Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

‘Lack of semen doesn’t mean he didn’t ejaculate. Just that he’s been careful not to leave forensic traces. Or maybe he masturbates later, away from the scene. But let’s say we’re not dealing with a case of sexual cannibalism. Maybe he just likes the taste. The experience of eating human flesh.’

‘What’s to like?’

‘Well, there is one theory that because of the complex proteins in human flesh some people actually get a high out of eating it. A sort of euphoria. Others believe that they gain life-giving complexes that can’t be obtained from other meat sources. But there’s a natural imperative against cannibalism. In both humans and animals it tends to cause prion diseases… mad-cow disease, kuru, that sort of thing.’

‘Could it just be that the killer is simply experimenting? That he just wanted to find out what it was like to eat human flesh?’

‘I like a nice steak now and again,’ said Fabel. ‘But I don’t think I could go into a field and slaughter a cow to get one. We tend to keep the source of what we eat at a moral arm’s length. An American journalist bribed a mortuary attendant in Paris to get a piece of fresh human flesh and wrote about the experience of cooking and eating it. Tasted like veal, he said. Anyway, it’s a hell of a leap to kill – and kill twice – just to satisfy your epicurean curiosity. I would put my money on him fulfilling some kind of sexual fantasy with these murders.’

Scholz gathered up the pizza boxes. While Scholz was in the kitchen, Fabel took in the Cologne detective’s apartment. It had all the hallmarks of a bachelor’s apartment: a combination of the practical and the slovenly. There was a range of house plants dotted around in various stages of dehydration and death: Fabel had to resist the temptation to ask for a watering can. The bookshelves, however, were packed but orderly and Scholz had a spectacularly wide range of DVDs, arranged in alphabetical order by title. This meticulous organisation shouted out from the chaos of Scholz’s flat. There were a handful of surprisingly tasteful art prints on the walls and a poster for a Cologne production of Macbeth. Fabel recalled the Shakespearean reference in his report. Scholz came back with two more beers and cleared room for the files on the coffee table.

‘You like Shakespeare?’ Fabel asked.

‘Some. Never in English. My English isn’t good enough. But I love the story of Macbeth. I remember seeing the Orson Welles version dubbed into German, when I was a kid. I just loved the character. So totally evil and ruthless. But given the case we’re looking at Titus Andronicus would be a more appropriate text.’

Fabel smiled. Scholz’s impressive knowledge of Shakespeare was at odds with his appearance and demeanour.

‘At one time I thought about becoming an actor,’ Scholz said, almost embarrassedly. ‘The idea of playing at being other people appealed to me more than being myself, I suppose.’

‘It’s a strange leap from acting to police work.’

‘It was never a serious idea,’ said Scholz. ‘My dad was a policeman and a very… well, practical sort of man. He kinda killed the idea and I sort of drifted in to being a cop.’

‘Theatre’s loss…’ Fabel smiled. He tried to conjure up the unlikely image of Scholz playing Macbeth, his ultimate villain. Suddenly another ultimate villain came to mind and Fabel felt something heavy in his gut. ‘How’s your other investigation going?’ He tried to make his tone as conversational as possible.

‘The Biarritz thing? It’s not, really. To be honest, I’m taking a bit of a back seat on that one. Other interests, you see… the BKA and Organised Crime are all over it like a rash.’

‘Oh?’

‘I mean, I’m still involved. Anything they find out that’s germane to the actual murder will be passed on to me, but I get the feeling there’s a much bigger picture. From the involvement of the BKA task force I reckon it’s to do with the Molokov-Vitrenko outfit.’

‘I know it well. Particularly Vasyl Vitrenko. Our paths have crossed.’

‘Really?’ Scholz raised his eyebrows. ‘A dangerous path to cross, from all accounts.’

Fabel smiled grimly. It was difficult to assess how much Scholz knew about his history with Vitrenko and he didn’t want to point him in Maria’s direction. At least, not yet.

‘This woman your victim was seen talking to…’ Again Fabel tried to keep his tone chatty. ‘You know, the one the witness said was talking to the victim a day or two before he was killed. You said she seemed to be official. Police or immigration. Did you ever get to the bottom of that?’

‘That’s the strange thing,’ said Scholz. ‘We still can’t link her to any official body. Maybe she just looked official.’

‘Yeah…’ said Fabel, taking a sip of his beer but watching Scholz’s face as he spread out the files on the coffee table. ‘Probably nothing to do with anything…’

‘Oh, I don’t know… This BKA Vitrenko-Molokov task force seems pretty desperate to find her. Or for me to find her for them.’

Andrea’s post-competition, pumped-up toning made it easy for the doctor to access a vein. The nurse then accompanied Andrea to the toilet and waited outside the cubicle until she came out again with her urine sample. Throughout the process Andrea maintained a friendly demeanour which was as genuine as the big, stupid grin she used when she was on the posing stage. She even joked with the dour little nurse, although Andrea actually felt disgust and hatred for her weak, flaccid face and formless body.

Andrea wasn’t too fond of the doctor, either. He was an arrogant, unsmiling little man who did not speak to Andrea other than to order her to hold out her arm.

‘When will I get the results?’ asked Andrea with a smile, although she felt like twisting the smug little doctor’s head from his shoulders.

‘ You don’t get the results. They go directly to the governing body. They will advise you of the results. But I do give you half of each sample so that you may have them tested independently should you wish to contest the results.’

Andrea crushed the impulse to smash her manicured fist into the smug face. ‘There won’t be anything to contest.’

The doctor stood up, placing his accoutrements back into his case. ‘My dear lady, I am a physician. I have been involved in testing for the governing bodies of a number of sporting organisations. And I will tell you something that is an absolute and undeniable medical fact – not an opinion, a fact – and it is this: muscular hypertrophy is a male phenomenon. Specifically muscular hypertrophy such as yours. Women can build muscle through weight training, but to a much lesser degree. Only men can achieve the kind of muscle mass you have developed without resorting to banned substances. Even men in middle age lose the mass and definition capacity they had in youth. Why? Because their testosterone levels begin to sink. Testosterone, Frau Sandow. The kind of quantities that only occur naturally in younger men. Men have nearly ten times the testosterone level of women.’

‘Are you accusing me of cheating?’ The smile had now gone from Andrea’s lips. Her muscle-widened jaw set hard.

‘I am accusing no one of anything. I am merely stating a medical fact. You could not have achieved your build without taking considerable quantities of testosterone. All this test will ascertain is if there is sufficient in your system to test positive. But, I dare say, you have calculated it all out. I mean, with this competition coming up.’

Andrea stood up suddenly, raw anger burning in her gut. The doctor snapped shut his bag, unperturbed. ‘Unusually high levels of aggression are a common side effect, Frau Sandow.’ He looked her up and down. ‘And I have to say you are a singularly unhealthy individual. I can tell from your halitosis, the dandruff from your scalp and the inflamed rims of your eyes that you are very seriously dehydrated. Please take my advice as a physician: take fluids, and plenty of them.’