The Last Temptation

by Val McDermid

  At last, his patience was rewarded. There was no mistaking Caroline Jackson with her poignant echo of Katerina Basler’s beauty. She stood near the window, her mouth moving in silent speech. Then, right next to her, the man popped up again. His hands came up to the side of her head, holding her as they kissed. It wasn’t, he thought, the sort of casual goodnight kiss friends might share. As they parted, Caroline rumpled his hair in a gesture of easy affection. Then they both moved out of Krasic’s line of sight.

  A couple of minutes later, the man reappeared. He walked across to the window and stared out. Krasic shoved Rado even further back into the dark recess, crushing him against the shop door. But the man showed no signs of noticing their presence as he gazed up at the sky.

  Peering over his uncle’s shoulder, Rado said, “Look, she’s back home.” A light had gone on two floors above. As they watched, the woman they knew as Caroline Jackson drew the curtains.

  Five minutes later, the man on the first floor turned his back on the street and his light went out. “Go home, Rado,” Krasic instructed him. “There’ll be work for you in the morning. I’ll call you when I know what it is.”

  He watched the boy leave, glad that he’d had the presence of mind to keep a tail on the two-faced bitch. Whatever she was up to with the man on the first floor, it wasn’t something she had chosen to mention to Tadzio. In his book, that meant it had to be something she didn’t want them to know.

  Krasic didn’t like other people’s secrets. In his experience, they spelled danger. Before too long, he was going to uncover whatever skeletons Caroline Jackson was keeping hidden in Apartment 102.

  33

  The Shark hadn’t been exaggerating about the pigs, Petra thought grimly as she shuffled along on her stomach in a muddy ditch beneath a thorn hedge. The stink was overpowering, and they definitely did seem to head deliberately in her direction before delivering up their wind with a satisfied grunt. What he hadn’t mentioned was the rats. She’d already come eye to beady eye with one, and she could swear she felt them running over her lower legs. Just the thought of it made her flesh crawl.

  Before Plesch would authorize a full-scale liberation operation to rescue Tanja Krebs, she had insisted on corroboration of The Shark’s sighting. “It’s not that I doubt your abilities,” she’d lied. “But it’s easy to make a mistake, to see what you want to see rather than what is actually the case. So before we make a big song and dance about this, I want Petra to go out there and confirm that the girl is being held there. If you’re right, we’ll mount a formal surveillance and prepare a hostage release strategy.”

  She’d never seen Plesch in such a good mood. She’d even agreed without quibble to Petra’s suggestion about putting Marlene into a witness protection programme, and that they should move fast and aim to co-ordinate their raid with Radecki’s arrest in Rotterdam. Even the rats and pigs couldn’t dissipate Petra’s feeling of imminent triumph.

  And in spite of Marijke’s pessimism, she couldn’t help but feel they were making some progress on the serial killer front, thanks in part to Tony Hill. He was a strange guy, she thought. There was obviously some kind of history between him and Carol. They both had that slight awkwardness when they talked about each other, and Carol had been much more relaxed since he’d arrived in Berlin. Well, good luck to them. She knew what a difference it made to have a relationship with someone who spoke the same professional language.

  She adjusted her position, making sure she could get her binoculars to her eyes with the minimum of movement. She’d been here for hours, and the only thing that had happened was that old man Matic had fed the pigs. She glared at a heavy old sow who was lumbering towards her in a purposeful way, and held her breath.

  At least it wasn’t raining.

  Yet.

  Tony lay on the comfortable bed, enjoying the feel of the cool white cotton on his body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so genuinely at peace. Certainly never in the middle of a serial killer investigation. But this morning, he felt like a swimmer who has finally arrived at the shore after an interminable battle with the waves. Ever since he’d first met Carol, he’d been struggling to make sense of the feelings she provoked in him. At first, he’d tried denial, since he knew he was incapable of giving her the sexual satisfaction she deserved. Then he’d tried to force it into the box marked “friendship” because he feared the work they’d done together had laid too great a burden of emotional baggage on them. Finally, he’d opted for distance on the basis that what the eye doesn’t see, the heart can’t grieve over.

  Each of these strategies had failed. But now the combination of a little blue pill and his experience with Frances had overcome that first objection. The second objection had fallen to the realization that what they had endured together could make them stronger rather than damage their intimacy. And now the distance had been shattered, and the world hadn’t ended.

  In all his working life, he had never found it possible to talk openly to another human being about his feelings when confronted with the appalling things one person could do to another. Yet the night before, he’d spilled out the anguish in his heart to Carol without a second thought. Even as he’d spoken, there had been an admonitory voice in the back of his head, warning that he was saying far too much. But he’d ignored it and, instead of revulsion, he’d found compassion. After the horrors of the Nazi records, he’d feared a succession of sleepless nights, afraid to close his eyes because of what dreams could do to him. Somehow Carol had acted as balm, releasing him from the terrible power of his imagination.

  For the first time in years, he had something to look forward to beyond the closure of the case that currently occupied his mind. It was a tantalizing prospect. But before then, he had work to do. Tony pushed himself into a sitting position. Something was niggling at the back of his mind and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was something he’d seen or heard in Bremen, a detail that hadn’t seemed relevant at the time but which should mean something to him now. “Where are you, Geronimo?” he said softly. “Are you planning the next one? Where is it going to be next? Where is the water going to take you next?

  “Water’s your element, that’s why you drown them. And, somehow, water ties in to what was done to you. Maybe whoever made you their victim also suffered from it. Maybe your father or your grandfather endured the water torture room at Hochenstein. Is this the symbolic connection that establishes your superiority over your victims? A way of asserting that your magic is more powerful than theirs?” This realization reinforced Tony’s conviction that they were looking for someone with links to the European waterway network. Water was the key, he thought.

  Then, because the brain works in ways that nobody comprehends, the thought he had been seeking slipped into the front of his mind. “The river,” he exclaimed. He jumped out of bed, reaching for last night’s crumpled shirt and thrusting his arms into the sleeves. A brief waft of the fragrance of Carol’s hair hit his nostrils and he smiled.

  His laptop sat open on the escritoire. He brought it back to life from snooze mode and started to compose an e-mail to Carol, Petra and Marijke.

  Good morning, ladies.

  Insights for today. The fact he chooses such an unusual method of murder must have some significance for him. I think it must have played a substantial role in whatever childhood experiences shaped his psyche. I now know that similar methods were used in psychological torture by the Nazis, certainly at Hochenstein. That he is using Hochenstein as an alias reinforces this connection. If, as I surmise, he works on a boat, this has tremendous resonance. He is a waterman, water is his world, and by using it to kill them, he’s saying that his power is stronger than theirs. So, I really think we should forget lorry drivers and concentrate on bargees.

  Now, when I was in Bremen, the cop who was showing me round told me that, because the Rhine was in spate, it was closed to commercial traffic. If our man is on a barge, then surely that means he’s not been able to ge
t away? He must still be where he was when he killed Dr. Calvet. Therefore he’s got to be either in Köln itself or within easy striking distance of it. I realize that’s a big area, but if you can start to narrow down the possible boats that were in the areas of the other crimes, it might just make it easy for you to put your hands on him.

  I’m sorry this is coming at you in bits and pieces, but I’m conscious that he’s working to a short-gap timetable and that the media attention is probably putting pressure on the investigation so I’m throwing stuff at you as it comes to me.

  I’m going over to Petra’s now to take another look at the case files. But I’ll be checking my e-mail if any of you need to get hold of me.

  Tony

  Rado was bored. He’d been sitting outside the apartment block since dawn, and neither Caroline Jackson nor the man from 102 had appeared. Caroline’s curtains were still drawn, even though it was past nine o’clock, and nothing was happening. It was all right for his uncle Darko, holed up in a café round the corner. He was warm, coffee’d up and with access to a toilet. Being stuck in a parked car was a long way off comfortable.

  He was considering a foray to the corner kiosk for a paper when the door to the apartment block opened and the man from 102 walked out, a laptop case slung over his shoulder. He hit the speed-dial button for his uncle’s mobile. “Hi, it’s Rado,” he gabbled. “The man’s on the move. He’s walking down towards the Ku’damm. Looks as if he’s trying to hail a taxi.”

  “Stay with him. If he starts heading back to the apartment, call me right away,” Krasic said. He ended the call, swallowed the dregs of his coffee and tossed a twenty-mark note on the table to cover what he’d consumed. Heading purposefully out of the café, he made straight for the apartment block, keeping an eye out for Caroline Jackson. The last thing he wanted was to bump into her.

  Luck was with him as he headed for the door. A harried-looking middle-aged man was rushing out into the street, briefcase under his arm, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Krasic caught the door before it clicked shut. He was in. He ran up the stairs to the first floor and got through the lock of 102 inside three minutes.

  This time, he started with the bedroom. On the floor lay one of those leather travel bags with a dozen different compartments and pockets. Krasic began going through it methodically. In a zipped inside pocket, he found a passport. He pulled out a crumpled receipt from his pocket and scribbled down the details. Dr. Anthony Hill, whoever he was. Date and place of birth. Entry and exit stamps from the USA, Canada, Australia and Russia. There was nothing else of interest in the bag.

  Krasic quickly checked the clothes in the wardrobe. In the inside pocket of a battered tweed jacket he found a photo ID for the University of St. Andrews Staff Club. Again, he jotted down the details. He headed through to the living room, which showed very little sign of occupancy. There was a pad of paper on the escritoire, but the top sheet was blank.

  When his phone rang, he almost jumped out of his skin. “What is it, Rado?” he growled.

  “I just thought I’d let you know that he took a cab to an apartment opposite Kreuzberg Park. He let himself in with a key.”

  “OK. Make a note of the address and keep an eye on him. Like I said, phone me when he heads back this way.” He stuffed the phone into his pocket and carried on searching. The only other thing of interest he found was a battered paperback copy of the poetry of T.S. Eliot. An inscription on the flyleaf read, “To Tony, from Carol, La Figlia Che Piange.” Krasic looked up the poem with that title and felt none the wiser after he’d read it. Something about a statue of a weeping girl.

  Never mind. He had what he needed. He knew exactly where to go to find out all there was to know about Dr. Anthony Hill.

  Marijke emerged blinking into the daylight of the police station car park. She’d reached the point where she’d scream if she didn’t get some fresh air. It felt like weeks since she’d breathed anything that hadn’t already been through twenty other pairs of lungs. She shook her hands from the wrists, then rotated her shoulders. Intellectually, she knew they were making progress, but emotionally she felt mired in a bog of paperwork and electronic communications. The sheer volume of the material that was coming in meant she could scarcely stay up to speed, never mind have the time to process it and make considered decisions. Added to that, she’d had to feed into the investigation the suggestions that Tony had made, as if they came from her alone. All morning she’d been firing off actions for the rest of the team to get on with till she’d lost track of what she’d asked for and what was still to be done. And any minute now, Maartens would swan in and demand an update.

  She was leaning against the wall feeling sorry for herself when one of the civilian clerks walked out of the police station looking tentative. He peered around him and, when his eyes lit on her, smiled and headed towards her. “You’re Brigadier van Hasselt, right?”

  Marijke nodded. “That’s right.”

  “I’m Daan Claessens? I process the traffic tickets?” He had the irritating habit of making every statement sound like a question.

  “Pleased to meet you, Daan,” she said wearily.

  “Only, I was in the canteen this morning? And we were sitting with some of your detectives, and they were talking about the de Groot murder and the other killings? And they said you’d told them to look at all the CCTV film from the traffic cameras on the day of the murder? To try and spot a Golf with German plates?

  “That’s right. It’s a line of inquiry we’re pursuing.”

  “So, I thought it might be worth looking at traffic tickets?” He stood waiting for encouragement.

  “Yes?” She was too weary to manage more than polite interest.

  “So I went back and checked? And I found this—’ With a flourish, he produced a sheet of paper from the folder he was carrying. He handed it over with the pride of a dog delivering a very slobbery stick.

  It was a speeding ticket generated by one of the automatic cameras on the outskirts of the town. The date and time corresponded to Pieter de Groot’s murder. The photograph showed a black Volkswagen Golf with German plates. Like the one Margarethe Schilling’s partner had seen on her drive. Marijke felt her palms sweating as she read the details. The car was registered to Wilhelm Albert Mann. Twenty-six years old. His address was given as the Wilhelmina Rosen, care of a Hamburg shipping company. “Unbelievable,” she breathed. It looked as if Tony had been right all along.

  “Does this help?” Daan asked eagerly.

  “Oh yes,” she said, amazed that she could still sound calm. “Yes, this helps a great deal. Thanks, Daan. Oh, and can you keep quiet about this for now? Confidentiality, and all that…”

  He nodded. “No problem, Brigadier.” He scuttled off, turning back at the door to give her a little wave.

  The question was, what should she do now? Somehow, she had the feeling that the German detectives might be reluctant to see this as a high-priority solid lead. For one thing, it appeared to be nothing more than a combination of hunch and coincidence. There were plenty of innocent reasons why a German barge skipper’s car might have been in Leiden. There wasn’t even any proof that Mann himself had been driving it. More importantly, she understood only too well the politics of policing. No matter how eager the detectives were to clear their cases, there would be a reluctance on the part of their bosses to accept guidance from the Dutch police. They’d want the murders solved, sure, but they’d want the cases cracked by their own people. So while they might be glad of a lead on such a tough case, she didn’t think it would be treated with the urgency she thought it deserved. Besides, this had been her case from the beginning. If it hadn’t been for her and Petra, the German police would be a lot further behind than they were now. If anyone deserved the credit for solving these murders, it was them. She wasn’t ready to give it away yet.

  What she needed was for one of her unofficial allies to track down the Wilhelmina Rosen and check out Wilhelm Albert Mann. If Tony was right about the ki
ller’s boat being trapped by the floodwaters, it couldn’t be too hard to search the Köln area for Mann’s barge.

  She walked back inside, mentally composing the e-mail.

  Krasic looked down at the chubby young man who loomed over his keyboard like a miniature Jabba the Hutt. “What do you think? Can you find out about this Dr. Anthony Hill for me?”

  Hansi the hacker smirked. “Piece of piss. The public stuff I can get in minutes, but the private stuff, like address, bank details, that’ll take me a bit longer. Leave it with me, I’ll get you everything that’s out there in a matter of hours.”

  “Good. Oh, and while you’re at it…” He read out the address Tony had taken a cab to that morning. “I want to know who lives there. And what they do. OK?”

  “And I get paid when?”

  Krasic patted him on his greasy head. “When I see the results.”

  “I’ve never let you down yet,” the hacker said, his mouse pointer already moving across the screen.

  “Now would not be a good time to start.” Before Krasic could say more, his phone rang. He stepped to the other side of the high-ceilinged room of the apartment in Prenzlauer Berg, where counter-culture wannabes rubbed shoulders with the real thing like his man in the corner. “Hello?” he grunted.

  “Darko, it’s Arjouni.” The heavy Turkish accent was unmistakable, Krasic thought, wishing his new middleman would remember not to use names on the phone.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re short. The supplies that were due, they’ve not come in.”

  “I know that. Don’t you have enough to be going on with?”

  “I’m nearly out. There’s no way I can make it through the weekend.”

  “Shit.” Krasic muttered. “OK, leave it with me.” He ended the call then dialled Tadeusz. “Boss? We’ve got a problem with supplies. With the river being closed, there’s a shipment still en route.”