was a certain dangerous charm about him too, his dark good looks combined with a hypnotic gaze and seductive manner. Along with the computers and upmarket decor, he’d also smartened up his appearance, adding to her suspicions.
Gone were the beard, moustache and shoulder-length hair of their last encounter; he was now clean-shaven and neatly groomed. She saw it as a mask to conceal his true identity just as, when trouble arose, he managed to conceal himself behind a phalanx of lawyers, accountants and portfolios.
Something else was new as well. Directly behind his desk was a steel door where no door had been before. It led into the adjoining property. On the wall beside it was a security keypad with a slot for a smartcard. What expansion of his criminal business did it conceal?
Perhaps the crime she was investigating.
‘No warrant, huh?’ he said. ‘So you must be appealing to my better nature.’
‘Let’s not get into the realm of fantasy,’ said Rita. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Be my guest,’ said Kavella, waving a hand at the upholstered leather chair just vacated by Victor Yang.
As Rita sat down, she tossed the black Plato’s Cave card onto the desk in front of him. ‘Recognise that?’ she asked.
Without taking his feet off the desk, Kavella reached over, picked up the card and removed it from the clear plastic evidence bag. He studied it for a moment, turned it over twice, then looked at her with no expression.
‘Can I keep this?’ he said, deadpan.
‘No,’ said Rita, observing him closely. ‘It’s police evidence.’
He shrugged, tossed it back at her, and gazed through the tinted windows at the sheet of sunlight glaring from the building opposite.
‘So I take it the card is yours?’ she asked.
‘Take it, leave it, stick it up your arse,’ he replied, stretching back with his hands behind his head. ‘Do what you like. I’m saying nothing till I know what this is about.’
From her jacket pocket Rita drew out a photo of Emma Schultz and flicked it across the desk as if it were an ace in a poker game.
Kavella raised a sceptical eyebrow but pulled his feet off the desk and leant forward in his chair.
‘Recognise her?’ snapped Rita.
He let her wait for the answer, then said, ‘Of course I do. The blind prostitute in the news. What’s she got to do with me?’
‘She was here at your club less than an hour before she was picked up and attacked.’
‘So what?’
‘Your calling card was left by the attacker.’
‘That card?’ he asked, pointing at the one on the desk.
‘Yes.’
A flicker of a frown passed over his forehead, before disappearing.
It was enough to convince her that something was worrying him.
‘What is it, Kavella? More of your nasty games catching up with you?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Van Hassel. You know fuck-all about fuck-all.’ Despite attempts at self-control, his nostrils flared with anger.
‘There’s only one thing obvious here - that you’re on a fishing expedition. Wouldn’t surprise me if you’re wearing a wire.’
‘If you’re this touchy, something must be bothering you.’
‘ You bother me with your psycho-babble diploma. But as for this …’ he gestured dismissively at the card and photo, ‘you’re just trying to set me up.’
‘Now why would I want to do that?’
‘Because you can’t get me legitimately. Because your last attempt ended in failure. Because you want to impress the men who push you around at work and treat you like a pair of tits on a stick.’
Rita felt the bile rise within her. He’d done this to her before, while she was interrogating him after his arrest. Needling her, baiting her, till she lost her temper. It didn’t happen often, but this man could do it. Partly because of the obscene crimes he’d committed and partly because he could recognise her frustrations.
‘I read about you recently in Police Life magazine,’ he went on.
‘All that bullshit about profiling, studying with the
Gone were the beard, moustache and shoulder-length hair of their last encounter; he was now clean-shaven and neatly groomed. She saw it as a mask to conceal his true identity just as, when trouble arose, he managed to conceal himself behind a phalanx of lawyers, accountants and portfolios.
Something else was new as well. Directly behind his desk was a steel door where no door had been before. It led into the adjoining property. On the wall beside it was a security keypad with a slot for a smartcard. What expansion of his criminal business did it conceal?
Perhaps the crime she was investigating.
‘No warrant, huh?’ he said. ‘So you must be appealing to my better nature.’
‘Let’s not get into the realm of fantasy,’ said Rita. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Be my guest,’ said Kavella, waving a hand at the upholstered leather chair just vacated by Victor Yang.
As Rita sat down, she tossed the black Plato’s Cave card onto the desk in front of him. ‘Recognise that?’ she asked.
Without taking his feet off the desk, Kavella reached over, picked up the card and removed it from the clear plastic evidence bag. He studied it for a moment, turned it over twice, then looked at her with no expression.
‘Can I keep this?’ he said, deadpan.
‘No,’ said Rita, observing him closely. ‘It’s police evidence.’
He shrugged, tossed it back at her, and gazed through the tinted windows at the sheet of sunlight glaring from the building opposite.
‘So I take it the card is yours?’ she asked.
‘Take it, leave it, stick it up your arse,’ he replied, stretching back with his hands behind his head. ‘Do what you like. I’m saying nothing till I know what this is about.’
From her jacket pocket Rita drew out a photo of Emma Schultz and flicked it across the desk as if it were an ace in a poker game.
Kavella raised a sceptical eyebrow but pulled his feet off the desk and leant forward in his chair.
‘Recognise her?’ snapped Rita.
He let her wait for the answer, then said, ‘Of course I do. The blind prostitute in the news. What’s she got to do with me?’
‘She was here at your club less than an hour before she was picked up and attacked.’
‘So what?’
‘Your calling card was left by the attacker.’
‘That card?’ he asked, pointing at the one on the desk.
‘Yes.’
A flicker of a frown passed over his forehead, before disappearing.
It was enough to convince her that something was worrying him.
‘What is it, Kavella? More of your nasty games catching up with you?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Van Hassel. You know fuck-all about fuck-all.’ Despite attempts at self-control, his nostrils flared with anger.
‘There’s only one thing obvious here - that you’re on a fishing expedition. Wouldn’t surprise me if you’re wearing a wire.’
‘If you’re this touchy, something must be bothering you.’
‘ You bother me with your psycho-babble diploma. But as for this …’ he gestured dismissively at the card and photo, ‘you’re just trying to set me up.’
‘Now why would I want to do that?’
‘Because you can’t get me legitimately. Because your last attempt ended in failure. Because you want to impress the men who push you around at work and treat you like a pair of tits on a stick.’
Rita felt the bile rise within her. He’d done this to her before, while she was interrogating him after his arrest. Needling her, baiting her, till she lost her temper. It didn’t happen often, but this man could do it. Partly because of the obscene crimes he’d committed and partly because he could recognise her frustrations.
‘I read about you recently in Police Life magazine,’ he went on.
‘All that bullshit about profiling, studying with the
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