Behind Closed Doors

by JJ Marsh

  The girl was rising like a hot air balloon in Beatrice’s estimation. Her presentation crystallised so many vague thoughts which had bothered Beatrice since first reading Hamilton’s notes. Sabine came to a close.

  “My views are based on both this particular person, and any parallels he may have with a similar MO. And while his operational strategy is one thing, his calling card is another. The DNA is not a mistake. Judging by the meticulously clean scenes of crime, I believe this person quite deliberately leaves some saliva, or hair for the police. His own, or someone else’s. I think he must know this DNA is not registered on any database. Why?”

  Chapter 11

  Zürich 2012

  Kälin’s suggestion that Chris might like to accompany him to a second interview with Antonella D’Arcy was casual to the point of indifference. It caught Chris on the back foot. On one hand, he definitely wanted a close-up of a platinum-coated rich bitch. On the other, he wondered why Kälin hadn’t asked Beatrice. Curiosity overcame courtesy and he accepted the invitation.

  The foyer of the D’Arcy Roth building, classy and intimidating, warned that herein moved serious money. Grey marble flooring surrounded the receptionists’ island in the centre of the vast entrance hall, giving way to pale blue tiles the other side of the glass security doors. Chris was impressed. He was supposed to be.

  Suits came and went, often throwing curious stares in their direction. Chris sat at one of the visitors’ tables while Kälin paced. At first, Chris put it down to impatience; D’Arcy was still in a meeting. But then he observed the detective’s behaviour more carefully. Mobile to his ear, rattling away in Swiss German, Kälin frequently pushed back his jacket and rested his hand on his hip. The gesture allowed glimpses of his holster and police weapon. Unmistakeably, Kälin was announcing to everyone he was a cop. D’Arcy would be delighted.

  One of the identikit ponytailed receptionists called over. “Frau D’Arcy is between meetings and will see you for five minutes. Here are your security passes and board level is on the sixth floor.”

  Passing the glass doors, into the lift, through another set of security gates at board level and they were finally admitted to the inner sanctum. Visitors to senior management level enjoyed deep-blue plush carpeting, leather armchairs and a selection of soft drinks. D’Arcy kept them waiting another ten minutes before a secretary showed them to a meeting room, complete with golf and yachting magazines to browse. The woman liked to remind people of her status; that much was clear.

  She entered the room, closing the door behind her and sat at the head of the table. Her eyes swept over Chris and fixed on Kälin. Her black hair pulled up into a knot complemented her displeased expression. She wore a white shirt with a sober navy skirt and looked just like the headmistress of a private girls’ school.

  “Frau D’Arcy, can I introduce Herr Keese, my colleague. Thank you for giving us a few moments of your time.”

  She didn’t acknowledge Chris at all.

  “You gave me very little choice. So let’s get to the point. How can I help?”

  “When we spoke last week, I omitted to ask you how long you’d known each of the men in these cases of suicide.”

  She gave a disbelieving laugh and shook her head. “What possible relevance does that have to your investigation?”

  Kälin’s expression was regretful. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly divulge why we need to know, Frau D’Arcy. It would be unprofessional to share our approach with suspects.”

  She sat quite still, her voice dropping lower. “Are you telling me I’m a suspect, Herr Kälin? If so, perhaps I should contact my attorney.”

  “I think calling your attorney, or lawyer as they say in British English, is possibly premature. But of course, it’s your decision.”

  Chris wasn’t sure exactly how, but Kälin had got under her skin in a matter of seconds. D’Arcy’s pinched expression and grim jaw was testimony to that.

  Kälin must have seen it too. “Let’s just say we have not yet eliminated you from our enquiries. So to my question.”

  “I’d be happy to provide you with all the dates, times and locations where I first encountered these people, but it will take me some time. And this afternoon, I’m flying to Kiev. Had you called ahead rather than just turning up, I could have prepared all the information and saved us both the inconvenience of your visit.”

  Kälin shook his head. “I always prefer the personal touch. Could you confirm the duration of your relationships with these men ...”

  “More acquaintanceships, I think.”

  “... by tomorrow afternoon? It would be most helpful.”

  She didn’t reply but stood and looked at Chris for the first time.

  “So you’ve sacked that British woman already? I can understand why. Her interview technique was barbaric.”

  “Detective Inspector Stubbs, of the London Metropolitan Police, continues to lead our team most effectively. She’s currently working closely with our psychological profiler and making impressive progress.”

  “Really.” D’Arcy’s voice exaggerated her lack of interest as she opened the door to leave.

  “Yes, really. We’re closing in on the perpetrators. It won’t be long, Frau D’Arcy. The wheels of the justice may not turn quickly, but once in motion, they cannot be stopped. Rather like a train.”

  “A train?” She gave a dry laugh. “Yes, the image is apt. Slow, steaming and cumbersome, not to mention expensive to maintain.”

  Kälin sat back, a bland expression not quite disguising the sharpness in his eyes.

  “I was thinking more of the modern Swiss railway system and its worldwide reputation for efficiency. As the slogan goes, you can count on us.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear it. So all of us who keep the economy ticking over, paying taxes to cover your salaries, can sleep safely in our beds. Please return your security passes as you leave.”

  She left the door open and disappeared down the corridor. As Chris turned to his colleague, he got quite a shock. He’d never seen Kälin smile before.

  Chapter 12

  St Germain du Bois 2010

  Carp.

  Ironically appropriate.

  He slammed the door and trudged around to the boot. Just preparing his gear made him feel calmer. He would spend the day at his favourite swim and forget all about it. Push it all behind him. Unbelievable. She was perfectly happy to spend it before she got a crisis of conscience. It was a storm in a bloody teacup and would blow over in a couple of weeks. All they needed to do was to keep their heads down and let the lawyers deal with it. That, and avoid the press. The French retreat would have been perfect, but for her checking the news websites every day and relaying every hysterical accusation to him over dinner.

  Forget about it. Unbelievable, really. The perfect loyal wife through the good times; well dressed, expensively groomed and a practised hostess. Now, at the first sign of trouble, she wants to leave. His retort this morning should shut her up. Tears, of course, and she’d threatened to go home. Well, up to her. One way or another he’d get some peace.

  Rods, bait, landing net, waders, picnic, stool and blanket. He locked the car and headed toward the lake. A breeze blew through the forest, shaking free some leaves. Despite the reminder of autumn, the sun’s warmth could be felt through his jacket and the sky was bright and clear. He was glad he had his sunglasses.

  As he approached the swim, he focused his mind. Today, he wanted a big one. After all, he deserved it, the bullshit he’d had to take these last few weeks. Landing a thirty-kilo-plus carp would be just the thing to put a spring in his step.

  He stepped onto the jetty and took the left arm of the T, setting himself up for maximum comfort. Bait, hooks and rod holder to the left. Book, flask and picnic to the right. He prepared his line, allowing his mood to settle in the peace of lake, forest and silence. No one around. Naturally. He’d paid his fees and this was his swim for the week. The heat was pleasant, and he took off his jacket, arranging
it neatly under his stool.

  He settled back on his chair and cast a line, taking a deep breath. Everybody has a chance. He has. The carp have. The odds might be stacked against the fish, but that is the nature of the game. You are in a pool, you take risks, you should be prepared to lose. You can’t blame the winner. Some fish grow bigger than others and the British media were bewailing the one that got away.

  A flash of white between the trees caught the corner of his eye. Someone making directly for him. No way was anyone sharing this location. All bought and paid for. Whoever this bloody chancer thought he was, he’d chosen the wrong bloke on the wrong day.

  He waited till he heard footfalls on the wood and snapped round. “What do you want?”

  The figure jumped and Brian realised his mistake. It was the artist, weighed down as usual with a heavy bag, sketch pad and collapsible stool. His attack had stopped her in her tracks. She wore a white shirt, jeans and a startled expression.

  He apologised immediately. “Oh hello. Sorry, I didn’t realise ...”

  She gave a relieved smile. “Hello again. You gave me quite a fright! Am I intruding?”

  “No, no, not at all. I just thought you were another angler, trying to muscle in. I paid for this pitch, you see, for the week.”

  “I see. Well, I only came round to say hello before I set up my own pitch. I’m definitely not after your fish.” She smiled again, teasing.

  “Hey, look, it’s OK. You can stay, if you like. There’s plenty of room.”

  “No, no. Thank you, but no. When I paint, I must have silence. I really need to be alone. This is a big lake, there are many other places. I wish you a successful ...” Shifting her load, she lost her grip on her pad and roll of brushes. The pad slipped onto the jetty, and the roll unfolded, spilling brushes at his feet. Two bounced into the water.

  “Oh no, how clumsy of me!” She knelt, trying to collect all her equipment. He bent to help her, as a gentleman should. She looked at the brushes, floating below their feet.

  “They were quite expensive. I need to get them back.” She placed her bag down and started unbuckling her shoes.

  “There’s no need for that. Look!” He reached for his landing net and leant forward to scoop the two brushes out of the water. He could feel her eyes on his back. He was glad he’d removed his jacket, so she could see the muscle movement beneath his shirt. He drew the net closer and fished out the brushes.

  Her face was flushed. “You see? You really don’t need someone like me around to frighten your fish. Thanks so much for helping me. Have a good day. I hope they bite. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  He debated asking her to meet for coffee later, but she’d already gone into the trees. Shame.

  The Artist. He’d seen her around the lakes several times, and a couple of days ago, she’d joined him at an outside table of the Café du Chat Noir. They had a brief conversation about the weather. The Artist. From Alsace, quite bashful about her work, but she teased him lightly about his British tea-drinking. She drank an espresso. Her accent was sensual, throaty French and she was very easy on the eye. Fine features, milky-white skin and a ready smile topped by messy blonde curls falling out of a hairclip. He watched for occasional glimpses of white as she moved along the lake path, and shrugged. Women rarely enjoyed fishing, nearly always getting upset at the most exciting bit.

  They didn’t bite. All morning, nothing. He changed bait, from maize to halibut pellets. His mood grew murky along with the sky. The breeze was sharp without the benefit of the sun. He replaced his jacket and poured himself a cup of tea from the flask. At midday, he drank another. By one o’clock, he had no doubts. It was going to rain, he was going to catch nothing and he felt enormously tired. As the first fat drops spattered the wood, he began to pack up. Maybe he’d go to the café in the centre, drink a Ricard, and wait for the weather to clear. He would not go home. He couldn’t face all that again. The rain fell hard and fast, so he donned his wide-brimmed hat. Heaving his gear up the path, the rain was unrelenting, flecking and splashing his glasses. He chose not to stop and wipe them, as he was almost at the car. A movement caught his eye and he saw the artist coming up the fork in the path. She was soaked, her shirt clinging to her like tissue paper. Her hair fell limply around her face, and she still carried her painting materials.

  He shouted and beckoned to her. “This way! My car’s just here. Let’s get dry.”

  She hurried towards him, no coat, wet through. God knows what she would think of his ancient Volvo. But it would give him a close-up of that shirt.

  “Merde!” She threw up her hands in a gesture of resignation as she placed the dripping sketch pad in the boot. There would be little worth saving in there, it was sodden.

  He dumped his bag in the back seat and fishing gear in the boot, dragging off his jacket and retrieving the towels. She sheltered underneath the Volvo’s hatch door, until he gestured for her to get into the passenger seat. She did so, placing her heavy bag in the foot well. He handed her a towel and as she patted the fabric to her face, he saw her small breasts press together. The blouse was totally transparent, and the bra she wore did not disguise her dark nipples. He shifted in his seat and after a brief rub of his hair, dropped his towel into his lap. She released her hairclip and patted herself dry, before arranging her towel around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, already I made a mess of your car.”

  “Please, don’t worry about it. This is what I call my ‘fishing car’. Over twenty years old and purely functional. I keep it in France, because I can’t bear to get rid of it. However, it does have a decent heater.” He switched on the ignition, and twisted the dial. While his head was still fuzzy, his mood had improved no end.

  “Oh! I can feel it already. Mmm, that’s wonderful.”

  He swallowed, conscious of something he hadn’t felt for some time. Desire, and opportunity. God, that accent was sexy.

  “Now that we warm our outsides, I think we should do the same for our insides.” She gave him a mischievous look from under her brows and reaching into her bag, pulled out a little hip flask.

  “Irish whiskey. For emergencies like this.”

  She unscrewed the cap and poured a tiny shot. His eyes blinked, slowly. If he drank anything now, he’d fall asleep in seconds. He needed to keep his concentration.

  “That’s a clever idea. But I’m afraid I can’t join you. Driving, you see. I’d better stick to tea.” He reached behind him for his picnic bag, and his flask. Her eyes seemed to darken as he poured the steaming liquid. Surely she was not taking his rejection personally?

  “OK, you know best.” She raised the tiny cup. “Cheers! And thank you for rescuing me.”

  “Cheers. It was my pleasure.”

  She sipped and closed her eyes momentarily as she swallowed. He took a gulp of tea. Still hot, and sweet. Restorative.

  “Did you land a good catch today?” she asked, her face open and pure as a daisy.

  “Today was not a lucky day for me. I haven’t hooked a single thing.”

  She gazed out at the lessening rain. “Well, you haven’t hooked any fish.” Facing forward, he couldn’t confirm if that statement meant what he hoped. He drained his tea and agreed.

  “As you say, a lucky day for the fish.”

  She turned to him, her pupils wide. She did not smile. The depth of her gaze embarrassed him.

  “And you? Was your day more successful?” he asked, disliking the sound of his flat British voice.

  “My day is going very well. Not the way I had imagined, but if one is prepared to be flexible, one can still achieve one’s objectives.” Her voice had dropped and even a gauche old fool like himself could see this woman had an agenda. It was hard enough to manage a flirtation after years of inactivity, without the fact that his mind seemed to be a complete muddle. She leant towards him and looked deeply into his eyes.

  “Are you feeling well? You look sick.”

  She rested a cool, damp hand
on his brow and his eyes closed. It was damned rude of him, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself. She stretched across him and put his seatbelt on. That was kind of her. Feeling her presence over him, he forced his eyes open to apologise. She nodded.

  “The best thing for you would be some more tea.”

  She picked up the cup and tilted the flask towards her. There was a price tag on the bottom. She placed it between her knees, and offered him the cup. Something bothered him. He swallowed obediently until it was finished, and she replaced the cup. The price tag. That was not possible. She stroked his forehead, and his lids fell. He’d had that flask for years. It was a little battered and scratched, and had been washed thousands of times. Someone turned the car off. The sound of rain on the roof had stopped. He’d rest his eyes for a few minutes and then drive back to the gîte. No arguments, just upstairs for a nap. And they could get chicken breasts out of the freezer. The Artist would have to wait. He felt a breeze. Doors slammed and he wondered where the fish were. Maybe they’d gone home. They said they might, if he carried on ignoring their feelings. That was not his flask. So why was she in his bag? The car started up again. Lovely breasts. He had to think, it was important. What was her name? God, he hoped she could drive, because he was in no fit state ... warm, comfortable and so incredibly tired. Windows down, windows up. Who was doing that? Very nice. Chicken windows for dinner. Truth was, he was sick and tired of fish.

  Chapter 13

  Zürich 2012

  The locker room in the Zürich Main Station was situated on the mezzanine level, which was huge, busy and perfect for the purpose. A figure left the escalator, took a key from a pocket and inserted it into locker 4149. The Jiffy bag was there, as promised, containing a phone. Seven minutes passed before it rang. The figure began walking, alert for eavesdroppers.