by JJ Marsh
His instinct advised him to go no further. In trying to save her, the ultimate stupidity would be in frightening her and making her fall. She continued and he joined in.
“O clemente, o pia, o dolce Vergine Maria.”
She stopped, but did not turn. “Get back! Get away from me.”
“I won’t move. I’m here, on these steps. Do you want to check?”
She stiffened, but flung a rapid look backwards, before facing forward once more. “Please go from here. I need solitude.”
Younger than he thought. Wild eyes, thin trembling body.
“Of course. I will be happy to give you what you want. But I see you are a Catholic, signora, like me, and I have the most terrible feeling that you want to commit a cardinal sin. My faith allows me no choice but to try to prevent you from throwing yourself into Eternal Hell.”
“I am NOT a Catholic! I no longer believe. And my choice is already made. You cannot stop me. Please, I beg you, just go.”
“Va bene. Fine, I’ll go. A non-Catholic who does the rosary. Before I go, will you just tell me your name?”
Her back did not move, apart from the occasional shiver. “Why?”
“So when you’ve gone, I can find out all about you and shake my head, and say ‘Oh Luisa/Ana/Grazia, it didn’t have to end that way. It will happen, I guarantee it.”
“My name is Mara. But it does have to end this way. This is my will. And no one can change this. I deserve eternal damnation.”
“Funny, my ex-wife says the same thing about me. But I’m not standing over a 200-metre drop; I’m planning to hike to Brione. What’s the difference?”
“You haven’t killed someone.”
His mind whirled through possibilities. She wasn’t a teenager; she couldn’t be talking about abortion. A rival in love? A faithless husband? And now she planned to end it all off the dam. Just keep her talking.
“Not exactly, no.” His tone was casual. “But many people see me indirectly guilty of many deaths. Yet I still plan to eat lunch in a grotto today.”
“Indirectly or directly, one must take the consequences.” She stared out at the vast space. Sepp’s instincts provoked him to speak, to keep her with him. But she began again.
“I am, or I should say I was, a nurse. Geriatrics. I care for ageing women, and some men, every day. But my own mother ... my own mother died in a pile of her own waste, because I was too occupied with my own life. I cannot forgive and do not deserve absolution, no matter what penitence. Now you know and if you have any mercy, you will leave me.” Her voice gave no sense of emotion, as if already dead.
He’d reached the top step by now and crouched on the platform. “I’ve listened to your story, heard your confession. I offer you a deal. You listen to mine and I will leave this place. I will give you your privacy if you allow me my honesty.”
She was silent. Her body swayed as the light and heat grew. He added one point more. He was a lawyer, after all.
“And your last act will have been one of compassion, a Samaritan, giving time to a stranger.”
She turned, her eyes streaming. “I will listen.” She moved slowly towards him, black leather gloves tucking her rosary into the folds of her widow’s weeds. She was attractive, if a little haggard. The news conference would look even better. So fragile, next to her muscular, modest rescuer. She came closer, eyeing him with tearful concern. Her pupils were dilated with fear. He opened his palms, his arms and his face to show his trust. The Hollywood moment; she’s back from the brink. She smiled and rushed into his embrace, forcing a cloth over his mouth and knocking him to the ground. He lay back, winded and disorientated, before attempting to throw her off. Her hand remained clamped over his nose and mouth, her knees on his upper arms. He writhed with enormous force, intending to buck her off. His body responded with an ineffectual twitch. His mind threw a punch, but still she sat, a Gothic demon crouching over him. His body was not responding. As if it was separated from his head.
Chapter 29
Zürich 2012
Sometimes, sometimes. Words, a phrase, or an expression just stuck. In the small hours, Beatrice would wake in the knowledge that if only she could go back to sleep, tomorrow would be perfectly fine. Yet a phrase kept popping into her head. Round and round. Sometimes it was music – Leonard Cohen made frequent appearances – but it could just as easily be a sentence in German, or a half-remembered exchange from the day.
“Man may escape from rope or gun ...”
“Das weiss ich auch nicht!”
“Maybe we could pre-act as opposed to post?’”
If this were a dramatisation of her life, one of these phrases would be relevant and her recognition of its hidden meaning would solve her problems. But it wasn’t, they weren’t and it wouldn’t. They were merely thought-mosquitoes, buzzing around her brain, sapping her energy. She looked at the clock; twenty past four. So, what was left of the night was mapped out. Restless shifting position for an hour, maybe two, before falling into a profound sleep sometime before six. Then hauling herself to the surface mere minutes later at the shrill insistence of the alarm.
Silence, blackness and a comfortable sense of peace. Perfect kipping conditions. Arriving back from Ticino past one, Beatrice had hit the pillow like a stone. Banshees would have wasted their breath. Yet now, in the pre-dawn anticipation of the day, she had a refrain from a song in her head. And a myriad of concerns.
“Man may escape from rope and gun
Nay some have outlived the doctor’s pill
Who takes a woman must be undone
That basilisk is sure to kill.”
What did she need? Her mind roamed over her world. Matthew in Exeter. Her job in London and the respect of her colleagues in Zürich. Control over the dogs, everywhere. A resolution to this case. Peace. And as a consequence, sleep.
Fat chance.
“Man may escape ...”
Oh do shut up.
“Morning B. Are you all right? You look awful.”
“Thank you for the welcome, Chris. I am full of life, and tact. Yourself?”
“Not bad. We’ve had some thoughts while you were on your Helvetian tour. I think you might like what we’ve got to say.”
Beatrice’s tired eyes widened. “You found something?”
Chris lifted his shoulders and wagged his head in irritating ambiguity. Quelling an impulse to grab his tie and pull, Beatrice turned to get a coffee. Xavier burst through the door, as bright-eyed and gleeful as a squirrel remembering where he’d put his nuts.
“Xavier. Good morning. How are you?”
“Thank you, fine. Are you well, Beatrice? You are looking, what is the expression?”
Chris opened his mouth to reply, but Beatrice cut him off. “Perfectly well, thank you. A few more hours rest would have been helpful, but we have a case to solve and the pressure has just increased fivefold.”
“Yes, exactly. Conceição and Sabine are finishing some slides. They come directly.”
“No hurry, Xavier. It’s ten to eight. And Kälin never bothers to show his ... Good morning, Herr Kälin. You are unusually early.”
Kälin carried a cup of peppermint tea, the scent accompanying his freshly showered smell. He looked clean as a cucumber. “Good morning Frau Stubbs, Herr Keese, Herr Racine. Are you feeling well, Frau Stubbs? I am afraid yesterday’s scene was too much for you.”
Bloody cheek! Who was it that stood on that platform and looked down into the void? Who held still as the mortuary staff pulled back that blanket? And who had no difficulty polishing off a sausage and mustard roll afterwards?
“I am stronger than I look, Herr Kälin. Hello, Sabine, Conceição. I hear you have some thoughts.”
At least harmony seemed to reign in the love triangle. Sabine greeted everyone with a smile, as her colleague set up the laptop. Beatrice, disconcerted by the change in dynamic, watched and waited as Conceição took charge.
“Good morning everyone. As you know, Giuseppe Esposito’s
death seems to have been orchestrated by the same person. We find ourselves with a problem. Lyon is screaming for results, our approach so far has produced none. Beatrice, we talked about this while you and Herr Kälin were away yesterday and we think there might be another way to tackle this. I hope you don’t mind but we have done some work on a proactive approach.”
Beatrice said nothing, but lifted up her head in enquiry. The team’s choice to follow a different tactic had better not be at the expense of the detailed duties she’d allotted before leaving. Her smile was tight.
Chris took over. “Beatrice, Herr Kälin, we think the procedure we have followed so far has merit, of course. But we all agreed that it is not producing results. If we know enough about the killer’s MO, then we could overtake her or him and jump one step ahead. We researched the press during the six to twelve months before the deaths of the victims so far. Each one had the most negative press of the year, with the exception of Belanov. We think we can look at this from the opposite angle. Rather than chasing this person, we believe we can predict with reasonable accuracy where he or she might strike next. Sabine?”
The presentation was slick and well prepared. Beatrice’s jaw clenched. All this had taken some time. Her team had indeed ignored her orders and followed their own course. What the hell did they think they were playing at? She flicked her eyes toward Kälin, whose eyebrows had knitted.
“Thanks, Chris.” Sabine flashed him a smile as she stood up to speak. “Beatrice, Herr Kälin, listen. We don’t want to take over, just simply to propose another way of looking at this. Presuming D’Arcy is involved in the orchestration of these killings, we can look at how she picked her targets. In each year, the dead man had the most negative newspaper inches in the business press. She, or ‘the killer’, selected the most unpopular man of the year. Only Belanov was different, and we know from your investigations that he was personal for D’Arcy. Going on these assumptions, we have identified three men who could be the potential victims for 2013, or even 2014.”
She clicked the remote and three faces emerged on the screen.
“Based on a search of bad press on business figures linked to D’Arcy, we have reduced our net to these three men. If we act now, we can place someone close to each man, and lay a trap. For example, the first ...”
Beatrice had heard enough. “Sabine? I’m sorry to interrupt. You have all clearly done an impressive amount of work on this. However, as you rightly point out, all of this is based on an assumption. Or, if my guess is correct, a presumption. Am I right in thinking that you collectively chose to abandon the tasks I allocated in favour of developing an alternative approach to the case?”
The enthusiastic warmth in the team’s faces disappeared as if doused with cold water. Xavier, unusually pale, stood up. “Our intention was not to try to change the investigation, Beatrice. We simply wanted to provide a parallel track. So we can attack on two sides, you see.”
Tired, irritable and frustrated, Beatrice was in no mood to conciliate. “I am very happy to hear that. So my assumption is that you achieved all I asked; Sabine has rechecked all medical records, Xavier has a detailed breakdown of D’Arcy’s activities and flight records on the relevant dates, Conceição is fully conversant with the Swiss home-care system and Chris has identified any gender markers previously missed in the police reports. Is that correct?”
Chris shook his head. “No, it isn’t. We devoted a lot of time to preparing this angle. I think you could at least listen to our ideas. This could save us all a lot of bullshit.”
Beatrice placed her coffee on the desk, stood up and switched off the screen, before turning to face the team.
“A reminder, if you will. This is a team, a group of people working together for a common goal. I have been given the role of team leader and thus it is my judgement which guides our strategy. I have no objection to being presented with alternative ideas or techniques, unless my team drop my instructions to follow such an alternative without permission. And much as your glamorous idea of lying in wait for the next attack and catching our killer in the act may appeal, it is the stuff of television dramas, not reality. Bullshit, as you term it, the daily slog of checking under every stone, is the foundation of solid police work. And performed with diligence, will eventually yield results. I would like the information I asked for on my desk by the end of the day. Chris, you can present this concept to me at one pm, presuming you have completed all the tasks detailed. Have a good day, everyone.”
She picked up her coffee and headed for her office. The team dispersed in silence, resentment and negativity charging the air like a thunderstorm. It was foolhardy to expect support from Kälin, but Beatrice wondered if he found the team’s actions as offensive as she did. After all, this had all come to pass while she and Kälin were away from the office.
She wrote a quick email.
Subject: Daily briefing
Herr Kälin
When I hear these proposals from Herr Keese, would you like to be present?
Frau Stubbs
He replied instantly.
Subject: re Daily briefing
Frau Stubbs
No. I could have heard them this morning.
Herr Kälin
Beatrice decided she would go out for lunch for a change. Nordsee did excellent fish and chips.
“Shut the door, Chris. Do you want to set up your laptop?”
“In a minute. First, I want to apologise. You’re right, we did get carried away with our idea and made an error of judgement in neglecting our duties. But I want to stress that we can do both. I think a combination of the two strategies is most likely to yield results. And I’m sorry I was blunt this morning. Tact, as you know, is not one of my strong points.”
Beatrice smiled. “Apology accepted. I know I came down hard on you all, but to be presented with such a vote of no confidence after yesterday felt like a slap in the teeth. I am prepared to listen to your ideas and to give them the credit they deserve, as long as we maintain our daily duties conscientiously.”
“Fair enough. Shall I set up now and take you through what we think? Or should we wait for Kälin?”
“He won’t be joining us. Can I ask if you have uncovered anything from the file reviews at all?”
“Nothing concrete, although certain elements do support our theory. Sabine may have got something. She skipped lunch to travel to Luzern. I’m not sure what she found, but she was pretty excited. OK, I’m ready. What about you?”
“Fire away.” Beatrice sat back with her bottle of water and trained her attention on the screen.
“The theory behind this you know. We can make a pretty intelligent estimate as to how D’Arcy, or whoever, selects the victims. And as Sabine explained, there seem to be three candidates for the next hit.”
“Yet if Esposito was the latest in line, won’t we be waiting another year for our next one? I’m not raining on your fireworks, Chris, but how can you be sure that between now and then some corrupt government official, or avaricious trader will not come to prominence and unseat your trio?”
“We can’t. But the killer leaves a cooling-off period, we believe. It was over a year in Belanov’s case. It may be that the victim is marked up to twelve months before he’s taken out. If another possible target arises, we just have to add him to the list. If they have any connection with D’Arcy Roth, if they attract negative media attention, or if they piss off Antonella herself, these are the guys we need to watch.”
“It’s a smart strategy. My concern is mostly to do with timescale. How do you propose that we ...”
A knock at the door caused both of them to frown. Xavier’s head popped round, his face animated.
“Sorry for the interruption, Beatrice. I thought I should tell you, I am going to join Sabine in Luzern. She has found something, I think. May I?”
Beatrice nodded and gestured to a chair, but Xavier was too fidgety to sit. He closed the door and shifted from foot to foot. “Kantonsspital Luzern
has a record of an anaesthetist who was ... how do you call it, when you stop someone from working in medicine?”
“Struck off. This person was struck off?”
“Exactly. Helene Richter was struck off after a case in 1993. Found guilty of assisted suicide. She administered a fatal dose of pain-killing drugs to a patient with terminal leukaemia. His name was Jean-Baptiste D’Arcy. Antonella’s stepfather.”
The pace of the afternoon’s activity kept Beatrice entirely occupied and filled with adrenalin. At 16.00, the team gathered for an update. In Luzern, Xavier and Sabine found a current address for Helene Richter and asked for permission to question her and search the apartment. Kälin spoke to D’Arcy’s secretary and discovered that she would be returning from Buenos Aires early Saturday morning. Beatrice requested the search warrant and authorisation for D’Arcy’s arrest. Conceição would accompany Kälin to the offices of D’Arcy Roth the following morning to test every male staff member’s DNA, while Beatrice and Sabine did the same at D’Arcy’s home. With considerable satisfaction, Beatrice updated Lyon, spoke to a GEOF representative of the Argentine Federal Police and forced everyone to go home at five. Not only did she want them fresh for the following day, but she also had an appointment. One she was dreading.
Chapter 30
Zürich 2012
“Come on, Beatrice, you won’t regret it,” Madeleine promised, when coercing her into this.
Beatrice already regretted it deeply and she hadn’t even arrived yet.
Dragging her heels up Gessnerallee, her attention was drawn back to the Sihl, where a group of teenagers sat on a blanket, laughing and dangling their feet into the coolness of the river. The sun glinted off the water, the greenery of the bank provided a peaceful backdrop to the colourful party and an Appenzeller dog bounded in and out of the water after a stick. A Seurat come to life. A sudden swell of joy coursed through her, driven by optimism and vindication that her determined methodology had finally produced results. They had a suspect. This case could be closed by the weekend. She lifted her chin and picked up speed. After all, how painful could a haircut be?
