by JJ Marsh
The figure in the white suit worked at speed. After heaving him across the snow, she propped the man against the trunk of the tree where he’d stopped to ‘rescue’ her. His head fell back, and she tipped a little of the liquid from the thermos flask into his mouth. He swallowed. Unzipping his jacket, she struggled to pull his arms free. Between giving him sips of liquid, she removed all his outer clothing, folding it in a neat pile beside him. The flask empty, she replaced the stopper and retrieved the lid from a plastic bag in her rucksack. She set it beside the pile and crouched to stare at his face. Nothing.
She glanced upwards. The sky loomed lower and blacker, as if it disapproved. Snow flew across her goggles. But the pastel-trimmed figure took several risky minutes to explore his mobile phone, before switching it off and placing it on top of his clothes.
Large white flakes floated onto the body and settled on his eyelashes, his hair and his cheeks as the figure replaced her skis. She smiled at him and whispered, “It’s all in the public interest, you know.” With one last glance at the scene, she skied with great caution down the mountain, her pale suit disappearing into the landscape like winter ermine.
Chapter 5
Zürich 2012
Placing her bag at her feet, Beatrice allowed herself a slow scan of the room while she regained her breath. The two women appeared bemused and looked to her for a reaction. The Dutchman raised his eyebrows with a small grin of sympathy. Xavier did not meet her eyes, but his high colour gave away his discomfort. Only one way to go, she decided. A cold stillness settled on her and she walked directly to Herr Kälin, extending her hand.
“Beatrice Stubbs, Scotland Yard. Pleased to meet you.”
His face hardened still further, yet he stood and gave her hand one brisk shake.
“Detective Kälin, Swiss Federal Criminal Police.”
Beatrice smiled as if she had received a polite welcome and turned to the team.
“I apologise for having kept you. I’d like to thank Herr Kälin for that reminder on how important it is that we use our time efficiently. So rather than my using more valuable time by restarting my presentation, perhaps we can kill two birds with one blow. I would like you to introduce yourselves, tell us why you were seconded to the team and give us your thoughts on this case.” Kälin was looking out of the window. “You all received a briefing pack, and I have no doubt you have read it with care. From what you have read, does anything strike you?”
The uncertain silence of a new team stretched out. Beatrice let it continue.
The tall man spoke. “OK, I’ll go first. Detective Chris Keese, Europol, The Hague. I specialise in e-crime and IT forensics.” He leaned back in his chair. “The obvious thing is what these guys have in common. We don’t need to bother with the question Did they have any enemies? but instead we should be asking, Did they have any friends?”
Beatrice acknowledged the comment with a smile. The Dutchman’s attitude was relaxed to the point of indolence and she was aware of the contrast he demonstrated to the rest of the team.
“You’re right, Mr Keese. All the men in question had either made highly unpopular decisions, or were involved in morally dubious business. Identifying those who may wish to harm them would be time-consuming and, in my view, unlikely to prove fruitful. If we are talking about homicide rather than suicide, suspects will be legion. I am inclined to agree with Mr Keese. We need to be searching for the links between these individuals. Who indeed were their friends? This is certainly one line I would like to pursue. Any ... yes, Ms Tikkenen?”
The three men in the room took full advantage of the opportunity to stare at the speaker. Cheekbones as sharp as ski jumps, white-blonde hair and strong eyebrows arching outward, she reminded Beatrice of a Russian model. A lovely creature; just the type who might cause all sorts of unnecessary tension.
“Sabine Tikkenen. Central Criminal Police, Tallinn, Estonia. I am a crime analyst. I agree that we have some background to research, but we already have the most concrete lead to finding out how these men died. My question is this – how far can we go with the DNA?”
Beatrice was puzzled. “I’m not sure what you mean. We will exploit any available information we can glean from the samples we have.”
“Yes, that I already know. But can we test this DNA for features that are not standard? For example, where does he come from? Does EU protocol allow us to find out everything we can about this person?”
“No, Ms Tikkenen, it does not.” If Sabine Tikkenen drew all eyes, this voice commanded all ears. The lightness of a Portuguese accent coupled with West African gravitas, the black woman spoke with a voice you could never interrupt.
“European law dictates that ethnic group profiling could be counter-productive on several counts. We can only assume so much from these samples.”
Sabine frowned. “That is disappointing. Having some information on this person’s cultural background could make a psychological profile much more informed. But as the Interpol representative, you are telling us that we have the same investigative powers as the local officers; which is to say, none.”
Kälin stared at the young woman in evident disbelief, but said nothing.
“Ms Tikkenen, I must explain. My name is Conceição Pereira da Silva.”
Beatrice allowed a sigh of relief to escape. Now she knew how to pronounce the woman’s first name; Con-say-sow. Rhymes with cats-say-miaow.
“I am a junior DNA advisor, supervised by MEG, and have no authority in this situation. My contribution could be on the side of how to extract all the information we can from a strand of DNA. And to consult on the legal issues relating to such a case. If we were to identify a suspect through legally questionable processes, we would be wasting our time. And I want to clarify: I am not an Interpol mole. We’re all simply advisors here.”
Beatrice spoke. “Thank you, Ms Pereira da Silva. Your attention to correct procedure whilst handling forensic evidence of this kind is essential. Ms Tikkenen, I appreciate that the more information you have, the better criminal profile you will create. I hope we will be able to contribute much more evidence to assist you. Personally, I would like to add that it is of overriding importance we follow the letter of the law, particularly now. The harsh truth is this. Despite the fact you are each a brilliant asset to this team – otherwise you would not be here – our job is going to entail a lot of dull, everyday police legwork. And we must be beyond reproach. Herr Racine?”
“Thank you. My name is Xavier Racine. Herr Kälin and I are both members of the Federal Criminal Police. Herr Kälin is our main Zürich investigative officer. I am on loan from Task Force TIGRIS, a specialist operations unit. My opinion on this case is we may only scratch the surface, with what we know. I believe it would be worthwhile checking any other similar ‘suicides’. High-profile men who left no explanation or indication as to why they chose to end their lives. We may find a bigger pattern.”
“Fair enough.” Chris Keese replied. “Makes sense. So how are we going to start on this?”
“By playing to our strengths. I suggest that you, Mr Keese ...”
“Ms Stubbs? I don’t mean to tread on any toes, but I’d feel a whole lot better if you called me Chris.”
Beatrice winced internally, in the sure knowledge Kälin would hate the idea.
“I see. Does everyone else feel comfortable using first names? It’s quite usual in Britain. But I can understand other countries find that rather informal.”
“For me, it is no problem.” Ms Tikkenen raised her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “You can call me Sabine. We will have to work closely together, so we can be relaxed with names.”
“How do you feel, Herr Racine? Ms Pereira da Silva?”
The young Swiss officer gestured toward his colleague to go first. She smiled.
“I have a feeling that although Conceição will be harder for people to pronounce, it is the right approach. I’m happy with first names.”
“Me too. You can call me Xavier. It is
the modern way.” His smile spread more slowly than his blush.
Kälin shook his head. “No. I’m afraid that’s completely unacceptable to me. Herr Racine and I work together on a professional basis. We use formal address. This team is operating in Switzerland, and Swiss prefer formality. Not because we are old-fashioned, but to indicate respect. We are forced to speak English as it is the only common language. However, I fail to see why you should impose your cultural habits on us.”
Beatrice took a deep breath. “So, Chris, it seems you have your wish. First names are fine with everyone except Herr Kälin. My first name is Beatrice. However, equally acceptable forms of address would be Boss, Ma’am and Your Ladyship.”
Chris led the laughter and Beatrice had a feeling the chap could well prove to be the team glue.
“Now let’s get to work. As I understand it, the Kantonspolizei have given us equipment and space on this floor, in preference to downstairs. Is that right, Herr Kälin?”
“I have my own office. You can work downstairs or up here. I don’t care.”
Xavier jumped in, face aflame. “I think Herr Kälin means he doesn’t mind. We often make this mistake in English.”
Kälin turned his scowl on his colleague. “Herr Racine, my English may be inadequate. But I will not accept corrections from a non-native speaking junior officer. As I said, Frau Stubbs, I don’t care where you work.”
Beatrice moved on to spare Xavier’s embarrassment.
“So upstairs it is. All those stairs might help keep me fit. Xavier, I’d like you to work with Chris on looking for links. We need to know if there was anything at all which might connect these men. Did they use the same bank, airline or masseuse? Who were their golf buddies? Was there any connection between their wives? Did the companies have any dealings with one another? Had these chaps ever met? Fine toothcomb, cross-referencing, your sort of thing, Chris.
“Sabine, here are all the at-the-scene details. You may wish to liaise with Chris and Xavier on details of the deceased. Your task is to profile the kind of person who could and would want to perform such efficient disposals.
“Conceição, all the forensic equipment you need is provided. You will need to check all the samples and ensure there’s no possibility of error. I’d like us to be thorough. No stone unturned. But first, Xavier, could you show everyone where the canteen is located? I would like a word with Herr Kälin.”
The room emptied surprisingly fast.
Beatrice closed the door and fighting her instinct to put the briefing table between them, took a seat beside him. She half turned to him and opened her palms.
“Herr Kälin. I had a speech prepared for you. I arrived an hour early so I could say my piece and clear the air between us. My plan did not work and it seems we got out of bed on the wrong foot. Would you like to tell me why you are so angry?”
“Ms Stubbs, if we are to have any kind of working relationship, I must ask you not to patronise me. This is not a conciliation meeting with a badly behaved junior. I am the Fedpol senior detective here. The case, such as it is, arose out of my report. From the work of my officers. However, Interpol find it appropriate to use me only as a ‘consultant’ and to bring in a foreign woman to lead this investigative team. A woman who seems to have little respect for the demands on my time.”
“I see. If I understand you correctly, you are unhappy about the fact you are not in charge of the team, because your work has led us this far. You are displeased with me because I did not go through the correct channels in terms of arranging a pre-meeting with you. Is that right, or have I forgotten something? Are the words ‘foreign’ and ‘woman’ in any way relevant?”
He stared at her for a beat, then glanced down at his watch.
“Is there anything else, Ms Stubbs? Because I cannot see us making any progress.”
“Nor can I, Herr Kälin. You’d better go.”
He wrenched open the door and left, his footsteps thumping down the stairs. Beatrice closed her eyes and tried to stop shaking. She repeated the mantra James had taught her: Convert defeat into opportunity. Every failure carries the seed of success. Kill negativity.
She dwelt awhile on the last.
Chapter 6
Utrecht 2012
Flight LX 728 to Amsterdam began its descent to Schiphol airport at 13.45. Chris skimmed his notes once more.
Jens van der Veld, (57). South African (Afrikaner) based in Kimberley, South Africa. Married to Antjie Heese (34), two sons Uys (5), Henk (3). Active in South Africa, Europe and the US.
Business interests: breweries, real estate, and diamond dealing.
Died in Utrecht, Feb 2007, suicide. Slit wrists in bath.
Forensic assessment: Victim unclothed in bath. No evidence of struggle or forced entry. In main room, two champagne flutes, one with victim’s fingerprints and DNA. The other with no fingerprints and unidentified DNA. Do Not Disturb sign on door, thus body undiscovered until Monday.
Mobile call log as follows:
Friday 27 Feb
21.50: Outgoing call. Amsterdam. Call traced to Joop Kneppers, associate and colleague. (duration, 2 mins)
21.56: Incoming SMS. Amsterdam. Business card from Kneppers, with tel. no. of escort agency.
22.59: Incoming SMS. Kimberley, RSA. Message from wife, checking victim’s safe arrival.
Van der Veld had confirmed meetings for the Monday morning, and according to colleagues, expected to finalise two significant deals in the Netherlands.
Kneppers came to hotel for a pre-arranged meeting at 10.00 Monday, and raised concerns when van der Veld could not be reached.
No visitors registered at reception.
Chris folded the papers into his briefcase and tucked it under the seat in front. So van der Veld drank champagne with someone before getting naked into the bath, and slitting his wrists. The champagne drinker. Someone he knew? Or wanted to know? Was it possible his visitor had provoked such an almighty attack of conscience? Wheels hit tarmac, and a powerful reverse thrust tilted him forward. He looked at his companion. Absorbed in The Financial Times, she gave no reaction to their landing.
“I checked out the meaning of your name, you know,” he announced.
Conceição folded the paper. “Really? I didn’t check yours. How rude of me.”
He laughed, pleased she had a quick wit. Yet her face was unchanged.
“The meaning of Chris? I’ll tell you myself, one of these days. But I’ve never met someone called Conceição before. I’m naturally nosy.”
“Well, if you checked the name Conceição, you only know half the story. My full name is Maria do Conceição Pereira da Silva. Now what does that tell you?”
“You come from a Catholic country which likes long names.”
“I can see why you became a detective.”
She rose from her seat and reached for the overhead locker. As they exited the aircraft, a cool breeze caused Chris to hunch his shoulders.
Conceição. Weird name. Conception. Weird female. Seemed intent on slapping him down every chance she got. With some relief, Chris left her at Paardenveld-Kroonstraat police station, and wove a path through the crowds of shoppers on Catherijnebaan. As he walked, he replayed each curt conversation in his head. Had he overstepped the mark at all? He couldn’t recall. She had no need to be so hostile, when they were both chasing the same goal. Yet he sensed a faint tone of disapproval from the whole bunch. Beatrice seemed to appreciate his humour and gestures of friendship, but even she was pretty uptight. Maybe it was a language thing. A local cop attitude. What would be the best way to handle it? Change nothing. Do your job, be yourself, and to hell with the rest of it.
Hotel Grand Karel V sat back from the street, in expansive grounds. To claim this much land in the heart of the city, it had to be something special. Entering the magnificent lobby, Chris managed his expectations. The incident he was here to investigate was over five years old. The staff would be worse than the Utrecht police; no one wanted this dragged
up again. The chances of his finding anything useful were as likely as his cracking Conception. Still, go through the motions and you never know.
“Milk or lemon?”
“I’ll take a little milk, please, Ms Zajac.”
The housekeeper was an unexpected surprise. Her thin, steel-coloured hair was drawn back in a tight bun and the black frames of her glasses added to the severe image, but her face folded into a homely smile. She went out of her way to make him feel comfortable. Pouring a touch of milk into the tea, she continued.
“Back then, I was assistant. Now I am Head Housekeeper. I arrange all cleaning, laundry and maintenance.” The grey uniform underlined her serious tone. “I found body of Mr van der Veld. The police came and took all they wanted. After that, we cleaned. Surprising, but it was not too bad. The bath needed work, but for a suicide, he was quite tidy. I have seen worse.” Her dark brows dropped into a frown.
“You have?”
“Not here. When I was housekeeper in very good hotel in Rotterdam. We had two suicides. One with gun. That room – oh! It took us weeks to clean all blood, little pieces of bone, hair. Very bad.”
Her reproach seemed directed at the inconsiderate shooter.
“And the other?”
“Pills. Terrible smell, difficult stains and some vomit. But if I compare to way some guests leave rooms, not so bad.”
“So Mr van der Veld had a relatively neat death.”
“Death in hotel is always problem. Police come, staff try to keep quiet, and we need extra cleaning.”
“Of course. Ms Zajac, was there anything else unusual about that weekend? The Saturday in particular?”
“I have day book. We make notes in day book. Guests to be careful, staff problems, maintenance update, like diary. Like diary of hotel.”
“You still have the day book from 2007?” Chris sat up in anticipation.
“Yes, I say already. I have here. 2007. Mr van der Veld died in February, no?” She flicked through her pages.
