by Val McDermid
It was all too much. By the time he’d gone to bed, his head was swimming. Then his body had proved as treacherous as his brain, depriving him of sleep and sending his temperature on a rollercoaster ride of fever and chill.
It had been dawn when he’d finally fallen into a deep and nourishing sleep. And when he’d woken, it was to find that a miracle had happened. The fog and confusion had lifted, leaving him as clear-headed as he had been on the day he first understood that he needed to provide a blood sacrifice.
He was smart. He would manage to come up with another ruse to trap his victims. He might even wait a while after the next one. Let the fuss die down, let them all forget that they could be on his list. It was going to be OK.
Now all he needed was for the river to subside.
Tadeusz had been right. Even in the small town just off the motorway junction, it was possible to gain access to cyberspace. It didn’t actually run to an internet café, but a local newsagent had been enterprising enough to turn over part of his shop to what was proudly labelled the Net Zone. It consisted of three tables, each with a PC, and a Coke machine. Naturally, all three machines were occupied. Two teenage boys and an elderly woman stared fixedly at the screens.
Krasic snorted in exasperation. ‘Shit,’ he muttered through clenched teeth.
‘Behave, Darko,’ Tadeusz said tightly. He stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘I have a hundred marks for the first person to show they have the hospitality to give up their terminal to the stranger in town.’
The woman glanced up and giggled. The two youths looked at each other, confused. Then one jumped to his feet. ‘For a hundred marks, it’s all yours.’
Tadeusz took a couple of notes from his wallet and waved Krasic to the seat. ‘Let’s do it.’ He leaned over the Serb’s shoulder, gazing intently at the screen.
Krasic typed in the url for the free mail site. As he input what Hansi had told him to, the shopkeeper appeared in front of them. ‘You need to pay for your time on the machine.’
‘Fine,’ Tadeusz said, waving another fifty-mark note at him. ‘Keep the change. Now leave us alone.’
‘Nothing like drawing attention to yourself,’ Krasic muttered as he waited for the system to let him in.
‘Like they know who we are. Come on, Darko, get this stuff on the screen.’
Krasic opened the mailbox and clicked on the promised message from Hansi. There were half a dozen file attachments and he went straight to the first one. It contained the basic details of Tony’s life, from his university degree to his present post. ‘Reader in psychology?’ Krasic said. ‘They give you a job just for being able to read?’
‘It’s a rank. Like professor, only not so senior,’ Tadeusz said impatiently. ‘Never mind that. What’s all this stuff about consultant to the Home Office on offender profiling? This guy’s a profiler?’
‘Looks like he used to be, anyway.’
‘Which means he works with cops,’ Tadeusz said heavily. ‘Carry on, Darko.’
Hansi had done a good job. Tony’s address, phone number and bank details followed the CV. ‘He’s not exactly rolling in it, is he?’ Krasic said. It didn’t say much for Caroline Jackson’s taste, he thought. The guy wasn’t even good looking. Any woman who passed up his boss for this sad fucker wasn’t someone whose judgement he’d be inclined to trust, that was for sure.
He opened the next attachment. It was a newspaper article about the trial of a serial killer called Jacko Vance. It focused on the role in his capture played by psychological profiler Tony Hill, the founder of the National Offender Profiling Task Force. ‘Works with cops,’ Tadeusz repeated, his eyes dark with anger. ‘What’s next?’
It was another newspaper article, this time about a serial killer who had claimed four victims in the northern English city of Bradfield. The writer described how psychologist Tony Hill had worked with the police to develop a profile that had led them to the murderer, but that it had almost cost him his life. ‘What the fuck is Caroline Jackson doing with him?’ Tadeusz demanded. ‘You said she checked out, that people knew she was one of us.’
Krasic shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s the reason he isn’t working with the cops any more. If your girlfriend’s a criminal, you can’t keep running with the hounds, can you?’ He didn’t really believe what he was saying, but he knew he had a better chance of convincing Tadeusz that Jackson was trouble if he didn’t appear to be completely negative about her.
His words tailed off into silence as he opened the next file. It was a news photograph. Tony was in the foreground, three-quarters profile. He looked as if he was saying something to the woman behind him. Even though her face was slightly out of focus, there was no mistaking Caroline Jackson. Krasic kept his hand on the mouse motionless. He wanted to scroll down to the caption, but he had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was going to be very bad indeed.
He clicked on the
‘She’s a fucking cop,’ Krasic said with quiet venom. ‘She’s a fucking snake in the grass.’
Tadeusz had turned white. He had to grip the edge of the table to stop his hands shaking. This was the woman he had wanted to sleep with the night before. This was the woman he had taken inside his business. This was the woman he had allowed to heal his heart. And she was a traitor. ‘We’re going back to Berlin,’ he said, turning on his heel and storming out of the shop, oblivious to the fact that everyone else was staring at him open-mouthed.
Krasic cast a glance over his shoulder. There was still one attachment to open. He read the text, his heart sinking even further. ‘Fuck,’ he said under his breath, then quickly exited from the e-mail program and turned off the computer. He jumped up and hurried after his boss, ignoring the shopkeeper’s angry shout of, ‘Hey, you’re not supposed to switch them off like that.’
He found Tadeusz leaning against the locked car, the rain streaming down his face like tears. ‘I’m going to kill the bitch,’ he said as Krasic approached. ‘I’m going to fucking kill the treacherous lying bitch.’ He pushed himself upright. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Hang on, Tadzio. Look, we’ve come this far. Another hour will see us in Köln, we can pick up the drugs and head back then. It’s not like she’s going anywhere. She doesn’t know we’ve rumbled her. And neither does that bastard she’s shagging.’
‘I want to go back now.’
‘We need to think about this. Because there’s more.’
‘What do you mean, there’s more?’
‘Hill went to an apartment this morning. I got Hansi the hacker to check that out too. It belongs to a woman called Petra Becker. She’s a cop. She works for the criminal intelligence unit. The bastards who have been trying to get something on us for years.’
Tadeusz smacked the flat of his hand against the side of the car. ‘Let’s go back. We pick him up, then we kill the bitch.’
‘He’s not in Berlin any more. Rado called me from Tempelhof, Hill was catching a flight to Bonn and Rado was trying to get on it.’ Krasic pulled out his phone and dialled Rado’s number. ‘Where are you?’ He listened intently, then said, ‘Fine. Call me with an update every fifteen minutes.’
He turned back to Tadeusz. ‘He’s been driving around boatyards in Köln. Now he’s heading down towards Koblenz. We’re a lot nearer him than her. And she’s going to be waiting for you to come back. If you want to pick him up, we can do it. And we can send Rado on to Köln to pick up the heroin.’
Tadeusz slumped against the car again. ‘I suppose.’
Krasic unlocked the car and opened the passenger door. All the fight had gone out of Tadeusz. He collapsed into the seat. Krasic settled in behind the wheel and put the car in gear. They hit the autobahn at 120kph and the needle kept rising. Tadeusz stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. After about twenty minutes, he finally spoke. ‘You know what thi
s means, don’t you, Darko?’ There was an agonized note in his voice that Krasic had last heard after Katerina’s funeral.
‘It means we could be fucked,’ Krasic said.
Tadeusz ignored his response. ‘If she’s a cop, it’s no coincidence that she is Katerina’s double. They’ve been planning this for a long time, Darko. They didn’t just happen to have a convenient lookalike to step into Katerina’s shoes. They thought this whole thing up because they had a cop who could have been her sister.’ His even tone cracked into a sound like a sob. They killed her, Darko. They wiped out the woman I loved so they could set me up. Now I know who to blame for Katerina’s death. Not some stupid fucking careless biker, Darko. Carol Jordan, that’s who.’
35
Petra leaned back in the comfortless chair and propped her feet up on the narrow prison hospital bed. Marlene was looking as rough as anxiety and prison could make a woman who hadn’t started out with that many advantages. There were bags under her eyes, signalling lack of sleep and maybe even a few tears. All the better for my purposes, Petra thought. In spite of her ambivalence about the timing of the operation, she couldn’t be anything less than whole-hearted in her commitment. She tossed a packet of cigarettes and a lighter to Marlene, who looked at them suspiciously, then shrugged and lit up. ‘What am I doing in here?’ she demanded. ‘There’s nothing the matter with me.’
‘You’ve got acute appendicitis,’ Petra said. ‘Well, we think you have. If we’re right, you’ll have to be transferred to a civilian hospital for treatment.’
Marlene took a long drag on the cigarette, looking blissed out as the nicotine hit her bloodstream. ‘What’s your game?’ she said, affecting boredom.
‘I know where Tanja is.’
Marlene crossed her legs and gave Petra an appraising look. ‘And your point would be?’
‘Children should be with their mothers.’
‘Yeah, but you bastards don’t let us have them with us in here, do you?’ Marlene blew a thin stream of smoke in Petra’s direction.
‘Marlene, I’ve had a hard day. I really can’t be bothered going all round the houses with you. Here’s the deal. I know Krasic is using Tanja as a bargaining chip. You keep your mouth shut and nothing bad happens to your daughter. Personally, I’d consider being tied up like a dog in a farmyard on the bad side, but I’m not you.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about, tied up like a dog?’
Petra cut straight across the interruption. ‘What I’m offering you is this. We liberate Tanja from her keepers, we get you out of here, and we put the pair of you into the witness protection programme. New city, new identity, new life. In exchange, you testify against Krasic and Radecki.’
Marlene stared at her, open-mouthed. She even forgot to smoke momentarily. ‘Why should I believe you?’ she said at last.
Petra fished a sheet of paper from her pocket and handed it to Marlene. ‘I took it myself this morning with a digital camera.’
Marlene unfolded it to reveal a colour print of a small child straining on the end of a rope. The photograph had been doctored to remove any identifying features. She let out a small gasp, her hand flying to her mouth.
‘Sorry it’s a bit blurred, I was using a long lens.’
‘Is she OK?’
Petra shrugged. ‘As far as I can tell. But, hey, if I had a kid, I wouldn’t be too thrilled at the thought of Darko Krasic’s cousin the pig farmer taking care of her. So, Marlene. What do you think? Might we have a deal?’
‘You don’t know who you’re up against here,’ Marlene said apprehensively. ‘Krasic is an animal.’
‘Marlene, I’ll let you into a little secret here. You are not the only lever we have into Krasic and Radecki. In a few days’ time, what you have to offer may well be strictly academic. Those guys are going away, and they’re going to be gone for a very long time. But I would very much like to tie Kamal’s murder round their neck along with everything else. Yes, you’ll be sticking your neck out, but it’s going to feel like a flea bite to those two compared with what we have lined up for them. I promise you, we’ll keep you and Tanja safe. You have my personal guarantee of that.’
‘A cop’s guarantee?’ Marlene snorted. Her fingers plucked at the blanket and she stared at the wall for what felt like forever to Petra, though it was probably less than a minute. She forced herself to keep quiet, to let Marlene calculate the odds for herself. Eventually, Marlene gave an impatient shrug. ‘Fuck it, what have I got to lose?’ she muttered bitterly. ‘OK, we’ve got a deal.’
Petra gave a silent cheer. Now she could go back to the Special Ops Neanderthals cluttering up her squad room and let them release their testosterone in action. ‘You made the right choice. For you and for Tanja. You’ll be moved from here directly to a safe house, though everybody will be told you’re going to hospital. And as soon as we’ve got Tanja, she’ll be brought to you.’
She swung her feet on to the floor. ‘Hang in there, Marlene. Between us, we’re going to take these bastards down.’
Marlene snorted. ‘Listen to little miss gung-ho. You’ve no idea what you’re up against here, have you? I just hope you do the business as well as you talk it.’
So do I, Petra thought as she walked out. For all our sakes, so do I.
By the time Tony had navigated his way to the Marina Widenfeld a watery sun was burning off the last of the clouds. The marina was packed with boats, ranging from Rhineships lying low in the water to small pleasure craft with their cockpits covered in tarpaulins. A few people were on deck, swabbing down after the rain or doing the small maintenance jobs that were easily overlooked during the normal working of the river. There were a couple of bars and cafés set back from the wharves, and a large chandlers that announced diesel at competitive prices.
Tony found a space at the far end of the car park and sat for a few moments, lost in thought. ‘You’re out there,’ he said under his breath. ‘I know it. We’re going to meet today, Geronimo. And you’re going to have no idea who I am. I’ll be one more nosy tourist, filling an hour before dinner, admiring your boat. Because I’ve got a hunch it’ll be worth admiring. You kill so neatly, you won’t live sloppily.’
He got out of the car and started a slow meander around the commercial area of the marina. The working barges were remarkable, he thought. Each was different, each spoke of the character of its owner and crew. There were immaculately kept boats, with troughs of herbs and plants anywhere that wasn’t in the way of work. There were scruffy coal barges with wheelhouses seamed with rust and blistered with old paint. Some had neat lace curtains at the windows, while others were adorned with elaborate flounces and ruching. Bright, fresh paintwork sat alongside varnished wood. Several had bikes chained to the safety rails, while others had cars squatting incongruously on the stern roofs. There was endless variety, right down to the pennants and flags that hung limp in the damp air.
Tony sauntered along, camera round his neck, occasionally pretending to take photographs of some of the finer specimens. He had passed a score of barges and Rhineships without success when he rounded a corner of the marina and almost walked into a black Golf. Right next to it was a magnificent wooden ship, its woodwork glistening with yacht varnish. Across the stern, in flowing cursive, he read Wilhelmina Rosen, Hamburg.
His heart leapt and he stepped back to take in the full majesty of the boat. He walked her entire length, then turned back to take a photograph. Finally he strolled back to the stern, giving the boat admiring looks all the way. As he drew parallel to the wheel-house, a young man with dark hair tied back in a ponytail stepped out on to the deck. Even under a shapeless sweater, he was obviously broad-shouldered, his long legs clad in tight jeans, heavy work boots on his feet. He was clearly physically strong enough to be this killer, Tony thought. He pulled a baseball cap on as he emerged, obscuring his eyes.
‘You’ve got a beautiful boat,’ Tony called up to him.
The young man nodded. ‘Ja,’ he said laconically
. He made his way round to the gangplank, a few feet away from where Tony was standing.
‘You don’t often see older boats in such good condition,’ Tony continued as the man came ashore.
‘It takes hard work.’ He continued towards the car.
‘I couldn’t help noticing that rather unusual pennant you’ve got there,’ Tony tried, desperate to engage his putative killer in conversation.
The man frowned. ‘What? My English is not good.’
Tony pointed to the triangular pennant hanging from a short flagstaff at the stern. It was black with a white fringe. Embroidered in the centre of it was a delicate weeping willow. ‘The flag,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen one like that before.’
The young man nodded, a smile of comprehension fleeting across his nondescript features. ‘It is for death,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Tony felt his flesh crawl. ‘My grandfather was skipper before me. But he is dead since two years.’ He pointed to the pennant. ‘We have flag to remember.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Tony said. ‘So you’re the skipper now?’
The young man opened the car and took a road atlas out of the door pocket, then headed back for the boat. ‘Ja. She is mine.’
‘It must be hard for you, not being able to work because of the river.’
The young man stopped on the gangplank and turned back to face Tony. He shrugged. ‘The river gives and the river takes. You get used to it. Thank you for liking my boat.’ He sketched a wave and went back on board.
So much for your people skills, Tony thought wryly. He didn’t expect his killer to be over-endowed with the social graces, but he’d hoped to draw him out a little more. There was nothing to confirm or refute their suspicion of the skipper of the Wilhelmina Rosen. Unless you counted that slightly morbid mourning pennant, which Tony was inclined very much to do. It was interesting that Mann had claimed his grandfather had died two years before. The sinister flag didn’t look nearly bedraggled enough to have been hanging there for weeks, never mind months. If Mann had changed the pennant regularly, it might be a way of keeping his grandfather’s death fresh in his mind. But there might be a more sinister explanation. Perhaps the pennant wasn’t for the old man. Perhaps it was for Marie-Thérèse Calvet. He had a feeling in his bones that he had just exchanged pleasantries with a serial murderer. Certainly Mann exhibited some of the characteristics he would have expected to find in a personality-disordered killer – the reluctance to engage, the refusal to meet his eyes, the social awkwardness. But these could simply be the marks of a shy man. Bottom line? They had barely a shred of evidence to support his gut instinct.
