The Beige Man

by Helene Tursten

  Irene detected more than a hint of flattery, but there was some truth in what he said. She had traveled to Copenhagen, London and Paris in the line of duty, and in each city she had worked with the local police. Not always with great success, admittedly, but at least it had given her a skill set her colleagues in the department lacked. And for the most part she had found it both productive and interesting.

  “Hannu can’t go because of the situation with Birgitta. And we need Tommy to carry on looking for Torleif’s killers. That knocks out Jonny, too, and that new guy … Jonathan.”

  “Jesper,” Irene corrected him.

  “That new guy Jesper. And Fredrik is trying to track down Anders Pettersson. I don’t know how we lost him! We need to find the bastard.”

  Andersson paused for breath, then went on. “Which leaves you. You’re looking into the girl’s death on your own now that Birgitta isn’t here, so I think it would be a wise move to go down to Tenerife. Plenty of people will be green with envy when they hear you’ve headed south to the sunshine.”

  “Right. Two days’ traveling, one after the other. I’ll get to spend around twelve hours on the island,” Irene protested.

  As she spoke she looked over at the window. The sleet was lashing against the glass, leaving wet snail trails as it slid down toward the sill. The temperature was just above freezing, and the wind was howling. Perhaps a day or two somewhere warm wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. Although she had no intention of letting Andersson know what she was thinking. And then there was the problem of the ski trip to Sunne.

  “Okay then. Although I really don’t have time,” she said with a theatrical sigh.

  Andersson’s face lit up. “Terrific! You can go tomorrow, or the day after at the latest. I’ll let you contact the Spaniards yourself to tell them the good news,” he said with a smile, handing her a crumpled scrap of paper. He was reaching for the phone before she got to the door. He wanted to be the one to inform the Acting Chief of Police that a Detective Inspector was already on the way to support the Policía Nacional in their complex investigation.

  LINDA HOLM WAS right: Miguel de Viera did indeed speak English poorly. He didn’t seem particularly thrilled at the prospect of meeting a female colleague from Sweden. Irene thought she had heard him sigh: “Only women policía?”

  After a few minutes they had reached a state of complete mutual confusion, and Irene was beginning to feel quite exhausted. She gave a start when de Viera suddenly yelled into the phone. It took a few bewildering seconds before she realized that he wasn’t shouting at her, but at someone in his office. He dropped the receiver with a thud, and she could hear him gibbering agitatedly. After a while the receiver was picked up again, and a calm male voice said, “Detective Inspector Juan Rejón speaking.”

  Irene explained who she was, and that she was intending to come to Tenerife at his colleague’s request either the next day or on Friday.

  “Excellent. In that case we will book your tickets and accommodation.”

  He spoke good English with a noticeable Spanish accent. Since Irene’s own English was only serviceable, she was very relieved when he went on.

  “I will contact you again, Inspector Huss, when I have found out the flight times. And I will pick you up at the airport.”

  “Thank you very much,” Irene said with heartfelt gratitude. She was very happy to avoid dealing with all the practical aspects of her journey since she had a lot of other things to sort out before she left.

  “We are the ones who should be thanking you, Inspector. We are very grateful that you have agreed to come to Tenerife. Our situation is … desperate.”

  He uttered the final word with a certain amount of hesitation, but Irene had no doubt that he was speaking the truth. If they hadn’t been desperate, they would hardly have requested the assistance of a colleague from the distant frozen North. And they were paying for everything without so much as a murmur.

  INSPECTOR JUAN REJÓN called back just as Irene was about to go home for the day. He explained that there were no seats available on flights to Tenerife the following day, and that every flight to Göteborg from Tenerife on the Saturday was also full. He therefore hoped that Inspector Huss would not object to staying for two nights. She would be leaving from Landvetter at 7:15 on Friday morning, returning at 1:00 P.M. on Sunday. As her ski trip was ruined anyway, Irene was quite happy at the thought of an extra day in the sun. A room had been booked at the Golden Sun Club Hotel. Rejón had commented somewhat cryptically that this was a strategic choice of hotel, but Irene didn’t want to ask him what he meant.

  Chapter 14

  THE FAMILY’S REACTION to the news of Irene’s weekend trip to the Canaries could best be described as a resigned acceptance. They were used to the fact that she often had to work overtime, including weekends when she should have been free. Krister had struggled to hide his disappointment. He had a long weekend off work every five weeks, and he had been looking forward to a trip to the cottage in Värmland to go skiing and snowboarding. However, his mood lightened when Katarina said firmly that they ought to go anyway. Felipe could take Irene’s place. Before Felipe met Katarina he had never been anywhere near a ski slope, but they had been up to Ski Sunne several times the previous winter. Thanks to his training as a dancer his balance was good, and he had quickly learned to master the snowboard. These days he was an enthusiastic practitioner.

  Irene couldn’t help the fleeting thought that passed through her mind: she was dispensable within her family. Resolutely she pushed the foolish thought aside. She was being replaced by Felipe purely because of her work.

  “TWO DAYS! I don’t begrudge you a single hour!”

  Tommy smiled as he spoke, but the little sigh that escaped him gave away the truth. He would have loved to doze off on a plane flying south to the sun on Friday morning. The discussions with their Spanish colleagues could be dealt with that afternoon, leaving Saturday free to spend by the pool. Irene was thinking along much the same lines.

  Jonny merely glared at her, then said, “You’re going? Haven’t those poor Spaniards got enough problems already?” He wasn’t smiling as he spoke.

  They were all in the conference room waiting for Hannu. He had called on his cell from a traffic jam outside Lerum. One section of the freeway was flooded, and the traffic had been diverted along a series of smaller roads. He was going to be at least thirty minutes late.

  Irene had finished her reports and scanned all the relevant pictures into her laptop. To be on the safe side she had also made hard copies of everything, just in case the technology let her down. That had happened all too often in the past.

  When Hannu arrived he seemed perfectly normal at first glance. He sat down opposite Irene, which gave her the opportunity to take a closer look at him. His ash-blond hair had been cut fairly recently, and he was wearing jeans and a sweater as always. But when Irene happened to meet his gaze, she felt very uneasy. The blue eyes were bloodshot and did not reflect his usual serenity. Had he been crying? He certainly didn’t look as if he’d slept much. Irene had never noticed any lines on his face before, but now they were clearly visible in the harsh fluorescent light. Admittedly that particular light didn’t flatter anyone, but Hannu looked unusually worn out and whey-faced.

  Irene got to her feet and said, “I’ll get you a coffee. I need a top-off anyway.”

  Hannu nodded gratefully at her.

  “Coffee: Irene’s universal panacea,” Tommy said, smiling warmly at Hannu.

  He, too, had realized that something wasn’t right. They had worked with Hannu for many years now, and they knew him well by this stage. Or at least as well as Hannu allowed any of his colleagues to get to know him. Something was definitely wrong. Did it have to do with Birgitta? Irene felt a vague anxiety begin to churn away in her stomach as she hurried off to the coffee machine. She realized how worried she was when she couldn’t remember whether or not Hannu took milk. Everyone in the department knew how everyone else liked
their coffee. She took a chance and pressed the MILK button.

  “Thanks. I don’t mind it with milk.”

  Hannu gave her a wan smile. Damn! It was Birgitta who usually took milk. Irene offered to swap with him, but he refused.

  “I’ll top it off with black in a minute,” he said.

  He took a deep swig of his coffee, unconsciously pulling a face before putting the cup down.

  “First of all I need to tell you that Birgitta … that we … lost the baby last night,” he said, his voice trembling.

  Nobody knew what to say. The room went very quiet. Superintendent Andersson cleared his throat and made a few uncoordinated movements with his mouth as if he was working up to saying something, but no audible sounds emerged.

  It was Hannu himself who went on. “Birgitta isn’t feeling too bad, under the circumstances, but her blood pressure is still high. She won’t be back at work until it comes down.”

  Blood pressure still high? Irene couldn’t remember Birgitta mentioning high blood pressure. On the contrary, she had seemed so happy and full of confidence. The only consolation was that the pregnancy hadn’t been very far along; Irene assumed that would make it slightly easier for Birgitta to recover, both physically and mentally. And no doubt she and Hannu would soon have a new sibling for little Timo.

  Hannu knocked back the remaining contents of his coffee cup in one gulp. “I picked up the autopsy report on Torleif Sandberg yesterday,” he said.

  He was speaking in his usual calm tone, and his colleagues immediately relaxed. That half-strangled voice with its underlying black despair had made them uneasy. Grief is difficult to handle if it comes too close. It’s always easier if a professional distance can be maintained.

  “The skull was shattered. Death was instantaneous. Extensive injuries to the rest of the body. The aorta was severed and he bled to death very quickly. Professor Stridner sees nothing unusual in the injuries; they are exactly as she would have expected. However, she did make a number of other discoveries.”

  He glanced up from the document he had placed in front of him on the table. When no one showed any sign of wanting to speak, he looked down again and continued. “She pointed out that he was wearing very insubstantial clothing, given that the temperature was minus fifteen when he went out for a run. Nothing on his head. No mittens or gloves. No thermal pants. Ordinary sneakers and short sports socks. Short-sleeved T-shirt and underpants and an ordinary track suit. Admittedly it was a lined police-issue tracksuit in cotton poplin, but people usually wear those when it’s several degrees above freezing. They’re not particularly warm.”

  No gloves. It was the image from the scene of the accident that had flickered through Irene’s subconscious: the severed hand lying on the pavement, with no glove or mitten on it.

  “So he was dressed for a run in a temperature of five degrees above zero or higher,” Fredrik concluded.

  “Exactly. Stridner thought that was worth noting, particularly as he was showing signs of damage due to frostbite in several parts of his body: fingers, toes, cheeks, nose, ears and chin. According to Stridner, he must have been out in the cold for at least an hour in order to have sustained such extensive damage.”

  “Frostbite? So why the hell wasn’t he dressed properly? Torleif has been going out running in all weather for at least forty years!” Andersson was clearly finding it difficult to control his indignation.

  “He was an outstanding member of the police orienteering team for many years. He had lots of prizes in his cabinet,” Irene said.

  “How do you know that?” Andersson said suspiciously.

  Since Andersson wasn’t supposed to know about the unofficial visit she and Hannu had made to Torleif’s apartment, she said glibly, “Stefan mentioned it. His adoptive son.”

  “I know who he is,” the superintendent snapped. He still found it difficult to deal with the thought that Torleif had lied to his face about being the boy’s father. Perhaps Torleif had been too embarrassed to tell his colleagues he was marrying a woman who was carrying another man’s child. But then it was never easy to understand what motivated other people. That was something Irene had learned during her years as a police officer.

  “Why would someone who obviously knew better go out in such cold weather dressed like that? And why did he run so far? He must have gone a long way if he was out for at least an hour. And why did he go out so late at night? I mean, it was pitch dark,” Tommy said, rattling out a barrage of both questions and answers.

  “Could he have been a bit gaga?” Jonny suggested.

  “Possibly, but there’s nothing to indicate that,” Hannu replied.

  Irene thought about the clean, tidy apartment. The décor might have been dull and old-fashioned, but everything had been in perfect order. Spotless. It hadn’t looked as if a person with dementia had been living there. Torleif Sandberg had been sixty-four years old when he died, and she knew that it was relatively rare for dementia to strike at such an early age. Although she had wondered about herself occasionally. Only last week she had put the milk away in the microwave; she had found it there the following morning. She had simply poured it down the sink without telling anyone else in the family. But it had given her pause.

  “Could it be connected to the stolen car?” Fredrik said.

  “In what way?” Andersson said.

  Fredrik thought for a moment before outlining his theory. “If he happened to look out the window and saw someone stealing his car, perhaps he rushed outside in what he happened to be wearing. He probably wouldn’t have given a thought to how cold it was. By the time he got outside, the thief had already started the car and was driving off. Torleif ran after him—Irene says he was fast. And then … what happened next? Maybe he got lost?” Fredrik looked around, hoping to find support among his colleagues.

  “Lost? I hardly think so,” Andersson said. “He’d lived in the area for at least twenty-five years, and went running around there virtually every day.”

  “And he couldn’t have seen the car being stolen. His apartment doesn’t have a window overlooking the street where it was parked,” Hannu pointed out.

  Irene was thinking the same thing. The entrance to Torleif’s apartment was at the far side of the building, while his car had been parked at the opposite end. There was no chance that he could have seen the car from his windows.

  “So then why was he outside dressed like that when it was so cold?” Tommy repeated.

  It was difficult to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why Torleif had been out in the cold for at least an hour. No experienced runner exposes himself to the dangers of temperatures well below freezing. The risk of damage to muscles and tendons increases significantly in the cold, particularly for older people, which is why runners usually prefer to wear too much rather than too little. It’s easier to remove an item of clothing if you get too hot than to try to run faster when you start to stiffen up.

  “What about the toxicology?” Irene asked.

  “No trace of narcotics or pharmaceutical drugs,” Hannu confirmed.

  “That would have been all we needed,” Andersson muttered to himself. He was drumming his fingers on the table, looking pensive. “Tommy, can you give us a summary of where we are in the investigation? We might come up with something while we’re listening to you,” he said eventually.

  “Okay. So to begin with we have Torleif, who—according to the witnesses waiting at the tram stop—comes running along at high speed past the entrance of the TV studios. Without showing any sign of slowing down or looking around, he runs straight out into Delsjövägen. At that point a BMW comes racing up the road, driven by a car thief with his pal sitting next to him in the passenger seat. The stolen car is being followed by a patrol car at a distance of approximately 150 meters. The cops see the stolen car hit someone; the body is thrown up in the air. They stop and call an ambulance. The witnesses see the BMW, with a shattered windshield, turn onto Töpelsgatan and disappear up the hill. When�
��”

  Andersson waved his hands and interrupted Tommy. “Stop! We know exactly what happened after Torleif was run down. The problem is that we have no idea what happened before! Why the hell was he out running in the dark and the cold? The more I think about it, the less sense it makes.”

  Everyone in the room agreed with him. No one had a decent theory—not after Fredrik’s had gone down in flames.

  “The question is whether we need to look into why he was out running. Maybe he’d just misjudged how far he was going to go. Or maybe he just took out the trash, then spotted something and set off,” Tommy said.

  “He was on his way home,” Irene pointed out quietly.

  “What? How the hell do you know that?” Andersson demanded.

  “He was running straight across Delsjövägen, toward Anders Zornsgatan where he lived. Which means it’s likely that he ran across the street in the opposite direction earlier in the evening. Where had he been in the period in between? Did he spend an hour running along marked tracks? Or was he indoors somewhere? If so, where?”

  “Perhaps he was in a car,” Fredrik suggested.

  “Possibly. There’s a big parking lot outside the TV studios,” Irene said.

  “The frostbite damage,” Hannu reminded her.

  “That proves he was outdoors,” Tommy said. “Not in a car. And even if he was only going to the parking lot at the TV studios, surely he would have put on a jacket at least. It’s still a few hundred meters from his apartment, and it really was freezing.”

  “Perhaps he ran there,” Fredrik tried again.

  “Or maybe he was running around looking for his missing car,” Jonny said.

  “This is getting us nowhere. And the important thing isn’t whatever the hell Torleif was doing before he was run down. The important thing is to catch the bastards who killed him!” Andersson said.