Val McDermid - The Last Temptation

So the case she was looking for would have come in as a possible gangland killing. But if it had been tossed aside because it didn’t fit any of their parameters, it wouldn’t be in any of the holding files on the computer. It might even have been deleted from the main system, on the basis that it was just clutter.

Petra, however, was too anally retentive to dump case information without a trace. You never knew when something written off by everyone else might just feed into a subsequent investigation. So she’d developed the habit of taking brief notes even on the apparently irrelevant. That way, she could always go back to the original investigating officers and pull the details again.

She called up the folder that contained her notes and checked the recent files. There were four murder cases from the past seven weeks. She dismissed a drive-by shooting in a small town between Dresden and the Polish border and the murder of a Turk in Stuttgart. He’d bled to death following the amputation by machete of both hands. Petra had thought it was probably more to do with some domestic settling of scores than any organized criminal activity, since the local cops hadn’t come up with a single thing to connect the dead man to anything more illegal than an expired visa.

That left two cases. A very strange murder in Heidelberg and the crucifixion of a known drug dealer in Hamburg. Her notes said nothing about pubic scalping, but she seemed to recall it had featured in one or other of those cases. She checked the reference numbers and sent e-mails to both police divisions involved. With luck, she’d have an answer by the end of the day.

Petra headed for the coffee machine, feeling very pleased with herself. She was emptying a sachet of sugar into her cup when her boss, Hanna Plesch, joined her. ‘You’re looking cheerful,’ she said.

‘And you’re going to put a stop to that, right?’ She cocked an eyebrow at her.

‘That shooting over at the GeSa on Friesenstrasse – I want you to do a bit of digging, see what you can come up with.’ Plesch leaned past her and pressed the button for a black coffee.

Petra stirred her coffee thoughtfully. ‘It’s hardly our area, is it? I heard it was being written up as a personal thing. The shooter was the girlfriend of one of the doctored heroin victims, wasn’t she?’

Plesch gave a sardonic smile. ‘That’s the official line. Me, I think it stinks. She’s on our files, you know, the woman who did the shooting. Marlene Krebs. We had intelligence that she was dealing in Mitte. Small fry, so we left her alone. But we heard she’s tied in to Darko Krasic.’

‘Which means she might be a way through to Radecki,’ Petra continued. ‘So you want me to talk to her?’

Plesch nodded. ‘It could be worth our while. She probably thinks she’s looking at a light sentence if she plays the sympathy card – woman insane with grief takes revenge on the evil drug pusher who destroyed her lover. If we can persuade her that’s not going to happen …’

‘She might just give us something we can use to build a case against Krasic and Radecki.’ Petra sipped her coffee, wincing at the heat.

‘Exactly.’

‘Leave it with me,’ she said. ‘I reckon as soon as she finds out who I am and what I know about her, she’ll realize she hasn’t got a cat in hell’s chance of making the deranged lover defence work. Can you let me have whatever we’ve got on her?’

‘It’s already on your desk.’ Plesch began to move away.

‘Oh, and Hanna … ?’

She paused and glanced over her shoulder. ‘You want something else.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Some one else. I need someone out on the street in Mitte. We need to establish that the dead guy really wasn’t Marlene’s man.’

‘Hard to prove a negative.’

‘Maybe so. But if we can nail down who Marlene has been shagging, it might rule out a connection to the dead guy. Likewise, if we can establish whether he was involved with anyone on a long-term basis …’

Plesch shrugged. ‘Probably worth a try. The Shark’s got nothing pressing on his plate. Send him out for some red meat.’

Petra’s heart sank as she walked back to her desk. The Shark was an ironic nickname for the most junior member of the squad. He’d earned it because he had no taste for blood and was incapable of moving backwards to reassess new data in the light of experience. Nobody thought he would last long on the squad. He wasn’t the person she would have chosen to trawl the bars and cafés of Mitte, probing their sources to find out what was to be learned about Marlene Krebs. It showed what a waste of time Plesch thought that was. Still, it was better than nothing. And she could always head out there herself that evening if she’d not managed to pry something useful out of Krebs in exchange for a deal on her sentence.

It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.

Even though it was a raw, damp day, Carol was sweating. She’d carried out the first part of her assignment without a hitch, but she knew she was a long way off being home and dry. The detailed brief had arrived by courier just after seven. She’d ripped open the thin envelope, almost tearing the contents in her haste. There was a single sheet of paper inside. It informed her that she should be at the address she had previously been given by ten a.m. There, she would be provided with the rest of her instructions.

Her first instinct was to arrive right on time at the rendezvous, an anonymous terraced house in Stoke Newington. But that might be the first test in itself. Perhaps she was supposed not to do what was expected of her. Hurriedly, she showered and dressed in the clothes she’d decided Janine Jerrold would have worn for such an assignment. A short black lycra skirt, a white T-shirt with long sleeves and a scoop neck under a fitted fake leather jacket. In her shoulder bag she carried everything she needed to change her look. A baseball cap, aviator frames with clear glass lenses, a pair of denim leggings and a lightweight waterproof kagoule in a nasty shade of pale blue. Also in the shoulder bag was an illegal CS gas spray and a metal comb with a sharpened tail. They were both relics of her days in CID in the port of Seaford, items she’d confiscated and never got round to handing in. She wasn’t quite sure how her watchers would react if she had to resort to them, but she was supposed to be showing initiative and acting like a real drugs courier. She could always argue the point afterwards.

Having decided to arrive early, Carol set out from her flat just after eight. She took a circuitous route to her destination. There would, she was sure, be followers, but she had no intention of making it easy for them. Taking advantage of the rush-hour commuters would be one way of improving her edge. Even so, she still jumped off the tube at the last possible moment, doubling back three stops before emerging at street level and catching a bus.

When she turned into the quiet side street, there was no one on her heels. But that didn’t mean there weren’t keen eyes on her. She climbed the three steps to the front door she’d been directed to. The paintwork was filthy with London grime, but it looked in reasonably good condition. She pressed the doorbell and waited. Long seconds passed, then the door opened a couple of inches. A pale face smudged with stubble and topped with a spiky crest of black hair peered at her. ‘I’m looking for Gary,’ she said, as instructed.

‘Who are you?’

‘Jason’s friend.’ Again, following her orders.

The door swung open, the man taking care to stay out of sight of the street as he let her in. ‘I’m Gary,’ he said, leading the way into the front room. He was barefoot, wearing faded 501s and a surprisingly clean white T-shirt. Dingy net curtains hung at the window, obscuring the street. The carpet was an indeterminate shade between brown and grey, worn almost to the backing in front of a sagging sofa that faced a wide-screen NICAM TV complete with DVD player. ‘Take a seat,’ Gary said, waving a hand at the sofa. It wasn’t an appetizing prospect. ‘I’ll be right back.’