‘They were left in May and June. Hot months. Over a period of a week. And had been killed and dismembered even before that. A lot of autopsy evidence has to be assessed and possibly re-examined, but at the moment there is no evidence of decomposition, which would normally have begun.’
‘Meaning what?’ pressed Sobell.
‘They were stored - and transported over distances sometimes of six hundred miles - in refrigerated conditions. They would have had to be carried in a way that would not attract any specific interest.’
‘Could the blood loss be anything to do with witchcraft practices?’ Sobell asked. ‘There’s been a lot of media speculation about that.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Claudine. ‘There would have been more than just blood loss if they were victims of Satanic rites. And the bodies would not have been distributed as they have been. The dismembered pieces would have all been in one place, arranged in some ritualistic pattern.’
‘Wouldn’t some parts being found in churches support the witchcraft theory?’ demanded the Austrian.
Claudine nodded. ‘Again it’s possible but again I doubt it. I think the reason is far more practical. Cathedrals are places where discovery was guaranteed.’ Remembering her conversation with Rosetti, she added: ‘I’m not saying we should rule out occult practices or religious mockery. I just don’t think, until we understand the significance better, we should put it high on a priority list.’
‘What should be higher?’ asked Sanglier.
‘The racial aspect,’ replied Claudine at once. ‘It’s another important factor, although here again I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of all of them being motivated by race. The murder of the two white girls is the most obvious argument against that.’
‘Racial hatred isn’t a one way street,’ insisted Sanglier. ‘Blacks hate whites as well as the other way round.’
Claudine hesitated, caught by the familiarity of the phrase. ‘This isn’t a racial reversal.’
‘More confusion,’ said Sanglier.
‘No,’ corrected Claudine, quickly again. ‘A refusal to allow the confusion of an automatic assumption.’
He was losing every exchange, Sanglier realized, agonized. ‘What other automatic assumptions are there to be avoided?’
‘The most obvious, that they’re serial killings,’ responded Claudine easily. ‘The five, certainly, are a series. But it’s not serial, not in the way of a normal criminal investigation into multiple homicides.’
There was a frown from Sobell. ‘Not a single killer?’
It was confusing, Claudine conceded to herself, although she didn’t feel it as much as the two men obviously did. Her confusion was concentrated upon Sanglier’s attitude, which she found inexplicable. Clearly the criticism was far more widespread than she’d understood and obviously the commissioners would be concerned about it. But she wouldn’t have expected Sanglier - Sanglier out of all of them! - to have reacted … reacted how? Claudine found it difficult to define in a single word, which further confused her: irritated her professionally, because professionally she was supposed to be able to analyse attitudes and behaviour and give them a name-tag. There was definitely a lot of anger, some clearly directed towards her. She was, Claudine conceded, the only available scapegoat, unfair though it was to single her out for attack. But understandable, perhaps, from a man totally unaccustomed to being blamed for any failing or incompetence, which could be put at his door as the controlling case officer. He hadn’t been publicly identified as such, so it was hardly a public humiliation. But there had been those tell-tale signs of internal uncertainty at their previous encounters to account for his over-reaction. Whatever, now was not the time to be sidetracked by the reflection. But if she had been preparing a specific patient psychoanalysis it was certainly an observation she would have included in the case notes.
‘No,’ she said, finally answering Sobell’s question. ‘We’re not looking for a single homicidal maniac: a psychopath.’
‘You’re saying sane people did this?’ exclaimed Sanglier.
Claudine would have thought Sanglier better able to accept that than the strong-stomached Yvette. She decided against exploring the definition of sanity with the man. ‘Totally sane, extremely calculating people.’
‘I find that hard to accept,’ said Sanglier.
‘It would misdirect the inquiry not to accept it,’ insisted Claudine.
The bitch was actually lecturing him, Sanglier realized, outraged. ‘I would have thought an open mind was a much better approach at this stage.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Claudine. ‘But the facts, scarce though they are, contradict a lone, insane killer. No one person, by himself, could by chance choose five anonymous victims in three different countries. And lead other psychopaths to choose other anonymous victims in three more countries. And more than one killer would have been necessary to spread the remains over such a wide area. A group of psychopaths, working as a team, is inconceivable even in a case as bizarre as this.’
Sanglier desperately sought a response. ‘What about their being the victims of snuff movies?’
Claudine gave a doubtful gesture of acceptance, remembering Kurt Volker’s pornographic hike through cyberspace. ‘I agree that sex is a factor - we’ve even considered the two white victims might be prostitutes - and I think it possible that some of the victims, certainly the five I’ve isolated, might have been filmed while they were being murdered. But I don’t think they were primarily killed for snuff movies. The strongest argument against it is how many killings there have been in such a short period of time. A porn ring would have needed studios with Hollywood facilities in permanent production. And professional snuff movie makers are not sending the sort of messages I’m talking about. Why run the risk of distributing the bodies all over Europe?’
She had an answer - a better answer - to everything, thought Sanglier. Trying to force the objectivity, he acknowledged that was her vocation.
Claudine had the most illogical imagery of a flag of surrender when Sobell lifted the written copy of her profile, vaguely gesturing with it.
‘Everything you’ve told us is here?’
‘Yes,’ said Claudine. ‘Supplemented by what’s emerged during our discussion, of course.’
‘I’m most impressed,’ said the man. ‘As I am sure Commissioner Sanglier is: it was an excellent choice appointing you to the task force.’
‘Yes,’ said Sanglier, with difficulty softening his attitude, which he knew anyway to be wrong, like everything else about this day and this encounter.
‘Thank you,’ said Claudine, welcoming the public gratitude. She didn’t think it would have been forthcoming if Sobell hadn’t been present. As the thought came to Claudine the Austrian’s demeanour hardened discernibly.
‘But couldn’t we have had this profile much sooner?’
Fuck both of you, thought Claudine, unaware of any discussion that had preceded her arrival but determined against becoming a player in any pass-the-buck game. Pedantically, spacing her words, she said: ‘A very strict record is being kept of every stage of this inquiry. The time and the date of my first profile notes and my initial draft are already in a database. I could have given a broad outline before the weekend.’
Sanglier was so stunned by the chance that briefly the retort blocked in his throat, so that when he did speak there was a rasp he hadn’t intended. ‘Then why did you waste two days-almost three?’
‘Also timed and recorded are my attempts to reach the others in my task force. I wanted to make the profile, preliminary though it is, as complete as possible: they might have had something to prevent a mistake. The mistake was obviously expecting cooperation. But then we’ve already discovered that, haven’t we?’ What, Claudine wondered, had she done? What she wouldn’t do was become a victim.
At no time during his charmed life - never, once, during his professional career - had Henri Sanglier been so disoriented as he had been by the profile session with
Claudine Carter. He was corseted by anger and impotence and frustration, unable for a long time - even when he was supposedly discussing the profile and what to do with it with Sobell - to think as he knew he should be thinking. It was only towards the end of the debate with the Austrian that Sanglier achieved any sort of control, and that nothing like the discipline with which he customarily hold himself. His first relieved, coherent thought was that the chairman was completely unaware of his difficulty.
Sanglier’s mind worked on two levels after Claudine’s departure. Outwardly he conducted a reasoned, logical conversation with the other man, frequently agreeing, emptily, as they examined it point by point that Claudine’s was a brilliant assessment with which they could rebut the media onslaught. At the same time but quite separately Sanglier was mentally reviewing every word, nuance, inflexion and response that had passed between the three of them in the previous two hours.
Sanglier’s overwhelming impression from the meeting and the way Claudine had conducted herself was that she did know something about his father and believed it provided her with hidden security. He also acknowledged that he’d allowed his fixation about the psychologist to supersede every professional consideration. So a lot of the fault, the reason for personal mistake following personal mistake, was his own. Again he believed Sobell had been oblivious. But he didn’t imagine the woman had been. He’d been aware several times of her sharp looks of curiosity and the even sharper responses. But he was sure it was only curiosity, not suspicion that he was directing personal animosity towards her. Rather, from her devastating concluding accusation against Poulard and Siemen, that he had been misled by the two men. So everything was recoverable. He might even be able to turn it to his advantage: make a point of hinting that he had been misguided - as close as he intended to come to making an apology - and invite her confidence to get an indication of what he really wanted to discover. The reassurance was limited. He’d still handled the entire episode extremely badly and had to guard against making anything like the same miscalculation again: avoid making any miscalculation again.
‘A press release will refute all the criticism,’ Sobell was saying. ‘Turn things entirely in our favour.’
‘Issued in my name?’ demanded Sanglier pointedly. When there had been nothing upon which to base a media response Sobell had spoken as if it would automatically be made under Sanglier’s identifiable authority.
Sobell appeared nonplussed by the question. ‘Is it wise to personalize the situation?’
‘It seemed to be before we got the profile.’
Sobell’s frown remained. ‘I don’t remember suggesting that.’
Sanglier stared fixedly at the other man, without speaking, until Sobell turned the beginning of a fidget into a shrug. ‘Perhaps we should decide it at a full meeting of the commissioners. Decide, in fact, precisely what we intend saying in the statement. A day’s delay won’t matter: it’ll ridicule the criticism even more, if it continues. Which our public affairs division expects that it will.’
A sacrifice for a greater advantage, judged Sanglier, pleased with the way his mind was finally working. The woman’s profile was impressive and in many ways as horrifying as all the details of the crimes that had so sensationally preceded it. So their statement would unquestionably re-ignite the sensationalism not just in the EU but worldwide. And the fame-guaranteeing publicity would be even greater if his already famous name was associated with it, as the man leading the hunt for the killer. But there would be the need for many more press releases and even press conferences, some perhaps to explain failures and misjudgements. Far better, at this early stage, to concede the precedent of anonymity at the commissioners’ meeting until there was something more positive with which to put himself in the media spotlight. ‘Yes. It should be a Commission decision.’
‘I’m concerned that the three of them aren’t working properly together.’
‘So am I,’ said Sanglier. ‘I had no intimation of a problem until today. It’ll be rectified at once.’
‘It doesn’t seem to be the fault of Dr Carter.’
‘No,’ said Sanglier tightly.
‘I think we should make a point at tomorrow’s meeting of letting everyone know what a contribution she’s made,’ suggested the Austrian. ‘Let’s face it: without her we’d have nothing to fight back with. And now we’ve got more than enough.’
‘Yes,’ accepted Sanglier, even more tightly. ‘That’s an excellent idea.’
The final concessions forced upon him made it difficult for Sanglier not to slip back into the morass of impotent frustration after Sobell left to convene the following day’s meeting. He took out some of his anger on Poulard, whom he succeeded in reaching first time, making a particular point of Claudine’s success and the intended recognition of the full Commission, and demanding they maintain daily contact with the psychologist as well as with him.
He’d just poured himself a brandy, needing it, when the call came from David Winslow, so he added another glass for the English commissioner’s arrival. Winslow entered the room looking more flushed than normal, and sipped the offered drink before speaking.
‘I must admit I’m embarrassed,’ he said finally.
Sanglier felt a flicker of hope. ‘What?’
‘I kept it general, as we agreed. Not official …’ He took another swallow of his brandy. ‘And got a blank wall. So then I got more forceful: asked to speak to Toomey himself. Said as the British commissioner I expected to be contacted as a matter of courtesy during a visit, which I’d learned about from the visitors’ log. He apologized but when I asked him what it had been about he said he wasn’t authorized to tell me and suggested I make the inquiry formal, through recognized channels, if I wanted to know. Damned impudence!’
‘Nothing more than that?’
‘When I said I hoped it wouldn’t cause any difficulties here he said he didn’t think it would. That it concerned something private, in the past …’
‘Private and in the past?’ broke in Sanglier.
‘That’s what he said.’
‘What’s the man’s job?’
‘I did at least get guidance there. Attached to some special investigation unit.’
Sanglier covered his reaction by draining his brandy goblet and then refilling it, immediately. He’d known he’d been right.
Hugo Rosetti had already worked his way through the complete French and Austrian autopsy reports by the time Claudine got back to the incident room. The moment she entered he announced there were unanswered questions in every one and very little to change the opinions he’d already reached. Despite Yvette’s efforts to put the newly arrived files into some semblance of order, what had come in by courier and special delivery during Claudine’s absence looked mountainous. Yvette helped her carry them all back to the comfort of her own office where she worked, oblivious of the time, until darkness forced her to put lights on, breaking her concentration.
Claudine had decided to work through until at least midnight - longer if she was not too tired - so she telephoned Lyon from her office. Her mother said she was busy preparing everything for the accountant before going into hospital. She’d spoken to the surgeon that morning, who’d told her she was the first on his operating list. She was pleased about that.
‘How are you feeling?’ enquired Claudine, hating the banality.
‘Fine. There never has been any pain.’
‘It’ll be good to get it over.’ More banality.
‘There wasn’t any difficulty about your coming here at the weekend?’
‘None. What could there have been?’
‘A hundred things. I want you to concentrate on what you’re doing. Not worry about me.’
‘What have you told Gerard?’
‘About what?’
‘You know what,’ insisted Claudine, forcing her mother to talk about it.
‘I said I wanted to wait until after the operation before deciding.’
‘What did he s
ay?’
‘That he understood.’ There was a pause. ‘He also said it would be important to set things out properly in my will, so that there would be no problem with your inheritance if I do marry him.’
Until that moment the legal significance of her mother’s remarrying hadn’t occurred to Claudine. Nor had she ever thought about an inheritance: her mother hadn’t liked Warwick, dismissing him as weak, as her own husband had been weak, but she had been extremely generous throughout the short marriage and unthinkingly Claudine had imagined she’d received her inheritance during her mother’s lifetime. She was momentarily unsure what to say. ‘I’m not interested in your will. But I suppose it’s very responsible of him: very fair.’
‘He’s a very responsible man.’
‘So you should marry him.’
‘I still have a lot of work to do. I should be out in front, greeting customers.’
‘I’ll come down again this weekend.’
‘Don’t, if it interferes with anything.’
‘It won’t.’
It would soon be time to see the woman again, decided Peter Toomey. And it would be very different, with what he had now. He would have to proceed strictly according to the regulations, as he had to the British commissioner’s inquiry. He hadn’t heard anything more from the man but he’d covered himself by inserting a record of Winslow’s call into the already substantial file. She’d get a lawyer, obviously. He hoped whoever she chose wouldn’t restrict things quite as tightly as the men who had accompanied Paul Bickerstone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Claudine worked long after midnight and allowed herself only three hours’ sleep before returning to her office. By the time she ferried everything back to the incident room, still before the arrival of anyone else, she only had the Cologne file to complete. The one outstanding dossier - on the Chinese girl in Vienna - had arrived overnight. She went through that first, having already resolved any uncertainty about three separate groupings but still wanting more evidence if it was available. She was halfway through the Cologne information - adding to the earlier confirmation - when Hugo Rosetti arrived. He was laden with the medical reports he had also worked on overnight.
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