Damnation

by Peter Beck

  Winter gave a theatrical sigh and said, ‘What happened to the good old private detective? When I was still on the beat we would spend days observing a suspect.’

  ‘Well, that’s progress for you. But please, take a seat.’ Herr Summer sat in one of the two steel chairs in front of the cockpit.

  ‘Can I offer you a coffee?’

  ‘Espresso, please.’ Winter hoped that Schmitt would leave the office, but he ordered the coffees by phone. Two minutes and three exchanges of small talk later, the assistant came in with a tray carrying two espresso cups in a minimalist design, and put these beside the screens.

  As Winter bent forwards to pick up his cup he got a glimpse of the three screens. Two of them were divided into quarters, displaying stills from security cameras, while various windows were open on the third screen. Schmitt stirred his sugar and said, ‘So you could envisage leaving the police force and working in the private security industry?’

  Winter leaned back in the steel chair, placing his left hand on the armrest and the right in his jacket. ‘Yes, I know a few colleagues who’ve made the move already. After the third beer, however, they admit that it’s difficult to get jobs working alone. I prefer working as part of a network, where a variety of specialists complement each other. Personal protection, digital security etc.’

  As he was gabbling away and gesticulating with his left hand, his right found the new mobile in his pocket and the correct button to send the two emails he’d written earlier.

  One to the anonymous Herr Müller, the client of the private eye in Winter’s slurry pit.

  And the other to Harald Schneider, the freelance journalist and client of the helicopter company that specialized in infrared photos.

  ‘… over the past fifteen years with the police, I’ve had the opportunity to work in a wide variety of departments. Drugs, child abuse, murder, abduction. Everything you could imagine.’ Schmitt was now leaning back too, his eyelids slightly drooping. His digestion was probably drawing the blood from his brain.

  After Winter’s emails had been sent it took twelve seconds for them to be picked up by the nearest radio mast, encrypted and hurtled through half of Switzerland via two servers of the telecom provider before finally being forwarded to the recipient via the Hotmail server.

  A soft ‘Ping! Ping!’ announced the arrival of two new emails on Schmitt’s computer.

  ‘… I can also definitely see myself working in personal protection. I’m fit and a second-degree black belt in karate…’ Winter heard himself say. Schmitt’s eyelids lifted slightly and he peered at the new emails. Winter carried on regardless, registering with satisfaction the dilation in Schmitt’s pupils.

  Winter paused, bent forwards and picked up the espresso cup by its minimalist handle. Unfortunately it slipped from his hand and clattered back down on the saucer. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed sender, subject and the first two lines of his emails on the screen.

  A double hit.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Winter said with an embarrassed smile and pointing at the cup. He was playing for time, preventing Schmitt from dealing with the two emails immediately. A glance at his watch told him that he’d left the toilets nine minutes ago. Not long now. ‘How does the Schmitt, Berger & Partners network function?’

  Schmitt was torn between the computer screen with those emails and his guest. He finished his espresso and opened his mouth to embark on an explanation when the belated August 1st firework went off in the toilets.

  The candle had burned down as planned and the wick reached the fuse of the bangers that Winter had bought on sale at half price after August 1. When Winter was a child they used to call them ‘ladies’ farts’.

  The farts made a hell of a racket.

  Schmitt stared in bewilderment at the wall that separated his office from the noise.

  There were wisps of smoke too.

  This was phase two of Winter’s plan. As the smoke rose in the cramped cubicle, it reached the fire detector and triggered the alarm. The terrified people in the toilets scarpered. Nobody switched off the alarm. The sprinkler system was programmed so that that twelve nozzles in the vicinity of fire would automatically be activated once the alarm went off. Winter knew how the system worked; the bank was fitted with one too.

  It started raining.

  On the computers.

  ‘Shit!’ Schmitt cursed. ‘Quick! Have you got anything to cover them? A plastic tablecloth or something?’ Winter suggested.

  Schmitt got up and dashed out of his office.

  This was the moment Winter had been waiting for. He snatched Schmitt’s mobile from the desk. With a paper clip he removed the SIM card and replaced it with another he had bought from an electronics shop stuffed with goods of dubious origin. Winter wiped off his fingerprints, replaced the mobile, and hurried into the dry lobby.

  The racket from the toilets had stopped, but the water was still drizzling unchecked onto the computers. Schmitt came back with plastic tablecloths from the nearest restaurant, his assistant in tow. Ignoring Winter, they started covering the computers and the desk.

  Winter left.

  The job interview was over.

  He made his way swiftly through the crowd of onlookers. Fire officers came running to the scene. When he left the factory hall he ripped off the moustache and spat out the chewing gum. Once at his car he took off his wet coat and threw it onto the back seat.

  Safely in the dry of his car, Winter inserted Schmitt’s SIM card into his own phone and copied the contact data. He put his SIM back in again and tucked Schmitt’s into his wallet. Schmitt’s mobile was wet and it would take some time before he discovered that the SIM had been switched. Winter scrolled through all the new contacts, hoping to come across names and numbers he recognized.

  Nothing.

  The phone rang. Fatima. Winter pressed the green button straightaway. ‘Hello, Fatima!’

  ‘Hello, Winter. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Yesterday I played a round of golf with Al-Bader’s brother’ – it seemed longer than twenty-four hours ago – ‘and just now I got caught in a downpour.’

  ‘But you’re back in the dry now?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a long story and I’ll tell you about it some other time. Where are you? How are you? Everything okay?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m at the airport in San Francisco and wanted to know if you’d mind me coming to see you?’

  Taken by surprise, Winter didn’t respond. He had mixed feelings. He was pleased that Fatima had called, but unsure where it was all heading. In truth a large part of him had assumed that after Boston he’d never see her again. Any hint of a relationship felt like a complication he didn’t need so soon after Anne’s death.

  And the day after tomorrow he had to go to the bank’s annual three-day conference in Interlaken.

  Still, Fatima would love Interlaken, nestled between Lakes Thun and Brienz in the heart of the Bernese Oberland. They could go to the mountains together, he supposed, as friends. Before Winter had fully thought through the implications he heard himself say, ‘Fatima, when are you landing?’

  ‘I could be in Zürich at ten thirty.’

  ‘I can pick you up.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom,’ Fatima said. She didn’t seem to want the conversation to end. ‘The Brazilian business is on course. But I’m not making progress with Farmer. Smith’s people are putting pressure on Pyramid Investment Partners. They’re threatening them with the tax authorities, who apparently have the right to examine every single transaction on the basis of the slightest suspicion.’

  Winter was unfamiliar with the jungle of American regulation. ‘And?’

  ‘Farmer has entrenched himself with his lawyers. The problem is that the NSA has raised the national terror threat from Yellow to Orange. Elements of martial law come into force and it means that the NSA gets more power.’

  ‘Orange is the second highest level?’

  ‘Yes, the pr
obability that America will suffer a terrorist attack in the next seven days is now judged to be higher than fifty per cent.’

  For a moment neither of them said anything, reluctant to discuss it further over the phone. Winter thought of Anne and wondered whether the helicopter crash could be classified as a ‘terrorist attack’.

  Eventually Winter ended the conversation abruptly. ‘I’ll see you at the airport.’

  AUGUST 4 – 16:10

  Winter left Zürich and once he’d swung onto the A1 motorway he put on ‘Sarah McLachlan Live in Concert’. The music helped him think.

  Tomorrow he’d drive back in the other direction and pick up Fatima. What would happen then? he wondered.

  There was little traffic on the roads. Many people were still on holiday. Winter gave free rein to his thoughts and replayed in his head the events of the last few days. He fell from the bridge again and fought for his life on the golf course. The image of Angela, who had placed one hand on Anne’s coffin, popped up.

  The anticipation of seeing Fatima mingled with his grief over Anne. Winter recalled the happy photo in Anne’s office with the three As in the pizzeria: Anne, Andrea and Angela. Three sisters, similar and yet different, but it seemed as if they’d all been close. Like the Al-Bader twins.

  Winter imagined the three women chatting away to each other for hours on end. In the garden at Fraubrunnen, or on the phone. He knew virtually nothing about them.

  Angela was studying in the US.

  And Andrea?

  Maybe Anne had told Andrea something about her secret admirer.

  Had Anne been responsive to him? The melancholy gave way to a bitter taste in his mouth. Was it possible that Anne hadn’t been completely honest? Had there been someone else?

  The simplest thing would be to ask Andrea.

  He called directory enquiries.

  Andrea lived in Kölliken, which was pretty much halfway between Zürich and Bern. Winter didn’t believe in telepathy. It must be coincidence that he’d thought about Andrea now. A smile darted across Winter’s face. Five minutes later he indicated and left the motorway.

  The confusion of his emotions dissipated.

  He focused on the next step.

  Anne’s sister lived with her family in the middle of the village in a large renovated farmhouse that now consisted of several apartments.

  Winter parked and got out.

  An elderly couple doing some gardening. A dog. Then he saw Andrea, who was attaching a hose to a garden sprinkler.

  Andrea’s apartment was in the former barn. It had a large, modern glass front that connected the garden and kitchen-diner.

  Andrea looked up and gazed at Winter with an expression of curiosity and interest, and as though he seemed somehow familiar. He closed the car door, smiled and walked across the lawn to her.

  ‘Good evening. I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Tom Winter.’ He smiled again. ‘Anne’s colleague.’ They’d shaken hands at the funeral, but she’d had tears in her eyes at the time and he had been wearing a formal suit. From her eyes he could see that she recognized him.

  She nodded, wiped her hands on her jeans and came up to him. ‘Hello.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said softly.

  Andrea shook her head and pointed at the sprinkler. ‘For some reason the hose doesn’t fit properly.’

  ‘Let me take a look.’

  As the two of them crouched, Winter eyed Andrea. She looked uncomplicated. Jeans, sleeveless T-shirt and loose ponytail. Her bare feet had unpainted toenails peeping out of her hiking sandals.

  Winter recalled Anne telling him that Andrea worked in a home for troubled children, which was integrated in a farm with lots of animals. Or was it disabled children? In any case he could well imagine Andrea shepherding snotty adolescents, or caring for the disabled. Winter twisted the connection between the hose and sprinkler.

  It clicked and Andrea said, ‘Wow! How did you do that?’

  Winter shrugged and they stood up. Andrea went over to the house, said, ‘Watch out!’ and turned the water on.

  When they were on the paved terrace between the lawn and the kitchen, Andrea asked, ‘Something to drink? I’ve got iced, peppermint tea.’

  ‘Sounds good. Very good, in fact. Yes please.’

  She pointed to an ancient wooden bench by the wall, went inside and Winter sat. Two minutes later he had in his hand a big glass of peppermint tea, ice cubes and a slice of lemon. It tasted wonderful.

  ‘Thanks. The ideal drink for a summer’s day. Tastes great.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Homemade?’

  ‘Secret recipe.’ A fleeting smile flew across Andrea’s face, but vanished quickly. She sat at the other end of the wooden bench, leaning against the tall armrest, into which countless initials and hearts had been carved over the decades.

  For a while they watched the sprinkler and the curved lines of the water. The drops of water formed rhythmic waves that fell on top of each other, glittering colourfully in the sun. Winter took another sip.

  ‘I don’t like ambushing you like this. But I was on the motorway from Zürich to Bern and I thought I’d drop in. A telepathic brainwave, so to speak.’

  ‘It’s fine. I wondered when someone from the police or bank might pay a visit.’

  ‘Has no one come to see you yet?’

  ‘No.’ Monosyllabic.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Winter didn’t know who he was apologising for. He felt a responsibility not only for the bank, but because of his past in the police too. A little, at least.

  ‘Have they found anything out yet?’

  He’d have loved to tell Andrea everything he knew. But he didn’t want to arouse any false hopes and so said, ‘I’m sure the authorities are doing all they can to get to the bottom of the crash. But a thorough analysis takes time. The bank is only involved on the fringe. We’re waiting too.’ Eager to regain the initiative, Winter added, ‘I didn’t just come here as her boss; I also really liked Anne.’

  ‘I know. Anne liked you too.’

  Winter felt a warm feeling spreading inside him and for a moment he thought he was going to have to hold back tears. He looked away and squinted at the rainbow-coloured fountains of water. He wondered what Andrea knew, but didn’t dare ask her directly. Maybe he’d find the courage to do so later.

  Then Andrea started talking about her sister. She aimed her words more at the rainbow than Winter. She spoke of how much she missed Anne. They’d always called each other on Wednesday evenings and at the weekend.

  Andrea said that both she and Anne had shared a passion for sport and nature. Sometimes they’d go riding together on a neighbouring farmer’s horses. Now, Andrea didn’t feel like riding any more, but she was missing the horses. Her husband worked for an insurance company and was not particularly sporty.

  She smiled, almost apologetically, and Winter just nodded. He knew that once people had started talking it was better to let them tell their story rather than interrupt with words or questions.

  Anne had often sat on this wooden bench, she continued. She’d also accompanied her to the home a few times. Anne had said that the people she’d encountered with the police were surely easier to deal with than the disabled children. Andrea hadn’t agreed. She could never work for the police. Too dangerous.

  It wasn’t fair that Anne should have been the victim. Anne had left the police to study law, and then work in her supposedly safer job for the bank.

  Andrea found it hard to use the past tense when talking about her sister.

  In her memories Anne was still alive; in her soul that was true.

  The neighbour’s dog came slowly trotting past. In dog years he must be as least as old as the pensioners who lived next door, and his eyes with their droopy bags looked at Winter trustingly. Could dogs cry? The black-and-white Bernese mountain dog had arthritis and his movements were stiff. He doubled back and pushed awkwardly between Andrea and Winte
r, wanting to be stroked.

  Andrea bent forwards and fondled him below the muzzle with both hands.

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ Winter said, ‘but I always got the impression that Anne liked working for the bank.’

  This was actually a question to Andrea, but Winter had wrapped it up in a statement. He hoped to get her flow going again.

  Andrea let go of the dog, who turned to Winter for more petting. He laid his head on Winter’s knee, which clearly didn’t smell of cat. Or perhaps the dog was too old to pick up any traces of Tiger’s scent. Or he didn’t care. At any rate Winter dutifully ruffled the dog’s well-groomed fur. His behaviour mirrored that of Andrea.

  After a sip of peppermint she said, ‘Yes, she did like working for the bank, especially meeting new clients. She told me that in spite of their money they were often astonishingly nice.’ Andrea broke off abruptly and Winter sensed there was more she wanted to say.

  ‘What did she think of me?’ he asked, in the meantime.

  ‘Anne always said you were a good boss. She learned a lot from you.’ Smiling, she continued, ‘In spring she said it was a shame that she’d had to meet you as her boss rather than in a different capacity.’

  Winter waited. When no more was forthcoming he said, ‘At the bank, relationships between employees are very much frowned upon. We can’t forbid them – nor do we want to – but they raise eyebrows. Especially in my role as head of security I’ve done all I can to ensure that they’re regarded as undesirable.’

  ‘I understand. And I think Anne appreciated this too. She always wanted to do the right thing.’

  ‘Sometimes it doesn’t work.’

  ‘I know.’

  They fell silent again. The dog lay now on the warm paving slabs, folded his aching legs under his body and yawned. In the animal’s wide-open mouth Winter could see yellow, worn teeth. Then he felt Andrea’s hand on his right forearm.

  ‘I think you would have made a good couple.’