‘Sweet Jesus …’ Fabel gazed at the image uncomprehendingly, as if the awfulness of what lay before him defied belief. A girl, no older than sixteen or seventeen, had been nailed to the wooden wall. Nails, more like crude iron spikes, had been driven into her hands and the flesh and muscle of her upper arms. She had been sliced open and Blood-Eagled in the same manner as the others, except that the dark and bloody masses of her lungs, too, had been nailed to the wall. Somehow, through the gut-wrenching disgust, some deep, analytical part of Fabel’s brain processed the similarity between the photograph in his hands and the canvases he had seen at Marlies Menzel’s exhibition. Fabel let the photograph drop from his hands. As it fell, image upwards, onto the floor, he could see the steamed marks where his thumbs had held it. He looked up, almost pleadingly, at the Ukrainian, as if looking for some explanation that would, somehow, make what he had seen less terrible.

‘It was the last village we came to before we caught up with Vitrenko. It was well within rebel territory and we’d had a hell of a fight to get as far as we did. We weren’t sure if Vitrenko’s unit had hit the place or if it was held by rebels. As it turns out, it was just an ordinary non-combatant village. But we had to make sure: so we spent half a day under a relentless sun, continuously scoured by wind-blown dust and sand. Then, just after midday, the wind changed direction and brought with it the stench of death from the village. We knew then that Vitrenko had been there. I sent in a recon squad who signalled for us to come in. When I joined up with the leader, I knew from his face it was bad.’

The Ukrainian paused and nodded towards the image that now lay on the floor between Fabel’s feet.

‘It was in some kind of barn or storage building for the village. If hell exists, then it must look pretty similar to what we found in that barn. The men had all been shot. There was a great cluster of them just inside the doors. They had been tied hand and foot and forced into a kneeling position before being shot. Then there were the women. All of the women of the village, probably. About twenty of them. All ages … from children to the grandmas. Every single one had been ripped apart with their lungs torn out – just like your victims here. A couple had been nailed to the wall of the barn, splayed out like some kind of exhibit …’ The Ukrainian paused. His eyes searched some invisible scene for details that would allow him to find the right description. ‘Like butterfly collectors display their butterflies.’

‘Vitrenko did all this?’ asked Fabel.

‘Not personally. That’s the thing: he made others do it for him. He has a talent for that. He created this obscene gallery of exhibits without getting blood on his own hands. It was like some kind of test … a proving. It was like a ritual that bound them to their leader.’