by JJ Marsh
He gave her a smile. “We were ripe for that, in terms of a team. We’d done forming, and now we’ve got to get through storming. It gets easier from here though. Norming and performing come next.”
“Hmm. You sound like someone I know. A concept for everything.”
“I work for Europol. It’s all very well in practice, but will it work in theory?”
Beatrice chuckled. “So what is the theory behind this case?”
“This is an administrative exercise, in my view. A non-case, but a signal of ‘close co-operation between member states’. I believe they’re getting us to go through the motions, turn up nothing at all, but ticking the box that says all irregularities must be eliminated.”
“You’re very cynical, Chris. I imagined you had more idealism.”
“I work for a European governmental organisation. Idealism smothered by bureaucracy. Are you telling me you think there’s really something to this?”
Beatrice checked herself. Her method was to exhaust all possibilities, follow every lead and never to act on that most ridiculous of fictional detective accessories, the hunch.
But she had a hunch.
“I actually think there is. And I have a strong feeling there is a connection through more than just money to that D’Arcy woman. Even if I’m wrong, I want to take this case, turn out its pockets, hold it by the ankles and shake it upside down. If there’s nothing here, I want to know that for certain.”
“No stone unturned?”
“Precisely. Now, if I may go off on a tandem, tell me what’s going on in terms of relations between Interpol and Europol.”
“Oh hell.” He took a long draught of his beer. “I don’t know exactly, but somehow, we get on. I like her, she’s very attractive and it seems she likes me. I’m trying to be discreet, but it looks like Sabine caught on and doesn’t like it. Does it bother you?”
“Not unless it is likely to bother the case. In my experience, these things can be a force for the good. The destructive element comes when it ends.”
The animation left the Dutchman’s face. “It hasn’t even started yet.”
“Sorry, if it ends. I’m not concerned, as I trust you both to be wholly professional.”
“Thanks, B.”
“I beg your pardon? What did you just call me?”
“B. What? You don’t like it? I’d better prepare a team email, then. We all refer to you as B.”
“What do you mean, you all call me B? Even Kälin?”
Chris grinned. “Not quite. He calls you Frau B.”
Several groups of people entered the bar. The place grew lively, with an air of anticipation. When the stage lights brightened, and those of the bar dimmed, Beatrice realised why. At eight o’clock precisely, applause pattered around the room and a door opened beside the stage. Receiving her welcome as a cat receives the sun, the performer lifted her face to the light. A work of art. One could only guess at her real appearance under the layers of exquisite camouflage. Her turquoise dress sparkled and a blue velvet wrap was draped across her throat before cascading down her shoulders. A torch singer! Chris ordered more drinks and Beatrice beamed at him.
“This is marvellous, I have to say. Our seat is in the perfect spot, we have fresh drinks, without lemon, and a chanteuse is about to perform. I am glad you dragged me away from Mozart.”
“You like these guys?” he asked, with amusement.
“What do you mean?”
“I would have thought you’d be more into Il Divo than drag queens.”
Beatrice frowned at him, before turning her attention to the stage. That was a man? Was Chris pulling her leg? A glance around the bar confirmed that the majority of the audience were male couples, so he might be right.
“How can you tell it’s a man?” she whispered.
“Scarf around the neck. Dead giveaway. They can’t hide the Adam’s apple, you see. So they cover it up.”
The singer opened with ‘My Funny Valentine’, and whatever the gender, that voice was rich, sweet and glorious, like a chocolate fondue.
Beatrice crossed Sihlbrücke in a distinctly positive mood. Chris had made her laugh with his indiscreet observations on the team, on their assignment and on the Oscar Wilde. She’d enjoyed herself and relaxed. Tomorrow, she would try the opera, and try to extract herself from the case in the evenings. All work and no play ... Beatrice smiled. It was almost eleven and time for two of her favourite chaps; Earl Grey and John Humphrys.
Chapter 17
Zürich 2012
Detective Karl Kälin left his office a little after seven. As his BMW pulled into the traffic, a black Ford Mondeo followed at a respectful distance. Kälin drove directly to Adliswil, always observing the speed limit, and parked outside the shopping centre. He took the lift to the supermarket, where he selected some broccoli, cauliflower and a packet of freshwater fish, which was on special offer. Afterwards, he visited the off-licence, buying a bottle of Swiss white and some sparkling water. All this was covertly recorded on a digital camera.
In Austrasse, Kälin reversed his car into one of the blue bays, placed the residents’ parking permit on the dashboard and hauled his laptop case from the back seat. The black Ford Mondeo drove past and pulled in further up the street. Its lights went out.
Kälin locked his car, took his mail from the post-box and crunched up the gravel path. His apartment block was the last of the four in this development and therefore furthest from the road. Lights shone from various rooms on the first and second floors, but in the bottom apartment, all remained in darkness. He entered the building and several minutes later, lights flickered into life on the ground floor. The driver of the Mondeo didn’t move.
A pair of teenagers sped down the street on rollerblades. Several cars went by, some descending to underground garages, some continuing towards Soodring. A cat shot across the road and under some bushes. It had something in its mouth.
Five minutes passed before the internal light glowed in the Mondeo. The driver’s door opened and a figure slipped out, following in Kälin’s footsteps, but making considerably less noise. At the entrance, the figure stopped, waited and bent to check the name plates beside the buzzers. The black-clad shape then padded around the corner of the building, turning back sharply when voices drifted down from one of the balconies above.
A set of concrete steps led to some terraced gardens, with shrubs, ornamental trees and a communal barbecue area. The figure checked for observers before finding a vantage point behind some shrubbery which allowed a view into the uncurtained rooms of the ground floor. Using the camera’s zoom function, the figure located the detective. The apartment was open-plan, with a wide work surface separating the kitchen area from the lounge. Kälin was cooking, although most of his attention was diverted to the TV screen and Tagesschau, the daily evening news programme. The figure took several more shots, returned to the vehicle, and with a last glance at the apartment block, drove away with a smile. This job was going to be easy.
Chapter 18
Rome 2011
Seven missed calls. Oh, Giuliana, please. This has to stop. He slid onto the back seat of the car, and took out his handkerchief to mop his lip. The air-con and silence, usually so soothing, could not compete with the heat and noise in his head. What a total waste of a day.
“Via Veneto.”
The driver nodded and pulled away.
He dialled the number, but did not press the call button. Give me an hour, and I’ll deal with it. With a few swift thumb movements, he turned his phone to silent. The driver swung across two lanes, into Via Napoleone III, leaning on the horn. The Vittorio Emanuele monument blazed white across the piazza, a wedding cake crawling with brightly coloured parasites. One more thing he hated about Roma. Tourists. Another reason, apart from the obvious, why he could never live here. The Infernal City. Not that Milano didn’t have plenty of badly dressed gawpers, it most certainly did. But like Venezia or Firenze, the sheer numbers here spoiled its appearance, l
ike blighted fruit.
At least he’d changed hotels. Why his assistant had booked that horrible place at the top of the Scalinata, the most crowded tourist spot in the whole city, was beyond him. The last thing he needed was to be forced into finding a new room, using his own credit card and organising his own taxi. He intended to have harsh words with her when he got back. Then to make matters worse, his room in the second hotel was too close to the ventilators, so he’d insisted on being relocated. One’s hotel room played a major role on trips like these, whilst trying to persuade lazy, useless bureaucrats to recognise the exception and grant the exemption.
God, he hated politics. Worst thing this country had ever done, joining the EU. And now look at the situation. Italy in the same leaking boat as Greece, Ireland and Portugal? Too late now to reverse the damage done by that buffoon while Prime Minister. Impossible. The country’s situation made his position untenable. Sweat returned to his forehead. Downgrading Ristorex to a safety level C would cause a firestorm in the media, wrecking their reputation and crippling their sales forecasts. It was impossible to contemplate. Impossible. He replayed his passionate arguments. The government had a responsibility to recognise the company’s reports, and acknowledge that the anti-depressant could not be proved to be teratogenic. Of course it could not be disproved either, but in their study of over one hundred women who had taken Ristorex while pregnant, not one delivered an imperfect child. It was irresponsible and controlling to deny this medication to depressed women. Without it, these unbalanced females might drink, smoke, take drugs and self harm. How dangerous would that be for a foetus? He snorted, expelling the dusty air of bureaucracy from his Milanese nose.
Eyes closed against the hordes on Repubblica, he visualised the next two hours. The hotel. Cool room, silence, shower and change. A beer, perhaps, while researching FC Roma in preparation for tonight’s dinner. A knowledgeable comment on the team’s performance would earn him far more status than any research statistics. The hotel. A safe haven. But Giuliana knew where he was. He envisaged his arrival.
Signor Boldoni? We have some messages for you. Thirty-two urgent faxes – all from your wife.
His eyes opened and his idyll soured. An hour. Just one hour of peace. Not the hotel. Not now.
“Eccoci arrivati ...”
Cesare waited for the driver to open his door, exited and gave him instructions.
“Grazie. Venga a prendermi alle otto in punto, per favore.”
“Certamente, a più tardi.”
Eight o’clock. He had three hours. One hundred and eighty minutes of freedom. He could steal an hour, not doing, not thinking, not dealing. Just being. He turned from the hotel’s portico and strode down the street, ignoring the endless tourist bars, glancing up alleys for something small, cheap, Roman. Café Don Pomeranus had two tables outside and an awning striped in red, white and green. One table was free. At the other, two old men looped through an argument about coffee houses. Sant Eustachio versus Frontoni dal 1921. They both supported their views with passion and dismissed each other with aggression.
He ordered a Peroni and sat still. He watched the paint flake from the building opposite. The waiter poured his drink. He thanked him and observed bubbles crawl up the glass. A dark blue Vespa sped by. The rider wore no helmet. And back again, this time with a passenger. Long dark hair rippled behind her, as she grasped the driver’s waist with one arm and punctuated her speech with the other. An ancient Fiat 125 filled with three large women and their shopping trundled past, barely missing his table. He watched. He breathed. It couldn’t last.
His hand reached for his phone and he scrolled through the missed calls. Nine, now. He listened to Giuliana’s increasing hysteria with a sense of mild numbness. It’s an emergency, Cesare, the baby is crying, I can’t stop him, something is wrong, Cesare, I’ve sent the nanny home, your mother is unavailable, I am taking him to hospital, Cesare, it was a fit of some sort, I am desperate, Cesare, this is unfair on me, I can’t go on like this, where are you for the love of God, have you any idea of how exhausted I am, Cesare, the doctors told me not to get so stressed, there’s nothing wrong, I want a second opinion, these people are a disgrace, Cesare, uncivilised, it wouldn’t happen in Roma, people care there, this city is so cold and its people are hateful, Cesare, you don’t care, I’m so alone, and our son, your son, Cesare, how can you be so cold, so remote, I wish I’d never moved north, Cesare, it’s destroying my sunny nature, my lust for life, I can’t bear it, Cesare, Cesare, Cesare.
He hung up and considered another beer. After all, he deserved it.
A voice interrupted his internal monologue. “Do you mind if I sit here?”
Tourist. No attempt at Italian. American, probably. Nasty bright clothes.
“Prego.” He gestured for her to sit opposite him. His expression was cool. She smiled gratefully, sat and took off her shoes. How ill-mannered. Two angry red blisters on each foot. Are these people not used to walking? The waiter’s sneer was visible as she massaged her foot and asked for a sparkling water and coffee in a poor accent.
Cesare pulled his sunglasses down from his forehead over his eyes to observe her while still appearing uninterested. His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it. Giuliana’s voice now bored him.
The tourist had the minimum of accessories; no camera, no sunglasses, a small handbag, a map and bad clothes. Her hair was frizzy and she had caught too much sun. How stupid were these people? He should keep his mouth shut. Yet the habits of finding a way into a person prevailed.
“First day in Rome?” he asked, in English.
A flicker of mistrust. “Yeah, first day. I guess that’s obvious, right?”
“You are American?”
“Canadian. Close.”
“Close but yet so far.”
She looked at him properly for the first time. “Right. It doesn’t usually matter to Europeans. We’re all the same to you guys.”
“Fair point. But isn’t it also true vice versa?”
“No, I don’t think so. For us, Europe has many strong identities. OK, we may get confused between Norway and Denmark, but I know a lot about Italy. And Spain. And France. I’m touring, trying to learn more, you know what I mean?”
“Bene. How did you find the Eternal City?”
“No fair. I landed this morning, but my luggage went to Germany. I started my tour in borrowed clothes and none of my cosmetics. Believe me, for a woman, that’s not good.”
“Bad luck. So your first day in Italy was not a success?”
“It’s not my first day in Italy. I spent a few days in Florence and Milan before coming here. That was so great.”
“You like the north?”
She sat back and tilted her head to look at him. “You’re a Roman, right?”
“Wrong. But that’s all I’m going to say.”
“OK, whatever. To be honest, I totally loved the north. Maybe I’m a little culture-shocked, I don’t know, but I find Rome kinda hard work.”
Cesare pushed his sunglasses up onto his head to allow her a view of his eyes. He gave her a smile. “I would say you have excellent taste.”
“Phew! Looks like my gamble paid off.” Her laugh softened her face and her blue eyes crinkled.
“Signora.” The waiter shoved a bottle and a glass on the table, tucking the bill under the bottle.
“Excuse me? The coffee?”
The man blanked her and returned to the interior.
“Shoot.” Her face burned with something more than an excess of sun.
He leaned towards her. “Can I help?”
“No, thanks. I wanted cold sparkling water and a coffee. But I got warm still water and a whole bunch of attitude. You know what, I think I’ll skip it and get back to the hotel.”
“Wait a moment.”
He swung out of his chair, grabbed her water and strode into the café.
“The woman outside. She ordered cold water, frizzante. And a coffee. Is that too complicated
an order? Or do you always treat tourists like this? No wonder Rome has the worst reputation in Italy. You are all arrogant, lazy and stupid as pigs.” He threw ten Euros on the counter along with the warm water and stormed out.
“Come. Let’s find a place with better service.”
She slipped on her shoes and joined him, limping slightly.
“This is ridiculous. You need to bathe your feet. Where is your hotel?”
She gave him a grateful smile. “Right up the street. Regina Baglioni. Listen, thanks for the knight in shining armour stuff. Good to know there are some nice guys out there.”
“I too stay at the Baglioni. I will walk with you and arrange a cold drink.”
“Can you please ensure room service deliver a bottle of cold San Pellegrino and a cappuccino to this lady’s room as soon as possible. Have her luggage taken up as soon as it arrives, please.” He slipped the clerk five Euros, disguising it as a firm slap on the reception desk, before guiding her to the elevator.
“Which floor?”
“Five, please.”
The doors closed and he pressed levels three and five.
She turned to him. “You are so kind, I’m totally overawed by this. Thank you so much.”
“I am simply trying to reinforce your prejudice. North good, south bad. Your baggages should be here soon, and maybe tomorrow, you can see the clean face of Rome. Wearing comfortable shoes.”
“Right. Oh, is this your floor already? Ok, well, thanks again. Hey, could I get you a drink at all, maybe later? Just to show my appreciation?”
“I have an engagement, unfortunately. But perhaps we could enjoy an aperitif before I go. I imagine you and your feet would prefer not to go too far this evening. How about the bar at seven?”
“Excellent. Or, even better, could I just swing by your room? That way I can keep my slippers on.”
“Of course. I’m in room 302. See you later.”
Not his place, really, but he would have to tell her. These women, alone, in strange cities, no grasp of the language. You cannot just invite yourself to a strange man’s hotel room. Naturally she was safe with him; he was a man of honour, Il Cavaliere in more than just a title. But any figlio di puttana could play the gentleman and she would trust him. Far too risky. The phone rang. Maybe she just had the same thought.
