JF04 - The Carnival Master Read Free Page A

to specific places: home, work, the journey in between. He often felt that his life was like a large country house in which only a few rooms were used and kept in perfect order, the rest closed and shuttered and dust-sheeted in the dark. Rooms, Ansgar knew, it was best not to visit.
    The kitchen of Ansgar’s home was, given his occupation, surprisingly small but unsurprisingly well equipped; pristine and filled with light from the large window that looked out onto his house’s slim fringe of garden and the blank side wall of his neighbour’s house.
    The oven chimed. The meat was ready.
    The strange thing was that, when at home, Ansgar preferred to cook simpler meals. Uncomplicated dishes in which the true texture and flavour of the meat were allowed honest expression. As always, Ansgar had timed everything to perfection. The asparagus simmering on the hob would be cooked to the perfect consistency. He took the small dish of apple sauce from the fridge: it would reach the perfect temperature – cool but not chill – by the time he served the meat and asparagus. He poured half a bottle of Gaffel beer into a glass, the balanceof body and foamy head exactly right. He removed the metal tray from the oven and unwrapped the single fillet of meat from its foil cocoon. Leaning forward, he sniffed the delicate scent of the tender flesh wrapped in thyme, his glasses steaming opaque for a second. He placed the meat on the plate, dressed it with a fresh sprig of thyme and some of the apple sauce. He drained the asparagus and laid it neatly beside the meat.
    Ansgar took a sip of the Gaffel and contemplated his meal. The first mouthful of meat melted on his tongue. As it did so, he started to think again about that girl at work. The Ukrainian girl who worked with him in the restaurant kitchen, Ekatherina. He frowned and tried to eject her from his thoughts. Another mouthful of meat. As his teeth sank into the yielding flesh she returned again to his mind. Her pale young skin pulled taut over her voluptuous curves. Even in winter the temperature in the kitchen would soar with the humid heat from the ovens and hobs. Ekatherina’s pale skin would become flushed and moist with sweat, as if she were being slowly cooked herself. He tried to banish her and focus on his meal. But with each mouthful he thought of her buttocks. Her breasts. Her nipples. Her mouth. Most of all, her mouth. He continued eating. He frowned when he felt the tingle between his legs; the pressure against the material of his trousers. He sipped his beer and tried to compose himself. He ate some asparagus. He straightened the cruet set on the table. Another mouthful of meat. He hardened more. He felt sweaty moisture on his top lip. He thought of her pale flesh against the black T-shirts she wore. Again the swell of her breasts. Again, her mouth.
    Ansgar’s face was now sheathed in a film of sweat.He fought and fought to banish the images that surged into his mind. Those twisted, delicious images in which the chaos he had regulated from his life reigned. Those sweet, sick, perverted ideas that he had forbidden himself. And she was part of them. She was there, always, in those scenarios of tender, succulent flesh and biting teeth. He chewed the meat, unable to swallow. Ansgar Hoeffer thought of the sensual feel of the food in his mouth and again of the girl at work. He shuddered as he ejaculated into his trousers.
3
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    It took Fabel four hours to go through the bureaucracy of death: all the form-filling and debriefings that gave Aichinger’s senseless actions some kind of official shape. As he had so many times in his career, Fabel had stood at the heart of a human tragedy, burned by its raw emotional heat, only to go on to play his part in turning it into a cold, sterile statistic. But he would never forget Aichinger’s final expression of sad gratitude. And he doubted if he would ever understand it.
    Fabel sat on the edge of the table in the Murder Commission squad