Mind/Reader

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘You hear us complaining yesterday that material has been withheld?’

  ‘I was in and out all the time, collecting my stuff,’ reminded the plump man. ‘But I heard enough to understand you’d encountered the usual problem.’

  ‘Which you’ve found your own way of getting around.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been possible to work if I hadn’t.’

  ‘What could you get me from national forces about these murders?’

  ‘Everything that’s on their database,’ promised Volker at once. ‘Do you want me to?’

  Claudine paused. ‘Not yet. Let’s stay with the official system for the moment. But it will be a useful double-check.’ She was, she accepted, condoning an illegality. But as the man said, they were all on the same side, even if other forces didn’t think so. There was even a certain natural justice in the other forces paying for their usage time. She didn’t have any moral difficulty with it. She wondered if Poulard or Siemen would.

  Volker reached the end of his prostitute bulletin board. He said: ‘I don’t think this is going to work.’

  ‘There’s something else I’d like you to do for me,’ said Claudine. ‘I want to establish our initial database from a comparison program listing the similarities and dissimilarities between each killing and dismemberment …’ She hesitated, as the idea came to her. ‘Could you access newspaper libraries to get me print-outs of the coverage the French murders got in the other countries where there have been subsequent killings?’

  ‘Easily.’

  The first began to arrive within an hour, from Belgium, and visually confirmed what she suspected. So did other reports that arrived during the course of the day, although she asked Volker to set up another positive comparison program. One of the English reports was from the Daily Telegraph. On the same condensed page was a three-paragraph story reporting that the City of London regulatory body had asked the Serious Fraud Office to investigate possible financial irregularities involving a well-known City entrepreneur. Paul Bickerstone was not identified by name but Claudine didn’t have any doubt he was the man to whom the story referred.

  That night her mother telephoned from Lyon.

  Sanglier’s protests were unarguable and he took them to the limit of his exaggerated outrage, knowing everything he said was being officially noted for the record that would portray him exactly as he wanted to present himself for his intended future career. He used words like ‘monstrous’ and ‘ridiculous’ and said that unless they complained as forcefully as he was demanding Europol would remain a denigrated and ignored organization - with them denigrated and ignored with it - and never achieve the function for which it had been designed. He directed every point in turn towards the individual commissioners whose countries had failed to provide the files and said: ‘They treated us like fools. Which I personally will not accept. Unless the attitude is rectified - and not repeated - I am seriously considering resigning. And in as public a manner as possible.’

  There was a discernible stir around the conference room. Sanglier was virtually the only person to have talked during the thirty minutes the meeting had been in progress.

  ‘I don’t think we should over-stress what happened,’ ventured David Winslow. ‘I would—’

  Sanglier cut him off. ‘How it is possible to over-stress it after agreeing how vitally important this entire investigation is for Europol!’

  ‘Have you personally examined every dossier?’ demanded Jan Villiers, towards whom as commissioner for Belgium, one of the culprit countries, Sanglier had directed some of his criticism.

  Sanglier had anticipated the question. ‘All of those from France, my own country. And you will see how I have reacted to that from your copies of my messages to every guilty force. I have also read those from Belgium and Holland. For the remainder I have taken the word of the coordinating task force. Which I do not doubt.’

  ‘I am not convinced it needs to be specifically raised at the next meeting of European Justice Ministers,’ said Franz Sobell, reluctant to be the man who would have to do it.

  ‘It’s imperative the correction comes from that level,’ insisted Sanglier. ‘Anything less and some forces will continue to disregard us.’

  ‘Are you really serious about resigning?’ asked Holland’s Hans Maes, aware that because of his name Sanglier had the highest profile of any commissioner.

  ‘Totally. I’ve no intention of remaining part of a useless organization,’ declared Sanglier truthfully.

  ‘Such a public demonstration would weaken Europol in the public estimation,’ said Luxembourg’s Paul Merot.

  ‘And that would put it on a par with how it’s clearly regarded by every police body in Europe,’ said Sanglier. ‘Which is what I am trying to correct - against what appears to be concerted opposition from every other representative on this Commission.’

  ‘I don’t think there are any grounds for saying that,’ protested Sobell weakly. ‘Of course it’s a situation that has to be corrected. The discussion is surely about how that’s to be achieved.’

  ‘My proposal will properly establish us. Anything less will weaken us,’ insisted Sanglier. ‘I also propose, as an indication of the commitment to this organization, that the vote upon it is officially recorded.’

  It was unanimous.

  It was the custom for all the commissioners to have pre-luncheon drinks in their private cocktail bar after their regular meetings. Sanglier was alone when David Winslow approached him.

  ‘You seemed to feel very strongly about how we were treated,’ said Winslow.

  ‘And embarrassed, that my own country was one of the guilty ones.’

  ‘I’m going to warn London what’s to happen at the Council of Ministers’ meeting: let them know the depth of our anger.’

  ‘I’ve decided to appoint Dr Carter to the task force,’ announced Sanglier.

  There was an uncertain hesitation before the British commissioner shrugged. ‘I’ll advise London of that, too.’

  ‘I’ve studied her file, obviously,’ said Sanglier. ‘I’m curious about her husband’s death.’

  ‘As I told you before, acute depression, from what I gather. A tragedy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like anything emerging to be an added difficulty.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Winslow at once. From the frown it was obvious the man was trying to work out if there could be any personal difficulty for him.

  ‘According to the log someone came to see her a few weeks ago. A man named Toomey. From your Home Office.’

  ‘Are you asking me to make an official inquiry?’

  ‘Not an official inquiry,’ Sanglier said. ‘I just want to be sure nothing could arise to cause any more problems.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Winslow.

  ‘You sure about this?’ demanded Joe Hardy.

  ‘Never been surer of anything in my life,’ said Burrows. ‘They over-reacted. You know that.’ He nodded acceptance of another Scotch.

  ‘It was your profile.’ Hardy ordered another whisky for himself, too, feeling sorry for the other American. As the FBI station chief in Holland he had an official position, a function and work to do, although he found it as dull as hell. In limbo, as Scott was, it had to be even worse.

  ‘I’m not changing my mind on that. Just arguing their reaction to it.’

  ‘They don’t want to take any chances with you. Don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘They’ve already lost me, putting me here. You know who I feel sorry for now?’ demanded Burrows. ‘I know most of them are scum, guys cutting deals for themselves to escape the twenty years to life that the people they’re giving evidence against are going to get, but I feel sorry for all those poor bastards in the Witnesses’ Protection Program. I know now just what it’s like. And you know what it’s like. It’s worse than twenty years to life.’

  Hardy looked down at the cable Burrows wanted him to send. ‘They’ll refuse, you know.’

  ‘I gotta try. Miriam’s g
oing crazier than I am.’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything to Ann.’ Hardy and his wife had become friends since the Burrows’ posting.

  ‘She doesn’t want to sound disloyal, even to buddies.’

  ‘I’ll get it off tonight,’ promised Hardy. He hesitated, looking around the embassy mess. ‘Thought there might have been something for you at Europol with all these killings.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Burrows.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was obviously unthinkable that Claudine would not go and the weekend provided the opportunity, but even then she minimized the interruption as much as she could, using Europol’s travel department to arrange her flight from Holland late on the Saturday afternoon - giving her most of the day in the incident room - with a Sunday night return on a Paris-routed connection.

  Claudine went directly by taxi from the airport to the rue Grenette and it was only when she automatically looked up to the silhouetted outline on the Fourviere heights that she remembered the praying hands of the first unknown victim had been found in the cathedral and wondered if Poulard and Siemen had been to Lyon. Or even intended to.

  Claudine was irritated there had been no contact, even after she’d left messages at the Paris hotel in which they’d based themselves. She’d actually delayed offering her initial profile until she’d discussed it with the two detectives. If she didn’t hear by Monday afternoon she’d approach Sanglier alone. There was no reason why she shouldn’t already have done so, apart from the need - even more irritating - to appear part of a team. So much for empty gestures.

  Monique Carter was exactly where Claudine had known she would be, like a general commanding a battlefield from its best vantage point just inside the white-curtained inner doors to the restaurant, between the till and the zinc-topped bar, with every table in the restaurant in view. It was from here, too, that she personally welcomed every customer and she turned expectantly at the precise moment of Claudine’s entry.

  The smile was genuine but quick, like Claudine’s in return. Quick, too, were the cheek-to-cheek kisses. Neither woman had ever had the need or the inclination for effusive public displays of affection.

  ‘It wasn’t necessary for you to come,’ said Monique at once.

  ‘Of course it was.’ The way her mother was dressed was as predictable as where she would be standing, the long-skirted black linen uniform of the restaurant supremo. It had always drained the colour from her face, to which she’d never as long as Claudine could remember added make-up, and from which her hair was strained back in the style in which she’d always worn it, netted in a bun. There’d never been any surplus weight - how could someone who each day, before dawn, shopped at the markets for meat and fish and vegetables and remained on her feet for fifteen hours afterwards ever be anything but thin? - and physically her mother seemed the same as she always had been. It would have been fatuous to comment about how she looked.

  ‘It’s not a drama.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was: don’t think it is.’ How much psychological as well as medical treatment would her mother need?

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s not “nothing”. Don’t lie to yourself: don’t lie one way or the other.’

  ‘Am I being counselled professionally?’ demanded her mother.

  ‘Yes.’ The worst thing imaginable would be for her mother to catch her out in any falsehood or exaggeration.

  ‘Do I need it?’

  ‘Probably. I don’t properly know yet. Don’t you think you do?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’ demanded her mother, impatient and professional in her own right.

  ‘Later, maybe. Some soup, when it gets quieter.’ Every table was occupied: with so much noise Claudine wondered how her mother had been aware of her entry.

  Monique turned away, first to check a bill, then to bid goodnight to the customers who’d incurred it. Several more bills and customers followed in quick succession. Claudine remembered the times - too many times - she’d sat quietly against the bar, even as a child, witnessing the departure ritual which was as ingrained as the person-to-person greeting, always and unerringly by name to those her mother knew. Which, after twenty-five years, numbered hundreds if not thousands.

  ‘It could take a long time,’ warned Monique, returning to her.

  ‘I can wait.’ Which she had done, Claudine acknowledged: enjoying being on the stool at the end of the bar with her father until she’d grown old enough to understand and then, when she did understand, invoking every excuse until finally being openly rude and ignoring him, preferring as her special place the small office behind the till. There, unbothered by the clamour and distraction of the restaurant, every night she had completed her homework and read her books and daydreamed about a future that had fluctuated between becoming a model or a writer or even, several times during her classical romantic phase, courtesan to a rich and famous man: an exiled king, maybe. Whatever, she’d been certain the choice would be unusual because she’d always intended to be unusual.

  ‘You could go upstairs.’

  ‘I’ll stay down here, at the bar.’ Wasn’t she dramatically admitting a wish to be as close as possible?

  ‘Your choice.’

  Which her mother had always encouraged her - forced her - to make once she’d entered puberty: sometimes, even, before. Always there, for advice and guidance, the one person upon whom she could depend, but her life was her choice, her decision. Be your own person, right or wrong had been the creed: the prodded-towards bridge to total self-dependence. She was becoming maudlin, with no reason, Claudine decided. The analysis had to be of her mother, not herself. The stool was at the very end of the bar, the closest possible to the familiar office and to her mother’s permanent command post. Which was logically convenient: that it was the furthest from where her father had stationed himself, sandbagged behind the permanent yellow pastis like a scout for an opposing army, had no significance whatsoever. The barman, Pierre, was a permanent fixture, like most of the staff. Her hand was kissed instead of shaken, the palm pressed with an ancient gesture at innocent seductiveness, and they danced around a verbal maypole of flattery very different from that she’d found so annoying in Holland. The old man waited although knowing what she would order and brought the Perrier when she asked for it. For more than an hour - over two more protracted Perriers - she watched her mother, looking for signs and finding none. The greetings and farewells were the same, the abrupt kitchen inspections as well timed, the paused and offered complimentary digestifs as frequent.

  It was almost midnight before the customer-vacated patron’s table, just inside the entrance but to the left and still with a commanding position of the room, began to be specially laid. Claudine waited for her mother’s invitation to join her, as she always waited.

  ‘The oysters are very good. And the skate,’ suggested the older woman.

  ‘Just soup,’ repeated Claudine.

  ‘You should eat more.’

  ‘I’m not hungry. Maybe tomorrow.’ Her mother was avoiding the purpose of the visit. And she was contributing to the charade, refusing to eat. But she genuinely wasn’t hungry. Determinedly she said: ‘So tell me about it.’

  Monique watered the burgundy that had been automatically put on to the table, not offering the bottle to Claudine, who poured water for herself. Shrugging, Monique said: ‘There is very little to tell. There was a lump. A biopsy. The diagnosis was malignant.’

  ‘When did you first notice it?’

  Another shrug. ‘Two months ago: six weeks maybe. I’m not sure.’

  She would be, to the minute, Claudine knew. ‘Why did you wait so long before telling me?’

  ‘There was nothing to tell until the biopsy result.’

  ‘When did you get that?’

  ‘In the last week or so.’

  Claudine was engulfed by an unprofessionally involved surge of pity, not at that moment at the e
normity of what her mother was telling her but at the effort the woman was making to dismiss its importance. Claudine knew just how great that effort would be. She’d inherited everything from her mother - consciously modelled herself upon her - and knew how she felt about illness, how she felt about any frailty. Illogically - even stupidly - both regarded illness not as something that was usually unavoidable but as a preventable weakness. Claudine accepted that for someone of her training and experience it was an attitude about which she should be ashamed. She still couldn’t prevent herself feeling that way. Most illogical and stupid of all for someone of her qualifications was that her first reaction, seeing Warwick’s body dangling from the rope, had not been shock or grief - there hadn’t even been the snatch of asthma - but simply irritation that he’d given way to weakness. It was arrogance, Claudine abruptly and for the first time realized: a patronizing and astonishing arrogance that while everyone else might fall victim to physical or mental illness she in some divine way was immune from succumbing to it. Confronted by the incongruous self-honesty - the acceptance that after all she had avoided the ‘know thyself’ dictum - Claudine forced another personal admission. The attitude wasn’t an inheritance from her mother. The basic feeling, maybe. But not as far as she had taken it; perfected it. What her mother was showing now was something far more easily understandable. Her mother was frightened. ‘You should have told me immediately you knew.’

  ‘What could you have done?’

  ‘Come sooner.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To talk, like we’re talking now.’ And for her mother to have got rid of all the ‘Why me?’ anger and fear and horror, at having something - something like a rat, which had always been Claudine’s imagery - gnawing away at her body from the inside.

  The arrival of Monique’s oysters coincided with yet another shrug. ‘You’re here now.’