Saskia sat against the desk. She was unused to the skirt, and her thighs rubbed.
‘Of course. I was not due back until Tuesday, after the bank holiday. But why frame me so elaborately?’ Her eyes jumped to his. ‘I have the answer. I left the office around six o’clock on the Friday evening. If it could be proved that the act happened later than that—which it did, because Mary was still in the office when I left—then my alibi would have been provided by witness statements from the taxi driver and the airline staff. By storing the body in the fridge, the time of death is less predictable. It would leave open the possibility that I murdered Mary before leaving for London.’
‘So why would you, in your role as a murderer, put the body in the fridge?’
‘I could store it here and carry out the pieces over the next weeks.’ Saskia stopped her thoughts. She said, ‘This is conjecture, of course.’
Beckmann placed the empty cup on her blotter. Saskia looked at it, then moved it off.
‘And your postulated motive, Frau Kommissarin?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘I must tell you that Klutikov searched Mary’s pockets and found photographs of a lesbian nature.’
Saskia took a breath and sighed. ‘Someone wants to make this look like a lover’s tiff. The photos are fabrications, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Beckmann studied her expression. ‘Frau Kommissarin, it is 1:15 p.m. The technician will arrive at 8:00 am tomorrow.’
‘How do you think we should proceed?’
‘We? I told you that I don’t want the Internal Section parachuting in here unnecessarily. Handle this yourself. I’ve told Klutikov to keep quiet for the time being. If you cancel the technician and the murderer is monitoring your communications, he will be forewarned. I suggest you retain your only advantage: his belief that he has succeeded. Now listen to me. If I don’t have a satisfactory answer by the time the repairman arrives, the Internal Section will be activated. You don’t want that. What with their methods. If I’m satisfied you’ve identified the perpetrator, you and Klutikov can run him down.’
Saskia stared, unfocused, at the wall. ‘It’s not good, is it? If I’m convicted, the courts will have me killed.’
‘After the Richter ruling, you might be lucky and just have your brain wiped. Street-cleaning isn’t so bad. They wear epaulettes.’ Beckmann put the flower to his nose. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
Chapter Two
Hauptkommissar Beckmann had been gone for an hour. In that interval, Saskia had checked the security recordings of the cameras in the foyer. The recordings had been deliberately scrambled. While she worked implication after implication, two cleaning spiders entered her office. She watched them groom the carpet around her feet—touches to map her calf—and climb the desk, lift the blotter’s corner, shoo away the dust. The spell broke when a spider approached the kitchen.
‘Computer, get rid of them.’
The spiders slipped under the door and were gone.
‘How about some Vivaldi?’ she asked.
‘I don’t understand. Would you like to improve your accuracy by reading some training texts?’
‘No. Play me some music by the composer Vivaldi.’
‘Which symphony?’
‘The Four Seasons.’
‘Which piece?’
‘Winter.’
It played.
‘Louder.’
Louder.
She looked at the photograph of Simon. His eyes flashed green. Saskia turned to the blinking diode of a camera high on the wall. ‘Computer, you use those cameras to disambiguate voice commands, correct?’
‘Yes, a multiple constraint satisfaction framework is -’
‘Do you store the video? Show me.’
‘Yes, I use it to help process difficult utterances.’
‘I said show me.’
‘Raw video or my compressed representations?’
‘Raw.’
The blinds rotated and the daylight died. Four projected squares expanded. Each showed a live view of Saskia’s face. ‘Show me the video for last Friday afternoon.’
‘It has been deleted.’
Saskia saw herself scowl. ‘What?’
‘Please wait. I have located a back-up.’
The squares changed to show four profiles of her secretary, Mary. She was sitting at her desk.
‘Overlay a time stamp in the corner of the lower right frame.’
The time-stamp read 12:07 p.m.
Saskia nodded. ‘Now jump to 7:00 p.m.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Go forward to 7:00 p.m.’
The computer did so. An empty room.
‘Back to 6:30. Play it in real time.’
Saskia watched the secretary as she typed at her terminal, as she passed her moments, as she yawned, dug her nose, and tweaked an earring. There was a knock at the door, loud and abrupt. Both Mary and Saskia flinched. Mary walked to the door and opened it. Saskia tried to construct the scene from the traces of background and but the cameras cherished Mary’s portrait. She was expectant, then puzzled, then afraid. The visitor said nothing.
Pull back, Saskia willed.
Two cameras were retasked as the visitor entered. They moved from Mary to the murderer. Saskia leaned forward, then swore. His face was obscured by a broad-brimmed hat. The viewing angle made it impossible to see beyond his shaven chin. His coat was baggy but nondescript. Wordlessly, he moved to Mary. His head tilted to kiss her. Then a gloved hand flashed at her neck, fast as a tongue at an insect. Mary died sliding down his front. Unbalanced by her weight, he laid her out and wiped the blade on her collar. Then he hauled her towards the kitchen. Beyond the cameras.
‘Go back to the frame where the person walked in.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Back five seconds. Forward two seconds. Back three frames. Print that.’
Saskia opened the blotter and removed the single, blank sheet. As she watched, the murderer appeared mid-stride. His height was difficult to judge, though the computer could calculate it. He wore a long raincoat and dark gloves. His shoulders were narrow. Not enough detail. Nothing diagnostic.
Saskia took a lukewarm shower. She dried slowly and twisted her hair into a towel. She wiped a space in the bathroom mirror’s condensation and examined her eyes. She closed the wings of a white bathrobe around herself and returned to the office. The carpet tickled the gaps between her toes.
‘Computer, play the video once more. This time from 6:34 p.m.’
Again, Mary was disturbed by a knock at the door. Again, Mary was murdered. Saskia sighed; the unchangeable and dead past. But, on the brink of an idea, Saskia stepped closer to the window and tilted her head.
‘…Stop.’
The murderer froze with his knife on Mary’s collar.
‘Zoom in on the blade.’
Camera One filled the window. The knife was pixelated but Saskia hoped it had caught something essential of the murderer, as her darkening office had perhaps caught something of Mary’s expiration. Saskia’s thumbs itched.
‘Computer, can you analyze the image on the knife?’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘I want a true representation of the object that caused the reflection on the knife. The object is a human face approximately thirty centimetres from the blade. However, do not share the analysis with any other computer. Is this clear?’
‘If I distribute the analysis, processing will take minutes. If I do it myself, hours will be required.’
‘How long?’
‘Twelve hours, plus or minus one.’
Saskia looked at her bare wrist. Her watch was still in the bathroom. ‘What time is it?’
‘It is 7:45 p.m.’
The analysis might not be complete by 8:00 am, when the engineer was to arrive. But, with a face, Saskia could pursue the investigation, could absolve herself. It represented the difference between being controlled and being the controller. It might save her from the life of a street sweeper, rehabilitated, the crinkles on her brain smoothed clean.