by JJ Marsh
“‘Us guys’ enjoy vodka, before, after and even during dinner.”
He had no objection to playing to the stereotype, so long as she played into his hands.
“But can I ask you to call me Symon? In Ukraine, a good working relationship is based on friendship.”
“No problem. I like that. And you gotta call me Caroline.”
Like taking candy from a baby. In the tiny kitchen, he selected two shot glasses and poured a decent measure into each. The sound of whistling reached him, but he brushed off his discomfort. How could a Canadian be expected to know it was bad luck? He chose to focus on the moment rather than outdated superstition and headed back to the living room. She still wore her coat.
“Are you cold, Caroline? I can light a fire.”
“No, we won’t be here all that long, will we? This is such a cute cabin, Symon.”
“For me, it is perfect. I am not the businessman to sit in public bars talking loudly. I prefer discretion and privacy. So do my clients. Now, na zdorovia!”
He threw back the vodka and felt a sense of achievement as she did the same.
“Na zdorovoia!” Her eyes widened and she coughed as the liquor hit her throat. She pressed a napkin to her mouth.
“Strong stuff, huh?” she wheezed.
“A Ukrainian special. It works well with small fish snacks. Would you prefer to go to the city directly, or shall we have another, accompanied by an amuse bouche?”
“Why not? Let’s go local.”
He poured another good measure in each glass.
She touched his arm. “And you know what? I think a lighting a fire might work pretty well right now.”
It was sealed. No woman, not one, had ever drunk his vodka, sat with him in front of a crackling fireplace and left. He placed a match to the kindling in the grate and watched the flames grow. As he turned, she slid forward to hand him his glass.
“Na zdorovoia!” she smiled. They both threw back the vodka and locked eyes. Belanov was struggling. It would be wise to get the business settled before the inevitable, but he didn’t want to appear rude.
“Caroline? Do you still prefer to go to the city or would …”
She moved onto her knees, pulled his head towards her and kissed him. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and touched his. His hands reached for her, but she pressed her palms to his upper arms, pushing them behind his back. His dick danced and twitched as she confidently drew his tongue into her mouth. She moved forward, kissing him, nibbling his lower lip, pressing her body until he relented and lay back on the hearth rug. She straddled him and sat up, grinding her pelvis over the swelling in his trousers. Her blue-grey eyes, dark with lust, never left his as she reached for his groin.
He stretched his arms above his head and let her get on with it. She surprised him, unbuckling his belt, whipping it loose from the loops, and fastening it around his wrists. Just the kind of dirty slut he liked. This could be a lot of fun. She tied the end of his belt around the leg of the armchair. He yanked at the leather to see if it would give, but he was trussed like a hog. His thighs spread as she undid his flies. He grunted and pushed his hips towards her. Suck it. Take it in your mouth. Do it.
She stopped moving and he realised he’d spoken aloud. His vision was blurred, but he could see her intense eyes focused on him and the only sound was his laboured breathing. She stood up and walked away.
“Caroline! Come back! I didn’t want to …”
She was back. Out of focus, but she was back. She laid something on the sofa, and slid both hands up his thighs, meeting in the middle. His dick pulsed and strained to get at her. She clasped him and he groaned. Smooth, soft hands, rhythmic upward jerks. His eyes rolled backwards in his head. He was going to come, right there. She let go and spoke.
“Suck it. Take it in your mouth. Do it.”
He couldn’t even see what she was forcing between his lips. But it was cold, hard and had a familiar smell.
Something went off.
Chapter 8
Zürich 2012
“Beatrice, can I interrupt you?”
“Of course, Xavier. Take a seat. Have you found something?”
“Maybe it is nothing. But I wanted to discuss about it.”
The team had quickly adopted a routine, guided by Xavier’s diffident insights into how the Kantonspolizei worked. So they started between 07.30 and 08.00, and worked till at least 18.00. Lunch was early and they usually ate together. Beatrice found these sessions an excellent way of discovering more about her team. In the first few days, a rapport grew which seemed strengthened rather than shaken by the occasional unpleasant appearance of Herr Kälin. He attended the daily update at eight with almost theatrical impatience, before disappearing into his own office, only communicating by email. Suited Beatrice just fine.
“Sorry.” Xavier picked up the files he’d knocked from Beatrice’s desk.
“It’s no problem. Sit down, Xavier. It’s safest.”
He shrugged. “Sorry. I’m a ... how do you say that ... ein Tollpatsch?”
“Accident-prone, I imagine. Or failing that, clumsy.”
“Clumsy, yes. It drives Herr Kälin crazy. I wanted to speak with you about the business connections between the dead men. Something keeps coming up. D’Arcy Roth.”
Beatrice recognised the name. “The auditors?”
“Yes. They offer all kinds of financial services and consulting. One of the Big Five. Each man had a connection. The meetings van der Veld planned for the Monday after he died. One of them was with D’Arcy Roth. He was looking for a firm to handle his compliance issues.”
“That’s one of the best euphemisms for money-laundering I’ve heard yet, Xavier.”
He grinned, and a hint of pink warmed his freckles. “I’m learning to be diplomatic, Beatrice. Now, Thompson and Edwards were also clients of the same company, but were a little more than average customers. They were personal friends of Antonella D’Arcy, the CEO.”
“Mmm. That is interesting. You said all the men had a connection. Was Ryman a client too?”
“No. And this was the one that really made me think. Ryman’s bank didn’t use D’Arcy Roth at all. But the day he died, he was on his way to a polo tournament in Switzerland. To play against a team from Zürich, which included Antonella D’Arcy. They knew each other through the polo circuit and had previously played one another on several occasions.”
“That is curious, you’re right. So what do we know about this woman?”
“I already prepared a file. Details on her company, clients, and perception in the media. Also, information on her own background, hobbies and connections. This is not comprehensive, but I thought it would be helpful as an introduction.”
“You’re several steps ahead. I am grateful for all this. Perhaps I should go and have a chat with this lady.”
“Good luck. She does not have a nice reputation. Nor does the company.”
“Oh?”
“D’Arcy Roth are known informally in the business world as having the slogan; ‘No such thing as dirty money’. Apparently, they deal with anyone; dictators, pirates, drug cartels. All that matters is that you have the cash to pay their bill. People also say that she …” He puffed out his cheeks.
“What do people say?”
“They say she has balls, Beatrice. Balls of steel.”
“Really? That would be unusual. Yes, I think it’s best if I check.”
Xavier looked uncertain. “Do you want me to come with you? She speaks English, but you know, if you need me …”
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I appreciate your bringing this to my attention and doing so much groundwork. But I believe the best person to assist me in interviewing a woman with steel balls would be Herr Kälin. Don’t you agree?”
A wide, guilty smile of complicity spread across the young man’s face.
As the BMW accelerated, Beatrice gazed at the late afternoon sunshine playing on the water. She wanted to look at
the properties overlooking the lake, all leafy gardens and imposing architecture, but that would involve looking past Herr Kälin. She settled for an interesting enough view of the Zürisee.
“The ‘Gold Coast’. So called because of the wealth?” she asked.
“Money, yes. And sunshine. The sun sets on the other side of the lake, so this coast gets the last of the light.” He seemed slightly more forthcoming once out of the police buildings.
“I see.” The BMW cruised past high walls and security gates, allowing glimpses of green lawns, French windows and occasional sculptures.
“These places must cost the earth,” she said.
“They do. Similar to a town house in Kensington, I imagine. But in the area of Zürichberg, above the city, property costs even more.”
“Good grief.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, Beatrice absorbing the sense of privilege around them.
“How do you want to play this, Herr Kälin? Shall we do interviewer and observer, or would it be more effective to work as an interview team?”
“You’re the boss.”
“I am aware of that. But it doesn’t answer my question.”
He was quiet for a long time. He slowed to allow a dog walker to clear a zebra crossing. The retriever was dripping wet and carried a Frisbee in its mouth. It occurred to Beatrice that seeing as the road markings were yellow and black, a zebra crossing was rather a misnomer. A wasp crossing?
“She’s a Swiss-American. Bilingual. I think it would be better if you ask the questions and I watch. Good cop, bad cop. I will add something if necessary,” he said, eyes fixed on the road.
“I agree. That should have the right effect.” Herr Kälin’s skill as glowering, malevolent presence was beyond doubt. She hoped it was powerful enough to rattle steel balls.
The security guard examined their IDs and waved them through. The drive led up to a huge pink villa, sun reflecting from every window. The terraced gardens were well tended, with neat paths winding through blazes of yellow forsythia. Before Kälin had even switched off the ignition, the front door opened and a young woman waited to greet them. Beatrice observed the black high-collared dress, the court shoes and the serious face. The girl’s hair was neatly tied back in a bun. How marvellously old school.
“Grüezi mitenand. Mein Name ist Dina, Sekretärin und Tochter von Frau D’Arcy.” She stood back to allow them in.
“Did she say she was the secretary and the doctor?” Beatrice whispered to Kälin.
“Secretary and daughter.” His tone was dismissive, although he too was whispering. Beatrice attempted a friendly smile, but the girl’s gaze remained fixed on the floor. She offered to take their coats, giving them a moment to assess their surroundings. It reeked of money. The floor was mosaic and probably depicted some dramatic image which could not be seen while standing on it. The optimum viewing point would be the landing of the grand curving staircase which arced upwards, from right to left. Despite most of the doors leading off the hallway being closed, light poured onto a variety of thriving giant plants from a cupola far above. A chaise longue upholstered in green leather sat beneath the staircase.
“Frau D’Arcy wartet im Wintergarten. Bitte, kommen sie,” the girl mumbled and led the way through an elegant reception room. The décor was gold and green, with a fireplace and grand piano, wooden parquet flooring and several oil-paintings clearly chosen for their colours. Few photographs, Beatrice noted. More like a hotel lobby than a family room. Beyond the piano, French windows opened into a conservatory, filled with fig trees, succulents and indoor palms.
“Herr Kälin, Frau Stubbs,” the PA-daughter announced.
Antonella D’Arcy rose to meet them. Black hair swung over her shoulders like watered silk. Her grey cashmere dress managed to convey sobriety and professionalism while making you want to reach out and touch its softness. Her face had that barely there make-up which took hours to achieve, highlighting her strong bones, dark-blue eyes and wide smile. The hand she offered was pale, manicured and free of adornment, apart from the silver Patek Philippe wristwatch.
“Ms Stubbs. Herr Kälin. I am happy to welcome you to my home. Please, take a seat and allow me to offer some refreshment.” Her eyes, still smiling, flicked over Beatrice. “Ms Stubbs, it is a foolish hobby of mine to try to guess a person’s nationality. I am often wrong, but I flatter myself I am improving. My first guess would be that you are British, more specifically English. Am I terribly wide of the mark?”
In a second, Beatrice became aware of her own hands. Whilst clean and tidy, they were also dry, wrinkled, and her fingernails echoed her name. The Marks and Spencer suit seemed provincial and style-free. Her shoes needed a polish.
“Correct first time, Ms D’Arcy. Well done.”
The smile widened. Her teeth were perfect, reflecting light with as much sparkle as the diamond at her throat. “Thank you. Dina, bring tea. I presume that you are also a tea-drinker, Ms Stubbs? Or is that as much of a cliché as the Americans surviving on burgers? Herr Kälin, is tea acceptable to you?”
He nodded and Beatrice realised she was not required to answer. The girl left the room without a sound.
Antonella indicated the well-cushioned chairs and sat. “I must express my gratitude to you both. It was very kind of you to agree to meet me here rather than my office. I’m sure you realise that financial markets are immensely sensitive, and even the faintest breath of police interest in a company could sound the death knell. So I am genuinely appreciative of your taking the time to come out here. From what your officer explained on the phone, I understand your enquiry concerns the suicides of some high-profile men.”
Kälin gazed around the room while Beatrice responded. “And we want to thank you for meeting us. We are simply tying up loose ends in these cases of suicide. All these men had significant enemies. We are trying to establish if they did indeed choose to end their own lives.”
“Really? I am shocked. You don’t think someone else was involved, surely?” D’Arcy’s concerned expression seemed synthetic, like that of a wealthy politician extending sympathies towards victims of a poor nation’s catastrophe.
“At this stage, we cannot say. We’re investigating exactly what happened. Obviously, we need to explore any links between the individuals concerned. It seems one of those connections is you.”
“Excellent police work. To find a connection between all these individuals to me is quite remarkable. However, perhaps we should make a distinction, just for clarity. There is Antonella D’Arcy, the woman, and D’Arcy Roth, the company. Now, the woman has been successful, and therefore mixes in certain circles. The company provides services to forty-three countries and every kind of business under the sun. It is natural that in one guise or another, I have crossed paths with most of the biggest animals in the jungle.”
“Of course. And we are here for two reasons. Firstly, to eliminate you from our enquiries. That will be quite simple. If you can tell us where you were on those key dates, we can move on. Secondly, we hope to achieve some insight into the men who died. As someone who knew them professionally, or socially, your views could be most helpful.”
A clinking of crockery announced the arrival of tea. D’Arcy’s daughter placed the tray on the table and began distributing cups and saucers. Beatrice noted how the girl’s awkwardness grew under their silent observation.
“Thank you, Dina. That’s all right. I can be mother.” D’Arcy flicked her eyes at the girl and at the door. It was the briefest gesture, but no doubt a curt dismissal. Dina fled, apparently grateful to get away.
D’Arcy’s voice, however, was light and pleasant. “Ms Stubbs, how do you take your tea? Herr Kälin?”
As the woman observed the niceties, Beatrice observed her. She was a player. Smooth, urbane and polished, not only in appearance, but in small talk. She had prepared for their visit; Beatrice noted the laptop, Blackberry and desk diary on the table beside her. She devoted all her attention to Beatrice, barely
giving Kälin a glance. She knew who held the power and how to get at it. Small wonder she had done so well. It would take a specialist kind of arrow to pierce this finely wrought armour.
“And here is the sugar. I serve it in lumps, the British way. I hope you approve, Ms Stubbs. These are Luxemburgerli, by the way. Similar to macaroons. But they may not appeal unless you have a sweet tooth.”
Beatrice accepted one, but was urged to take two. The shiny little thing looked like a Disney hamburger. Pastel-coloured halves of meringue sandwiched together with matching cream, and small enough to fit between finger and thumb. It was delicious, dangerously so. Kälin refused the cakes, but added several sugar lumps to his teacup and stirred vigorously. He gave D’Arcy a humourless stare, as she took a pink cake and popped it into her mouth, wiping sugary fingers on a napkin.
“Oh dear. I just cannot resist Luxemburgerli. An extra twenty minutes in the gym tomorrow for me. Now, you asked about my diary. Would you like to give me the dates and we can check?”
Kälin detailed the days in question and D’Arcy found the relevant pages or screens while making pleasant small talk with Beatrice.
27 February 2007: ski weekend in Davos. Six companions. Left Friday morning, returned Sunday evening.
Did Beatrice live in central London, or further outside?
21 March 2008: Brunch with friends in Feusisberg. 10.00 to 13.00. Then they took a walk around Einsiedeln, the monastery.
Had Beatrice been there yet? It was an absolute must. The home of the Black Madonna.
Home at 16.00.
D’Arcy had done her MBA through the London School of Economics and used the opportunity to improve her British accent. She aspired to speak cut-glass British English.
Beatrice nodded. “R.P.”
“I’m not familiar with that term.”
“What they call ‘BBC English’. It stands for Received Pronunciation.” Beatrice felt a childish delight in scoring a point.
12 September 2010: Flight back from New York. Attended a remembrance service for victims of 9/11. Twenty eight D’Arcy Roth employees had perished in their World Trade Centre office. Very sad.