by JJ Marsh
“None of that, mate. I had a right laugh getting back in the saddle. Tell you what, B, I wish you was staying longer.”
The strangest thing was, so did she.
The sun sank, leaving both coasts illuminated by the thousand individual twinkles from streets, homes and cars. Beatrice had tucked herself in for the night and found Bergerac on TV when the knock came at the door.
Kälin’s bear-like shape filled the doorway.
“Good evening, Frau Stubbs. I hear you are recovering.”
Beatrice killed John Nettles with the remote. “What a nice surprise, Herr Kälin. Please come in, take a seat.”
He sat on the window chair, his expression uncomfortable. His empty hands showed he had brought her nothing to eat.
“Does the Clinic suit you?”
“Apart from their appallingly tiny rations, yes. It’s comfortable, private and most attentive.”
“And professional. They check everything your guests bring and adjust your diet accordingly. They know what they are doing.”
“I am going home tomorrow,” she blurted.
“Congratulations. I know that makes you very happy.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to correct him, but had no idea what to say.
Kälin cleared his throat. “Frau Stubbs, I came to say I am glad we had an opportunity to work together. I learned from you and that is my definition of a good collaboration. I leave you now, and wish you every success in your future career and the very best of health.” He stood up to shake her hand.
Beatrice swallowed down her unreliable emotions, shook his hand and forced a professional, chirpy smile.
“Thank you, Herr Kälin. It was an experience I shall never forget, especially as it is likely to be my last case. But I will take many happy memories away. I wish you all the best for your future and I have one small request. I see a great deal of potential in Xavier Racine. Should you ever find yourself in a position to help his career, I would consider it a personal favour if you did so.”
“You have a good eye.”
“I used to have. None of us escapes time, Herr Kälin.”
Kälin stepped back. “As you told me once before, you are stronger than you look. You led this investigation to its conclusion through sound leadership and good judgement. Perhaps your dreams of retirement are premature.”
“Lyon may take an alternative view of what constitutes good judgement.”
Kälin walked to the door, the corridor illumination silhouetting his form and hiding his expression. “It was a tough task. Under the circumstances, your performance was not too bad. All the best, Frau B.”
The door closed.
Beatrice’s brow creased and more infuriating tears seeped out. Sniffing and stemming the flow, she barely heard the knock. The bossy nurse.
“Frau Stubbs, you have eaten far too much today. But as this is a special request, you can have one more thing before bed. Now, after you have eaten this, you must drink a herbal tea and I will check you every hour. It is not recommended for this situation.”
The smell was delicious; garlic, cheese, a hint of alcohol ... the woman placed a small plastic pot in front of her, beside a tiny plate of cubed bread. She handed Beatrice a fork.
“It is only microwaved, I’m afraid. But Herr Kälin said no one should leave Switzerland without eating a fondue. Not even in May.”
Chapter 38
London 2012
As the five-note melody announced her phone restored to life, the baggage carousel in London City Airport cranked up. Intolerably excited by the knowledge that Matthew was waiting the other side of one of those bland grey panels, she fidgeted from foot to foot. Would he have thought to get milk? They could always stop on the way home. What did it matter, he was staying for the rest of the week. Such luxury. There would be time enough to do all the galleries, to loiter in Borough Market, to while away afternoons in the second-hand bookshops, to cook, to eat, to talk. Impatience swelled and she paced around to the other side. Her suitcase, naturally, was nowhere to be seen.
Vibrations from her mobile made her jump before she heard the ringtone. She checked the screen.
“Herr Kälin?”
“No, I am Herr Kälin. You are Frau Stubbs.”
“I am aware of that, thank you. It was a question. What can I do for you?”
“It is really only a courtesy call. I thought you would be interested to know that Frau Dina D’Arcy managed to leave the psychiatric facility last night. As yet, she has not been located.”
The bloody suitcase appeared exactly at the wrong time.
“What do you mean, ‘leave the facility’? Wait a minute.” Beatrice shoved forward to drag her case off the conveyor belt. “How did she get out?”
“She was not a high-risk patient, so she was permitted to go out in the grounds. This afternoon, when someone went to find her for an appointment, she had gone missing.”
“She can’t go far. She has no money, and no idea of how to get around. Surely she’ll be picked up in a matter of hours.”
“A visitor’s handbag is also missing, containing cash, ID, a mobile telephone. I think she might get further than we think.”
“So the case is not closed at all. Do you think I should come back?”
“That’s not necessary, Frau Stubbs. The case has been assigned to another team. But they have an excellent consultant.”
“You.”
“No, they don’t need me either. They already have an expert in the form of Herr Racine.”
Beatrice beamed. “Wish him all the best from me. And Herr Kälin, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate the occasional email. Just to let me know what’s going on.”
“From Herr Racine, or me?”
“Both.”
“I’ll see if I have time. I must go now. I wish you a nice afternoon.”
“Same to you. Goodbye, Herr Kälin.”
He rang off and Beatrice dragged her case through the automatic door and into Matthew’s embrace. He looked down at her, concern showing behind his smile.
“Nice hairdo. How are you feeling, Old Thing?”
“Surprisingly full of bees. Did you get milk?”
Chapter 39
Lake Konstanz 2012
The sun sat low over Lake Konstanz; pink, purple and silver flashed in the subsiding wake of a departing ferry, like the rippling flank of a rainbow trout. The white boat churned white water, confetti after the bride, as it passed its sister ship on the opposite journey. A figure rose from the bench outside the Zeppelin Museum and walked along the lakefront to the harbour to meet it. Shadows crept across the lake as the sun faded, yet it seemed as if the boat would beat the darkness to the shore.
Passengers gathered on deck, eager to step into another country. Docking, the engines’ grinding ceased and the silence filled with the lively voices of tourists. Loud colours and opinions flickered past as the figure waited. Eventually, as the final few pensioners descended, she saw a slight, nondescript shape come along the deck, scanning the shore. Helene raised her hand, as if identifying herself for roll call. Dina lifted a palm and splayed five fingers in recognition.
Helene waited where she was. With great care, the girl stepped off the boat, almost as if it were her first time, and with similar caution, walked over to greet her. Three kisses.
Always three.
But now only two.
For Bonnie and Clive – wish you were here
Acknowledgements
Beatrice and I owe a huge debt of thanks to:
You Write On and The Bookshed for early encouragement; Lorraine Mace, Jo Reed, Anne Stormont, Michelle Romaine and Barbara Scott-Emmett of The Writing Asylum for expert guidance; Klaus Böhni, Beata Dudler, Fulvia Staub-Mastellone and family, Martin and Nicole Horler, Julie Lewis and Janet Marsh for their input on first drafts; Catriona Troth for her continuing wisdom and support; Libby O’Loghlin for her friendship and whip-cracking; Sheila Bugler, Gillian Hamer and Liza Perrat for advice, enthusias
m and teamwork; Jane Dixon-Smith and James Lane for their creativity and class; and Florian Bielmann for his invaluable opinions and infinite patience.
Also by JJ Marsh
RAW MATERIAL
TREAD SOFTLY
COLD PRESSED
HUMAN RITES
BAD APPLES
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Did you love Behind Closed Doors? Then you should read Raw Material by JJ Marsh!
Bank Holiday weekend. Sunrise on a secluded Welsh beach and Beatrice Stubbs takes some innocent snaps. The scene contains more than just cliffs and seagulls, and someone wants those pictures destroyed. But Beatrice’s mind is on other things. Assigned to the London Transport Police, she’s pursuing the Finsbury Park Flasher, trying to pre-empt a serious sexual offence. While Beatrice is distracted, neighbour Adrian and companion Matthew decide to play Poirot, and investigate the mystery of the disappearing photographs. Amateur detectives and professional criminals are a dangerous mix.
From deserted Pembrokeshire beaches, through the shadowy underpasses of North London, to the remote Irish countryside, Beatrice discovers the darker side of human nature. 978-3-9523970-6-0
