The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  A blonde woman in a Grace Kelly dress and white neckerchief stood beside her, looking up at the board. She glanced at Beatrice and gave a polite smile. It took a considerable effort for Beatrice to do the same. Then the woman did a double take.

  “Oh, hello again. I recognise you from Big Ben. The tea shop? You’re the crossword expert, right?”

  Beatrice gawped at the woman for a moment before her memory recovered itself. Glossy blonde hair, a perfectly made-up face and astonishingly white teeth; the Tatler woman.

  “Yes, well. I can hardly be called an expert. I seem to recall you were the one who assisted Ken.”

  “That was a one-off. I’m normally useless with those things. So when I figured it out, I just couldn’t keep it to myself. I’m Madeleine Lassiter.”

  “Beatrice Stubbs.” She shook the proffered hand, observing that Madeleine was married and wore false nails. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here. So, where are you headed today, Beatrice?”

  A panicky sense of incompetence swelled in Beatrice’s throat. She looked back at the board and grabbed a name at random. “Interlaken. I’ve heard it’s beautiful. And you?”

  “Oh, I’m not actually travelling. But some Sundays, when my husband has to work, I just like to come down here and enjoy the bustle. There’s not a whole lot else to do with all the stores closed and I get bored of my own company.”

  The woman’s truthful reply touched Beatrice. “I know what you mean. I usually organise trips for myself at the weekends. Keeps me occupied.”

  “I hear you. Say, you’re a little early, aren’t you?”

  Beatrice checked the departure time and saw she had picked a train due to depart in forty minutes. Small talk with a stranger would be an excellent distraction.

  “Yes, I have a pathological horror of being late. But I was planning to have a cup of coffee first. I wonder if you’d like to join me?”

  “Sure, I’d like that. How about that place?” Madeleine indicated some incongruously rustic benches in the main hall. “We could sit outside and people-watch. And that way I can smoke, too.”

  She pulled open her bag and dug out some cigarettes, offering the pack to Beatrice.

  “I don’t, thank you.”

  “Good for you. I’d given up until I got here. Seven years as a non-smoker. But you’re never really free of the weed.”

  “No, I suppose not. I never tried, so I think I’ll keep it that way.”

  At least Madeleine was considerate, fanning the smoke away, as they settled at a table outside Brasserie Federal. Beatrice noted the Chopard watch, studded with diamonds. Up close, the immaculate grooming was no less impressive, although she did look unhealthily thin. Beatrice suspected diet pills. Madeleine seemed to be assessing her in a similar way, but was unlikely to come to the same conclusion.

  Beatrice did her duty. “I’m guessing from your accent that you’re not Swiss.”

  “Nope. I’m from Michigan. But you come from Great Britain, right?”

  The waiter appeared.

  “Hi there. We’d like two coffees, please. Cafe latte okay for you, Beatrice?”

  Although Beatrice generally disliked the common assumption everyone should speak English, Madeleine’s manner towards the young man was friendly and pleasant. He gave her a smile as he took their order and returned back through the glass doors.

  Beatrice looked up at the gigantic blue angel hanging from the roof of the Haupthalle. “Yes, I’m British. A Londoner. Lived there all my life.”

  “London’s so cool. A great city. So why are you in Zürich?”

  “Same as most expatriates in Switzerland. I’m here to work.”

  “Right. Banking?”

  Beatrice deflected the question. “More advisory. What about you?”

  “I represent the other expat trend. The spouses and significant others. My husband works in finance, so we’re here on a two-year contract before heading back to New York.” Her introduction was rehearsed, probably through repetition, yet a wistful note could be heard in her sigh.

  “I see. And does he often have to work at the weekend?”

  “He does at the moment. So I’m left to shop, or read, or explore the galleries on my own. It works out pretty well. When Michael is free, he always wants to do something active. Ski, hike, cycle, you name it. The cultural stuff doesn’t interest him, whereas I love it.”

  “So do I. Much more stimulating than hurtling down a mountain. I’m the antithesis of active, I’m afraid.”

  Madeleine’s smile bloomed and faded, like a distant firework. “I like both. But whether it’s snowboarding or a jazz concert, I prefer to have someone to share it with. You know what? During my first couple weeks here, I got so lonely that if I heard someone speaking English, I’d deliberately bump into them so I could start a conversation. That’s why I hang out at places like Big Ben. Just for someone to talk to.”

  The woman’s honest need for companionship shamed Beatrice. There was such a thing as trying to be too independent. The coffees arrived, with the bill rolled up in a shot glass.

  Beatrice picked it up, making a decision. “I’ll get this, Madeleine. You can buy next time. Now listen, I think I’ll give Interlaken a miss today. Have you been to the Kunsthaus at all? They’re open on Sundays and have the most fabulous collection.”

  Madeleine’s smile lasted much longer that time.

  The dogs were quiet. Temporarily.

  Chapter 26

  Zürich 2012

  The package in locker 939 at Baden Station contained no surprises. Just a Pay-As-You-Go mobile. The figure, aware of curious glances from the teenagers loitering on the concourse, moved outside to the sunshine. Noisier, certainly, but far better cover. Taxi drivers looked up enquiringly, so the figure walked away in search of some privacy, phone in hand.

  Eight minutes later, it rang.

  “This week. Do it as soon as you can.”

  “Tuesday’s a good day. Fewer tourists. Latest, Wednesday. I want to be back in Zürich for Thursday evening. ”

  “Excellent. So you’re ready with the other one?”

  “Almost. It’s not going to be difficult. Just a question of timing. And timing is one of my strong points.”

  “I can’t argue with that. I’d like this finished by the weekend. Then I’ll take the heat while both of you get away for a holiday.”

  “No problem. Get away where?”

  “Wherever you want to go. Maldives, Seychelles, Acapulco? Take a break until you feel ready to go back to work.”

  “Back to work? So you’ve changed your mind about it being the last one?”

  The voice contained a smile. “No, no. It’s definitely the last one. I was talking about your real work. Complete by Saturday, take her on holiday somewhere and you can go back to tending the Third World when you feel the time is right. I’ll arrange everything. Now, do you foresee any problems?”

  “Not in Ticino. It’s all scoped and everything’s in position. You’re going to love my artistic flair with this one. Inspired, even if I say so myself. Rosaria will approve.” The figure laughed. “As for here, at such short notice, I think I can organise something prosaic but effective. Unless you want something more fitting.”

  “I’d rather it wasn’t prosaic. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’ve chosen the method I find most appropriate. And the ideal location, too. It’s achingly apt. One might even say this is poetic justice. The details are on their way via our friend. Just make sure the evidence is planted somewhere other than the scene.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to be sure they find it. Shouldn’t be complicated, so I’m sure you’ll find an opportunity. I’m leaving tomorrow but I’ll be back on Saturday morning. If anything remains unfinished, it puts me in an awkward position.”

  “I know. I’ll contact you as soon as the job’s complete.”

  “If anything goes wrong, I can always delay my flight. Just let me know.”

  “Rel
ax. Nothing will go wrong.”

  After the call was over, the figure put the phone in the padded envelope, posted it and headed back to the car, all the while softly singing their song.

  “ ... And I can take or leave it if I please.”

  Chapter 27

  Liechtenstein, St Moritz 2012

  “Sibylle Keller, Jack Ryman’s PA. It is a pleasure to meet you. We can speak in here. Can I get you some refreshments?”

  Beatrice and Kälin both accepted a coffee, and Frau Keller disappeared into a side room. The immense office had glass walls, offering a view right up to the castle. Liechtenstein fascinated Beatrice. What appeared to be a simple turn off the motorway was the gateway to a tiny principality, with its own monarchy, number plates and tax laws.

  The woman returned and joined them at the conference table, placing a tray with two tiny cups, two small glasses of water, and a bowlful of chocolates in front of them.

  She smiled. “So how can I help you?”

  Kälin ripped open his colourful paper tube of sugar and poured it into his cup. Without thinking, Beatrice handed over hers. He took it with a nod and repeated the procedure.

  “Thank you for talking to us, Frau Keller. We are attempting to clarify the details surrounding the death of Jack Ryman. I know you have spoken to the local police on more than one occasion, but we would like to try your patience once again.”

  The woman gave a genuine smile. Pepper and salt hair formed a curly frame around her face; the onset of laughter lines around her hazel eyes. Her navy suit was smart yet subtle, and she projected an air of effortless efficiency. A young Joan Plowright came to mind. Beatrice had a feeling they might get along.

  “I would like to help in any way I can. My opinion, like that of everyone else who knew him, is simple. Jack did not take his own life.”

  “Thank you. In the police report, you state when he left the office, he was accompanied by a journalist. They planned to have lunch together,” Beatrice prompted.

  “Correct. Melanie Roche had made three appointments and on both previous occasions, Jack cancelled at the last minute. But that day, he gave her half an hour.”

  “That’s not long for lunch,” observed Kälin.

  “No. That was typical of Jack. Everything done in a hurry. In fact, he asked me to cancel Ms Roche again that day. But he met her as he came out of his office and decided to give her a brief interview.”

  “Why did he change his mind?” asked Beatrice, unwrapping a chocolate.

  Frau Keller glanced from her to Kälin, apparently searching for the right words.

  “Was Ms Roche attractive, Frau Keller?” Kälin helped her.

  “Yes. Young, blonde and very pretty. Just Jack’s type. I wasn’t surprised when he changed his mind. Although I know they didn’t have lunch at Restaurant Adler, where I made the reservation, because the owner called me to complain. I don’t know where they went.”

  Beatrice made a note. “Do you remember anything else about this woman, Frau Keller?”

  Judging by her stillness and her frown, she was concentrating hard on recalling every detail. A detective’s favourite kind of witness.

  “Very pretty, early thirties, I would guess. Pale complexion, light-blue eyes. Minimal make-up. She wore a dove-grey skirt suit, which could have been Jaeger. Rather than a blouse underneath, she wore a scoop-necked T-shirt, which was powder blue. She had a silver chain around her neck, with no pendant. I seem to have crystal earrings in mind, Swarovski, but that could be because she told me she was from Zürich. Her press pass looked authentic, and she said she’d been commissioned by Time magazine. Her Swiss German was more Luzern than Zürich, and she wore low heels. Black, if I remember well.”

  Beatrice raised her eyebrows. “If only everyone remembered in such detail, our job would be so much easier. Thank you, Frau Keller. So Jack Ryman left with Ms Roche at 12.45?”

  “Closer to one.”

  Kälin replaced his cup. “Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to harm him?”

  Frau Keller’s face creased with amusement. “I’m sorry, Herr Kälin, but it might be easier for me to give you a list of the people who didn’t despise Jack Ryman. Not one person who worked for the man had any respect for the way he did business. I don’t approve of people acting as judge, jury and executioner, which is why I want to help find the person who killed him. But if I can be completely honest with you, the world is a better place now he’s gone.”

  Beatrice nodded. “And one last thing: Ryman’s car: automatic or manual?”

  “Automatic, Frau Stubbs. Can I get you more coffee?”

  The safety bar locked into place, the machinery hummed and the ground dropped away from them. Tugged into the air, Beatrice’s stomach took a second to catch up. A rush of childish excitement filled her and it was all she could do not to shout ‘Wheee!’ in a high-pitched voice. Given the circumstances, however, that would have been quite inappropriate. Kälin sat grimly beside her, while Herr Müller and Herr Franchi of the Kantonspolizei occupied the chair behind. The two officers probably spent much of their time scampering up and down mountains and Kälin must have grown up on skis. Her frivolity would stand out like a sore thing, so she chose to stay quiet as if visiting a crime scene via a chair lift was a totally commonplace occurence. Keeping a check on her exhilaration, she looked down at the receding car park, the people becoming as featureless as Lowry’s matchstick men. She gazed around at the vibrant shades of late spring, relishing the rush of air round her ears, watching the everyday details diminish. Tops of trees skimmed past, almost close enough to touch. She lifted her head to watch the absurdly slight cable winching them to the top, before focusing on their destination. Even as summer approached, the peak remained white and crisply delineated against the blue sky. A sigh of admiration at such pure, powerful beauty escaped her and she turned to Kälin to share the moment. He faced forward, his expression pale and set.

  “Herr Kälin?”

  “I’m fine, Frau Stubbs. Just a small problem with heights.”

  Beatrice hid her amusement at finding a chink in Karl Kälin’s defences and patted his arm.

  “Nearly there now.”

  After they dismounted from the lift, she watched him taking conscious deep breaths. Herr Franchi leapt onto the platform and indicated two snowmobiles parked beside the station. He handed Beatrice a helmet. Relieved that she had plumped for the trouser suit that morning, she straddled the machine and clutched the officer’s jacket. He accelerated and sped off toward the piste. Her attempts to stop grinning were unsuccessful, so she relaxed and beamed her way down the mountain. Why had she never done this before? It was terrific fun. Snow flew up as they skimmed the surface, her cold nose inhaled Alpine air and the speed at which her driver attacked the slopes made Beatrice want to throw back her head and whoop. This is not a holiday, she reminded herself.

  The Kantonspolizei Graubünden had been enormously helpful. Their records were well organised, enabling the detectives to respond to all their questions efficiently. Dougie Thompson. Booked two weeks in St Moritz, only lived till the end of the first. He skied daily, taking difficult, off-piste runs, while his wife spent her days in the wellness centre. The two children attended Skischule, group lessons in the morning, individual tuition in the afternoon. Thompson left on Sunday afternoon to tackle terrain near Morteratsch, one of the less accessible off-piste routes. His wife raised the alarm at 12.10 on Monday.

  “According to your report, she received an SMS from her husband on Sunday afternoon?” asked Kälin.

  Herr Müller checked his notes. “Exactly. A message was sent from his phone on Sunday at 16.55, saying the weather was bad. It said he planned to stay at a lodge on the mountain overnight and try the run the following day. So his wife did not become concerned until Monday lunchtime.”

  “Excuse my ignorance, Herr Müller; I’m not familiar with this region. He was reported missing at midday on Monday. His body was located on Tuesday morning
. So why did it take so long to find him?” enquired Beatrice.

  “That’s a good question, Frau Stubbs. Normally, a lost skier would be found much faster.”

  Officer Franchi chimed in. “However, bad weather from Sunday to Monday meant that search teams could not achieve much. Rescuers located him on Tuesday morning, and he was not registered at any lodge on Sunday night.”

  “Time of death was established as 36 to 48 hours earlier,” added Müller.

  Franchi carried on. “It was clear his death was no accident. The Stapo found his clothes and his drinking flask beside him.”

  “Suicide.” said Müller. “We see this frequently. It is not an unpleasant way to die. Alcohol makes you sleep; your body temperature drops and your vital organs cannot survive hypothermia. These alcohol-related winter deaths look like accidents, but the truth is that many are deliberate.”

  Franchi’s expression revealed some irritation with his gloomy partner. “His wife was convinced there was something wrong. She insisted that Stadtpolizei called us and that we contacted Interpol.”

  Beatrice sympathised with the police, but had it not been for the family’s insistence that something wasn’t right, they would not have checked the body for DNA.

  “Did you run a toxicology report, Herr Franchi?”

  “Yes, this was performed on Wednesday afternoon. After we found the saliva on his flask. And the condoms in his pocket.”

  The roar of the snowmobile dropped and after far too short a ride in Beatrice’s opinion, the officer pulled over towards the trees. He cut the engine and turned to assist Beatrice. Aware she looked suspiciously as if she was enjoying herself, she forced some sobriety into her expression as she turned to greet Kälin and Müller.