‘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.’