Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

‘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.’

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.

4 February

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.

‘Okay, Jan,’ said Scholz. ‘We have only three weeks to go until Karneval. And as sure as bears crap in the woods, our guy is going to come looking for some more meat. For once I have the opportunity to prevent a murder rather than solve one. Or should I say we have the opportunity to prevent it. I’m afraid I just keep coming up blank. So we’re open to anything you have to suggest.’

‘Okay, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of getting a few things in motion before I came down,’ said Fabel. ‘You remember the Armin Meiwes case?’

‘’Course… the Rotenburg Cannibal?’ said Scholz.

‘Meiwes advertised for his victim. On the Internet. Gave himself the online identity of the Master Butcher. Twenty years ago, Meiwes might have gone through life with his fantasies remaining just that, fantasies. But Meiwes had the Internet. The Internet is the great facilitator. The great anonymous meeting place where you can share your fetishes and perversions with others. The exceptional becomes ordinary and the abnormal normal.’

‘You think there’s an Internet connection with this case?’ asked Tansu.

‘I think it’s possible that there’s some direct link. Before we go any further I think we need to understand how our killer thinks.’

‘God knows,’ said Kris. ‘He lives in a fantasy world, probably. A psycho.’

Fabel shook his head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Criminal psychologists and forensic psychiatrists don’t use the description “psychopath” or “sociopath” the way they did. These labels have become so common in the media that they’ve lost all value. People bandy around the word “psychopath” the way they used to use “axe murderer”. What we call a psychopath is better described as someone with an antisocial personality disorder. They tend to be devoid of feelings, of emotions, of empathy for other human beings. They never feel remorse. Most of them are easily identified because they’ve exhibited symptomatic behaviour since childhood.’ Fabel paused. He thought of Vitrenko: someone completely empty of anything human. ‘Serial killers generally exhibit personality disorders, but rarely are they psychotic. They know what they’re doing is wrong. A psychopath doesn’t. In fact, many psychopaths who have been successfully treated for their condition end up getting a truckload of remorse delivered at once and they commit suicide, unable to live with what they’ve done.’

‘So this killer isn’t a psychopath?’

‘I’m not saying that for sure,’ said Fabel. ‘But I think it’s unlikely. Serial killers tend not to have a single, solid personality but drift between identities to suit the situation, who they’re with, etc. Not multiple personalities, as such, but their own personality isn’t anchored. One thing they do tend to have is an enormous ego. The universe revolves around them alone. And that, along with the loose personality, is something they share with psychopaths. But the important thing is they’re not mad. I think your Karneval Cannibal needs to feel that he is not a freak. That he is part of a community.’

‘And that’s where you see an Internet connection?’ asked Tansu.

‘It’s a possibility. He needs a place where he can exchange fantasies, even compare notes or advertise for victims. I think that it is highly unlikely that your guy has never sat alone in the evening, huddled over his PC, and typed the word “cannibal” into a search engine.’