The Carnival Master

1.

There was no such thing as a slow day at the Speisekammer and Ansgar Hoeffer always arrived at the restaurant early for his shift. He was the Head Chef and saw his duties extending beyond when he officially clocked on and off. It was, after all, his reputation that had been behind the Speisekammer’s growing success. The restaurant was doing the best trade it had known in its ten-year history. When Ansgar had first taken over the kitchen the Speisekammer had closed on Wednesdays. Now it did brisk midweek business for both lunches and evening meals. People came from across the city and beyond to savour Ansgar’s fusion cuisine which combined the best of German dishes with influences as varied as Thai, French and Japanese. And that was quite an accomplishment in Cologne: there were thirty or more world-class restaurants in the city. Even the delicatessen attached to the Speisekammer was benefiting from what Ansgar had done to elevate the restaurant’s reputation amongst Cologne’s discerning diners. Not that this had gone unnoticed or unrewarded. Ansgar was amongst the highest-paid chefs in Cologne and the owners, Herr and Frau Gallwitz, had even talked about making him a partner. Ansgar had responded positively but cautiously to this suggestion: he had enough common sense to realise that the Gallwitzes’ offer was as much motivated by sound commercial acumen as by any fondness for Ansgar who, even by his own admission, was a rather cold and distant man whose entire passion seemed concentrated on food. Everyone knew that if Ansgar moved to another restaurant, the greater part of the clientele would move with him.

Ekatherina, the Ukrainian sous-Chef, was waiting with breathless anticipation when Ansgar arrived. She hadn’t changed into her whites yet and was still wearing her crop-top T-shirt. The T-shirt accentuated the swell of her breasts and her midriff was exposed: Ansgar tried not to look at the stud that pierced through the flesh of her navel. She looked up at him with her pale blue Ukrainian eyes that sparkled even brighter with morbid excitement.

‘Have you heard about the Biarritz?’ she asked in her heavily, sexily accented German. Ansgar shook his head. He knew of the Biarritz, but it was in the Gulaschsuppe league: tourists and business-lunch specials.

‘What about the Biarritz?’ he asked and stole a look at Ekatherina’s breasts.

‘One of the kitchen staff has been murdered. The day before yesterday.’ She nodded her head gravely as if this added credibility to the statement.

‘Oh?’

‘Chopped up,’ Ekatherina said. Deliciously.

‘What do you mean?’ Ansgar felt his heart begin to race. He looked into Ekatherina’s electric-blue eyes. Why did Ukrainians have such bright eyes?

‘Someone cut him up with a meat cleaver.’ Ekatherina was clearly excited.

No, thought Ansgar. No, not that. Anything but that. Don’t talk to me about that.

‘It was awful,’ said Ekatherina. ‘And in the kitchen, too. There were bits of him all over the place. Like meat.’

Ansgar had taken his coat off and held it draped over his arm in front of him, hiding his erection.

‘Did they catch who did it?’

‘No. And it was a Ukrainian who was killed. But he was an illegal.’ Ekatherina said this with another solemn nod. Ekatherina was proud of her legal status. She had been in Germany for five years and viewed the more recent arrivals from the East with some disdain. ‘Horrible, though, isn’t it, Herr Hoeffer? I mean, with a meat cleaver

…’

Ansgar nodded curtly and headed into the kitchen, his coat still held before him.