Mind/Reader

by Brian Freemantle

  Toomey stared at her, transfixed by the staggering mental performance. Hoarse-voiced, he said: ‘It’s an admission of a regular and close friendship between a broker suspected of Stock Exchange fraud and a man in a position to have made such a fraud possible.’

  Claudine didn’t know which advantage to grab first. ‘It’s not. It’s an interview of a man suspected of Stock Exchange, fraud to whom every question was phrased in such a way as to provide the answers you expected. So he gave them to you so vaguely they proved nothing and incriminated him in no way whatsoever.’

  ‘What about when we come to the discussion about the money?’ demanded Toomey triumphantly.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The admissions would be sufficient for any court.’

  ‘No they wouldn’t and you know that, too. So do the lawyers advising you. And if they hadn’t advised you it wasn’t enough we wouldn’t be having this meeting today.’ Claudine took a deep breath. ‘Your remark: We know about Luxembourg. His reply: I don’t understand that. Your question: You paid Gerald Lorimer large sums of money for information he gave you to carry out insider dealing, didn’t you? His reply: I have never in my life conducted insider dealing …’ Claudine faltered, unsure how much longer she could sustain the effort: just a little longer.

  She took another breath, for the final spurt. ‘Your question: How do you explain sums of money amounting to sixty thousand pounds in a Credit Suisse account in Luxembourg? His reply: I can’t explain why Gerald had a Luxembourg bank account, although there’s no reason why he shouldn’t have had one. It’s not illegal. What I can say to clear up whatever sort of inquiry you’re making is that over the years I have loaned Gerald varying sums of money, most of which will be traceable through bank statements I’d be happy to have my accountants make available to you. He was my friend, as I told you. He frequently complained about being short of money. I’m fortunate in being an extremely wealthy man.’ Claudine stopped the verbatim recitation, not wanting to risk any more. ‘You’ve got nothing!’ she insisted. ‘You told him in advance of discovering a secret bank account, enabling him to explain his bribes away as loans. I’m sure he has made bank statements available to you to account for most of the money. He’d have been stupid not to give himself an escape route: they always do. If Lorimer hadn’t killed himself, you’d have probably had a case. Without him you’ve got nothing.’ She wished she’d accepted the canteen coffee, disgusting though it invariably was. ‘And you’ve certainly got nothing against my late husband. Which you also know. You weren’t even able to suggest a bribe—’

  ‘Not then,’ snapped Toomey. The man stirred, pushing himself upright like a punished boxer preparing to fight back.

  ‘Or now. Nor at any time in the future.’

  ‘Your husband was a frequent visitor to Luxembourg?’

  ‘Not frequent,’ Claudine corrected. ‘He went there from time to time. It’s one of the centres of the European Union. His job was European law.’

  ‘Was he ever there the same time as Gerald Lorimer?’

  ‘Not that I am aware.’

  ‘But then you seem unaware of a lot of your late husband’s activities.’

  ‘I don’t believe I am,’ said Claudine, refusing the anger the man was trying to generate. ‘I don’t think you should base conclusions upon assertions made by someone during an appallingly badly conducted interview.’

  Toomey’s colour had been subsiding. Now it flared again. ‘We recovered Lorimer’s passport from his flat. Would you have any objection to letting us have your late husband’s passport?’

  ‘Yes, I think I would.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t see any reason why I should. And because I believe I have cooperated as fully as necessary with a totally unwarranted and pointless inquiry. What would it prove if they were both in Luxembourg at the same time?’

  ‘It would be interesting,’ suggested Toomey.

  ‘I thought you were seeking evidence of a serious crime, not coincidences that were interesting.’

  The man’s colour had begun to subside again. ‘You paid the deposit on your house in Kensington in cash. Something like forty thousand pounds.’

  ‘My house, purchased before I married Warwick Jameson.’

  ‘You already knew him, though? And it became your marital home.’

  ‘It suited both of us.’

  ‘Like the Jaguar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was paid for in cash too, wasn’t it?’

  Claudine’s feeling wasn’t outraged anger, the most understandable response; it was astonishment at the depth of the intrusion into her life, as if she’d caught someone spying upon her when she was naked. ‘We were given the cash to purchase it, yes. The different driving requirements, you understand?’

  Toomey couldn’t keep the satisfaction from his face. ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  Claudine met the man’s attitude with disdain, although her breathing was becoming worryingly more difficulty. ‘My mother, who lives in France, gave us the money as a wedding present. As she gave me the money for the deposit for my house, which I bought long before there was any thought of my marrying. She also paid for our honeymoon, in Antigua. It rained, twice. Warwick was stung by a jellyfish but it wasn’t serious.’

  ‘Your mother is obviously an extremely generous person, like Paul Bickerstone?’

  ‘She is, although I’m not sure I like the comparison with Paul Bickerstone.’

  ‘She’d be able to confirm these cash gifts, if she were asked?’

  ‘I wouldn’t allow her to be asked. She underwent an extremely serious cancer operation three days ago. The prognosis is still very uncertain.’ She’d have to use her inhaler soon.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the man, with no regret in his voice. ‘There would be bank records, though?’

  ‘I see no more reason to make those available to you than I do Warwick’s passport. I have satisfactorily - and honestly - answered all your questions. At great personal inconvenience - delaying a visit to my mother - I’ve cooperated by travelling here today. There is absolutely nothing more I can do or say to help you.’

  ‘That could be construed as hostility, Dr Carter.’ ‘Whatever construction you put upon it, like whatever you choose to believe or disbelieve, is entirely a matter for you, Mr Toomey.’ Unable to continue any longer without it Claudine took the Ventalin from her handbag and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I suffer from asthma.’

  ‘I didn’t know the pollution or pollen counts were particularly high today.’

  ‘You’re clearly not a sufferer.’ Fuck, thought Claudine. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  ‘It really would have been better if you’d accepted that a lawyer should be present.’

  ‘Nothing that’s happened here today has changed my opinion about that.’

  ‘Neither has our prime consideration changed, about your position and any possible embarrassment within Europol. That’s why I refused to discuss anything with them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I received a personal telephone call from the British commissioner, Winslow, wanting to know the reason for our first meeting. Said he’d got my name from the visitors’ security log. I said it was a confidential internal matter. I thought he might have asked you direct.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Claudine. ‘I would have thought so, too.’ She managed to wait until she was outside in the street before having to use the inhaler again.

  Her mother no longer looked formidable, in control, as Claudine had always thought of her, and Claudine felt cheated. Frightened, too. Not at the cancer that had visibly gnawed away at the woman, the thought of which repulsed Claudine as much as before: more, even, now that she could see the physical emptiness beneath her mother’s nightdress. The fear was at the thought of her mother’s not being able to overcome it, as she’d indomitably overcome every other obstacle she’d been confronted
with in her life. Claudine had never accepted that her mother was going to die. Not be there. It wasn’t the reasoning of someone trained to reason; whose job was to reason. But it was a belief — something she knew which couldn’t be dislodged - long before she’d been taught to think sensibly and logically. To be grown up. At the moment of walking into her mother’s hospital room Claudine didn’t want to be grown up. She didn’t want a child’s belief taken away from her.

  Monique was propped up by a support and over her sagged nightgown wore a knitted bed jacket that Claudine wished she didn’t because it was thick wool and ornately patterned and overpowered her, making her look older than she was, old and frail and forlorn. A tube, concealed as much as possible by the coverings, snaked into a receptacle that had also been concealed as much as possible beneath the bed. Claudine guessed it was a catheter and knew her mother would have hated the dependency. Her mother’s cheek was damp when Claudine kissed her.

  ‘I haven’t got any tits left,’ announced Monique.

  ‘You knew you weren’t going to have,’ said Claudine, refusing any response to the bravado. She refused, also, the pretence of telling her mother how well she looked, because she didn’t and would have despised the lie. The cherished belief had gone but the honesty there’d always been between them had to stay.

  ‘I might have to have more treatment. It’ll make my hair fall out.’

  ‘There are wigs.’

  ‘It won’t be very attractive in the bedroom, will it?’

  As considerate as always, Gerard had insisted she see her mother alone, promising to come later. ‘Have you decided?’

  ‘No,’ said Monique. ‘He bought me this jacket.’

  ‘It’s very nice.’

  Her mother looked at Claudine sharply. ‘I’m wearing it because he bought it for me.’

  ‘I asked if you’d decided what to do.’

  ‘It’s too soon.’

  ‘Did you give him the choice I suggested?’

  Monique nodded.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he still wanted to marry me.’

  ‘So it’s up to you.’

  ‘It always was.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m going to wait to see if I have to have this other treatment.’

  ‘You’re just putting it off.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Monique loudly. ‘Leave me some dignity.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m seeing the notary, though. As Gerard suggested.’

  It was the obvious moment. ‘I have something to ask you.’ ‘The restaurant will be yours, obviously.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Claudine. ‘You’ve been very generous to me. The apartment in Paris, when I was at school. The money for the London house and the wedding present. The honeymoon.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There would be bank records, wouldn’t there? Debits showing the gifts?’

  Monique frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s some irritating income tax inquiry, in England. They’ve asked me to explain where I got the money,’ said Claudine, the lie well prepared.

  Monique gave a thin, conspiratorial smile. ‘Only fools pay income tax, you know that.’

  Tax evasion, the national preoccupation of France, Claudine remembered. ‘It was all cash?’

  The smile widened. ‘I’ve not only got the best and most expensive restaurant in Lyon. It’s got the deepest cash register, too. Just enough for them, more than enough for me.’

  ‘So there are no bank records?’

  ‘Of course not.’ The satisfaction went from the older woman’s lined face. ‘Is that a problem for you, in England?’

  ‘No,’ said Claudine.

  ‘Tell them you won the lottery,’ suggested Monique brightly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Claudine, smiling back. ‘That’s what I’ll do.’

  She’d fallen into the trap and she didn’t know it, thought Toomey euphorically. It was enough to convince the Serious Fraud Office and possibly for a second interview with Bickerstone, although he would have liked something harder, something unarguably incriminating, to put against the man. So why didn’t he find it? There was no hurry, now. He could take his time and review everything he’d assembled, to make sure he had everything.

  Maybe he’d officially invite Commissioner Winslow to the next meeting with Dr Claudine Carter. He’d bet a month’s salary she’d bring a lawyer with her then.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In the first few moments Claudine came close to being overwhelmed by what Kurt Volker had created. There was every sort of comparison chart, computer graphic and detailed master and subsidiary file, all unlike anything she had seen before and certainly better and more comprehensive than she’d possibly hoped. The German had gone far beyond matching the similarities which unequivocally proved there were three separate sets of killers, and the graphics were the most sophisticated Claudine had ever had to work from. Most impressive of all was the way Volker had used an optical scanner to pick up the horrifically contorted death grimaces of the Celeste five and, by using the computer equivalent of a paint-kit and airbrush, had restored the features to pictures acceptable for reproduction in newspapers and posters for any public recognition appeal. As soon as she saw them Claudine realized that the facial corrections she’d asked Rosetti to carry out after his autopsies were unnecessary.

  ‘You’re an artist!’ exclaimed Claudine.

  ‘The computer does the work: I just tell it what to do,’ Volker said modestly.

  The publicly usable in-life image of the victim dominated the fronting sheet of each of Volker’s murder files, with the original death mask alongside. Every physical characteristic so far known was listed, including height, weight and body measurements. Each contained the maps which had been Volker’s concept, marking in dated sequence the towns and the routes along which the dismembered bodies had been found where the distribution had been countrywide, and in the same order the locations where the discoveries had been confined within a city. Volker had established the continuity not just by date but by recording the precise discovery times given by the various investigating agencies, which had been on Claudine’s list of requests but became unnecessary with the completeness of Volker’s assembly.

  Claudine said what he’d done was magnificent and that she felt superfluous and in apparent embarrassment at the praise Volker’s customary quick blinking became even faster. He collected facts, he pointed out: she had to interpret them and he couldn’t do that. Neither could his computers, although they’d probably be able to one day.

  ‘I’m not sure you couldn’t do it now,’ Claudine said. Among so much she didn’t understand - and she wasn’t thinking primarily of the investigation - time with Volker was like being protected in an oasis against a sandstorm she couldn’t see through. It went beyond her need for orderly patterns from precise electronics. She liked his unprompted initiative and his lateral thinking and his total disregard of propriety: the Trojan horses on which he rode into forbidden places in cyberspace. She even liked the don’t-give-a-damn way he dressed. In fact she simply liked Kurt Volker.

  ‘I didn’t get anything from the prostitutes’ directories in Brussels,’ Volker apologized.

  ‘It was worth trying.’

  ‘And going on with. I’m trying something else, going through the centralized records in Holland and Belgium to see if they’ve digitalized their criminal photographic records. If they have and either of the two women have a record - for anything, not necessarily prostitution - I could identify them, in time …’ Volker pulled up his image of the Amsterdam victim, enlarging it until it occupied the entire screen. ‘It’s not just a copy of the death mask, tidied up. Every measurement is absolutely correct, like the bone structure and the lip, nose and earlobe thicknesses and protuberances. If I get a similarity I can overlay my picture with theirs for a definitive match. Hairstyle doesn’t matter. It’s facial contours and configurat
ions that are important and I’ve got every one.’

  ‘Hugo says the French teenagers were raped. What about anything pornographic involving them or any of the others? Sado-masochism? Snuff movies even?’ She realized as she finished speaking that it had seemed quite natural to think of Rosetti by his given name.

  ‘No problem accessing any Web site for all the sex bulletin boards,’ said Volker. ‘The difficulty might be the sheer volume, even at the speed with which I could eventually run the checks through. And we’d have to buy the films, of course. They’re mostly on video, not computer. I can’t get into them unless they’re on a base.’

  ‘So it isn’t practical?’

  ‘I could establish a poste restante box number address for delivery,’ offered Volker. ‘And hide each purchase through more than one system in any country or several countries, so we wouldn’t be identified or charged. That’s easy. But all the time we were buying what’s available more material would be being produced and advertised, so we could never stop buying. Even if we set up back-to-back, twenty-four-hour transmission monitored with an automatic search program - which I could technically write - it would still take months. And I didn’t think we had months.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Claudine. ‘We don’t. I hope we don’t have to resort to it.’