by JJ Marsh
“That’s right. Around the 27th February. Any notes about guests, or anything unusual for the week before?”
“Wait please. Yes, here. February 24th; two porters reprimanded for smoking in sight of guests. Fire alarm control. February 26th; complaint – Room 670 regarding noise from Room 671. One special request for upgrade to Empire Suite. Note van der Veld as VIP. Also, good bottle champagne required. 27th; Ballroom out of bounds for perfume convention. Two complaints – Room 670 and 672 about noise in Room 671 – occupants: Mr and Mrs Schmidt. Manager suggested room change. Offer refused, guests promised to be quiet. 29th; Visser given verbal warning. Police called – body in Empire Suite. I think you know the rest, Mr Keese.”
“Yes, I’d say I do. Can you go back there, Ms Zajac? The fire alarm check – was that scheduled?”
She didn’t need to check her ledger. “We always have control, February and November. Same company for last nine years.”
“OK. Is Room 671 anywhere near the Empire Suite?”
“Different building.”
“Hmm.” Chris scanned his shorthand. “Visser? One of the smoking porters?”
“No. Receptionist. Let me look. Yes, on 23rd February, Annelise Visser reported uniform missing. She was told find or replace. She failed. So verbal warning. One hundred forty people attended perfume convention for launch of new fragrance, Wish. Horrible smell.”
Chris smiled at her wrinkled nose. “And no one saw or heard Jens van der Veld until Monday morning?”
“He had Do Not Disturb sign. So we did not disturb. His friend arrived on Monday, and insisted checking room. And we found him, in bath.”
“You said you found him, Ms Zajac?”
“Yes. I authorise opening rooms when guest is absent. I checked living room, bed and bathroom. I saw him in bath. Dead, no question. Up to his neck in blood.”
“You worked the weekend?”
“No. I work Monday to Friday. Is enough.”
“Who requested the upgrade for Mr van der Veld?”
“One moment.” She flicked back a page. “His company, D’Arcy Roth. They booked room, not him. The porter told he was mean. Tipped only two Euros.”
“Does that porter still work here?”
“No, no. Aard only worked here during studies. He left since two years.”
“Is there any chance you could get me a list of guests who stayed here that weekend, Ms Zajac?”
“I think is possible. I ask.”
“And does Ms Visser still work here?”
“Yes. Senior Receptionist. You want to speak with her?”
“That would be great.”
“Mr Keese? Annelise Visser.”
Chris stood to shake her hand. Her open and confident smile gave her a vague air of amusement. Her dyed-black hair was cropped short, gelled into perky spikes and her grey eyes were heavily made-up.
“Sorry to disturb you, Ms Visser. I’ll only keep you a moment. Just a question or two. I’m here to clear up any details relating to the death of Mr van der Veld, February 2007.”
“Yeah, I know. The suicide.”
“Did you meet him at all?”
“No. At that time I didn’t work weekends. So I knew nothing until his colleague arrived on Monday. He was impatient and rude, and insisted we check the room.”
“You lost your uniform that week, is that right?”
“That’s right. I change my uniform once a week. On Monday evenings, I always take the dirty one to the dry cleaner’s and pick it up on Thursdays. I left it on the coat rack in the staff room on Thursday morning. When I went to pick up my things that evening, it had gone.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I guess someone took it home, thinking it was theirs. I didn’t worry too much; I thought they’d bring it back. It had my name badge on it, so they had to know it was mine.”
“Did you get it back?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. I got a verbal warning for losing hotel property, and had to replace it. I learned a lesson. Now everything goes into my locker.”
“And just out of interest, where were you that weekend? Do you remember?”
She smiled. “I remember. Same place as every weekend. I used to be a DJ in Rotterdam. So I left here on Friday evening, did my set till 5am, slept all day, did it again on Saturday night and slept on Sunday till it was time to come home.”
“You’re not DJing anymore?”
She shook her head. “Too old.”
Chris raised his eyebrows at this sharp, articulate girl. “Oh God. If you’re too old, what does that make me?”
Her grin widened. “Way too old?”
Chris laughed at her cheek. “Thanks Ms Visser. You’ve made my day.”
“You’re welcome.” She rose, still grinning and slipped out the door. Chris headed back to his hotel, unsure as to whether he’d got anything more than a reminder of how much time had passed.
Entering the hotel dining-room, Chris noted he was not the only admirer of Conceição’s posture. The woman held herself upright and moved with a hip-rolling gait which caught the attention of several diners. The waiter led them to a window table where they could observe the passers-by. She ordered sparkling water and he asked for a beer.
“Strange to arrange a hotel for us. I am sure there would have been flights back to Zürich tonight,” she said.
“You’re probably right. But maybe if we chat things over this evening, we might find something we need to take a look at before we leave tomorrow.”
“Such as?” Her cold look expressed disbelief.
“I have no idea.”
She picked up the menu and read in silence. Chris scanned the specials and made up his mind to try one of the classic Dutch sausages. With fries. To hell with it. If he had to sit opposite Sniper of the Year, he could at least look forward to his food.
A waitress arrived. “Two gin tonic?”
“I think that must be for someone else. We ordered one beer and one sparkling water.”
“Oh. Sorry.” The kid looked stressed.
“It’s no problem.” Chris gave her a friendly grin and returned to the choice of sausages.
Conceição folded her menu and met his eyes. “Chris, I should apologise. I have been most unfriendly to you and I think it is undeserved.”
A waiter arrived with the right drinks and Chris’s mind hurried to catch up. He had no idea why she’d changed tactic. But if she wanted to stop with the sour stuff, it suited him fine. Her speech seemed over, so he raised his glass.
“OK, so let’s toast. A positive working relationship.”
She hesitated, before raising her water to him. “A positive working relationship.” She sipped. He slugged. Nothing else was forthcoming. Chris stopped trying to second guess the woman.
“Tell me about the politie,” he said.
“Well, you were right. They were not pleased to see me.”
“But they gave you what you needed, did they?”
“Yes. I spoke to the attending officers and the coroner. The DNA sample was taken from a champagne glass. Perfect procedure, so I can see no way it could have been contaminated.”
“Good news for us. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is. The body gave little away. The time elapsing between Friday evening and Monday morning meant that testing for substances was almost worthless.”
Chris sighed. “Found in the bath with a razor blade, slit wrists, and he had no plans to meet anyone till thirty-six hours later. A verdict of suicide seems like the only possible choice the coroner had. Can’t blame the guy.”
“The coroner is a woman. Did you make much progress at the hotel?”
The judgemental tone returned. Maybe that was it. Did she have a chromosome chip on her shoulder?
“Yes and no. They were helpful all right. But I don’t think I found anything significant. He checked in, tipped the porter and that was the last anyone heard.”
After delivering their order to
the waiter, Conceição leant forward. “Chris? What do you think is going on here?”
He stared back into her huge earnest eyes. Candlelight flickered across the planes of her forehead, cheeks and jaw, illuminating the tones of her skin. He cleared his throat.
“The way I see it, there’ll be a simple answer. Like in the case of Die Frau ohne Gesicht. The woman without a face. Series of crimes across Germany. Turns out the DNA samples were all taken with a certain kind of cotton bud, contaminated by the factory worker who packed them. Or, much less likely, the same person was present at the suicides of four powerful men. The truth is, Conceição, I think we’re probably on a wild goose chase. What about you?”
“Interesting. You think this case is pointless, but you still want to turn all the stones.”
“If in doubt, stone-turning is all I’ve got.”
“You might be right. There could be a prosaic explanation. Yet for me, there is something more. This man was a father, a husband. He was successful. His business was suspect, but it had never bothered his conscience before. Why would he end his life just then? My instinct tells me there is something wrong.”
“Right. In the face of all the evidence, you’re going on instinct?” Chris knew he sounded sarcastic.
“If in doubt, instinct’s all I’ve got.”
“I can see why you became a detective.”
A smile broke across her face, revealing startlingly white teeth, and she began to laugh. Chris smiled back, feeling an odd swell of warmth towards this prickly peach.
Chapter 7
Brno 2009
Belanov closed one eye as he looked through the Schmidt & Bender sight of the TRG-42. The Mil-dots in the cross-hairs enabled him to calculate range and height precisely, so that the man in the blue suit could be determined as just under two metres tall. The rifle was designed for accuracy at 1400 metres. The suit was less than 100 metres from his perch. Wouldn’t stand a chance. He stroked the trigger and with a satisfied smile, removed the gun from his shoulder.
“Beautiful.”
State-of-the-art design, and easily customised to the end user’s purposes. It had .338 Lapua Magnum chambering, which could be adapted with a 254mm twist rate for the heavier stuff. He raised it once more to look at the people milling around the stands below. The black stock was two kilos lighter than the camouflaged version and had detachable muzzle brakes. A sniper’s dream weapon. He played with the variable magnification as he swept the dull greys, blues and blacks of the crowd. Some colour caught his eye.
The redhead from yesterday. He trained the sights on her, placing her trade fair badge in the centre of the cross hairs. She stood in front of the chemical warfare protective clothing display, her head bent as she read some brochures. He calculated her height as 1.6 metres using the telescopic sight as a guide. A slim figure, with average tits and boyish hips. Her vibrant hair stood out against a pale green trouser suit, with a dark stain on the left shoulder. He returned the sight to her face and jolted as he realised she was looking right at him. Her head tilted and she raised her eyebrows. He removed the weapon, placed his hand on his chest and mouthed the word, ‘Sorry’. She waved a hand as if to dismiss the apology and turned into the crowd.
It took him under three minutes to find her, in front of IDET’s orientation board and map of the site.
“Mluvíte cesky? Ukrajinśkoju? English?”
She looked at him over her shoulder, suspicious. “I speak English.”
“I wish to apologise. That was me, up there.” Belanov indicated the gallery. “I was trying out the sights of a rifle. But I should not have pointed it at you.”
Her face cleared and she turned to face him. “Oh I see. It’s OK. There’s just something weird, you know, about having a gun trained on you. Demo model or not.”
“Of course, I understand. I guess I got carried away with such a piece. I am sorry if I alarmed you.” On closer inspection, her tits were a little above average.
“No, no. Not at all.” She hitched her handbag strap up her shoulder.
“I noticed your jacket. Did you have an accident?”
“Oh yeah. It certainly wasn’t accidental. The protestors outside? They were throwing eggs at the attendees. One of them was a pretty good shot. I had to wash it off in the bathroom.”
“They threw an egg at you? That’s very bad. Yes, they have the right to express their opinions, but using missiles? No. That is dangerous. The police should stop this. You could have been hurt.”
“Well, you know, it was only an egg.” She looked around, obviously planning to leave.
“Even eggs can do damage. My name is Symon Belanov.” He offered his hand.
She took it. “Caroline McKendrick. Nice to meet you.”
“Are you exhibiting, Ms McKendrick?”
“No, no. Just browsing. And you?”
“Likewise. These kinds of things fascinate me. I am like a little boy in a sweet shop. But I was going to take a break for a beverage. I would be pleased if you consented to join me.”
“Well, just a quick coffee. I have a meeting at five.”
Belanov acknowledged her point and guided her towards the café.
“So what do you do, Mr Belanov?”
“My profession is much less exciting than what we see here. I sell used cars.”
“You work in Brno?” She pronounced it ‘Ber-know’.
“No, I’m based in Ukraine. But I do business in the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Poland, everywhere.” She stirred her cappuccino, looking completely uninterested in his answer.
“And you?”
“I’m from Montreal. My company sent me here with a shopping list.”
“And did you find what you wanted?”
“Not really. You’re right, this place is quite a candy store. But what I’m looking for is a little different; handmade specialty chocolates, if you like.”
“Perhaps you are looking in the wrong place?” He did not meet her eyes, observing the other customers.
“Well, yes and no. I won’t get what I want right over the counter, that’s true. But I was lucky enough to meet someone here yesterday who might be able to point me in the right direction. That’s why I have to leave at four. I’m going to meet him in the city centre to talk it over.”
“Be careful, Ms McKendrick. I hope your meeting is arranged in a public place.”
“Sure. I’m not stupid, Mr Belanov.” She flicked a glance at him and put down her cup.
“I apologise. I had no intention of suggesting you were in any way naïve. Yet I know many of these ‘helpful’ people, and therefore I have concerns for your safety. Is this man a reputable dealer?”
“I don’t know if he’s reputable. I only met him yesterday. And he’s not a dealer. He described himself as a ‘fixer’, someone who can introduce me to the dealers. It’s important to get a personal recommendation with those people, you know.”
Belanov sipped his tea, watching her as he mulled it over. She drained her coffee and glanced at her watch.
“Ms McKendrick, may I make a suggestion? Call your contact and tell him you have already made personal contact with one of ‘those people’, so you have no need of his services. Then you and I can have dinner somewhere, you can tell me exactly what you’re looking for. And if I can’t help you, I will certainly know someone who can.”
She stilled and looked into his eyes for the first time. He gave a small nod.
“Used cars?” she asked.
“And sundry other items. Shall we go?”
Pressing the fob, Belanov registered her expression as the Porsche Cayenne Turbo S flashed into life with a beep. The basalt metallic black beast sat in the spring sunshine, exuding class. His stomach still thrilled each time he saw it come to life at his fingertips. Sometimes, he had the same feeling while shaving. Running the blade across his jaw, watching the shape of his lips, exploring the planes of his face, he knew he was good looking. Coupled with his self-made wealth, there were times wh
en he felt omnipotent. This was one such moment. He helped her in, before taking his seat. Her eyes took in the leather seats, the black interior and olive silk-wood steering wheel.
“This is not what I’d call a used car.” Her smile flashed appreciation.
He gunned the gas, and sat back as the engine gave its big cat growl.
“A man should treat himself, sometimes.” He drove out of the exhibition area, itching to get on open road and show her what 550 horsepower could do.
“Mr Belanov, where are we going?”
“That’s up to you. You’re staying in the city centre, I suppose?”
“I’m at the Holiday Inn. But I’d be happy to have dinner downtown.”
“That’s a possibility. Or, I have rented a small cabin in the forest. It is useful for me to have a place to entertain clients. I would be happy to cook dinner for us, and drive you to your hotel later this evening.”
“I appreciate the offer, Mr Belanov, but as you said earlier, a woman in my position should be careful. If it’s all right with you, I’d prefer to eat in public. And I haven’t yet gotten the opportunity to see the sights of Brno.”
“Of course, and you are quite right. To tell you the truth, I have very little food in my cabin, so eating out is a much better idea.” He gave her a wide smile and could see her relief. Such fine bones, she was a pleasure to observe.
“However, I would like to collect some printed material in order to better demonstrate what I can offer. Would it bother you if we drove by my place quickly for me to pick up a few things? You can stay in the car, if you feel safer that way.”
She laughed. “That’s fine with me. And I get to see a little of the countryside.”
The Porsche thundered through the trees. Belanov steered with his left hand, allowing his right, complete with TAG Heuer, to rest on the gearstick. Her colour was high and he could sense her exhilaration. He allowed the vehicle a four-wheel slide as they arrived at the cabin.
“OK, Ms McKendrick. I’ll be five minutes. Would you like me to leave the music on for you?”
“You know what? I think I might be safe enough to come in while you get your stuff. Apart from anything else, I could use the bathroom.”
