Behind Closed Doors Read online

  BEHIND

  CLOSED

  DOORS

  JJ MARSH

  Behind Closed Doors

  Copyright © 2010 by JJ Marsh

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  Cover design: JD Smith

  Published by Prewett Publishing.

  All enquiries to [email protected]

  First printing, 2010

  ISBN 978-3-9523970-3-9

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Also by JJ Marsh | RAW MATERIAL

  Sign up to the mailing list at www.jjmarshauthor.com | for exclusive extras, wine recommendations and news

  Thank you for reading a Triskele Book.

  Chapter 1

  Utrecht 2007

  “Howzit? You got here, then?”

  “Yes, Joop. I got here. At last.”

  “Uh oh. Delays?”

  “Right now I’m in a taxi from the airport. Not only did we leave Jo’burg three hours late, but I missed the transfer in Frankfurt and now we’ve just circled Schiphol for forty-five minutes, waiting for a slot.”

  Only an asshole like Joop would think it a good idea to whistle into a cell phone.

  “Joop, listen. I need to take a shower and eat something. After that, I want to crash.”

  “Shit, man. That’s all you want to do? Friday night is jol night, but if you’re creamed...?”

  Creamed? Where the hell had this guy learnt his English?

  “There’s just one other thing I need.”

  “No sweat. An SMS is on its way with the number of that agency I mentioned. It’s not cheap but you can feel the quality.”

  “I appreciate that. Meet me in the foyer at ten on Monday, OK?”

  “Don’t wanna do anything tomorrow?”

  “I got plans, Joop.”

  “See you Monday then. Sweet dreams.”

  Asshole.

  He watched the scenery, such as it was. Grey, flat and bleak, with the occasional windmill to make sure you were paying attention. The hotel was a pleasant surprise. The first of the day. Street noise left behind, he glanced up at what looked like some sort of institution in its own grounds. Classy and quiet. His kind of place.

  “Goede avond en onthaal. Welcome to Utrecht, Sir. We have good news for you. You have an upgrade today, to one of our Empire Suites. Please follow the porter.”

  A second pleasant surprise. Plenty of space, working area, two TVs, and most importantly, a vast bed. He palmed the kid a coin, who left him to explore the room in peace. Throwing off his coat, he sat on the bed. Heavy linen, an excess of pillows and a firm mattress, which would be seeing some action in the next twenty-four hours, if Joop wasn’t exaggerating about that agency. The bathroom was massive, well-furnished with towels and little bottles of wife-pleasing potions. He made a mental note to throw some into his case. And a wall of mirrors behind the bath. Better and better. His mood started to lift. There was a message on the flat screen at the foot of the bed.

  Mr van der Veld

  Welcome to Grand Hotel Karel V

  We hope you enjoy your stay.

  Flicking to Bloomberg, he started to undress, while checking the screen for any significant currency movements. As he kicked off his shoes, he noticed the ice bucket and chilled Krug Grande Cuvée. There was a card.

  With compliments of D’Arcy Roth.

  That explained the upgrade. Nice touch. Unnecessary, as there was no one else in the running, but it certainly put their potential client in the right frame of mind. So, a shower, a glass of Krug, order room service and put a call through to this agency. All needs met.

  As he unzipped his case to find his toiletries bag, he heard a discreet knock at the door. He frowned. Unexpected visitors, including hotel employees who wanted to ‘turn down’ his bed, were not welcome. He yanked open the door and his frown lifted. The neat grey suit, official clipboard and pulled-back sleek blonde hair told him she was a hotel employee. The pale skin drawn over fine bones and a high forehead, grey-blue eyes and cherub lips told him she was more than welcome. He checked the name badge. Annelise Visser.

  “Good evening, Mr van der Veld. My name is Frau Visser and I ...”

  “Good evening, Annelise. Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand. A momentary flush before she recovered herself to shake it. He was well aware that conventions in the Netherlands dictate that one should use surnames in formal situations. He didn’t give a shit.

  “I am the Senior Hospitality Director, sir. I am here to check that your suite is satisfactory.”

  “The suite seems fine, Annelise, but I do have one concern.”

  The smooth dome of her forehead contracted.

  “A concern? What would that be, sir?”

  “The champagne.” He pushed back the door and indicated the ice bucket. “Can I be sure this is top quality? You see, I’m used to drinking the best.”

  “Sir, the champagne is a Krug Grande Cuvée, and was specifically selected by your company ...” a glance at her clipboard. “D’Arcy Roth.”

  “They are not yet my company, Annelise. They want me as their client. But if you’ll consent to taste the champagne with me, I guess we can agree that the suite is satisfactory.”

  A proper blush now. He loved a blush on a blonde. Pink cheeks, creamy skin reddened with warmth. He wanted to turn her over, pull down those panties and spank her right there. Raise some heat in those cheeks.

  “Sir, I thank you, but I am on duty right now. Drinking alcohol would be inappropriate.”

  “This is the hotel that ‘exceeds your expectations’, right?”

  “Yes, but ...” She laughed. “OK, I will taste the champagne. But then I am afraid I must go. I have to consider the needs of other guests.”

  He didn’t reply, but gestured to the sofa. She sat, knees together, the grey skirt riding up slightly. The lamp behind her created a halo effect. An angel. He smiled as he twisted the cork. She was going nowhere. As the cork popped, he caught the overflow in a flute, with a loaded glance at her to see if she picked up on the image. She returned his smile, politely. He slid beside her and handed her a glass. Before he could propose a toast, she set her glass on the table.


  “I’m sorry, sir. Champagne always gives me the hiccups. Would you mind if I take some water? I can get it.”

  He placed a hand on her knee. “Sit still. You’re my guest.”

  She jumped at the touch of his hand. And he still hadn’t made skin contact, as she wore pantyhose. He hated pantyhose.

  In the mini-bar, there was an array of different waters. He grabbed a bottle of Evian and showed it to her. She nodded. Returning to his seat, he placed the water in front of her and raised his flute.

  “To a very pleasant stay in Utrecht.”

  She tipped her glass to his and looked at him. “To a pleasant stay in Utrecht.” She sipped at the fizz and closed her eyes. “Mmm. I don’t wish to prejudice your opinion, but in my view, that’s lovely.”

  Her voice was soft, intimate and breathy. He wanted to hear her say those words again. Mmm, that’s lovely. Preferably as she drew her fingernails down his back. He hadn’t even registered the taste, but his glass was two-thirds empty.

  “I don’t know, Annelise, the jury’s still out. Maybe the second glass will clinch it.” He refilled his and she didn’t stop him replacing the tiny sip she had taken. A good sign.

  “Now, what time do you finish tonight, Annelise?” His tongue felt thick and his speech sounded slow.

  She swallowed some water and caught a stray droplet with the tip of her tongue. Shit, he wasn’t sure if he could wait till later.

  She avoided the question. “Why are you in Utrecht, Mr van der Veld? Is it just business, or pleasure?”

  He took another slug and leaned towards her. He felt hot, horny and even a little drunk.

  “Until five minutes ago, strictly business. But now, I’m not so sore.”

  That struck him as funny, because he wasn’t sore at all. But he was as sure as he’d ever be. He started to laugh, but her eyes were looking into his, with intent. Was it too soon to ...?

  She smiled and reached for the bottle, refilling both glasses. Her voice was low, full of suggestion. He watched her lips.

  “Have I satisfied your concerns regarding the champagne, sir?”

  That was flirting. No doubt at all. His body felt warm and heavy and soft, with the exception of his cock, which hardened as she placed her hand on his thigh. She lifted the flute to his lips.

  “Satisfy my champagne yet.” His lips buzzed and he seemed to be slurring. It didn’t bother him. He felt euphoric, completely relaxed. This was turning out to be quite a hotel. Who needed an agency when room service was laid on? She dropped her gaze to his crotch and up to his eyes. Pupils dilated. She wanted him.

  “I guess you wanted to freshen up before I arrived?”

  He nodded, and managed to mumble the word, “Shower.”

  “How about I run you a bath? More fun.”

  No mistaking that. She moved to the wardrobe and opened the door. He tried to tell her the bathroom was behind the other door, but she’d already found it. He laughed again. You’d think the staff ... He reached for his glass, barely able to lift it to his lips. His arms were leaden as hell and he felt fantastic. No idea if he’d be able to perform.

  Here she comes. Pulling him to his feet, helping him undress, just like a nurse, what with the gloves and all. Easing him into the bath. Beautiful; soft hands, warm water. He sinks up to his chin, smiling. He can’t recall feeling better in his life.

  She’s smiling too. And singing. He recognises the tune and tries to join in. He wants to touch her face but he can’t move. He’s happy, stroked and caressed by this beautiful woman.

  The patterns are hypnotic. Crimson clouds twisting and swirling in the water. He watches as clear water loses the battle, dominated by red. She reaches for his other arm and turns his wrist, as if she’s trying to see what he has hidden in his hand. It’s funny and it makes him laugh. She’s not laughing. Her face is sharp with concentration as she draws the razor blade along his vein, from wrist to elbow. More red joins the fray, and the clear water doesn’t stand a chance. Now she smiles and puts the blade in his right hand. He can’t hold it and it falls into the redness. He watches it fall, helpless. He heaves his head up to look at her reflection in the mirror and attempts a smile.

  It’s not working. He looks like an old dog with wind.

  Chapter 2

  London 2012

  As the theme tune faded, Beatrice was not surprised to hear the doorbell ring. Family and friends knew that little couldn’t wait until after The Archers. So her bright greeting into the intercom was in expectation of a welcome, familiar voice.

  “Hel-lo?”

  “Stubbs?” The voice was familiar, but as welcome as gout.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Need a word.”

  “Yes, sir.” She buzzed him in. Hamilton visiting her at home? There were several explanations, and none was positive.

  “Evening, Stubbs.” He came straight into the flat and sat at the dining table.

  “Good evening sir. Can I get you anything? Cup of tea? Glass of wine?”

  Eyeing her half-empty glass of Chablis, he shook his head. “I never drink alcohol during the week. Now, I want to discuss a possible project for you. Highly confidential, see, hence my decision to come all the way out here.”

  Beatrice smiled. One would think that Hamilton had struggled through hail and wind to a remote Hebridean island rather than enjoying a chauffeured drive from Westminster to Shoreditch. Although it was raining, to be fair.

  “I see. Must be something difficult in that case, sir.”

  “Look here, Stubbs, would you be prepared to leave home for a while? Work on a secondment sort of thing?”

  “Without knowing the exact terms of ‘for a while’ and ‘secondment sort of thing’, I’d have to say no, sir.”

  “Right. Good. So if the terms suit, you’ll do it.”

  Beatrice did not respond.

  “Need to identify someone to leave London in a week or so, possibly to remain in another location for some months. In addition, must be able to lead an international team, deal with a complex cross-border case, and crucially, remain discreet. I thought you might fit the bill.”

  “Thank you for considering me, sir, but ...”

  “I will have that tea, thank you. Wouldn’t say no to a biscuit, either. Nothing fancy.”

  Sacrificing her last three ginger nuts, Beatrice placed the tea tray in front of her boss. He made her wait; he always did. Round and round the roses. She gazed out at the rain. Rush hour over, Boot Street enjoyed the lull before people headed out to the pubs, the galleries and the attractions of Hoxton. Warm lights in windows opposite reminded her of Edward Hopper paintings. Glimpses of other lives.

  Hamilton sniffed, before taking a cautious sip of tea. His large nose and side-swipes of grey hair evoked an American eagle. He was ready to speak.

  “Thing is, a series of cases may, or may not, be related. Remember Brian Edwards?”

  Beatrice scanned all her mental filing systems for a match. A classic Hamilton technique. No clue as to whether the name was a colleague, criminal, or hurricane. She shook her head, allowing Hamilton’s grin to spread.

  “Sorry, sir, I don’t think I do. Not unless you mean the Brian Edwards of Watermark, committed suicide in France, 2009?”

  Hamilton’s smile dissolved.

  “2010. And the suicide part is suspect. No note, you know.”

  “Is there a connection between Edwards and this sensitive case?”

  “Possibly none whatsoever. Fact is, Stubbs, we need to know if the evidence of the Swiss police has any bearing on the Edwards incident. Your job is to establish whether there’s a case to open.”

  “The Swiss police, sir?”

  Hamilton ate a biscuit. “Indeed. The Swiss police have worked closely with the force in Liechtenstein on the death of Jack Ryman.”

  This one Beatrice recognised immediately, but Hamilton got in first.

  “American banker. Plastic bag ... oh, you do remember. Given the chap’s position, the investigat
ion was jolly thorough. Some DNA found at the site could indicate that his death was not accidental.”

  Beatrice considered.

  Hamilton continued. “Search of Switzerland’s DNA database threw up a connection. You may recall the Australian newspaper magnate who froze to death in St Moritz?”

  “Dougie Thompson. Of course. The ‘death by misadventure’ hoo-ha. A major news item and much controversy over the coroner’s verdict.”

  Hamilton sipped more tea and sniffed. “And rightly so. Not only in my view but that of the Swiss police. Foreign DNA on his flask, you know.”

  “They kept that out of the papers. Two deaths in a similar region, the chances of the same DNA ...” Beatrice muttered.

  Hamilton nodded, and polished off the second ginger nut. Only one left.

  “The combined opinions of the Swiss and Liechtenstein forces saw it as an unusual link, so they put it through Interpol.”

  “And the DNA was registered?” Beatrice asked. “Not with the Brian Edwards case?”

  Hamilton swallowed some tea. “Not only Edwards, but a South African diamond dealer, name of van der Veld, who topped himself in a Dutch hotel. The key issue, see, is that all these deaths were apparently self-inflicted. Yet no suicide notes and now the same DNA at each incident? Bottom line, Stubbs, Interpol want to open a non-investigation. They’re putting together a team, based in Zürich, to find out if this leads anywhere. Discretion is essential. As far as anyone else knows, we’re simply tidying up loose ends.”

  “I see. Hence the foreign job you mentioned. Can I ask, sir, why you described this as a secondment?”

  “Fair enough, good question. Situation here is, you’ll be on loan. Answerable to the General Secretariat in Lyon. This is not one of ours.”

  “And the time-frame is presumably as precise as the case itself.”

  “Quite. Well put. My rider was that we can spare you no longer than a six-month. If you’ve got nowhere by then, you might as well come home.”

  “May I have some time to consider, sir? I have various ongoing projects I would like to assess before deciding.”

  “Regarding your work assignments, all bases are covered. As for your personal life, that’s up to you.”