wolff. Anna, of course, was petite and had dark brown eyes, but Maria had successfully transformed herself into a taller version of her friend and colleague. She had applied a fake tan to her face and body and had given her newly dyed and cropped hairstyle the waxed, almost spiked look that Anna often had. She had filled out her lips with the same shade of fire-truck-red lipstick that Anna used and had emphasised her eyes with a quantity of shadow and eyeliner that she had never before in her life used. It was disconcerting to feel so much make-up on her face. Maria had even bought herself a biker-style leather jacket that hung too big over her thin frame and she had used a padded bra to boost her insubstantial curves under the black T-shirt.

This was it. This was the biggest test she could undertake. She got out of the car, locked it, and crossed the street to the bar.

Maria was shocked that the first two faces to turn to her as she walked into the bar were those of the two drunks from the last time. The one she had hit with her beer glass looked at her sullenly, a gauze pad taped to his distended and discoloured cheek. Her heart sank: this could mean that her little adventure would end before it had even begun. The two men eyed her and then turned back to their drinks. They were obviously chastened by their experience of the night before. Either that or they weren’t yet drunk enough to have the courage to molest a female. But it was clear they hadn’t recognised her and Maria felt a small thrill of satisfaction at the sight of the lingering injury she’d inflicted on Fatso. The barman was by far the greater challenge. Unlike the other two, he was sober and the same barman who had been on duty on Sunday. Instead of sitting at a table as she had before, she took a stool at the bar. She was relieved to see that the looks she received from the brassy-looking blondes in the bar were even more hostile.

‘What can I get you?’ asked the barman.

Maria smiled widely. She had good teeth and had been surprised just how much Anna’s shade of lipstick accentuated them; made her mouth look sexy.

‘A vodka and coke, please.’ Maria did her best to sound less Hanover and more Cologne. ‘I’m here to meet a friend. He said this bar but I couldn’t find it so I’m late. Did he leave a message?’

‘What’s your name?’ asked the barman.

‘Anna…’

He checked with another member of staff.

‘No. No message. Still want the vodka?’

‘Why not?’ Maria smiled again. The muscles in her face reminded her of just how unused to it she had become.

Maria sat and sipped her vodka, feeling no less conspicuous than she had the night before, but this time she felt in control. Her anxiety began to ease. There was a decent enough crowd scattered around the tables, at the bar and even standing in groups talking loudly. It was dense enough foliage for her to remain as concealed as much as a young woman on her own in a bar like this could be. Maria became aware that quite a few of the conversations were taking place in a Slavic language. Whether it was Polish, Russian or Ukrainian she didn’t know; they all sounded the same to her.