Behind Closed Doors

by JJ Marsh

  “You know not one of them is Swiss? The housekeeper is Croatian, the gardener comes from Greece and the security guard, who’s also her driver, is Lebanese. Which reminds me, she took two other members of staff with her. Her bodyguard and her daughter, or secretary. We should test them tomorrow morning.”

  “We will. What a life that woman leads. Private jet, staff of five, fabulous villa. Seems dirty money is rather profitable.”

  “Hmm. What were you looking at up there?”

  “The floor. It’s a mosaic, a beautiful piece.”

  “Modern art?” Sabine asked, as she watched shoppers along Löwenstrasse.

  “Classical. Women with water jugs. Put me in mind of Rossetti.”

  Sabine gave her an indulgent smile. “Not a name I know, Beatrice. My kind of artist is more Warhol or Lichtenstein. Have you been to the Kunsthaus yet?”

  “Yes, very enjoyable it was too. I loved those dark Nordic Expressionists. And the Chagall room was a joy. In fact, tonight I’m off to see some more.”

  “Yes, I like Chagall, too, although I prefer Matisse. Less ambiguous. Cleaner.”

  At a loss as to how to respond to that, Beatrice checked her watch.

  “So, it’s four thirty. Let’s go and see how the boys got on with the toys.”

  Chapter 32

  Zürich 2012

  “You sure you wouldn’t like an apple, Herr Kälin? We have plenty of our healthy picnic left.”

  Kälin smiled. “I will have dinner later, thank you Herr Keese. En guete. Enjoy your meal. I am only here to ...”

  “Ensure there are no mistakes?”

  “No, not really. True, I have some authority reasons for being here. But my main purpose in observing is to learn. At my age, Herr Keese, I need to keep learning.”

  The detective’s sudden humility and politeness took Chris aback and he instantly dropped the macho stuff. The problem with Kälin was you never knew when to hold up your hands, or come out fighting. That feeling of handling explosive material reminded Chris of his ex-girlfriend.

  The basement area was smaller than their workroom and proximity unavoidable. Kälin, if he wanted to stay, would be up close. There was no room for hostility.

  “OK, Herr Kälin. I’m happy to share what I know. So far, we’ve imaged the hard drive. Everything on Richter’s machine, and I mean everything, is now on these little dynamos.” He patted the laptops in front of him.

  “So, after you copy the hard drive, what next?” Kälin asked.

  Xavier, illuminated by the semi-circle of blue screens around them, corrected his superior. “It’s not a copy, it’s an image. While we make an image, we write-protect it. So no one can alter data during the process. That ensures our image is an exact replica of the original.”

  Chris shot Xavier an impressed look. “He picks up pretty fast. Right, so the original hard drive goes under lock and key. That’s one of the reasons you’re here. Chain of custody. And we continue our work on these. But we’ll need to hash again sometime tomorrow.”

  Xavier nodded, frowning and watching the movements on the screens. Kälin stood in silence and asked no questions. Chris took another mouthful of water, waiting. It didn’t take long.

  “Once I take charge of the original machine, what will you do with the image?” Kälin’s curiosity was as wild as Xavier’s, but the old sod held back, as if uninterested. Chris swallowed and began his explanation, trying not to sound too excited.

  “When we’re sure the source data has not been corrupted and made sure it is safe for later reference, we start exploring. I want to know everything that’s on here; obvious, hidden, deleted, encrypted, protected, and temporary files. I want to know what all the gaps are, why there’s unallocated space and where there’s slack. Finally, I want to produce a map of this machine. When we can see, as a geographer can, the valleys, tunnels and caves, we know where to dig for the hidden treasure. The only thing I cannot know is how long this will take. Sometimes, you get lucky and your first strike turns up gold. But those times are rare. We’ll probably be here all night and we may have to call for more refreshments.”

  Xavier beamed. Kälin’s eyebrows joined.

  Chris reached for the mouse and continued. “Armed with our map, we’ll split up. I intend to go for the areas which ... Beatrice! Hello ladies!”

  Conceição and Sabine followed Beatrice into the room, bright with curiosity.

  “How are you getting on?” Beatrice enquired.

  Chris leant back with a smile. “Well so far, we’ve satisfied the compliance requirements. Now we can get to work.”

  “I see. I just wanted to tell you that it’s approaching five o’clock and we have already done ten hours today. How much longer do you intend to keep going? And is there any way we can help?”

  Chris let his eyes fall in stages from Beatrice to the floor. No one spoke, afraid to disturb his concentration.

  “When does D’Arcy get in?” he asked.

  Kälin answered. “At seven-twenty tomorrow, her private jet arrives at Kloten. We’ll be there as her welcome party. And we intend to bring her here, to ask her some questions.”

  “Right. In that case, why don’t you leave me and Xavier to get on with this? You have a busy, difficult day tomorrow. I’d like to get something decent to eat and then start some serious work, without distraction. I’m happy to keep at it until I feel I need a break.”

  Xavier’s head bobbed agreement before Beatrice could formulate the question. Kälin’s shoulders lifted a centimetre as he met Beatrice’s eyes, while Conceição and Sabine looked relieved.

  Beatrice sighed. “Yes, Chris is right. Much as I feel guilty about leaving you two on the night shift, it does make sense for the rest of us to take a break now. But the least I can do is order something for you both. What would you like for dinner?”

  The two men spoke as one. “Pizza.”

  “Naturally. That well-known brain food.”

  “Beatrice? Sabine and I were also thinking of getting a take-away and going back to her apartment. We thought we could discuss the developments over a glass of wine and share any thoughts. Would you like to join us?” Only Conceição’s head was visible, as she leant back around the office door.

  “How kind of you to include me. And how dedicated you are to continue working. You give me a twinge of guilt, off out to enjoy myself. I’ll decline, Conceição, but only because I have a prior arrangement. Thank you for asking me, though.”

  “No problem. Are you going somewhere nice? It’s not a hot date with Kälin, is it?”

  Beatrice’s head snapped round. “You are getting as lippy as your boyfriend! No, once I have completed all the paperwork here, I am joining an acquaintance for an evening of culture, as a matter of fact.”

  Conceição appeared to be suppressing a smile. “Well, don’t stay in the office too long, you deserve a break. Enjoy your culture and we’ll be in for seven in the morning, just in case you need us. Have a nice evening, B.”

  “You too.” The door closed before Conceição’s over-familiar address registered. The lack of respect in this team was a disgrace, she thought, picking up her mobile to dial Madeleine. She was still smiling when she left the office.

  The handover of Helene Richter’s original machine was a solemn occasion. A trolley was delivered by two uniformed officers, the computer loaded onto it and the entire ensemble escorted to the evidence safety vault, under the supervision of Herr Karl Kälin.

  “Schöne Abig mitenand,” called Xavier, folding up the empty pizza boxes into the bin.

  With their return wishes dying in the clunk of the closing door, Chris turned to Xavier with a huge sigh.

  “We’d better get to work. Another Friday night and I still haven’t managed a date with Conceição.”

  Xavier laughed, settled himself in front of his screen and shook his head. “Perhaps you’ve missed your chance already.”

  “No way. It’s just a matter of picking the right moment. But I d
on’t have too many moments left. How is it possible that we’re closer to cracking the case than I am to cracking that woman?”

  Xavier twisted round to look at him. “Probably because you’re not her type.”

  “What do you mean? I’m everyone’s type. Tall, good-looking, modest ... Don’t tell me you think you’re in with a chance?” Chris faked outrage.

  “No, not at all. But that’s the difference between us; I know when a case is hopeless. Now the clock is ticking, so where should I start?”

  “You’re right, let’s attack. I’m going underground, you’re patrolling the surface. I’ll check everything that looks suspicious; deleted, encrypted, odd blanks. You search her ‘open’ files; documents, emails, website history and build me a picture. And Xav, if anything looks funny to you, it is. Tell me as soon as something doesn’t feel right.”

  Chris had no truck with auras, but right at that moment, Xavier was glowing like a hot coal.

  Bullshit. So much bullshit. The clock read 18.27. Chris was already bored and the pizza had made him sleepy. Yawning, stretching and occasional deep breaths were no longer effective. He looked over at his colleague; intense, keen and extremely annoying.

  “Pssst.”

  No response.

  “Pssst!”

  Xav pressed his fingers to his ears. Chris couldn’t believe it. He stood and went over to administer some gentle violence. But before he got close enough to yank on Xavier’s ear, he saw what was on the screen.

  Art. A depiction of a figure in a chair, maybe an electric chair, with updraughts of air or light or electricity, and a man in purple screaming his head off. Hideous, raw picture of pain. Not nice. Who would ever want to look at that? Using his knee, he nudged Xavier, who lifted his upper arms, threaded his hands behind his head and stretched.

  “You already want to take a break, or ...?” Xavier’s face bore no traces of weariness.

  “Yeah, I’m flagging.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Nope, not yet. But I’ll be more effective after some coffee. What is that you’re looking at? I think it will give me nightmares.” Chris couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen.

  “Images she downloaded from the may-not-know-much-about-art forum. She was a busy member on there, but only at specific times. I looked at her web history, you see, and focused on the six months before these deaths. This is what I found. I cannot really see a pattern, but she is active for weeks, sometimes months before one of our guys’ deaths, but completely silent in the weeks just after. It feels funny, Chris.”

  Coffee could wait. “Say that again. She looks at these images from a public forum for months before the guys go down, then doesn’t touch it in the weeks just after a death? In all cases?”

  “No, there’s a strange slip in 2011. She’s consistent until early January and then goes quiet. After that, early March to April, which was when Ryman died, she’s almost constantly online. I just wondered if this site could be a way of passing information. Encrypted, or coded, or ...”

  Chris’s mind cleared and a possibility smacked his forehead.

  “This activity you describe – is she just posting, or uploading, downloading, what?”

  Xavier looked at a printout. “Mostly downloading, but a lot of commenting too. Endless thank-yous. Very few uploads.”

  “Uh-huh. It could be. What’s she downloading? Art images, digital photos, JPEGs, documents, what is it, Xav?”

  “The site is for amateur art lovers. Pretty small. Around 60 members and they seem to work like a book club. Discuss an artist, share your images, have a chat. It doesn’t seem to be anything exciting, just people talking art. I only noticed the activity records and matched them to the dates.”

  “She chats and what else? What else does she do on this site?”

  “As I said, she downloads. She and another user are fans of this artist,” Xavier spread a palm toward the screen. “And they share pictures, talk about them, and that’s about it.”

  Chris kept his voice cool. “Richter downloaded what exactly?”

  “JPEGs of fine art... I am still counting how many painting files she has from the same artist. But she uploads very little. An article on him, a story she heard, but no images.”

  “Articles and paintings of which artist?”

  “Francis Bacon. British. He died in 1992. He did a lot of triptychs. Like this one. The first thing she downloaded.”

  Xavier clicked on the icon and Chris craned in to study the three rectangles. The title below the image read, Three Portraits: Posthumous Portrait of George Dyer, Self Portrait, Portrait of Lucien Freud. The figures were strangely twisted and deformed, features like gargoyles, and pools of black seeped from them, like oil-slick shadows. The space in which each figure sat had a marbled floor, and yellow and blue walls, empty but for the photographs in the background of the left and right panels. A photograph within a painting; it made for an odd contrast.

  Chris’s mind whirred up like a drill. Images within images. Hiding something by not hiding. Something else, there was something else. Receiving large amounts of coded information. He looked again at the smudged faces.

  “Xavier, you ever heard of steganography?”

  Chapter 33

  Zürich 2012

  Kälin’s BMW pulled onto Kasernenstrasse, nosing its familiar route towards Adliswil. The Mondeo swung out soon afterwards, remaining a good distance behind, as if it knew its destination. Friday evening traffic made for heavy going until they hit Manesse, when the motorway opened up the flow.

  As usual, Kälin took Route 4, heading south. The figure at the wheel of the Mondeo relaxed. Alles in Ordnung. All going like clockwork. Kälin’s dull routine was unchanged. No supermarket stop tonight; it appeared he was going straight home. Which was exactly as it should be.

  While Kälin remained inside his apartment, the figure remained in the car, checking the paperwork, memorising every detail so that nothing would be unexpected. Sure enough, the detective, wearing jeans and a casual jacket, left home at six-thirty and turned left along Austrasse. The figure gave it a few moments before following on foot. Kälin turned right onto Bahnweg, checked for oncoming trains and crossed the railway tracks.

  There was no need to check. Trains ran this line at ten minute intervals during rush hour, and the last one had gone through five minutes ago. The figure knew the timetable by heart. As they progressed further into the industrial estate, it became increasingly difficult to keep the target in sight without being seen. But there was no need for concern. Kälin never deviated from his routine.

  He made for the working man’s bar tucked away behind the paint factory. As the figure passed and glanced in, Kälin was shaking hands with three men at the back. Sitting at the bar to observe was not an option. So the figure sat at an outside table, ordered a coffee, engaged the waitress in conversation regarding the menu and watched. None of Kälin’s companions looked familiar. One older man began dealing cards. It was Jassen night, which could take several hours.

  Perfect timing. Some other chores needed completing. The figure paid for the coffee and headed back to Austrasse. Nothing to worry about. The routine was always the same. Kälin would drink three beers, eat two sausages, play a few hands and walk home alone.

  Across the railway tracks.

  Chapter 34

  Zürich 2012

  Heat rose from the street, people slung jackets over their shoulders and pavement cafes filled with sunlit smiles. Beatrice found herself approving of the world in general, spreading the late afternoon warmth. She trotted along the river side of the street, water sparkling in her peripheral vision. One of Ken’s crumpets would have gone down a treat, but there simply was no time. She would have to call him in the morning.

  Madeleine was due at seven. Culture and companionship tonight, coupled with the prospect of unearthing the truth tomorrow made Beatrice almost giddy. Her pinkish blouse would do, with a pair of navy slacks. She stopped, realising she had
left her jacket in the office. Never mind, the blue pashmina, her birthday present from Tanya, would suffice instead. Rather a colourful ensemble for a change.

  Approaching the turn-off to her street, she saw Madeleine crossing the road, looking for all the world like Lee Miller. Her blonde waves bounced off her white shirt, her khaki trousers were fastened with a leather belt and she carried an enormous designer bag. She noticed Beatrice, waved and hurried to meet her.

  “I’m so happy you could make it. Your evil employers released you for the evening?”

  Beatrice grinned. “Just. You look wonderful! Can I have five minutes to change?”

  “Sure, go ahead. I’m way early but I thought we could have an aperitif before we go. I just need to hit a store to get a couple ingredients. We got plenty of time. The concert starts at eight, so we can wander up and peek at the church windows with a half hour to spare. Shall I come up in about ten minutes?”

  “Ideal. See you then. Just tap on the door, room 305 and come on in.”

  Dumping her bag on the sofa, Beatrice picked up her mobile and dialled as she began to disrobe.

  “Matthew, it’s me.”

  “Hello, Old Thing. You’re early tonight. I’ve just come through the door. You checking up on me?”

  “Yes. And it seems with good reason. I hear voices.”

  “You should see someone about that.”

  “There, I mean. In the background. You have someone with you. No, there’s more than one and they’re both female. A pair of Swedish masseuses?”

  “Tarnation. I’ve been rumbled. Ingrid, Greta, I’m afraid you’ll have to pack up the birch twigs. My other half disapproves.”

  Beatrice heard Tanya and Marianne laughing and calling their greetings.

  “Hello Beatrice!” Both added a comment, but Beatrice only caught ‘... eye on him’, and ‘cuckoo clock’, amid some strangely simian grunts, which may have been Luke.

  “Hello back and give them all a hug from me. You have your hands full this evening, then?”