“Celeste Bobier,” she began. “Thirty-four years of age. Born in Saint-Étienne, France, near Lyon. I should begin by saying that she was not known to CIFAS, Interpol, Europol, or to local police authorities in Spain or France. She had no known arrests, not even a parking ticket. By all conventional indicators, this is a person with a spotless record and a life of rectitude.”
He repeated her phrase: by all conventional indicators.
“But,” she said, “as we know, there is nothing conventional about your case. She was educated in Grenoble as a nurse and went to work—”
“She was a nurse?” he said.
“Yes, that’s what I said. She didn’t tell you that?”
“No, she did not. What kind of a nurse?”
She checked her notes. “I don’t know. A general sort of a nurse, I suppose. She was employed in a hospital in the south of France. I can give you the details, if you wish to find out more about this phase of her life. However, six years ago, your Celeste emigrates to Spain where she takes up a position in Madrid, as a nurse at the Hospital Universitario La Paz, which is a prestigious clinic affiliated with Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. She worked there for only one year and there, my dear Marcus, the trail runs cold. I could find no further records of her employment or residence within Spain, France, or indeed anywhere within the EU.”
“Do you have anything on co-workers or superiors at the hospital? Her department?”
“Nothing on that.”
“How about where she lived when she worked there?”
“I probably have that, but I didn’t print it out. Why do you want that?”
“To see if I can find an old neighbor, someone who knew her.”
“Of course. I can look it up when I get back to my desk.”
“Don’t worry. I can find it on my own. Is there anything on why she left her hospital job?”
“I’m afraid not. I can’t tell you why she left her position at La Paz, whether voluntarily or involuntarily.”
“So, she’s been a ghost for five years,” he said.
“A ghost, yes. No employment records, no tax payments, no car insurance, no bank accounts, nothing.”
“I think I’m fucked,” he mumbled.
“Have more faith, my friend. It’s darkest before dawn. There’s a little bit more I can tell you about Celeste Bobier. She was wealthy.”
He had been staring absently at her patterned rug. The word wealthy snapped him to attention. “You just said she didn’t have any bank accounts. How do know she had money?”
“I should have said conventional bank accounts. She had a very unconventional account. Do you remember the scandal from several years ago—the Panama Papers scandal?”
“Sure. Millions of leaked financial documents of off-shore transactions in Panama.”
“CIFAS was obligated to construct a database for various purposes, not the least of which was the revelation that Spanish politicians, sports figures, even members of the royal family were illegally hiding funds offshore. When I entered Celeste’s name into our internal search engines, I got a hit from Panama. She’s been getting regular payments into a Panamanian bank account for five years. Her account has a balance of over three million euros.”
“What! Who’s been paying her?”
“That, I can’t say. It’s not recorded.”
“Can you find out?”
“That won’t be easy, Marcus. There’s no way to get the info through official channels.”
“When did official channels ever stop you?”
She had her own drink, a small snifter of brandy. She lightly clinked his glass and said she would see what could be done.
“What about the Slovakians?” he asked.
“No joy there, I’m afraid. None of your names ring bells. They’re not on any international watch lists. They’ve never entered Spain. I emailed a friend at the Slovakian SIS. They are mercenaries as you said, but they aren’t known to be criminals.”
His phone dinged with a text from Lumaga.
“It’s my Carabinieri contact in Italy,” Marcus said. “He wants to know if I found out anything about Celeste.”
She ran a fingernail up the inseam of his trousers. “Why don’t you answer him later. I have a larger painting by Merello I’d like to show you. It’s in my bedroom.”
*
It was nearly midnight when Marcus wandered from Segura’s bedroom in search of his cigarettes and more Glenlivet. He lit up on a balcony of her stately building overlooking a lamp-lit, quiet street, still wet from the earlier rain. Lumaga answered his text immediately. He was still up and was happy to talk.
Over the phone, Marcus said, “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”
“Not only up, I’m at the office. I’m persona non grata with my wife.”
Marcus was half-inclined to give him cautionary advice about domestic balance, but he didn’t. Instead he started to spill his newly found intelligence on Celeste.
“I’m sorry,” Lumaga interrupted. “Did you say she worked at the Hospital Universitario La Paz?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Hold on, let me check my notes.”
Marcus heard papers rustling and he waited, blowing smoke rings into the cool night until Lumaga came back on the line.
“While everything was happening with the Andreason case, I had another important case occupying my department,” Lumaga said. “It was a double murder—an Italian boy and his former girlfriend. His name was Ferruccio Gressani. He came back to Calabria to visit this woman from Madrid, where he’s been living.”
“I’m listening,” Marcus said.
“You’re never going to guess where he used to work as a technician. The Hospital Universitario La Paz.”
26
The following morning, Segura was in a pensive mood. While Marcus had
