Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  “You can’t park here,” he mouthed through the windscreen. “There’s a multi-storey car park opposite the Park Plaza, just down there.” The doorman pointed down the road to the car park on the right of the street.

  Wallace wound down the window on the passenger side of the vehicle. He whipped out his ID card and held it up in front of the man’s face.

  “Some of your colleagues are already inside, sir.” The doorman swiftly opened the door for Wallace to get out.

  He pushed through the revolving doors into the plush foyer. A uniformed constable, talking animatedly to the receptionist, stood to attention when he brandished his ID.

  “The SOCOs are up in the room now, sir. The chief inspector’s with them.”

  Wallace charged towards the lift. He stuck his foot between the doors to stop them closing, waiting for Butler who was dashing across the foyer. Impatiently, he tapped his foot until the lift doors slid open at their floor. Halfway along the corridor another uniformed officer stood guard outside the bedroom door.

  “Chief Inspector Wallace,” he said, tight-lipped.

  “Come in,” a deep voice called from inside the room. A thickset man, dark hair receding to the middle of his head, stepped forward.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Harris,” he said, holding out his hand. “The SOCOs found a few hairs in the bathroom, fingerprints on the window catches and door handle and some tiny strands of fabric in the wardrobe. A number of people have stayed in the room since Alex Campbell’s departure.

  “Do you mind if I take a look around?” Wallace asked, struggling to sound civil.

  He had to tread carefully. He was on somebody else’s patch, always a delicate situation at the best of times.

  “Be my guest. We’re almost done here. I’ll let you know the outcome as soon as I get the results back from the lab. It’s highly unlikely you’ll find anything more. If you do I expect you to send it over to our forensics.”

  Harris followed the white-suited SOCOs into the corridor while Wallace and Butler lingered in the middle of the room.

  “Bag anything you think might be important,” Wallace said.

  “But sir, we’re can’t do that! It’s not our patch.”

  “Just do it! I’ll take responsibility.”

  Normally, he would have stuck to the rules, but this was too big to take any chances. There was little evidence of anything except a few bits of lint on the carpet. Wallace doubted that the SOCOs would have missed them. Harris was right; they had done a very good job.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. According to the barman Alex Campbell was a snazzy dresser; probably the type who would always be well groomed. He picked up the guest information folder and thumbed through it. Facilities for executive room guests included a valet service. He picked up the telephone and dialled reception.

  “This is DCI Wallace. Are you able to tell me if an Alex Campbell used the valet service?”

  Wallace heard a muffled conversation on the other end of the line before a receptionist answered.

  “Hello, sorry to keep you waiting, sir. Yes, he did use the valet service just after he arrived. He wanted his suit pressed.”

  “I want to talk to the valet and examine the room where the pressing took place. I’m on my way down to reception now,” Wallace growled.

  When he and Butler reached reception a shaven-haired man, wearing a gold earring, was waiting for him

  “I understand that you pressed Mr Campbell’s suit.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied nervously. “It was a very expensive suit – classy. Charcoal-grey pinstripe. He gave me a very generous tip.”

  “I’d like you to show me the ironing board you used.”

  The valet shrugged his shoulders and motioned for Wallace to follow him. “This is it,” he grinned. “It’s all yours.”

  The scowl on Wallace’s face stopped him in his tracks. He was in no mood for inane banter.

  “Have you used this particular ironing board for any other guest since you pressed Mr Campbell’s suit?”

  “Actually I haven’t, sir, it’s broken. It collapsed in the middle of ironing the trousers. They caught on the metal when it collapsed, just there on the iron rest. It couldn’t be helped, sir.”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t get into any trouble. Just go back to your work.”

  The valet scurried away like a frightened rabbit. Butler smothered a grin. He knew what it was like to be the object of his DCI’s wrath.

  Wallace squatted next to the ironing board and examined it, running his hand over the fabric. He picked up a thread with a tweezers and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. He collected a few more bits of lint, a couple of hairs and another minute strand of fabric. Carefully, he dropped them into the bag and sealed it. He knew he would have to send the samples to Harris, but not before his own guys had had a chance to examine them.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Shrewsbury, England

  Rain slashed against the windscreen. A cold wind howled through the trees in a frenzy of uncontrolled movement. Overhead, the sky was black and heavy with a blanket of unbroken cloud. Torrential rain, day after day, threatened to swell the Severn River and flood the lowlying areas above its banks. Shrewsbury town centre was too elevated to flood, but it would have a disastrous effect on business if the town was cut off again.

  Water cascaded down the windscreen as soon as Wallace switched off the engine. Pulling his collar up tightly around his ears he struggled to open the car door against the force of the wind. Dodging puddles, he ran into the police station and bounded up the stairs to his office. He took off his trench coat and smoothed back the hair plastered across his forehead. It’s well overdue for a trim, he thought.

  Settled at his desk, Wallace picked up the telephone. With growing anticipation he punched in a number.

  “Jo, have you got anything for me yet?”

  He was waiting for the results from the pathologist and forensics.

  “The skin samples found under the victim’s fingernails were male. Unless you have some suspects lined up to give DNA samples, there’s nothing more forensics can do.”

  Wallace groaned. They were going back to square one again. His only hope was to establish a stronger link between Joanne Howard and Alex Campbell other than that they had met up as mere travellers.

  “It was the same for the fabric samples. Hang on, I haven’t finished yet,” she complained, sensing Wallace’s impatience. “Most of it was of no importance, but… ”

  “What is this, the bloody X Factor? Spit it out!” he said rudely.

  “I’m rather busy. I’ll send you a report in due course,” Jo replied coldly.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m strung out with this case, more than you could possibly realise.”

  “One of the threads you found on the ironing board in Cardiff was exactly the same fabric as the suits found in Joanne Howard’s cottage. I suppose they could have bought them from the same tailor.”

  “Perhaps. Don’t forget Howard bought hers in Shrewsbury. We don’t know where Campbell purchased his suit.”

  “Didn’t you say the tailor shipped in the material from France?”

  “Yes, from Paris.”

  “So, it’s more likely Campbell bought his abroad.”

  “That’s a possibility. It’s only a hop, skip and jump from Switzerland to France. Thanks Jo, you’re a genius.”

  “Do I get a reward?”

  “Dinner at my place, around eight. It’s a filthy day. If it’s a filthy night you can stay over. I’d hate to see you get stranded in the rain,” he said wickedly.

  “I’ll bring my toothbrush.”

  Jo grinned as she replaced the receiver. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t get involved with a policeman again, but Ben was getting under her skin.

  Wallace replaced the receiver and sat staring into space mulling over what Dreher had told him. Forensics had already established that the fabric samples found in the Hi
lton Hotel and Joanne Howard’s cottage were a perfect match. To all appearances, he and Howard had only met for the first time on the plane from Geneva. Was he just a predatory killer picking women up for pleasure before murdering them?

  Judging by the information received from her staff and neighbours, Joanne Howard was hardly a shrinking violet. Not the type of woman to be easily duped. It could be a ploy to divert attention away from the fact that they already knew each other. He was convinced they both worked for the same organisation. If that were the case, why was she living in Shropshire?

  With Dreher’s help it shouldn’t be too difficult to track down tailors that specialised in expensive mohair suits. Of course, they couldn’t rule out the killer being a woman. He thought about his female, power-dressing colleagues and winced. Why did women want to dress like men?

  Mind whirling with possibilities, he picked up the telephone again and punched in a number.

  “Conrad,” a voice answered.

  Wallace described the events in Cardiff and the new evidence they had uncovered. “Dreher is looking into it. I have a notion that there are more than expensive suits linking Howard and Campbell.

  “I agree, there are too many coincidences here. Howard belonged to a covert organisation. Macaleer and Foley were murdered by the thugs in the facility I uncovered in the Alps. Colin Lynes was murdered by the Russians, because he had become involved with the same group. If this Alex Campbell murdered Howard then either he’s part of the Russian security services or he’s one of the Generalissimo’s men.”

  “If that’s the case why kill her?”

  “She may have been trying to get out of the organisation. They couldn’t risk her spilling the beans.”

  “Maybe, but we won’t know until we can track down Campbell and bring him in for questioning.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Zinzli and his men had covered every bespoke tailor’s in Geneva, Zurich and Bern. It was highly unlikely that such a business would exist outside the cities. So far their investigations had been fruitless. Holding the receiver in one hand, he sipped a cup of scalding coffee with the other. Bastien Zinzli was a patient man; meticulous, methodical and cautious. A man who could be trusted to get things right. That’s what made him a good detective. He was waiting for information from Inspector Pascal Gaudet in Paris. He put down the coffee when the fax machine beeped. Quickly, he scanned the pages.

  Gaudet had tracked down the shop using the photofit he had sent him. They only specialised in bespoke suits using the finest cloth; a bit like Saville Row in London.

  ‘Campbell went in to order a suit quite recently. One of the staff vaguely remembered taking his measurements, but his recollection was hazy due to a hangover after a party the night before.

  There was also a seamstress who gave a positive identification. Apparently, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, because he was so striking and charming. But there was something about the way he looked at her; something about his eyes that frightened her. The customer didn’t use the name Alex Campbell. As far as the seamstress was concerned he was a Frenchman. He spoke the language fluently with a very cultured accent. He paid a deposit under the name of Pierre Fournier.’

  Zinzli knocked on his Chief Inspector’s door and went in without waiting for a response. Dreher looked up enquiringly, twiddling the Mont Blanc fountain pen Sophia had given him for Christmas.

  “That’s the gist of it, sir.” Zinzli handed over the fax. “From the description given by the valet and barman at the Hilton, Gaudet thinks it may be our man.”

  “Are you sure the seamstress was positive about him being French? It’s possible Campbell could be posing under a false name and different nationality.

  “Absolutely positive. He ordered two suits in the same fine mohair, one with a waistcoat. He didn’t give an address, only his name and mobile phone number to contact him when the garments were ready for collection. Other than that there have been no sightings of him in Paris.”

  “Have there been any sightings of him in Geneva or the Bernese Oberland?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What reason would he have to use a false name?” Dreher tapped his lips with the pen. “Certainly not to buy a suit.”

  “Why would he go to the Bernese Oberland?” Zinzli interjected.

  “A man of a similar description was reported to the police in the Interlaken area a few weeks ago,” he lied. “A young woman claims he tried to assault her. It’s worth a try. Do you ski, Bastien?”

  “Yes, my grandfather taught me as a child.”

  “How would you like to do a bit of skiing in the Interlaken area over the weekend? Take Dupont with you; a couple of friends on a weekend away from the wives. Don’t attempt to question anybody. Just keep your eyes and ears open. And don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

  “But sir, what will I tell Dupont?”

  “Leave that to me. I’ll tell him there’s been a sighting of Campbell in the area, but that it’s surveillance only. No contact with the suspect, under any circumstances, is that clear?”

  Looking very confused Zinzli headed for the door then stopped, his hand on the door handle.

  “You can trust me, sir,” he said.

  “I know, with my life, but for now you will have to trust me on this.”

  Zinzli nodded and quietly closed the door behind him.

  All Zinzli needed to know was that they were on the track of a murderer who had flown from Britain to Switzerland. Sighing, Dreher rested his arms on the desk. He would have to confide in him, but he couldn’t tell him everything, not yet. Not until they had more information about the organisation in the Alps. First he would speak to Conrad and Wallace. In the meantime he needed Zinzli to keep an eye on the hotel where Foley and Bateman had been staying.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Bernese Oberland, Switzerland

  Feathery flakes of snow floated down like gossamer, settling on pavements and cars as Zinzli negotiated the Hoheweg. In the distance, dark clouds moved ominously across the Jungfrau Joch. A light dusting of snow covered the pavements outside the Victoria Jungfrau Grand Hotel. The hotel where Ethan Bateman and Foley had stayed.

  “This will cost a small fortune,” Dupont remarked, noting the plush foyer of the five-star hotel.

  “Dreher said that Campbell wouldn’t stay in a cheap hotel. It’s not his style. Don’t worry about it. He has to justify the expense, not us.”

  Even though they were booked into a standard room, it was plush enough to put a smug look on Dupont’s face. His sergeant was a decent man, good with the grunt work, but not over-endowed with brains or investigative skills. Zinzli hadn’t questioned the reasons Dreher had given him for their trip, but he felt certain that there was more to it than he had been told. Usually, surveillance meant dreary hours sitting cramped up in an unmarked car, not staying in a plush hotel.

  He hadn’t told his wife he was going skiing, only that they were following a suspect. She wouldn’t have prepared the sausage-filled baguettes he scoffed on the journey if she knew he was going off on what she thought was a ‘jolly’.

  “Let’s go down to the bar,” Zinzli suggested. “We can have a quiet drink while we look around.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” Dupont replied.

  “Remember, we’re on duty. This weekend isn’t for pleasure.”

  “A couple of drinks won’t hurt. Besides it would look odd if we just sat there with lemonade.”

  “Okay,” Zinzli conceded, “but stay sober. We’re here to work. Dreher will be on our backs Monday morning looking for results.”

  In the foyer a waiter stood sentinel over a table filled with glasses of champagne, handing them out as people passed into the lounge bar. He raised an eyebrow at Dupont when he reached out to take a glass. Zinzli nudged him and shook his head.

  “It’s for the conference members, idiot! They’re all wearing lapel badges.”

  “
They wouldn’t miss one,” Dupont complained.

  The lounge area was crowded with men in dark business suits and women in smart cocktail dresses. Talking animatedly, they quaffed champagne as though it had just been invented. Zinzli scanned the group looking for anyone who resembled the photofit picture in his wallet. They threaded their way through the mass to the bar and grabbed two stools.

  “Zwei bier, bitte,”

  The barman poured two beers and placed a dish of roasted peanuts down in front of them. Dupont immediately grabbed a handful and stuffed them into his mouth. Still munching he asked,

  “What time is dinner?”

  “Let’s give it a little while. We’ll wait until this lot have left. Just keep your eyes peeled,” Zinzli answered impatiently.

  Forty-five minutes later, people started drifting out of the lounge into the foyer. A plump, bespectacled man ushered them towards the glittering La Salle de Versailles. Zinzli casually walked along searching the crowd for any sign of Campbell. He caught a glimpse of glittering chandeliers and round tables with pristine white tablecloths set for dinner.

  Only five people remained in the bar, mostly casually dressed. Two middle-aged women, heads together in deep conversation, a man sitting alone reading a magazine and a dreamy-eyed young couple holding hands. Zinzli sighed and puffed out his cheeks.

  “This is a waste of time. Campbell may not even be in Switzerland. Come on, let’s eat.”

  Dupont was off the stool and heading for the dining room before Zinzli had finished his sentence.

  “We could show the photofit at reception. The doorman may recognise him,” Dupont suggested.

  “Dreher doesn’t want us to arouse suspicions at the moment,”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Neither do I,” Zinzli muttered.

  After dinner they drove up as far as the funicular at the foot of the Harder Kulm and back down the Hoheweg.

  “We’ll have a better chance of spotting him if we walk,” Zinzli said, pulling into a small car park.