The Beige Man

by Helene Tursten

  A couple in their seventies arrived and sat down beside her; they said hello, but didn’t introduce themselves. As soon as they were settled they both produced sleep masks made of dark blue silk. They were obviously waiting for the plane to take off so that they could recline their seats and go back to sleep, which suited Irene perfectly. She wasn’t in the mood for polite small talk this early in the morning and intended to follow her neighbors’ example, minus the sleep mask.

  A family with three children ended up in the row in front of them. Even before the plane took off everyone knew that the boys were called Lukas, Simon and Natan. Lukas had evidently started school because he kept teasing his brothers about the fact that it was his half-term break. The two younger boys got more and more annoyed with their big brother, who triumphantly proclaimed that little kids shouldn’t really be allowed to go away during the traditional winter sports’ break since they didn’t go to school and therefore didn’t actually have a break. The logic sounded convincing, and the little ones retaliated by starting to punch their brother while yelling at the tops of their voices.

  Their mother was slightly plump with bleached blonde hair, but she had a sweet face. She could have been anywhere between thirty and forty. In spite of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a coat when they boarded the plane, she was already sweating profusely. She had squeezed her generous curves into a sleeveless calf-length denim dress, with a low-cut pink T-shirt underneath. She tried to shut up her offspring, first by pleading with them and then by threatening to revoke certain privileges. There would be no swimming in the pool, no ice cream, no new inflatable toys unless they behaved themselves. Her sons ignored her completely; the noise level became virtually unbearable. Their father was sitting on the other side of the aisle reading the morning paper.

  When the illuminated seat belt sign went off, the children finally settled down. Irene heard a sigh of relief from her neighbors.

  IRENE SPOTTED DETECTIVE Inspector Juan Rejón right away. And she wasn’t the only one. Most of the women in the Arrivals hall—and quite a few men—noticed the police officer holding up a small sign on which someone had written MS. HUSS with a red marker. He seemed unaware of the attention, or perhaps he was just used to it and didn’t care. He stood there with his legs slightly apart, calmly observing the stream of people emerging from customs. The dark blue shirt hugged his muscular upper body. The gold stripes on his shoulders drew the eye. On his head he wore a dark blue cap with a glinting gold badge. As Irene came closer she could make out the letters PN: Policía Nacional. His body language made it clear that he was no ordinary beat cop. She also noticed his face, with its high cheekbones and well-shaped mouth. The cheeks and chin bore the shadow of dark stubble. The eyes were very dark, with long eyelashes and strong eyebrows arching over them. The thick brown hair visible under the cap curled at the back of the neck. Good Lord, was she going to be escorted around the island by some kind of male model? Given his rank he ought to be around thirty, but he looked younger. Inspector Juan Rejón was a very stylish man.

  Irene was smiling as she walked over to him. His face lit up, and he held out his hand. They introduced themselves, and both noticed that she was a few centimeters taller than him. She couldn’t help laughing when she saw the envious looks of the women around them.

  “I’ll drive you to the Golden Sun Club Hotel first; you can have some lunch and a little rest. I’ll pick you up at four,” he said, offering to carry one of her bags.

  She declined politely because both the laptop case over her shoulder and the rucksack on her back were light. He led the way through the automatic glass doors. According to the thermometer inside the terminal the temperature outside was supposed to be twenty-five degrees Celsius. As she walked through the doors, a wave of heat suddenly struck her. She almost gasped for breath. The thirty-degree difference in temperature had hit her hard. It was a little while before she realized there was actually a light breeze ruffling her hair, which was very pleasant. Tall palm trees were growing on the other side of the street; the breeze was stirring the leaves and making them rustle. She suddenly felt more like a tourist than a police officer.

  “What was the temperature in Göteborg when you left?” Inspector Rejón asked, with the hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth.

  He had noticed that his tall colleague from Sweden had stopped dead outside the terminal doors and taken several deep breaths. She had then closed her eyes and instinctively turned her face up to the sun.

  “Minus five. And the slush that had thawed over the past few days froze again overnight,” she said, still with her eyes closed and her face upturned.

  She started fumbling in her jacket pocket, found her sunglasses and put them on. If nothing else, at least they would hide the worst of the bags and dark circles. Once she got to the hotel, she would take a shower and apply the miracle creams.

  Inspector Rejón shook his head. “How can anyone live in such a climate? Terrible! Although it’s lucky for us, of course. All those frozen Scandinavians come here during the winter to find some sunshine and get warm. Not to mention the rest of Northern Europe,” he said, his white teeth flashing in a big smile.

  “As I understand it, that’s part of the reason I’m here. Your chief, de Viera, told my superintendent that he was worried that these murders would damage the tourist industry,” Irene said, keeping her tone casual.

  Inspector Rejón didn’t answer, but simply carried on walking toward the police car parked in a reserved bay marked POLICÍA. Irene glanced at him sideways and saw that his face had stiffened into an inscrutable mask. Had she said something wrong? And if so, what was it?

  He held open the passenger door, then slammed it shut once she was safely inside. Unnecessarily hard, in Irene’s opinion. His reaction could hardly be down to her comment. There was something else behind his behavior; after all, she had only repeated exactly what de Viera had said with regard to the need for her visit. She was determined to find out what was behind Rejón’s sudden change of mood.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes as they left the comparatively bare airport complex. After a while, more palm trees and tall cacti began to appear along the side of the highway.

  “It would be very helpful if you could tell me about the murders. All I know is that three people are dead, killed in some kind of gangland dispute,” she said in a pleasant tone, as if she hadn’t noticed the rapid deterioration in her colleague’s attitude.

  Inspector Rejón had just pulled onto the freeway that led to Los Cristianos and Playa de las Américas, according to the sign. He didn’t say anything for a long time, but eventually he spoke. “There has been a great deal in the press here, of course. As far as we can make out, the whole thing started when Jesus Gomez, who is a gangster and a nightclub owner, began to have financial problems. Among other things, he had invested in a big casino that failed and a hotel that was never finished. We know he was desperate and borrowed a lot of money from different people, including a restaurant and nightclub owner by the name of Lembit Saar. Gomez repaid Saar with a number of … services. Gomez helps girls come over here and work. Illegal girls, if you know what I mean.” He glanced at Irene out of the corner of his eye.

  “Trafficking. The trade in sex slaves,” she said, nodding.

  “Slaves?” He considered the choice of word for a few seconds before he went on. “At any rate, Jesus Gomez was supposed to find two new girls for Lembit Saar. A business arrangement instead of the money Gomez didn’t have. Gomez has employed strippers and lap dancers and waitresses in his club for many years, so he knows people in the industry. We also suspect that he has been involved in narcotics and a whole lot of other stuff. But Saar wanted young blondes to attract clients to his newly opened casino and nightclub. A very exclusive place. It’s in a prime location very close to your hotel. I’ll show you when we get there. Jesus Gomez used an old contact who promised to provide him with two young blondes, but it would be up to Gomez to get them over here fro
m Sweden. Gomez’s right-hand man, Sergei Petrov, would go and fetch them. Petrov is well known to us; he’s been in jail several times. He left here on Thursday, the nineteenth of January, and was due back with the girls the following day. But none of them turned up.”

  No, because one of the girls was seriously ill and then she was murdered, Irene thought. And the other is hovering between life and death in a Swedish hospital. But instead of saying anything, she asked, “Where does Lembit Saar come from?”

  “Estonia. Which is another reason Gomez didn’t like him.” He gave her a meaningful look, then continued. “Last Friday one of Jesus Gomez’s closest associates contacted Lembit Saar. They arranged to meet in a bar outside the main tourist areas. The village is some distance away, up in the mountains. Saar didn’t have time to go and sent two of his most trusted men instead. On the way, their car was forced off the road. One of them escaped with minor injuries, but the other died. There were no witnesses to the incident apart from the man who survived, and he didn’t see anything.”

  Inspector Juan Rejón paused briefly to catch his breath.

  “At midnight the same day, Lembit Saar turned up without warning at Jesus Gomez’s nightclub, Casablanca. According to witnesses, Saar and two of his men went into the office. After a while the witnesses heard a loud argument, followed by several shots. Someone called the police, and when they arrived on the scene they found Jesus Gomez and Saar’s two heavies dead. Shot, of course. Saar himself was seriously hurt, but his injuries weren’t life threatening. He’ll be out of the hospital soon. Needless to say this has made headlines overseas as well: four dead within twenty-four hours! Under normal circumstances Tenerife has very little serious crime to speak of, but when something like this happens …”

  Inspector Rejón shrugged as if to say that it would have been impossible to avoid the publicity.

  The police car whizzed along the road, which was steadily descending. The countryside was beautiful, with steep, crumbling hillsides on the right-hand side. They were covered with creeping vegetation, clinging to the rock. Colorful flowers of many different varieties bloomed everywhere, but Irene had no idea what they were called. Newly built houses with a fantastic view of the sea lined the other side of the road. Irene was wearing her pale blue T-shirt and her deck shoes with no socks; she felt like a tourist, in spite of the fact that she and Inspector Rejón were talking about four murders.

  They were approaching a built-up area, and there was more traffic. They drove past the sign for Los Cristianos and carried on toward Playa de las Américas.

  “Ballistic tests show that Saar and his bodyguards were shot with Jesus Gomez’s .357 Magnum Smith and Wesson 340PD, which was found next to Gomez in the room. Gomez was a skilled marksman, and the revolver is a highly accurate weapon, particularly at such close quarters. Saar survived due to the fact that Gomez had probably already been hit and didn’t have time to take aim properly. The bullet entered at the side of the abdomen, but didn’t damage any vital organs. Gomez was hit by two shots, one from each of the bodyguards’ P226 Sig Sauer,” Rejón said.

  The gangsters on Tenerife aren’t exactly using peashooters, Irene thought.

  After a while Rejón said matter-of-factly, “The current situation is that we are right in the middle of a blood vendetta. At the same time, everyone has been wondering why Sergei Petrov disappeared with the two girls. And then we get an inquiry from a superintendent in Göteborg, asking whether the Policía Nacional has any information about Sergei in connection with Tenerife and the sex trade. De Viera literally exploded! I saw it myself. I was there when he got the fax.”

  He smiled at the memory without taking his eyes off the road and the stream of traffic. Irene merely nodded, without asking any questions. She felt like Rejón had more on his mind.

  “There’s one thing I think you ought to know—de Viera is a blood relation to Jesus Gomez. He has always protected Gomez. And vice versa.”

  It took a few seconds before Irene grasped the implications of what Rejón had said. So that was why Miguel de Viera had been so stubborn, refusing to give up until the police in Göteborg had agreed to send over an investigator. This wasn’t just an ordinary homicide case; this was first and foremost a matter of the chief of police saving his own skin. And in spite of Irene’s limited knowledge of vendettas in Southern Europe, she realized that it could ultimately cost him his life. If he had protected Jesus Gomez, who was now dead, he could well be the next target.

  “So this isn’t about tourism, which is what he told my boss. He wants to put a stop to any further escalation of the violence between the Gomez and Saar gangs. His last chance is to find out the truth about what happened in Sweden,” Irene said.

  “Yes.”

  “He must be pretty desperate.”

  Inspector Rejón nodded. The fleeting expression that crossed his handsome face told Irene that she had just delivered the understatement of the year.

  Inspector Rejón parked outside the flamboyant entrance of the Golden Sun Club Hotel. When they stepped out of the car, he pointed diagonally across the wide avenue. “Over there is Lembit Saar’s newly opened casino and nightclub, Casino Royal de Tenerife. It’s the biggest and most exclusive club on the island,” he said.

  Irene could see the façade of the casino between the palms lining both sides of the avenue. It looked like a palace, which was no doubt the intention. Replicas of classical Greek statues adorned the wide steps leading up to the entrance. The building itself was made of golden yellow sandstone, shimmering in the bright sunshine. On one wall a little waterfall tumbled between bronze statues representing sea gods and mythical sea monsters. The splash as the water cascaded freely into a pool at the bottom could be heard all the way to the hotel where Irene was standing.

  “So tacky,” as her beloved father-in-law from Säffle would have said.

  It would surely be easy to find women who would be happy to work in such an extravagant establishment. Why had Saar asked Gomez for two girls through the sex trafficking channel? Irene thought she knew the answer: he hadn’t been looking for ordinary girls. What he had wanted, what he had demanded, were two young blonde sex slaves.

  Inspector Rejón accompanied her into the elegant hotel lobby. He spoke to the female receptionist in rapid Spanish; he evidently wanted to make sure that Irene was properly checked in. The young woman handed Irene a small envelope containing the key card; the room number was written on the outside in green ink.

  “Room three twelve. I hope you enjoy your stay with us,” she recited in a monotone, unable to take her eyes off Juan Rejón.

  He seemed oblivious to the receptionist’s doe-eyed attentions and turned his back on her to speak to Irene.

  “I’ll pick you up at four o’clock on the dot,” he said, firing off a smile that would have floored the receptionist behind him if she had been able to see it.

  Irene nodded and headed for the elevator, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking faintly on the polished pale-grey marble floor. Huge white lilies arranged in tall red glass vases filled the air with a wonderful perfume. Next to the elevator a sign indicated the way to the pool bar and restaurant, which was where Irene intended to go as soon as she had dumped her bags in her room. Lunch on the plane had been a joke. The wrapped baguette she had bought at the airport had been a godsend, but now she was ravenous.

  The room was large and airy, with grey-blue and white as the dominant colors. The pale-grey tiled floor felt pleasantly cool beneath her bare feet. One wall consisted entirely of glass sliding doors, leading out onto a generous balcony. She had a view of the leafy garden and the bathing area; there were two large pools and a children’s pool, arranged like a clover leaf with the bar in the middle. Irene could see people eating at small tables. Most of them were dressed in swimwear, and there were large glasses of beer in front of several diners. Suddenly Irene realized how dry her mouth was. An ice-cold beer was exactly what she needed.

  She made an instant decision, then got
undressed and took a quick shower before applying plenty of sun lotion and putting on her bikini. She slipped her pale blue T-shirt and shorts over the top. She grabbed a white towel from the bathroom and put it in her rucksack, and slid her feet into her sandals. A quick glance at the time told her that she had exactly two hours for lunch and a swim before Juan Rejón came to pick her up.

  Chapter 16

  THE TOMATO SALAD with a chicken kebab had tasted delicious. The fried potato wedges and a large glass of beer had significantly raised the GI-index of the meal, but what the hell; it wasn’t every day that she had lunch by a pool, wearing nothing but a bikini. And it was definitely a special occasion at the beginning of February.

  Irene’s rucksack occupied the chair beside her, her clothes neatly folded on top. The swim could wait; there were too many people in the pool. She ordered dessert: three scoops of differently flavored ice creams, along with a double espresso. When the ice cream dish and the coffee cup were empty, she leaned back on the plastic chair and observed the lively activity around the pool.

  It was clear that the school vacation had begun in Sweden. Several of the children jumping up and down in the water were yelling at each other in Swedish. Irene was a little taken aback to see Lukas and Simon come hurtling along, each with an inflatable ring around their tummies. To be on the safe side, Simon was also kitted out with inflatable armbands. In their wake came their parents, pulling Natan along in a little cart. He was fast asleep. His mother was wearing black bikini bottoms and a low-cut top that generously exposed the deep cleft between her heavy breasts. His father wore only swimming trunks in a hallucinogenic tropical pattern of apricot and pea-green. Irene couldn’t help smiling to herself as she pictured what Krister’s face would look like if she were to present him with something similar.