by JJ Marsh
“Please tell us, Frau Pereira, I cannot stand the suspense,” Kälin drawled.
Conceição gestured to Xavier. “Go ahead. You found it.”
“Well, actually, Chris was the one who made the connection. I just did the digging.”
Kälin sighed. “This politeness is charming, but not particularly time-efficient. Will someone explain what has been found?”
Xavier responded quickly, despite his high colour. “Belanov had several expensive hobbies. One of which was playing polo. He wasn’t very good, from what I heard, so sponsored teams in order to be able to play. For the 2008 season, he sponsored the team of Antonella D’Arcy.”
No one spoke.
Beatrice cleared her throat. “All the same elements again. A suspicious death of a morally suspect businessman, the apparent welcome from the victim, the same DNA, and now D’Arcy again. She is the strongest link here and I want to talk to her again.” She met Kälin’s eyes. He remained expressionless.
“Not forgetting Sabine’s identification of each method of killing as ‘just’. How else would you kill a gun-runner?” Conceição shook her head, apparently amused by the cause of death.
Chris nodded. “And the super clean glasses, with his saliva on one, support Sabine’s and Xavier’s theory. He drugs them, kills them, cleans up and the DNA is a red herring.”
“A what?” Sabine’s frown was as severe as Kälin’s.
“Eine Finte. A false trail,” Chris replied.
The team stayed silent, absorbing the implications, when Kälin spoke.
“So, as Herr Racine enquired some time ago, our fundamental assumption – that we are hunting a man – could be completely wrong. Where does that leave your psychological profile, Ms Tikkenen? Or can we simply change the pronouns?”
Beatrice opened her mouth to dilute the acidity in Kälin’s voice, but stopped short.
“Good Lord.”
Chris watched her intently. “What is it, Beatrice?”
“Xavier could be right. It could be a woman. Think about it.” She looked from face to face. “Belanov left with a woman, according to Xavier’s source. And the uniform, in Utrecht. A staff member’s uniform went missing, a female receptionist. Didn’t you say that Edwards was seen with an unidentified female, in a restaurant or something? And Thompson, halfway down a dangerous ski run, was carrying condoms. Hence the access. Men would open the door much more easily to an attractive woman. And the chemical element. She can’t do the physical stuff, so has to drug them first. It makes perfect sense to me.”
“That has something.” Kälin focused out of the window. “And if it’s a woman, leaving male DNA behind in saliva is quite a clever strategy.”
Xavier shook his head. “But it wasn’t just saliva. She left a hair in Burgundy.”
“So where does she get it from?” asked Conceição.
Sabine perked up. “I mentioned that many serial killers live with someone older, or who depends on them. If our killer has an elderly or disabled male relative at home, there would be an inexhaustible supply.”
Beatrice shook some unpleasant images from her mind. “So, we may have been barking down the wrong hole. We need to retrace our steps. Chris, the case files. Go through them all and see if we missed anything because our focus was too narrow. Sabine, as regards the medical connection ...”
She groaned. “I need to do it all again. I only looked for men.”
Xavier spoke. “I’ll help you. I am very quick with database searches. Unless Beatrice has another job for me?”
“I do, Xavier, I’m afraid. I need you to check D’Arcy’s alibis again and also to do a flight search from Zürich to Utrecht and Brno on and around the dates in question. See if there are any names that were in both places at the right times. Both genders.
“Conceição, find out if there is some kind of care-at-home support agency here. Possibly there is a register of carers who have live-in dependants. Cross check with Sabine constantly, to see if we can use her profile to narrow the net. I am going to inform Lyon about our progress and then Herr Kälin and I are going to visit Antonella D’Arcy. And this time, on our terms.”
Kälin raised his eyebrows and to Beatrice’s disbelief, gave her a genuine smile. She was appalled at herself. Good God, she hadn’t blushed like that in twenty years.
Chapter 21
Zürich 2012
Beatrice was underdressed and it was all Kälin’s fault.
The plan was to arrive unannounced at the D’Arcy Roth offices once again, so Kälin made a reconnaissance call to ensure the woman herself would be present. On discovering she had taken a long weekend to prepare herself for the first polo match of the season, he suggested the embarrassment factor would be heightened by their turning up to interview her in front of clients, colleagues and competitors at Polo Park Zürich. Beatrice could see the logic, but felt some trepidation. She had never attended a polo match before. Kälin advised her to dress ‘as if for an English wedding. Or Ascot’. She was horrified. English weddings and Ascot meant one thing.
Hats.
She called Matthew.
“Don’t have to take it literally. And anyway, hats are awfully last generation. What you need now is a fascinator.” Matthew spoke with conviction.
“Sounds like something you dangle in front of a child.”
“It wouldn’t last long. No, this is more feathers and frippery, normally stuck on one side of your head. Tanya wore one for Luke’s christening, if you remember. Trouble is, in all the photos it looks like someone’s doing bunny ears behind her.” He laughed at the recollection.
“Well, I have no time to buy a fascinator, or even bunny ears for that matter. I have to leave early tomorrow morning; it’s halfway to Germany, so I need to cobble something together tonight.”
“Co-ordinate, then. A dress of one colour, with matching bag, earrings and lipstick.”
“How did it come to pass that I need fashion advice from a Classics lecturer?”
“A Classics lecturer with two fashion-forward daughters. Which reminds me, Marianne wants you to bring her back a cuckoo clock.”
“She can whistle. Do you have any idea how much they cost? I’m thinking about that grey two-piece, with my good handbag and some black pearl earrings.”
“So you’ll be wearing grey, grey and greyish. That’s one way to stand out in a crowd.”
“I don’t want to stand out, Matthew. I want to be serious, intimidating and cast a threatening shadow over her day.”
“Perhaps you should go as Darth Vader.”
“Perhaps you should be less facetious. The sooner I find out how she’s involved in all this, the sooner I can come home. And I want to come home. I miss you. I even miss bloody Hamilton.”
“Not in the same way, I hope. I miss you, actually. Odd how a spring weekend can look so drear when there’s no one to appreciate my fish stew.”
“Let’s see how this week goes, and if all looks good, I may fly over next weekend.”
“May the force be with you. And I want to see the gris et gris ensemble for myself. Get Happy Bear to take a picture.”
Polo Park Zürich lay just outside Winterthur. Verdant forests of pine created the backdrop for the crisp green field ringed by white. Like a cricket pitch, Beatrice thought, wondering if she and Matthew would be able to attend some village matches this summer. It seemed rather important that they should. Kälin spoke to an official, who waved them through. The lad was awfully young. Of course, it was traditional to exclaim at the youth of police officers and dentists as one aged, but this boy really could be no older than twelve. Her imagination danced away as she envisaged the youth of Mile End left in charge of traffic.
As she and Kälin approached the field, the deceptive familiarity of faded green and shabby white disappeared. The brilliant white of the pavilion was almost painful and the grass looked as if it had been combed. Close to the field stood a series of tables, covered with stiff, white tablecloths. Some high for t
hose who wished to stand, and some lower with chairs which did not look at all comfy. Umbrellas created pools of shade, in which the glamorous gathered; chattering, laughing and tinkling. Everyone wore pastel; duck-egg blue, beige, powder pink, taupe, pale yellow, cream, lilac and ecru. It could have been the set of Steel Magnolias, but for the men.
“What now? Shall we wander about, flashing ID and asking where she is?”
Kälin shook his head. “We’ll find someone with a badge, and ask him. Or her. And let’s get a drink. It’s warm. For now, we just wait.”
Beatrice’s eyes followed him as he threaded his way through the sea of Easter egg colours inside the pavilion. Spectacular flower arrangements stood between the tables, and the place settings themselves were a work of art. Pity they weren’t invited to dinner. Children darted around the legs of tables and adults; elsewhere several small dogs sized one another up. The sparkle from champagne, sunglasses and jewellery did not distract Beatrice from noting how many heads turned her way. Matthew, infuriatingly, was right. The grey suit made her look like a thundercloud over a spring meadow. She pulled a face to match. Kälin handed her a glass.
“She’s playing in the first match, for the Royal Blues. We won’t have the possibility of talking to her for a while. However, we will have a chance to watch her play. Should we sit?”
Beatrice led the way to a table near the picket fence, marvelling at the snowy starched cloths, the effortless small talk and delicate colour coordination of the crowd. The scent of wealth and perfume of power was overpowering. She sipped at her drink.
“Herr Kälin, this is champagne.”
“Correct, Frau Stubbs. Let us toast your skills of observation.”
“We are on duty, you know. I prefer to keep a clear head when trying to needle someone. For an interview, I mean. I hardly think alcohol is appropriate.”
“The police line is, ‘Ein Glas ist OK’, so I plan to stick to that. And it is a quality brand, don’t you think?”
Beatrice took another sip. It was rather good.
“And it is polite in Swiss society, as in most civilised countries in the world, to toast one another before drinking. Cheers, Frau Stubbs.”
“Cheers, Herr Kälin. Thank you for the tip. Here’s one for you. In Britain, we tend not to advise other people on how to behave.”
“True. You give no advice and then despise foreigners for not knowing the rules. It is a mystery to me why the British have no word for Schadenfreude.”
Beatrice stared at him, unsettled by the turn the conversation had taken. He looked like his old adversarial self, but the amusement in his voice and the light in his eyes reminded her of the photo she had seen. The one in which he looked like fun. She surveyed the polo field and sipped her champagne.
The tannoy, after a lengthy welcoming speech in three languages, announced the first chukka. Ten horses came onto the field and the excitement became tangible. Beatrice, having one of her more observant days, registered the players wearing royal blue were all on the same team. One of whom was Antonella D’Arcy. Impossible to tell which player at this distance. The other team wore white, and the two black-clad individuals were evidently referees.
Tension built, the horses snorting and skipping with excitement, the audience arranging themselves into optimum viewing positions, and the players faking confident laughter. When the action began, Beatrice was entranced. Hooves drummed into the hard earth, players charged one another like jousting knights and all the while, mallets swung with horrifying force. The speed, the confusion, the danger from these large sweaty beasts, violent mallets and whizzing ball absorbed her completely, although she had no clue what was happening.
The crowd gasped and sighed and applauded, at what Beatrice knew not. But even she recognised when a goal was scored. D’Arcy’s team celebrated, and without warning, after barely ten minutes, it was over. She turned to Kälin.
“Talk about fast and furious. Is that it?”
“For the first chukka, yes. The Royal Blues lead. They have a short break, change horses and play another. There will be four in total.”
“How do you know so much about polo?”
“Like a good police officer, I do my research.”
Beatrice chose not to respond. She too had done her research, into the dress code. And look where that had got her. During the changeover, she took the opportunity to observe the crowd. Standing at one of the higher tables behind them was a slight figure Beatrice recognised.
“Isn’t that D’Arcy’s secretary, the shy girl? The table at one o’clock. She’s wearing peach.”
Kälin let his gaze roam over the crowd, past the girl in question, and on to the pavilion. His attention returned to Beatrice. “Daughter and secretary. It looks like the same person, yes.”
“Does the poor creature have to attend all D’Arcy’s sporting events and cheer her on?”
Kälin watched the field, but Beatrice found the girl more interesting. She sat alone, hunched over her handbag as if she were trying to remain unseen. An older woman with a sour face to match her lemon ensemble approached the table and offered pleasantries. Beatrice could see the girl’s awkward discomfort at answering questions and evident relief when the yellow lady left. As she continued to watch, two men greeted the girl in passing and she dropped her head.
“Typical of such a bully. Drags that poor child here, leaves her alone and embarrassed while she prances about on her pony, then insists on hearing fawning praise all the way back to Zürich.”
“Frau Stubbs. You are making assumptions.”
“Perhaps. But look at her, she can’t even meet people’s eyes, she so shy.”
Kälin glanced up at the girl. “Low status body language, I’ve seen it before. Either that or she may have noticed you staring.”
The Royal Blues won the match, and crowd reaction showed it was either well deserved or a popular result. The applause swelled again as the players emerged in small groups from their paddock. Beatrice watched Kälin’s sharp eyes follow the pastel tide flowing around the blue shirts. He chose his moment with deliberation, nodded to Beatrice and stood.
D’Arcy laughed with her acolytes and shook her head modestly, every bit the gracious winner. As Kälin moved into her sightline, her face stiffened. She took in Beatrice, excused herself with great charm and moved towards them. Her smile was restrained, lacking any kind of warmth. Clocking the heads turning to watch D’Arcy’s progress, Beatrice was suddenly glad she had worn grey. She could be mistaken for nothing other than a police officer. Exactly what she’d hoped. She must remember to tell Matthew.
“Good morning, Frau Stubbs, Herr Kälin. Did you enjoy the match?”
“I’m sorry to say we are not here for the entertainment, Ms D’Arcy,” Beatrice replied. “We need to ask you some more questions. We tried to reach you at your office.”
“And this must be done now?” Her eyebrows lifted.
“It has to be now, but not necessarily here. We can return to the police station in Zürich if you prefer?” Kälin offered.
D’Arcy’s jaw was taut and she turned her blue eyes to Beatrice.
“Follow me. If you insist on disrupting my day, I insist on some degree of privacy.”
She turned back the way she had come and into the players’ enclosure, with a brisk word to the attendant. Weaving a path through the horse-boxes, she led them into a large tent. Clothes rails lined the walls and a sizeable table surrounded by camping chairs took up the middle. D’Arcy perched on the edge of one of the chairs.
“I’d appreciate it if we could make this as quick as possible.”
Beatrice seated herself and took her notebook from her bag.
“What can you tell us about Symon Belanov?”
The beautiful face didn’t flicker. She appeared to think for a moment.
“Belanov. Very poor player. Almost dangerous, I would say. But he paid his way onto teams, one of which was ours. 2008. Not a good year for us. That was the end of our associ
ation. I recall hearing he’d been involved with some sort of arms dealing and fell foul of a rival gang. If you lie with dogs, you get fleas.”
“A maxim that could be D’Arcy Roth’s motto. What else did you know about Belanov?”
“You know very little about me or my company if that is your impression, Ms Stubbs. As for Symon Belanov? Independently wealthy, but always looking for the next opportunity. He dealt in small weapons, although the shop window was cars. A social climber, rather ill-mannered. Reasonably attractive and made the most of it, so naturally popular with women.”
“Not you, by the sounds of it,” Beatrice commented.
“No. Not with me. I’m hardly his type but he still made a pass. Probably more of a reflex than anything else. But he took offence at my refusal and made life extremely uncomfortable that season. I was relieved to see the back of him.”
Kälin pointed his pen at D’Arcy. “Why aren’t you his type?”
“The man had rather clichéd preferences. His ideal woman would have large breasts and ginger hair, usually accompanied by a loud laugh and the manners of a peasant.”
Beatrice noted real spite in D’Arcy’s tone and wondered at the truth behind the rejection story.
“After that season, did you have any further contact?”
“Not much. We met once more in Argentina, for a tournament, but his team were knocked out in the first round. He deserved it.”
“Don’t you find it puzzling, Ms D’Arcy, that the only connection between these high-profile men is you, or your company?”
“No. As I explained before, I make contact with a lot of people, the vast majority of whom are still alive.”
Kälin spoke. “The dead men. Do you know of anyone else who knew them all? Any mutual friends?”
She leaned her head back and looked at the roof of the tent, silent for several moments. Beatrice had to admire how the polo kit suited her. The dark blue matched her eyes, the white jodhpurs clung to her fit, shapely legs, and her hair, escaping in damp curls from her ponytail, gave her a touch of vulnerability.
