Val McDermid - The Last Temptation

She turned her back on her assailants and walked out into the busy street. It was hard to believe that only a matter of yards from this mid-morning bustle of shoppers and strollers she’d stared physical danger in the face. As the adrenaline surge receded, she became aware of the state she was in. Her upper body was drenched, the double skin of the vinyl jacket and the kagoule acting like a sweatbox on her skin. Her hair under the baseball cap felt plastered to her head. And she was starving. If she was going to complete this mission, she’d be crazy to ignore her body’s messages.

Up ahead, she saw the golden arches of a McDonald’s. She could get something to eat then use the toilet to clean herself up and switch from the skirt into her denim leggings. With luck it would have a functioning hot-air hand drier. She could maybe even alter her hairstyle, thanks to the sweat of panic.

Twenty minutes later, Carol was back on the street. Her hair was off her face, slicked back with a smear of hair wax. The aviator frames subtly altered the shape of her face. The jacket was zipped up, hiding the T-shirt underneath. She looked different enough from the woman who had rung Gary’s doorbell to confuse most casual observers. She knew it wasn’t enough to fool the sort of scrutiny she expected to be under, but it might be sufficient to buy her a few extra seconds when it counted.

She took her time getting to the station, browsing shop windows as if she was just another idle shopper wondering what to buy for dinner. But once there, she trotted up the steps to the platform just in time to catch the train. Good thing I checked out the timetable, she congratulated herself as she slumped into a corner seat in a carriage that smelled of dust. It was a breathing space. Time to figure out what came next.

Petra walked into the squad room of the GeSa. It was as depressing as every other one she’d been in. The net curtains that blurred the bars over the three windows were the dirty yellow of second-hand nicotine, the walls and floor the same graded shades of grey that characterized the rest of the GeSa. That fascinating gamut from dove to anthracite, Petra thought wryly. The Wachpolizisten stationed at the GeSa had tried to brighten up the room with the usual kitsch array of postcards, cartoons and photographs of their pets. A couple of tired plants struggled to cope with the absence of any direct sunlight. It only served to make the place even more depressing.

The room was empty except for a solitary female WaPo who was putting a plastic box full of a prisoner’s personal effects on one of the shelves. She turned as Petra leaned on the counter and cleared her throat. ‘I’m Petra Becker from Criminal Intelligence. I’m here to see Marlene Krebs,’ Petra said. ‘You’ve still got her, right?’

The WaPo nodded. ‘She’s due to see the judge in a couple of hours, then she’ll be transferred, I guess. Don’t you want to wait till then?’

‘I need to talk to her now. I can use the lawyer’s room, yeah?’

The WaPo looked uncertain. ‘You better talk to the boss. He’s in the report room.’

‘That’s down at the end of the cell block, right?’

‘Behind the fingerprint room, yes. You’ll need to leave your gun here.’

Petra took her pistol from its holster in the small of her back and locked it into one of the lockers for visiting officers. Then she headed out of the squad room towards the cell corridor. She glanced up at the electronic alert system the cops sarcastically called the room-service board. None of the alarm lamps was lit; for once the prisoners were being well-be-haved, not driving the GeSa team crazy with constant summonses.

The cell block itself was surprisingly sterile and modern. The usual linoleum gave way to red brick tiles on floor and walls. Most of the doors were closed, indicating that they were occupied. A couple were open, revealing a small vestibule, beyond which wall-to-wall bars enclosed four square metres of cell equipped with a bed and a rectangular hole in the floor covered with a chrome grid in case the inmates decided not to ring for a toilet visit and just fouled the cell. It was a mistake most of them made only once; the cost of cleaning the cell after such acts of defiance was billed directly to the prisoners.

Petra wondered which door concealed Marlene Krebs, and how she was coping. Badly, she hoped. It would make her job that much easier.

She found the shift commander in the Schreibzimmer, frowning at one of the Berliner Modell computers. She explained her mission, and he asked her to wait while he organized an interview. ‘We shouldn’t really have her here,’ he grumbled. ‘She should have gone straight to KriPo, but since it happened on our doorstep, they told us to hang on to her.’

‘It is only for twenty-four hours max,’ Petra pointed out.

‘That’s about twenty-three too many for me. She’s been bleating since she arrived. She wants a lawyer, she wants to use the toilet, she wants a drink. She seems to think this is a hotel, not a detention centre. She acts like we should be treating her like a hero instead of a criminal.’ He pushed himself to his feet and made for the door. ‘I’ll send someone for you in a few minutes. You can take a look at the paperwork – it’s in the tray over there.’ He gestured with his thumb to a pile of files stacked high above the edges of a filing tray.

He was as good as his word. Within ten minutes, she was sitting in the Anwaltsraum, facing Marlene Krebs across a table bolted to the floor. Krebs could have been any age between thirty and forty, though Petra knew from the report she’d read that the woman was only twenty-eight. Her hair was dyed a harsh black, tousled from a night in the cells. Her make-up was smudged, presumably from the same cause. Krebs had the puffy face and hands of a drinker, and the whites of her pale green eyes were tinged with yellow. However, she also possessed the sleepy sensuality of a woman who is attractive to men and who knows it.

‘Marlene, I’m Petra Becker from Criminal Intelligence.’ Petra sat back and let the words sink in.

Krebs’ face revealed nothing. ‘Have you got any cigarettes?’ she asked.

Petra took a half-empty pack from her pocket and pushed it towards Krebs. She snatched at it and thrust a cigarette between full lips. ‘What about a light, then?’ she demanded.

‘The cigarette was free. The light will cost you.’

Krebs scowled. ‘Bitch,’ she said.

Petra shook her head. ‘Not a good start.’

‘What’s this about, anyway? What have I got to do with Criminal Intelligence?’

‘It’s a bit late to be asking that, Marlene. That really should have been your first question.’

Krebs took the cigarette from her mouth and flicked the tip as if there was ash to be deposited. ‘Look, I admit I shot that dope-dealing bastard Kamal.’

‘It’s not like there’s much room for doubt.’

‘But I had good reason. He sold my Danni the junk that killed him. What can I say? I was crazy with grief.’

Petra slowly shook her head. ‘You’re never going to cut it as an actress, Marlene. That routine needs a lot of work before you go in front of a judge. Look, we both know your story is bullshit. Why don’t we cut the crap and see what I can do for you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you. Kamal killed Danni. I loved Danni. Something in me snapped when I heard Kamal had been arrested and I wanted to take revenge for what he had taken from me.’

Petra smiled. It was the lizard smile of a predator who smells the first hint of blood. ‘See, Marlene, there’s the first problem. The guys who brought Kamal in, they didn’t hang around. They went straight to his restaurant, they pulled him out of the front door and into their car. Then they drove here. I’ve seen the logs. There was barely enough time for you to hear about the arrest, never mind get hold of a gun and get to Friesenstrasse in time to put a bullet in his head.’ Petra let Marlene think about that. ‘Unless of course someone tipped you the wink that the arrest was about to go down. Why would anyone do that, unless they wanted Kamal dead? So, how did you hear about Kamal’s arrest?’