The Carnival Master

4.

‘Those papers looked pretty genuine,’ said Scholz as they drove across the bridge to Cologne’s Left Bank. ‘But I’d bet you anything you like that they’re fakes.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fabel. Mila had insisted that she was in Germany of her own free will and that she chose to do what she did for a living. She certainly hadn’t looked oppressed, but of course it was difficult to tell. Prostitution, legal or otherwise, was seldom a profession of completely free choice. And Mila’s reluctance to be seen talking to two policemen had to do with something more than the business she was in. Scholz had treated her with nothing less than contempt. Fabel liked Scholz, his laid-back manner and his friendliness, but the Cologne officer’s attitude towards women troubled him. Fabel had always had female officers in his team, but he had never had to make a conscious effort to do so. Everyone was picked on their merits. It bothered Fabel to see how Scholz was almost dismissive of Tansu, who was clearly a capable officer. And there was something about his manner with Mila that bothered him.

The MediaPark on the northern fringe of the Neustadt area was a reasonably new element in Cologne’s landscape.

‘The Cologne Tower has only been open for about four years. There’s still quite a bit of office space to fill,’ explained Scholz as they circled through the streets looking for somewhere to park. Eventually they used an underground car park and walked through the chill drizzle to the bright glass and steel of the Cologne Tower. InterSperse Media was on the fifth floor.

There was no reception as such and most of the people milling about the open-plan office space or working at workstations were in their twenties or early thirties. Everyone was dressed in casual sweat-tops or T-shirts and jeans. In environments like this, Fabel always felt he belonged to another era. Despite considering himself to be liberal-minded, he often found such situations provoked the reactionary in him: the northern Lutheran who believed that people should still dress smartly for work; that the only men who should wear earrings were pirates; that tattoos on women were uncomely.

‘Cool place…’ said Scholz, clearly untouched by the same conservatism. A fat young woman came over to them. Despite her near-obesity, she wore jeans and a top that left her too-ample midriff exposed. Predictably she had a piercing, a ring through her nostril.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a tone that suggested she would rather do anything else but help. Scholz showed her his police ID and her cloudy expression dimmed further.

‘We want to see David Littger.’

‘You’ll have to wait – he’s in a meeting.’

Scholz smiled indulgently, as if she were a child who had said something cutely naive. ‘No, no… you see, we don’t have to wait. This is a murder inquiry so get him now or we’ll walk into his meeting. Clear?’

The young woman stormed off, presenting the policemen with her bustling rotund figure from the rear.

‘She should be more willing to help,’ said Scholz. ‘Christ knows what our guy would do if he ever saw that arse. That would keep him in stew for six months.’

Fabel laughed despite himself. The girl returned after a minute and sulkily showed them into the only meeting room, a glass box in the centre of the office. There was a large conference table with an impossibly thin computer-display screen in the centre, a cordless keyboard and mouse. Three media types stood up and left as Fabel and Scholz entered. Scholz spoke to the remaining man.

‘You David Littger?’ Scholz asked and sat down at the table uninvited. Fabel remained standing by the door. Littger nodded, eyeing both policemen suspiciously. He was in his early thirties, with cropped-short sand-coloured hair and stubble grown to disguise a weak jaw. ‘I’m Commissar Scholz, this is Principal Chief Commissar Fabel. We’re here to talk about one of the websites you host and did the design for.’

‘I’m afraid I will not divulge any such information. InterSperse Media is bound by strict commercial-confidentiality rules-’

‘Listen, pencil-dick,’ said Scholz, still smiling as if conducting a perfectly pleasant conversation with an acquaintance. ‘I am not here to fuck about. This is a multiple-murder inquiry and in my pocket I have a warrant from the Staatsanwalt’s office. If you force me to exercise this warrant, your offices will be closed to your staff, all of your files seized and your operation will be shut down for as long as it takes us to find the information we need. Now, you don’t want that and I don’t want that, because if I have to do that it will take me much longer to find the sick pervs who run the site. I will also take it as read that you have obstructed us for some reason. Maybe you’re into this scene as well and are more “hands-on” than you want to admit. In which case you and I will be seeing a great deal of each other over the next twenty-four hours. And it’ll be at my place, not yours.’

‘What’s the name of the website?’ asked Littger in a flat tone. If he was shaken, he didn’t show it. Scholz handed him a sheet of paper.

‘They call themselves the Anthropophagi,’ explained Scholz. He referred to his notebook. ‘It is, as they describe it, “an online meeting place for individuals and groups interested in the exchange of information on hard vore and cannibalism.” In other words, Sick Fucks Reunited. And your hip and trendy techno company put this shit on the web for them and designed their website.’

Littger remained unperturbed. ‘I remember it. We uploaded them on our server about six months ago. We do no maintenance on the site – we supplied a general design and a template for them to update. As for its content… we’re not responsible for that. We simply supply the door, the access to the web. But there is no regulation out there. The Internet is the Wild West. Anarchy. We can’t check up on every single site we host.’

‘And if someone puts up pictures of kids being raped?’ asked Fabel.

‘We have a zero-tolerance policy towards that kind of thing,’ said Littger. ‘But we need to know it’s going on before we can pull the plug and call you guys in.’ He sighed. ‘Listen, I’ll give you the name and address, but you’re going to have to serve your warrant. I’ll have all kind of shit from clients to contend with if you don’t. But I’m willing to cooperate, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t disrupt my business the way you said. I’ll point you to all the right information. I just need to be legally obliged to hand over the information.’

‘Ah, well… it’s not as easy as that, Herr Littger.’ Scholz made an I’d like to help but… face. ‘You see, if I do this through the proper channels and you blab to your clients, or even if the press get a hint that your company is part of this investigation, then God knows who’s going to find out about it before we’re ready. I am prepared to give you my word that no one will know where the information came from.’

‘You know something, Herr Scholz?’ said Littger. ‘I don’t believe you have a warrant.’

Scholz’s smile disappeared and his expression clouded. ‘You want to put me to the test?’

‘No one finds out about this?’

‘Not unless Tons-of-Fun out there or any of your other employees blab. But they don’t need to know that we have had this discussion.’

Littger leaned over the table and typed something on the cordless keyboard.

‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Peter Schnaus is the guy’s name. That’s his address. It’s in Buschbell, a part of Frechen.’

‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘I think we’ll pay Herr Schnaus a call. I take it we can rely on your discretion? I’d be most annoyed if Herr Schnaus knew in advance of our visit. In the meantime, could you put up the Anthropophagi site for us? There are a few questions I’d like to ask.’

Littger shrugged and typed the address into the wireless keyboard. The site appeared. ‘What does Anthropophagi mean?’ he asked as the site loaded.

‘It’s Greek,’ said Scholz. ‘It means cannibals. In some folklore it refers to headless men, with their eyes and mouths in their chests, who feed on human flesh.’

‘Nice…’

Fabel took charge of the mouse and navigated the site. There was a picture gallery, a forum and a section devoted to classified advertisements.

‘You see this shit?’ asked Scholz.

‘Yep,’ said Fabel. ‘Weird stuff, isn’t it?’

‘Well… yeah… but I expected to see all kinds of sick porn. But it’s just weird. The only thing I could see that could by any stretch of the imagination be deemed erotic was a series of badly doctored pics of some tart in a bikini being swallowed whole by a fish.’

‘That, believe it or not, is pornography for these people. It’s a fetish called vorarephilia. They get off by fantasising about eating someone or being eaten. The picture you described is what’s called soft vore as in soft core. It shows a human or an animal being consumed whole, without blood. Hard vore is when it involves the cutting or ripping of flesh with lots of bloodshed. Believe it or not – and this is pretty hard to believe – there are vorarephiles who get off watching nature programmes. You know, lions tearing antelopes apart and eating them.’

Scholz shook his head. ‘Shit… like I said to you before, I sometimes can’t imagine how the hell people get to a place like that, where their idea of sex is so fucked-up.’

‘I honestly believe that this kind of crap on the Internet feeds it. It gives them a place to exchange their fantasies and to convince each other that they’re not abnormal. Sadists, paedophiles, rapists all do exactly the same thing,’ said Fabel. Littger shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘nothing to do with me’. Fabel clicked onto the classified ads section. ‘This is what we want… yes, here it is.’ He read one of the ads out loud.

‘“Love Bites”… nice title, huh? “Love-hungry predator seeks submissive prey for voreplay. Must not be fat, but should have a bottom ample enough to sink one’s teeth into. Genuine replies only. No professionals, only enthusiastic pears ripe for the eating. Apply to Lovebiter, Box AG1891”.’ Fabel turned to Littger. ‘You have any way of tracing who placed this?’

‘Only an IP address, and that could be for anywhere. He may even have used a cybercafe or a WiFi hotspot. And you can’t trace him through his credit card – he had to pay for the ad but there’s no secure credit-card facility built into the site. Advertisers have to send hard copy in to the PO box number listed, along with sufficient funds to pay for it.’

‘So this guy Schnaus may have the details of whoever placed the ad?’ asked Scholz.

‘Not necessarily. The advertiser could have paid by money order or might even have sent cash. But what Schnaus will be able to provide is the access password to get into the virtual mailbox for all the replies he got.’

‘We’ve got to find “Lovebiter”,’ Scholz said to Fabel. ‘He lives in the same dark place as our guy. He may be connected to him.’

‘He may even be him,’ said Fabel.