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.

2.