The Last Temptation

by Val McDermid

  Tadeusz walked in, a visible bounce in his step. “It must be a desperate piece of news that has you camping out on my doorstep, Darko.” He looked as if there was nothing in the world that could touch him as he threw himself down on the sofa and stretched out full length, feet crossed elegantly at the ankles.

  “I had a meeting with Hauser this afternoon.”

  Tadeusz groaned and rolled his eyes back. “Rather you than me. So what did Happy Hauser have to say for himself? No, wait. Let me guess. He thought he’d bring you the worrying news that Arjouni is moving in on Kamal’s business?” He grinned.

  Krasic couldn’t help returning the smile. Say what you liked about Tadzio, he could generally size people up accurately. Well, men, anyway. “He did. But that was dessert. The main course was a lot more interesting.”

  “Do I have to guess, or are you going to tell me?” Tadeusz’s voice was still light and cheerful. However grim Krasic looked, it wasn’t enough to dispel the warm glow of his afternoon with Caroline.

  “He’s been doing some more digging into the bike.” Krasic didn’t have to specify which bike. They both knew exactly what he was talking about. “And what he’s come up with is very fucking dodgy, Tadzio.”

  Tadeusz swung his feet on to the floor, sitting up in one smooth motion. “I’m listening,” he said, suddenly solemn, suddenly catapulted from the pleasant haze of the afternoon into what felt horribly like inescapable reality.

  “It was British. Registered to the National Crime Squad, whatever that is.”

  “Organized crime,” Tadeusz said automatically, his brain racing ahead of his mouth. “But the rider can’t have been here officially, otherwise Hauser would have been able to find out, surely?”

  “I don’t know,” Krasic said. “If they were working with the Berlin criminal intelligence lot, Hauser wouldn’t have a fucking clue. You know how hard we’ve tried to get a mole in that squad, and we’ve never managed it.”

  Tadeusz clenched his fist in a gesture of frustration. “And we still don’t know who was on the bike?”

  “No,” Krasic admitted. “But, Tadzio, I really don’t like this. There are too many British connections hitting us right now.” He enumerated on his short, square fingers. “First, Katerina gets killed by a British cop bike. Second, Colin Osborne fucks up our British connection by getting blown away in what looks more and more like a very moody shooting. I mean, nobody really seems to know what happened to Colin. It looked like a gangland execution and that’s what the cops put out. But nobody’s admitting to it, which is dodgy, in my book. And now, this British woman turns up, the spitting image of Katerina, and she just happens to be the missing link that solves all our problems. It’s too good to be true,” he concluded with an air of incontrovertible certainty.

  “Everything you say is true,” Tadzio admitted. “But what you make of it is equally open to another interpretation. As you suggested when this first came up, the biker could have been a British cop on holiday and he had to disappear because he wasn’t supposed to have his bike in Berlin. Colin’s killer is keeping his head down because Colin has business associates who would want to avenge his death and prove they weren’t to be crossed. People like Caroline, for example. Unless of course it was Caroline who had Colin killed to eliminate sloppy competition. I think she could be a dangerous woman, but not for the same reasons you do, Darko. I think she’s one of us. She acts like a successful criminal. She looks at the world like a successful criminal. And women who make it in our business have to be twice as ruthless as the men.”

  He stood up and crossed to the drinks cupboard, where he poured himself a small glass of apple schnapps. “Darko, I know you think she’s not to be trusted, but that’s only because of the accident of her resemblance to Katerina. If she looked like the back end of a bus, you’d be a lot less suspicious.”

  “Well, that goes without saying. But don’t you think the way she looks is reasonable grounds for suspicion?” Krasic sounded incredulous.

  “No. I think it’s one of the horrible tricks fate plays on us. I would trust her more easily if she looked differently, I think,” he said, knowing in his heart it wasn’t true, but refusing to give Krasic any kind of leverage. Then he had a moment’s inspiration, based on years of experience. “But, Darko, you’re the one who’s been watching her.”

  Krasic looked startled. “How did you know? Has she noticed? Did she say something?”

  Tadeusz laughed out loud. “No, she hasn’t said a thing. I guessed. So, has she done anything suspicious?”

  Krasic gave him a sheepish glance. “Some shopping. And she goes to that ritzy women’s health club on Giesebrechtstrasse every day.”

  “Oh, that’s really something to worry about, a woman who wants to keep in shape. So, she’s not been hanging out in cop bars or deliberately giving your man the slip?”

  Krasic shook his head. “Nothing like that. But then, if she was dodgy, she’d expect us to be watching her.”

  “Now you’re being too devious.” Tadeusz crossed the room and clapped Krasic on the shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Darko. But I think this time you’re letting your concern for me run away with your imagination. I really don’t believe Caroline is part of some Machiavellian plot against me involving motorbikes and dead gangsters.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop keeping an eye on her,” the Serb said stubbornly.

  “No reason why you should.” Tadeusz drained his glass and turned to face Krasic. “Just don’t take the costs out of my budget, OK?” There was iron in his voice now.

  Knowing when he was beaten, Krasic got to his feet. “Watch your back, boss,” he said wearily, reaching for his jacket and walking out.

  The Shark hated the fact that nobody at work took him seriously. Most of his male colleagues made it clear that they despised him. Petra, for whom he would have walked barefoot on hot coals, patronized him, which sometimes felt worse than contempt. He’d been so excited about his transfer to intelligence, but it had turned out to be a lot less fun than he’d expected. All he ever got to do was the shit work that everybody else thought was beneath their dignity. He understood enough about psychology to realize that in order for any group to function properly, there had to be a focus for their scorn. He just wished it wasn’t him.

  He longed to score some remarkable coup that would win their respect. But that wasn’t going to happen while he was stuck in the dogsbody role. Take this latest job that Petra had dumped him with. How was he supposed to find out who Darko Krasic would trust to look after a child? He’d checked out the known associates in Krasic’s files, but most of them were the type of person you wouldn’t trust to hold the dog while you went for a piss, never mind leave in charge of a child. Then he’d had the brainwave of trying to find out if Krasic had any relatives in the area. He had this image of a Balkan stereotype who, like the Italians, would trust family ahead of anyone.

  So for what felt like half a lifetime he’d been trawling public records, trying to find anyone with blood ties to Krasic. Immigration lists, tax rosters, property registers had all drawn a blank. Now he was reduced to phoning local police offices and asking if they knew anything. He’d worked his way round Berlin and now he was edging out into the Brandenburg countryside.

  He crossed the last number off his list and dialled the next one, a substation on the northern outskirts of Oranienburg, near the former Sachsenhausen concentration camp. When the phone was answered, he went into his spiel. “I’m calling from the criminal intelligence unit here in Berlin. I know this is a long shot, but I’m trying to trace anyone who might be related to a Serb we’ve got operating here in Berlin. A guy by the name of Darko Krasic.”

  “Hang on, I’ll put you through to someone who can help you.”

  Silence, then the phone was picked up. “Detective Schümann,” a voice said. It sounded as if he was talking through a mouthful of crunchy biscuits.

  The Shark recited his speech again over the sounds of
mastication.

  “That’d be Rado’s uncle, right?” Schümann miraculously said. “Or cousin, or something, who knows with those Serbs?”

  “You know who I’m talking about?” the Shark asked eagerly.

  “Sure, I know. It’s my business to know who’s connected on my patch, isn’t it?”

  “So who’s this Rado?”

  “Radovan Matic. Fourth division criminal, premier league arsehole. I nailed him about four years ago when he was still a juvenile for possession with intent to supply heroin. The usual rap on the knuckles. Then he buggered off to Berlin. We don’t see much of him these days.”

  “And he’s Darko Krasic’s nephew, yeah?” The Shark was struggling not to sound too excited.

  “I think his old man and Darko are cousins.”

  “His father, does he still live in Oranienburg?”

  “Arkady? Yeah, he’s got a smallholding about six miles from here. Keeps pigs, I think. He’s a decent enough bloke. Never been in any kind of trouble. He beat the crap out of Rado after his arrest, so I heard.”

  “Does he have other kids, this Arkady Matic?”

  “There’s a grown-up daughter, I think. But she’s not living at home.”

  “Where exactly is this farm?”

  “You want the address or directions?”

  “Both, please, if you don’t mind.” The Shark could hear the obsequiousness in his voice, but he didn’t care if he was crawling. He just wanted the information.

  Schümann gave him a detailed description of how to find the Matic family farm. “What do you want with them anyway?” he asked.

  “I don’t really know. I’m making inquiries on behalf of one of the other detectives here,” The Shark said apologetically. “You know how it is. You clear your own case and somebody thinks you’ve got time on your hands…”

  “Tell me about it,” Schümann complained. “Do me a favour, though. If your colleague is thinking about coming on to my patch, get him to call me first.”

  “He’s a she,” The Shark said. “I’ll pass the message on. Thanks for your help.” Bollocks to that, he thought. He wasn’t going to ask Detective Schümann’s permission to check out Matic’s farm. He wasn’t sharing his moment of glory with some provincial plod.

  He jumped to his feet and practically ran out of the squad room, grabbing his jacket on the way. He had a good feeling about this. A smallholding in the middle of nowhere was the perfect place to stash Marlene Krebs’ daughter. He was on to something here. He’d show Petra he was worthy of her respect.

  30

  The hire car was waiting for Tony at Frankfurt, just as Petra had promised. He was grateful that she’d found the time to organize his trip; it would have been so much harder if he’d had to make his own arrangements. On the passenger seat was an internet-generated route plan to get him from the airport to Schloss Hochenstein in time for the appointment she’d arranged with the curator of the castle’s grisly records. He didn’t imagine he was going to find the ultimate answer to his quest this morning, but at least he might be able to leave with a list of names that could be used as a cross-reference if Marijke and her German colleagues managed to come up with possible candidates from the shipping community.

  Even on a sunny spring morning, Schloss Hochenstein was a grim sight. The winding road that led up from the valley floor to the castle sitting on its bluff offered occasional glimpses of its forbidding grey walls and turrets. This was no fairytale Rhineland castle, he realized as he rounded the final bend and came face to face with the looming edifice. There was nothing graceful about the schloss. It hunkered on top of the tor like a fat toad, everything about it heavy and overbearing. The towers on each corner were squat and ugly, the crenellated battlements threatening. This was a place to strike fear into the heart of your enemies, Tony thought, gazing up at the facade.

  He parked in the visitor car park to one side of the castle and walked across the lowered drawbridge. Instead of a water-filled moat, there was a deep stone-lined ditch with savage iron spikes festooning the sides and bottom. Above the gateway were elaborate stone carvings of mythical beasts engaged in combat. A griffin crouched on the back of a unicorn, its claws buried in the unicorn’s neck. A strange serpent had its fangs plunged into the throat of a wyvern. As symbolic greetings went, Tony thought they might as well have carved, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” and have done.

  In the gatehouse, there was a ticket office. Tony walked up to it and told the attendant he had an appointment with Dr. Marie Wertheimer. The man nodded gloomily and picked up the phone. “She will be with you now,” he said, indicating to Tony that he should proceed into the courtyard of the keep. High walls towered over him, their narrow windows suggesting an army of hostile eyes. He imagined how this must have appeared to the frightened children herded here and shivered in spite of himself.

  A rotund figure approached across the courtyard, swathed in a maroon woollen wrap. The woman looked like an autumn berry on legs, her greying hair twisted on top of her head in a neat bun. “Dr. Hill? I’m Marie Wertheimer, curator of the records here at Schloss Hochenstein. Welcome.” Her English was almost without accent.

  “Thank you for making the time to see me,” Tony said, shaking her tiny plump hand.

  “It’s my pleasure. It’s always interesting to have a break from routine. So, why don’t we have a coffee and you can tell me exactly what it is that interests you.”

  He followed her through a small studded wooden door at the base of the keep and down a flight of worn stone steps. “Mind your step,” she cautioned him. “These stairs can be treacherous. Best to keep close to the handrail.”

  They turned into a low corridor, lit with glaring fluorescent strips. “We have the least attractive quarters in the castle,” Dr. Wertheimer said. “The part the tourists never get to see.” She turned abruptly into a doorway that opened into a large room lined with utilitarian metal shelving. To his surprise, it had narrow lancet windows along one wall. “Not a very enticing view,” she said, noting his glance. “We look out on to the ditch. Still, at least I have some natural light, which is more than most of my colleagues. Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable.”

  Tony sat in one of a pair of battered armchairs set in a corner of the office while Dr. Wertheimer fussed with kettle and coffee pot. She brought him a mug of startlingly viscous coffee and settled herself in the chair opposite him. “I’m very curious,” she said. “When I spoke to your colleague from Berlin, she was reluctant to give me any details of the nature of your inquiries.”

  Tony sipped cautiously. There was enough caffeine in the brew to keep a narcolept awake for days. “It’s a very sensitive matter,” he said.

  “We’re accustomed to sensitive matters here,” Dr. Wertheimer said tartly. “Our archive contains material that is still extremely uncomfortable for my fellow countrymen to contemplate. So, I need to be clear about the purpose of your visit. You can speak confidentially to me, Dr. Hill. It won’t go any further.”

  He sized up the placid face with its sharp eyes. He was inclined to trust this woman, and he suspected that, unless he opened up to her, she would be reluctant to do the same for him. “I’m an offender profiler,” he said. “I was brought in to help with an investigation into a series of murders that we believe have been committed by the same person.”

  Dr. Wertheimer frowned. “The university lecturers?” she said sharply. Astonished, Tony simply gaped at her. “You have not seen the newspapers this morning?” She got up and rummaged in a large shopping bag at the side of her desk. She produced a copy of that morning’s Die Welt and turned to an inside page. “You read German?” she asked.

  He nodded, still not trusting speech. She handed him the newspaper and settled down in her chair while he read it. The headline was straightforward. Three murders—Are they linked? The text went on to point out that within the past two months, three university psychology lecturers had been found dead in suspicious circumstances.
In each case, the police had been reluctant to divulge details of the deaths, except to say that each was being treated as murder. The writer went on to speculate as to whether this might be the work of a serial killer, although he had been unable to find a police source who would confirm the theory.

  “I imagine that there will be other stories in the press,” Dr. Wertheimer said as he finished. “I doubt they will be so restrained. So, is this what brings you to our records here?”

  Tony nodded. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more candid with you, but we have been trying to keep this out of the public arena.”

  “I can imagine. No police officer is comfortable working in the glare of the TV lights. So, what is it you hope to accomplish here?”

  “We need to narrow down our field of suspects. Dull, boring police work involving cross-referencing various lists. It’s tedious and time-consuming for the officers involved, but it could produce a result that will save lives. My analysis of the crimes leads me to think that it’s likely someone in our killer’s immediate family was the victim of psychological torture. I was told that you hold the archives relating to children who were either euthanased or experimented on by Nazi doctors. I’m hoping that somewhere in your archives there is a list of survivors.”

  Dr. Wertheimer raised her eyebrows. “This was a long time ago, Dr. Hill.”

  “I know. But I believe our killer is probably in his mid-twenties. It’s possible that his father may have been a survivor. Or he may have been brought up by a grandparent who suffered at the hands of the people who operated institutions such as this.”

  She nodded acquiescence. “It seems far-fetched to me, but I can see that you would want to clutch at any straw when you are trying to bring such a killer to justice. Well, we have no master list such as you speak of.”

  Tony couldn’t help showing his disappointment on his face. “So I’m wasting your time as well as my own?”