by JJ Marsh
“After that season, did you have any further contact?”
“Not much. We met once more in Argentina, for a tournament, but his team were knocked out in the first round. He deserved it.”
“Don’t you find it puzzling, Ms D’Arcy, that the only connection between these high-profile men is you, or your company?”
“No. As I explained before, I make contact with a lot of people, the vast majority of whom are still alive.”
Kälin spoke. “The dead men. Do you know of anyone else who knew them all? Any mutual friends?”
She leaned her head back and looked at the roof of the tent, silent for several moments. Beatrice had to admire how the polo kit suited her. The dark blue matched her eyes, the white jodhpurs clung to her fit, shapely legs, and her hair, escaping in damp curls from her ponytail, gave her a touch of vulnerability.
“I believe some people are acquainted with two, even three, of the men you mentioned. I’m not aware of anyone who knew them all. Yet many such individuals must exist and some solid detective work will undoubtedly bring them to light. Perhaps when you find them, you might stop hounding me.”
Kälin ignored her jibe. “I’d like you to provide us with an alibi for the third of May 2009. Here is my card; you can call me anytime on Monday.”
Beatrice stood and put away her notes. “You are quite likely to see more of us, Ms D’Arcy. A fact I dislike just as much as you. Best of luck with the tournament today. We’ll be off now.”
D’Arcy didn’t move. “I’m sure you can find your own way out. Goodbye, officers.”
Kälin led the way back into the sunshine. Maybe it was watching sport, or sparring with that woman, but Beatrice had worked up quite an appetite.
“Herr Kälin, I know it’s Saturday and you have already given up a large chunk of your free time. But I wonder whether I can persuade you to have lunch with me? We could throw a few ideas around; see if we can make some progress. What do you think?”
Kälin looked suspicious. “Only if I can choose the restaurant.”
Chapter 22
Zürich 2012
Kälin seemed on friendly terms with the staff of Restaurant Rössli and offered to choose for Beatrice. He ordered the same dish and when their meals arrived, Beatrice was glad she’d placed her trust in him. At least where food was concerned. A pat of herby butter melted into rivulets down a startlingly large steak, surrounded by golden chips. Substantial, greasy and just what she fancied. And it smelt divine.
“En guete.”
“En guete. This looks delicious.” Beatrice tucked in and chewed on a rich and juicy chunk of meat.
“If you don’t like it, we can change ...?”
Beatrice shook her head. “No, not at all. I was just thinking about today.” She tailed off, trying to grasp that elusive thought which kept returning, bouncing and vanishing again. She ate her food and, although deep in thought, relished every mouthful.
Kälin eyed her. “You wanted to discuss ideas?”
“Mmm. It’s about that woman. I can’t quite pin my finger on it, but there’s something peculiar about Antonella D’Arcy.”
“You don’t like her.”
She took a sip of red wine. “No, I don’t. And the strange thing is, it bothers her. Now why on earth would that be?”
“You judged her.” Kälin added salt to his chips.
“Yes, I did rather, didn’t I? But why ever should she care?”
“I don’t know. But your comment on her lack of conscience, at her villa, touched her. And again today, what you said about her company ...”
“Yes, I definitely seem to rub her up the wrong way. Not that she harbours a soft spot for you either. I must say, your idea to catch her off guard at the polo match was inspired.”
“As was your threat that she will see us again.” He stopped and Beatrice realised they had just exchanged compliments.
They ate in silence for several minutes.
“Would you mind ordering me another glass of red, Herr Kälin? I find it goes down very well with this steak.”
He raised his eyebrows, but did not comment and communicated her request to the waitress.
Beatrice continued. “You know, Sabine used the word ‘chameleon’ to describe our killer. It’s rather appropriate for D’Arcy, too.”
“True. She is skilled at adapting to her environment, blending into her surroundings.”
“Precisely.” The waitress brought the wine. “Danke. And what happens to a chameleon when it has camouflaged itself blue and another environment intrudes, say, orange.”
“Blue and orange? In which country is this chameleon?”
Beatrice gave him an unamused look. “What I mean is that the woman seems at odds with herself. She wanted to meet us at her home, so we would see a particular side of her. The mother, a charming woman with a weakness for macaroons. Today, she was the hard-nosed ball-breaker, out to win. It is a role, just like any other. I don’t think we’ve met the real D’Arcy yet.”
Kälin replaced his cutlery. “This is why you dislike her? Because she has two faces?”
“Partly. But I think there’s something suspicious about her performance. Two of her comments stick in my mind.”
“The dogs and fleas remark?”
Beatrice was surprised at his insight. “Yes. How can she judge Belanov’s business operations while she profits from all manner of dirty dealings? And the second was her attitude to the dead men. She asked if they might have developed a conscience. The implication being that their actions were sufficiently reprehensible to justify their sudden deaths.”
“But where does this take us? D’Arcy didn’t kill them; her alibis are solid.”
“I don’t think for a second that she did. But she most certainly runs with the horse and the hounds.”
“And this expression means what exactly?”
“She gets the best of both worlds. I think she plays the corporate cynic, but her heart is not in it. I think she genuinely despised these men and feels no sorrow at their passing. If anything, there’s a sense of righteousness. Whether she was involved or not, I don’t know. At least not yet.”
Kälin angled his head in a half-shrug, half-nod. “What are your thoughts on our press leak? Do you think it was just D’Arcy’s opportunism after my interview?”
“No, I don’t. Unless you gave her substantially more information during your second encounter, she didn’t know about the DNA. Which could still mean she leaked the information, revealing she knows far more about these deaths than any old innocent witness.”
“I gave her some extra information about the strength of our team but nothing about the reason we linked the killings. So, you’re right, she may have shown her hand. But we still should be aware the leak may have come from within.”
She met his eyes with a challenge. Deflecting attention from oneself by suspecting others was an old trick. “Yes, that thought had occurred to me.”
He stared right back, giving nothing away. “It might be worth squeezing the journalist, to get him to reveal his sources.”
“We can but try. Let’s get a bit of background and identify his weak spots.” She patted her mouth with her napkin. “Herr Kälin, your recommendation was excellent. I thoroughly enjoyed that meal.”
“Good. Would you like coffee, or shall I get the bill?”
“I’ve taken up enough of your time. Let’s pay up and head for home.” Beatrice finished her wine.
Kälin hailed the waitress. “I wasn’t sure you’d like this kind of farmer’s food.”
“Farmer’s food is my favourite sort. Solid and unpretentious. Not the sort of fare they would serve in those crisp white tents at the polo park.”
Kälin let out a short laugh. Beatrice cocked her head in enquiry.
“It would definitely be inappropriate at the polo park, Frau Stubbs. We’ve just eaten Pferdefleisch. Horse steak.”
Chapter 23
Liechtenstein 2011
His
secretary waited, as he flipped through the stack of message slips and made frequent notes. He’d noticed an air about her recently. Mouth permanently upside-down, constant worried frown and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Not the kind of attitude which added value. Ryman needed positivity, dynamism and energy. And, it had to be said, youth. Sibylle’s competence was unquestionable, but she was over forty and it showed. Ryman filed the issue as something to consider over the weekend and to act upon next week. Maybe bring in an assistant, so Sibylle could train her the way he liked, then ‘promote’ Sibylle to a position where her skills would be better used. Out of his sight.
“Right. These have gotta be done today, the rest can wait till Monday. Is there anything else, because I’d like to hit the road pretty soon.”
“No, not from my side. Your suit is ready, hanging in your closet. And I booked Restaurant Adler for your lunch meeting.”
“Sorry? What lunch meeting?”
“That journalist, Jack. You asked me to slot her in for lunch today, as you have already cancelled on her twice.”
“Hell, I don’t have time to talk to a journo today. Cancel. Tell her to put some questions in an email and if I get time, I’ll answer them.”
“No problem. I’ll cancel the reservation at the same time.” She gave a sad shrug and left the room. His mind was made up. Sibylle had to go. She should know him better than that. The last thing he’d want to do before heading off for the weekend would be a chat to a hack. Let’s face it, Sibylle wasn’t happy here and he sure as hell wasn’t happy with her. He removed his files from the drawer and laid them in his briefcase. His desk was as clear as his conscience. After a quick glance around the huge office with its view of the Kunstmuseum and the distant castle, he picked up his jacket and left the room.
Voices reached him as he locked the door, speaking that weird German he disliked. Sibylle seemed to be giving someone a hard time, judging by the tone of her voice. He rounded the corner, his expression deliberately mean and impatient. He would not be delayed. A svelte blonde in a gray suit was arguing with Sibylle, whose face registered exasperation.
“Problem, Sibylle?”
“Yes, Jack. This is the journalist who had an appointment today. She wants to reschedule your interview. I’m trying to explain to her it’s not convenient.”
The girl swivelled round and blushed. Cute. A natural blonde with a tiny nose and blow-job lips. His eyes flicked downward as he held out his hand. Slight figure, not all that much up top, but a killer pair of pins.
“Hi, I’m Jack Ryman. Listen, sorry for the inconvenience. You caught me at a busy time.”
“Melanie Roche. Pleased to meet you, Mr Ryman. I understand that today is difficult. It’s just your secretary mentioned you were leaving for Zürich this afternoon. That’s where I’m based. I was wondering if there would be a window while you’re there?”
“Not this weekend, Ms Roche. I’m playing in a polo match on Saturday and meeting friends on Sunday. I’m kinda all work or all play, know what I mean?”
“I see. Never mind. Perhaps I could return to Vaduz next week?”
“Nope. I’m leaving Zürich Sunday and flying to New York. I can’t say when I’ll be back in this office. It’s only one base of many.”
Sibylle folded her arms. “So, you see, Frau Roche, as I already explained, we’ll call you.”
A surge of irritation at Sibylle’s smug manner caused him to clench his teeth. “One second. Which paper is this for?”
“I’m freelance, Mr Ryman. But this article has been commissioned by Time magazine. They want to give the banking world a chance to voice their side. A response from the 1% to the other 99? Here’s my press pass.”
He glanced at it, his mind elsewhere. “I can give you a half hour. Let’s grab a sandwich. But I want to be out of here by one thirty. That do you?”
Her smile lifted her face from pretty to beautiful. The girl was a fox. “That would be great, Mr Ryman! Thank you so much.”
He gestured to the lift. “Talk to you Monday, Sibylle. Have yourself a fine weekend.”
Because next week, you’re gonna get one hell of a shock.
“We’ll take my car, as I need to dump these bags. Where are you parked?” he asked, as the doors opened into the basement parking lot.
“I came by train today, so I don’t have a vehicle.”
“By train? You serious? Yeah, well, I guess that’s a whole lot easier here. So how are you getting back to Zürich?”
“Same way. It’s not bad. I have my laptop so I can work, you know.”
“You got any other business in Liechtenstein, Ms Roche?”
“No, none. I only came here to interview you.”
“What say I give you a ride back to Zürich? You get to ask your questions and I get some company on the journey? That suit?”
“Really? Mr Ryman, that is so kind of you. So much more than I could have expected. I really appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.”
Placing his case on the back seat and hanging his jacket on the hook, Ryman made some rapid calculations based on optimistic forecasts. Taking the freeway would give him just over an hour. The scenic route could double the time they spent together, giving him chance to get past the interview and into the personal. Good thing he’d kept plans fluid. He opened the passenger door of the Audi S5 and she tucked herself in butt first, swinging her legs after her. Classy, very finishing school. She gave a quick, nervous smile up at him as he closed the door. She was intimidated. He liked that. Lucky girl. She was gonna get a whole lot more than she expected.
“I kinda like to avoid the freeway, Melanie. I figured we’d go up the other side of the lake. Takes a little longer, but gives you more time for questions.”
“Whatever you like, Mr Ryman. I’m just grateful for this opportunity to talk to you.”
He flashed her a benevolent smile as they emerged from the underground parking lot into the rain.
“Hell, the view’s gonna be lousy if it’s raining.” The climate irritated him. Europe always had such shitty weather.
“It might be sunny again by the time we get there. April, April, macht was er will. Do you speak German, Mr Ryman?”
“Nope. Not really necessary.” He waited for the inevitable. Just one snippy comment, lady, and you can walk. He stopped at lights in Schaan, his knee jumping impatiently.
“Oh. Well, it’s just a saying. Basically, April does whatever it wants. I suppose the language of banking is English, so there’s no need to learn anything else. You’re lucky.”
“Damn right. I’m an American. You’re a German Swiss, right?”
“I was born in Fribourg, to a French mother and a Swiss German father. So I’m half-and-half. Where were you born?”
“You know what? You can Google all that bullshit. Let’s cut to the chase here. Time magazine want you to get the bankers’ side of the story? Well, you got a banker right here, so make the most of it. I’ll tell you the truth. Because, more than most people, I can.”
They crossed the border into Switzerland and he accelerated, feeling better. Open road, a weekend of fun ahead, and on Monday, he’d be back home. The journo took a notepad from her huge handbag. Why the hell did women need such epic bags? And carrying them around on one shoulder all day; in the long-term, that’s gotta hurt.
“OK, Mr Ryman. Let’s begin. The newspapers blame ...”
“Call me Jack. And the newspapers don’t have a goddam clue who’s to blame. Here’s the thing. Everybody is a party to what goes on. No one is blameless. The banks have to take some responsibility, but not as much as the mortgage brokers, who set up the home buyers with real estate they couldn’t afford. Add that to the central banks, reducing interest rates to stimulate liquidity. Don’t forget the credit rating agencies, who gave triple-A ratings to the collaterized debt obligations, making them very attractive to those who didn’t understand them. Governments? Forget it. Their aim is to keep the big boys sweet and the people pa
ssive. So everybody’s got dirty hands. Sticking it to the banks is ill-informed, but typical.”
She took several seconds to scribble down his words, as he turned onto St Gallerstrasse. “You see these parties as equally guilty? Although the central banks’ choice to lower rates was intended to kick-start the economy, no?”
Ryman gave a tsk of exasperation. “They had to. After the dotcom collapse and 9/11, the market needed to keep cash flowing. But with lower rates, investors are forced to take bigger risks to get decent return on investment. The CDOs looked like a damn good bet. Mortgages and house prices were rising, and everyone believed they would continue to do so. You know, between 2001 and 2005, US subprime mortgages increased by 300%.”
“But that kind of growth can’t be sustainable.”
“We’re all wise after the event, right? Demand for housing was high. The economy was doing fine, people were paying their instalments, the debt obligations had guaranteed collateral. What’s not to like?”
“So what went wrong?”
Ryman was enjoying this. She had him on home ground, where he was at his best.
“The real estate bubble burst. It had to happen sometime. Prices dropped, mortgages were reset, buyers couldn’t pay, lenders foreclosed. Supply starts to outstrip demand. And now the collateral underpinning your debt risk is just part of that excess of supply.”
Approaching Gams, their upward route remained in shadow and mist, while the sun threw an enticing light on the mountains ahead as they climbed. He drove faster.
She looked up from her notepad. “So the CDOs weren’t, after all, a ‘damn good bet’. Yet the investment banks were pushing them well into 2006, after the property crisis had already hit. My research tells me that around the world, CDOs issued leapt from 120 billion dollars worth in 2005 to 475 billion in 2006.”
“You walk into MacDonald’s and order a Big Mac with fries. You’re hungry as hell and that’s gonna hit the spot. You been thinking about it for the last 50 miles and now you’re at the counter. Your mouth is watering; your nose is full of the smell of prime beef. Gimme a Big Mac with large fries. The kid behind the till says, No Ma’am, I can’t serve you one of those. I have it on good authority that in a few years time, you’ll have high cholesterol and hardened arteries. So for your own good, I’m gonna have to refuse.”
