Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  “According to the map there should be a trail circumventing the area where I spotted the goats.” He stabbed at the aerial photograph. “There’s nothing but shale and rocks.” He handed the magnifier to Sasha.

  Sasha scratched his chin thoughtfully. “There should be a path right here.” He jabbed at the map. “It’s hardly ever used… shoots off diagonally from the main drag then links with another trail higher up, just here. This path doesn’t appear on the photographs either. Hold on!” He pulled out another batch of photographs from his valise and studied them intently. “Well, I’ll be damned! Take a look. These photographs were taken about fifteen years ago. As you can see the two paths are quite clearly visible.”

  Conrad compared the two sets of prints. Either somebody had done a very good job of touching up the pictures or the paths had been deliberately obliterated. Whoever was behind it didn’t want anyone snooping around. Whatever was up there, he intended to find out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Shropshire, England

  Wallace strode through the incident room signalling for Butler to follow. His early morning walk in the Quarry Park had cleared the fuzziness from his head. Feeling refreshed and energised he squeezed behind his desk. Before he had a chance to settle down his phone shrilled. It was Dr Barnett with the results of the lab tests.

  “The sample taken from under the victim’s fingernails was a mix of hair, skin and minute traces of fabric. Coupled with Barr tests on the hair, forensics established that her killer was probably a white male, but the tests were inconclusive. What they could say was that the hair was dyed auburn.”

  “It could have been a disguise or pure vanity.” Wallace said, “A lot of men dye their hair these days.”

  “The strand of fabric was fine mohair; very expensive,” she continued. “Only specialist bespoke tailors would use it so it shouldn’t be too hard to trace. It’s more widely used in Europe, particularly France.”

  “Could be a foreign businessman, I suppose,” Wallace suggested. “That would make it slightly easier to track down.”

  “More importantly, the girl had a very rare blood group – AB rhesus negative. Only about 1% of the population have that blood group. Oh, and she’s had an abortion.”

  “Thanks Jo, we can do a lot with that information. I’m off duty tonight. What about dinner over at my place… say about eight o’clock? Spaghetti alla carbonara and a good bottle of Rioja,” he coaxed.

  “Okay, you’ve twisted my arm. I’ll be over by seven-thirty.”

  This could be the breakthrough we’ve had been waiting for, Wallace thought. He strode back into the incident room and instructed Butler to contact the National Blood Transfusion Service. Their records would show if anyone from that particular group had donated blood. There was also a slim chance that hospitals in the area had provided blood for an AB rhesus negative patient recently.

  “DS Blakeman, take Baker with you and contact any bespoke tailors in town. See if any of them make quality mohair suits.”

  Wallace had been observing Baker carefully after discovering the girl’s body. He didn’t want him going anywhere without a DS with him. He was becoming a liability.

  “Going up to the Palace for your knighthood, are you, guv?” Baker chortled.

  Butler shot him a warning glance. Wallace’s neck flushed blood-red, but he swallowed his anger. He nodded at two young detectives.

  “Get round to the hotels. Find out if anyone wearing a very expensive suit checked in over the past few weeks. I doubt anyone would recognise it as mohair. Richards and Connolly, cover the hospitals.” He marched into his office, Butler close on his heels.

  Yawning expansively, Wallace lowered his lanky frame into an armchair across from his DS. The good news was that Howard’s AB negative blood group narrowed it down dramatically. The bad news was that only two men in that group had donated blood in the past six months. No women in the victim’s age group. If the victim hadn’t had surgery, or donated blood, it would be a hell of a job to identify her.

  Wallace slammed down his cup spilling coffee over the desk. They were back where they had started. All the GP surgeries in Shrewsbury and surrounding areas would have to be checked out.

  “I’ll make a start straight away,” Butler said, heading for the door, “but the victim may not have been local.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Wallace replied sarcastically.

  *

  Jo settled herself in Wallace’s overstuffed armchair. Mellowed by a large glass of Rioja she smiled at him provocatively over the rim of her glass. She hadn’t felt this relaxed for a long time. Wallace smiled back, but said nothing. The long silences between them were soothing rather than discomforting. They were unusually relaxed together, but he didn’t want to ruin everything.

  “I’m owed some leave so I thought I might take a trip to Switzerland,” he said breezily. “Maybe get in a bit of skiing. How would you like to come along?”

  “During the middle of a serious murder investigation?” Jo raised her eyebrows in mock horror. “What’s the catch?”

  Wallace grinned, remembering their passionate kiss after the meal at the riverside inn. Their relationship was moving more quickly than either of them had anticipated.

  “Perhaps we could combine business with pleasure.”

  “I knew it!” Jo exclaimed.

  Wallace explained that he had been speaking to Ernst Dreher, his counterpart in Geneva. They had been collaborating on and off for years after investigating an international fraud case while he was in the Metropolitan Police back in the nineties. Since then he had spent most of his winter leave with Ernst and his wife skiing in the Bernese Oberland.

  “Ernst inherited his parents’ skiing chalet. Sophia, his wife, is Italian… fabulous cook. You’ll love her.”

  He’s manipulating me again, Jo thought, but what the hell. She was rather enjoying it. Besides she had never been to Switzerland. She held out her glass.

  “Pour me another glass of wine and I may take you up on your offer. With one condition; you teach me to ski… deal?”

  “Deal,” Wallace grinned.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Geneva, Switzerland

  A flurry of snow hit the window as the plane made its final descent towards Geneva’s Cointrin International Airport. By the time they collected their luggage and left the terminal it was coming down thick and fast. Passengers huddled in warm coats waited in line for taxis. On cue, a black Mercedes swung in front of the taxi rank slithering to a halt on the slippery surface. A man in an expensive overcoat and Astrakhan Russian-style hat jumped out of the rear.

  “Ben, I’m so glad to see you,” he said warmly.

  The two men shook hands, vigorously clapping each other on the shoulder. Wallace turned around and took Jo’s arm.

  “This is Johanna Barnett, a very good friend of mine.”

  “Ah, you are very beautiful,” Ernst remarked knowingly. “Come, let’s get out of the cold. We have a chalet near Thun, but we stay in our house in Cologny during the week. It’s more convenient for my work. We’ll drive down tomorrow morning. Sophia is already there making preparations for your visit. She has a feast planned for tomorrow night. I hope you like Italian food?”

  “I love it!” Jo replied enthusiastically.

  Dreher leaned forward to give his driver instructions then spoke into his mobile phone.

  Traffic was heavy as they left the airport. It was ten minutes before they reached La Voire des Traz and finally made some headway. Eventually, they turned into the driveway of a very large house surrounded by lawns and trees heavy with snow. Dreher pressed the intercom. A metallic voice greeted him followed by a click as the lock disengaged.

  As they mounted the steps the door opened. A short, rotund man with rosy cheeks beamed at them.

  “Bon soir. It is a pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Wallace. Please let me take your coats. Coffee is ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Henri.” />
  Dreher led them across the hall into a room lined with books. Jo looked around appreciatively at the chesterfield, oversized armchairs and expensive rugs. A log fire crackled in the grate suffusing the room with a warm glow. It radiated taste. Neither his clothes nor this property were bought on a policeman’s salary, Jo reflected.

  Tall, dark hair flecked with silver swept back from his forehead, straight nose, finely-chiselled features and penetrating blue eyes. He looked every inch the wealthy aristocrat.

  “What a beautiful room and an open fire!” Jo exclaimed.

  “My little weakness, I’m afraid. It reminds me of my childhood.”

  After dinner that evening they took their brandies into the library. Wallace and Dreher reminisced about their skiing holidays in the Alps while Jo admired the books and paintings. Inevitably, the conversation turned to the real reason for Wallace’s visit.

  “I forgot to mention that Jo is a pathologist. She performed the post mortems on the victims on my patch.”

  “Sophia is a criminal psychologist,” Dreher chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll have some very interesting conversations.”

  “Actually, she could be very helpful to us,” Wallace commented.

  “Enough! Let’s enjoy the rest of the evening. It will keep until we get to Thun tomorrow.”

  Dreher drew back the heavy drapes and peered out at the curtain of falling snow. Flying into Bern-Belp airport was out of the question. More heavy snow was forecast for the area. It would take a few hours by road to Thun so they needed to make an early start the next morning.

  “I’m so tired,” Jo said, stifling a yawn. “It must be the Swiss air. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “Where are my manners?” Dreher said. “Of course you must have your beauty sleep.”

  She dragged upstairs to her room to the sound of the men laughing uproariously. Seconds after her head touched the pillow she fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Thunersee, Bernese Oberland

  Jo peered through the window at the bleak landscape. Anticipating a tiring drive they had started out early. She glanced at her watch – nine o’clock. They had been on the road for over an hour. Driving conditions were hazardous even with the efficiency of the Swiss in keeping the roads drivable. Cocooned in the warmth of the car the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers lulled her into a delicious torpor.

  A white mist hung over the Alps obliterating the peaks. It was like a monochrome painting. Dark-trunked trees silhouetted against a background of pure white. Aquamarine rivers washed of colour, like over-diluted cordial. A frozen waterfall, transformed into a giant icicle, hung suspended over the sheer mountainside.

  Jo caught her breath. Everything seemed completely still as though life had frozen in a moment of time. She shivered; there was something vaguely malevolent about the towering mountains as though they were trying to draw her in. Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic. She inhaled deeply trying to shake off the feeling.

  The lake, set like a piece of jet in a sea of ice-white, disappeared from view as they approached the entry road. A large chalet, perched on a spit of land overlooking the lake, loomed ahead. Logs were stacked along one wall in neat rows. Icicles hung low from the eaves, partially obscuring the colourful murals painted on the walls. The car crunched up the drive between pine trees and stopped in front of carved double doors.

  “Sophia!” Dreher called as they entered the hallway. “Sophia!”

  A slim, elegant woman rushed into the hall. Olive skin, high cheekbones, liquid brown eyes flecked with green. She was stunning. Behind her stood a dark-haired boy, around fourteen, with the same bone structure and graceful movements as his mother. A little girl pushed between them.

  “Papa!” she cried, running to her father.

  He swung her round and round until she begged him to stop.

  “Christian, my son, and this is my baby Bianca.”

  “I’m not a baby! I’m seven!” she exclaimed irritably.

  Dreher grinned and patted her head. “Off you go now and wash ready for lunch.”

  After lunch they settled down in front of a roaring log fire. Pleasantly full, a relaxed Wallace broached the subject of the murders.

  “Two murders on my patch. The man had been drugged and suffocated. The woman had also been drugged and drowned. Both of their faces had been mutilated after death, especially the girl. She had been carved up pretty badly. Both bodies were completely naked and wrapped in sheets. Another body was washed up on a beach in Hampshire. That one was also stripped naked and wrapped in a sheet. There are too many coincidences.”

  Wallace’s instincts told him there was something more than fishy about the case. It had to be big, so big Payne had stopped the investigations on the Chief Constable’s orders. He related how the body in Hampshire had been whisked away and everything hushed up. Dreher rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was not a man to make rash judgements or decisions.

  “What I am about to tell you is highly confidential,” he said. He glanced at Jo. “Would you mind if I talk to Ben alone?”

  “I think I’ll see if Sophia needs any help,” she murmured.

  Dreher waited until he heard the women laughing in the kitchen before speaking.

  “A man named Ethan Bateman, an American Senator, disappeared from his hotel in Geneva recently. The alarm was raised when he failed to return to his hotel.”

  Wallace shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see the connection.”

  Dreher devil-drummed on the arm of his chair then got up and paced the room.

  “When you contacted Interpol we decided to dig a bit deeper. You’re right, Ben. This is big. The man my detectives questioned turned out to be British Military Intelligence. Our local police have been warned off by security services. There’s to be no further police investigation.”

  “Military Intelligence!” Wallace exclaimed, letting out a low whistle.

  “However, this situation could have international repercussions which is why I will be working in close liaison with Interpol. We’ve both been members of Interpol Incident Response Teams. Five years ago on the human trafficking case in Eastern Europe, the international drug smuggling and those stolen art works from Paris.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “The United States is champing at the bit to find out what happened to one of their prominent citizens, especially a Senator. It won’t be long before the CIA start sniffing around.”

  “Will Lyon send out an Incident Response Team?”

  “They don’t think it’s warranted at the moment. At the same time we have to placate the Americans. You are experienced in intelligence work. I want you to be part of my team if they decide to go ahead. I’ll get in touch with headquarters in Lyon. Your superiors will be hard-pressed to refuse such a request.”

  Wallace chuckled and blew out his cheeks.

  “A meeting has been arranged with the British agent tomorrow morning at his hotel. He insists it must be off the record.”

  Wallace felt a thrill course through his chest he hadn’t felt for years. The old familiar tension tinged with excitement before an assignment. Suddenly, he felt alive, vigorous and impatient for action.

  “I’d like to see Crew Cut Charlie’s face when he hears this.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Thunersee, Bernese Oberland

  There was something vaguely familiar about the figure sitting in the hotel bar, silhouetted against the wintry sunlight pouring in from the huge windows. Wallace couldn’t make out his face. It was just the angle of the head, the slight nod to the waiter that stirred up a fleeting memory. The man stood up as Dreher approached him.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector Dreher.”

  Wallace moved from behind the heavy curtains that separated a small dining area from the bar lounge. Conrad stopped and stared at the broad-shouldered man walking towards him.

  “Well, I’ll be damned! If it isn’t Biker Wallace!” he exc
laimed.

  “You know the Chief Inspector?” Dreher asked, looking slightly bewildered.

  “Captain Ben Wallace, aka Biker, rode his Harley Davidson down Route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles, hence the nickname. We worked in military intelligence for quite a while. What the hell are you doing here, Ben?”

  Wallace related the circumstances of the murders on his patch. The body on the Hampshire coast and the similarities with a body found in Lake Geneva that eventually turned out to be unconnected.

  If Conrad was involved it could only mean covert military operations. Wallace smiled inwardly. So that’s why he had been warned off by the big brass. His little trip to Switzerland was paying off. He wanted answers and so did Dreher. Cut from the same cloth they had been trusted friends and colleagues for years. Neither of them would be fobbed off with some concocted story. It was too much of a coincidence that British and Swiss police had been told to halt their investigations.

  Conrad frowned in concentration, weighing up the possibilities. This had to be kept under wraps. If he told them everything he could risk the whole situation crumbling before he completed his investigations. If he didn’t, he suspected they would keep on digging. He was careful not to tell them about IMIC or about its activities. All they needed to know was that he was investigating the disappearance of two military intelligence officers who had gone AWOL in Switzerland.

  “Macaleer went out to find Foley who had checked out of his hotel. He didn’t return to his unit,” Conrad said. He related Ethan Bateman’s encounter with Foley and their trip to the Piz Gloria. “Foley pushed a note into Bateman’s hand telling him to ‘Contact Mac’ before running off into a throng of tourists. The senator started snooping around, tracking down Foley’s base and eventually following me here. It was Macaleer’s body that washed up in Hampshire. He had been shot in the back. It was sheer coincidence that the pathologist recognised him. We don’t know what happened to Foley.”

  Conrad still hadn’t worked out why Bateman got so involved or why he was so agitated. It was obvious he was scared stiff. He would have revealed more if he hadn’t been frightened off by the guy in the bar. They had to find Bateman and question him, if he was still in Switzerland.