Behind Closed Doors

by JJ Marsh

  Xavier’s expression was puzzled. “Why are there eight, Chris? There’s a pattern up to a point. This Crucifixion stuff was communicated in 2007, and obviously correlates with the Utrecht killing. There’s one image per year, so presumably we’ll find Thompson behind Three Studies from the Human Body, and Man in Blue I contains everything on Belanov, and so on.”

  “Yeah. And so the only oddity is the number of images for 2011 and 2012. There are two for each. In 2011, Untitled (Marching Figures) was downloaded in January, and Blood on the Floor in April. So the latter must contain data on Ryman. Who’s behind Untitled, then? Did we miss someone?”

  Xavier shrugged. “Maybe we did. Two deaths in 2011? But I’m more worried about the extra file for this year. One of them must be Esposito, of course. Probably Head IV, downloaded April 2012.”

  “That was the one you were looking at, right? The purple agony? Oh God.”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Xavier, you do remember how he was killed?”

  “Oh.” Xavier’s expression of disgust seemed less repulsion at the man’s demise and more disapproval of the killer’s poor taste. “So why is there another image for May 2012?”

  Chris shook his head. “I guess it’s possible they have a secondary target in mind in case they fail for some reason with the guy in pole position. Maybe Esposito and Ryman were second choices? What do you think?”

  “That’s possible for Ryman. But this year, the first choice has already been executed. In which case, whoever is in the second picture is probably still alive. Would they try to kill two people so close together?”

  “Maybe. Or if there were targets she missed, she may come back for a second try. Let’s work on the living first, before digging up the dead.”

  “Right.” Xavier’s leg bounced with nervous energy. “Which one do you want?”

  “I’ll take the Marching Figures. Which leaves you with the Nurse from Battleship Potemkin. Rather you than me.”

  Xavier was already back in his seat.

  Chris’s mind ranged over the possibilities as he applied the codes to the picture on his screen. He was missing something, he could feel it. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and scanned the details below. Cesare Boldoni. Nice-looking guy. Chairman of Aceso, the Lombardy pharma giant. Lots of accusations against the company centred on one particular drug: Ristorex, the anti-depressant. Wealthy guy, married with a kid. Some powerful allies in Milan, but few in Rome. Apparently faithful, Catholic and hard-working. What happened, Helene, did you change your mind? Why did you let Boldoni go? Or did D’Arcy make that decision?

  Pressing his palms against his eyelids, he ran through it. If Antonella D’Arcy is on the other end of Richter’s leash, then why these men? An avenger in the form of struck-off doctor he could understand. But a woman whose lifestyle is funded by working hand-in-glove with these profiteers?

  “Chris.”

  He lifted his head from his hands, the soft sound of skin parting. His eyes refocused on Xavier’s stricken face and all the hairs on his arms rose. In one stride, he was at Xavier’s screen.

  “The other target for this year.”

  With her typical preoccupied expression, wayward hair and familiar grey suit, the image Xavier had extracted from behind the screaming Nurse in Battleship Potemkin was unmistakeable.

  “Beatrice. Oh Christ.”

  “Giacometti has something special. But then I always tend to favour the underdog.”

  Beatrice agreed. “Poor devil is rather overshadowed here, but I agree, he certainly has something.”

  Madeleine glanced at her watch. “We should get out of here pretty soon, but I so want to take a look at the crypt. Wouldn’t it be the coolest place for a Halloween party?”

  Madeleine’s laughter jarred in the wood and stone, stained-glass peace.

  “I can’t imagine the crypt would be open to the public.”

  “Sure it is. There used to be a convent on this site, which is why it’s called Fraumünster. The original abbesses built the crypt to house the relics of the martyred saints. And we should take a peek before we leave, we owe it to the girls. But we need to be quick; the concert starts in a half hour.”

  “Very well, let’s have a look. Always best to get in a martyred saint before a batch of yodelling. Come along then, you ghoul.”

  Madeleine laughed again and made a sweeping gesture. “After you.”

  Beatrice led the way down the steps. “Take care, Madeleine. There’s not much light down here.”

  As she descended, a stone chill wound around her like a musty hound. Spores of chalky damp clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin. She was turning into a mushroom. She stopped at the bottom of the steps, with no inclination to go further. Madeleine slipped past her and into the murky interior. Candle-shaped bulbs in brass sconces reflected a weak glow up the stone walls, so that the central area, containing the tombs, remained in half shadow.

  “I am surprised they let the public in here. It doesn’t feel at all healthy.”

  “Don’t worry. I just want a quick look at these, and we’re gone.” Madeleine studied the ancient remnants of an altar. Beatrice moved a few paces into the room, which had none of the spruce of upstairs. A damp dust lay on the floor and the graven images of the stone centrepiece, settling in the corners on some spiders’ webs, giving them an appearance of old frayed cloth.

  “What an eerie place.” The final, funereal atmosphere punctured Beatrice’s mood. Optimism here was unimaginable.

  “Damn right. But you know what’s weird? Like I say, I have no plans to return here, but this cathedral will always stay with me.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. At least, you’ll walk away with some happy memories of Zürich.” Beatrice joined Madeleine and they looked down at the faded representations of the long-deceased.

  “Yeah. I saw some fun sights, I learned a bit about Switzerland and I met you. Those things are all mine. Thanks to you, not all my memories of Zürich are shopping, surfing and the absence of Matthew.”

  “Michael.”

  “Michael, yes. That’s what I meant.”

  An icy wave broke over Beatrice and her scalp contracted. Frozen, she stared down at the stone, as a series of images blew through her mind like playing cards on the wind.

  Matthew.

  “My day has been most successful, and I think tomorrow could be our breakthrough.”

  “Tally-ho! So we might have you home soon?”

  She’d told Matthew it was a breakthrough. No one else.

  “My day was very pleasing. I have high hopes of soon being able to return home soon.”

  “Kir Royales. Let’s toast your breakthrough.”

  Matthew. Michael.

  “Be careful of anyone with an interest in this case.”

  The empty church.

  “I’ll just see if it’s still open.”

  Good God, she’d fallen into the most obvious of traps. Her quarry was standing beside her. And both of them knew the veil had dropped. Beatrice raised her head. Madeleine lifted her gaze.

  “Beatrice ...” she reached out a placatory hand to catch Beatrice’s arm. Beatrice recoiled, her forearm pulling through Madeleine’s palm. The syringe caught her wrist, a needle slipped through cherry silk and a piercing pain arrived simultaneously in her arm and the pit of her stomach. She wrenched her arm away, tearing open a wound, and backed toward the steps. The syringe fell to the floor.

  Madeleine watched her with a resigned expression. Her voice changed, the accent flatter, and the permanent expressive sparkle in her eyes turned dull and cold.

  “Beatrice, I’m actually sorry about this. You have many fine qualities I admire. But fundamentally, you’re on the wrong side. You know, we could have been friends, in another life.”

  Shot through with fear and adrenalin, Beatrice lunged up the stone stairs, ears straining for the sounds of pursuit. None came and she knew before she pushed at the door that it would be locked.

 
; After you.

  Madeleine had not moved, obviously trusting the drugs to disable her. Whatever it was would probably take effect in seconds. If she was quick, she could call for help. Scrabbling for her mobile, she sensed a shadow blocking the light.

  “Come down, Beatrice. I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself. I doubt you’ll get a signal down here, but just in case, I removed the SIM card from your phone while we were having our Kir Royales. It’s now floating somewhere in the Limmat. Come down, please, we’re going to have another little cocktail.”

  Beatrice’s descended on unsteady legs. This was not over. She would fight this bitch, this vigilante, this dispenser-of-misguided-justice till her last breath. Madeleine smiled at her, before glancing back at the altar, bearing her huge handbag. Two things occurred to Beatrice. Whatever Madeleine’s chosen method of disposal might be, it was in that bag. And albeit smaller, but still carrying substantial weight, her own handbag rested in her left hand.

  With enormous effort, she swung it at Madeleine’s head. It connected with a weak clout.

  “Gott verdammt!” Madeleine’s voice seemed to come from the other end of a long corridor. Beatrice’s legs gave way and she collapsed onto her knees. As Madeleine eased her onto her side, Beatrice’s eyes closed against her will and her last conscious thought was what a shame they were going to miss the yodelling.

  Chapter 35

  Zürich 2012

  Chris snatched up the desk phone before realising he didn’t know her number. Xavier was a step ahead and had already dialled on his mobile. Chris listened as he reached for his own handset to call Kälin.

  “Her mobile is unobtainable.”

  “Shit! Call the hotel. And Xav, let’s get round there. Find the address while I call Kälin.”

  His fingers clumsy, he found Kälin’s number. His hands shook as he listened to the spaces between long ringing tones.

  “Kälin?”

  “Herr Kälin, it’s Chris Keese. We found data on Richter’s computer on all of the victims, one every year, downloaded shortly before the murders. She’s recently downloaded two more. Giuseppe Esposito and Beatrice Stubbs.”

  Kälin drew a breath. “Where is Frau Stubbs now?”

  “We don’t know. We called her mobile and her hotel

  room ...” he took in the shake of Xavier’s head, “but there’s no answer. We’re going there now.”

  “Call me if you find anything. I’ll meet you back at Zeughausstrasse in twenty minutes. And get the others.”

  Chris dialled the girls as he ran down the stairs after Xavier, the long lens photograph of DI Stubbs burned onto his retina.

  Kälin’s black hair and thick moustache sharpened the contrast with his white face, as he entered the fluorescent-lit workroom.

  Chris walked to meet him, leaving Sabine and Xavier to continue their calls. He dispensed with greetings.

  “Not at the hotel. The staff didn’t see her leave. Her room is clean and tidy with no sign of any problems. They have no CCTV. Conceição is still there, looking around.”

  Sabine and Xavier joined them. Kälin acknowledged them with a nod.

  “What do we know?”

  Sabine appeared pale and tired without her make-up. But her energy was undimmed. “The receptionist has no idea where she might be. But tonight she had a visitor. An American, blonde hair. They left together, apparently happy and laughing.”

  “And we have no trace on Frau Stubbs’ mobile phone?”

  Chris shook his head. “Nothing.”

  The door opened, and for an instant, Chris expected Beatrice to walk in, with a look of surprise and irritation to find them all there.

  For the first time since they’d met, he was disappointed to see Conceição.

  “Good evening, everyone. Forensic officers have examined B’s room. Her stuff is still there, but there’s no sign of anything untoward. Apart from two glasses on the draining board. One clean, one dirty. It’s already gone to the lab, but we’ve seen this before.”

  The skin of Chris’s buttocks and thighs chilled into gooseflesh.

  Kälin clasped his hands together and looked from one face to the next. Chris observed the thin line of his lips before he spat out his words.

  “So Richter has attached herself to Frau Stubbs and the murder of Esposito threw us off the track. Frau Tikkenen, with your knowledge of this woman’s mode of operation, what is her plan? As quickly as you can, please.”

  Sabine’s complexion was startling. Chris had never seen such a bluish pallor on something living.

  Her voice was quiet. “It makes no sense. The deaths have always been merited, in the killer’s eyes. So why Beatrice? And in orchestrating their end, she uses something that she sees as just in her method. I don’t see what ‘sin’ Beatrice has committed and therefore I can’t imagine how she plans to kill her. But one thing we do know is that Richter always has sufficient information to find a way in.”

  Conceição drew in a breath. “Well, we now have the same information. It’s all on that computer. We don’t have the luxury of time, but we could know as much about Beatrice as Richter does. Let’s look at those details and see if there’s something which can help us.”

  “Chris and I have already looked. It wasn’t only her photograph hidden in there. She even had Beatrice’s bank details, transcripts of telephone conversations and her police personnel file.” Xavier seemed despondent, and with an inclination of his head, handed the baton to his colleague.

  Chris hated this. It was like rooting through her diary. But he had no choice.

  “Beatrice suffers from bipolar disorder. According to this information, she has done since her early twenties. She’s been managing it with a combination of mood stabilisers and anti-depressants for a long time. But it seems she had a pretty serious episode about a year ago and is just getting back on track. This is her first major case since.”

  “Can you elaborate on ‘a pretty serious episode’, Herr Keese?” By the look on his face, Kälin had guessed. Or already knew.

  Chris rested his mouth on his fist and took a deep breath, unable to look at the misery on Xavier’s face. He straightened.

  “She tried to kill herself, Herr Kälin. She took an overdose.”

  Conceição’s hand rose to her throat. “And Richter knows.”

  Kälin broke the silence. “Think! Richter has somehow got Frau Stubbs’s confidence and has taken her somewhere to stage a suicide. They are not at her hotel, so where are they? Where did they go?

  Conceição spoke. “She had plans for tonight. Sabine and I invited her for dinner, but she had plans. She said she was going out with an acquaintance to get some culture.”

  “Culture? That narrows it down,” observed Chris.

  Kälin looked up. “Swiss culture. That’s also what she told me. Religious art and yodelling.”

  “You could kill someone at a yodelling concert, I suppose. But faking a suicide? I don’t think so.” Conceição shook her head.

  Silence can take many forms, thought Chris. Calm, comfortable and soothing. Or charged with the electricity of five frantic minds.

  Sabine took a sharp breath. “The Kunsthaus! She was going to see some art tonight! We were talking about the Kunsthaus, and she was going to see some more.”

  “That’s a possibility,” said Kälin, reaching for his mobile. “Was there a particular exhibition, Frau Tikkenen, involving religious art?”

  “She mentioned the Expressionists, and Matisse, and Chagall. She liked Chagall and said she was going to see some more tonight.”

  Xavier grimaced as if he were in pain. “How can I be so stupid? She asked me this morning which church was which. Herr Kälin – religious art, Chagall, it must be Fraumünster!”

  Chris saw Kälin’s face change, each taut muscle relaxing. “Genau! Exactly! The Chagall windows. The perfect place, it’s closed at night. Herr Racine, find a number for the church management. The rest of us will go there. Come!”

 
On such occasions, Chris’s long legs gave him an advantage. Running down the steps as fast as he could safely manage, he left his colleagues behind. Except for Kälin, who was right on his heels. As they reached the door to the car park, Kälin turned and shouted something back to Xavier in German. Shoving open the door, Chris couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like ‘... die Hunde.’

  The dogs?

  The church sexton, despite radiating disapproval, was punctual. Kälin’s brief explanation received no queries and the man opened the door. He led the way, turning on the lights, Kälin at his shoulder, Chris, Sabine and Conceição close behind. The church was huge. Chris grew despondent at the plethora of nooks and crannies, chapels, alcoves and tombs. Kälin instructed them to search a section each and proceeded towards the other end of the building.

  Some sense of place held Chris back from calling out Beatrice’s name. Instead, he investigated the nave, checked behind curtains and explored the pulpit. He lifted his head occasionally to check with his colleagues. Nothing. What if Richter had taken Beatrice some other place? That maniac could be slitting B’s wrists elsewhere while he knelt on the floor, looking under pews. Frustration and impotence built into anger. Kälin was wrong, she wasn’t here. It couldn’t happen here. Tourists would be swarming through the very next day. There must be a vestry, or a separate chamber you could use for storage. There had to be a hiding place. Just like a computer; some data visible, some encrypted. But how do you hide a human being? A door banged open and Chris’s hair stood on end as he heard panting.

  Xavier led the way down the aisle, followed by two armed officers with police dogs and caught Chris’s eye with a hopeful look. Chris shook his head. Kälin marched towards them, but said nothing and watched as Xavier knelt to offer the dogs a piece of cloth. Only then did Chris notice the traditional Alsatian was accompanied by a bloodhound. Without lifting his head, Xavier explained. “Her jacket.”