Three other forensics technicians were working in the kitchen, each on a different area. There were also two other Criminal Police detectives from Scholz’s department: Kris, the young Criminal Police Commissar who had accompanied Scholz to the scene and Tansu, a young Turkish-German officer. The junior detectives lingered uncertainly at the doorway that led from the main salon of the restaurant to the kitchen. Both looked decidedly unwell, particularly Kris. Scholz scanned the kitchen. Everywhere there were signs of violence. The spilled pots. Blood smeared on the door frame. A stool upset. Pools of blood on the floor. The epicentre of the violence was the lump of meat that Simone Schilling now examined. It was also the cause of the nauseated look on the face of Kris Feilke.

‘What’s the story?’ Scholz asked.

‘Ukrainian,’ Kris said at last. ‘A kitchen worker. More than likely an illegal. There were three other staff in the kitchen at the time. Two Ukrainians and a Somalian. The Ukrainians won’t say a word … scared shitless. But the Somalian said that three masked men came in and started shouting at the victim. Not in German, so I’m guessing they were Ukrainian too. Specially as the two Ukrainian kitchen staff have been struck dumb. One of the masked men picked up a meat cleaver …’ Impossibly, the young detective’s pale complexion paled further. ‘Anyway, he did that to him.’

Scholz moved over towards the body. Simone Schilling stopped his progress with another cute scowl.

‘I suppose it’s too early to ascertain a cause of death?’ Scholz grinned. It was difficult to see the features of the figure on the floor. One side of the face gaped open where the meat cleaver had sliced cleanly through skin, muscle, sinew and bone. Similarly, a straight-edged flap of flesh had separated from the upper arm, just below the cuff of his T-shirt. The cleaver’s sharp edge had made the wounds unnaturally rectilinear. Scholz reckoned there were at least a dozen slashes on the body. ‘But I’m guessing it wasn’t a gunshot.’ Scholz laughed at his witticism. Simone Schilling didn’t. She stood up.

‘You’ll get a full report from the pathologist. Herr Dr Lüdeke will be carrying out the autopsy.’

‘He’s got his work cut out for him …’ said Scholz and laughed, alone, at his joke.

Simone Schilling cast her eyes around the floor, where her team had tent-flagged various bloody smears. ‘His attackers certainly didn’t care about leaving evidence. We’ve got half a dozen bootprints in the blood. Clear patterns.’ She looked at Scholz with disdain. ‘Mind you, half of them are probably yours by now.’

Scholz looked at the body again. Four or five of the slashes on the forearms. Palm split open, exposing bone. Defensive wounds.

‘Do we have a name?’ He called to the two detectives by the door.

‘Slavko Dmytruk,’ said Kris. ‘Or that’s the name the restaurant have for him. The owners reckon he’s about twenty-three or -four.’

‘Are you okay?’ asked Scholz.