The Watchers (19 page)

‘Exactly what kind of policeman are you?’

The Doctor’s reaction was just shy of the apoplectic Yank being told baseball had been crossed off the Olympics.

‘Mr Harper, I will have you know Inspector Gobet is, in fact, Deputy Director of the Swiss Federal Police. He is also an adviser to Interpol and other international security agencies including the European Court of Human Rights. He has for many years been the Swiss liaison officer to the IOC, as well as all international NGOs and international financial institutions headquartered in this country. It will interest you to know that it was Inspector Gobet who personally recommended your services to me, and had you fast-tracked through Swiss immigration.’

Harper looked at the Inspector.

‘You’re Guardian Services Ltd?’

‘In point of fact, Mr Harper, Guardian Services Ltd is a subsidiary of Guardian Services SA, an international private security firm based in Zurich. I serve as a member of the board. I’ve followed your career with keen interest. Does that make things a bit more clear?’

Like mud.

‘More or less.’

‘Good.’

The Inspector turned to the Doctor.

‘I’m sure Mr Harper intends no offence, Doctor. He probably wonders why I’m grilling him so hard. Though I’m distressed you didn’t mention my responsibilities in training the Swiss Guard of the Vatican City. Very proud of that one, you know.’

The Inspector took another sip of coffee, set his cup in the saucer.

‘As far as the grilling, Mr Harper, it’s called entrapping interrogation. The kind of thing that we toss in the mix to keep the subject off balance. Truth be told, most single men have difficulty remembering their own phone number. How often does one ring oneself, what? No, I wasn’t interested in your answer, I was interested in your reaction.’

Harper stared at the Inspector. Son of a bitch was playing him.

‘My reaction.’

‘Yes, profile the manner of your thinking, as it were. By the way, you might wish to jot down a few contemporaneous notes in future. Just a little professional advice.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

‘Good, then we may move on. Gentlemen, what I am about to tell you is part of an ongoing investigation by my Special Unit Task Force. We involve ourselves with cases of particular concern to the Swiss national interest, and therefore operate somewhat below the public radar. So I insist the information remains confidential.’

The Doctor dipped his croissant into his coffee. ‘Of course, Jacques.’

‘By coincidence, Mr Harper is correct about the nature of the scene. The man found in the motorcar didn’t die in the road accident. He was murdered, tortured to death. His body had been repeatedly scorched with a household pressing iron causing severe loss of flesh and muscle tissue, especially to the stomach region. The pressing iron was allowed to burn through to the spine.’

The Doctor choked.

‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I’ve put you off your croissant.’

‘No … I … Good Lord.’

‘Russian mafia.’

The Inspector turned to Harper. Harper was half surprised the words had slipped from his mouth.

‘Indeed, the Russian mafia, Mr Harper. How would you have known?’

Like his sudden knowledge of Latin, no bloody clue.

‘History Channel, maybe.’

‘History Channel.’

‘I watch a lot of History Channel.’

‘Indeed? Bit of a fan of History Channel myself. And you’re right. This method of torture is the preferred brand, if you will, of the Russian mafia.’

‘Jacques, was Yuriev involved with criminals?’

‘Please, Doctor, let’s not jump to conclusions. I only provide facts, and the facts are these. Russian gangs control most of the motorcar theft in Europe. Recently, they’ve been turning their attention to Switzerland. Not surprising given the wealth of choice within our borders. The problem is these gangs are notoriously protective of their turf. At present, we are working on the premise that Comrade A tried to muscle in on Comrade B’s market share. As with most business dealings involving Russian businessmen, one of the two comrades is bound to end up murdered. We’re all aware of Mr Yuriev’s dire straits. But I have no reason to suspect he was involved in such activity.’

The cop in the cashmere coat was making sense. Still, Harper wasn’t ready to concede.

‘How can you be sure, Inspector?’

‘After your phone call to the Doctor, my task force ran his name through our database. There’s no record of him having any association with the Russian mafia.’

‘Interpol?’

‘When Interpol wants information, they come to me.’

‘Physical ID then.’

‘What about it?’

‘Cross-checking archive photos with the body.’

‘You may recall, Mr Harper, the newspaper reported the body was burned beyond recognition.’

‘Computer-assisted post-mortem identification systems could create a 3D image of the face using the skull.’

‘My, you have been watching History Channel, haven’t you?’ The Inspector patted the Doctor’s knee. ‘You can see why I recommended Mr Harper to you, Doctor. Doesn’t dilly dally, excellent record.’

Harper tried to remember his excellent record, couldn’t fill in one bloody blank.

‘But no, Mr Harper, I’m afraid that wouldn’t do in this case. The killers hammered the victim’s face to a pulp using a claw hammer. They sawed off his hands and feet for good measure. Sniffer dogs found those bits yesterday, minus the fingertips.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Would you care for a glass of water, Doctor, I’m sure this is upsetting.’

‘No, no.’

Harper glanced at the Doctor. Going green at the gills. Tough. His eyes shot back to the Inspector.

‘What about his room at the Port Royal, any traces of DNA?’

‘As you’re somewhat new to the canton you wouldn’t know that particular hotel is a discreet location for, shall we say, short stays. The room’s been rented and cleaned to Swiss standards several times since he checked out. Believe me, there is no evidentiary DNA to be found. Are you sure you won’t take a glass of water, Doctor?’

‘No, thank you. But I’d like to know what it is you’re getting at, Mr Harper?’

Harper looked at the Doctor and felt sorry for him.

‘Excuse me, sir. The one fact Inspector Gobet isn’t telling us is that he can’t be sure Yuriev wasn’t the victim.’

‘But I thought … Good Lord, Jacques, if there’s the slightest chance it was Yuriev in that automobile …’

‘A simple matter of police procedure soon to be resolved. The call that caused my delay was from my office in Berne, informing me the Russian authorities have located Yuriev’s one living blood relative. An aged sister in Arkhangelsk. We’ll obtain a DNA sample from her and compare it to that of the corpse.’

The door opened and the butler returned to pour more coffee. The Doctor and the Inspector took the opportunity to chat about the upcoming Christmas holidays. The Doctor off to St Barts for some sun, the Inspector skiing at Klosters. Must have oysters at La Brasserie before. The Doctor asked Harper his holiday plans; he had none. The butler rolled the coffee service out of the door.

‘How long will this identification process take, Jacques?’

‘A week or so at the least. We’re obliged to work through diplomatic channels as we wish to collect the samples ourselves and to bring them to Berne for analysis. Russian police forensics, not to mention the corruption, are a thing to be avoided.’

‘And what should we do, in the meantime?’

‘Leaving aside the events on the Montreux–Gstaad road, we must assume Mr Yuriev’s still in Switzerland. We have to know the reason he came to Lausanne and why he wishes to see you. Mr Harper was correct in his original assessment. Until Yuriev is found, there’s every chance he’s a scandal waiting to happen. Which is why I recommend Mr Harper continues to look for him.’

Harper shifted in his chair.

‘Wouldn’t the Swiss police be better suited?’

‘We’re quite busy chasing real criminals, Mr Harper. As Yuriev has broken no laws, the Swiss police would appreciate your detective skills in what should remain, at present, an internal matter for the IOC.’

‘I’m not a detective.’

‘Then I am misinformed.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Last night, after speaking to the Doctor, I assigned a few men to look around Montreux, ask a few discreet questions. One of my officers visited a Miss Lucy Clarke at the Casino Barrière in Montreux and interviewed her. She reported you visited her in Évian over lunch. Pulling out a photograph between the steamed dumplings and the moo goo gai pan, asking questions about Yuriev. Very
détective privé
.’

‘Surely then you’d rather have someone else look for Yuriev.’

‘Please, Mr Harper, I’m giving you a bit of stick, as my friends at the Yard would say. In fact, you demonstrated initiative and curiosity. I was impressed, to a point. You telephoned Mr Yuriev’s hotel in the early hours of Saturday morning, speaking with a Mr Toda, I believe.’

‘Who?’

‘Konstantin Toda, the night clerk.’

Harper squirmed in his seat. Never asked the guy’s name.

‘Right.’

‘You reported to the Doctor that Yuriev had checked out, taking his luggage. But had you gone to the scene yourself, you would’ve discovered Yuriev left something in the porter’s closet.’

The Inspector reached inside the Migros bag, pulled out what looked like an oversized brown envelope. He laid it on the table. The Doctor leaned closer for a look.

‘I don’t believe it.’

Harper was thinking the same damn thing. Thirty x sixty centimetres of brown wrapping paper around thin sheets of cardboard. The wrapper stamped with a picture of the building he’d seen and avoided every bloody day since coming to town.

La Cathédrale de Lausanne

Jeu de construction

‘A cardboard cut-out? Of the cathedral?’

The Inspector removed the cardboard sheets from the wrapper, spread them over the table.

‘We call it a maquette, Mr Harper, a paper model. These perforated sections are removed from the cardboard sheets, like so. It’s Swiss made so the details are perfect at a ratio of one centimetre to two metres. Here are the flying buttresses, the Occidental and Apostles’ porches here. Here is the belfry that sits over the main entrance and the lantern tower over the altar. There’s even a tiny weathercock for the top of the lantern tower. A little paper glue, a bottle of good Swiss white, some delicate finger work,
et voilà
. One rather fine Gothic cathedral. Very popular with tourists. Thousands of them sold every year.’

The Doctor examined the cardboard sheets, stunned.

‘But why would Yuriev have such a thing?’

‘The very question. Perhaps Mr Harper would give us the benefit of a hunch.’

‘A hobby, or a gift for someone.’

‘A very good notion, Mr Harper. And, perhaps, the very thing he wished to give you, Doctor. Either of which suggests a man in a light mood. Bit of sightseeing, some shopping. Hardly the behaviour of someone who thinks he’s being followed.’

Harper rubbed the back of his neck.

‘This can’t be it, this thing’s a bloody toy.’

‘Mr Harper, this thing was in Yuriev’s possession the day you were to meet with him, the day he disappeared. In the detective trade we don’t call such a thing a toy, we call it evidence.’

Harper wanted to tell him to sod off. But the more he looked into the Inspector’s eyes, the more he realized the cop in the cashmere coat wasn’t just playing him, he was making all the rules. Whilst Jay Harper didn’t even know the name of the game.

eleven

Katherine stirred and stretched in her bed. It was scrumptious under the duvet. She opened her eyes and saw the ashtray on the nightstand. With a half-smoked joint begging to be smoked. She fluffed the pillows, made herself comfy. She lit the joint and drew a long toke.

‘Nothing like a nice buzz first thing in the morning.’

She pressed a switch next to the bed, raising the shutters. Beyond the terrace Lausanne Cathedral glowed in winter’s morning light. Two black crows made lazy circles above the belfry. Katherine tucked the duvet under her chin, she smoked deep hits. The cathedral, the winter light, the circling crows, everything so lovely.

‘Black birds circled

In a cold blue sky.

Far above our forever

Bound to earth dreams.

Flightless and wishing

Only to be like them.’

It sounded nice, even though she knew it was only stoner babble. She dropped the roach in the ashtray, rolled on her tummy, stretched again. She propped up on her hands, saw the clock next to the lamp. Not even ten. She fell back to the mattress and let herself slip into the buzz. She rocked slowly from side to side, feeling something wonderful shoot from her hips to her brain.

‘So nice.’

Rolling on her back, closing her eyes, touching her favourite places. Her neck, her nipples, tracing feather-light circles over her stomach.

‘So very nice.’

She squeezed her nipples. Sharp tingles ran through her body. Her fingers chased after them, finding them at the moist place between her legs. She teased herself, found the perfect pressure. Dopey warmth pulsed through her blood.

‘So very nice, baby.’