by JJ Marsh
“Hey Beatrice! Am I happy to see you! I thought you were gonna bail on me.”
Dressed in a suit even Beatrice recognised as Chanel, Madeleine’s glamour was such that a beautician seemed redundant. Her make-up seemed air-brushed, her jewellery co-ordinated exactly with the pinks in the suit and the silk scarf at her throat reminded Beatrice of Lauren Hutton.
“Hello, Madeleine. I did think about it. I already wish I hadn’t agreed to this.”
“Too late to back out now. This is Susana, who’s doing our treatments today.”
“Treatments? I thought I was just getting a trim.”
Susana, a generously proportioned woman with a permanent smile, exchanged a look with Madeleine, before extending her hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Beatrice. Today, I’m going to cut and colour your hair while my colleague threads Madeleine’s brows. Then our manicurist will take care of your nails while I deal with Madeleine’s roots. Now, I’m going to put you side by side so you can chat. What can I get you to drink?”
“Beatrice, don’t pull that face.” Madeleine laughed. “It doesn’t hurt, it won’t take long and you’ll feel a new woman when we’re done. And this is my treat. You bought the tickets to the gallery on Sunday.”
Beatrice succumbed to the pressure and allowed herself to be led to a leather chair in front of a mirror. She accepted a cup of tea and looked across at her companion.
“It’s you I feel sorry for. Threading your brows sounds agonising.”
Madeleine dropped her voice. “It’s not so bad. Nowhere near as painful as sugaring your pits.”
Beatrice shuddered.
The stylists went about their work in silence, gently adjusting heads and faces as necessary.
“So, how was your day?” asked Madeleine.
“Well, all things considered, not too bad. But I’m afraid the trip to Hiltl tonight must be postponed. I have to turn in early. I’ve got a big day tomorrow and I had a rotten night’s sleep last night.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“No, not particularly. Work problems, my own mind and some interference from John Gay. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Well, kinda. Michael just told me he has to attend a conference in Brussels this weekend, so I guess I’m a little bummed. But I was so looking forward to this girls’ night, I almost forgave him.”
“That makes me feel worse about pulling out of our restaurant arrangement.”
“Forget about it. We can do that anytime. I just wanted to go somewhere after the salon so we could show off your new look.”
Beatrice lifted her eyes to the mirror and immediately returned them to the magazine in her lap. She didn’t want to know. And if the results were preposterous, there was always a hat.
Madeleine, her head stretched back as some girl performed God knows what atrocities on her eyebrows, asked a difficult question.
“So what’s the deal at work? Anything I can help with? I may be only a Hausfrau right now, but there was a time when I ran my own company.”
“It’s kind of you to offer, but it’s just the usual frenzy when a project comes to an end.”
“Your project’s ending? No way! Does that mean I’m gonna lose my new best friend?”
Beatrice smiled. “Not yet. But one way or another, I expect to be home by next weekend.”
“Shoot. Bad news for me but great for you, I guess.”
Susana finished snipping and a discussion began as to the most suitable colour. Beatrice’s own opinion, that brown and grey worked perfectly well with her wardrobe, seemed the least influential. Madeleine thought honey and caramel lowlights; the eyebrow expert said dark chocolate with a hint of macchiato at the temples; while Susana put forward a forceful case for champagne and cinnamon as not requiring frequent touch-ups. Beatrice lost interest and began to feel peckish.
The manicurist arrived and added her view in German, ‘wie ein Dachs’, before settling down with a sweet smile to massage rich lotion into Beatrice’s hands. Beatrice smiled back before recalling that Dachshund translated as ‘badger hound’. She gave the skinny little teenager a frosty frown.
Madeleine interrupted her thoughts. “OK, so if you’re taking a rain check tonight, how about tomorrow?”
Beatrice hesitated. Plans were likely to be disrupted if an arrest could be made. “That depends. We may be working late and over the weekend. Things have rather come to a head, you see.”
“Wow, it sounds so exciting. Or isn’t it?”
“At the moment, I’m not sure. But it certainly involves a lot of hard work. What did you have in mind for tomorrow?” The hair dye, whatever colour it was, began to sting Beatrice’s scalp.
“Well, it’s nothing important. But I’ve been getting about a bit, checking Zürich out. And I got a hold of a couple tickets to see a yodel choir, in Hotel Widder. It’s one of the guilds of the city and it’s so totally Swiss. Could be fun?”
“Yodelling? How absolutely marvellous! I would love to come with you, but as I say, it’s crunch time at work. Could I call you tomorrow to confirm?”
“Sure. Don’t sweat it if you can’t make it. I know you’re busy. Wish I was.”
“It may come to nothing. These things often raise hopes then fall flat.”
Madeleine paused. “OK, I’ll wish you luck. And if you can come along, what say we check out the Fraumünster on the way? They have some stained glass windows by Chagall and Giacometti which I hear are quite something.”
“Really? I am a devoted fan of Chagall, as you probably remember. Don’t know all that much about Giacometti but I’m very keen on stained glass. I had a bash myself once. The tutor told me my work was ‘energetic’ and I felt about five years old. You’ve really been bitten with the tourist bug, haven’t you?”
Madeleine looked into the mirror at Beatrice’s reflection. “I figured I may as well. What else have I got to do? Hey, how do my eyebrows look?”
Three hours later, no longer feeling sore, irritable or bullied, Beatrice was still gazing at the mirror in the bathroom. She couldn’t stop. For the first time in her life, she was proud of her hair. She’d looked at her reflection in the microwave, in the TV and every shop window on the way home from the salon. Every half hour, she wandered into the bathroom to stare at the sleek, polished individual who waggled shiny fingernails back at her. She should take a photo because it would never last.
The phone rang.
“Beatrice, it’s Madeleine again. I hope I’m not disturbing.”
“Not at all. I was just ... actually, I was still admiring my hair. It’s lovely. I can’t get over it. Thank you so much.”
Madeleine’s satisfaction could be heard in her smile. “Isn’t it? Thank Susana. She did a brilliant job and you look amazing. Listen, I was just calling to let you know the concert tomorrow starts at eight, but we can drop in anytime we like. Kinda takes the pressure off, huh?”
“Oh, eight should be manageable. I’ll call you in the afternoon and hopefully we can do both the windows and the yodellers.”
“Great! Let’s talk then. You get some rest, OK?”
“I shall do my level best. And thanks again. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight Beatrice. Best of luck tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”
Fluffing up the pillow, Beatrice found she was smiling. She might be long in the hoof but was still capable of making new friends. Yodelling and stained-glass Chagall with Madeleine, the ideal antidote to work. Her eyes closed and her mind replayed the image of Madeleine’s perfect make-up, beautiful jewellery and sensual scarf at her throat. Her mind wandered. Perhaps a classy scarf would bring her own image up to date. A natty knot at the side? No. Rather than displaying Grace Kelly elegance, Beatrice would look more like a drag queen.
Her eyes opened again. Throwing back the duvet, she padded into the living area and found her mobile phone.
“Conceição, I’m sorry to disturb you so late.”
“It’s fine, Beatrice
. It’s only ten past nine. Is something wrong?”
“Just a quick question. If someone has a sex change; you know, hormones, operations, the works ... it wouldn’t change the structure of their DNA, would it?”
“No. There are some factors which may cause minuscule alterations in a few DNA cells, but nothing alters the building blocks. If you’re born a woman, no matter how many external changes you make, female DNA runs through you for life.”
“Like a stick of rock. Thank you, Conceição. That’s given me food for thought. See you in the morning. Good night.”
“Good night, Beatrice. Sleep well.”
The chances of that were negligible.
Chapter 31
Zürich 2012
Trotting up the stairs to their workroom at five past seven, Beatrice was joined by Xavier, carrying a bakery bag.
“Good morning, Beatrice.” He stopped short when he saw her hair.
“Your coiffure! You look so different. But it suits you. I brought croissants.”
“Thank you, Xavier. They smell wonderful.”
“My mother says that a good breakfast is the best way to begin the day. Did you sleep any better?”
“Not really. There’s an awful lot to think about.”
“You should try to do something else before bed. Watch TV, go out to a restaurant, take your mind off the case. When I need to clear my mind, I play football.”
“Tonight, I plan to do just that.”
“Football?” His eyebrows leapt upwards.
“Xavier, look at me. Can you seriously see me running around after a ball?”
He struggled to find an appropriate response so Beatrice saved him the trouble. “No, not football. However, I certainly intend to clear my mind. I wanted to ask you, is Fraumünster the one with the two towers?”
“No, that’s Grossmünster. Fraumünster is on Münsterhof, this side of the Limmat. Just before you go over the bridge. Please, let me.”
Xavier opened the door for her. All the team, with the exception of Kälin, were present, bristling with anticipation like foxhounds on Boxing Day. Everyone did a double take.
“Beatrice! You had a haircut!”
“B, you look fantastic. I love the colour.”
“Takes ten years off you, B! You look no older than f...”
“Shut up, Chris. Good morning, everyone. Xavier has brought us all breakfast.”
Before Beatrice had even deposited her handbag, Chris was at her side.
“The search warrant is here. I think it would make sense if Xavier and I went to Luzern, to question Richter and search her apartment. Firstly, sending two men makes sense if she’s potentially dangerous. Secondly, I can be useful if there’s an opportunity for digital forensics. And Xavier’s Swiss German will be essential for interviewing her or anyone else.”
“All sound arguments, Chris. But before we plan our day, can I hear the latest and get a coffee?”
Xavier lifted his paper bag. “And a croissant.”
“I just think it is important to get started because if we ...”
“Chris. It’s seven am. We’ll all be more effective if we know exactly what everyone is doing and why. Can you wait half an hour, do you think? We’ll start as soon as Kälin gets here.”
“And here is Herr Kälin, so now we can start.” Xavier’s bouncy eagerness reminded Beatrice of a Red Setter puppy.
She poured a coffee and turned to the team. “Under the circumstances, I think we could start. Chris tells me the search warrant for Richter’s apartment is here. What else is new? Good morning, Herr Kälin.”
Kälin opened a file and withdrew a slip of paper. “Good morning everyone, I received permission ...”
Kälin’s eyes flicked over Beatrice and he appeared to lose his thread. He raised the paper as if to remind himself.
“... permission to test employees of D’Arcy Roth, and of Antonella D’Arcy. Arrest warrant for D’Arcy granted.”
Beatrice sipped her coffee. “Sounds good. Does the permission state we can request DNA samples only from men, Herr Kälin?”
He looked at her, frowned and checked the permit. “Yes, of course it says men. Where else would you find male DNA?”
“It occurred to me last night that our quarry may have had a sex change. Outward appearances indicate a woman, but the DNA remains that of a man. I checked this with our expert.”
Conceição gave a confirmatory nod.
“So I want to test everyone who works for D’Arcy. I know it’s unlikely and I am adding a lot of extra work for the lab, but I want to look into every possibility.”
“Beatrice, you have to be joking!” Conceição shook her head. “That would be a huge waste of time and money. And it means the lab will take twice as long to process anything relevant. I really can’t agree to this.”
Chris arched his eyebrows. “You really want to tell Lyon that we’ve invested so many resources in testing women for male DNA? Rather you then me.”
Beatrice raised her chin. “It was not a request for permission, in fact. It was an instruction. I will submit another official form and explain why. We have to test everyone and turn every stone. I accept the consequences.
“Chris and Xavier can go to Luzern to search for this Richter woman, Herr Kälin and Conceição can begin testing at the D’Arcy Roth office, while Sabine comes with me to D’Arcy’s villa. I’d like to talk to her staff, anyway, and look around the property.”
“Be careful, Frau Stubbs. We don’t have a warrant to search her home, and I would prefer it if you take some uniformed officers in case of difficulties,” Kälin warned.
His words contained no criticism of her decision, thus acting as a balm.
“That’s a fair point. I’ll do that. Does anyone want to raise anything else before we head off? Yes, Sabine?”
“Conceição and I were talking about Helene Richter. From what the hospital told me, she was a rising star. To deliberately perform euthanasia on a patient would send her career crashing. And she must have known that. So why would she administer an overdose to Antonella D’Arcy’s stepfather? We think D’Arcy paid her to do it. After the doctor was dismissed, she managed to retain her somehow and they worked together to ‘arrange’ these suicides.”
Chris frowned. “If so, that was a long time in the planning phase. Richter was struck off in 1993. Van der Veld, the first death that we know of, was in 2007. And why did D’Arcy want her stepfather dead?”
“That’s what we must find out,” answered Beatrice. “Sabine and I will dig up as much as we can on D’Arcy’s background and look into what happened to Richter after 1993. I want everyone to be thorough, check every story and make no assumptions. Take nothing at face value. We are extremely close, so we are going to get this right. Obviously, any major breakthroughs, I want to hear about it. Otherwise, I would like an update at lunchtime. In person or by telephone, let’s speak at midday. Have a productive day, everyone.”
Richter was not at home. The Hauswart, or caretaker of Richter’s apartment building, took her job seriously. Refusing to believe the warrant, she insisted on calling the Kantonspolizei to confirm. Chris raised his eyes to heaven, but followed Xavier’s example and gave her an understanding smile. As she closed her apartment door to telephone Zürich, Xavier reassured him.
“We’ll get a lot more help out of her if we show her respect for doing her job. These people know a huge amount about the other tenants. I can guarantee she knows all their movements, right down to who had a shower this morning.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I just wish everything didn’t take so long, you know.” He leaned back against the wall and tried to remember his Tai Chi.
The door opened and Frau Pfenniger looked from one to the other. She frowned at Xavier and asked for their IDs again. Suppressing a sigh, Chris handed his over once more and the woman nodded. She led the way upstairs and after each reply to Xavier’s enquiries, threw back questions of her own. Xavier’s responses were brief, p
olite and guarded. Her accent and use of Swiss German made it hard for Chris to follow, but it was obvious she was trying to find out the reason behind their visit. After she unlocked the door, Xavier thanked her and with great diplomacy, persuaded her to leave them to it.
The slight figure disappeared down the stairwell, casting one last look back and returning their wave. Chris grinned at Xavier.
“Well done on getting rid of her. You refused her offer of tea, right?”
“Yes, I did. Otherwise, she would be up and down with all kinds of excuses. And we have work to do. But she did give me some useful information.
“She told me that Richter is a doctor and works away most of the time, as a volunteer in developing countries. Apparently, she was last here on Monday. Very quiet, been a tenant since 2005. Doesn’t smoke, very few visitors, but likes Chinese food and classical music. I told you, they know everything.”
Entering the flat, Chris was immediately impressed by the space and light. Floor-length windows allowed sunlight to warm the large living area and the kitchenette, back against the far wall, had a wall of glass bricks. Drawn to the windows, Chris pulled back the white gauze curtains and studied the view. The street dropped away below to a river rushing past on its way to the lake. No one’s apartment overlooked the building, so she could sit out here and enjoy the sun in privacy. He turned back to Xavier, who had donned gloves and already begun searching the desk. Richter obviously went for the Zen approach to interior design. An L-shaped corduroy sofa faced the windows, the glass coffee table before it bearing nothing more than a remote control, and a vase with three artistic silver branches. The kitchen to Chris’s left was all pale wood with dark marble worktops. So clean it looked like a kitchen in a showroom. Pausing to pull on his gloves, he opened the fridge. A half-drunk bottle of rosé, a butter packet and a variety of jars: pesto sauce, quince jelly, sauce bourguignonne and horseradish. The cupboards were equally Spartan: plastic containers with pasta, muesli, and packets of noodle soup. Removing everything methodically, Chris checked the cupboards, the dishwasher, the freezer compartment and the cutlery drawer. Nothing of any interest.
