The Carnival Master

8.

As he entered the kitchen, Benni Scholz paused to dip a spoon into one of the large pots on the huge brushed-aluminium cooker range. It was a split-pea soup that was still warm despite the hobs being switched off. A number of other pans had been knocked over, their contents splashed against the wall and across the floor where they mingled with other splashes – of blood. Scholz sipped the soup.

‘Are you deliberately trying to contaminate this crime scene, Senior Commissar?’ An attractive young woman in a forensics coverall scowled up at him from where she knelt in the centre of the kitchen floor.

‘I’ve told you many times before, Frau Schilling.’ Scholz’s dark eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Any time you want to collect a DNA sample from me for elimination, I’d be more than pleased to supply one. But I think we should have dinner first. This place any good?’

‘I have a feeling they’ll be closed tonight,’ the forensics chief said flatly and unsmiling, turning her attention again to the mass of lacerated flesh on the floor before her. ‘In the meantime, please don’t touch anything else.’

Three other forensics technicians were working in the kitchen, each on a different area. There were also two other Criminal Police detectives from Scholz’s department: Kris, the young Criminal Police Commissar who had accompanied Scholz to the scene and Tansu, a young Turkish-German officer. The junior detectives lingered uncertainly at the doorway that led from the main salon of the restaurant to the kitchen. Both looked decidedly unwell, particularly Kris. Scholz scanned the kitchen. Everywhere there were signs of violence. The spilled pots. Blood smeared on the door frame. A stool upset. Pools of blood on the floor. The epicentre of the violence was the lump of meat that Simone Schilling now examined. It was also the cause of the nauseated look on the face of Kris Feilke.

‘What’s the story?’ Scholz asked.

‘Ukrainian,’ Kris said at last. ‘A kitchen worker. More than likely an illegal. There were three other staff in the kitchen at the time. Two Ukrainians and a Somalian. The Ukrainians won’t say a word… scared shitless. But the Somalian said that three masked men came in and started shouting at the victim. Not in German, so I’m guessing they were Ukrainian too. Specially as the two Ukrainian kitchen staff have been struck dumb. One of the masked men picked up a meat cleaver

…’ Impossibly, the young detective’s pale complexion paled further. ‘Anyway, he did that to him.’

Scholz moved over towards the body. Simone Schilling stopped his progress with another cute scowl.

‘I suppose it’s too early to ascertain a cause of death?’ Scholz grinned. It was difficult to see the features of the figure on the floor. One side of the face gaped open where the meat cleaver had sliced cleanly through skin, muscle, sinew and bone. Similarly, a straight-edged flap of flesh had separated from the upper arm, just below the cuff of his T-shirt. The cleaver’s sharp edge had made the wounds unnaturally rectilinear. Scholz reckoned there were at least a dozen slashes on the body. ‘But I’m guessing it wasn’t a gunshot.’ Scholz laughed at his witticism. Simone Schilling didn’t. She stood up.

‘You’ll get a full report from the pathologist. Herr Dr Ludeke will be carrying out the autopsy.’

‘He’s got his work cut out for him…’ said Scholz and laughed, alone, at his joke.

Simone Schilling cast her eyes around the floor, where her team had tent-flagged various bloody smears. ‘His attackers certainly didn’t care about leaving evidence. We’ve got half a dozen bootprints in the blood. Clear patterns.’ She looked at Scholz with disdain. ‘Mind you, half of them are probably yours by now.’

Scholz looked at the body again. Four or five of the slashes on the forearms. Palm split open, exposing bone. Defensive wounds.

‘Do we have a name?’ He called to the two detectives by the door.

‘Slavko Dmytruk,’ said Kris. ‘Or that’s the name the restaurant have for him. The owners reckon he’s about twenty-three or -four.’

‘Are you okay?’ asked Scholz.

‘Never been good with this side of the job…’

‘What’s not to be good with?’ Scholz nodded to the corpse. ‘That’s not a person any more. It’s nothing but meat. Whoever Slavko Dmytruk was, whatever made him who he was, has got nothing to do with what’s left here. You’ve got to get past that. If you don’t, you’ll walk into a murder scene and find some little kiddie dead and you’ll go to pieces. It’ll be your last day on the job.’

Kris was looking at the partially dismembered corpse and did not look at all convinced.

‘Have you had anything to eat?’ asked Scholz. ‘It’s always worse if you’ve got an empty stomach.’ He turned and dipped a ladle into the still-warm soup. He held it out to the young detective. ‘Try some of this… it’s really good. Split pea…’

Kris turned suddenly and bolted out into the restaurant, in the direction of the toilets. Tansu Bakrac scowled disapprovingly at her boss. When Scholz turned back to Simone Schilling, she was staring at him in disbelief.

‘What?’ he said defensively, the ladle still extended. ‘I was trying to help him feel better…’

‘Not everyone is as insensitive to human suffering as you, Herr Scholz.’

‘Call me Benni.’

‘Okay. You can call me Frau Doctor Schilling.’ She nodded in the direction of the departed detective. ‘Shouldn’t you check that he’s okay?’

‘He’ll be fine. If not, he’s in the wrong job. Anyway, I’m not insensitive to human suffering. I feel for the victim. Horrible death. But I don’t lose my lunch every time I look at a stiff. Like I said, they’re not people any more. Just meat. No one knows that better than you.’

‘You’re right,’ said Simone Schilling. ‘A corpse isn’t a person to me. It’s a store of evidence. But it took years to become accustomed to it. Now I look at them professionally, not emotionally. But you… you’re just an insensitive pig.’

Scholz smiled. He liked it when she insulted him. ‘I’m not insensitive. Just practical.’

The young detective reappeared.

‘You okay, Kris?’ asked Scholz. He turned to Simone Schilling. ‘See? Sensitive.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Kris. But he still looked pale.

‘Right, then tell me about what happened here. Were you able to get any more out of the Somalian or the restaurant owners?’

‘Not a lot,’ said Tansu. ‘The Somalian was being very helpful but then he suddenly dried up. I reckon the two Ukrainians told him who they thought the hatchet men were. Probably Ukrainian Mafia. Anyway, the three of them have been taken into custody by Immigration. The restaurant owners aren’t too chatty either. Immigration is all over them as well.’

‘So the answer’s nothing?’ Scholz asked impatiently.

‘Not completely,’ Kris said. ‘Before the Somalian shut up, he said that there had been a woman around talking to Dmytruk. Tall, thin, expensively dressed. He got the impression she was Immigration. Or police.’