by JJ Marsh
Beatrice opened her mouth to correct him, but had no idea what to say.
Kälin cleared his throat. “Frau Stubbs, I came to say I am glad we had an opportunity to work together. I learned from you and that is my definition of a good collaboration. I leave you now, and wish you every success in your future career and the very best of health.” He stood up to shake her hand.
Beatrice swallowed down her unreliable emotions, shook his hand and forced a professional, chirpy smile.
“Thank you, Herr Kälin. It was an experience I shall never forget, especially as it is likely to be my last case. But I will take many happy memories away. I wish you all the best for your future and I have one small request. I see a great deal of potential in Xavier Racine. Should you ever find yourself in a position to help his career, I would consider it a personal favour if you did so.”
“You have a good eye.”
“I used to have. None of us escapes time, Herr Kälin.”
Kälin stepped back. “As you told me once before, you are stronger than you look. You led this investigation to its conclusion through sound leadership and good judgement. Perhaps your dreams of retirement are premature.”
“Lyon may take an alternative view of what constitutes good judgement.”
Kälin walked to the door, the corridor illumination silhouetting his form and hiding his expression. “It was a tough task. Under the circumstances, your performance was not too bad. All the best, Frau B.”
The door closed.
Beatrice’s brow creased and more infuriating tears seeped out. Sniffing and stemming the flow, she barely heard the knock. The bossy nurse.
“Frau Stubbs, you have eaten far too much today. But as this is a special request, you can have one more thing before bed. Now, after you have eaten this, you must drink a herbal tea and I will check you every hour. It is not recommended for this situation.”
The smell was delicious; garlic, cheese, a hint of alcohol ... the woman placed a small plastic pot in front of her, beside a tiny plate of cubed bread. She handed Beatrice a fork.
“It is only microwaved, I’m afraid. But Herr Kälin said no one should leave Switzerland without eating a fondue. Not even in May.”
Chapter 38
London 2012
As the five-note melody announced her phone restored to life, the baggage carousel in London City Airport cranked up. Intolerably excited by the knowledge that Matthew was waiting the other side of one of those bland grey panels, she fidgeted from foot to foot. Would he have thought to get milk? They could always stop on the way home. What did it matter, he was staying for the rest of the week. Such luxury. There would be time enough to do all the galleries, to loiter in Borough Market, to while away afternoons in the second-hand bookshops, to cook, to eat, to talk. Impatience swelled and she paced around to the other side. Her suitcase, naturally, was nowhere to be seen.
Vibrations from her mobile made her jump before she heard the ringtone. She checked the screen.
“Herr Kälin?”
“No, I am Herr Kälin. You are Frau Stubbs.”
“I am aware of that, thank you. It was a question. What can I do for you?”
“It is really only a courtesy call. I thought you would be interested to know that Frau Dina D’Arcy managed to leave the psychiatric facility last night. As yet, she has not been located.”
The bloody suitcase appeared exactly at the wrong time.
“What do you mean, ‘leave the facility’? Wait a minute.” Beatrice shoved forward to drag her case off the conveyor belt. “How did she get out?”
“She was not a high-risk patient, so she was permitted to go out in the grounds. This afternoon, when someone went to find her for an appointment, she had gone missing.”
“She can’t go far. She has no money, and no idea of how to get around. Surely she’ll be picked up in a matter of hours.”
“A visitor’s handbag is also missing, containing cash, ID, a mobile telephone. I think she might get further than we think.”
“So the case is not closed at all. Do you think I should come back?”
“That’s not necessary, Frau Stubbs. The case has been assigned to another team. But they have an excellent consultant.”
“You.”
“No, they don’t need me either. They already have an expert in the form of Herr Racine.”
Beatrice beamed. “Wish him all the best from me. And Herr Kälin, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate the occasional email. Just to let me know what’s going on.”
“From Herr Racine, or me?”
“Both.”
“I’ll see if I have time. I must go now. I wish you a nice afternoon.”
“Same to you. Goodbye, Herr Kälin.”
He rang off and Beatrice dragged her case through the automatic door and into Matthew’s embrace. He looked down at her, concern showing behind his smile.
“Nice hairdo. How are you feeling, Old Thing?”
“Surprisingly full of bees. Did you get milk?”
Chapter 39
Lake Konstanz 2012
The sun sat low over Lake Konstanz; pink, purple and silver flashed in the subsiding wake of a departing ferry, like the rippling flank of a rainbow trout. The white boat churned white water, confetti after the bride, as it passed its sister ship on the opposite journey. A figure rose from the bench outside the Zeppelin Museum and walked along the lakefront to the harbour to meet it. Shadows crept across the lake as the sun faded, yet it seemed as if the boat would beat the darkness to the shore.
Passengers gathered on deck, eager to step into another country. Docking, the engines’ grinding ceased and the silence filled with the lively voices of tourists. Loud colours and opinions flickered past as the figure waited. Eventually, as the final few pensioners descended, she saw a slight, nondescript shape come along the deck, scanning the shore. Helene raised her hand, as if identifying herself for roll call. Dina lifted a palm and splayed five fingers in recognition.
Helene waited where she was. With great care, the girl stepped off the boat, almost as if it were her first time, and with similar caution, walked over to greet her. Three kisses.
Always three.
But now only two.
Raw Material
Chapter 1
Twenty minutes after the alarm blasted her out of a profound sleep, Fernanda dragged on her uniform and locked the flat. Her eyes were open but yet to wake. She trudged down the path in the dark, squeezed past the wheelie bins and out onto Biggerstaff Street. The cleaning contractors’ depot was a good half hour away. Thirty minutes walking in the cold would liven her up, as it did every morning. Not much movement on Fonthill Road. She gave a long, creaking yawn, before getting into a determined stride towards the Tube station. Her teacher had taught the class a new expression this week – no rest for the wicked. She liked that. Sounded like there was some fun involved.
Despite her fatigue, her main feeling was one of relief and optimism. Luis would sleep until she returned. His fever had broken and now came the easy part. And Rui could answer any fretful calls. He was a caring man. A fine father and such a kind husband, insisting she go to bed at midnight and taking over the watch. She was grateful; three hours’ sleep was better than none.
The railway bridges loomed above and Fernanda picked up her pace. These new lights meant you could see the length of the tunnel, check there was no one waiting in the shadows – no one following some paces behind – and relax as you walked. Fernanda never relaxed. She scurried under those bridges as fast as she could without running. Denim on her inside legs brushed a regular beat, while her heels ticked in syncopation. The street lights at the other end beckoned her to safety and her breathing was short. She was awake now – eyes, ears, everything. Clearing the last of the bridges, some of her tension dissolved and she began to climb the ascent to the main street. That was when she heard the voice.
“Hello. I’ve been waiting for you.”
She snapped around, her
breath tiny, fearful puffs. There was no one behind her. The sodium light created shadows on the banks rising from the underpass, but she could be sure no human shape hid there. Electric pulses buzzed through her, even between her fingers. She turned and began hurrying away, just short of a run.
“Aren’t you even going to say hello?”
She whipped back, the voice so close, so intimate. A light clicked on. Her eyes flew upwards. Balanced on the railway bridge, above the security camera, a man stood with a torch in his hand. A baseball cap kept his face in darkness, but his naked white thighs and abdomen were exposed in the torchlight. One hand provided the illumination, the other worked rhythmically at his groin. The images took their time to reach Fernanda’s consciousness. He grunted, like Luis passing a stool, and something spat onto the tarmac near her feet. These random elements connected in her frightened mind and she realised what she was watching.
Her stomach contracted and bile rose. She turned to run, tears of shame filling her eyes, when she heard his satisfied voice.
“Thank you, darling. See you tomorrow?”
She finally stopped running on Seven Sisters Road and vomited at a bus stop. The birds were singing.
Chapter 2
Surf and snoring, in a perfect call and response rhythm. Soughs and sighs, breaths and breakers. Deeply soothing. The creaking of the wooden ceiling added an irregular percussion to the symphony. Nothing could be more conducive to relaxation. A long weekend by the sea, Matthew asleep by her side and an excellent forecast for the day. Beatrice looked at the clock. 05.03. She’d slept a full six hours. The sea air must be having the right effect.
She shifted onto her side and gazed at the moonlit contours of Matthew’s profile. The slope of his forehead, bulb of his nose and bump of his chin were striped with pale grey; eye sockets, cheeks and mouth in shadow. She squeezed her eyes almost shut and wondered, if his profile were not so dearly familiar, what he would look like. The chiaroscuro hinted at Radcliffe’s murderous monk, or Bronte’s brooding Heathcliff, or a lantern-jawed swashbuckler called Cliff Hanger ... He stopped snoring. His eyes remained closed as he spoke.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“I was imagining you as the hero of a Gothic romance.”
He opened his eyes, looked past her to the digits on the clock and returned his blinking gaze to her. “How did I do?”
“Marvellously. Murder, passion and swordfights, but tragically you fell off a cliff.”
“Could be worse. Can’t you sleep?”
“No, but you can. I’ll get up and read awhile. It’ll be light soon.” She threw back the heavy eiderdown and dragged on her bathrobe. Cool air chilled her ankles.
Matthew heaved himself up on his elbows to look out of the window. “It could be a glorious sunrise. Should we get down to the beach and carpe diem quam minime credula postero?”
“What a lovely idea! I’ll go along with the seizing the day bit, but I’m afraid I insist on keeping my belief in the future.”
He stretched and yawned. “As you’ve just fantasised about pushing me off a cliff, that sounds rather ominous.”
“I didn’t push you, you fell.”
“That’s what they all say.” His martyred expression, in the half-dark, made Beatrice snort with laughter.
The expedition was precarious. Although the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path was immaculately kept, it was intended for those who walked by daylight. A bright flash in the sky made them both stop and listen for thunder, but none followed. Probably car headlights on the other side of the bay. Being caught in a storm in the dark on top of a Welsh cliff ... Beatrice could imagine the ‘stupid tourist’ headlines.
Birdsong anticipated the dawn, yet the sandy path and its attendant obstacles were lit by nothing more than the moon and Matthew’s Maglite. Beatrice appreciated the faint glow as she navigated the metal steps leading down to the bay. The scent of surf hit her at the same time as the saline dampness in the air. Her hair would be uncontrollable. She dismissed the thought and embraced her irrational excitement at the pull of the sea. When they finally reached the sandy cove, Beatrice slipped off her shoes, wriggling the cold, damp grains between her toes. She hunched her shoulders against the wind and smiled at Matthew.
“I feel practically pagan.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Don’t take this the wrong way, my love, but at this moment, you look it.”
Beatrice laughed and moved into his arms to watch the paling moon, its reflection in constant flux with the restless sea. The white tips of the waves, black headland, and opalescent moon gave the impression of a silver lithograph in motion. As the sky expanded, the sea began changing from black to grey, as if someone were adjusting a monitor. The density of the cliffs took on shapes, a large mass separated and became individual rocks, and clouds on the horizon basked in rosy light. Vapour trails scored the growing saffron glow from behind the cliff. The smoky swirls of clouds, the immense canvas of colour, the shades of hope and morning inevitably brought Turner to mind. Beatrice resolved to visit the Tate on her return home. As the sun hit the sea, flashes of precious metals refracted back to the beach. Coarse calls of seabirds announced the start of the day.
“Worth getting out of bed for, I’d say,” Matthew murmured. “Would you pass me the camera?”
She rooted in her bag and handed him the dinky device. “You won’t do it justice.”
“Certainly not. But I might be able to capture the essence of pagan Stubbs. Look at me.”
Beatrice did so, her smile already in place. He stood in the sand, legs apart, took a shot, fiddled with the settings and took another. His hair blew upward in a spectacular peak, tipping his appearance towards the rakish.
“My turn,” she called, and caught a couple of inexpert shots on her phone. Matthew with mad hair, the sunlit beach, a boat in the distance and a seagull overhead. Perfect.
They compared results. Beatrice was unimpressed with her photogenic qualities – the face of an ancient Celtic warrior in a jumper from British Home Stores.
Matthew examined the small image of himself on the screen. “Oh dear.”
Her stomach gurgled. “Yes. Photographic proof that Professor Bailey has bad hair days. Now, shall we head back? I’ve worked up a tremendous appetite.”
“How unlike you. Would you put the torch in your handbag? I’ll hang onto the camera.”
“You use me like a pack horse.”
“I think of you more as a kangaroo. A female with a handy pouch.”
They retraced their route back up the metal steps, which was brighter, warmer and far steeper. Conversation was limited to the odd grunt as they neared the top. On their final ascent, a vehicle stopped on the lane above. Seconds later, a hooded youth appeared, making his way downwards. His face was barely visible. Hot and out of breath, Beatrice offered no more than a nod as he passed. A sudden wrench threw her sideways and she slipped down several steps. Her hip hit steel and she let out a cry. Matthew hurried back.
“Beatrice! Are you hurt? What happened, did you fall?”
“My bag! Matthew, he’s got my bag!”
Beatrice lay awake, frowning.
I always like talking to drivers and people when I’m here. Very Welsh thing.
It was 03.22, pitch dark, and a line from her book looped through her mind. Beside her, Matthew slept the sleep of the just.
I always like talking to drivers and people when I’m here. Very Welsh thing.
Amis was right; she wouldn’t have the time or inclination to make small talk in London, but as soon as she was on holiday – bar staff, shopkeepers, taxi drivers – she became loquacious in the extreme.
Especially with that policeman. PC Johns of the Fishguard force had stayed a good hour, drinking tea and comparing notes on their respective jobs. Someone had found her handbag in a rubbish bin and taken it to the station. PC Johns kindly returned it to its owner and with the proud air of achieving a precedent, said it was the first case of physical muggin
g he’d ever seen. Beatrice rifled through her bag, which looked considerably more battle-scarred than when she’d last seen it. Apart from eighty pounds in cash, nothing was missing. A friendly sort of chap, with a steady sense of procedure, PC Johns ensured the paperwork was complete before accepting Earl Grey and a Hobnob and asking fascinated questions about life with the Met.
Beatrice sighed, pondering the experience once more. A mugger, on a remote Welsh beach just after dawn. Did bad luck simply follow her around? Why them? Why then? Local hoodies preying on dopey tourists. The first case of physical mugging I’ve ever seen. No, it made no sense at all. Assaulting someone on cliff steps was foolhardy in the extreme. A simple bag-snatching could result in serious injury to either party, or even a fall and subsequent murder charge. It was personal. That hoodie wanted her handbag and took an extreme risk to get it. What on earth for? Her eyelids drooped. Matthew’s breathing had a soporific effect, so Beatrice ordered her mind onto standby and wriggled back down under the duvet. Bloody mugger wouldn’t rob her of sleep as well as eighty quid.
Her eyes flew open again at a noise from the kitchen. Something breaking. Or rather, somebody breaking something.
Beatrice tensed and drew shallow breaths. She replayed the sound to find an explanation while listening for more. Broken glass, certainly, but more of a crunch than a shatter. Waves hushed and rushed outside, yet the house remained silent. It was not her imagination; she’d heard it whilst wide awake and repeating a line from The Old Devils. She nudged Matthew, whispering in his ear, in case he woke with one of his Lazarus-type gasps.
“Get up. Quietly. There’s someone in the kitchen.”
After a moment’s blinking, he obeyed, easing out of bed and retrieving the Maglite from her bag. She picked up her phone and followed him to the landing. No light, no movement, no sound from below. But she knew with total certainty someone was down there. Matthew clutched the heavy torch more as a weapon than for illumination and they listened from the landing. Beatrice breathed through her mouth and waited.
