by JJ Marsh
“I am simply trying to reinforce your prejudice. North good, south bad. Your baggages should be here soon, and maybe tomorrow, you can see the clean face of Rome. Wearing comfortable shoes.”
“Right. Oh, is this your floor already? Ok, well, thanks again. Hey, could I get you a drink at all, maybe later? Just to show my appreciation?”
“I have an engagement, unfortunately. But perhaps we could enjoy an aperitif before I go. I imagine you and your feet would prefer not to go too far this evening. How about the bar at seven?”
“Excellent. Or, even better, could I just swing by your room? That way I can keep my slippers on.”
“Of course. I’m in room 302. See you later.”
Not his place, really, but he would have to tell her. These women, alone, in strange cities, no grasp of the language. You cannot just invite yourself to a strange man’s hotel room. Naturally she was safe with him; he was a man of honour, Il Cavaliere in more than just a title. But any figlio di puttana could play the gentleman and she would trust him. Far too risky. The phone rang. Maybe she just had the same thought.
“Pronto?”
“Cesare!”
Giuliana was sobbing with relief. His mother, the doctors, his son, their son, this city, these people and the knowledge that he was in her beloved Rome. It was too much for her, her heart was beating strangely, she needed him, she felt so bad, she couldn’t cope with this, she needed him. Cesare!
Cesare put his head in his hands. His wife needed him. He had a dinner engagement and more meetings tomorrow. Giuliana sounded terrible. It was a self-induced panic attack. She couldn’t work herself into such a state every time he was away from home for a few days. He had to work, had to keep the business healthy. A sedative would buy him time, but he would never permit his wife to take any medication while still breastfeeding. Cancelling tonight’s dinner would lose him anything he had already gained from the Guardia di Finanza. Not forgetting that drink with the grateful tourist.
From nowhere, his mother’s voice arose. ‘Cesare, what are you thinking? Putting a stranger before your wife’s pain? What kind of man are you? You should be ashamed!’
He made a decision.
“OK, Giuliana, I’m coming home. I’ll be with you in a few hours. Please rest, my love. I will be there tonight.”
As the car drove away from Malpensa, he regretted not informing the Canadian woman that he couldn’t make it. But finding a flight, calling his contacts to cancel and packing had eaten away all his time. And without knowing her name, he had no way of leaving her a message. Still, he hated to be impolite and really should have warned her about trusting strangers.
Chapter 19
Zürich 2012
Sabine’s contact arrived at the Rote Fabrik on her bike. Chris assessed her in seconds. A beach bum without a beach. And not much of a bum to speak of, either. A camouflage vest and denim shorts covered a limited amount of her wiry, deeply tanned body, accompanied by ancient Converse trainers, vaguely Celtic tattoos and dangling things from her wrists, neck and plaited rat’s tail in her hair. He wondered why these independent alternative types all bought into exactly the same uniform. Look how different I am. She joined them at the wooden table.
“Ursula, this is Chris, my colleague. Chris, Ursula may have helpful information.”
After greeting Sabine with a handshake and a smile, Ursula turned to him with a hostile look. She cocked her head in an affected enquiry at Sabine.
Sabine seemed unruffled. “Chris is part of my team, Ursi. Did you find anything for us?”
“Yes and no. I’d like a beer.”
Sabine went inside to order and Ursi fiddled with her mobile, paying Chris no attention. Each blunt finger was stained yellow and burn marks crossed her inner arms like the rungs of a ladder. He’d seen marks like that before, on a tandoori-oven cook at an Indian restaurant. Ursi either had an addiction he’d not heard of, or more likely, she worked in a pizzeria. Absorbing the many shades of colourful and alternative passing by on the lake path, he realised he may as well have a blue flashing light on his forehead. Everyone looked at him and saw Polizei. He looked past them at the lake, watching the early evening light play across the opposite shore.
Sabine returned with three bottles of Vollmond. Ursi drank a good third without waiting for a toast.
Chris knocked his bottle against Sabine’s, met eyes and drank.
“So, let’s hear the good news first,” said Sabine, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
“Good news is I fixed a meeting. Bad news is, I don’t know if they’ll talk. Look Sabine, I’m pretty sure that if he’s there, they won’t say anything at all.” She flashed a contemptuous look at Chris, her dark eyes reminding him of a rodent as she swigged at the bottle.
He smiled and prepared to reply but Sabine got in first.
“I’m going nowhere without him. We come as a pair. Otherwise, forget it.” She took a sip of beer and shrugged, as if unconcerned by Ursula’s opinion.
An awkward silence settled, but Chris’s instinct held him back. He’d leave it to Sabine. Let the ferret deal with the rat.
Ursula dug into her tatty fringed bag, pulled out a book and retrieved a piece of paper from between the pages. “Up to you. I’ve done my bit. Here’s the address, mention me and don’t be late. I said you’d get there by eight.”
Springing up, she drained the beer and pointed at Sabine.
“Call me.” She turned her back on Chris and headed for her bike.
Navigating Stauffacher as dusk leached the colour from the city took all Chris’s concentration, so he barely registered Sabine’s call, informing Xavier of their location and intention. Driving onto Ankerstrasse, he found to his frustration he couldn’t turn left. Sabine spotted a space.
“Park it here, we’ll walk.”
He locked the car, conscious of wary stares from doorways, windows and the benches on Helvetiaplatz, and positioned himself on the inside of the pavement. A gentleman would usually do the opposite, but Chris had the feeling that on Langstrasse, the traffic was less dangerous than the street. The building they were looking for had a series of pink-lit windows and a sign: ‘Nightclub’, depicting a naked woman in heels reclining on a crescent moon. Without hesitating, Sabine pushed open the door.
Just inside, a heavy velvet curtain screened the room from prurient eyes. Chris pulled it back, allowing Sabine through first. The room was tiny, with a bar, a stage, which was closer to an Olympic medal-winner’s podium, and a few poorly lit tables. No more than ten people populated the room and every one of them gawped at the new arrivals. Chris had to admire Sabine’s relaxed manner as she bid the punters good evening and settled herself at an empty table. Chris sat beside her, rather than opposite, giving him a chance to survey the room.
His eyes got no further than the barmaid. The woman hypnotised him; long black curls, black sooty eyes and skin that seemed to soak up light. Laughing with one of the customers, she showed a wide, gap-toothed smile, reminding him of Beatrice Dalle. Everything about her suggested sex; scary sex, sex without boundaries, sex limited only by imagination, and he’d bet she had plenty of ideas. Nothing about her clothes was overtly revealing, but low-slung jeans hinted at a tight belly and her scoop-necked T-shirt clung to her contours as she moved. As if she sensed his stare, she looked right at him. He ordered two Cokes, relieved the dim lighting spared his blushes. Her eyes lingered for a few seconds, weighing him up, before she gave an understanding nod.
Most people sat alone, apparently waiting for something. A small, balding man perched at the end of the bar, chain-smoking, where more burgundy velvet screened another door. As Chris watched, he ducked through, spoke to someone, came back and summoned a man at a table near the door. The john downed his drink and slipped through the curtains with a nod to the doorkeeper.
“Looks like our contact is yet to arrive. Still, it’s only just eight,” said Sabine.
“Yeah. I’d be surprised if he was one of thi
s lot. Aren’t all left-wing anarchists a bit younger than this crowd?”
“Of course he’s not one of them. These men are all sad middle-aged perverts taking advantage of the economic circumstances of exploited women.”
“Sabine, keep it down. If we get asked to leave before our guy arrives ...”
A tobacco-roughened voice interrupted. “She’s right. The women are exploited and these losers are middle-aged perverts.” Betty Blue stood at their table with three Cokes. She placed one in front of Sabine, gave one to Chris with a half-lidded look and sat down opposite. “This one’s for me. It has vodka in it and officers shouldn’t drink on duty.” Her accent sounded Spanish. She grinned at them with that incredible mouth. Chris wanted to grab her, throw her over his shoulder and run through the velvet curtains.
Slipping a small leather pouch from her back pocket, she commenced rolling a joint. “I hear you want to talk to someone in the socialist action movement. Maybe I can help. No names, no inside information, but I’ll answer a couple of questions.”
Sabine seemed similarly struck by this goddess. “OK. You’re not what we expected but ... thank you for meeting us. I understand you don’t want to give us your name, but I’m Sabine and this is Chris.”
The balding man sloped off his stool and moved behind the bar to serve a customer. He looked over at their table and whined.
“Yolanda?”
Without turning, she lifted her hand, middle finger to him and returned to crumbling resin onto tobacco strands. The guy sighed and filled a glass with lager.
“And you can call me Yolanda. So, what do you want?”
Chris spoke. “We’re investigating a series of deaths. Several men, whom you might call corporate fat cats, died in suspicious circumstances. Looked like suicide, but we have evidence the same person was with them when they died.” He was pleased at the professional tone of his voice, as he suspected he might be drooling.
Sabine took over. “I’m a psychological profiler, Yolanda, and my research leads me to think this person is performing what he believes to be social justice. A diamond dealer from South Africa, an American vulture fund boss, a media magnate with fingers everywhere, a British CEO of a polluting water company ... you can see what Chris means about fat cats.”
“Yes.” Yolanda lit the joint and the sweet distinctive scent crept up Chris’s nose. “So you think this is direct action from a left-wing activist? An anarchist on a crusade? And you want me to tell you his name and where he lives?” Her laughing eyes reflected the pink lights in the opaque windows.
Chris smiled back. “That would be great, thanks.”
Sabine shot him a look. Fair enough, he was flirting with a potential informant. But who wouldn’t?
At least Sabine kept focused. “We were really looking for more of an insight into how these things work. As far as I understand, most direct action groups target material things such as buildings. But I’ve yet to find a group which advocates physical harm to individuals.”
Yolanda blew smoke into the air above them. “Ursi was right about you, Sabine. You are smart. And what you say is true. We don’t believe in violence against people. We believe property is theft. We believe information should be public. We believe in righting capitalist wrongs and redistribution of wealth. Needs not profits. But we don’t do murder.”
Chris’s ardour cooled. Sex, yes. Slogans? Such a turn-off.
Keeping his smile in place, he asked, “Property is theft? So where do you live?”
She took a long draught of her vodka and Coke, her eyes not leaving his. “In a disused railway terminal. Me and seven other squatters. You should come round sometime; I think you’d like it.”
Chris broke eye contact, knowing he was being played with. And enjoying it.
Sabine had her teeth in and was unlikely to let go. “So if your group, and those similar, don’t believe in violence to the individual, might there be someone who feels you don’t go far enough? Can you think of someone who was frustrated by such policies and wanted to go further? Maybe someone who left your group because you weren’t as radical as he hoped?”
Yolanda’s smile faded as she listened to Sabine. “Yes, such people exist. But the one thing that doesn’t make sense here is the range. People I know tend to have one cause. Anti-war. Animal rights. The diamond racket. Corruption in the pharmaceutical trade. Shit, there’s even an action group against FIFA. But not all together. Yes, a lot of people feel very aggressive towards bankers and their obscene activities and I think that’s probably the closest we’ve come to a desire for physical retaliation. What you need to understand is we’re attacking the system. We want governments to take control of the banks and use the profits for social projects. We want to massively increase taxes on the rich. We want to fundamentally change the system to serve the people and the planet, not exploit them and plunder its resources. And much as it might serve some short-term satisfaction to punch a banker in the face or drag a key along an ugly great SUV, it will not achieve change. Thought and action must work together as part of the struggle.”
Chris blinked, mesmerised by that supple, articulate mouth, those flashing, passionate eyes and the fact that some of what she said made sense to him. Sabine, on the other hand, retained her laser precision and sharp teeth.
“So you think it unlikely that a renegade activist would take it upon themselves to serially kill high-profile capitalists as a symbolic anti-establishment action?”
Yolanda re-lit her joint and nodded. “If the dead guys were all part of some kind of chain, like fur farmers, importers, fashion designers, owners of fur shops, that would make some sense. It’s just these different random men ... to me, it feels personal.”
Sabine sighed. “I agree. Thanks for your time Yolanda. I appreciate your talking to us. How much do we owe you for the Cokes?”
“Any donation you’d like to make to the cause is always gratefully received.” The laughing eyes were back.
Chris withdrew a fifty and slid it across the table. She placed a hand over his, stroked it down and withdrew the money. Her hand felt cool and soft. Chris felt precisely the opposite.
Sabine stood up and thanked her again while he mumbled a goodbye, ignoring the invitation in her expression. Thrusting his way out through the red curtains, Chris appreciated the chill evening air restoring some of his perspective.
“I have to say, Sabine, you do play the left-wing sympathiser very well. Very convincing.”
She zipped her jacket and looked up at him. “That’s because it’s not an act. As for her, useful, do you think?” she asked.
“Yes. I think she was. It sounded pretty rational to me.”
Sabine’s eyes narrowed. “I agree. Intelligent analysis. I’m going to add this to my profile tomorrow. But right now, I want to go home and have a bath. Listen, I can take a tram home, if that’s more convenient?”
Chris looked at her, puzzled. “Why would you do that? I’ll drive you.”
Her sharp little face softened into a sly smile as she glanced sideways towards the pink windows. “I thought you might want to go back in, now you’re off duty.”
He grinned. “Was it that obvious?”
“Frankly, any minute I expected you to start humping her leg.”
Chapter 20
Zürich 2012
“Kälin?”
“Hello, Herr Kälin, Frau Stubbs here. Would you be able to join us upstairs? It seems the trip to Brno has turned something up.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
He hung up.
His behaviour did not affect Beatrice in the slightest. An almost-forgotten buzz hummed through her system; this was a step forward. Her innate caution warned her not to get too enthusiastic, yet the news was a boost to the team’s confidence. She began drafting an email to Lyon in her head, while observing Xavier’s animated conversation with Chris.
Kälin arrived, his traditional scowl lightened by curiosity. Beatrice clapped her hands f
or silence.
“OK, Conceição and Xavier have some news. Over to you.”
Conceição began. “The DNA found at the scene is a match. A thirteen-point match, which means the chances of it coming from two different individuals is effectively nil. The same person was with Belanov before he died. But as to who that person is? Xavier?”
“Thank you. The Czech police had some background on Belanov. Officially a used-car dealer, he actually traded in small to medium-calibre weapons; handguns, rifles, and so on. However, the police strongly suspected his involvement with the East European grey market arms trade. They know he supplied rocket launchers, mortars and cannons to Georgia, for example. So I got the name of Belanov’s associate in Brno, Ivan Sykora, and met him at his office. He would tell me nothing about Belanov’s business, but he explained a little about the methods. According to Sykora, Belanov rented a cabin in the Brno region every year, for the duration of the arms fair. He took clients and colleagues there ‘to enjoy themselves without inhibition’, as he put it. Belanov usually did a good trade at the event and was generous with his hospitality. Sykora knew of no problem or dispute which may have caused his death. He attended the fair on the day Belanov was killed and spoke to him several times. He noticed Belanov leaving mid-afternoon. He remembered because he was with a woman he didn’t recognise. All he can recall about her is that she was good-looking and had red hair.”
Kälin’s eyes fixed on Xavier. “Anything else?”
“No fresh evidence. The police analysed the vodka bottle. Just vodka. They also checked the glasses. Clean. And I mean clean. Freshly washed and polished, but with saliva on one. Our DNA. We checked the cabin, of course, it is very remote. Belanov’s Porsche was spotless.”
“Why did they assume it was a gangland killing and not see it as suicide?” asked Sabine.
“Good question.” Conceição flicked through her notes. “It looked like suicide at first. The only factor which made them suspicious was the initial report of the forensic team. The body was found by the cleaning company the following morning, so there was plenty of blood, but the police did pick up one strange detail. Most of the skull and brain matter was spread across the floor behind him. But there was a significant amount of it down his upper arms. As if his hands had been above his head. If he’d pulled the trigger himself, his arms would have been out of the way. They think he was tied up, shot and later his body arranged to look like he’d done it himself.”
