The bar was small, bustling and noisy. It was exactly what Fabel needed. It was three in the morning and the party was still in full swing. Scholz, Fabel and Tansu had to lean forward and shout to be heard above the noise.
Andrea had been processed and was in the cells. Scholz had arranged for a psychiatric assessment to be done as soon as possible. Which wasn’t going to be the following day. Even psychiatrists took time off to go insane during Karneval, apparently. Fabel and Scholz explained to Tansu about the wound to Ansgar’s buttock and his sexual compulsion to be
eaten; how
À la Carte
, with its reputation for catering for clients’ more
unusual
needs had recruited Andrea and how Ansgar had become a client for one disfiguring night.
Now Andrea sat in her cell silent, answering no questions, responding to nothing. Fabel thought it was possible that maybe she didn’t even know what she had done. They had found a diary in her apartment: the usual egomaniacal ravings, but they suggested that the Clown saw himself as male, and as totally distinct from Andrea’s personality. Just as Andrea had forced her third-person, past-tense existence as Vera Reinartz from her identity.
‘What, multiple personality?’ asked Tansu. ‘I thought that was all fake.’
‘Dissociative Identity Disorder is the proper name for it,’ said Fabel. ‘And the Americans are great believers in it. But you’re right, it’s not accepted to the same extent by psychiatrists outside the US. My guess is, though, that Andrea is going to try to use it as a defence to avoid prison. Maybe the dumb act in the cells is exactly that, an act.’
They sat at a corner of the bar and Fabel found his
Stange
glass filled regularly with
Kölsch
beer without being asked. He grinned at the raucous songs in a dialect he didn’t understand and he realised, joyfully, that he was very probably drunk. Tansu was next to him at the bar and every time she leaned into him to make herself heard he could feel the warmth of her body.
‘Benni said you had Andrea sussed,’ said Tansu. ‘How?’
‘A combination of things. Like what you said about the
Kölsch
Virgin being a man,’ said Fabel. ‘Karneval is all about becoming someone else, about
letting out what you’ve locked up inside. There was something about Andrea that bothered me from the start. I was in the cathedral and a tourist asked me why there was a rhinoceros in one of the stained-glass windows. Amongst all those metaphors of resurrection, a symbol of strength and righteous wrath. That’s what Andrea built herself to be. Andrea murdered those women because they reminded her of herself, as Vera. She killed Vera as an identity legally, then proceeded to kill her over and over again in the flesh. Oh, and the last clue was the very large slice of backside that Ansgar Hoeffer was missing. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work it out from there.’
They stopped discussing the case and Fabel felt himself slide further into a pleasant state of drunkenness. It was difficult to hear over the noise in the pub and their conversation became limited. Another group from the Police Presidium joined them and the consensus was that they should all move on somewhere else. Fabel spotted Scholz disappearing through the pub door with a pretty young woman dressed as a nun.
‘Simone Schilling,’ explained Tansu. ‘Our forensics chief …’
Fabel allowed himself to be carried out of the pub and into the street by the current of bodies. The streets were thronging with partygoers and Fabel suddenly realised he had become separated from the police group and was cast adrift in an ocean of revellers. The night air made him feel even more drunk and he felt some of his old anxiety about losing control.
‘I thought we’d lost you …’ He turned to see Tansu beside him. ‘I think we’d better find somewhere
quieter. But first, there is a Women’s Karneval Night custom that I insist on – I demand a kiss …’
‘Well,’ said Fabel grinning, ‘if it’s the law …’ He leaned forward to give Tansu a chaste kiss on the cheek, but she held his face between her hands and pulled him towards her. He felt her tongue in his mouth.
The light was on and Maria woke up cold and sore. The chills and aches in her body combined like a string section playing a continuous glissando, but then the still not fully-healed wound on her head from The Nose’s pistol-whipping took centre stage. For a moment she thought that they had switched the refrigeration back on, then she realised it was just her body’s reaction to the abuse it had suffered. For Maria the cold no longer meant death; it meant she could still feel. It meant life.
But they’ve broken my mind, she thought to herself calmly. She knew there was something different about the way she thought; the way she felt. She lay and thought of Maria Klee as if she were someone she knew rather than someone she was. Maybe Maria Klee was dead, but whoever or whatever was left was determined to survive. She knew, lying bruised and broken in an empty cold store, that her only strategy for survival was to separate herself from her own flesh: to focus her mind and use whatever internal resources she had left on thinking her way out of this situation.
Maria dragged herself to her feet, wrapping the
blanket around her body and moving across to the cold store heavy door. She pressed the side of her head against the cold steel, but it was too thick to conduct any sounds from the room beyond. She made a circuit of the meat locker, seeking out anything that might be useful as a weapon. There was nothing. And even if she had found something, she doubted that an improvised weapon would have given her any kind of chance against The Nose and his handgun. She returned to the mattress and sat contemplating her situation. They were feeding her. That meant that, for some reason, Vitrenko was keeping her alive, but perhaps only for a matter of days. She gingerly touched the raised ridge on her head to remind herself that there seemed to be little other consideration for her welfare. She was in a hostage situation. She could not have been kept in more appropriate surroundings: she was just a lump of meat being preserved until she could be put to some profitable use.
The next meal was brought in by Olga Sarapenko. The one after that by The Nose. Perhaps they spelled each other, taking shifts. If she was going to make an attempt to escape, it would be that bitch Sarapenko she would go for. Maria knew that she could never succeed against the Nose. And even fully fit she didn’t know if she would have been a match for Olga Sarapenko. But one thing that her years in the Murder Commission had taught her was that anyone could kill anyone else. It wasn’t about strength. It was about murderous intent. About knowing no boundaries.
Maria knew that even if Vitrenko intended to use her as a bargaining chip, there was still no way he would let her survive. And when she became surplus
to his needs he would kill her in a manner that would fit his perverted sense of natural justice. It would be messy, it would be slow, and it would be painful. She brought her thoughts back to her immediate situation. She would escape Vitrenko and the fate he had planned for her, either by getting herself free or by dying in the attempt. She would escape either in flesh or in spirit.
Her plan began to take form.
There was a chance that either The Nose or Olga Sarapenko was alone in the building. The charade of a surveillance operation had been for her benefit. No … that wasn’t right. There had been another point to the exercise: Vitrenko had suspected betrayal and had put Molokov under electronic surveillance. Molokov had been marked for death long before Maria had entered the picture. Vitrenko had said that Buslenko’s mission had been genuine but had been betrayed. Perhaps Olga Sarapenko really had been part of the operation.
She had seen no other guard. When Sarapenko or The Nose had brought food there had been no sounds of activity outside when the door had been opened. The worst case might be that The Nose would be out there when Sarapenko came in. Maria played and replayed scenarios in her head, running through all the possible ways she could take Sarapenko down. But they would be ready for almost every scenario. Sarapenko or The Nose would anticipate her hiding beside the door, pretending to be ill or dead, or her launching a sudden attack. She had to think of the extraordinary, the unexpected. It would have to be when Olga Sarapenko came in with the meal. Maria was bitterly aware of the irony that food had been the one thing she had avoided
and now its delivery offered her the only chance of survival. She thought about all the times she had made herself vomit to void her body of food. How she had perfected the technique. It was then that the idea started to take shape.
She reckoned she would have about four or five hours until the next meal. Time that she had to spend wisely.
Fabel blinked at the light that cut slices across the room from between the blinds. His head hurt and his mouth felt thick and furry. He eased himself up onto his elbows. He was alone in a wide, low bed. There was the smell of coffee in the air, but a richer, darker aroma than he was used to. He stared at the poster on the wall opposite him. It was of a landscape that looked as if it belonged to another planet: slender rock towers capped with darker conical stone. A setting or rising sun had painted the towers red-gold and windows had been carved into some, giving the impression that elves or some alien race lived in them.
‘Cappadocia,’ said Tansu as she came in from the kitchen. She was wearing a silk robe which clung to her curves. ‘The Fairy Chimneys. You ever been to Turkey?’ She sat on the edge of the bed and handed him a coffee.
‘Thanks,’ said Fabel. ‘No … I’ve never been. Listen, Tansu …’
She smiled and held her fingers to his lips. ‘Drink your coffee. You’ll feel better. Hangover?’
‘A little … I’m not used to drinking so much.’
‘That’s the thing about Karneval – you can let go
a little.’ She stood up decisively. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Help yourself to breakfast.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Fabel. ‘I’d better get on my way soon. I thought I’d buy something for my daughter. A souvenir from Cologne.’
‘You married?’ said Tansu in a way that suggested it didn’t matter to her one way or the other.
‘Divorced.’
‘You’ll be lucky to find a store open. There might be a couple on Hohestrasse.’
The daylight was cold and bright and turned the throbbing in Fabel’s head up a notch or two. When he got back to the hotel, he found the reception staff were all wearing bright red wigs and false noses. He allowed himself the curmudgeonly thought that these people never knew when to stop. He wanted to be home. Back in Hamburg. He wanted to talk to Susanne and put everything behind him. Including Tansu. But first he had to find Maria and bring her home too.
He showered and changed into a fresh cashmere roll-neck and cord trousers. His sports jacket smelled of cigarette smoke and he hung it up outside his wardrobe to air, pulling his coat on before going out again. He tried phoning Susanne at her office but, when he got her voicemail, he decided not to leave a message. He rang Scholz on his mobile: Scholz told Fabel they should meet at the Presidium and have lunch in the canteen. Taxis would be difficult so Scholz would send a patrol car to pick Fabel up.
When Fabel arrived at the Presidium he was guided by security to the car pool, where a vast wheeled structure was in the process of being decorated. Scholz
was involved in a heated debate with a tall lean uniformed officer. At least, the debate was heated on Scholz’s side: the uniformed officer leaned against the float and nodded wearily.
‘Bloody Karneval,’ muttered Scholz as he greeted Fabel. ‘Enjoy yourself last night?’
Fabel studied Scholz’s expression for any hint of sarcasm. There was none and Fabel couldn’t help feeling grateful that Scholz had disappeared earlier and had not known what had transpired between Fabel and Tansu.
‘Great. I think we all deserved to celebrate a bit. Are you ready to reinterview Andrea Sandow?’
‘Let’s grab some lunch first.’
As they walked towards the lift, Fabel turned back to look at the float. ‘It looks like some medieval war machine. You could hide an army under that. Maybe you should have made your theme “The Trojan Horse”.’
Scholz’s grim smile revealed that the police Karneval float was not a subject for humour. ‘We’re still getting nothing from Sandow. Prepare yourself for a fruitless afternoon. I’ve actually managed to get a shrink to come in later to do a psych assessment.’
They sat down by the window in the canteen. Fabel had ordered a coffee and split roll with ham. He found it difficult to eat. His hangover combined with an aversion to meat that had grown over the course of this case. He sat at the window that looked out over the alien life of this strange city. His longing to go home was still there, but he knew that he would come back to Cologne. He would have to. It was a city that got under your skin.
‘Listen, Benni,’ he said at last, ‘I’ve kept my side
of the bargain. I’ve helped you nail your cannibal. Now it’s your turn. I’m worried about Maria Klee. I need your help to find her. And forget the need to be discreet. I’m going to talk to the Federal Crime Bureau as well. If we don’t find her soon she’s going to end up revealing herself to Vitrenko and get herself killed.’
‘I’m already on it.’ Scholz smiled. ‘You see? I do keep my promises. I’ve sent out uniformed teams to check all the hotels. I’ve had copies made of the photograph you gave me and told the uniforms that she may have dyed her hair black.’
‘Thanks, Benni. I need to get out there too.’
‘I’m going to need you here. At least for the next couple of days, to help me question Andrea Sandow. But that won’t take up all our time, mainly because I don’t think we’re going to get a word out of her. In between we can coordinate the search for Maria.’
After lunch they headed down to the interview room. Andrea Sandow was brought in, washed clean of make-up and with her hair scraped back severely. Her face naked of cosmetics looked even more masculine. Scholz led the questioning, but Andrea never broke her silence and kept her fixed, hard gaze focused on Fabel. After twenty fruitless minutes they gave up.