[Who?]
[Von Otter.]
[You sure?]
[99%. We need a ballistic check.]
[You have the weapon?]
Salamander took a picture of the pistol with her iPhone.
[Check your e-mail.]
Her message contained a JPEG. He double-clicked and opened Photoshop.
[How did you get it?]
[It's a long story. Meet me at Papa Gedda's fishing cottage ASAP but no police. Not yet.]
Rhindtwist waved at his managing editor on his way out of the office. “You're in charge, Annika. Make sure it's a great issue. That's why I hired you.” That, he thought, and for your other obvious assets, but those days have come to an end. He chuckled and muttered in English, “Been there. Done that. Bought the T-shirt.”
* * * *
On his drive north he called Tonsoffun and asked how he knew about Gotilda's birthmark. When he answered, “She's my sister,” Rhindtwist almost drove his Volvo S60 sedan into the guardrail on the E4. Once he pulled himself together and Tonsoffun had told him his story, he comforted the inspector by telling him to relax, that Gotilda and he would be happily reunited soon.
Rhindtwist arrived at the cottage to find Salamander eating pickled herring and deer stew and drinking a Vestfyn Pilsner. Without saying hello, she held up a Ziploc bag containing the P-83 Wanad. “That should do it.”
“Please explain.”
She didn't tell him she hooked the pistol while fishing with a worm. Instead she said she found it in the shallow riffle at the tail of the pool.
“What more?”
She took him through the results of her computer hacking and von Otter's creation of phony charities. “If that's the murder weapon, the case is closed.”
Rhindtwist pointed to the Jura Impressa X7 espresso machine behind her and asked if he could have a cup.
She nodded.
He poured a coffee and lit a Chesterfield. “So that's it?”
Salamander shrugged. “What's to add?”
“What about you and me? Case closed there too?”
She lit a Marlboro Light and smoked it without speaking. Finally she said, “You want a second or third or fourth chance?”
“Look, I didn't give up on you with this Gedda thing and I'm through with Annika. So, yes, I'm asking for one last chance.”
Salamander pushed the plastic bag with the weapon in it toward him. “Get this to the National Forensics Laboratory ASAP and . . .”
“And what?”
“And I'll think about us.”
* * * *
Friday, July 18
Rhindtwist arrived at Gedda's mansion ahead of the police. Von Otter was waiting for him and gave him a toothy smile. “Nice to see you, Jerker.”
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” Rhindtwist said, and suggested they take a walk.
As they strolled through the rose gardens von Otter asked, “Have they found the girl?”
Rhindtwist said, “No.”
Von Otter said, “Pity.”
“But they have found the murder weapon.”
Von Otter straightened to his full six foot six. “That's hard to believe.”
“What's harder to believe is that the Wanad belonged to you.”
Von Otter's calm expression never changed. “I knew Salamander had stolen it. I knew it!”
Rhindtwist saw he'd taken the bait and said, “That explains that.”
Von Otter nodded confidently. “That explains that.”
Rhindtwist stopped walking and took him by the arm. “So how do you explain all the phony charities in Herr Gedda's will that directed their donations to your account at Barclays?” Von Otter jerked free from his grip but Rhindtwist simply smiled and said, “There's no place to run, Manfred. The police are on their way.”
Von Otter sighed. “But how?”
“Better yet, why?” Rhindtwist asked.
Von Otter began to tremble. “Olaf refused me membership in the Lunkersklubb, said I hadn't earned it even though I'd caught a six pound rainbow a few years ago. And then he gave a life membership to that worm-fishing girl? Unfair! But that was just the beginning. He wouldn't listen to me about the will and left her twenty billion kronor. Twenty billion! And five billion to Henrik, not to mention the cottage—my idea, mind you—but not a krona to me!” He paused and muttered, “And after all I'd done for him.”
“So you planted the bucket of worms to implicate the girl.”
Von Otter nodded. “That, and to let the whole world know that when it came to fishing she got away with murder there too.”
“Hmm,” Rhindtwist said and took von Otter by the arm again and began to lead him back to the house. As they passed the rose bed where Gedda had been found von Otter stopped and began to cry. “Forgive me, Olaf. Please forgive me.”
When they reached the terrace that overlooked the river they sat without speaking. Finally, von Otter wiped his tears and broke the silence. “I'll have you know, I wasn't alone. Henrik was involved.”
“Go on.”
“One night after Olaf had had one too many aquavits, Henrik went to his room to say goodnight and asked him to sign revised copies of his will, saying that I'd found some typos in the originals. What Olaf signed contained what you refer to as the ‘phony charities.'”
“And in return for Henrik's help you did the dirty work for him.”
“Precisely.”
As von Otter spoke, Rhindtwist heard footsteps behind him. He turned slowly to see Paulsson pointing Gedda's prized Purdey double-barreled shotgun at him. “Manfred, you talk too much,” Paulsson said, “and you've left me no choice. But if I do this correctly, it will look as though you killed Rhindtwist when he confronted you and I disarmed you and had no choice but to kill you in self-defense.” He walked between the two men and leveled the gun at Rhindtwist. “Clever for a domestic, no?”
The click of Paulsson pushing off the safety was drowned out by a bloodcurdling “Ki hap!” as Salamander leapt over a wicker Pottery Barn all-weather chaise and snap-kicked the gun from Paulsson's hands with an Ahp Cha Nut Gi followed by a jump-spinning back kick to his esophagus with the heel of one of her new Doc Marten boots. Paulsson dropped to the terrace, choking and grabbing at his throat, and then she immobilized him with a low reverse punch to his temple.
“Wow!” a voice said.
Von Otter grabbed for the shotgun, but Salamander kicked it out of his reach, sending it scraping and spinning across the flagstones. She smiled at him and said, “Payback time. For Papa Gedda. For screwing up my life.”
He turned tail to run but Salamander stopped him with a low-high roundhouse kick, first to his kidneys, then to his jaw. She smiled again at the immobilized giant and delivered a Moorup Cha Ki to his groin that doubled him over screaming with pain, the sound giving her immense satisfaction, and then she used a downward elbow strike to the base of his skull to splay him motionless on the terrace.
“Double wow!” the voice said.
Salamander turned. Inspektor Noonesson stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. He shook his head and said, “I take it all back, Froken Salamander. All of it.”
From behind her she heard another familiar voice say, “Nils, handcuff Paulsson, if you wouldn't mind.” Inspektor Tonsoffun was kneeling by von Otter's prone body, handcuffing him. When he was through, he stood and placed his large hands on Salamander's shoulders. His blue eyes were filled with tears. “Are you okay, Tillie?” he asked.
Salamander gave him an odd look. Tillie was the nickname she'd been given in the foster home in Hagersten. The comfort of Tonsoffun's touch also confused her. “Who are you?” she said.
He smiled through his tears. “I'm not just Criminal Inspektor Torsten Tonsoffun, Tillie. I'm your Torsten. Your brother.”
Salamander pulled him to her and said, “What took you so long to find me?” and they both began to laugh and sob with joy.
Once Paulsson and von Otter were able to stand, Tonsoffun and Noonesson ush
ered them to their cruiser. “Wait. I forgot,” Salamander said and handed Noonesson the keys to his car along with neatly written instructions on where he'd find it. “Your pistol's on the front seat.” Salamander smiled for the third time that morning. “Not bad for a dumb blonde, eh, Nils?”
Noonesson saluted. “Not bad at all.”
Salamander kissed her brother goodbye and said she'd see him tomorrow. She watched the cruiser disappear down Papa Gedda's long driveway when Rhindtwist asked, “How about a coffee?”
Gotilda patted his arm, the first time she'd touched him in over two years, and smiled through her tears. “Why not, Jerker? We're in Sweden, remember?”
Copyright © 2012 by Harry Groome
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Novelette: A NICE NEIGHBOURHOOD
by Kate Ellis
The stories Kate Ellis has contributed to EQMM have all been non-series tales. But she is the author of a long-running series of novels featuring Detective Sergeant Wesley Peterson, an archaeology graduate whose special skills are employed in the course of his police inquiries. Each of the novels combines a historical case with the contemporary crime being investigated by Peterson's South Devon force. Interested readers will find many of the books now available in e-editions.
George Billings reached for a cheese sandwich from the plastic box on the passenger seat and bit into the rubbery white bread. This was going to be one of GHB Investigations’ (motto “no stone left unturned") easier assignments.
Number five Canley Street was a spacious redbrick villa built in the latter years of the nineteenth century with an impressive front door and a prominent for sale sign planted in its neat front garden. No doubt the estate agent's brochure had described it as a desirable residence, but George Billings knew that the district it stood in could best be described as “mixed.”
Even though the rest of the house was in darkness, the first-floor bedroom of number five, with its big bay window, was lit up like a stage set framed by open curtains. George watched, sitting in the darkened auditorium of his rusty blue Ford, waiting with anticipation for some action to begin.
Business had certainly picked up since he had placed the advert in the local paper: “Complete peace of mind costs two hundred and fifty pounds (including tax).” George had spent his life avoiding the tax man but he reckoned the last bit sounded good—professional; kosher. It was those little touches that paid off and attracted the punters.
It had been his ex-wife's brother, Frank, who'd given him the idea. Frank had bought a flat next-door to a cemetery—as quiet as the proverbial grave in the daytime but alive and twitching at night when the drug addicts moved in. Frank's constant complaints had planted seeds in George's mind and he'd recognised a business opportunity—a gap in the market. If he could tell prospective buyers all those things the estate agents’ brochures never say—what an area is like in the evenings and the early hours when drunks spew forth from pubs and clubs and dark reclaims the streets—then he could charge for that valuable information. He'd had a few cards printed, and now he was in business; watching and waiting in back streets, then reporting back to nervous house-hunters.
George looked at his watch and saw that it was ten-thirty. Last night, Canley Street had been quiet at this time—until a prostitute and her client had come along and used the overgrown hedge of number seven as a temporary place of business (an incident that would feature in George's report to Mr. Fields, the potential buyer).
George took another bite of his sandwich and slid down in the driver's seat as a car slowed and came to a halt on the other side of the road. He could make out three large shapes in the sleek, dark vehicle. Men. George put the lid back on his plastic sandwich box and slid down further. If there was going to be any trouble in Canley Street, he didn't want to be involved.
The headlights of the dark car were extinguished and the three shadowy figures sat there, still and threatening, two in the front and one in the back. George craved a drink from his flask but he knew that any movement might attract the men's attention. And at that moment, as his heart pounded in the silence, he wanted to be invisible. He wished they would get fed up and drive off, but they made no movement. They seemed to be watching the street . . . just as George was watching.
George went through the possibilities in his mind. Drug dealing was a good bet, in which case he'd keep his head down and pretend he'd seen nothing. But there were other possibilities: George had discovered a lot about the residents of Canley Street in the course of his enquiries, including an interesting snippet of information gleaned from the local paper.
Number five, the house that George's client was planning to buy if all went well, belonged to a research scientist called Julian Ablet. George had jotted down the fact that Ablet had received threats from animal-rights extremists neatly in his notebook, just as he'd noted all the other facts about Canley Street. After all, it was important that his client was made aware of any potential terrorist threat against the house's current owner, and George suspected that this, coupled with the business dealings of the local ladies of the night, would probably put Mr. Fields off number five for good.
Mr. Fields, an intense, balding young man with staring brown eyes, had seemed particularly keen on discovering everything there was to discover about number five . . . and its inhabitants. George had felt a little uneasy about his interest. He had even wondered fleetingly whether Fields was a member of animal-rights organisation, anxious for information about Ablet's lifestyle and habits. However, the man was paying him well for his services so he'd decided not to ask too many questions.
Slumped down in the driver's seat, George was beginning to feel a spot of cramp in his right foot. With his eyes fixed on the car parked opposite, he raised himself up a little, only to see that nothing had changed. The three figures were still sitting there, featureless shapes against the weak yellow glow of the nearby street lamp. George moved his foot to encourage his blood to circulate and glanced up at the brightly lit bedroom window of number five. The woman he presumed was Mrs. Ablet was there again. He saw her glide to the centre of the lighted window. Then she stopped and stared out into the night for a few seconds before pulling the curtains across to hide the scene forever.
The performance over, George decided to risk a drink. He was just reaching for his thermos flask, thinking of the woman in number five undressing for bed, when he saw the back door of the car opposite swing open. As one of the men emerged, George kept perfectly still, fear driving all thoughts of the woman at number five out of his mind.
The man was approaching his car now with the confident stride of one who had every right to be there. As he drew closer, George saw that he was young and well built, not the type you'd argue with if you had any sense. When the man knocked sharply on his car window George, still and small inside his metal shell, hesitated, wondering whether to start the engine and drive off. But when he saw a police warrant card pressed against the glass for his inspection, he fumbled for the handle and wound the window down. Getting on the wrong side of the law wouldn't be the wisest of moves for a private investigator.
“Can I help you, Officer?” George asked, all cooperation. He looked the young officer in the eye to convince him of his honesty and his desire to be a good and law-abiding citizen.
“Can I ask what you're doing here, sir?”
George grinned obsequiously and handed the policeman his business card. “Number five is up for sale and my client is considering buying it. I'm drawing up a report on the area for him.”
The policeman looked sceptical. “And who is your client, sir? If I could have his name . . .”
“Of course. It's a Mr. Fields. I have his address here somewhere. . . .” After George had delved in his pocket for his client's business card, he handed it to the officer, who read it, made a note of the address, and gave it back.
George sensed, with some relief, that the officer had lost interest. “Is, er, anything wrong, Of
ficer? I read in the local paper that there've been threats against a local scientist. Would you be . . . ?”
“Just routine, sir,” the policeman replied sharply. “Sorry to have troubled you.”
That was it. The officer was giving nothing away. But it would still go in George's report—possible threat of terrorist action in the area. If the animalrights people didn't realise Ablet had moved out, any potential new resident might suffer noisy demonstrations outside his new home; or maybe a letter bomb would be sent to Ablet's old address; or perhaps they would even go as far as placing a car bomb under the wrong vehicle. All good reasons to avoid buying number five Canley Street, in his opinion.
George had expected the police car to continue its surveillance, so he was quite surprised when it drove off slowly, almost stealthily, and disappeared round the corner onto the main road. George raised himself in his seat and leaned across to the passenger seat to take hold of his flask. A nip of something warming would help the time pass. So would the car radio. He switched it on and it crackled into life, already tuned to the local station.
It was coming up to eleven and George planned to listen to some soothing late-night music as he watched out for drug addicts, prostitutes, terrorists, or anyone else who arrived to disturb the outward calm of the street. He glanced up at the bedroom window of number five. Light glowed out through the thin curtains: Julian Ablet's wife must still be awake.
The music oozed softly from the radio speakers; late-night music, light jazz to relax the insomniac. Then the music was interrupted by a voice, a woman with a local accent, announcing the eleven o'clock news. George reached for the volume button, suddenly alert.
“Police have confirmed that local scientist Dr. Julian Ablet has received another death threat believed to come from the Animal Liberation Alliance. Dr. Ablet has been defiant in his defence of animal experiments and he has received a number of threats over the past year.”
That was it. A man's fear summed up in a couple of sentences. The police, George thought, probably made regular patrols past his house in Canley Street and he could quite understand how his own presence, sitting in a car alone in the middle of the night for no discernible reason, would have aroused their suspicions. But he was sure that he had put their minds at rest. They would never suspect a slightly shabby middle-aged man with a sagging belly and thinning hair of being mixed up with that sort of thing.
EQMM, May 2012 Page 5
