The winds from the east had been vicious and the snow had come from leaden skies across Berlin. A park near Bismarckstrasse had been carpeted, and each day the employees of a private-wealth section at a bank had struggled to get to work. There was a new favourite among the girls, a Norwegian-born young man, who had settled effortlessly into the foreign-exchange programme. Spring broke, and the crocuses were blooming in the beds in front of the iron benches in a small open space.
In autumn, winter or spring, the same criminality taxed the HMRC people working out of Dooley Terminal at the British container port of Felixstowe. Drugs came in, and the trafficking of weapons and children, for paedophiles, continued with few interruptions. Foul weather blew in off the North Sea, and those rummaging through Continental lorries and trailers were cut to the bone by the cold in the open-ended hangars. Going to work required commitment – but a driven man required no nudge. He pursued a target through days of rain, sleet and ice into the first days of the new optimism that came with the warmth.
A café where the open-air chairs and tables were bathed in strong sunshine was a good place to meet for two irregular colleagues, associates in kind. The prospect of such an occasion could be said to have sustained the pair through five and a half harsh months.
‘Looks to me like she’s had a nose job.’
‘We say “rhinoplasty”,’ Fred answered.
‘I’d call it an improvement,’ Carlo said.
They were on the Boulevard du Midi Jean Hibert on the waterfront at Cannes. Not a bad place for a German investigator and an unpromoted Customs officer from Britain to find themselves on an April morning. They had a pocket-handkerchief table and two grimly uncomfortable chairs. The German had a citron pressé in front of him and the Briton bottled mineral water. Because the table was against the road that divided the buildings from the beach and the sea, the drinks would normally have cost fifteen euros, but for them the question of payment had been waived.
‘I’d call it a match made in Heaven – would you challenge that?’ Carlo asked.
‘What else? Lovely couple. Makes you feel good just to look at them.’
Which was possible. Beyond the pavement and the palm trees, the road and the beach – far out to sea – a cruise liner edged calmly along, heading west, and a tall ship, triple-masted, lay at anchor. Sailing boats, under power, skipped in loose circles across the water and motor launches made bow waves. Residents walked at the edge of the beach and let toy dogs romp. The two men were not looking at the sights that made the resort so famous and expensive, so sought after. The couple inside, close to the window, had their attention. The two watchers exuded raw pleasure at being close to what Carlo would have called ‘fingering a collar’.
‘She’s wearing a decent ring.’
‘Only what she deserves.’
Each, in his home city, had made a dawn start. Fred had been at Tempelhof at first light, having crawled out of bed to the shriek of the alarm. He had pecked his wife’s cheek and thought he would be back in time for a late supper. Carlo had struggled out of Sandy’s bed, then left in darkness for Stansted and a bucket flight to the South of France. The French had shown willingness, by their standards, to co-operate.
The previous day the couple had followed their briefly established routine and walked from the apartment he rented to this café-bar and had ordered. Coffee had been brought, and glasses of bottled water. The man had picked up the water when a waiter had intervened, apologising for the dirty glass he had been given, whipped it away and produced another. In a van behind the premises the locals had equipment to check the print on the glass with the one transmitted from Berlin. The match had left no room for doubt.
Carlo and Fred had wanted to be there at the end – probably unnecessary, but good for their morale.
‘She’s a nice-looking woman, now they’ve straightened her face up.’
‘A bit old for him.’
‘Think of the baggage she brings to the marital bed.’
They knew what the marital bed looked like – they’d seen it that morning. The Cannes-based detectives had met them at the airport and driven them into town. The concierge had told them that the couple had left the apartment. The door had been easily opened, the alarm disabled, and they had wandered round the rooms and seen what magazines the newly wed couple were reading. He was learning Italian from books and CDs and she was trying to improve her English. The bed was unmade and her clothing, some of which lay on the floor, was new and like nothing she’d worn in the village last autumn. He was smart-casual and left behind him the signs of new affluence. They’d have thought themselves safe.
‘You satisfied, Fred?’
‘Just like to finish my drink. Have you been busy?’
‘A bit of this and a bit of that. Doing what I do best, the stuff no one notices.’