by Val McDermid
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he continued. ‘That’s too ridiculous. Nobody kills people because they’re not fucking with people’s heads.’ He rubbed his tired eyes with his knuckles and leaned back in the chair. What did university staff do? They lectured. They supervised graduate students. They did research.
‘Research,’ he said softly, jerking upright. Hastily, he looked back through the articles and papers written by the three victims. This time, he saw it. ‘Experiments,’ Tony exclaimed with satisfaction. The one thing that academics did, that all three of these victims had done, that could remotely be defined as messing with people’s heads was to carry out experiments with live human subjects.
‘You believe you’ve suffered as a result of psychological experiments,’ he said, confident now. ‘Something happened to make your life different from other people’s lives, and you blame the psychologists. You see them as vivisectionists of the mind. That’s it, Geronimo, isn’t it?’ He knew at some instinctive level that he’d conjured up the visceral motivation behind this series of killings.
Now he was ready to begin thinking about drafting his profile. But the hour was late, and he knew it would be better left for morning. Reluctantly, he turned off his machine and unzipped his travel bag. He doubted he’d get much sleep, but at least he could go through the motions. And tomorrow not only would he have the chance to do what he did best, he’d see Carol again. The thought made him smile. For once, he was convinced the positive elements of their relationship were starting to outweigh the bitter memories of the past. He might be kidding himself about that, but at least he was willing to put the theory to the test.
22
The second act seemed to last forever. Carol couldn’t concentrate on the music; all her mind was capable of was rerunning their conversation and finding fault with what she’d said and how she’d said it. She wished she’d had the chance to role-play the scenario with Tony in advance. At least then she’d have felt more confident that she was pushing the right buttons. It wasn’t that she’d expected instant capitulation from Radecki. But she had hoped for something more than his obstinate refusal to acknowledge that he had any idea what she was talking about.
She was aware too of his eyes on her. His seat was set slightly further back than hers, and out of the corner of her peripheral vision, she could sense him studying her for long periods. She couldn’t catch his expression, which made her feel exposed and edgy. What was he thinking? What effect was she having on him?
Carol stifled a sigh of relief as the second act reached its climax with the wedding of the vixen and her mate. No echoes there, she thought thankfully. Before the house lights could come up, she saw Tadeusz rise from his chair and move to the back wall. She turned to catch him reaching inside the pocket of the overcoat hanging on a hook by the door. His hand came out holding a mobile phone. ‘I have some calls to make,’ he said loudly, so his voice would carry over the applause. ‘I will be back shortly.’
‘Yes,’ she breathed triumphantly as the door closed behind him. He had decided to check her out. Morgan had told her not to worry about the UK end of her cover story; they had, he assured her, been working on it for a while. Her alias was a name that had been fed on to the streets from two directions. Undercover cops had mentioned her as a player in a quiet but powerful way. And the people brought in for questioning after Colin Osborne’s shooting had all been questioned hard about Caroline Jackson. ‘We really leaned on them,’ Morgan had explained. ‘The interviewing officers were all briefed to act as if they couldn’t believe it when the suspects said they’d never heard of you. They planted the idea that you were connected to Colin, that you were in the same line of business, and that you and he had big plans for the future. So when Radecki starts to check you out – and he will check you out, make no mistake about that – you’ll show up as a name that people have heard of. The fact that nobody knows you face to face is something you can work to your advantage. It makes you look as if you’re a completely clean operator, like Radecki himself.’
Morgan had been right about that at least. She was sure Radecki was making those first calls right now. And she had a trump card to play later this evening that should tip the balance and get him as interested in her as a potential business partner as he was clearly intrigued by her as a woman.
Tadeusz was gone for the whole of the second interval, not returning until ten minutes into the third act. Carol deliberately didn’t turn round when he came back, pretending to be entirely absorbed in the music. As the opera drew to a close, Carol wondered if Radecki was seeing parallels between the action on stage and what was happening to him this evening. There was the dying vixen, killed more by accident than design. And there was the gamekeeper, confronted with one of the vixen’s cubs, which he recognizes as the spitting image of her mother. Was all this provoking resonances for him? She could only hope so. The more her resemblance to Katerina was hammered home, the better her chances of success.
As the audience burst into their final round of applause, he pulled his chair forward so it was in line with hers. He leaned close to her. She smelled the faint tang of cigar smoke and the complex notes of an expensive cologne. ‘It has been interesting to meet you. Even though I still don’t understand what you were talking about.’
Carol turned her head and met his eyes. ‘You take a lot of convincing. I like that in a colleague. People who trust too easily tend to talk too openly, which isn’t clever in our line of business. Look, why don’t you give me a call tomorrow? We can meet and discuss matters of mutual interest.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think we have a mutual interest. At least, not in terms of business. But I think I might like to meet you again.’
Carol shook her head. ‘This is a business trip for me. I don’t have time to waste on social engagements.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said, his face guarded now.
The applause began to die away and she reached down for her evening bag. ‘Look, Colin had problems with his end of your joint operation. He was good at promising but he couldn’t always deliver. That’s probably why he’s dead now. The people you sent to him, they expected him to supply them with documentation. That’s what they’d paid through the nose for, after all. But he didn’t have a proper source. That’s why he was always setting them up to get caught.’
Tadeusz’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Is this supposed to mean something to me?’
‘I don’t know. I have no idea if you were aware of what he did with the illegals after you passed them on, but he was skating on thin ice. Eventually the immigration service was bound to cotton on to his connection with all these little sweatshops that kept getting raided.’ Carol gave him a questioning look. ‘Especially since the raids were engineered by Colin himself, whatever he may have said to the contrary.’
She could see she had him now. He might still have a condescending smile on his face, a look of puzzlement in his eyes, but he didn’t want her to stop.
‘I’m different,’ she continued. ‘I never promise what I can’t deliver.’ She opened her evening bag as the opera house lights came up, and took out what she thought of as the ace up her sleeve. It was an Italian passport. When she’d asked Morgan whether it was a fake or the real thing, he’d simply smiled and said, ‘It’s not going to get you into trouble. Whatever checks Radecki makes, it’ll come up clean.’
She held it out to him. ‘An act of good faith. I can get hold of as many of these as I need, within reason. You bring me people who can pay the price, and I’ll make sure I keep my end of the bargain.’
His curiosity finally overcame his caution. He took the passport from her and flicked it open at the ID page. His own face stared back at him, a faint smile on his lips. The passport said he was Tadeo Radice, born in Trieste. He studied it attentively, moving it back and forward to let the light catch it. Then he turned back to the beginning and looked through it. Finally, he met Carol’s eyes, his gaze serious. ‘Where did you get
the photograph?’ he said.
‘That was the easy part. A news magazine did an interview with you last year, remember? Part of a series about Berlin businessmen who had seized the opportunity of reunification to build a new empire? I pulled it up out of their on-line archives and scaled down one of the pics. So, tomorrow? Why don’t you call me in the morning?’ She fished in her bag again and came out with a business card that simply gave her name and mobile phone number. ‘I really do think we should talk.’ She handed him the card, gave him the full hundred-watt smile and watched the play of emotions in his eyes again.
He held out the passport to her. ‘Very interesting.’
Carol shook her head. ‘It’s no use to me. Keep it. You never know when it might come in handy.’ She stood up and straightened her dress, smoothing it down over her hips in a consciously sexual gesture. ‘Call me,’ she said, heading for the door. She grasped the handle then turned. ‘Otherwise, you’ll never see me again.’
As she stepped back into the corridor, Carol became conscious of her body once more. The adrenaline that had kept her so firmly in control inside the opera box was starting to bleed away, leaving her weak-kneed and worn out. But she couldn’t afford to relax yet. If Radecki was anything like as good as he was supposed to be, he would have arranged for someone to pick her up when she left his box, and to stick with her. She and Petra had discussed how they would handle that. Petra would hang well back, but close enough to make sure Carol got into a cab and to check out who was on her tail. Petra would try to follow the followers, but would take no risks of discovery.
Exhausted though she was, she acted as nonchalant as she could manage and made her way down to the cloakroom to stand in line and collect her coat. Or rather, Caroline Jackson’s coat, a luxuriously soft lambskin that managed the trick of fashionable elegance coupled with the kind of warmth that early spring in Berlin demanded. Without looking around to see if she could spot the expected tail, she strolled out of the Staatsoper and stood by the kerb, looking for a passing taxi.
Me and half of Berlin, she thought wearily after five minutes, when her attempts to snag a ride had completely failed. Feeling a hand touch her arm, she whirled round, eyes wide, fight or flight reflexes on full alert. Radecki stood behind her. Whether it was deliberate or not, he maintained the perfect distance to avoid crowding her. Even in her heightened state of anxiety, Carol noted how unusual that was in a man. ‘I’m sorry, I startled you,’ he said.
She collected herself quickly. ‘You did,’ she said with a smile. ‘Just be grateful I didn’t have my pepper spray in my hand.’
He inclined his head with a rueful look. ‘I couldn’t help noticing when I came out that you were having trouble getting a cab. Perhaps I can help?’ He reached for his mobile phone. ‘My driver can have the car here inside five minutes. He can take you wherever you want to go.’
So much easier than following me, Carol thought with admiration. ‘That would be very kind,’ she said. ‘My feet are freezing.’
He glanced down at the high-heeled, thin-soled, fuck-me shoes she’d chosen for the occasion. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s easy to see you’re not a Berliner. Come back inside the foyer, it’s warmer there.’ He took her elbow and steered her towards the opera house, talking rapidly into his phone as they walked. Carol was aware of several curious looks from some of their fellow patrons as they passed. That was hardly surprising; if they were familiar with Tadeusz and Katerina, the sight of her by his side would be worth some serious gossip. She could imagine it now. ‘Hey, did you see Tadeusz Radecki at the opera with that woman? She could be Katerina’s sister. That’s weird. What kind of pervert goes out with a woman who looks that much like his dead girlfriend?’
They stood just inside the doors, slightly apart, saying nothing. She didn’t want to break the silence with the wrong words; sometimes it was better to let the fish come to you. A few people nodded a greeting to Tadeusz as they left the building, but no one stopped to speak.
He was true to his word. Only a few minutes passed before he nodded towards a black Mercedes that was drawing up at the kerb. ‘My car,’ he said. He walked her to the kerb and opened the rear door.
‘I really appreciate this,’ Carol said, climbing in. He leaned in past her and spoke to the driver.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said, withdrawing. ‘Just tell him where you want to go.’ He began to close the door.
‘Wait,’ Carol said. ‘You’re not coming?’
‘No.’
‘But how will you get home?’
‘I live close by. Besides, I prefer to walk.’ This time, his smile was apparently uncomplicated. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, closing the door with a soft thud.
Carol gave her address to the driver and leaned back against the firm leather upholstery. It was a clever move on his part, to place her in his debt without making any kind of move on her. She wanted to shout out loud to release some of the jubilation she felt. But not in front of his driver, who would doubtless report back on every nuance of her behaviour. Instead, she let her head fall back and closed her eyes. Phase one was complete. And it had gone even better than she could have hoped.
Maybe she could do this after all.
Maybe she really could walk inside someone else’s skin.
Brigadier Marijke van Hasselt walked into the detective squad room at Regio Leiden headquarters, carrying a carton of coffee and a bag of smoutebollen, the deep-fried choux pastry balls dredged with icing sugar that were her one concession to junk food. Carbs, caffeine and sugar; the only way to start the day.
Early as she was, Tom Brucke was ahead of her. He sat frowning over a pile of reports, his curly brown hair already rumpled from his constant fiddling with it. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps. His boyish face looked strained and tired, heavy lines tracking under his eyes. ‘Hey, Marijke,’ he said. ‘Fucked if I know where we’re going to find a perp for this case.’
She took an instant decision. Two heads were, as she had already proved, infinitely better than one. ‘Oddly enough, Tom, I had an idea about that last night.’ She pulled up a chair and sat at the end of his desk, tucking one leg under her.
Tom curled a tendril of hair round his index finger. ‘I’m staring at so many dead ends here, I’d seriously consider a clairvoyant,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you, but this case is doing my head in.’
‘I keep waking up at night thinking I’m drowning,’ Marijke admitted.
Tom snorted. ‘Drowning in a sea of fucking paper,’ he said, waving a hand at the piles of reports on his desk. ‘Talk about living for your work. De Groot seems to have been on every committee he could get nominated for. He also organized an annual weekend conference for psychologists working in the same area as him. “The psychodynamics of emotional abuse,” whatever that means. The upshot of which is that half the bloody world seems to have known him. It’s a nightmare. So what’s this brilliant idea of yours?’
‘I didn’t say it was brilliant, but at least it’s something fresh to try. We’re both agreed that this is a stranger killing, right?’
‘There’s nothing in his life to indicate anything different. On the other hand, there’s no sign of forced entry. Balance of probabilities? He didn’t know his killer.’
Marijke lifted the lid on her coffee and took a sip. ‘From everything I’ve read, people who kill like this – no apparent relationship to the victim, sexual elements in the murder – they don’t stop at one. Agreed?’
‘Oh yes, I think we all know deep down that he’s going to do it again. Particularly since we don’t seem to be able to do fuck all to stop him,’ Tom said pessimistically. ‘Are those smoutebollen you’ve got there?’ He pointed to her paper bag.
‘Help yourself.’ She pushed the bag towards him. ‘Save me from myself.’ Tom unwrapped the bag and pulled out one of the pastries. Icing sugar scattered on his pale blue shirt and he brushed at it impatiently with his free hand. ‘But what I was thinking was, what if this i
sn’t the beginning of his series?’
Tom stopped eating in mid-chew, then swallowed hard. ‘You mean you think he’s done this before?’
Marijke shrugged. ‘It didn’t look like an amateur job to me. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s been doing this, or something very like it, for a while.’
Brucke shook his head doubtfully. ‘We’d have heard about it. It’s not like pubic scalping is an everyday occurrence, Marijke.’
‘We might not have heard about it if it had happened in another jurisdiction. In France, say. Or Germany’
Tom scratched his head. ‘You’ve got a point. But there’s not a lot we can do about it.’
‘Yes there is. There’s Europol.’
Tom snorted. ‘Bunch of fucking desk jockeys.’
‘Maybe so, but they do send out those international bulletins.’
‘More fucking paper. Who reads that crap?’
Marijke reached for her paper bag and pulled out one of the napkins she’d placed inside at the smoutebollen stall. Then she extracted one of the pastries, careful not to spill the sugar on her clothes. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘And I bet I’m not the only one.’
‘So you want to pass the case on to the office boys in Den Haag?’ he said incredulously.
‘No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m suggesting we send a request to Europol with details of the case, asking them to circulate it to member states, asking if anyone else has had anything comparable on their patch. That way, we can at least find out if he’s done it before. And if he has, and if we can pool our information with the investigating team there, we might start to get somewhere.’
