The Carnival Master

by Craig Russell

‘But there was nothing wrong with the old you,’ said Tansu. ‘You were a victim. Do you blame yourself for what happened?’

  ‘No,’ said Andrea defiantly. ‘I know it was that bastard who’s to blame. But pretty little Vera Reinartz was too soft and weak, too pliant. She was too afraid. Maybe that’s why he picked her. Because she had victim written all over her.’

  ‘But your medical career …’ said Tansu. ‘According to what I’ve read you showed enormous promise. You could have excelled as a doctor.’

  ‘There are other ways to excel,’ said Andrea. ‘That was all part of the past. Of Vera Reinartz. Now I excel at something else. I started bodybuilding in 2000. I mean seriously. I am an expert on it, you know. Not just the sport or the techniques – the history, too. The philosophy of it. Do you know that the father of modern bodybuilding was a German? Eugen Sandow. He started out as a circus strongman and ended up setting the standards for all bodybuilding. He organised and judged the world’s first bodybuilding competition. His fellow judge was Arthur Conan Doyle, the British author who invented Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Sandow …’ said Fabel. ‘That’s the name you took … Why?’

  ‘I needed to be someone else. That’s why I became a bodybuilder, Herr Fabel. Like I said, a total metamorphosis. I needed a new name for a new body.’

  Andrea leaned back and braced herself against the kitchen counter. As she did so, the veins in her upper arms protested hard and blue against the brown skin. Fabel saw the spasmodic twitch of a bicep, as if it had a life independent of its host body. Andrea caught him looking.

  ‘Do you find me repulsive?’ she asked. ‘Do you find the shape of my body a real turn-off? Most men do. But others … oh, you would not believe what other men are like. They come to the competitions, a lot of them. They come to watch me and the other girls. Do you know that perfect muscle tone disappears within an hour of each workout session? We pump up before each contest, then run through our routines. Not rehearsal – it’s to maintain that perfect tone till we go on stage.’ She leaned forward even more and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Do you know that some of our male fans come backstage before or after the contest. Little men who ask if they can touch us. Our bellies. Our thighs. Our arms. Just so they can feel the muscle at perfect tone. They do it out of admiration of the sport. Reverence, almost. But that doesn’t stop them having a little stiffy in their pants. You see, Herr Fabel, one man’s meat is another man’s poison … What, exactly, would your meat be?’

  ‘You said you knew the Women’s Karneval Night killer was the same man who attacked you,’ said Fabel, holding Andrea’s gaze. ‘Why? Is there anything about the night you were attacked that you’ve remembered over the years that maybe isn’t in your original statement?’

  Andrea laughed bitterly. ‘Do you know, Herr Fabel, that even after all this time he still comes back to haunt me? The clown?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Tansu. ‘You can’t go through an experience like that without post-traumatic stress.’

  ‘No … I’m not talking about that. I dealt with that. All of this …’ She stood up straight and flexed her physique. ‘I created this to put that behind me. It wasn’t just the rape. That bastard beat me so badly I thought I was going to die. Well, I did, in a way. Vera died and I survived. He left a broken body behind and I fixed it. I don’t have nightmares about the Clown who attacked me. No post-trauma panic attacks. I’d love to meet him again … then I’d break every bone in his body. That’s not what I meant when I said he still comes back to haunt me. The sick bastard writes to me.’

  ‘What?’ Fabel exchanged looks with the others. ‘How? E-mail?’

  ‘No. Letters. They arrive every few months.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Scholz. ‘Do you mean he puts pen to paper and sends it through the mail?’

  ‘That’s usually how letters arrive,’ said Andrea.

  ‘But that’s physical evidence. That’s a chance for us to track him down.’ Fabel couldn’t contain his frustration. ‘Why on earth didn’t you get in touch with the police?’

  Andrea shrugged. ‘When the first one arrived, not long after the attack, I was terrified. But I was still her then. Soft, timid, pliant. Too scared to do anything. Then I decided to change my name and the rest all fell into place. Then the other letters arrived. Even after I’d changed my name and moved apartments. They don’t come often. But they did come.’

  ‘Have you kept them?’ asked Scholz.

  Andrea shook her head. ‘I burn them now without reading them. But the ones I did read were all the same. Mad ravings. How much he wanted to do it again, how he was biding his time.’

  ‘And this doesn’t bother you?’ asked Tansu incredulously.

  ‘No. He’s lost his power to frighten me. Maybe we will meet again, but he’s the one who should be afraid.’

  ‘I need you to think hard about what was in those letters, Andrea,’ said Fabel firmly. ‘I need you to take the time to write down everything you can remember. Do it tonight and we’ll send someone to pick it up from the café tomorrow. Like I said, anything that might give us a handle on his identity.’

  ‘What about his name?’

  It took a moment for Fabel to realise that Andrea was being serious. ‘He signs them?’

  ‘Every one. The name he uses is Peter Stumpf.’

  Fabel heard Scholz groan. ‘Does the name Peter Stumpf mean anything to you?’ Fabel asked Andrea.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It obviously does to you,’ he said to Scholz.

  ‘It sure does. But we’ll talk about that later.’

  As they walked back towards Scholz’s car, someone on the other side of the street caught Scholz’s attention.

  ‘Hi, Ansgar!’ Scholz called over. Fabel and Tansu followed him across the street.

  ‘Remember the restaurant I took you to – the Speisekammer?’ Scholz said to Fabel. ‘This is Ansgar Hoeffer, the chef. The best in Cologne if you ask me and that’s saying something. How are you, Ansgar?’

  ‘I’m fine … you?’ Ansgar answered. He was a tallish man with a high-domed head. His sparse hair had been trimmed bristle-short. His eyes seemed large and doleful behind his glasses. But what struck Fabel most about him was that he looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  ‘The best,’ said Scholz. ‘What are you doing in this part of town?’

  Ansgar again looked flustered for a moment. ‘Oh, I had a few things to do. How was your meal the other night?’ Ansgar addressed his question to Fabel.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to introduce you …’ said Scholz. ‘Ansgar, this is Principal Chief Commissar Fabel of the Hamburg Police. He’s down here … on a course.’

  Fabel and Ansgar shook hands. ‘It was excellent,’ said Fabel. ‘We both had the lamb ragout. Delicious.’

  After a brief exchange of more small talk they went their separate ways, Ansgar walking off towards the city centre with a purposeful stride.

  ‘Great cook,’ said Scholz as they reached his car.

  ‘Mmm …’ said Fabel, but he looked back in Ansgar’s direction and noticed that Tansu was doing the same.

  In the car Scholz didn’t start the ignition.

  ‘Well, that was on the bizarre side of weird,’ he said. ‘She looks like some kind of bad drag act. What the hell is all that about?’

  ‘What she went through would be enough to knock anyone off kilter,’ said Tansu. ‘My guess is she’s rejecting her own femininity. No matter what she says, I think she blames herself for what happened to her.’

  ‘No,’ said Fabel. ‘She blames Vera Reinartz for what happened. As though Vera was a different person. Did you notice how often she referred to her past self in the third person?’

  ‘It’s the name these letters were signed with that interests me,’ said Scholz. ‘Peter Stumpf. I’m now convinced that whoever attacked Andrea is our killer. You were right all along, Jan.’

  ‘Actually, it was Tansu who came up with it first.’
/>   ‘This is a nice lyrical touch,’ said Scholz, ignoring Fabel’s correction. ‘A local reference. Out to the west of Cologne there’s a town called Bedburg. Peter Stumpf was Bedburg’s most famous resident. Or infamous. He lived there in the sixteenth century. The Beast of Bedburg – one of the first serial killers recorded in Germany. He also had the most horrific execution ever recorded.’

  ‘So Andrea’s rapist and tormentor is referencing this Peter Stumpf. Why does that make you believe he’s our Karneval Cannibal?’

  ‘Because that’s exactly what Peter Stumpf was. A cannibal. He was supposed to have eaten dozens of victims. He also claimed he was a shape-shifter who had sold his soul to Satan for the ability to turn into a wolf. Stumpf said he preferred to remain in human form to rape his victims before turning into a wolf to eat them. Maybe our killer believes he has transformed a rapist to a cannibal.’

  ‘I think that’s stretching it, but I agree – he may be trying to say he undergoes some kind of transformation. Maybe it’s the clown disguise. What’s more important is that it means we have his DNA from the attack on Vera … or Andrea. You said Stumpf had the worst execution on record. Is that significant?’

  There was something grim in Scholz’s wry smile. ‘Our priest told us about it in Sunday School. A little horror story to lighten the catechism lessons. Peter Stumpf was a rich farmer who confessed freely and without torture to having been a necromancer and black wizard since childhood. He claimed to have been visited several times by the Devil who gave him a magical belt that would give him superhuman strength in exchange for his soul. The price of this superhuman strength, however, was more than Stumpf’s soul – the belt turned him into a wolf. He admitted to tearing apart and eating scores of victims: men, women, children. He had a particular taste for pregnant women, apparently. Two meals in one. After the trial they strapped him to a wheel and broke his arms, legs and ribs with the blunt side of an axe. You see, they believed that, as a werewolf, there was a danger of him returning from the grave, so breaking his limbs would prevent him doing that. Then they ripped chunks of flesh from his body while he was still alive, using red-hot pincers. As a finale, they beheaded and burned him. True mortification of the flesh.’

  ‘But it didn’t work,’ said Fabel grimly. ‘It would appear that Peter Stumpf has come back to life.’

  6.

  Fabel got the impression that Scholz had allowed Tansu to come along for the Peter Schnaus interview only because it would have been out of the way to drop her off at the Presidium first. Scholz had called ahead to make sure that Schnaus would be in before heading along Aachenerstrasse. Buschbell was to the north of Frechen, he had explained, and therefore it was easier to avoid the town itself.

  ‘Incidentally,’ said Scholz, ‘Bedburg is out this way too – the home of the infamous Peter Stumpf.’

  Buschbell and Frechen were only nine kilometres from the city centre and Fabel had been aware of a continuous urban landscape. Buschbell, however, was more open and tree-lined and clearly on the edge of the Cologne conurbation.

  ‘How did Schnaus sound on the phone?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘Guilty,’ said Scholz. ‘What of I don’t know yet, but he sure was sheepish to hear that the police were coming out for a chat.’

  They pulled up outside a reasonably expensive-looking house with more garden than Fabel had seen in Cologne since he first arrived. It was the home of a high-middle-income earner. Not the dwelling of a millionaire, but substantial enough to indicate a respectable bank balance. Added to which there was the regulation Mercedes E500 in the drive.

  As they made their way to the front door, it was clear that Scholz’s mind was on something else. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I don’t really like this idea the two of you have come up with … It’s far too risky …’

  ‘My idea,’ said Fabel. ‘I asked Tansu if she would do it as a favour—’

  ‘Like I said, I don’t like it,’ interrupted Scholz, ‘but I’ll go along with it. But I’ve got a few conditions. We’ll talk about it after we’re through here.’

  The front door opened before they had a chance to knock. A man of about forty stepped out, drawing it to behind him. He was a little under two metres tall, athletically built and reasonably good-looking. A perfect fit for the description given them by Mila, the escort who’d been bitten.

  ‘Commissar Scholz?’ he asked Fabel.

  ‘No, that’s me,’ said Scholz. ‘Herr Schnaus?’

  ‘Yes. What’s this about? My wife and kids are here and—’

  ‘It’s about the website you run,’ said Fabel.

  ‘Oh …’ Schnaus looked crestfallen. ‘I rather thought it would be. Listen, I’ve told my wife this is to do with business.’

  ‘What exactly is your business?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘Computer software.’

  Fabel looked over at the car in the drive and at the house once more and considered the decision he’d taken about his future.

  ‘Okay, we’ll play along. For now. Is there somewhere private we can talk?’

  ‘My study …’ Schnaus led them into the house and along a wide hall. The study was roomy, bright and contemporary. There was a large desk with two expensive-looking computers on it. Two more sat on workstations on the other wall.

  ‘You run your site from here?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘Listen, it’s a hobby more than anything else … I don’t do it for the money …’

  ‘Just for pleasure,’ Scholz sneered. Schnaus’s face reddened.

  ‘Listen, I can’t explain it. It’s just something …’ He let the thought die. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘For a start you can tell us where you were on the evening of Friday the twentieth of January.’

  Schnaus typed something into his computer. ‘I was in Frankfurt. At a conference.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm this?’

  ‘About a hundred people. I gave a talk there to introduce a new product.’

  ‘You stayed overnight?’

  ‘Yes. Three days in total.’

  ‘What kind of new product?’ asked Fabel. ‘I mean, what kind of software do you sell?’

  ‘We’re distributors for gaming software. Other stuff too, like interactive software for training, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a game designer called Melissa Schenker?’

  ‘No …’ If Schnaus was lying he was covering it up well. ‘I can’t say I have.’

  ‘What about a role-playing game called The Lords of Misrule?’

  ‘Oh yes … more than heard of it, we distribute it.’

  ‘Melissa Schenker designed Lords of Misrule,’ said Fabel.

  ‘Oh. I wouldn’t know that. It’s not part of the portfolio I represent. And anyway, I’m not always familiar with who designed or conceived the games.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Why do you do this, Herr Schnaus?’ asked Fabel. ‘I mean you have a good job, a family. Why do you feel the need to run a website like this?’

  ‘Inside each of us is a little chaos. Some have more than others. I have an orderly life here. I am a good husband and father and my wife knows nothing of my … well, the stranger side of my nature … If I kept that chaos completely bottled up then there’s a chance it would explode. Destroy all the order and stability in my life. So I run a harmless, non-pornographic website relating to vorarephilia and cannibalism.’

  Fabel thought of another ordinary businessman with an ordered, stable life who had tried to keep the chaos within bottled up tight. Right up until he had blown his brains out in front of Fabel.

  ‘Where the hell do you get the idea that anything relating to cannibalism – particularly sexual cannibalism – is harmless?’ Fabel asked.

  ‘I don’t mean any harm …’ said Schnaus weakly.

  ‘I’ll tell you why we’re here, Herr Schnaus,’ said Scholz. ‘We have a complete nutter who is running about biting chunks out of women. He may also have murdered several. That, my
friend, does not strike me as being a bit of harmless fun. I’ve looked at your website. I’m not surprised that you want to keep all of that filth away from your wife. My guess is that if she were to find out about your little hobby you wouldn’t see her or your kids for dust. Now I am quite prepared to get a warrant and turn this place upside down. It may be your home but your little website is run from here and that puts it right at the heart of a major murder investigation. I promise you that by tomorrow morning this place will be crawling with forensic technicians, uniformed police officers and, if anyone were indiscreet enough to tip them off, with members of the press.’

  Schnaus looked as if he was about to be sick. ‘No … please, no … I’ll do anything you want. I’ll give you any information you need. And I promise I’ll shut down the site. Just tell me what you want me to do … I just don’t want my wife and kids to know.’

  ‘Well, one thing we don’t want you to do, Herr Schnaus,’ said Fabel, ‘is to shut down the site. Not yet, anyway.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  13–14 February

  1.

  Maria rolled onto her side and her body was racked by involuntary, empty retches. She eased herself up onto her knees and elbows, head still down, her shrunken gut still in spasm. She felt the dirt and grime beneath her skin and realised she was naked. It was then that the intense, freezing cold hit her like a glacial wave. A second wave collided with her, as chill and harsh as the cold: raw terror. Vitrenko. She couldn’t believe it: Buslenko had been a fiction. Taras Buslenko was Vasyl Vitrenko. She had been right about his eyes. It was the one thing he couldn’t change. Vitrenko had completely convinced her with his fiction of a Ukrainian government mission. He had been true to form: Vitrenko liked to get in close for the kill. He liked to mess with his victims’ minds. He had been playing with her all along. And now it was endgame.

  Maria tried to work out how long she’d been unconscious. Shuddering with cold, she checked her arms and saw a number of puncture wounds. They’d kept her out for hours; or days; even weeks. She dragged herself up into a sitting position, drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. The spasms that convulsed her body went beyond any description of shivering. Great racking muscular convulsions. Her naked skin had puckered into gooseflesh and had lost all its pigmentation. It was now going past white and had started to look like frosted glass shot through with a cobalt bloom. So it was true, she thought bitterly, you really do go blue with cold. She looked around her confinement. Even the light was cold: a wire-caged neon strip flooded the space with a sterile and cheerless light. No window. No sound. Outside it could be any time of day or night. They had achieved the all-important first stage of interrogative torture: the complete disorientation of the subject.