Behind Closed Doors

by JJ Marsh

  Beatrice took over. “Each team finds an appropriate way of operating, as you know. And Xavier’s point is that we’re trying to find out as much as we can about militant left-wing ...”

  “Aaa-chi!” Xavier released an explosive sneeze, turning his head away and hitting his forehead against the felt board as he did so.

  “Bless you!” offered Beatrice, finishing her explanation while leading Fisher away.

  As the workroom door closed behind them, Fisher pulled down the corners of his mouth in sympathy.

  “Is he the best Swiss police could do? Looks like a work experience boy.”

  A flash of petty temper provoked Beatrice but she kept her mouth shut, instead indicating the stairwell.

  “So Mr Fisher, as you can see, most of the team are out on fieldwork. But you mentioned wanting to meet Herr Kälin. You’ll find his office on the first floor, second door on the right. You might want to ask him for his view on the press leak. I must get back, my superior awaits. Lovely seeing you.”

  She strode back to her cubicle with an odd mixture of infuriation and curiosity. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that room.

  Hamilton stood at the window, arms folded, evidently still dissatisfied with the view.

  “More tea, sir?”

  “Stubbs, a frank answer, if you will. Exactly how much progress have you made?”

  Beatrice sat in the ‘visitor’s chair’. Once again, Hamilton used his status to minimise hers.

  “In my view, a great deal. I have faith in this team; we work well together. Now we’re sifting evidence, tooth-combing, narrowing the net and building a solid case to prove this was a systematic series of pre-meditated murders.”

  Hamilton flared his nostrils and raised his eyes to the ceiling, affording Beatrice an unimpeded perspective up his nose.

  “So there is a bloody case, after all?”

  Beatrice grew irritable. “Yes sir, there is. You would have preferred us to chase our tails?”

  With a glare at her and at the door, Hamilton picked up his briefcase.

  “Come along, Stubbs. Show me the city and let’s talk some sense.”

  Instinct guided Beatrice away from the shopping areas in the direction of Stockerstrasse; a street of merchant banks, insurance companies, art galleries and the Swiss Stock Exchange. The calm tone and sober environment worked its charm on Hamilton, his posture relaxing to merely stiff.

  Taking a left towards the river tributary, they crossed the little pedestrian bridge of Bärenbrüggli. Office workers sat on benches beside the water, eating sandwiches, feeding swans and chatting in Swiss German. Hamilton stopped, peering over at the water rushing silently beneath.

  “Fact is, Stubbs, they don’t think you’re up to it. The only personnel change they want to make is you. Seems you’re not Interpol material.”

  A surge of heat inflamed her entire head, burning the tips of her ears and scalding her scalp. Grateful that Hamilton’s focus remained on water birds, she thought his comment through.

  “Can I ask why now, sir? Actually, I think I can answer that for myself. When it was a political exercise to tick paper boxes for European collaboration, any old fool would do. Now it appears a series of politically motivated murders exist, they want someone ... well, someone else.”

  The ducks gave up on them and bobbed back to the banks, where crumbs were more plentiful.

  “Look here, Stubbs. Interpol asked for an experienced detective to lead an international investigation, which is precisely what I provided. Had I known this might degenerate into a facile game of draughts with greasy pole-climbers such as Fisher, I may just have kept out of the whole festering shebang. I’ve loaned them one of the best in my entire force and if they don’t appreciate that, they can go service themselves.”

  Warmth crept over Beatrice again in recognition of Hamilton’s bluff loyalty.

  “Why drag you here in person, sir? To take me home on a lead? To break the news to me yourself?”

  He exhaled sharply. “Buggered if I know. As yet, no news to break. You’ve got another two weeks, Stubbs. So for all our sakes, pull your bloody finger out.”

  At the end of a thoroughly disheartening day, Beatrice headed back to her apartment. As always, she made a detour to Talacker and Big Ben, the English tea shop. In addition to teas, cakes and groceries, they sold a range of British newspapers and magazines. It had become Beatrice’s daily treat to stop in, drink a pot of Earl Grey and read The Times. And it seemed churlish not to have a hot buttered crumpet, or a scone with jam and cream at the same time. The sustenance was welcome, but her real attraction to the place was provided by Ken.

  “Wotcha, Beatrice! Ooh, dear, don’t like the look of your boat. Bad day? Let’s get you a cuppa.”

  Ken. Born in Yugoslavia and carted off to London at the age of five, he spent his formative years in the East End. The family relocated again, leaving Britain when Ken was just shy of eighteen and he had lived the intervening forty plus years in Switzerland. His career: army officer, fitness instructor, private investigator and security guard proved him to be a fully paid-up member of Swiss society. But he had made a clear choice of identity. His heart remained in 1960s’ London, a place that no longer existed. His cherished memories were of red Routemasters, mini-skirts and Minis, bobbies in Dixon of Dock Green helmets, and a feeling of being in the right place at the right time. He’d never been back. Beatrice hoped for his own sake that he never would. She sat at a rear table, grateful for the lack of clientele.

  “One pot of Earl Grey, pot warmed, of course. Noemi’s made a Victoria Sponge, if you’re peckish, or there’s some McVitie’s Jamaica Ginger Cake, very moist.”

  “I won’t today, thanks Ken. But I will take a copy of The Times.”

  “Up to you.” He reached for the paper and looked at her. “Bad day at the office, dear?”

  “Not good,” she admitted.

  “Right, I’ll leave you in peace, but when you’re ready, I’m having awful bother with 17 down.”

  She smiled, their routine all the more precious for the illusion of familiarity it provoked. Ken collected some cups and stopped to chat to the other customers, all of whom sat outside, enjoying the early spring sunshine. His Cockney tones drifted back to her as she tried to focus on the paper. Vote of no confidence likely for new Treasury Minister. She poured the tea and pushed away the vision of Jamaica Ginger Cake, very moist. The viability report. If they got no further in the next fortnight, in all likelihood, she’d be sent home. They’d bring in someone younger, more dynamic to lead the investigation and she would have failed in her first worthwhile job in almost two years.

  What a stupid, unprofessional train of thought. This situation was not about her. She was leading this investigation the best way she knew how. It was far from spectacular, but it was thorough. A method that had always worked for her before now. She would spend the weekend going over the whole case again, just to be sure she had overlooked nothing. And anyway, why would she not want to be sent home? Back to Shoreditch, to Scotland Yard, to Matthew. She’d recently considered running away for a weekend. And now?

  If she were honest, she had to make a good job of this. She wouldn’t get another chance. Hamilton had taken a gamble on her, and if she failed, she would be letting him down. This circular misery wouldn’t help; she couldn’t allow herself one of the troughs. Not now.

  A youngish blonde with Jackie O sunglasses settled herself two tables away, ordered tea and opened a copy of Tatler. Her clothes, her hair or maybe her teeth led Beatrice to assume she was American. It was a local species she recognised, flitting in and out of designer shops, occupying café tables, promenading up and down Bahnhofstrasse. How did they always manage to look so groomed? It would take her all day to present such a polished facade. She watched idly as Ken pottered behind the counter, humming something which sounded ominously like Jerusalem.

  This situation was very much about her. Was she seriously up to this? Confidence was key, but if it wa
s not backed up by ability, she was deceiving her highly professional team, and therefore a hindrance to their success. Unless one of them was deliberately hindering this investigation. The newspaper story could have been an attempt to destabilise her.

  “Any joy?” Ken called over, as he laid the tables for dinner.

  “Haven’t looked yet, sorry. I was miles away.” She turned the pages until she found the crossword. “Which one was it again?”

  “17 down. A sign post victory proves me right. What you reckon?”

  Beatrice read the clue but her mind drifted.

  “Have you got an event tonight, Ken?”

  “S’right. Skool Dinners. Bunch of geezers from one of the banks come down, eat sausage and mash with boiled cabbage, spotted dick for afters, drink a good hundredweight of Chablis and chuck bread rolls about. Messy, but we make a fortune.”

  “I feel for your poor waiting staff.”

  “You want to see ’em. We use the girls what work the Oktoberfest. Mess with one of them, they’ll break your arm. I keep out of it, get down the Oscar Wilde for a pint till it’s all over. You off already?”

  “No rest for the wicked. How much do I owe you?”

  “Call it fifteen. No luck with 17 down, then?”

  She counted three coins. “’Fraid not. My brain is elsewhere today.”

  The American’s blonde head rose from the magazine. “Vindication?”

  Beatrice and Ken turned to her.

  “A sign post victory proves me right. Vindication. Does it fit?”

  Beatrice checked. “It does. Perfectly. Thank you.”

  The woman smiled and returned her attention to glossy photographs.

  Ken picked up the paper, filled in the letters in and gave a satisfied sigh. “God bless you both, ladies.”

  Beatrice said her goodbyes and made her way back to her apartment.

  Two weeks to make some kind of breakthrough. You can’t even grow cress that fast.

  Chapter 15

  St Germain du Bois 2012

  Hearing Conceição speak French was such a turn-on. Her throaty pitch seemed designed for the musical cadences of the language and several sounds required her to purse her lips. Chris couldn’t concentrate. The manager of the carp lakes seemed equally hypnotised and his desperation was obvious as he scrabbled to think of something helpful to say. But the facts were that Edwards paid his fees, bought some bait, and departed. The manager heard no more until the police arrived to inform him that a body had been found at Etang Gallet. With some eagerness, he volunteered to show them the spot. Conceição expressed their thanks and politely but firmly refused the man’s offer.

  As they returned to the car, Chris looked at her sideways. “Did I understand that right? You told him we’d seen the site.”

  She put the car into gear and drove off, with a small wave at the manager. “Yes. I didn’t want him there while we look around. It will interfere with my thinking.”

  “You could have told him that.”

  “Sometimes a little white lie spares someone’s feelings. Do you want to eat first, or shall we go to the lake now?”

  “Let’s do the lake. And hope we don’t bump into the manager.”

  Parking on the road, they followed the photocopied map, walking up the track to where the police had discovered the Volvo.

  Chris stopped. “Here. Good location. Can’t be seen from the road or the lake and few people would pass this way.”

  “And even if you did pass, you would assume the person was sleeping. He could have been here a lot longer if his wife had not raised the alarm.”

  “The killer must have drugged him before fixing up the exhaust. How did he do that?”

  Conceição flicked over a page. “The report says there was a full flask of tea in Edwards’s bag. It hadn’t been touched. How do you get a total stranger to ingest debilitating drugs?”

  Chris inclined his head. “Assuming the guy was a total stranger to Edwards. As I said, I think this individual was known to the dead men.”

  They walked down to the swim and stared out at the lake. Olive-coloured water reflected the tree tops opposite and steady ripples oscillated across the surface. While Chris had no interest in fishing, he could see the appeal of sitting here, at peace.

  Conceição thought aloud. “He came here to spend the day fishing. It was raining. Did he even get out of the car? He was still wearing his seatbelt.”

  “Perhaps he stopped for lunch and someone slipped him something then. Talking of lunch, we’re not going to find much here. Want to try that restaurant on the square?”

  St Germain du Bois was quiet, giving Chris the strange feeling that everyone was somewhere else. They parked on the market square and entered the restaurant. The sun was warm enough for them to sit on the terrace, and enjoy the view of the tree-lined main street. After ordering, Conceição asked to speak to the owner. The square remained empty, dominated by the shadow of the church, until a man walked past with a small dog, which stopped every ten paces to urinate against a tree. Its owner seemed glad of the frequent stops.

  “Geraldine Lefèvre. You wanted a word?”

  The woman’s English was perfect and unaccented. She wore a white kitchen coat over jeans. Her silvery blonde hair was held back in a clip, and her expression suggested curiosity, revealing their interruption was a break from routine. The upside was they could speak to her in English, giving Chris a better chance of understanding. The downside? He wouldn’t see Conceição do her pout à la française. He withdrew his ID.

  “Yes please, Ms Lefèvre. Would you like a seat? We won’t take long. My name is Chris Keese of Europol, and this is my colleague, Conceição Pereira da Silva of Interpol. We’re just doing a routine follow-up of the death of Brian Edwards, who was found near here in 2010. Do you recall the event?”

  “I certainly do. I knew Brian and Sheila vaguely, through the expat network. They’d been coming here for over a decade. To St Germain, I mean. And they generally ate here at least once or twice each holiday. When he did away with himself, I was shocked. Firstly, I had no idea he was the boss of that water-poisoning company. Secondly, how could he go and leave his wife and kids like that? A disgusting way to behave.”

  “During that particular holiday, did you see them at all?” asked Conceição.

  “No. They kept their heads down. A wise decision after all the fuss in the papers. As far as I know, they avoided all their usual haunts. Natalie, who runs the hotel here, saw them in the pizzeria in Bletterans. Over there, no one would know who they were, you see. And I once I saw him at the café on the Louhans road. But he wasn’t with his wife.” She dropped her chin and gave them a meaningful look.

  Chris picked up his cue. “Did you recognise the person he was with?”

  “No. A tourist, I think. Young, blonde, pretty. I must say, Brian Edwards’s true colours surprised us all. He was not the man he seemed.”

  “Thank you, Ms Lefèvre. You’ve been most helpful. Sorry to have dragged you away from work,” Chris smiled.

  “Oh, I was glad of the break. End of the session now, so all that’s left is the washing-up. What did you order?”

  “Poulet de Bresse. The regional speciality.”

  “Not just the region’s, it’s mine too. Hope you enjoy it. Good luck with your follow-up. All the best.”

  Despite finding nothing of interest in Burgundy, Chris had enjoyed his day. Even the journey provided some attractive scenery. He stretched out his legs and looked at his companion. Conceição drove along the A36 at exactly three kilometres over the speed limit. Her gaze focused on the road, while he admired her profile, knowing she was aware of it.

  “What?” she demanded, eventually.

  “Just wondering what you’re doing tonight.”

  “You are unlikely to find out by studying my right ear. I arranged to have a drink with Sabine if we get back early enough.”

  “What’s early enough? We won’t be back in Zürich till about eight
. Why don’t you have girls’ night tomorrow, then you and I can stop for dinner somewhere en route?”

  She remained silent.

  “It would be the sensible thing to do. You’ve been driving for two hours,” he added.

  “Somewhere en route? Where?”

  “I’m sure we can find a charming little bistro somewhere near the border. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, OK. I could do with a break. Although I’m not that hungry,” she added.

  He grinned and picked up his phone. “I’ll find a nice romantic little salad bar, then.”

  “It doesn’t need to be romantic. This is not a date.” She took her eyes from the road to give him a stern look.

  “Course not,” he agreed, still grinning.

  Not perfect. A shabby roadside Imbiss, for a cervelat and a beer. But he made her laugh, offered to drive, encouraged her to have another drink and slipped in some compliments. Everything was going according to plan as they returned to the car, discussing theories on contract killers and which countries made the best sausages.

  He took the wheel and she chose the music. A little more light flirtation and laughter as they approached the city and Chris’s confidence grew. He needed to make a plan. He wouldn’t ask her to come back to his place, not tonight. But he would plant a seed. Make it look as if he was wrestling with himself, forcing himself to leave her alone. That always rang two bells with women. His passion for her and his noble nature. Just a polite, but longing kiss before saying goodnight. Pretty much guaranteed she’d be in his bed by the weekend.

  So she surprised him outside her apartment, by inviting him in. He accepted, but went over his plans again while she fetched beers from the kitchen. OK, he definitely had to refuse sex. Otherwise the noble nature bit goes to shit. The difficulty being, how far to go? He’d play the ‘we can’t, but I want to, no, it’s so unprofessional, you drive me crazy, I’d better leave,’ card, with a long, lingering, more-where-that-came-from kiss at the door.