The Beige Man (25 page)

“We were actually looking for two young men who had run down and killed a retired police officer. We knew which direction the car had taken after the accident. When our teams were searching the area, they found the body of a very young girl …”

T
HE LONG AFTERNOON
had turned to evening by the time they had finished. Irene’s mouth was as dry as a desert after all that talking, but de Viera had hardly moved a muscle during her report. He certainly hadn’t asked for anything to drink. Only when she had finished did he pick up the phone, hit speed dial and bark out brief orders. When he had put down the receiver he stared straight at Irene and fired off a lengthy harangue.

The interpreter looked as if she was seriously considering whether to faint rather than translating what he had just said. With a huge effort she pulled herself together and managed to speak. “Refreshments are on the way. Then we’ll go through it all again in front of the other police officers.”

Irene couldn’t believe her ears. It was a while before she
realized he wasn’t joking. At the same time, she thought she knew why he had asked her to deliver her report to him before allowing her to address a larger audience. He wanted to make sure that there was nothing that would compromise him—or rather the Gomez gang—in the investigation. This is all about saving de Viera’s skin, she reminded herself. She felt a surge of anger. Could she refuse to cooperate? After a rapid analysis she decided such a course of action would be impossible. De Viera was paying for her trip and all her expenses. At least on paper. Perhaps it wasn’t the Policía Nacional who were paying at all. She was beginning to have her doubts. Perhaps one of the gangster syndicates had brought her to Tenerife. Paranoid thoughts, but not entirely unreasonable.

On the other hand, the commissioner of the Policía Nacional had contacted Acting Chief of Police Marianne Wärme; the gangsters couldn’t have had any influence on that. Or could they? Irene had some knowledge of the mafia in Europe, and she knew that their tentacles reached the upper echelons of the hierarchy of power. However, she decided that the commissioner was unlikely to be directly involved. This seemed to be an internal arrangement on the island. Perhaps de Viera had conned the commissioner into requesting assistance. Whatever the truth of the matter was, the fact remained that she had to make the best of a bad situation.

The door opened and a young woman in a blue uniform came in carrying a small tray with three bottles and three glasses. In the middle of the tray was a plate of sliced melon. De Viera grabbed the ice-cold—and only—bottle of beer and left the room without further comment.

In silence Irene and the interpreter ate pieces of melon and drank a small bottle of Perrier each. They were both resigned to their fate. All they could do was grit their teeth and go through the whole thing all over again. Resolutely Irene wiped her fingers on a thin paper napkin, then held out her hand to
the interpreter and introduced herself. The pale woman hesitantly placed a frozen hand in Irene’s and said, “Josephine Baxter.”

Irene blinked in surprise. Josephine? The sepia-lady struck her as more of an Edith or Vera.

I
T WAS ALREADY
dark outside the windows when five male police officers joined them for the second briefing, which started just after seven. They all smiled at Irene, shook hands and introduced themselves. This was a complete waste of time, because it was impossible for Irene to remember the Spanish names. They disappeared from her memory as soon as she tried to fix them. When de Viera returned he was followed by the young female officer, who was now carrying a projector. Without a word de Viera placed a thin piece of Styrofoam on the polished surface of the table, and the woman placed the projector on top of it. Irene saw one of her male colleagues place his hand on her bottom, as if by accident. The young woman gave no indication that she was aware of his touch, but left the room as quickly as she had crept in.

De Viera tucked the hard copy of the case notes, which Irene had just gone through with him, under his arm. The glance he gave her contained a trace of triumph. The Swedish text would be of no use whatsoever to him, but she realized that he wanted the DNA profile that proved that Sergei Petrov had not killed the little Russian. It was of the utmost importance for the Gomez gang—and consequently de Viera—to be able to prove that the failed attempt to deliver the two girls was the result of an unfortunate series of events. There must not be the least suspicion that the Gomez phalanx—through Petrov—had tried to deceive Saar and his associates. The financial discrepancy would still remain, of course, but no doubt that could be sorted out. Or perhaps it was about the money after all. Saar wanted recompense for the girls who
hadn’t turned up, and Gomez had been unable or unwilling to pay up. Irene wondered what kind of money was involved. A substantial amount, she supposed, given that four men had already lost their lives.

Irene plugged her laptop into the projector as de Viera left the room with the printout securely clamped under his arm. When he returned a few minutes later, he was empty-handed. Presumably he had locked it away somewhere.

Irene was able to deliver her report more quickly the second time. This was partly because it was easier to see the pictures when they were enlarged on the wall, and partly because she and the interpreter had already been through everything once. It went better than she could have expected. De Viera thanked her politely for coming all the way from Sweden to support her colleagues in Tenerife with the difficult investigation in which they were currently involved. Her assistance had made things significantly easier for them. Everyone present nodded in agreement, then as if on a given signal, they all got up and left the room.

Through Josephine Baxter, de Viera asked Irene if she would like to have dinner with him. She declined politely, making the excuse that she had a headache and intended to go straight back to her hotel to rest. He couldn’t quite hide his relief. No doubt he also thought it would have been horrific to spend the evening trying to communicate through sign language and poor English with an unwelcome dinner companion.

Josephine Baxter drove Irene back to the hotel in her little Fiat. They didn’t say much because they were both tired after talking for several hours. However, Irene did learn Josephine had been living in Tenerife for ten years.

Josephine dropped her off outside the hotel. Irene waved goodbye to the rear lights of the Fiat as it disappeared down the avenue, and suddenly realized how hungry and thirsty she was. Her stomach was in knots. Her tongue rasped against her dry
palate. She decided to go straight to her room to freshen up, then she would go out and look for a decent restaurant.

She quickly crossed the lobby and took the elevator up to her room. She stepped inside with a huge sense of relief and headed for the bathroom. Her bladder was full to bursting, and she had to empty it. After that she took a quick shower. A dab of perfume here and there made her feel fresh once more. The pool bar was still open, and the prospect of a meal in the near future cheered her up considerably.

T
HE MAN HAD
his legs crossed, one elegant shoe bobbing up and down. Irene noticed that he had unusually small feet. To her surprise he smiled at her and got up from the armchair as she emerged from the elevator. He trotted toward her across the marble floor of the hotel lobby.

“My name is Günter Schmidt,” he said, holding out his hand.

The handshake was brief and damp. He was quite short and was wearing a white shirt and a tailored dark suit. His tie was made of pale blue silk, and was held in place by a gold tie pin. His hair was thick and almost pure white, but his face was youthful. He looked like he might be in his mid-fifties. His English was flawless, but his accent suggested that he was probably German.

As if he had read her mind, he said, “I am Austrian, but I have spent the last thirty years living in different parts of the world. I am now managing director of Casino Royal de Tenerife. Lembit Saar is my highly respected boss. All of his employees have been deeply worried since the attempt on his life and the murder of two of our most valued colleagues.”

He assumed a suitably grief-stricken expression.

The attempt on the life of Lembit Saar and the murder of two of …
?
Did he really think she had no idea what was going on? As far as she understood it, Lembit Saar and his goons had turned up at Jesus Gomez’s nightclub Casablanca and shot Gomez dead.

Günter Schmidt gestured toward a thin man in a dark uniform who was standing a few meters away. “This is my chauffeur. He will drive us to the casino. I would very much like to invite you to dinner, so we can chat about our mutual interests.”

Suddenly Irene felt a surge of pure rage. “I am a Swedish police officer, and I am here at the invitation of the Chief of the Policía Nacional, Miguel de Viera. I have no authority whatsoever to discuss any aspect of an ongoing investigation with members of the public,” she said formally.

In order to further underline her position, she straightened up to her full 180 centimeters and looked down on the man in front of her.

As if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said, Günter Schmidt grabbed her elbow and started pushing her toward the door. The skinny chauffeur materialized at her other side.

“I usually get on well with people,” Schmidt said. The grip on her elbow tightened, although his friendly tone of voice remained the same. “It will be a pleasure to have the honor of welcoming you as our guest at Casino Royal this evening,” he said.

Irene’s mind raced. What could she do? She realized that the reason for Schmidt’s visit was that Inspector Juan Rejón had not been allowed to attend her presentation at police HQ. If he had been there, then the Saar gang would have received a direct report from their man on the inside, and she would have been spared this unwanted dinner invitation.

At the same time, she realized this wasn’t personal. The gangsters wanted the information she had, that was all. Oh well, if one gang had heard everything, she might as well talk to the others.

“In that case I need my laptop,” she said with an air of resignation.

“If you will give your key card to my chauffeur, he will go up to your room and collect the computer,” Schmidt said politely.

Irene stopped dead and opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it when she saw the look in his eyes. This was not a thoughtful gesture to save her the trouble of going upstairs; this was a direct order to hand over her key.

With a deliberately exaggerated gesture she took the key card out of her pocket and gave it to the uniformed chauffeur. His face remained impassive as he took it and headed for the elevators. A short while later he returned with her laptop and key card.

Irene shouldn’t have been surprised to find a black limousine waiting for them outside the hotel, but she was. The windows were also black, apart from the windshield and the side window on the driver’s side, which were tinted. It was impossible to see who was in the car. She climbed in with great reluctance. The interior carried the residual aroma of cigarette smoke and perfume left behind by previous passengers. Combined with the smell of the white leather seats, they formed a heavy odor that made Irene feel sick, probably because she was hungry. She was grateful that they were only traveling a short distance along the avenue, otherwise she would definitely have been car sick.

Casino Royal de Tenerife glittered like a magnificent palace, outshining every other building in sight. The artistically arranged lighting made the façade look like a baroque monument rather than the gigantic travesty it actually was. The statues appeared to be made of marble and bronze; they could of course be molded plastic, but it was hard to tell in the artificial light. The babbling waterfall cascading down the wall and into the pool tempted many passersby to stop and admire the lavish sight.

Smartly dressed guests were walking up the broad steps in a steady stream, passing two stony-faced doormen in tuxedos, one at each side of the entrance. This wasn’t the kind of place for shorts and a T-shirt. Which was exactly what Irene was wearing.

Günter Schmidt had noticed her clothing, and said, “I suggest we go in the back way; it’s more discreet.”

They walked toward the side of the building. Irene hadn’t noticed the red and yellow flashing neon sign that covered the entire wall because that part of Casino Royal de Tenerife couldn’t be seen from her hotel. The sign informed everyone in large red letters that there was a club right here called
RED LIGHT DISTRICT DE TENERIFE
, and underneath it proclaimed
STRIPTEASE
and
SEX SHOW
in yellow. Irene realized this was where the little Russian would have ended up working. According to a smaller neon sign in blue, the establishment was open from six in the evening until six in the morning. Even if the guests were greeted by a spectacular stage show, there were probably a number of smaller rooms in the innermost recesses of the club where young women provided sexual services twelve hours a day.

She followed Günter Schmidt up an unprepossessing staircase, wishing she were somewhere else. He keyed a series of numbers into a keypad; the door opened, and they were admitted by a tall well-built guard. He was wearing an earpiece, with a wire leading down to his lapel. No doubt the Saar gang was on full alert.

They continued up another flight of stairs and reached a smooth oak door. Irene recognized a security door when she saw one. Once again Günther Schmidt keyed in a code, and the lock clicked. He opened the door and gestured to Irene to step inside, where another guard was on duty. The room felt very warm and stuffy; Irene noticed that there were no windows.

The décor was light and Scandinavian, with modern furniture in a combination of birch and white leather and a thick pale blue carpet. The walls were covered in rough plaster in the Spanish style. On one wall hung a large portrait of a blonde woman. At first glance Irene thought it was the actress Grace
Kelly, who later became Princess Grace of Monaco, but then she realized that the woman in the picture merely looked very similar to the beautiful American. Irene could just make out a small brass plaque on the frame:
ELISABETH SAAR, B.TANNER, 1953-2002
.