Mind/Reader

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘That would probably be sensible,’ agreed Sobell.

  Although it perfectly fitted what he hoped to achieve Sanglier felt a surge of irritation at the discernible attitude in the room. Every proposal was tentative, half offered to be quickly withdrawn at the first opposition, no one prepared to go on the record with a positive demand or assessment. ‘As I’ve already been reminded once this morning, France has so far been the worst affected by these atrocities,’ he pointed out. ‘And none of the police forces, spread throughout the country, have made any practical progress.’ He paused, looking in turn to the commissioners from the other involved countries. which is the same everywhere else, isn’t it?’

  There were reluctant nods from those to whom the question had been addressed. Villiers said: ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘Our function is to bring the investigation of crimes committed hundreds of miles apart under a system of overall control,’ continued the Frenchman. ‘We won’t achieve that by setting up six different task forces, each of at least five investigators calling in technical assistance as and when they feel like it. And we won’t just be compounding the confusion by establishing a committee from among ourselves. We’ll be adding to it …’ Sanglier hesitated, trying to gauge the reaction around the table. There was some nodding of heads but he would have liked more. ‘It would, in fact, result in what we all agree can’t happen - Europol’s failing on its first investigatory involvement.’

  There was another stir of unease around the table.

  Sobell said: ‘So you do have a proposal?’ He pitched the sarcasm more successfully this time.

  ‘There should, initially, only be one task force,’ said Sanglier. ‘And that restricted to only two or three people. They should assess the killings not individually, as they are being investigated at the moment, but as connected serial murders committed by the same person or group of persons …’ He hesitated again, knowing he stood more chance of getting what he wanted by spacing his idea. Predictably David Winslow hurried in to attack.

  ‘Preposterous!’ he protested. ‘How could two or three people possibly investigate a series of murders spread so far apart?’

  It couldn’t have been better, thought Sanglier. ‘They’re already being investigated by the entire murder squads of every city in which there’s been a body part found. What we don’t know - but what we’ve got to find out - is where to centre the investigation. That’s the time to start talking of larger task forces to work with national police units. When there’s a place to concentrate them.’

  The gestures of agreement were more positive now, but still only among the people he’d already guessed would support him so wasn’t seeking to persuade.

  ‘We’ll lose before we even start,’ said Bellimi. ‘We’ll lay ourselves open to the accusation - which we’ll deserve - that we’re making a totally insufficient response to the most horrendous crime sequence in Europe of the last hundred years, outside the wars.’

  ‘No,’ stated Sanglier, juggling the vehemence as delicately as he’d judged every other remark. He allowed another pause, fixing his attention upon Winslow. ‘We won’t be giving in to hysteria. Instead we’ll be reacting in a sensibly balanced way to an unprecedented series of crimes. Which is precisely how we should proceed. And how we can rebut any criticism.’ He sensed the mood moving in his favour.

  ‘There is a logic to the proposal,’ conceded Sobell.

  ‘As well as too many shortcomings, the most important of which is an effective political monitor,’ persisted Winsiow.

  Almost there, thought Sanglier. ‘A committee of commissioners would at this stage be as premature and ill considered as flooding six European countries with yet more investigators.’

  ‘There needs to be a monitor,’ insisted the Englishman doggedly.

  ‘I didn’t say there shouldn’t be,’ lured Sanglier, covering his spike-tipped trap.

  ‘Which would have to be from here,’ declared Winslow, impaling himself.

  ‘But again not until the focus of the investigation was established,’ agreed Sanglier, in apparent concession.

  ‘We’re talking about an intermediary between field officers and ourselves,’ came in Maes, whom Sanglier positioned on his side of the fence.

  ‘I suppose we are,’ said Sanglier.

  Briskly - almost triumphantly - Winslow said: ‘A case officer, in fact.’

  ‘That’s essential, in view of the importance of this case to our organization,’ said Sobell, safely choosing the obvious upon which to appear authoritative.

  ‘Absolutely essential,’ agreed Sanglier. How much further could he go without hanging out a sign?

  ‘There’s no precedent for a situation like this,’ complained the chairman, seeming to forget there wasn’t any operational precedent for any Europol activity.

  ‘Our French colleague has expressed himself very forcefully,’ said Bellimi, imagining he was preparing an entrapment.

  It was as if he had written a script, thought Sanglier. He remained silent.

  ‘I propose Commissioner Sanglier be appointed,’ picked up Winslow.

  ‘Would you be prepared to accept the responsibility?’ asked Sobell directly.

  Sanglier intruded a hesitation before saying: ‘On an undertaking to this Commission that as soon as I considered it necessary I would recommend the establishment of the proposed oversight group.’ Which would ultimately either shoulder the responsibility for any failure, absolving him of censure, or provide an opportunity for glory if, from his eyrie, he saw the possibility of a successful conclusion. Like the one he saw now.

  ‘That seems very positive,’ said Villiers.

  ‘Are we agreed about limiting the task force as well?’ asked Sobell. The man was growing more confident.

  The Dutch commissioner said: ‘I think there’s a strong argument for doing so.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Villiers.

  ‘It’s a decision that could be revised the day a lead emerges,’ said Sanglier. ‘We’re all here, on immediate call.’ Once again he paused, momentarily unsure. Then, determinedly, he said: ‘In view of today’s decision about my function, perhaps I should select the initial task force. For later confirmation by the full Commission, of course.’

  The gestures of agreement were virtually unanimous now, like the general impression of relief. Sobell said: ‘I think this has been a very productive meeting.’

  ‘So do I,’ agreed Sanglier. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined it would all be so easy.

  ‘I didn’t intend anything personal in what I said in there,’ Sanglier said.

  Winslow looked surprised at being singled out by the Frenchman as they left the conference room. ‘I didn’t imagine that you did.’

  ‘It’s going to be important picking the right people the first time.’

  ‘Let’s hope you make the proper choice,’ said Winslow.

  ‘I’m wondering about someone from the English unit. Claudine Carter. Would there be any difficulty there?’

  Winslow stopped, turning fully to confront the other man. ‘What difficulty could there be? I don’t understand the question.’

  Sanglier made a dismissive head movement. ‘I merely thought I’d mention it, as a matter of courtesy. Obviously I don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘She’s a very private person,’ said Winslow. ‘Keeps very much to herself, among the British group.’

  ‘Unsure of herself, perhaps?’ suggested Sanglier.

  ‘I hardly know her,’ Winslow said. ‘I’ve only met her at social events and she doesn’t come to many of those. But I’ve never received any impression of her being unsure. Do you want me to tell her you’re considering her?’

  ‘Better if I handle everything from the outset,’ said Sanglier. ‘I’m the case officer, after all.’

  The Council of Ministers’ decision to delegate the combined investigations to Europol had been publicly announced from Brussels and caused as much consternation throughout the l
ower levels of the organization as it had among the governing Commission.

  The commissioners were, in fact, still in session when Scott Burrows cornered Claudine in the staff cafeteria, easing uninvited into the vacant seat at her table. He wasn’t smoking one of his perfumed American cigars but he exuded their smell. ‘Looks like we got the big one.’

  ‘Very big,’ she agreed. She noted the inclusive ‘we’. Of all the decisions reflecting the uncertainty of Europol’s becoming a functioning police entity, Claudine considered the secondment from the FBI of the fat, crinkle-haired American the most peculiar. Bizarre, even. Like so many establishment actions, it had been political, not just a public reminder that Europol’s intended function mirrored the US Bureau’s but proof that Washington took the European organization seriously enough to become associated from its outset. She was idly curious what the trade-off had been between Washington and the European Union.

  ‘Not much in the books to fit this scenario,’ said the man, crumbling the first of two croissants in his coffee saucer.

  Claudine wondered to which of his three much acclaimed standard textbooks the man was referring. She said: ‘A lot of situations don’t fit textbook formulas,’ and then wished she hadn’t.

  Burrows smiled without humour. ‘As you’re so fond of telling me and anyone else who’ll listen.’

  So he had been making a familiar point. ‘It won’t be easy picking up this late.’

  ‘There’ll be more to work back from. This is a well organized group, operating to a plan.’ He spoke with his mouth full, spraying crumbs.

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘Five will get you ten it’s racist.’

  ‘What about the white girls in Belgium and Holland?’

  ‘Blacks hate whites. It’s a two-way street.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have expected some Fascist or neo-Nazi statements, to increase the panic among the minorities?’

  ‘The bastards are doing well enough without needing to make any claims.’ The American looked towards the cafeteria shelf, restocked with croissants, imperceptibly shaking his head in a private refusal. ‘What’s your guess?’ he demanded, coming back to her.

  ‘I don’t know enough about any of the killings to make one,’ said Claudine. ‘And I try not to guess.’

  ‘Thought how you’d approach it, if you got assigned?’

  ‘No,’ Claudine answered at once, honestly. Had that been a casual, psychologist-to-psychologist question? Or was Burrows carrying out an unofficial ground survey for a commissioner over-impressed by the American’s reputation? As the most persistent challenger of the man’s reliance on textbook dogma of his own creation she stood as much chance of surviving his elimination process as a virgin in a whorehouse.

  ‘If it happens, go the racism route,’ urged the man. He made a sucking noise, drinking his coffee.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ said Claudine, not interested in continuing the discussion. Serial killing was a crime upon which criminal psychology was invariably used, she acknowledged. A person’s reputation would be permanently established by this case. Providing, that is, there was a successful solution.

  Sanglier’s summons was waiting for Claudine when she returned to her office from the cafeteria.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The supposition was obvious. But Claudine refused to invest too much hope. She couldn’t, though, prevent the anticipation that went beyond the possibility of any prove-yourself-involvement in the serial killings.

  She’d lived most of her life in France - she had only spent five full years in England - and with the exception of Europol’s French contingent was probably more familiar than anyone else with the aura surrounding the famous name. So she was intrigued by the prospect of meeting Henri Sanglier for the first time.

  She had of course seen him from afar at Europol’s formation ceremonies, one of the operation-deciding commissioners whose purpose was to turn the organization from a concept into a reality. But that had been like looking at an art gallery portrait of a minor player in a major historical event. Not that Henri Sanglier had ever been regarded as a minor dynastic figure.

  Claudine knew that in the past, during his rise to the top of the French police hierarchy, there had been media-reported insinuations about a son whose success was based upon the legend of his hero father. But such insinuations were jealously inevitable. Having the name of Sanglier, with all its wartime connotations, could not have impaired Henri’s career. But neither, in Claudine’s opinion, would such unimpeded promotion have been automatically guaranteed unless Henri Sanglier had proved outstanding ability.

  Now she was going to meet the man. Which, in the course of time, she would have done anyway. Except this wasn’t in the course of time. It was now, within a week of an official announcement that Europol was to investigate an horrendous series of murders. And within an hour - minutes almost - of a conversation with the doyen of American criminal psychologists who had sought her out to discuss how she would professionally approach such an investigation.

  The impulse was to believe she had already been chosen, but again Claudine held back from an automatic conclusion. There were five other criminal psychologists, all men, assigned to Europol. She could be - perhaps should be - part of a politically required selection process. In line, at least. But that’s as far as she was prepared to consider it, as a selection hurdle. Leaving her to jump what remained and come in ahead of the field. Which she had to do.

  Being permanently attached to Europol wasn’t enough, essential though that was in getting her away from London and its memories. She had to work. Working in her arcane profession - being able to see and interpret and be proved right more often and more successfully than anyone else - was what motivated Claudine. Which she’d already acknowledged to be a fault, possibly the fault that had caused the disaster with Warwick. But that was in the past. Now she looked upon it as her salvation. She would survive by working, whenever and as much as possible; by proving herself to be indispensable, becoming the first choice, someone so constantly employed there would be no time for a private life with private thoughts and private recriminations and, latterly, private doubts.

  The forthcoming encounter was therefore absolutely vital. If it were a selection process it would be wrong to appear as eager - desperate almost - as she inwardly was. She had, instead, to be utterly, professionally dispassionate. Which extended to being professionally dispassionate towards Henri Sanglier himself. She’d already decided Sanglier had earned his promotions and accolades through his own merits, and a man who had achieved so much would instantly recognize any undue deference and look upon it as an attempt to be ingratiating, which could easily disqualify her from any contest.

  If it were a selection process she might anyway be entering at a disadvantage. She was the only woman among the six criminal psychologists from whom a choice could be made. And despite lofty European declarations and proudly adopted European legislation about sexual equality - formulated by men - Claudine Carter suspected Europol of the instinctive male bias against women that she’d encountered in every law enforcement environment in which she’d ever worked: would not have been surprised, even, if hers was a token appointment to belie the hypocrisy.

  And not just an hypocrisy of equality. In the short time she had been at The Hague she’d been conscious - even been a target - of more blatant sexism than she’d previously experienced. She was, Claudine accepted, thinking like an Englishwoman and not like the Frenchwoman she might consider herself, having a French mother whom she’d respected far more than her English father and living most of her life in France. It was, she supposed, unavoidable after so recently losing Warwick: an instinctive, protective reaction rather than one that came naturally to her.

  Objectively the easily derided and rejected sexual suggestions should do nothing more than irritate her. Certainly the suspicion of bias didn’t frighten her. Rather it strengthened the always present determination to do better than any of the other psycho
logists: better, even, than any traditional investigator with whom she might work. All she needed was the chance, which she intended to do everything to get, short of accepting one of the sexual invitations.

  All the executive offices of the former Gestapo building had been totally redesigned and refurbished - apart from the shell, very little remained of its wartime history - but as she entered Henri Sanglier’s suite Claudine wondered how many men and women had, more than fifty years ago, entered this same place believing the future depended upon how they conducted themselves before someone of higher authority, as she was doing now. She became immediately embarrassed, angry at herself. It was absurd - obscene even - to attempt any comparison between what she was about to face and the life-and-death situation with which people half a century earlier might have been confronted in these surroundings. The thought prompted a further reflection. How often and in what circumstances might Sanglier have considered the irony of his now working from such a building after what his father had done?

  Claudine consciously began her assessment the moment she crossed the threshold, wanting as much advantage as she could get.

  The desk behind which Sanglier remained momentarily sitting was at the furthest point from the door, forcing any visitor to make an intimidating approach. So despite the name and his position, Sanglier worked hard at achieving respect. Balancing that immediate interpretation Claudine conceded the positioning put Sanglier directly in front of the window expanse, a natural location. The desk itself stopped just short of being overpoweringly out of proportion to the office, like Sanglier’s button-backed leather chair.

  Sanglier, centrepiece of the overall impression of power, politely rose at last, but remained behind the desk while Claudine completed her pilgrimage. Which she did unhurriedly, using all her training to read something of the man before officially greeting him.

  Very tall, maybe two metres. Lean-bodied, which she guessed to be from a natural metabolism, not any fixation on diet or exercise. Thick black hair only slightly tinged with grey, experienced wisdom rather than age. A full, tightly clipped moustache beneath a slightly flared nose, which gave an expression of permanent disdain. Lips parted sufficiently to show perfectly even teeth but not enough to form a proper smile. An obviously tailored suit perfectly cut, the tie against the pure white shirt with a motif that could have denoted a club but probably didn’t. No immediate gesture or word of welcome, deeply blue eyes - black maybe - studying her as intently as she was examining him.