Mind/Reader

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Do I need to?’

  ‘Of course you do! I’ll explain it all when the time comes.’

  Her mother’s spirits lifted back at the rue Grenette. She giggled while Claudine dressed her hair and insisted she wasn’t concerned about the treatment - chemotherapy, not radiotherapy - that was to start the next week. Claudine understood the hesitation when Monique was ready to change from the dressing gown she’d put on in the privacy of the bathroom into the blouse and the laid-out suit, and left the bedroom so she would not see her mother undressed.

  The restaurant was closed to the public for the meal that preceded the wedding, and Claudine was surprised at the array of guests, which included an impressive array of Lyon’s leading citizens. The tricoloured mayor, necessary for the later ceremony, headed the dignitaries. At the champagne reception before they sat down Claudine was introduced to the police chief. Her mother whispered that she hadn’t told the man of Claudine’s role at Europol or of her involvement in the Celeste investigation, although she’d wanted to.

  Despite having surrendered the kitchen to his two under-chefs for his wedding day Gerard Lanvin supervised the preparation. There was Perigueux foie gras broken by sharp lemon sorbet before the Strasbourg goose and crepes Suzette flared in a flat-bottomed cauldron, with separate wines with each course and more champagne for the toasts, which the mayor led, followed by a banker. Throughout Monique sat bright-eyed and flushed, laughing at every remark, modestly dipping her head to every compliment.

  The actual ceremony seemed almost an anticlimax, although in front of so many of the city’s leaders the registrar performed the ceremony with as much flourish and pomp as possible.

  Claudine returned to the restaurant with Gerard and her mother to collect her overnight case: disregarding their protests that it was stupid and unnecessary, she had booked into a hotel for the night. By the time they returned to the rue Grenette all traces of the wedding party had been cleared away and the restaurant prepared for the evening. Gérard insisted on more champagne, although almost at once he disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘How long have you been drinking?’ demanded Monique.

  ‘Not long. Not doing so was a silly act.’

  Her mother pulled a face. ‘Have you got a new man?’ she asked.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Are you sleeping with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Being married isn’t usually an obstacle,’ said the older woman, still intuitive.

  ‘It is in this case.’

  ‘Do you want to get married again?’

  ‘It’s not that sort of situation. It can’t be.’

  ‘Someone you work with?’

  ‘Yes. An Italian.’

  ‘Don’t like Italians. You can’t trust them.’

  Before she’d decided he was weak her mother hadn’t liked Warwick because he was English, Claudine remembered. ‘Hugo’s different.’

  ‘Hugo doesn’t sound like an Italian name.’

  Claudine shrugged. ‘It’s the one he’s got.’

  ‘Will I meet him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. He goes back to Italy a lot at weekends.’

  ‘To see his wife.’

  ‘She’s ill. An invalid.’

  Some of the challenge went out of the older woman. ‘You don’t have much luck with men, do you?’

  ‘I’m happy enough.’

  ‘I am,’ declared Monique, fervently. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in my life. And I’m going to live to be a hundred because there’s so much to enjoy.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The tidal wave of information was so engulfing Sanglier had to call upon the promised additional manpower and by the end of the third day had more than doubled his record-keeping staff. It was still insufficient to deal with the backlog and Sanglier introduced a twenty-four-hour shift system to catch up.

  The fresh breakthrough emerged on the fourth day and came close to causing the internal sensation Kurt Volker’s initial location of the Wo Lim factory had done. As well as Mr Woon, three other Chinese - Zhu Peiyuan, Li Jian and Chen Jinhu - were positively identified as members of K-14, China’s largest and most violent Triad, by computer comparisons against surveillance photographs taken in Van Diemen Straat.

  Sanglier quickly detached a three-man unit to build up detailed fact-files on the four men and the Triad societies to which they belonged, as well as intensifying the surveillance upon each of them.

  Every available criminal record was accessed in Hong Kong, Macao, Interpol and Europol, and Sanglier, nervous of the offence he’d caused by the press conference gaffe, nevertheless personally invoked Scott Burrows’ presence at Europol to persuade America’s FBI to search their index. The names and photographs were also run against Dutch immigration archives. The visas and residency permission for all four were valid and legal but Washington responded within a day that a man whose photograph matched that of Li Jian had been expelled from San Francisco five years earlier under the name of Luo Qi after serving four years of a ten-year sentence for extortion in the city’s Chinatown. In Hong Kong there were open files on the man under both names involving loan sharking and running illegal brothels. Chen Jinhu had been jointly accused on two occasions but acquitted on the prostitution charges, as had Li Jian, because witnesses had failed to appear. The loan charges had also been dismissed because of the refusal of witnesses to testify.

  The parallel progress in the investigations into the Polish prostitute killings came about initially by accident, as it so often does in criminal inquiries. In an unconnected swoop on a window-sex house in Amsterdam’s Bethamien Straat where a tourist client complained of being robbed, a Polish whore without a passport or residency permit was arrested.

  Because of her admitted nationality she was questioned about Anna Zockowski and admitted knowing the woman, who had been smuggled into the country a week before her own illegal entry: for a further week, before being put to work by the pimp to whom they had been virtually sold, they had both shared a house in Roomen Straat and they stayed friends afterwards. But she’d begun to distance herself from Zockowski about three months before she was killed, because Anna was a troublemaker, dangerous to be around. From the start, when they’d been together in Roomen Straat, she’d refused to work for the money she was to get until her ponce crushed her thumb in a vice and even then she didn’t stop arguing. She’d had a baby in Warsaw, a girl she’d put up for adoption, and she loved kids. That was why she made so much fuss about all the children - boys as well as girls - being brought in from the East for child sex and paedophile pornography.

  The whore hadn’t been smuggled into Holland by the same man as Anna. The only name she knew for Anna’s contact was Karel. He’d run Anna in Warsaw.

  Amsterdam liaised with Brussels, whose vice squad had picked up similar rumours about Inka Obenski protesting against child sex: there was even a story that she’d threatened to expose the trade to the police in exchange for legal residency. They hadn’t heard anything about a Polish pimp named Karel.

  The Warsaw police chief had, though. Karel Kaczmarek had a record stretching back fifteen years for criminal assault, robbery, brothel running and pimping. Within twenty-four hours Amsterdam and Brussels received copies of Kaczmarek’s file and a photograph of a bloated, crinkle-haired man with a scar down the left-hand side of his face that narrowed his eye into a squint.

  It was issued to every member of each city’s vice squad and in Amsterdam the house in Roomen Straat was put under surveillance. The vice squad chief supported the window shop whore’s appeal for residency in exchange for the help she’d provided but the immigration department ordered her immediate deportation, reluctant to set a precedent.

  With traditional police routine to follow and impose Rene Poulard and Bruno Siemen eme
rged as efficient, practical officers. Sanglier was perfectly satisfied, believing he could provide all the necessary initiative. Siemen moved between the various units, short-circuiting the unceasing documentary avalanche by verbally picking up the important developments: Sanglier heard first from the German of the K-14 discovery. Poulard linked the Polish inquiries between Amsterdam, Brussels and Warsaw and by so doing kept the cases officially and very firmly under Europol control, upon which Sanglier insisted.

  Despite all of this - and very much aware of the first-day dispute with the Amsterdam police chief - Sanglier remained worried by the potential personal disaster he couldn’t devise a way of avoiding now he’d established himself as the responsive head of the inquiry. His first protective move was officially to meet Dutch Justice Ministry lawyers, together with the deputy Justice Minister, all of whom listened attentively to his fear of another murder, agreed its justification but failed to provide an answer, which he knew to be impossible because if there had been one he would have already thought of it himself.

  Although the journey between Amsterdam and The Hague was easily commutable daily, Sanglier took a suite at the Amstel Intercontinental. He had no personal wish or need to be with Françoise and professionally it showed total commitment. It also put him that much closer to the waiting Europol aircraft if one of the pursuit squads became sufficiently suspicious of a Wo Lim vehicle to recommend its being stopped.

  He did, however, go personally to The Hague to deliver a report at the Commission’s weekly conference, relishing his obvious supremacy among the other fourteen commissioners as much as he enjoyed being in charge of his multi-force detective army. That was not, however, the reason for the return, which was to reinforce the self-protection he’d begun to put in place by meeting the Dutch officials. He was listened to at the Europol headquarters with the respectful silence of the Dutch meeting, and when he finished the current chairman, Belgium’s Jan Villiers, said: ‘I think we should congratulate our colleague on a brilliant summary of an extraordinarily well planned and already productive investigation.’

  There were assenting nods and gestures around the table until Holland’s Hans Maes, who believed himself the most closely involved commissioner, said: ‘How is it to go forward? Overwhelmingly convincing though it is to us, as professional policemen, there is nothing whatsoever positively to connect the Wo Lim factory or anyone employed in it with the Celeste murders. And I don’t see how that evidence is going to come unless we intercept a lorry or raid the premises and find a body. Both of which seem impractical: you’ve even told us today a surprise assault upon the premises is virtually impossible.’

  Everything going precisely to plan as usual, thought Sanglier, contentedly. He said: ‘The Wo Lim factory is unquestionably a criminal enterprise, established for criminal purposes. The extent and completeness of our surveillance virtually guarantees detection the moment a crime is committed.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re waiting for another murder?’ demanded David Winslow.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Sanglier. ‘Triad societies are not illegal under Dutch law. And there is no legal proof of membership of K-14 against the four we’ve named: it’s police intelligence never substantiated in any court of law. And their visas and residency permits are legal and valid. We have a search warrant, sworn out on probable cause, but at this moment we have no legal reason to move against Wo Lim Ltd or their factory.’

  ‘You mean we’ve just got to sit and wait?’ demanded Franz Sobell.

  ‘I’m not any happier about it than any of you are or the Dutch Justice Ministry is, but we don’t have any alternative,’ insisted Sanglier. ‘The moment we get an arrest - which we will - we can exercise the warrant. The factory can be stripped, forensically. Everyone can be interrogated and then the connection with K-14 can become a threat to enforce cooperation.’

  The statement was not greeted with the unquestioned acceptance of Sanglier’s earlier report.

  Anxious to show his knowledge, Hans Maes said: ‘Holland is no stranger to Triad societies. As well as K-14 our criminal intelligence believe we have operating in the country the Wo Shing Wo, the Won On Lok and the San Yee On. I say “believe” because as far as I am aware we have never gained an admission from an arrested Chinese criminal. And what you seem to be relying upon, once you’ve made your move, is a confession.’ The man shook his head. ‘You won’t get it.’

  ‘It’s absurd!’ protested the Italian, Emilio Bellimi. ‘There must be something more that we can do.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Sanglier, addressing himself more to Maes than to anyone else. ‘I’ve set out the facts and our problem … the problem I’ve discussed with Dutch officials. They couldn’t come up with an answer. I’d be delighted if you could.’ He was totally safe and beyond reproach. The verbatim records being assembled by unseen note-takers and recordings in the smoked glass eyrie above them would actually show the responsibility had been made that of the Commission.

  The discussion, which he knew to be pointless, continued for a further hour before ending as ineffectually as it had begun. Expectantly Jan Villiers said they could talk in more detail about the actual investigation at lunch, but Sanglier said he couldn’t spare the time and intended returning immediately to Amsterdam. The refusal was as calculated as leaving the building without bothering to contact Claudine. She learned of Sanglier’s visit from Scott Burrows, who’d accidentally encountered Sanglier on his way out. Burrows was heading in the opposite direction, towards Claudine’s office.

  It didn’t amount to a formal meeting, although the American telephoned to ensure it was convenient and Claudine, with her new-person resolve, determined against betraying the irritation she’d felt in the past, which she’d already put on her list of abandoned pretensions. She was also curious at Burrows’ changed attitude. He hadn’t telephoned in advance before, and this time he’d asked if they could meet in the privacy of her office, not the incident room. He arrived without a perfume-billowing cigar, which was another departure from normal. Instead he carried a sagging briefcase.

  ‘Sanglier didn’t make any contact?’ said Burrows, when Claudine expressed ignorance of the visit.

  ‘It’s strictly a police matter now. No need for me or Rosetti. And he’s got other computer people in Amsterdam.’ From her suspicions in the past she would have imagined Sanglier more likely to have sought out the American but dismissed the thought because it didn’t seem important any more.

  ‘Still seems a bit odd. But then he’s an odd guy.’

  The invitation was there but Claudine didn’t take it. Instead she said: ‘There was something specific you wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘I want your advice.’

  ‘You want my advice?’

  Burrows smiled, embarrassed, and Claudine wished her instinctive astonishment hadn’t been so obvious. ‘You’re going to hear something else you’ll find difficulty in believing. I think you’re the best goddamned profiler I’ve ever come across.’ He said the words hurriedly, the embarrassment becoming a positive facial redness.

  Claudine expected him to cover his difficulty with a cigar but he didn’t. Trying her hardest, she said: ‘You’re not coming on to me like all the other dirty old bastards around here, are you?’

  The smile remained, grateful now. ‘In my dreams. But I’m talking professionally.’

  ‘So talk.’

  He didn’t do so at once. Instead he took a bundle from the briefcase at his feet and slid it across the desk towards her. It seemed to be equally composed of FBI statement and report forms, newspaper cuttings and photographs: the photographs were all scene-of-crime, of mutilated although not dismembered bodies, apart from a crime file selection of a fresh-faced, blond-haired and moustached man looking clear-eyed at the camera, with the vaguest suggestion of a smile.

  ‘Lance Pickering,’ identified Burrows, sparing Claudine the trouble of looking at the print-out beneath.

  Before he could continue, Claudine pic
ked up. ‘First murder in 1990 or maybe 1991: I can’t remember exactly. Evanstown, Illinois. A fourteen-year-old boy, sexually mutilated. Three more within a matter of months, all around the same age, virtually in a line down through the mid-West. The sensation after the arrest was the line-up of psychologists and psychiatrists claiming he had a mental illness that could be cured. You wrote the psychosis was irreversible.’

  ‘So you did read the books,’ said the American, clearly flattered.

  ‘Every one of them. And I remember the Pickering case because it was the first time a serial killer was claimed, professionally, to be capable of being cured.’ Claudine spoke looking down at the dossier, flicking through it.

  ‘And the bastards were wrong. They only said it because Pickering’s old man is loaded and they could charge a hundred thousand dollars a shot. But the cockamamy judge fell for it and sent him to a supposedly secure psychiatric installation instead of a penitentiary.’

  ‘Where you saw him?’

  ‘It was a hot idea at the time. Official policy of the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime to interview as many serial killers who’d agree, to produce the definitive profiling manual. A hell of a lot did, to break the monotony of a lifetime’s imprisonment. Pickering was one of them and I was the guy appointed. Saw him three times, at the hospital in Wilmington, North Carolina. I didn’t see the fixation coming. No one did. I just knew he was totally insane and always would be and said so, in the official report and then in my own book …’ He gestured towards the pile in front of her. ‘The first letter has the yellow tag. Two and a half years ago.’

  ‘After he escaped?’

  ‘Trussed the laundry delivery man like a mummy after overpowering him and taking his uniform and drove out of the gates with him in the back of the van, so he could amuse himself for as long as he liked afterwards killing the poor fucker. The Bureau got that first letter about me a week later …’

  Claudine isolated the yellow tag, reading aloud. ‘Scott betrayed our friendship, our trust. He’ll die now. I’ll take his heart. My trophy …’