by JJ Marsh
He sipped some beer. “Sure. Perfect solution. If you can find someone in your line of work who makes you laugh, who’s intelligent, who’s beautiful, who makes you ...”
The shrill blast of the telephone made Chris clench his fist as Conceição reached across for the handset.
“Hello?” Her forehead wrinkled in concern. “Sabine, are you OK? What’s wrong?”
Chris faked an intensely concerned expression. Intensely concerned wasn’t too far from pretty pissed-off so it was no effort.
“Of course you can. Chris is here, but he’s just leaving. Come over. You shouldn’t be alone if you’re feeling upset. No, Sabine, it’s fine. We were just having a beer! Sabine, listen ...”
She shook her head at Chris and shrugged an apology.
He picked up his laptop case. “Don’t worry. I’ll go. See you tomorrow.”
She nodded, distracted, but waggled her fingers to say good bye. He blew a silent kiss as he left the room. She smiled.
OK. That would have to do.
As he started the car, he glanced back at the window. He could see her silhouette. He waved but she was shaking her head.
Chapter 16
Zürich 2012
The worst thing about getting up at 06.30 and leaving the apartment at 07.00 was missing the Today Programme with John Humphrys. That one-hour time difference could really upset a person’s routine. Beatrice ate her porridge sprinkled with raspberries and scowled at the BBC website. She could listen to the recorded version later, of course, but cold news was as appetising as cold porridge. She snorted and closed down the machine. Her temper had not improved since her shower. Another restless night, caused by the prospect of a fractious day ahead.
Interpol’s blunt, unflattering assessment of their progress two days ago had put the whole team out of sorts. Yesterday, Sabine sulked. Xavier worked at double speed and consequently achieved about half his usual output. And Kälin disappeared completely. Not in his office, not answering his mobile, just gone. Chris and Conceição escaped the atmosphere, driving to Burgundy to visit the scene of Edwards’ death. Two weeks, and already the General Secretariat were stamping their feet. Journalists popped up everywhere they went, demanding results on behalf of the public. On top of everything, the Swiss government suddenly chose to question the validity of having a specialised Federal Task Force to deal with international crime. Beatrice had every expectation of being home by the end of May. It seemed the whole exercise had been a waste of time and resources.
She packed her computer, brushed her teeth and set off for the office in a foul mood.
The walk to Zeughausstrasse cheered her somewhat. Joggers along the river greeted her with a friendly Grüezi, she stopped to pat a St Bernard, and the daffodils and irises on the verges raised their heads to the sun. As she trudged up the stairs of the police building, Beatrice realised she was not gasping for breath for a change. Usually, she had to take a moment to regain her wind before entering the investigation room. A pleasant notion crossed her mind. Could she be getting fitter? Her smile dissolved as she heard angry voices behind the door. She grabbed the handle with a sinking feeling.
The guilty silence restored Beatrice’s foul mood. Xavier, Conceição, Sabine and Chris stood in a confrontational circle. She dumped her bag on the nearest desk and resisted the temptation to fold her arms.
Sabine gestured to Chris and Conceição. “It seems that these two have other priorities than investigating this case. They spend the day in France and come back with nothing apart from a big smile. Now he thinks there’s nothing to investigate! Am I wasting my time here?”
Chris gave an exasperated sigh. “Beatrice, I didn’t say there was nothing to investigate. What I said was …”
“That my theory …”
“That your theory is not the only one! If you will stop shrieking for one minute, we can clear this up.”
Sabine’s face flushed raspberry-red. “I am not shrieking. I am trying to make myself heard. Why am I the only one who can see what’s going on here? Xavier has spent days researching similar kinds of crime. I have explored hospital and pharmacy records for links. And you two, you two proceed with your theory that this is a professional hit man that we’ll never catch. Ask yourself why this hit man leaves his DNA behind, if he’s so professional. But you’re clearly far too busy with each other to think this through.”
Beatrice intervened. “Sabine, that is enough. Can you all please take a seat, and we can discuss this civilly. Now, I am aware that the news we received from Lyon and London was not good. But as professionals, that should not distract us from the job we are trying to do. I think it might be a good time to reassess our progress, or lack of, and consider altering our approach.”
Xavier seemed uncomfortable, looking towards the door. “Beatrice, if we are thinking of changing our strategy, should we wait for Herr Kälin?”
“No Xavier, I don’t see that as necessary. Herr Kälin, as he often reminds us, is a consultant to the team, not a part of it. I decide how we operate. Chris. You wanted to make a point.”
“Yes, I did. The trip to France was pretty fruitless. It was two years ago, and most people have forgotten about it. The police records we already have, the locals recall seeing Edwards fishing, and that’s about it. I’m not sure these visits to the scene of the crime are getting us anywhere. Especially as this character operates so efficiently. We discussed the possibility of this being a professional job, but that’s the one theory we haven’t followed up. We are all chasing this ‘profile’ Sabine created, but to tell the truth, I’m not sure that it’s leading anywhere.”
Beatrice held up her hand to forestall Sabine’s outrage.
“Thank you for being honest. How would you like us to progress?”
“Do you mind if I jump in, Chris?” Conceição waited for his nod. “Beatrice, Chris and I have talked about this a lot.” She ignored the snort from Sabine. “We think we should provide the General Secretariat with a report that states we believe different people or organisations employed a professional to get rid of these men. And then Interpol or Europol can make use of their databases to check suspected hired killers. It really does seem that we are chasing down cold leads and wasting a lot of time.”
Beatrice bristled at the criticism, but nodded her understanding. Her mind raced through the conflict mediation training she had received and she played for time.
“I see. Well, that’s one perspective. I think Sabine sees things differently.”
The blonde head gave a sharp nod. “I see things very differently. This profile is not some fantasy I made up. It is based on serious research and tested methodology. Of course, we can write a report based on vague assumptions and go home. But I for one do not consider that to be a professional job. We have identified a series of markers which can help us locate this person. But as Beatrice said at the start, it involves a lot of boring, dull paperwork. However, it seems that only part of the team take responsibility for that. Others are enjoying themselves on their European Tour.”
“Sabine.” Beatrice had to act. “I take your point, but I must ask you not to make this personal. If you feel duties have been unfairly allocated, we can look at the situation. But what people choose to do in their private time is no concern of ours. Xavier, I’d like to hear from you.”
Xavier hesitated and darted a glance at Chris. “In my opinion, to write a report saying we think it was probably a professional and leave it there would not be satisfactory. The traces of DNA, and nothing else, at each scene makes me think it could be deliberate, to confuse us. It is possible to fabricate DNA, and make us hunt someone who is not existing. Beatrice, this is the first international project I’m working on. I learn a lot. But I would be interested to stretch myself further. For me, visiting a scene of crime could be an education.”
“Am I allowed an opinion?” Kälin spoke from the doorway, making everyone jump.
“Herr Kälin. Good morning. Please, come in. We’d be m
ost interested to hear what you have to say. I’m not sure how much you heard while hiding outside. Would you like us to recap?” Beatrice wrestled with her temper.
“Two things before I begin. The morning briefing happens at 08.00. It is now 07.53. If you expect your team to participate fully, I suggest you stick to the agreed time. I think I may have said that before. Secondly, this team is intended to be a covert, discreet operation. Having an internal argument with the door wide open is, in this regard, counter-productive. I heard quite enough while ascending the stairs to form an accurate picture of what you are doing. I agree with Frau Stubbs, personal feelings should be kept out of this, which prevents me from agreeing with Frau Pereira da Silva. I think we should exhaust all the leads we have before giving up and going home. It might be a good idea to change duties, and I suggest Frau Tikkenen accompanies Herr Keese to St Moritz.”
Beatrice inhaled. “Thank you everyone. I appreciate your candid responses. And as Herr Kälin mentioned, it will shortly be time for morning briefing. I suggest you get yourselves a coffee etcetera before we begin. And he is absolutely right. Leaving the door open was a foolish mistake. Entirely mine. I apologise, everyone. Finally, I have decided to rearrange duties in order to maximise efficiency and learning capacity. Sabine and Xavier, you will take the next scene of crime investigation. Right, five minutes, everyone.”
She didn’t even look at Kälin. Why bother? She could mimic that expression of utter loathing by now.
Twenty minutes later, the depressing lack of progress was evident. Sabine had turned up no one in her search for pharmacological employees, despite an impressive search system in three countries. Chris and Conceição learned nothing of obvious value from Burgundy. The local villagers mentioned that Edwards had rarely eaten in local restaurants during that visit, only seen once in a pizzeria with his wife, and once in a café with an unidentified blonde. Beatrice confirmed that Interpol were prepared to give them another two weeks to produce some concrete results, or their status would undergo review. The atmosphere was despondent.
Xavier cleared his throat. “I may have something. It’s not definite, but looks possible. Sabine suggested this person commits one of these offences per year. February 2007. March 2008. September 2010. April 2011. I did a search for unusual deaths across Europe in 2009, with a filter for high-profile businessmen. Several incidents showed up. One of them in particular could be worth investigating. It was not reported as a suicide, as the Czech police suspected a gang execution. The man was an arms dealer from the Ukraine, and killed near Brno, in the Czech Republic. Shot in the mouth. The site was completely clean, apart from some DNA, on a vodka glass. I cannot say if the sample is good, but I have asked to see the results of their tests.”
A fizz of excitement surged through Beatrice. “In that case, it seems like your first scene-of-crime visit is on the agenda, Xavier. But first I want you to thoroughly brief Chris, who’ll do the legwork while you’re away. Chris, make sure you check for any connection with D’Arcy Roth. Sabine, I hope you’ll forgive me. If we need to verify DNA, it will have to be Conceição who accompanies Xavier.”
The girl received the news with such equanimity Beatrice wondered if the objections to task allocation were simply a ruse to get closer to the Dutchman. Judging by Conceição’s expression, it seemed Chris had provoked some rivalry. Sometimes, it was such a relief to be beyond all that. Xavier’s expression glowed like a chestnut-vendor’s brazier, triggering a concern in Beatrice.
“Ja?”
Kälin’s office was dark, his expression lit solely by the computer screen. His moustache, eyebrows and frown cast shadows, making him look impossibly grim. Despite her unease, the urge to laugh bubbled up inside Beatrice’s throat.
“Apologies for the disturbance, Herr Kälin, but I have a question which I’d rather ask discreetly.”
“You can sit, Frau Stubbs.”
“Thank you. My question concerns Herr Racine. I’ve chosen him for the Brno investigation because although he’s young and lacks expertise, I believe in giving him the benefit of the doubt. He’s shown real aptitude in his work so far and I feel he deserves a chance.”
Kälin leant back and folded his arms. “You said you had a question. This sounds like a justification of your decision.”
Beatrice refused to rise to the bait. “I can’t help noticing that Xavier is a little clumsy, in terms of physical coordination. Obviously he’ll need to be armed for this trip. Going on my existing knowledge, I’d take the risk and send him to Moravia, particularly as he was the one who discovered the Brno incident. But as one of his superior officers, you know him better. Would it be safer to send a more experienced officer now that firearms are concerned?”
Kälin smoothed two fingers over his moustache in a thoughtful gesture while watching the fingers of his other hand drum a pattern on the table.
Beatrice had just begun to suspect him of playing status games when he answered.
“Your question is intelligent. Racine has not yet learned to control his mouth, his enthusiasm or his gestures. There is only one area in which we can trust his abilities.”
Kälin stood and pressed the button to lift the blinds. Light flooded the room, prompting an odd feeling of exposure in Beatrice. She quite liked talking to Kälin in the dark. Now his ice-blue eyes settled on her like a glacial lake.
“I’m not sure how deeply you researched this country before coming here, Frau Stubbs, but I suppose you know that all Swiss men do military service, including weaponry training. Those who excel are encouraged to rise in the ranks, to constantly improve their skills. When Herr Racine took his first firearms assessment with the Stapo, or Stadtspolizei, he scored higher than any previous trainee. Xavier Racine ranks as the top ... what would you say ... sharpshooter?”
Beatrice pondered. “I’m not sure. It’s not terminology I’m familiar with. Crack shot? Sniper? Ace gunman?”
“Hmm. So I can tell you that he is one of the top ten sharpshooters of the Swiss Army and top five in the police force. Unbeaten in many cantons. I hope he will soon learn to apply such precision and care to the rest of his behaviour.”
“Thank you, Herr Kälin. I’m very grateful to you. Not only do I feel my decision was valid, but you’ve put my mind at rest. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
Kälin watched her leave. “It’s always better to ask when you aren’t sure. Have a nice evening, Frau Stubbs.”
The computer clock showed 18.15. Time to go. Tonight, the opera. Beatrice’s spirits lifted as she closed down her machine. A casual chat with Xavier last week resulted in his telling her about his sister, the Box Office Manager at the Opera House, the number of unclaimed tickets left for most performances and the fact that Die Zauberflöte, or The Magic Flute, was scheduled that week. She planned to change, walk down to the lake and have a snack, before making her way over the river to the Opernhaus. She had practised her speech in German and all she needed to do was wait till the five minute call. Apparently, unclaimed tickets were then released. A free performance. And there was no better way of taking her mind off work, or herself, than a large dose of Mozart.
“Beatrice?”
“Hello, Chris. Shouldn’t you have left by now?”
“Just about to. Sabine and I were just finishing off. I wondered if I could persuade you to come for a drink with me.”
“Me? Well, I’d like to, Chris, but …”
”You’re washing your hair?”
“No, no. I’d planned to … never mind. Mozart can wait.”
“You sure? I don’t want to mess up your arrangements.”
“I know. But with Conceição out of town, someone must keep an eye on you.”
He looked shocked.
“I’m joking, Chris. I’ve heard there’s a rather good place called Oscar Wilde’s. Shall we try that?”
“Sounds perfect.”
She smiled. There’s never any need to chase gossip. If you’re not interested, gossip comes to you.
“Ein Gespritzer und ein Grosses.” The waitress placed the drinks on small paper coasters and a bowl of nuts between them. “Möchten Sie etwas essen?”
Chris looked at Beatrice. “You hungry?”
“Not just now.”
“Nein danke. Es ist gut.”
Beatrice lifted her drink. “What do you suppose this is?”
“A spritzer. That’s what you asked for.”
“With lemon? A slice of lemon in wine?” She fished it out with a cocktail stick.
Chris laughed. “I’ll tell her to skip it when we order the next one. So, cheers!
He raised his pint glass and Beatrice remembered to meet Chris’s eyes over the toast, before looking around the room. Deep purple banquettes, a long wooden bar, Art Nouveau murals on the wall and pale floor tiles matched more her idea of a gentleman’s club than an Irish pub. There was even a glassed-in cigar area, with two serious besuited chaps sampling something from the humidor. Everything was muted, subtle and discreet, even the small stage area. Changing colours lit a single microphone. Beatrice liked it enormously. She helped herself to nuts.
“Without sounding patronising, I have to admire your facility with languages. I can just about order a coffee in French. How did you get to be so fluent in English?” she asked.
“Lived there. I trained at the NHTCTC in Wyboston.”
“In Bedfordshire? National something Centre ... what’s the rest?”
“High Tech Crime Training Centre. I learned a lot, mostly British slang and the strengths of real ale. Oh, and some computer forensics.”
“And where did you pick up your German?”
“It’s not so different to Dutch. I almost feel at home, apart from the culture. It must be harder for you, I think.”
“The language or the culture?”
“The situation.”
Chris lifted his glass and drank without taking his eyes from Beatrice’s.
She acknowledged the kindness in his comment. “It’s been quite a week, hasn’t it?”
