by JJ Marsh
Typically, he didn’t meet her eyes. Both points skirted dangerously close to a topic which made him most uncomfortable. Naturally her work was covered; she’d had nothing more than light administrative duties for the past eight months. That reference to her personal life was clear. He wanted reassurance she was stable enough to take this on. There was a certain irony to the situation. Less than a year after she’d attempted to take her own life, her first major investigation would revolve around a series of suicides. Offering her such a case was a sign Hamilton trusted her once more, and he wanted confirmation of her capability. She remained silent, unsure of the answer herself.
Hamilton spoke. “Very well, Stubbs, think it over for the weekend, but Interpol want someone top notch, and if you really feel you can’t step up to the crease, you’d better have some damned good ideas of who can.”
Beatrice nodded once, aware of both compliment and threat.
“I’ll get back to you first thing on Monday, sir.”
“Make sure you do. And you are aware that one can listen to Radio Four anywhere in the world these days?”
Any suggestion of a smile was hidden as he swallowed the final biscuit.
“Good evening to you, Stubbs.”
“Same to you, sir.”
“By the way, those ginger nuts were stale.”
Beatrice checked her watch before dialling Matthew’s number. On Thursday afternoons he usually had a faculty meeting on campus, which could drag on into the evening. Academia was notorious, he’d told her, for enjoying the sound of its own voice.
Thankfully he was home and she launched into her explanation without preliminaries. Predictably, he did not react at all how Beatrice might have expected.
“What a marvellous opportunity. Not only will you take on a fascinating case, but what a location in which to do it! You can climb mountains, boat round lakes, visit chocolate factories and the Swiss have some impressive collections of art, you know. In Gruyère, there’s the H.R. Giger museum. Gave me nightmares for weeks. You’d love it.”
“Thank you. That would be worth a trip. But I’d be going there to work, Matthew. My chief concern, rather than how I might spend my weekends, is whether I’m up to the job.”
“Yes, of course, naturally. Hamilton is notorious for selecting utter incompetents to represent Britain in European investigations.”
“Sarcasm is lazy.”
“Insecurity is boring. So, do you intend to swot up the entire weekend, or are you coming down? I would understand perfectly if the former held greater appeal.”
He really could try and sound as if he would miss her. No need to gush, but ...
Beatrice made up her mind. “Swotting can be done on the train. And seeing as I have no idea when I am likely to see you again, you may meet me from the eight-fifteen tomorrow evening.”
“Ooh, you sound awfully Celia Johnson.”
“Not quite yet, darling. Not quite yet. Will your girls be there?”
“Not this weekend, we’re on our own. Regarding dinner, would sausage and mash suit?”
“Oh definitely. With red onion gravy?”
Matthew chuckled. “I thought so.”
“Perfect. We’ll eat sausage and mash, drink red wine and light a fire. And on Saturday, we’ll walk, and buy scallops from that stall by the beach. Eat them flash-fried, with home-made chips. On Sunday, let’s read the paper and have a pint at The Toad, before I catch an afternoon train back. That should give me some ballast to weather the week ahead.”
“Sign me up for all of the above. Have you spoken to James?” he asked.
“Not this week. I only see him every fortnight now. Why?”
“Just wondered how you’ll manage the dogs while you’re away.”
“The dogs are under control. Don’t worry. Meet me at quarter past eight tomorrow. If you forget again, my revenge will be hot and furious. Do you want me to bring anything?”
“A smile?”
“See you then.”
“Can’t wait. Don’t forget your wellies.”
Chapter 3
Zürich 2012
The taxi emerged from another tunnel into dazzling sunshine. Looking up from her notes, Beatrice absorbed her first view of the city. To her right, a river ran beside the street, with a park beyond. Bright clumps of snowdrops and primulas dotted around the green space made her smile. Tall apartment buildings in shades of sober grey rose to her left, whose austere architecture was softened by scarlet geraniums on the balconies. Zürich presented itself with discretion and charm. The city’s spires ahead stood out sharply against blue sky and distant mountains.
Like a film set, she thought. Odd how the power of Nature at its most impressive could only be compared to its imitator. None of the people striding along the streets seemed to notice the awe-inspiring backdrop. Business people, tourists, roller-bladers, students, and lots of dogs. The taxi driver, who had answered her initial German enquiry in English, looked in the mirror.
“This is the Hauptbahnhof. The main train station, late-night shopping, emergency doctors. But be careful, keep your wallet safe, huh?”
“I will. Thank you. How far is the apartment from here?”
“Only two minutes. But the street is one direction, so we make a loop.”
They turned away from the station with its enormous rack of bicycles to drive alongside another river. Beatrice liked the look of this. Lots of greenery, water and a compact city centre. As they stopped at the traffic lights, a blue and white tram clattered past at surprising speed. A cheerful bell rang out. The feeling of a clean, efficient, friendly place calmed her nerves as they pulled up in front of the pale yellow building housing the Apartments Züri.
The apartment was twice the size of her own flat. It had a living area complete with balcony, a kitchenette with a proper coffee machine and a huge bedroom, with enormous amounts of storage space. Beatrice cautioned herself against becoming over-excited. Instead, she washed her face and brushed her hair and stared into the bathroom mirror, going over it once again. The intranet photograph was clear in her mind. Dark hair, thick moustache and bright blue eyes. The man looked like one of the Gypsy Kings’ grandfathers. She knew this speech by heart.
“Good morning, Herr Kälin. I apologise for my early arrival. I know the team are not due to meet until lunchtime. But the truth is that I wanted to meet you first. A thorough reading of my notes tells me that this whole investigation arose out of your own work. I respect that. I also respect that the Kantonspolizei cannot release you to work solely on this investigation. But I wanted to come here to say that I have a great deal of admiration for what you and your team have achieved. Therefore, I would like very much to lean on your expertise, up until the point where it encroaches on your daily responsibilities. Herr Kälin, I have been given a role. Which is to lead this team. I am here to ask you to help me to do that, as I fear I will be less effective alone.”
Grab the goat by the horns. All unpleasantness washed, aired and dried. And if she wanted to catch him before the meeting, it would be wise to leave now.
“Grüezi?”
A serious young woman sat behind the reception desk at the Zeughausstrasse police building.
“Grüezi. My name is Beatrice Stubbs, from Scotland Yard, London and I am here to meet Herr Kälin.”
The woman did not answer, but turned to her computer screen. After some tapping, she nodded.
“Yes, Frau Stubbs. You have an appointment at 12.30. You are too early.”
“That’s true. But I hoped to speak to Herr Kälin before the meeting. Would that be possible?”
The girl looked dubious. “I can check. Please sit yourself.”
Beatrice smiled her thanks and manoeuvred her little wheelie case beside her. She studied the various posters on the walls, attempting approximate translations. In such a country, the graphics naturally spoke louder than words. Translating each hard-hitting slogan into three or even four languages would strain the most creative ad-man
. The woman tapped on her glass window.
“Frau Stubbs, Herr Kälin is at lunch. Do you wish his assistant?”
“Lunch? Already? Oh. I suppose I could talk to his assistant, yes. Thanks.”
Lunch at half past eleven? Or was this a deliberate rebuff? Don’t be so negative and suspicious, she reprimanded herself. Positive, co-operative and effective, remember? And it’s your own fault for not calling first.
“Frau Stubbs? My name is Xavier Racine. I am joining your team, I hope.”
Beatrice’s spirits lifted. Well dressed, with strawberry blonde hair and an open, enquiring look. And freckles. Beatrice liked freckles.
“Nice to meet you, Mr Racine. I’m sorry to disturb you. I had hoped to meet Herr Kälin for a preliminary chat. But it seems he’s already gone to lunch.”
A blush. All the proof she needed this was indeed a snub.
“Oh, yes, of course. Herr Kälin wanted to have an early lunch in order that he is ready for you.”
But Beatrice was tenacious, and would say her piece, whatever it took. “How very thoughtful. Tell me, Mr Racine, is he in the police canteen? Perhaps we might join him there? I would very much like to speak to him before the briefing.”
“No, no, Frau Stubbs. He always eats in one of the local restaurants. I cannot say exactly. He changes every day. I am sorry. Maybe you would like to have lunch here? I can arrange it.”
Don’t get at him, he’s only the messenger. “Thank you. But it’s a little early for me. Do you think we could have a cup of coffee and then you could show me the briefing room? I would like to set up before the others arrive.”
“It is a pleasure.”
Nice lad. Even bought the coffees. As Xavier departed to get some food, Beatrice paced the briefing room. It was a setback, but a minor one. So she would do the briefing first and talk to Kälin later. The important thing now was to be prepared. She opened her wheelie case and withdrew her materials.
By 12.35, no one had turned up. The projector hummed quietly, the first slide glowed blue and every chair stood empty. Heat began to rise up Beatrice’s throat. This was not Swiss. She’d read all about the cultural habits of this country, and in particular, this region. Lateness was extremely rude. But why all of them? Kälin may have wanted to make a point, but all four of the others? Including Xavier Racine? She stood up, furious, and dug in her bag for her mobile.
“Frau Stubbs!” Xavier burst through the door. “This is the wrong room. Everyone waits for you upstairs.”
“But ... you showed me this room. I thought ...?”
“Yes, I am sorry. Herr Kälin changed the room. He thought it would be better if we meet in our working room on the top floor. He sent me an SMS and left a notice at reception for everyone else. I just realised you would not see it. You are here since 11.30. I’m sorry. But we have to go. Everyone waits.”
Lugging her wheelie case up the stairs, Beatrice felt wrong-footed and harassed. She intended to speak to Herr Kälin about this. It was most unprofessional and if she didn’t know better, she would suspect him of doing it deliberately to unsettle her. Xavier, carrying all her handouts and charts, tripped on the top step and scattered her presentation across the landing. Her breathing was laboured as they collected everything, especially as she had to repeatedly assure Xavier it didn’t matter.
Xavier opened the door to silence. Feeling itchy, warm and out of breath, Beatrice entered to face her new team. Two women, two men. The black woman with the erect bearing and deep blue suit would be Interpol’s forensic DNA scientist. The relaxed long-limbed individual to her right must be the Dutch chap, information technology genius. So the psychologist had to be the delicate blonde in the white shirt. So young! Stony faced and sitting apart from the team was Herr Karl Kälin. Beatrice’s image of him evaporated. The sparkle in his eyes she’d seen in the photograph was absent, replaced by a cold antipathy.
She heaved a deep breath to apologise, but he spoke.
“Ms Stubbs. It is unfortunate that you did not get the message intended for the team. All the others received the information without difficulty. And it is always a good idea to make an appointment when you expect to meet someone. I would like to make one thing quite clear. I am not a member of this team. I am a consultant, advising on any case that might arise. I have many other responsibilities in terms of my daily police work. So I would appreciate it if you treated my time with respect.”
An awkward silence hung in the room, amplifying Beatrice’s heavy breathing.
Chapter 4
St Moritz 2008
“M’sieur? Bad weather comes. It can be dangerous. Maybe you prefer to wait for tomorrow?”
Dougie found the chair lift attendant presumptuous. “Maybe I prefer to go now. Cheers all the same.”
He pulled the bar down over his hips, lifting his skis clear as the chair moved upward. The attendant shrugged and turned to the other couple behind him. Dougie twisted over his shoulder and saw the gloom-monger had persuaded the others to turn back. One girl gesticulated at his own ascending form in enquiry.
“Why me? Good question. Because I can.”
He threw back his head and laughed, out to the open sky. The idea of tackling the run alone, with no amateurs to limit his manoeuvres, shot adrenaline into his system. The weather was a stroke of fortune. A rare opportunity to pit his skills against a hostile environment. And Dougie took every opportunity, in nature as in life. He smiled, recognising the bad habit of writing his own epitaph.
Of course, he shouldn’t waste time. As that lumpen idiot had observed, it could be dangerous. The mountainside rushed up at him, as his poles and skis dangled below. The sharp edges, the blacks and whites, the geographical clarity challenged him, and he began to twitch like a hyperactive child. Going off piste accounted for only a part of his excitement. After almost a week of persuasion, Ana-Maria had finally agreed to a date. In fact, it was she who suggested this run; ‘only advisable for the truly talented’. They had arranged to meet at the tree-line; it would not do to be seen leaving together. Opportunities, yes; risks, no. The reservation at the lodge was made in her name. After they’d checked in, he would send a text message to his wife. Julia would understand his decision not to take on the storm, and accept his stay in a mountain lodge as an example of her husband’s good judgement. Win-win.
The car ratcheted up to the platform and Dougie disembarked with grace. Another jobsworth advised him against taking the run; ‘one must respect the weather’, but Dougie dismissed him with a look. The scene was undoubtedly dramatic. The valley below reflected late-afternoon sunshine, while the blue sky and various pointed roofs completed a ridiculously cute Alpine village setting. Yet behind him, the remainder of the mountain sat; dark, huge, and unassailable. Grey, violet and yellow clouds – the colours of a bruise – moved to obscure the white tip, and a flash of fear stopped him. He had nothing to prove; his prowess as an expert, all-terrain skier was established. There was no need to take on millennia of ice, stone and snow. A second’s decision would take him back down to Julia and the kids. He knew Rui and Katia would be ecstatic. They could have a raclette, play some games and he could do this run in the morning with fresh snow. The girl could wait. He hesitated.
No.
Dougie Thompson never backed down in the face of a challenge. He checked his boots, surveyed the piste, and with a glance back at the threatening storm, took off.
The snow was firm to hard. After adjusting to the terrain, his first few slopes were pure pleasure. Only advisable for the truly talented. She was right. He would never have known about this run had she not let him into the secret. The luck of the devil, his mother used to say, while his brothers called him a jammy bastard.
As he approached the trees, his route became less evident and he slowed to assess each stage. The sky darkened and the landscape became monochrome. It was an increasing challenge and he balanced pace with diligence. A mistake would be unacceptable, possibly lethal. A previous skier’s trail indica
ted a sharp turn toward the edge of the forest. He followed, his pulse a bass-line in his ears. Something lay under the tree. The ski-suit was white, with blue and pink flashes; Ana-Maria. Prone, skis detached, surely not a fall? She was an instructor, for God’s sake!
Dougie slowed and drew up beside the body. Her goggles covered half her face and a ski-mask took care of the rest. He crouched and watched her chest. No movement. He removed his gloves and lifted her goggles. Her eyes were closed. Convinced she was already dead, he reached his right hand to her neck for a pulse. Her eyes opened and he jumped.
“Hello. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He exhaled, fear turning to irritation. “That was a damn silly thing to do.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It was a joke.”
“I wasn’t scared. And I’m not laughing.”
Sitting up, she reached for her rucksack. “Don’t sulk. I brought us some Kaffee Fertig to warm us.”
“Café what?”
“Kaffee Fertig. It means ‘fixed coffee’. The Swiss version of Kaffee Schnapps.”
“No thanks.” He pulled on his gloves. “We should move on. The weather’s getting worse. Get up. Let’s go.”
She didn’t argue and put the flask away. Dougie waited impatiently, surveying the slope through swirling flakes of snow. Silly bitch. If she thought that was funny, she had a bloody weird sense of humour. A shadow crossed his vision and as he turned, her hand hit his neck. A sharp prickle pierced his ski-mask in addition to the blow. He stumbled sideways, snatching at the place she’d struck him. She ran off into the trees, leaving her rucksack behind. Christ! Another stupid game? What the hell was she playing at? He attempted to chase her, before tripping over his skis. Releasing both clips, he lurched after the girl. The snow was hard-packed and as firm as concrete. But his legs seemed to think they were in deep wet slush. One of the fittest men in his empire, with a sportsman’s thighs, he could move no faster than a turtle. He stopped and fell backwards, onto his arse. As he stared into the shadowy forest, he saw her emerge. She waved. Dougie’s attempt to wave back toppled him over.
