Behind Closed Doors

by JJ Marsh

  “Hello?”

  The voice at the other end dispensed with pleasantries. “Do you need anything else from me?”

  “No, everything’s covered. All I need to decide is when. Circumstances should be perfect in the next two to three weeks.”

  “Complete this one as soon as possible. Because I have something else I want you to do.”

  The figure stopped. “Just a minute. You chose this one. And I want to hit the drugs trade next time. I already have a shortlist.”

  The voice did not reply.

  “Not only that, but I don’t want to do another short notice thing again. It’s dangerous to be under-prepared. For all of us.”

  “You won’t be under-prepared. I’ve already got plenty of background. I’ll do the research now and you take care of the implementation. You don’t have to travel far, either. It’s right here.”

  “In Switzerland?”

  “In Zürich.”

  The figure began pacing along the line of lockers. “I’m not sure. We’ve been far too close to home recently. The risks are beginning to ...”

  “Yes. Which brings me to our second point. Once these two are complete, we’ll stop.”

  “Stop? What do you mean? For how long?”

  “For good. You can go back to Mozambique or whichever desperate region needs you most, and I will find myself another hobby.”

  “No. We can’t stop now. There’s so much left to do. What about my list?”

  “There are other ways of administering punishment to those on your list. Look, it couldn’t last forever and the risks now outweigh the satisfaction. We’ve reached the end of the line. I want to deal with these last two cases, that’s all.”

  The pause lasted for over a minute as the figure stared, unseeing, at the people borne upwards by the escalators.

  “Who is the second one? Someone connected to the airline management?”

  “No, not the airline. A different branch of corrupt industry. The police. This is a detective. They’re investigating some unusual suicides and think they’ve found a link.”

  “The police? But surely if they already think there might be a connection, acting against them would be almost ...”

  “... suicidal?” The voice laughed, apparently amused. “It would be if I didn’t have our alibis all prepared. Plus, if you do this right, it will be impossible to prove it wasn’t self-inflicted.”

  “How does a police detective fit with what we’re trying to do? Or is this just a case of self-preservation?”

  “The role of the police is to fight crime and punish criminals. Not judge and condemn those who are doing good works while corruption and greed remain above the law. It will be our final statement.”

  “But ...”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing. Which way round do you want it done?”

  “The lawyer goes first. Then immediately afterwards, the police detective ends it all, unable to bear the public humiliation and failure. It’s practically poetic. I’ve already started the ball rolling.”

  The figure leant over the barrier and gazed down on the shoppers below. “How do you want it done?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet. Let me think about that. It must definitely be spectacular. It’s our swansong, after all. But I’ve found enough detail for you to start work and left it in the usual place. The other material you need will be sent to your home address, under the guise of a perfume sample. Keep your eyes open for a silver envelope advertising Homme Fatale.”

  “Right. I’ll get started.”

  “Good luck. And ... this really must be the last time.”

  The figure didn’t respond.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know.”

  Ending the call, the figure placed the phone in the Jiffy bag and went in search of a post-box to send it back.

  Chapter 14

  Zürich 2012

  Reception at Zeughausstrasse Police Station was ridiculously busy for ten to eight in the morning. Beatrice stood in the open doorway, her route blocked by a shifting crowd of people carrying microphones and cameras.

  A young man spotted her and addressed her in English.

  “Are you Detective Stubbs, from London, working on the serial killer case?”

  Attention switched to her and a sudden panic surged as the questions began.

  “Sorry, no comment.”

  “Entschuldigen Sie, bitte! Excuse me! Frau Stubbs, this way.” Xavier cleared a path through the group of journalists. She put her head down and bulldozed her way forward, a little surprised at the lack of resistance as she squeezed past. They continued to ask questions, she continued to say, ‘No comment’, but they didn’t thrust their equipment in her face or block her path, even stepping back to give her room. It wouldn’t happen like that in London.

  She reached Xavier, who appeared redder than normal, but rapidly swiped them both through the security doors.

  “How do they know?” she asked.

  “Front page of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung. The phones are ringing all the time and Kälin’s not happy.”

  “For once, I feel the same way.”

  Everyone in the workroom seemed to be talking at once. Xavier immediately joined in. Beatrice stashed her bag in her office, collected a cup of water and stood at the briefing table, listening. She hoped her actions would convey the message she wasn’t harassed. It also gave her chance to get her breath back. The room gradually quietened and Kälin spoke.

  “We have a leak, Frau Stubbs.”

  The noise began again and Beatrice waited for some order before offering her opinion.

  “Do we? Is that the only way the information could get out there? I haven’t read the article, but I’d like to be sure before jumping to conclusions.”

  Sabine managed to make her voice heard over the wealth of opinions. “I’ve read it, Beatrice. And I believe Herr Kälin is right. The amount of detail in the report – the names of the men, the DNA connection, the fact that you’re leading the investigation, the names of most of the team, except Conceição and me, although it mentions psychological profiling – this seems like an inside job. And to be honest, the article makes us look like a bunch of idiots.”

  Beatrice considered. Why would any member of her team leak confidential information? The potential damage could be fatal, stalling the investigation in its tracks, not to mention warning their target. Why would anyone in this room scupper the case? Her eyes rested on Kälin, who took it as his cue to speak.

  “The most likely explanation is that this is not deliberate. Someone here has been talking to the wrong person. Think back over the past two weeks. Who have you talked to about this case? Did you share details with anyone? Journalists are experts at befriending people they think have a story. Think carefully.”

  Puzzled faces considered, eyes roamed the room and silence settled like dust. But the only result was a series of shaking heads. Beatrice examined her own conduct. She never shared details with anyone she didn’t wholly trust and generally kept her profession quiet. Of course, she always discussed latest developments with Matthew, but he was as likely to blab to the Swiss press as he was to abseil through the window.

  Kälin lifted his brows. “Frau Stubbs, I suggest you and I prepare a press statement for later this morning. The rest of you, I recommend you say nothing to anyone, not even to your families. Then, perhaps, we can work this investigation in peace.”

  “Herr Kälin?” Chris spoke. “It could have been you.”

  Kälin’s head joined all the others swivelling to stare at Chris.

  “I don’t mean you spilled to some bloke in the pub. But you did give a lot of information to Antonella D’Arcy, about Beatrice leading the team, about using a profiler and she already knew the names of the victims from your first interview.”

  No one spoke.

  Kälin looked out of the window, his frown dark. “That is possible. D’Arcy had enough information to trigger a news story an
d the journalists could dig up the rest. It would work in her interests to sabotage our investigation and to direct attention away from D’Arcy Roth, no matter whether she is involved or not. And she would enjoy making us look stupid. It’s possible the fault was mine, sharing too much with a suspect. I apologise, everyone. I should also remember to keep my mouth shut.”

  In the shocked speechlessness that followed, Beatrice decided something was definitely up. Kälin never accepted criticism, never admitted a mistake and certainly never apologised. He was right. If this investigation appeared clumsy and ineffective, it would certainly suit Antonella D’Arcy. But she wasn’t the only one.

  The press briefing was short and bland, as they accepted no questions. Beatrice found it relatively painless. Unlike London, not only were the press polite, but senior police officers weren’t breathing down her neck. She decided to get a sandwich and go for a walk over lunch, to allow herself some thinking time. The leak was one issue, but her concerns regarding Kälin quite another. Or was it? Both boiled down to the same thing – could she trust her team? Up until now, she’d had no doubts. Surely even Kälin wouldn’t cut off his nose to spite this case? On her return to the office, her mind was no clearer and her thoughts muddled. The news she received from the receptionist made things worse.

  “Frau Stubbs? You have some visitors. Herr Fisher from Lyon and Herr Hamilton from London wait in your office.”

  Hell’s bells. Not only an Interpol executive, but Scotland Yard yanking her choke chain. Just when the day was going so well.

  Rounding the corner to her office, she came face to face with Hamilton’s familiar craggy features. He jerked his head, unsmiling.

  “Stubbs.”

  She jerked hers back. “Sir.” She looked past him to Fisher.

  “Beatrice! Terrific to see you again. Hope we haven’t put you out too much, dropping in like this? Only we thought we’d pop by and get up to speed. See if you needed anything.”

  Fisher shook her hand with enthusiasm before gesturing to a chair. Interesting. Her office, her desk, her chair, and yet he invited her to sit. “Have you had lunch yet? We could take you out and treat you to something stodgy with cheese.”

  Absolutely charming man; solicitous, informative and helpful. She could not fault Fisher’s behaviour. Therefore she really ought to consider why she found him so utterly odious. He laughed at his own brand of xenophobic humour and Beatrice stretched her lips to be polite. His mud-brown hair was slicked back with gel, so that each individual tooth of the comb had left its mark. Something about him rubbed her up the wrong way; the high forehead, sharp nose and peculiarly British mouth, while his eyes had all the colour and animation of a dishcloth. It looked as if he was having a similar effect on Hamilton.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I had no idea we were due a visit from Head Office. Perhaps I missed the email. Forgive me if I am a little unprepared. I’ve already eaten, thank you, but I can arrange some tea.”

  “Have you? Gosh, that’s early. Very well, tea must suffice. And it’s not exactly a visit from HQ, which is why we didn’t email. It’s just that two weeks into the project, we thought it might be time to see if we can offer any further support. Particularly now the media have got wind of this.”

  “How kind. To be truthful, I cannot think of anything further Interpol could offer, unless it were another pair of hands. We’re at the dull, workaday stage, just making painstaking enquiries.”

  “Oh, I think any more hands on deck would raise a few questions in Lyon. There are already six full-time experts provided, not to mention a range of professionals at your disposal. It’s rather an expensive exercise, Beatrice. And given the calibre of personnel you have, we’re wondering when you might be likely to progress beyond enquiries.”

  “I’d be happy to update you, Mr Fisher. But I’d quite like a cup of tea while I do so.” She picked up the phone, trying not to grind her teeth. “Frau Stettler? This is Frau Stubbs. Would you mind bringing three black teas? And milk and sugar? Thank you.” Replacing the receiver, she turned to the immaculately dressed irritant and his brooding counterpart.

  “I have, in point of fact, emailed Lyon on a regular basis, just so that you know what we’re doing.”

  “Yes. We all read your updates, Beatrice. However, there is a growing concern in respect of progress. If I can summarise, you have revisited some of the scenes, checked the DNA and produced what we call a Picture of a Serial Killer.” His laughter reminded Beatrice of someone clearing their nose.

  Portrait, not picture, you Philistine. She dragged the corners of her mouth upwards.

  A knock at the door heralded tea and Frau Stettler placed the tray on the desk with a polite, “Good afternoon, together”.

  Fisher beamed. “Thank you so much. Oh, and biscuits as well? We don’t get this kind of service in Lyon. Thank you very much indeed and have a good day.”

  Nice to the point of patronising to staff, observed Beatrice. Well-mannered, popular, and thoroughly unbearable.

  “Let me recap,” Beatrice began, as she distributed tea. “My brief, as I understand it, is to ascertain whether we have a case to investigate. I and my team have done exactly that. We have double-checked the DNA samples for accurate gathering. We have revisited the scenes of each ‘incident’, to see if there is any information to be gleaned. We have cross-checked for connections between the deceased and Sabine Tikkenen has put forward an astute profile of the man who may be responsible. There is a case. And we are taking the first steps in trying to resolve it.”

  “Mmm, yes. Good work. The concern, Beatrice, is not how hard you are working. I’m sure you’re all beavering away. It is just we had hoped to see some concrete results by now. Just thought we’d check if we’ve got the balance right in terms of personnel.”

  Beatrice decoded and bristled. “By which you mean you want to change some members of my team?” She began to feel some sympathy for Kälin.

  “Oh, good gracious! I couldn’t possibly say, not at this phase of the proceedings. The point is merely that we’d like to be certain that the mix is working. Are you with me?”

  “Personnel modifications at this stage would be counter-productive. The case covers four different countries, and stretches back five years. We have taken some time to get up to speed, but now we’re working on several leads simultaneously. I am confident of making a breakthrough in the next month.”

  Fisher nodded, his angled head and plastic expression all designed to convey understanding. Hamilton glared out of the window as if displeased with the scenery.

  “No doubt that it’s complex, Beatrice. Bigger than we initially thought, in fact. That’s why we want to check that we have tasked the appropriate people. One month. That is a concern. You really think it could take another month to bring this to heel?”

  “I have no idea what that expression is supposed to mean. But to clarify, I said I expected to be able to show significant progress within the next four weeks.”

  “The powers-that-be would like to see something a touch earlier. Let’s say that in a fortnight’s time, we re-evaluate this project in the light of advancements made between now and then. How does that sound?”

  Like management bullshit.

  “In that case, Mr Fisher, I will deliver a full report to the General Secretariat by next Friday, with a copy to London. I am sure you appreciate investigating such a case does involve making diligent enquiries that would apply to any normal police procedure. We can only start running with the ball when we are convinced we have possession.”

  He gave his laugh once more.

  “Rugby analogies, Beatrice? Had you down for more of a cricket widow. No, no one is accusing you of running with the ball. Particularly not at the pace you are progressing. You feel able to deliver a viability report by the end of next week? That will go down very well in Lyon. We shall look forward to reading it. Now, I really should meet the team, I think. Would you be so kind as to make the introductions? Thanks for the te
a, it was jolly good, I have to say. And perhaps later this afternoon we might have a little chat about how the press got hold of such sensitive information. Rather awkward, that. Shall we?”

  Hamilton cleared his throat. “While you explore, Fisher, I’ll stay here. Want a word with Stubbs when she gets back.”

  Beatrice bit back a groan and opened her palm towards the doorway.

  Fisher leapt to his feet, bestowing a full beam on her as he led the way out of the office. His odd behaviour reminded her of that magician fellow, David Whatzisname, who kept locking himself in peculiar places. She watched him depart, slick and sickly as molasses, discomfited by the fact that this bug-eyed buffoon probably knew more about her than most of her friends.

  The main room was empty, but for one gingery head bent over a keyboard. Beatrice made the introductions.

  “Xavier? Can I introduce our visitor from Interpol? Herr Racine, Mr Fisher.”

  Xavier scrambled to his feet as Fisher held out his hand.

  “Hello Herr Racine. Heard lots of good things about you. Just a friendly visit to see if we can help at all. Are you all alone today?”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Fisher.” He pumped Fisher’s hand with enthusiasm. “At the moment, yes. Sabine is at the University Hospital and Chris and Conceição are exploring Langstrasse. Herr Kälin is in his own office.”

  “Ah, good. I hoped to meet Herr Kälin at some stage. Langstrasse? Now would I be mistaken in thinking that’s Zürich’s red-light district?” asked Fisher, with disingenuity.

  Xavier nodded and pointed to the pin board. “Yes, it is. It’s also the ‘alternative’ quarter, where we might contact anti-capitalists, political activists and so on. Sabine’s profile shows that our killer could have a left-wing agitation agenda. So Beatrice sent them to investigate.”

  “Really?” Fisher gave a fake smile and slow nod, as if Xavier were a small child enthusing about Lego. “I have to say, it’s so cosy the way you call your senior officer by her Christian name.”