by Val McDermid
The doorbell pealed out again, this time for longer. He didn’t know what to do. He stepped away from the table where Margarethe lay spread-eagled, still fully clothed. What if the caller was persistent enough to come round to the back of the house? All it would take would be one glance in the brightly lit kitchen windows. He scrabbled for the light switch. Just as his fingers closed on it, he heard a sound that chilled him even more than the doorbell. The unmistakable click of a key in a lock.
He froze, dry-mouthed, wondering about escape. The front door opened and a man’s voice shouted, ‘Margarethe?’ The door closing, then footsteps heading for the kitchen. ‘It’s me,’ he heard.
Grabbing a heavy cast-iron pan from the stove, he flattened himself against the wall by the door. It opened without a moment’s hesitation and a tall, male shape appeared, crossing the threshold and stopping in his tracks. Enough light spilled in from outside to show the shape of Margarethe’s body lying on the table. ‘Margarethe?’ he said again, reaching for the light switch.
The pan crashed down on the back of his head and the man dropped to his knees like a felled steer. His upper body teetered for a moment then collapsed face down in an untidy heap.
He dropped the pan with a loud clatter and turned the light back on. The interloper was sprawled on the floor, a trickle of blood coming from his nose. Dead or unconscious, he didn’t mind which, just so long as it would give him time to finish what he’d started. He kicked him savagely in the ribs. Bastard. Who did he think he was, barging in like that?
Hurrying now, he returned to his task. He finished the bindings, then hastily ripped the tape from her mouth. He had to keep checking the man was still out cold, which slowed him up even more. He didn’t bother explaining to the bitch why he was making an example of her. She’d fucked up his routine, ruined his pleasure in a job well done, and she didn’t deserve to know that there was good reason for what was happening to her.
It pissed him off more than he would have believed possible that he was having to rush things. He managed to do a neat enough job with the scalping, but it wasn’t as precise as he liked. Cursing with the vigour of the boatman he was, he finished up in the kitchen, wiping every surface his hands could possibly have touched, and giving the stranger a brutal kick in the kidneys as he passed, just for good measure.
All that was left was the placing of the file. He ran upstairs and started checking the rooms, unwilling to turn on the lights in case it drew more attention to him. The first room was clearly hers, dominated by a king-size bed and a wall of fitted wardrobes. The second looked like a kid’s room, with its posters of Werder Bremen footballers and the Playstation on the table by the window.
He struck gold with the back bedroom, which was fitted out as a home office. He dragged open the drawer of the old-fashioned wooden filing cabinet and thrust the file into place. He was past caring if it was in the right slot. He just wanted to be done and out of there before things got even worse.
One final check that the stranger was still unconscious, then he warily opened the front door a crack. Nothing moved. He saw a VW Passat parked in front of the house, but thankfully it wasn’t blocking the drive. Head down, he hurried out of Margarethe Schilling’s house and into the car.
His hands on the wheel were slippery with perspiration, his fingers antsy and trembling. Sweat trickled down his temples and into his hair. He had to force himself to keep his speed down in the quiet suburban streets. His brain kept replaying the terrible sound of the front door opening, and every time his heart constricted in panic again. Fear was staking out its familiar territory inside him, and he struggled against it, moaning as he drove. He was on the dock road before he felt his breathing return to normal. For the first time since he had started his campaign, he had been directly confronted with the dangers of his chosen path. And he didn’t like it one bit.
Not that that was any reason to stop, he told himself. What he needed now was to take his mind off his panic. What he needed was a woman. He slowed down as he approached a row of bars, their dim lights yellow against the night. He’d find what he wanted here. He’d take some bitch and fuck her till the light came back.
Case Notes
Name: Case Notes Margarethe Schilling
Session Number: 1
Comments: The patient has a god complex. She believes she has the divine right to undermine and destroy the legitimate beliefs of others in the interests of furthering her own status. She lacks all sense of proportion.
Her value system is hopelessly skewed by her erroneous belief in her own infallibility. Nevertheless, she seeks to impose her own world view on others and refuses to accept the possibility that she is wrong.
She is clearly overcompensating for an unacknowledged sense of inferiority. Like many professional females, she fails to recognize her innate weaknesses compared to males and reacts to this by seeking to castrate them psychologically.
Therapeutic Action: Altered state therapy initiated.
18
Tadeusz crossed the pavement and climbed into the back seat of the black Mercedes. If any of his neighbours had seen him, they might have wondered at his appearance. Instead of his usual immaculate and expensive surface, he was dressed in old moleskin trousers, battered work boots, an ex-army parka covering a thick fisherman’s sweater. But nobody wore Armani for an afternoon’s rough shooting, which was exactly how he planned to spend the rest of the day.
Darko Krasic lounged in the opposite corner of the rear seat. He wore a scarred leather jerkin over a padded plaid shirt whose tails hung over corduroy trousers so old the raised wales were rubbed flat on the surface of the thighs. ‘Good day for it,’ he said.
‘I hope so. I feel like killing someone whose disappearance would make the world a better place,’ Tadeusz said. He spoke with the distaste of a man who has bitten into a fruit and found decay at its heart. Apathy and cynicism had been his alternating companions since Katerina’s death. Everything he did now was an attempt to break free from their suffocating grip, and everything so far had failed. He had no conviction that this afternoon would bring anything different. ‘And since we’ve no traffic cops to hand,’ he continued with a wan attempt at humour, ‘I’ll have to settle for something small and defenceless. Furry or feathered. You bring the guns?’
‘They’re in the boot. Where are we headed?’
‘A nice bit of forest on the edge of the Schorfheide. That’s the great thing about nature reserves. The wildlife doesn’t recognize the boundaries. An old friend of mine owns a piece of land that butts right up against the protected area. And the ducks from the wetland don’t know any better than to fly over his woodland. We should bag some good stuff. He’s lending us a couple of his gun dogs so we can do the thing properly.’ Tadeusz reached inside his jacket and pulled out a burnished pewter hip flask. He unscrewed the top and took a swig of Cognac. He held the flask out to Krasic. ‘Want some?’
Krasic shook his head. ‘You know I always like to keep a clear head round guns.’
‘Speaking of guns and clear heads, what’s the news on Marlene?’
‘Some bitch from Criminal Intelligence has been sniffing around her. She spoke to her in the GeSa, and she’s been back to see her in jail. Marlene’s playing dumb and keeping her mouth shut, but it’s winding her up.’
‘You’re sure we can trust her?’
Krasic gave a lazy smile. ‘As long as we’ve got the kid, Marlene won’t put a foot wrong. Funny how women get about their kids. You’d think they could only have the one, the way they go on about them. They seem to forget that all they’re going to get from them is heartache. Especially someone like Marlene. She should have the sense to realize that any daughter of hers is going to grow up using, or selling herself. But it doesn’t seem to matter to her. She still thinks the sun shines out of the kid’s arse.’
‘Just as well for us,’ Tadeusz said. ‘Where are we keeping her?’
‘I’ve got a cousin who has a smallholding on the ou
tskirts of Oranienburg. The nearest neighbour is half a mile away. He’s got a couple of kids of his own, so he knows how to deal with the little buggers.’
‘And Marlene is convinced this isn’t just a bluff?’
Krasic curled his lip in a sneer. ‘Marlene believes I’m capable of anything. She’s not going to play games with her child’s life. Don’t worry, Tadzio, it’s all boxed off.’
‘I wish I could say the same about the English end of things. The people who are trying to fill Colin’s shoes, they’re nothing but a bunch of clowns. They’re too small-time to run a competent operation. I don’t trust them to deliver. Meanwhile, we’ve got a bottleneck in Rotterdam. We can’t go on warehousing illegals indefinitely.’
‘Can’t we just take them over to England and dump them?’ Krasic sounded like a petulant child who can’t understand why the world doesn’t turn to suit him.
‘Not in the sort of numbers we’ve got stockpiled. It’d be far too obvious that something on a large scale was going down. The last thing we want is to attract the attention of the immigration authorities. I’ve been successful for so long precisely because I haven’t done things like that,’ Tadeusz pointed out. ‘We had such a convenient arrangement with Colin. I can’t believe he was stupid enough to get caught in some minor league gangland shoot-out.’
‘It should be a warning to you,’ Krasic said. ‘That’s the kind of thing that can happen when you get too close to the action. You shouldn’t have made that trip the other week. I don’t like it when you’re exposed like that.’
Tadeusz glowered out of the window. He knew Krasic was right, but he didn’t like being told what to do by anyone, not even his trusted assistant. Now he felt mean. ‘It doesn’t hurt sometimes to remind people who’s in charge,’ he said.
‘Tadzio, it could have blown up in your face. If they’d got Kamal to talk … Well, we might not be so lucky next time.’
‘There was no element of luck there. We’ve got all our bases covered.’ He turned and gave Krasic a hard stare. ‘We do have all our bases covered, don’t we?’
‘Of course we do. That’s why we keep cops on the payroll.’
‘And speaking of the cops on our payroll, why haven’t we heard anything more about the investigation into Katerina’s accident? This has been going on far too long. I want to know about that fucking motorbike. Lean on them, Darko. Don’t let them think they can ignore me on this.’
Krasic nodded. ‘I’ll chase them up, boss.’
‘Do that. And remind them that whoever pays the piper calls the tune. I want the man who killed Katerina. I don’t give a fuck about the legal process. I want to make him pay in a way he’ll remember for the rest of his life. So tell those bastards to stop fucking around and produce some results.’
Krasic sighed inwardly. He had a feeling this was one investigation that was going to hit a brick wall sooner or later. He didn’t relish the moment when he would have to report that fact to Tadzio. For the time being, he’d just have to keep going through the motions. ‘I’ll talk to someone tonight,’ he promised.
‘Good. I’m tired of problems. I could use some solutions. Whatever it takes.’ He leaned back against the soft leather and closed his eyes, signalling that the conversation was over. Playing the bully didn’t come naturally to him, but he’d found himself slipping into the role depressingly often since Katerina had died. He couldn’t bear the thought that the rest of his life was going to be like this, a constant succession of crises and problems. It felt as if her death had taken all the ease from his life, and he wondered if he would ever again feel relaxed and comfortable in his own shoes. Perhaps vengeance would help.
It was the only thing he could think of that might.
It was Petra Becker’s first visit to Den Haag, and she was surprised by its lack of flamboyance compared to Amsterdam. The canal houses were models of understated classical demureness, with few of the ornate flourishes that gave a walk in central Amsterdam so much visual richness. This was an expense account city, with none of the bohemian colour that provided Amsterdam with its variety. Here, there was an air of sedate prosperity, speaking of a prim propriety that made Petra’s Berliner soul feel stifled. She’d been here less than a day and already she was craving the disreputable.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about the day that lay ahead of her. She was due to meet the British cop at eleven. Carol Jordan, a Detective Chief Inspector, whatever that meant. Petra was supposed to tell her everything she knew about Tadeusz Radecki, and it stuck in her throat. It didn’t seem fair that she should hand over such hard-won gains to someone who hadn’t earned her stripes in the battle. When Hanna Plesch had told her that her new role was to act as liaison for someone else’s undercover, she’d felt cheated. Of course, she was too familiar a face in Berlin to go undercover herself, but it pissed her off that her bosses had rolled over and handed the whole affair to the Brits. What did they know about German organized crime? Who did they think they were, muscling in on her territory? And how dare they think they could succeed where her department had failed?
Plesch had read her reaction in her face, in spite of her best efforts to keep it under wraps. She’d told Petra that she only had two choices. She could work with Jordan, or she could walk away from the whole Radecki investigation. Reluctantly, Petra had accepted the assignment. It didn’t mean she had to feel happy about it.
She consoled herself with the knowledge that the take-down would have to be carried out by German cops. The Brits wouldn’t be prosecuting this one. At the end of the operation, when they put Radecki away, Carol Jordan would be long gone. Petra Becker, on the other hand, would still be here, and she’d be the one who would be remembered as being instrumental in the final dismemberment of Radecki’s rackets.
She found a café, bought coffee and a couple of warm rolls and took them over to a table by the window. She pulled a slim file out of her battered leather briefcase and began to read.
Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan had graduated from Manchester University and gone straight into the Metropolitan Police. She’d been fast-tracked for promotion and had reached the rank of Detective Sergeant in the shortest possible time. She’d worked in general CID and also done a stint in the specialized major-incident team that dealt with murders and other serious crimes. When she’d passed her inspector’s examination, she’d left the Met and moved north to the industrial city of Bradfield. That seemed to be when her career had really taken off.
DI Jordan acted as liaison officer with Dr Tony Hill, a Home Office approved offender profiler, on a series of murders in Bradfield. Her work was instrumental both in uncovering the identity of the perpetrator and also in saving the life of Dr Hill. Petra read the dry words and made a mental note to check out the case on the internet when she had the opportunity. Serial killers always made it big on the world wide web.
She continued reading. Jordan then moved to East Yorkshire Police, where she was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector and took charge of the CID in the North Sea port of Seaford. While she was stationed at Seaford, she renewed her professional relationship with Dr Hill, taking the lead role in an investigation which led to the eventual capture of the serial killer Jacko Vance. DCI Jordan’s work was central in obtaining the conviction of Vance, who is believed to have killed at least eight young girls. Another serial killer investigation, Petra noted. She’d take a look at the background to this one too. Maybe Carol Jordan could do her career another favour, aside from Radecki. There weren’t that many officers around who had experience of tracking serial killers. Perhaps Petra could pick Jordan’s brains and come up with a strategy for nailing the killer she believed had already struck in Leiden and Heidelberg. If Jordan was as good a cop as she appeared to be on paper, it was worth considering.
Petra returned to the file. Two years ago, DCI Jordan returned to the Metropolitan Police, where in addition to operational duties with the serious crimes unit, she has undertaken extensive training in intellige
nce gathering and analysis. For the purposes of this undercover, she has been temporarily assigned to the National Crime Squad.
That was the end of the brief. There was nothing in the file to suggest that Jordan had any undercover experience. Maybe they just hadn’t gone into details. Petra couldn’t believe they would put anyone into an operation this dangerous unless she really knew what she was doing. Radecki was way too smart to take anybody at face value. He’d be deeply suspicious of anyone who turned up with so convenient a proposal for solving his current problems. Jordan would have to be a superb operator to stay alive, let alone get under his guard and uncover anything worth knowing.
There was one more sheet of paper in the file. Petra flipped it over, seeing it was a photocopy of a photograph. She couldn’t stifle a gasp of astonishment. If the caption hadn’t told her this was Carol Jordan, she would have been convinced that she was looking at a photograph of Tadeusz Radecki’s late girlfriend.
What was going on here? The resemblance was so spooky it made the hairs on the back of Petra’s neck stand up. Where the hell had they found this cop? With looks like this, no matter what Carol Jordan’s background, she’d have been drafted in for this assignment. She could imagine the guys thinking that if anyone was going to make Radecki drop his guard it was this particular British cop. And she supposed they had a point, though it was the kind of coincidence that would freak her out if they’d pulled a stunt like this on her. It would certainly make Radecki’s sidekicks suspicious, but the man himself probably wouldn’t be able to resist Katerina’s doppelgänger. She gazed down at the picture and a slow smile spread across her face. For the first time since Plesch had briefed her, she was looking forward to this.
Back at her hotel, with time to spare, Petra decided to check her e-mail. There was nothing particularly interesting or urgent, so she turned to her favourite news site on the web to see what had happened in Germany since she’d left. She browsed the index of the day’s stories till something buried far down the list caught her eye. LECTURER BRUTALLY MURDERED IN BREMEN, she read with a sinking feeling.
