03.The Last Temptation

by Val McDermid

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ll see. So, did they tell you whether you’ve got the job?’

  ‘They did. And I have. But I still don’t know what it is. They’re going to brief me tomorrow. Here’s the best bit: if I perform well, I get to write my own ticket. The world’s going to be my oyster.’

  Tony couldn’t help the prickle of misgiving raising the hairs on the back of his neck. For them to have made Carol a promise of that magnitude, the assignment that lay ahead of her was bound to be fraught with risk. It had to be the kind of enterprise that would provoke an instinctive refusal. With this much sugar coating, the pill would of necessity be an extremely bitter one. ‘That’s great,’ he said. His eye caught the digital clock on the dashboard. He was cutting it tight if he was going to have time to eat before they had to leave for Cupar.

  ‘Listen, Carol, I’ve got to go now. But I want you to promise me that you’ll call as soon as you know what they want from you. I’m not saying this because I have any doubts about your ability. It’s just … it sounds like you’re going to need all the help you can get, and they’re probably going to put you in a position where help won’t be easy to come by. I want you to know that I’m here for you. Whatever you need from me, you’ve got it.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then she said, ‘You’ve no idea how much that means to me. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘And you. Thanks for calling.’

  He ended the call, shoved his phone back in his pocket, and got out of the car. When he walked in, he could smell the fragrant aroma of a rich tomato and meat sauce. As he passed the open door of the darkened living room, he heard Frances speak. ‘I’m in here,’ she said.

  Tony followed the sound of her voice into the living room. He couldn’t see much detail, but he could make out Frances’s shape silhouetted against the window. ‘I heard your car and I couldn’t work out why you hadn’t come in,’ she said. ‘So I came to have a look, make sure everything was all right.’

  ‘The phone rang just as I pulled up.’ Some lies are a necessary veneer, he thought sadly.

  ‘You were ages,’ Frances said.

  He couldn’t see her face, but there was something in her voice that twisted inside him. ‘Sorry about that. I hope dinner isn’t spoilt.’

  ‘I think my cooking’s a wee bit more robust than that.’ Frances turned so her back was to the street. Now her face was even more obscured. ‘Was it Carol?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ As soon as the words were out, he realized how much of a revelation they were. In part, it was a professional response. Answer a question with a question, don’t let the subject take control of the interview. But it was also the instinctive response of someone who has something to conceal. The innocent man would have said, ‘Yes, it was Carol, she’s very excited because she’s got the job she was after.’ However, where Carol Jordan was concerned, Tony could never be an innocent man.

  ‘She’s the only person you wouldn’t want to talk to with me listening in the background.’

  Tony flushed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means you’ve got something to hide where Carol Jordan is concerned.’

  ‘You’re wrong. She was talking to me about a confidential police assignment, that’s the only reason I took the call in the car.’

  Frances snorted. ‘Do you think my head buttons up the back? You took the call in the car because you knew I’d spot the obvious.’

  Tony took a couple of steps towards her. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Frances.’

  ‘Don’t play games with me. You’re in love with her. Christ, I only had to be in your company for five minutes to work that one out.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘I’m right. And I’ve got far too much self-respect to put up with having my nose rubbed in it.’

  ‘Look, Carol is a former colleague, a friend. How can you be jealous of someone I’ve never even slept with?’

  ‘Well, more fool you. You should have tried the little blue pills a bit sooner, shouldn’t you? Because she’s obviously gagging for it.’

  Her words hit like a slap to the cheek. ‘Leave Carol out of this. Whatever you’ve got into your head, it’s between you and me.’

  ‘That’s the trouble, Tony. It’s not between you and me. It’s always been between you and Carol, only you never let me see that before. You kept it hidden away, pretending you wanted to be with me when the truth is she’s the one you want.’

  ‘You’re so wrong, Frances. There’s no future for me and Carol. All there is between us is a very difficult past. I’m with you because I want to be.’

  Suddenly Frances picked up a small crystal vase from the window sill and hurled it at him. ‘You lying bastard,’ she shouted as he dodged to one side. It crashed into the wall with an incongruous tinkle of smashed glass. ‘I’m not a masochist, Tony,’ she panted, anger stealing her breath. ‘Life is too damn short to fritter away my emotions on a man who’s desperate for somebody else. So get the hell out.’

  There was nothing he could think of to say. It surprised him how little he cared that it was clearly over. He turned and headed for the door.

  ‘Leave your keys on the hall table on the way out,’ Frances shouted at his retreating back.

  Tony carried on walking. To his surprise, the prevailing emotion he felt was relief. Relief and a sudden surge of hope. He hadn’t felt this optimistic in years.

  14

  Sometimes, Petra wished Marijke van Hasselt didn’t live so far away. Tonight, it would have been good to settle down with a bottle of wine and discuss the day’s events with someone who didn’t have anything at stake but who understood the intricacies of police work. At least tonight Marijke was on-line too, she saw with a lightening of her spirits. They moved into a private chat room and Petra went straight to the question that interested her most. Anything to take her mind off the dead ends of the Kamal/Marlene inquiry.

  P: so, how’s the murder going?

  M: A lot of work and not much progress. I spent today at the university interviewing his colleagues and students, but we didn’t get a single lead worth pursuing.

  P: what, you finally found a victim everybody loves?

  M: Plenty of people didn’t like de Groot, but nobody with anything that looks remotely like a motive. You don’t kill somebody just because he failed your thesis or blocked your promotion.

  P: god, you dutch are so civilized …

  M: What’s even more annoying is that we didn’t find an appointments diary. Apparently he had one of those Palm Pilots that he always carried. But no sign of it.

  P: the killer probably took it with him to cover his tracks.

  M: So, did you manage to track down what it was that jogged your memory when I told you about de Groot?

  P: i’ve narrowed it down to a couple of possibilities, but i haven’t heard back from either of them. you know what these provincials are like, no sense of urgency.

  M: FWIW, there’s nothing in our records anywhere in Holland that corresponds to the de Groot murder.

  P: so, you’re running round in the dark? nothing from forensics?

  M: Not so far. It’s all been very frustrating, going through the motions without any sense of what we should be looking for.

  P: there’s nothing harder to work than this kind of killing.

  M: I know. Take my mind off it. Tell me about your day.

  P: frustrating. i’m trying to prove a negative – a woman who claims she was the lover of a man who is now dead, but i don’t think they even knew each other. i think there’s a chance we could use this as a lever to lift the lid on a major figure in organized crime. this guy has always kept his hands clean, kept his distance from the sharp end. we’ve never laid a finger on him, and i want to be the one who nails him. the only trouble is, she’s got a kid, and i suspect that our man has spirited her away somewhere to use as a pressure point over
her. so i need to find the kid as well.

  M: Any joy?

  P: not so far. if she doesn’t turn up in school tomorrow, i’m going to tell plesch we should put out a national appeal for her as missing. act like she might be the victim of a paedo. it’ll drive the mother nuts and it’ll make whoever is taking care of her very, very nervous.

  M: As long as you don’t make them so nervous they do something stupid.

  P: i don’t think these guys would use anyone who’d panic for something this sensitive. if anything happens to the kid, they’ve lost their pressure point on the mother. more than that, they’re going to turn her into a vengeful fury who will be out to get their blood.

  M: But how safe will the mother be if you get your hands on the kid?

  P: her life won’t be worth a pocketful of euros. which means, as soon as we get the kid, we take the mother out of the general prison population and put her somewhere very, very safe.

  M: Sounds like you’re pushing really hard on this one.

  P: i want to get this guy so bad i can taste it. but the other thing is that i heard a rumour there’s some kind of major operation being planned against him that would take the ball out of our court. so i feel like time isn’t on my side.

  M: Be careful. It’s hard to do your best work when you’re looking over your shoulder. That’s when we make mistakes, no?

  P: i know. part of me realizes it doesn’t matter who gets him, as long as we take him down. but i’m greedy.

  M: As if I didn’t know that.

  P: so, you want to satisfy my greed?

  M: I thought you’d never ask …

  Petra smiled. Sometimes, distance really didn’t matter so much after all.

  Morgan’s office was exactly what Carol would have conjured up if she’d been asked to imagine it. It was a large cubicle partitioned off from an open plan office space. The frosted glass panels that were supposed to provide an illusion of privacy had been turned into memo boards. Maps, photographs and sheets of paper with single words or phrases written in sprawling capitals in thick magic marker were sellotaped to the glass, completely obscuring its inhabitant and his activities from anyone outside the room.

  The filing cabinets and cupboards that lined the walls were piled high with files and reference books. The computer on the desk was an island of straight lines marooned in a zigzag sea of paper. It all looked chaotic, but Carol suspected that Morgan would be able to lay his hands on any single document in a matter of moments. There was nothing personal in the room; no photographs of family or of Morgan shaking hands with the powerful or famous. The only thing that marked the space out as his was the jacket hanging on a peg on the back of the door. Not on a hanger, just dangling limp from the hook.

  He’d met her at the lift, hustled her through the outer office so fast she’d had the chance for nothing more than the most superficial impression of an array of mostly empty desks. The occupants of the remainder barely raised their heads as they passed, then returned indifferent to their monitors or their phone calls. He’d thrown open his office door and stood back, saying, ‘Give me five minutes. There’s something I’ve got to sort out. Tea or coffee?’

  She’d been sitting in the visitor’s chair for fifteen minutes when Morgan pushed the door open with his hip, a mug in each hand. ‘There you go,’ he said, putting one down on the pile of papers nearest Carol. ‘Sorry I kept you.’

  He moved round behind his desk, pushing the chair sideways so the computer didn’t obscure her view of him. His cramped office only served to emphasize how big he was. He topped six feet easily, and he had the breadth to go with it. But even though he was in his mid-forties, he hadn’t lost definition. She could see the swell of his shoulder muscles under his shirt, and there was no depressing splay of material and straining buttons across his stomach. He had a square, blunt face with eyes set wide enough apart to give him a look of guilelessness that Carol knew was entirely misleading. Now, he was smiling at her, the skin round his eyes crinkling into deep lines. ‘Cracking job yesterday,’ he said. ‘The Drugs Squad were spitting feathers, of course, but it’s their own fault it all went down the Swanee. I had their guv’nor on to me last night, giving me earache, but like I said to him, it doesn’t do to underestimate the opposition, especially when the opposition’s got one of my team playing for them.’

  ‘You don’t mind that there’s a bag of coke out on the streets that shouldn’t be there?’ Carol asked, partly because she didn’t want to appear complacent, but mostly because she wanted to remind Morgan that she was still a copper.

  ‘Sometimes you have to accept a bit of collateral damage. I’m looking at a much bigger picture.’ Morgan picked up his coffee and took a sip. He flashed a quick glance of assessment at her over the rim, then relented. ‘Besides, they picked the bugger up last night. They knew he wouldn’t have had time to shift the gear, so they kicked his door in about half an hour after I sent them packing. Caught him in the middle of stepping on it so he could shop it out for twice the price. So your conscience can rest easy, DCI Jordan.’ He gave her a knowing grin. ‘Nice to see that going undercover hasn’t blunted your copper’s instincts.’

  Carol said nothing. She reached for her mug and took a tentative taste. It was almost as good as she would have made herself, which made it about three hundred per cent better than anything she’d ever tasted in a police establishment. Her respect for Morgan rose even higher.

  He leaned across the desk and pulled a folder out from under a pile of scribbled notes. He flicked it open, checking the contents, then slid it over to Carol. ‘Go on,’ he said as she stared at the blank cover. ‘Take a look.’

  Carol flipped the file open. She found herself staring down at a 10 × 8 black-and-white photograph of a remarkably handsome man. It wasn’t a posed studio-shot, but had the graininess of something snatched while its subject wasn’t looking. He was in three-quarters profile, looking off at something to the right of the photographer, a slight frown provoking a line between his eyebrows. His glossy dark collar-length hair was swept back from a high forehead, falling over delicate ears in a slight wave. The eyes were deep-set above wide Slavic cheekbones. His nose had the curve of a hawk’s bill, and his full lips were slightly parted, giving a faint glimpse of white teeth. He looked as sharp and polished as a diamond.

  ‘Tadeusz Radecki. Tadzio to his friends,’ Morgan said. ‘He’s genetically Polish, though he was born in Paris and educated in England and Germany. Currently lives in a palatial apartment in Berlin. His grandmother was some sort of countess. Plenty of blue blood, but his old man had a gambling habit and there wasn’t much dosh left by the time Tadeusz finished with university. So he decided to become an entrepreneur. On paper, he owns a very successful chain of video-rental outlets in Germany. He moved in big time after the wall came down and cashed in on all those Ossies who’d been starved of Hollywood culture.’

  Carol waited. She knew there was more, much more. But she’d never seen the point in asking questions simply for the satisfaction of hearing her own voice. Morgan leaned back in his chair, locking his hands behind his head. ‘Of course, that’s not the whole story. Our man Tadzio realized early on that there was more money to be made on the wrong side of the law than on the right side. Through his family contacts, he started doing a bit of gunrunning for the warlords in the former Yugoslavia after that all fell to bits. He had the contacts in the old Soviet Union to supply the material, and he set himself up as a middle man. Clean hands again. It worked out very nicely for him. He made a packet and he also acquired his right-hand man, a lethal little Serb called Darko Krasic.

  ‘With the profits from the gunrunning, Tadzio and Darko invested in some serious protection and started shifting large amounts of drugs. They always took care to stay far enough away from the street-level stuff to keep their hands out of the muck while making sure their noses stayed right in the trough. In the last few years, they’ve taken the lion’s share of the hard drugs market in central Germany
, as well as financing some major international deals, including shipping heroin into the UK. They’ve stayed on top mostly because Darko has a reputation for being a totally ruthless bastard. You double-cross him, you die. And not in a nice way.’

  Morgan sat up straight again and indicated to Carol she should move forward in the file. The next photograph showed a railway marshalling yard. The doors of a freight container stood open, revealing half a dozen bodies sprawled in a heap. ‘Remember that?’ he asked.

  Carol nodded. ‘Eight Iraqi Kurds found dead in a container at Felixstowe. Last summer, was it?’

  ‘That’s right. There had been a hold-up loading the ferry on the other side of the Channel, and the poor sods had basically fried alive as their air supply gave out. They were the victims of Tadeusz Radecki’s latest business venture. It’s questionable what adds more to the total of human misery, his drug running or his people smuggling. But we’re not interested in how many addicts he’s created for our German colleagues to deal with; what matters to us is putting a stop to his involvement in bringing illegals into this country in numbers we can only guess at.’