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  Claudine felt burdened, overwhelmed, and it worried her - further disorientated her - because she’d never before embarked on an investigation feeling that there were too many totally disparate and extraneous distractions to get in the way. She got up abruptly, wanting a change of mood as well as music. Warwick had introduced her to modern jazz at a Stan Getz concert and she chose the original recording of Getz Meets Mulligan. As Claudine made her way to the kitchen to prepare her belated supper she remembered the other uncertainties to go with all those that had arisen that day.

  There was still Peter Toomey and matching suicides and a man she’d apparently met in a gorilla’s suit but couldn’t remember who’d made £200,000,000 in what could have been a Stock Market scam.

  Suddenly her life had become extremely crowded: cluttered and confused and not at all how she wanted it to be.

  Sanglier poured whisky into both their glasses and left the bottle on the table between them with a gesture for Poulard to help himself. Sanglier knew the man wouldn’t, uninvited, but the offer was more than just to drink more whisky. This was commitment time - as much commitment as it would be possible for him to make - and he was unsure. Not only unsure. Actually frightened. Enough, but not too far, Sanglier decided: he must never lose total control, total respect.

  The furniture at this part of the office, where the windows met at a corner angle with a panoramic view of the city, was deep and enveloping, a place to relax, but Poulard remained perched attentively forward, more bewildered than he had been earlier in the day.

  It had to be a fellow Frenchman and Sanglier hoped he’d been lucky with Poulard. Sanglier prided himself as a judge of men and assessed Poulard sufficiently ambitious not to know a scruple if it were the size of the Eiffel Tower and outlined in neon. The sanitized personnel dossier presented to Europol had obviously contained no doubtful ambiguities but the Sûreté file Sanglier had discreetly accessed contained sufficient coded references for Sanglier to suspect that the lack of necessary factual proof had never prevented Poulard gaining a conviction to further his career. Sanglier even suspected that after the three successful conviction appeals which immediately preceded the man’s transfer to Europol - none of which featured in the personnel record that had accompanied him - Paris might have considered the appointment a heaven-sent opportunity to rid itself of a potential embarrassment.

  ‘I want you to understand I am not singling you out in any special way, seeing you like this,’ Sanglier began.

  ‘I do understand,’ Poulard assured him unconvincingly.

  ‘You are all genuinely to work together as a team.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But failure is not just unthinkable. It’s utterly unacceptable. So there needs to be an understanding between us; a private understanding.’ Come on, you fool; show some awareness of what I’m saying.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As the commissioner with ultimate responsibility I have to take every possible precaution.’ How could he make himself understood by this man?

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Which is what this meeting is about.’

  ‘I understand.’

  The cautious bastard was going to understand everything before this encounter was over. ‘Nothing must go beyond this room. Ever. This is just between the two of us.’ He gestured towards the whisky bottle.

  ‘I understand,’ repeated Poulard. He added to both their glasses, easing back more comfortably in his chair.

  ‘What’s your impression of Bruno Siemen?’

  ‘A sound policeman. A professional.’

  ‘His record supports that. There are eight commendations. He was shot in the leg three years ago, ending a siege after a disrupted bank robbery.’

  ‘I’m sure we will work well together.’

  ‘It’s imperative that you do.’ He’d chosen Siemen as a possible brake upon Poulard. There were so many checks and balances to be put into place.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t let escalate any difficulties that might arise. If a problem emerges you consider necessary for me to adjudicate, I have to know at once. At once, you understand. And discreetly, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Poulard settled back completely, crossing one leg over the other.

  The moment to hang the sign round the man’s neck, Sanglier thought. ‘You have conducted investigations with criminal psychologists in Paris, haven’t you?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘Do you find their inclusion valuable?’

  ‘Sometimes. Not always,’ said Poulard cautiously.

  ‘I think it’s necessary here.’

  ‘Unquestionably,’ agreed the other Frenchman, taking the lead at last.

  ‘What’s your impression of Dr Carter?’

  Poulard hesitated, remembering the obvious indications of a more relaxed meeting between the commissioner and the woman before he and Siemen had been included. And then recalling the humiliation the bitch had subjected him to, in front of a lot of sniggering people. ‘Reserved. Possibly aloof. I’m not sure about her being a team player.’

  At last! thought Sanglier, relieved. ‘I hope you’re wrong. There’s got to be a team attitude.’

  ‘It’s impossible to form a proper opinion, after just one meeting,’ qualified Poulard hurriedly. He unfolded his legs.

  ‘If a problem comes up, I expect to hear about it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s important you do not misunderstand me. I am in no way suggesting you should be disloyal to colleagues. My only concern - the only concern there can be - is that nothing occurs to endanger this case.’

  ‘That can be the only consideration.’

  ‘What made you apply for the transfer to Europol?’

  ‘I regarded it as a substantial career improvement.’

  ‘A successful investigation could guarantee your career. A failure could end it.’

  ‘I fully recognize that.’

  From his knowledge - official and unofficial – of Poulard’s history Sanglier thought it more likely the application had been pressed upon the man. ‘The media hysteria surrounding these murders is incredible, don’t you think?’

  ‘Incredible.’

  ‘This could be your opportunity to become as famous outside the organization as within.’

  Poulard allowed himself a fleeting smile. ‘I am not interested in personal fame.’

  For a professional policeman the man lied badly, Sanglier decided. ‘Europol has a long way still to go before it is fully accepted. But once it is, it is going to become important within the European Union. As will the recognized officers in it. I hope I can help advance your career here.’

  ‘I hope so to. And want you to know how much I appreciate what you’re saying.’

  ‘It was my personal decision to include you in this initial task force, despite the risk of being accused of nepotism. I think it is important to build up a French influence.’

  ‘I won’t fail the trust you have put in me.’

  ‘I’m confident it won’t be misplaced. Keep me particularly informed about Dr Carter.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I meant what I said about being available, day or night.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  This time Sanglier refilled their glasses. ‘To a satisfactory conclusion,’ he toasted.

  ‘To a satisfactory conclusion,’ echoed Poulard.

  They were, reflected Sanglier, drinking to quite different outcomes.

  There was a two-sentence note from Françoise when Sanglier got home. It said: Gone fucking. Don’t wait up for me.

  Sanglier winced. He’d laid the groundwork for any problems Claudine Carter might present. He wouldn’t delay much longer resolving the situation with Françoise, either.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was only on that first operational day, when the task force became a formal entity, that Claudine properly accepted how different her working life was going to be.

>   Europol’s criminal behavioural unit was a division in its own right, with its official title displayed on its own entrance and a pooled secretarial and filing clerk staff. There were separate offices for each psychologist and a communal conference area where Scott Burrows had hosted their argumentative seminars to occupy the empty days. But because those days had been so empty - not one European national force asking for its specialized assistance, the basic function of the unit’s existence - Claudine had felt an unreality at being there, like getting a date wrong and arriving a day early for a special event.

  Now the event had arrived, far more special than she could have ever contemplated.

  The most obvious difference - although one, surprisingly, that she hadn’t fully confronted until now - was that she was a permanent part of a permanent police organization. She hadn’t been in London. She’d been accredited to the Home Office and because of her dedication spent most of her time actively involved in criminal investigations, but there had been no empty days because of her lecturing and teaching responsibilities as the professor of forensic psychology at an outside university with its outside demands and outside distractions.

  The feeling of unreality did not, however, entirely go at the beginning of that first day. The move into their assigned incident quarters was like moving into a new house in a new locality, complete with over-interested neighbours who emerged curiously from corridors to watch the setting up of Europol’s first operation. Scott Burrows even wished her good luck as she left their section and said he’d see her later.

  Claudine had imagined just one large area where an investigation group could all gather at one time to consider the assembled evidence, the sort of arrangement to which she had been accustomed in England. The Europol facilities were far more elaborate. There was a communal conference area - larger than the one available in her specific unit - and provision for wall displays and exhibits as well as photograph and video projection. Down its centre was a rectangular table with six chairs either side. The table was completely covered to the depth of several inches by files. There was a much smaller, separate table forming a T where the display area was set out. Here there were only four chairs, all confined to one side obviously to be occupied by those controlling a meeting. Filing cabinets were banked along an inner, windowless wall and along a second at right angles to it there were four computer stations, the terminals covered with protective plastic hoods, like sleeping birds. The third wall was formed entirely by undesignated offices.

  When Claudine arrived, still ten minutes early, two had been claimed by Poulard and Siemen: the German had already installed a flowerless cactus on top of his individual filing cabinet and established his territory with a paperweight surmounted by the German national flag on an otherwise empty desk. Poulard was at the entrance to his quarters, in conversation with a plump young-faced man whose clothes looked as if they’d been bought for someone even larger and hung from him in disarray. There was more resilience in the flag on Siemen’s desk. Quite alone but not ill at ease at the bottom of the larger, cluttered table, as if standing guard, was a petite, pale-faced girl whose attractiveness was heightened by the severe way her black hair was strained directly back into a bun at the nape of her neck and by heavy black-rimmed spectacles. Claudine thought the girl was too heavily busted for the tightly fitted blue wool dress. Presented with the choice, which he obviously had been, Claudine would not have expected Poulard to talk to a haystack of a man. Claudine smiled and the girl smiled back.

  ‘Good morning,’ Claudine said, loudly and to no one in particular.

  The girl nodded, the smile expanding, and in French said: ‘Hello.’ Poulard, who Claudine knew had seen her enter, turned as if aware of her for the first time. So did the man to whom he was talking. Siemen came to the door of his office, as if he were protecting it against invaders.

  ‘Not late, am I?’ said Claudine cheerfully. Her first priority, today if possible, was to get rid of any residual difficulty with Poulard. She might have mentally over-reacted the previous day by imagining a personal problem in his appointment. She hoped so.

  ‘We’ve only just arrived,’ said Poulard, making no attempt at introductions.

  ‘Volker,’ said the dishevelled man. ‘Kurt Volker.’ He made a vague wave towards the shrouded machines. ‘I work with computers. I’ve been assigned to you. I hope I can help.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to,’ said Claudine. The German accent wasn’t as strong as Siemen’s but the handshake certainly was.

  ‘Yvette Fey,’ said the bespectacled girl. ‘I’m to decide the amount of secretarial and support staff you’ll need. Working by myself, initially.’ She looked pointedly at the files.

  French, possibly Parisienne, identified Claudine: certainly a northern accent. So she was outnumbered, two to one, by both nationalities. But hadn’t she described herself as a European to Sanglier? It was, anyway, an infantile reflection. She wished it hadn’t occurred to her.

  ‘We waited for you to decide which of the remaining offices you wanted,’ said Yvette.

  ‘I don’t really have anything to transfer. Why don’t you take your pick of whatever room you want,’ shrugged Claudine. Just like moving into a new house, she thought. She looked around the room. ‘At the moment this looks a little too large for our needs.’

  ‘It won’t be soon,’ predicted Siemen, emerging further into the room. ‘At the moment our first need is to agree upon a working practice.’

  ‘And relationship,’ Poulard added

  ‘Why don’t we do just that?’ said Claudine, moving to the smaller table. As she did so she moved two chairs to the opposite side, to avoid their sitting in an awkward line. After a momentary hesitation, the two men followed her. Both seated themselves to face her. Yvette went to a corner of the room where Claudine for the first time saw the electronic equipment and remembered Sanglier’s insistence upon everything’s being recorded. It was obviously essential to maintain continuity, but Claudine wondered if at this stage it would be a restrictive although silent intrusion.

  ‘Am I needed?’ queried Volker. ‘I’ve got quite a lot of stuff I’d like to move in.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Claudine said unthinkingly.

  ‘Neither would I,’ said Poulard. ‘But it conveniently introduces the first necessity for an effective working practice.’

  ‘What?’ asked Claudine, as Volker left.

  ‘Decision-making authority,’ said Poulard.

  Claudine stopped the sigh. ‘I thought that was resolved yesterday with Commissioner Sanglier.’

  ‘Who do you see in charge?’ queried Siemen.

  ‘Commissioner Sanglier,’ she said at once.

  ‘What about at our level?’

  ‘There are only three of us,’ said Claudine, allowing the exasperation. ‘Surely we can work amicably together.’

  ‘No, I’m not sure we can,’ said Poulard.

  He intended a heavy innuendo but Claudine refused it, responding literally. ‘Then wait until you are. Over and over yesterday the need was impressed upon us to work fast. We’re not going to achieve that - achieve anything - with ridiculous demarcation disputes. You do your job, I’ll do mine and policy decisions can be left to the commissioner.’ This wasn’t how she’d intended to establish herself with them and she recognized the risk of alienating them but she hadn’t anticipated its being as ridiculous as this, from the very outset.

  ‘We will not always be in the same place at the same time, capable of reaching a committee decision,’ said Siemen.

  ‘I’m sure we won’t,’ agreed Claudine.

  ‘You’re not professionally qualified to reach a decision or judgement on a specific police question,’ challenged Poulard.

  ‘And neither of you is professionally qualified to reach a decision or judgement on a specific psychological question,’ Claudine threw back. She gestured towards the recording equipment beside which Yvette Fey still stood, watching them curiously. Cla
udine went on: ‘There’s a verbatim record being kept which will be supplemented by written reports of everything that occurs outside this office. If a decision on a specific police question is needed urgently, in your absence, it can be referred to the commissioner …’ She hesitated, unwilling to widen the rift but wanting to end the time-wasting nonsense. ‘Would either of you doubt his ability to handle it?’

  Both men shifted awkwardly at being out-argued. Poulard said: ‘What about a psychological decision in your absence?’

  This conversation was worrying, even allowing for the uncertainty they all felt at what they were being called upon to do. It was far too soon even to speculate about, but Claudine wondered if she might have to complain direct to Sanglier to avoid the investigation’s becoming bogged down in bureaucratic stupidity. Consciously - professionally - softening her voice to sound less confrontational Claudine said: ‘We’re supposed to be a team. That’s what we’ve been put together to become. Everything I do will be a contribution towards the investigation you are conducting. No one’s going to be called upon to make a medical or mental diagnosis. There can’t be a decision-making emergency in my case.’

  All three were aware of Yvette Fey as she returned to a room none of them had been aware she’d left. She carried coffee in the same sort of official-issue crockery as the previous day and Claudine hoped it didn’t act as a reminder to the men of their inexplicable exclusion. Claudine was conscious of the over-expansive, eye-holding smile Poulard automatically directed towards the girl. He would approve of the tight dress. Claudine made the conciliatory gesture of pouring. As she did so Volker returned with files loaded up to his chin which he took into the office closest to the computer bank.