The Beige Man

by Helene Tursten

  She looked at her watch and realized it was time to head back to her room to get ready for her meeting with de Viera. She still wasn’t sure of his correct title. Was he the chief of police for the whole of Tenerife, or just Playa de las Américas? Or was he the equivalent of a superintendent?

  “WHAT IS DE Viera’s actual rank?” Irene asked Inspector Rejón.

  “He’s the head of the Policía Nacional in Playa de las Américas and Los Cristianos. It’s not very big in geographical terms, but this is where most of the tourists are, which means that he has a very important area of responsibility.”

  They chatted easily during the short trip to the police station, a large two-story limestone building not far from the freeway exit ramp. It was obviously old, but well maintained. The blue emblem of the Policía Nacional was displayed above the entrance. The entire place, including the large paved yard at the front, was surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence. They drove in through the open gates, which were made of heavy wrought iron, and parked in the shade of a large palm tree.

  Inspector Rejón tapped a series of numbers into the keypad next to the sturdy oak door. A click revealed that it was unlocked. He pushed the heavy door and politely held it open for Irene, who jokingly saluted him as she walked past. The entrance hall was cool and completely deserted. Their footsteps echoed between the bare, pale grey walls. In spite of the fact that Irene was wearing her sandals, it sounded as if she were tap dancing across the floor.

  They went up a worn limestone staircase and along a dark corridor with several closed doors. There was a strong smell of wax polish and detergent. Fat, iridescent bluebottles buzzed lazily in the windows. Juan Rejón stopped outside the only set of double doors in the corridor and knocked. A few words in Spanish came from inside the room; Inspector Rejón opened the door and held it for Irene.

  Chief of Police Miguel de Viera got to his feet with some difficulty on the far side of the polished conference table and waited for Irene and Rejón to come to him. He was in uniform and looked exactly as Irene had imagined: just like Superintendent Andersson, but shorter. De Viera was probably a few years younger than his counterpart in the north, but otherwise they were very much alike: overweight, with thinning hair and high color. The latter could be due to the temperature in the room; an air-conditioning unit protruded from the wall, rattling like a threshing machine.

  The entire over-furnished room gave Irene the feeling that a point was being made. It was hardly likely to be an office, not even for a Spanish chief of police who should at least have a computer on his desk. The only modern thing in this room was an ordinary black push-button telephone in the middle of the table.

  Inspector Rejón introduced Irene to de Viera, who gave her a charming smile, revealing nicotine-stained teeth, and said a few words in Spanish. Irene didn’t understand a thing, so she simply murmured in agreement. With an extravagant gesture, de Viera indicated that she should sit down on one of the carved chairs along the wall. The old leather creaked ominously as she complied. The chief of police then signaled to Inspector Rejón that he wished to speak to him out in the corridor. In his left hand, de Viera was holding a rolled-up newspaper, which he had been clutching when Irene and Rejón came into the room.

  Irene felt a little foolish, perched on the edge of the chair with her laptop case balanced on her knee. It was almost like sitting in an empty waiting room before an unpleasant procedure. And there were no old gossip magazines to read.

  What happened next made her forget such thoughts.

  Through the door came the sound of an increasingly heated exchange of words, which soon turned into a full-blown argument. The main protagonist appeared to be de Viera, whose hoarse barking dominated the quarrel. He really was incensed with poor Rejón, who spoke up for himself as best he could when de Viera paused to catch his breath. The respite lasted only a few seconds, and soon the chief of police was sounding off once more. Irene didn’t need to understand a word of Spanish to realize that Rejón was in deep shit.

  Suddenly there was silence outside the door. They’re throttling each other, Irene thought. She slid forward a fraction on her chair so she could leap up and save her colleague. Although she wasn’t sure which one, she had to admit.

  Before she had to make a decision, the door flew open and de Viera came barreling in as fast as his bulk would allow. His face was even more purple than before. A small, anemic-looking middle-aged woman came bobbing along in his wake. She looked around the room with big eyes, and Irene realized this was the first time she had ever been in there. Eventually her gaze settled on Irene. The brown eyes were the only element of color in her entire appearance. She looked like an ancient, faded sepia photograph.

  De Viera slapped the highly polished surface of the table with the newspaper as he growled, “She habla ingles.”

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the pale woman, who nodded mutely at Irene. She evidently had no name, or at least not one that was worth mentioning.

  “Should we wait for Inspector Rejón?” Irene dared to ask.

  She was trying to look as if she hadn’t heard the row in the corridor. De Viera glared at her before answering curtly in Spanish. Irene looked inquiringly at the interpreter, who translated what the chief of police had said, her voice shaking: “Inspector Rejón has been removed from the case. His position was … compromised.”

  Her voice was barely audible in the large room, but her English was perfect. Only then did Irene realize that the woman was in fact English, not Spanish.

  “Compromised in what way?” Irene asked, looking straight at de Viera. He understood perfectly without any need for the interpreter to translate. He kept his eyes fixed on her as he raised the newspaper, which was still tightly furled in his hand. Slowly he began to unroll it, then he held it out to Irene, pointing with his fat index finger at a picture on the lower half of the front page. He tapped the picture peremptorily with his nail, demanding that Irene take a closer look. The old chair pad made a sucking sound as she got up and went over to him. Today’s date was at the top of the page. She leaned forward and peered at the image.

  There were two people in the photograph. One was an attractive blonde in her early twenties. The other was Inspector Juan Rejón. Both of them were smiling at the camera, and they had just gotten out of a limousine. They were a very good-looking couple. She was wearing a close-fitting silver evening dress, and he was dazzlingly stylish in a dark suit. Once again Irene thought he could make a fortune as a model, but apparently he was intending to make a fortune in a different way. The headline proclaimed: NUEVO BOYFRIEND, and even Irene could guess what that meant. Underneath the picture were the names Juan Rejón and Julia Saar.

  “Is Julia Saar related to Lembit Saar?” she asked, although she suspected that she already knew the answer.

  “Sí,” de Viera replied grimly.

  “His daughter,” the interpreter piped up boldly.

  De Viera gave no indication that he had heard her. Instead he cast a final glance of loathing at the picture before screwing it up and throwing it in the waste bin. He then spat out a few brief comments, which the interpreter quickly translated.

  “As Rejón is now off the case, you are to report directly to the chief of police,” she said.

  “Only to him?” Irene asked, feeling somewhat surprised.

  “Sí,” de Viera said before the interpreter had the chance to ask him.

  Irene took out her laptop. When she asked if there was a projector so that she could give a PowerPoint presentation, both de Viera and the interpreter looked blankly at her. Irene suppressed a sigh, while at the same time blessing her foresight in bringing hard copies of all the case notes. It was a substantial bundle. She passed the top sheet of paper to de Viera and began:

  “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 …”

  THE 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.

  IT 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.

  Chapter 17

  THE 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 Casabla
nca 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.