The Beige Man (26 page)

A man had folded his gangly frame into one of the compact armchairs, and there was a woman standing beside him who Irene recognized. According to the newspaper headline, Inspector Juan Rejón was this young woman’s new boyfriend.

The man in the armchair was about thirty years old. His white linen pants suggested that he had an expensive tailor. He was the Scandinavian type of man whose hair begins to thin at an early age; it was quite sparse, and had already begun to recede significantly at the temples. His features were finely drawn, dominated by an aristocratic aquiline nose. His sharp eyes were the same color as the carpet. He got to his feet as Irene walked in with her escort. An almost imperceptible smile played around his lips as he held out his hand.

“I do apologize for taking up yet more of your time. Unfortunately we had no alternative but to ask you to come here to share the information the Swedish police have acquired,” he said politely. He inclined his head. “My name is Nicholas Saar, and this is my sister, Julia.”

He gestured toward the young woman, who didn’t even bother looking at Irene. She took a long, thin cigarette out of her spectacular white handbag and lit it with a small gold lighter.

“Please don’t smoke in here, Julia!” her brother said sharply.

She gave him a dirty look with her sapphire-blue eyes, but stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table.

“We’re having problems with the air-conditioning. Thank God it’s only the offices that are affected; the casino and the clubs are fine,” Nicholas Saar said apologetically.

Irene stood there awkwardly with her laptop case hanging
over one shoulder. She noticed that she was pressing it hard against the side of her body, as if it would give her strength.

“As you can see we have already made preparations for your presentation, and the projector is all set up. However, you must be hungry after your long session with Miguel de Viera. He isn’t exactly known for his generosity or hospitality. Any funding available for that kind of thing disappears into his own pocket,” Saar went on in a casual tone of voice, as if he really were chatting to an invited guest.

There might well have been a certain amount of truth in his comment, at least judging by the reception Irene had been given by the chief of police. With the best will in the world, it couldn’t be described as hospitable.

Irene was still standing there in silence, allowing Nicholas Saar to dominate the conversation, which seemed to suit him perfectly. His English pronunciation was impeccable and could have belonged to an upper-class character in a BBC television series. English boarding school, Irene thought.

“What would you like to eat?” Nicholas asked.

Irene’s appetite had disappeared. However, she was aware of the headache that was starting to make its presence felt just behind her forehead. She needed to get something inside her.

“I’d like a cold bottle of Carlsberg, a large glass of iced water and a cheese sandwich.”

She deliberately refrained from saying “please” or “thank you.” She didn’t think she was under any obligation to do so since she had practically been abducted. She had expected to be sitting by the pool at her hotel now, enjoying a delicious hot meal, but she had no desire to have dinner in front of present company. She could drink beer and eat a sandwich while running through the key points of the investigation.

Nicholas Saar raised one eyebrow ironically when she had placed her order, then nodded without further comment. He said something in Spanish to the guard, who immediately went
over to the internal telephone on the wall by the door. A few brief words and everyone looked satisfied.

Irene plugged her laptop into the projector and adjusted the focus. The first picture on the white wall showed the outside of the root cellar where the little Russian had been found. Irene felt as if it had happened in another life, several years ago. She was astonished to realize that only three and a half weeks had passed since then.

The sound of discreet tapping came from the door; Irene heard four rapid knocks, followed by two more with a pause of a second or so in between. The guard didn’t move until the signal was repeated. The gang members were nervous, bordering on paranoid. There were guards on both the inside and the outside of the building. There were keypads on every door. Who would be able to gain access to this fortress?

A waiter.

First of all he shot the guard between the eyes. In spite of the shock as the report from the revolver filled the room, Irene had just enough time to see Nicholas Saar’s gangly body being hurled backward. At the same moment she felt a violent blow against her shoulder. She threw herself on the floor and rolled under the table, thanking her lucky stars it wasn’t made of glass. Logic told her that the killer was after the Saar gang, not her, but the voice of reason grew fainter and fainter as she lay there defenseless on the floor. Fear sent the adrenaline surging as the sound of repeated shots hammered against her eardrums.

She could see Nicholas Saar’s motionless body from her position under the table; a dark patch of blood was quickly spreading across his dazzling white shirt. His sister jerked and spun around in a half circle before collapsing beside him. Shots echoed around the room, and the whole thing became a confused tangle of gunpowder smoke and dust.

The walls closed in and began to spin around, faster and faster. Her field of vision shrank until she was looking down a
tunnel. It was like staring into the wrong end of a telescope. At the end of the tunnel she could see the motionless bodies of Nicholas and Julia Saar.

Then everything went black.

S
OMEONE WAS TALKING
. Or whispering.

“Señora Huss? Señora Huss?”

This was followed by a lengthy torrent of words, of which she understood not one. Irene felt a strong desire not to wake up. There would be nothing but trouble. She decided not to open her eyes. Staying in the dark was the safest thing to do.

She heard rapid footsteps walking away. Cautiously she raised one eyelid, just a fraction. A snow-covered field. She was so surprised that she blinked several times. The snow-covered field was still there, but somewhere deep inside her befuddled brain she began to realize that she was looking up at a white ceiling. And that she was lying in a bed.

Her left hand hurt. Slowly she raised it in the air. It was a while before she managed to focus. A big needle. Taped to the back of her hand. That was what was hurting. Her hand felt cold and swollen. There was a drip stand next to the bed. A half-full plastic bag containing clear fluid hung on the stand. A tube connected the plastic bag to the needle in her hand. She was on a drip.

Therefore, she must be in a hospital.

“Señora Huss? Cómo está usted?”

She must still be asleep and dreaming. Having a nightmare. Because she recognized the voice; it belonged to Chief of Police Miguel de Viera.

Suddenly the curtains in her mind were brutally ripped
apart and the images came surging forward: the hours at police HQ, the men who had come to her hotel, the guards, the keypads, the windowless room. The shots. She remembered the shots and the gunpowder smoke.

De Viera’s puffy red face suddenly came into view. A woman’s face appeared beside him, and she said something to him. He was obviously trying to protest, but she pushed him away, gently but firmly. Well done, girl, get him out of my room, Irene thought before she lost consciousness once more.

“T
HE CHIEF OF
Police was wondering if you might be well enough to answer a few questions.”

Josephine Baxter had been brought in again to assist de Viera. She was wearing a kind of mustard yellow suit that completely drained her already colorless complexion. Under the jacket was a pale grey-green sweater, which completed the disaster. The woman looked like the very personification of seasickness.

“Of course. No problem,” Irene replied.

She was propped up in bed with pillows behind her back. The morning sun was shining in through the Venetian blinds. Beside her on the bedside table was her breakfast tray. She had managed two sandwiches and two cups of coffee. The drip had been removed, and she was gradually beginning to feel human again, although her hand still ached from the intravenous. It was just before eight o’clock on Saturday morning; her second day in Tenerife had begun.

Apart from the interpreter and de Viera, there were two more colleagues from Policía Nacional in the room. She recognized them from her second briefing the previous evening, but she couldn’t remember their names. The three officers took turns asking questions, and Irene answered as best she could. She noticed that de Viera asked for a description of the killer several times. Irene told the truth: she never saw him properly.
She had been busy with her laptop and the projector. The table had been at the opposite end of the room from the door. Because of her position, she couldn’t be seen from the doorway. The only thing she remembered was that the hand holding the heavy revolver had been perfectly steady, and that the arm appeared to be in the sleeve of a white waiter’s jacket.

As the interview was coming to an end, Irene took the opportunity to ask her colleagues how they had managed to gain access to the hermetically sealed room and what had happened to the others who had been there.

De Viera explained and Ms. Baxter translated. All those who had a key to the locked security door had been on the inside, which was a problem until one of the head waiters remembered that Lembit Saar was still in the hospital. The police had been called, and the officer in charge contacted the hospital. Lembit Saar had a key, of course, and he also gave them the code for the lock. It was necessary to have both in order to open it from the outside.

Less than half an hour after the shooting, the police managed to get into the room. Fortunately the door opened outward, because a guard was lying dead just inside. To make a long story short, Irene and Arvo Piirsalou were the only people in the room who had escaped with their lives intact. After some confusion Irene realized that the chauffeur actually had a name. It seemed he was also from Estonia.

It had been an upsetting stay in the holiday paradise of Tenerife to say the least. All she wanted to do now was go home.

Before her colleagues left, they returned her laptop. They didn’t need it. De Viera had copies of all the case notes, Irene thought. She tactfully refrained from pointing this out, and merely thanked them politely.

A
N HOUR LATER
she left the hospital in a cab. The doctor had told her to take it easy before the journey home the
following day, and reminded her to drink lots of water. The bullet wound to her shoulder was superficial and would heal within a week. Her loss of consciousness had been due to a combination of shock and severe dehydration. They had given her a sedative when she was brought in after the drama, which was why she had felt so drowsy and confused during the morning.

Two liters of fluid and a good night’s sleep had worked wonders. She felt wide awake when she got back to her hotel room. Almost exactly thirteen hours ago she had walked in through that same door and gone straight to the bathroom.

She stood in the shower for a long time, letting the water cascade over her body. She soaped herself over and over again with the hotel shower gel, then rinsed away the scented bubbles. She didn’t feel clean however hard she scrubbed.

Her thoughts kept returning to scenes from the locked room in the casino. With a huge effort of willpower she decided this was her last shower for now. It was time to move on.

She applied sun lotion all over her body, then put on her bikini and a thin camisole. The shorts from the previous evening were stained with blood and dirt. Disgusted, she threw them in the waste bin, along with the fine sweater she had been wearing. Now she only had one clean T-shirt left. She would save that for the journey home. The bikini and the thin top would have to do; she had no intention of leaving the hotel. She slipped her money, cell phone and sunglasses into her rucksack and went down to the pool.

There was a small kiosk where you could borrow a beach towel if you gave your hotel room number. Irene spread the soft thick fabric over one of the last vacant sun loungers and got out the paperback she had brought with her. Jenny had bought it in an antiquarian bookshop and given it to her for Christmas. It was an Ed McBain detective novel:
Give the Boys a Great Big Hand
. Irene had asked for books in English because she wanted
to improve her knowledge of the language. She had also brought with her a thick bilingual pocket dictionary.

Several guests were already sitting around the pool having lunch. She was beginning to feel hungry, and took that as a positive sign. It was definitely time for something to eat. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since her last hot meal.

S
HE LAY IN
the sun trying to read her book as she digested her lunch, but she found it difficult to concentrate. She kept thinking about everything that had happened. Irene began to feel restless, so she decided to take a walk along the esplanade. On the map it looked around fifteen kilometers long; it followed the coastline from the ferry port in Los Cristianos, past Playa de Fañabé and up to the small village of La Caleta. Since Irene’s hotel lay almost exactly in the middle, she decided to head north toward La Caleta. She quickly gathered up her things and pushed them into her rucksack, leaving the towel behind to save her place. At least she had learned something from her two package trips to Crete: it was probably a good idea to keep the sun lounger in case she felt like a dip in the pool and a rest after her walk.

T
HE WIDE ESPLANADE
was bursting with life and color. People of various nationalities wandered happily among the stalls, trying to avoid the restaurants touting loudly for business. The outdoor seating areas were all full. Irene wasn’t hungry, but decided to have a cold beer a little later. After all, the doctor had told her to drink plenty. Although he had specified water.