The Last Temptation (54 page)

By the time Tony had navigated his way to the Marina Widenfeld a watery sun was burning offtheiast of the clouds. The marina was packed with boats, ranging from Rhineships lying low in the water to small pleasure craft with their cockpits covered in

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tarpaulins. A few people were on deck, swabbing down after the rain or doing the small maintenance jobs that were easily overlooked during the normal working of the river. There were a couple of bars and cafe’s set back from the wharves, and a large chandlers that announced diesel at competitive prices.

Tony found a space at the far end of the car park and sat for a few moments, lost in thought. ‘You’re out there,’ he said under his breath. ‘I know it. We’re going to meet today, Geronimo. And you’re going to have no idea who I am. I’ll be one more nosy tourist, filling an hour before dinner, admiring your boat. Because I’ve got a hunch it’ll be worth admiring. You kill so neatly, you won’t live sloppily.’

He got out of the car and started a slow meander around the commercial area of the marina. The working barges were remarkable, he thought. Each was different, each spoke of the character of its owner and crew. There were immaculately kept boats, with troughs of herbs and plants anywhere that wasn’t in the way of work. There were scruffy coal barges with wheelhouses seamed with rust and blistered with old paint. Some had neat lace curtains at the windows, while others were adorned with elaborate flounces and niching. Bright, fresh paintwork sat alongside varnished wood. Several had bikes chained to the safety rails, while others had cars squatting incongruously on the stern roofs. There was endless variety, right down to the pennants and flags that hung limp in the damp air.

Tony sauntered along, camera round his neck, occasionally pretending to take photographs of some of the finer specimens. He had passed a score of barges and Rhineships without success when he rounded a corner of the marina and almost walked into a black Golf. Right next to it was a magnificent wooden ship, its woodwork glistening with yacht varnish.

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Across the stern, in flowing cursive, he read Wilhelmina Rosen, Hamburg.

His heart leapt and he stepped back to take in the full majesty of the boat. He walked her entire length, then turned back to take a photograph. Finally he strolled back to the stern, giving the boat admiring looks all the way. As he drew parallel to the wheelhouse, a young man with dark hair tied back in a ponytail stepped out on to the deck. Even under a shapeless sweater, he was obviously broad-shouldered, his long legs clad in tight jeans, heavy work boots on his feet. He was clearly physically strong enough to be this killer, Tony thought. He pulled a baseball cap on as he emerged, obscuring his eyes.

‘You’ve got a beautiful boat,’ Tony called up to him.

The young man nodded, ‘/a,’ he said laconically. He made his way round to the gangplank, a few feet away from where Tony was standing.

‘You don’t often see older boats in such good condition,’ Tony continued as the man came ashore.

‘It takes hard work.’ He continued towards the car.

‘I couldn’t help noticing that rather unusual pennant you’ve got there,’ Tony tried, desperate to engage his putative killer in conversation.

The man frowned. ‘What? My English is not good.’

Tony pointed to the triangular pennant hanging from a short flagstaff at the stern. It was black with a white fringe. Embroidered in the centre of it was a delicate weeping willow. ‘The flag,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen one like that before.’

The young man nodded, a smile of comprehension fleeting across his nondescript features. ‘It is for death,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Tony felt his flesh crawl. ‘My grandfather was skipper before me. But he is dead since two years.’ He pointed to the pennant. ‘We have flag to remember.’

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Tm sorry to hear it,’ Tony said. ‘So you’re the skipper now?’

The young man opened the car and took a road atlas out of the door pocket, then headed back for the boat. ‘/Ť She is mine.’ t

‘It must be hard for you, not being able to work because of the river.’

The young man stopped on the gangplank and turned back to face Tony. He shrugged. ‘The river gives and the river takes. You get used to it. Thank you for liking my boat.’ He sketched a wave and went back on board.

So much for your people skills, Tony thought wryly. He didn’t expect his killer to be over-endowed with the social graces, but he’d hoped to draw him out a little more. There was nothing to confirm or refute their suspicion of the skipper of the Wilhelmina Rosen. Unless you counted that slightly morbid mourning pennant, which Tony was inclined very much to do. It was interesting that Mann had claimed his grandfather had died two years before. The sinister flag didn’t look nearly bedraggled enough to have been hanging there for weeks, never mind months. If Mann had changed the pennant regularly, it might be a way of keeping his grandfather’s death fresh in his mind. But there might be a more sinister explanation. Perhaps the pennant wasn’t for the old man. Perhaps it was for Marie-The’rese Calvet. He had a feeling in his bones that he had just exchanged pleasantries with a serial murderer. Certainly Mann exhibited some of the characteristics he would have expected to find in a personality disordered killer - the reluctance to engage, the refusal to meet his eyes, the social awkwardness. But these could simply be the marks of a shy man. Bottom line? They had barely a shred of evidence to support his gut instinct.

Probably the only thing they could do now was to keep Mann under surveillance until he targeted his next victim. It

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was time for Marijke to put ambition to one side and whistle up the cavalry. He’d better call her, he realized. First, however, he had to finish making his stroll round the marina look innocent. Tony turned away from the Wilhelmina Rosen and walked on along the quayside, occasionally pausing to study one or other of the barges. It was boring, but necessary. Like so much in the profiler’s life, he thought with a smile. But what was a dose of tedium compared to the high of saving lives?

Krasic swung the big Mercedes into the marina and cruised slowly along the perimeter. ‘I know this place,’ Krasic said. ‘We’ve kept barges here before.’ Suddenly, he pointed over to the side of the quay where a man with a camera was pottering along studying the boats. ‘There he is. That fucking bastard Hill,’ he said.

‘That’s him?’ Tadeusz sounded incredulous. ‘The little guy in the stupid tweed jacket?’

‘That’s him, I swear.’

‘Give me your gun.’

‘What?’ Krasic was wrong-footed. He was the enforcer, not Tadzio.

‘Give me your gun.’ Tadeusz held out his hand impatiently. i

‘You’re not going to shoot him in broad daylight?’ Krasic asked. The mood his boss was in, anything was possible.

‘Of course I’m not going to shoot him. Just give me the gun. When I get next to him, bring the car alongside.’

Krasic reached round to the small of his back where a subcompact Clock 627 nestled in a padded leather holster. He drew the gun and handed it to Tadeusz. ‘Nine in the magazine,’ he said abruptly.

‘I don’t plan on using it. At least, not yet,’ Tadeusz said coldly, putting the gun in his raincoat pocket. He got out of

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the car and walked briskly over to the man Krasic had pointed out. As he came up behind Tony, he closed his hand round the comforting grip of the pistol. Drawing level, he jammed the muzzle of the gun into Tony’s ribs. ‘Don’t move, Dr Hill,’ he said, his voice brutal, his free hand gripping Tony’s arm. To a distant observer, it would have looked like two friends meeting and greeting. ‘That’s a gun.’

Tony froze. ‘Who are you?’ he croaked, unable to see his assailant.

‘My name is Tadeusz Radecki.’

Tony couldn’t help the spasm of shock that gripped his muscles. He twitched violently in Tadeusz’s grip. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

Tadeusz jabbed the gun viciously against Tony’s ribcage. ‘Don’t act stupid.’ He heard the purr of the Mercedes engine as it came up behind him. The car stopped and Krasic got out. ‘Get the back door, Darko.’

Krasic opened the door and Tadeusz pushed Tony inside, taking the gun out of his pocket as he did so. He climbed in beside him, holding the gun pointed at his stomach. ‘A gut shot is the worst way to die,’ he said conversationally.

‘Look, there’s been some mistake,’ Tony protested feebly. ‘I have no idea who you guys are and you’re obviously mistaking me for someone else. Just let me go and we can forget all about this.’ Pathetic, he thought. Where’s your training now? Where’s that famous empathy now?

‘Bullshit,’ Tadeusz said, his tone curt. ‘You’re not only fucking Carol Jordan, you’re working with her. Darko, find us somewhere we can talk.’

Tony’s brain raced into overdrive. They knew who Carol was. Her cover was blown. They knew who he was, and they wrongly assumed he was here because of them. What were they doing here though? How could someone have followed

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him? He must surely have noticed, so haphazard had his travels been. But then, he hadn’t been looking for a tail.

He pushed that thought to one side. Nothing could be more irrelevant than how Radecki came to be here. What mattered now was rinding a way to protect Carol. He was under no illusions about what he was dealing with here. These men were killers. If he had to buy Carol’s life at the expense of his own, so be it. Saving her was what mattered. If ever he had needed all his ingenuity, he needed it now. He made himself hold Radecki’s stare without flinching.

He was surprised when the car suddenly came to a stop again. He hadn’t been paying attention to anything other than the man in front of him. Now, he glanced over Radecki’s shoulder through the window. They were in a more remote part of the marina, a much smaller dock with room for only half a dozen vessels. There wasn’t another person in sight. The Mercedes had stopped alongside a steel barge painted battleship grey. ‘Give me a minute, boss,’ Krasic said, climbing out of the car. The boot lid rose, and Krasic disappeared behind it. He re-emerged, tucking a crowbar inside his jacket.

Tony watched with mounting anxiety as Krasic looked around him, then ran nimbly up the gangplank to the barge. He climbed on to the hatch cover and swiftly popped the hasp of the padlock holding it shut. He slid it open and peered inside. Then he hurried back to the car, giving Tadeusz the thumbs-up signal.

‘We’re going to get out of the car and we’re going to board this barge. If you try to run, I will shoot you in the legs. I am a very good shot, Dr Hill,’ Tadeusz said calmly. ‘There’s no point in shouting either. This place is deserted.’

Krasic opened the door and Tadeusz backed out, never taking his eyes off Tony, who slid across the seat and out of the car. Krasic grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him

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around. The gun was in his back again. He stumbled forward, almost tripping over the edge of the gangplank.

Once on board, he was marched up to the open hatch. Krasic clambered on to the ladder with surprising ease for so bulky a man. He descended into the gloom below. There was the hollow sound of footsteps on metal in an empty space, then a dim glow appeared in the hold.

‘Get down there,’ Tadeusz ordered him.

Gingerly, Tony turned to face him and negotiated his way on to the ladder. He was a couple of rungs down when he felt an excruciating pain in his hand, so sudden and severe he had to let go. His feet went from under him, scrabbling in mid-air for purchase, and for a terrifying moment he swung by one hand. He looked up in panic, seeing Tadeusz’s hand swinging the gun butt towards his clenched ringers. Sweating with fear, he threw his injured arm round the ladder and managed to get one foot on a rung, pulling his undamaged hand out of the way at the last instant. He would never know how he managed it, but somehow he swarmed down the ladder fast enough to avoid any further attrition from above.

His shaking legs had barely reached solid ground when Krasic was on him, delivering a punch to the solar plexus that doubled him over in agony, his lungs screaming for breath, his muscles in spasm. Tony lay curled on the cold steel floor of the hold, a trickle of vomit escaping from the corner of his mouth. When he was next aware of anything outside his body, he saw Radecki towering above him in a distorted perspective that made him look huge and terrifying.

Krasic yanked him up by the collar of his jacket, practically throttling him. He threw Tony on to a pile of folded tarpaulins. ‘Sit up, you useless twat,’ he growled. Tony managed to prop himself up against the cold bulkhead. ‘Now, strip off,’ Krasic shouted.

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Numbed with fear, Tony struggled to undress. It was matte more difficult by the pain in his left hand. He thought at least | two of his fingers were broken. The two men circled him like wolves tormenting their prey as his clumsy fingers worked his clothes off. Finally, he sat naked on the tarpaulins, breathing as hard as if he’d just run a mile. They’re doing this to humiliate you, to make you feel vulnerable. Don’t let them take control of your head. Keep thinking, keep your brain moving. The voice in his head seemed ridiculously reassuring, given the extremity of his situation. But it was all he had.

‘You’re working with that bitch against us, aren’t you?’ Tadeusz demanded.

‘No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m working on a serial killer case for Europol. That’s what I do, I profile serial killers.’ Tony said, steeling himself for whatever was coming next. Krasic delivered a brutal kick to his shins that made him whimper in spite of himself.

‘Wrong answer.’ Tadeusz shifted his grip on the gun, holding it by the barrel. ‘She’s a cop and you’re working with her to bring me down.’

Tony wiped a drizzle of spit from his chin and shook his head. ‘Please, listen to me. I’m telling you the truth. Carol used to be a cop, it’s true. But she’s not any more. She went rogue. She changed sides. I knew her when she was a cop, I’ve been trying to talk her out of what she’s doing now.’