Death Angels (33 page)
Authors: Ake Edwardson
“I agree.”
“Television is a paradoxical medium.”
“The anonymous public.”
Winter spread butter and orange marmalade on two slices of toast. Earlier in the morning, he had walked down Hogarth Road to a newspaper stand on Earl’s Court Road and bought the
Guardian
, the
Independent,
the
Times
and the
Daily Telegraph
.
Guardian
, the
Independent,
the
Times
and the
Daily Telegraph
.
His cell phone rang.
“I know you’re an hour behind us,” Ringmar said, “but I assumed you’d be up anyway.”
“It’s broad daylight here.”
“We just got another letter from our burglar friend.”
It took a few seconds for Winter to follow the chain of thought backward: burglar, apartment, bloody clothes—far-fetched, so goddam far-fetched.
“Erik?”
“I’m still here.” Winter washed down his toast with a mouthful of tea.
“He was insistent, as if he wanted to make up for his procrastination and set the record straight.”
“And?”
“So we took a closer look at the guy who rents the apartment. Halders and Djanali had a little extra time when—”
“For God’s sake, Bertil, skip the chronology and tell me what happened.”
“We called him in for questioning.”
“And?”
“He didn’t respond right away, but finally we heard from him.”
“Bertil!”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming to it. Listen carefully now. We couldn’t get hold of him in Gothenburg at first because he was in London.”
“What?”
“I told you to listen carefully. He was in London.”
“How the hell can you know something like that?”
A chilliness began to creep through Winter’s body. His scalp was prickly. Sweeping the newspapers off the table, he took three steps over to the counter and picked up his notepad. He sat down again, pen in hand.
“That wasn’t so hard to figure out,” Ringmar said. “He’s a flight attendant, often on the Gothenburg-London route.”
“Good Lord.”
“And that’s not all. He has an apartment in London. He lives there and has an overnight apartment in Gothenburg, or the other way around.”
“Is he British?”
“Swedish through and through. Not to mention his name—Carl Vikingsson.”
“Vikingsson?”
“Yes. And the name of the aircraft he usually works on is Viking something.”
“Does he have a record?”
“Nope, clean as a whistle.”
“Where is he now?”
“We’ve got him here.”
Winter’s throat was dry. He drank his lukewarm tea but it might as well have been kerosene or blueberry soup.
“We haven’t had a chance to question him yet,” Ringmar went on.
“No alibi?”
“Like I said, we don’t know at this point. It could get pretty complicated.”
“Where is his London apartment?”
“The address I’ve got is 32 Stanley Gardens.”
“Hold on.” Winter put down the phone and walked over to the coffee table. He picked up a
London A-Z
street atlas and checked the index. “London has six streets named Stanley Gardens,” he told Ringmar when he returned.
London A-Z
street atlas and checked the index. “London has six streets named Stanley Gardens,” he told Ringmar when he returned.
“Shit.”
“I need the postal code—NW7 or something like that.”
“Wait a minute.”
Winter took another gulp of kerosene and felt the hunter’s instinct rise in his gut. He heard fumbling at the other end of the line.
“We have his business card here. Let me see . . . it’s Stanley Gardens W11.”
Winter looked in the index. W11. The address was at 7 H 59. He flipped to page 59 and found 7 H: Notting Hill, Kensington Park Road, Stanley Crescent . . . there. It was a little cross street. “Up in Portobello.”
“Sounds good.”
“Hold him for six hours, and make sure to get an extension for another six.”
“Okay; remember, we haven’t questioned him yet.”
Winter had made up his mind. They had the legal right to keep him that long—with necessary rest and food. “And screw any alibis he comes up with,” he said.
“Fine with me. Cohen is raring to go with the interrogation.”
No doubt Cohen had read everything he could get his hands on.
“Don’t turn Cohen loose on him just yet,” Winter said.
“What?”
“Keep it low-key at first. Start off yourself.”
“But Cohen has to be there.”
“Just as an onlooker. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
“Easy does it.”
“No screwups.”
“Don’t underestimate me. Odds are we’ll still be discussing the weather forecast when you get here tomorrow.”
“Good—I have faith in you.”
“What time are you getting back, by the way?”
“I don’t know yet. The television program I told you about yesterday is this afternoon. We’ve got to check out the address you gave me right away. I’ll let you know in an hour or two.”
“Erik?”
“Yes?”
“One thing we know for sure. Vikingsson was in London when Christian was killed.”
“Not on a plane?”
“Shit, that’s possible. But he wasn’t in Sweden.”
They hung up. Winter dialed the eleven-digit number to the Thornton Heath police station. “This is Chief Inspector Erik Winter. May I speak to Steve Macdonald?”
“Just a minute please.”
Macdonald came on the line.
“It’s Erik, I just heard from Gothenburg. They’ve called a guy in for questioning, and he has an apartment here in London. It might be a long shot, but we should take a look.”
“An apartment here?”
“Up in Notting Hill.”
“Nice area.”
“I don’t know anything about the guy. But I think we need to see his apartment.”
“From the outside?”
“What?”
“I know a couple of sympathetic judges, but neither of them is going to let us search an apartment without a little more to go on.”
“I want to head over there anyway. I’m leaving now. See you at the corner of Kensington Park Road.”
“Kensington Park Road and what?”
“Sorry, the apartment is on Stanley Gardens.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“I’m out the door.”
37
WlNTER FLAGGED DOWN A NORTHBOUND TAXl ON EARL’S COURT
Road. It was fifteen minutes to Notting Hill Gate on the narrow streets past Holland Park. He had hiked around there occasionally in his younger days.
Road. It was fifteen minutes to Notting Hill Gate on the narrow streets past Holland Park. He had hiked around there occasionally in his younger days.
The houses on Kensington Park Road shone like marble. At the Pembridge intersection, a café owner was putting checkered tablecloths on the outdoor tables. People were already waiting for the first cappuccino of spring.
The buildings on Stanley Gardens were surrounded by silence and shade. Number 32 had an entrance where anybody could go in and out. Winter continued down the street and then turned back to Kensington Park Road. He stood still on the corner. A couple his own age stopped before him.
“How do we get to Portobello Road?” the man asked with a Swedish accent.
“It runs parallel to this street. Just turn right down there.”
“Thank you very much,” the couple said in unison and Winter flashed them his best British smile. I’m a member of the anonymous public, he thought.
It was a Swedish area of sorts. Within walking distance to his east was the Bayswater district, whose hotels around Queensway Street were the favored accommodations of Scandinavian tourists.
A taxi pulled up and Macdonald wriggled out. “A train and then a cab from Victoria Station,” he said. “It’s the fastest way.”
“It’s over there.”
“Did you go inside?”
“No.”
“I’ve issued an order for the building to remain under 24/7 surveillance from the moment we leave.”
“Excellent.”
“I had a chat with a judge, who said no, of course, so that investigation of yours needs to turn up something pretty damn quick.”
They went over to the building, and Winter read the nameplates. He tugged on the heavy door to the northern stairway. It was locked. “I assume you have the entry code,” he said.
Macdonald nodded. “We can always count on the janitors.”
The hallway had the cool smell of polished wood. The light spiraled up the stairs to the roof. They followed the light and stopped on the third floor. Macdonald put on a pair of gloves and tapped on the door with the lion-faced knocker. “A custom left over from our colonial era.”
No answer. Macdonald tapped again, brass against wood. “Nobody’s subleasing the apartment,” he said.
“We don’t know that.”
“Whatever. Nobody’s home right now.”
Winter heard a clatter beneath them. The elevator hissed, went down and stopped. A minute later it passed by on the way back up. The passenger couldn’t have seen Winter or Macdonald, who stood in the blind corner of the staircase.
Macdonald tossed a pair of gloves to Winter. “Put these on.”
“I never thought you’d have the nerve to do it.”
“This is dangerous as hell.”
“Open the door.”
Macdonald handed Winter some blue plastic hospital booties. “These too.”
He must have been a burglar in a past life, Winter thought. The blood swelled in his chest.
Nothing but silence from the stairway and the other apartments. Macdonald’s picklock clicked softly and they slipped inside.
It’s all about ends and means, Winter thought. We’re burglars, but we’re fighting for the survival of others. That’s what sets us apart from the real thieves.
They found themselves in the middle of the living room. It was hot in the apartment, and the sun beating down on the closed blinds provided more than enough light.
Macdonald nodded to the right side and Winter followed him. There were no leftovers or dirty dishes in the kitchen. Towels hanging in a neat row, a rack of knives on the wall.
“All the knives are right where they belong,” Winter said.
“None of them double-edged.”
We’ve invaded someone’s privacy and Steve is playing it for all it’s worth, Winter thought. We have no respect anymore, not for anything. But I’m glad we’re here.
They picked up and examined everything in the apartment.
“The guy’s a fucking perfectionist,” Macdonald said.
“He’s into music.”
“Reggae.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“He’s got quite a bit.”
“Lots of locked chests,” Winter said.
“And cabinets.”
“Right.”
“Something’s not right about this place,” Macdonald said. “Do you feel it too?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Here’s a photo of him.” Macdonald leaned over a desk. Vikingsson smiled unassumingly at the camera. He had short, straight, blond hair. “Wh-i-ite.”
Winter went and stood next to him.
“How can a flight attendant afford an apartment in Notting Hill?” Macdonald asked.
“I don’t know what Scandinavian Airlines pays.”
“I couldn’t live here on my salary.”
“That’s because you fly too close to the ground.”
“That doesn’t seem to be a problem for you, judging by your clothes.”
“No.”
“So you’re independently wealthy?”
“You might say that.”
“Damn, I knew it.”
“It’s a mix of old and new money.”
“You’re like a British officer,” Macdonald said. “Their salaries pay the bill at the mess hall and that’s about it.”
“We’ll have to do a little checking into Vikingsson’s finances. Remember, he’s got that place in Gothenburg too.”
They opened all the closets. The clothes were impeccably stacked.
“Perfectionist,” Macdonald said.
“What were you expecting? Another garbage bag of bloody clothes?”
“Once doesn’t count.”
“We’ll come back.”
“You’ll be gone by then.”
“I’ll be with you in spirit.”
“What time is your flight?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Will Vikingsson still be there when you land?”
“Just barely. Unless we get a detention order.”
“Somebody has to convince the D.A.”
“Everybody’s nervous now. We can take advantage of that.”
“Or else Vikingsson will be cleared by the time you get home.”
“That would also be a step in the right direction.”
“The process of elimination. That’s our stock-in-trade.”
They came out on Stanley Gardens and walked over to the intersection. Macdonald nodded at someone in a Vauxhall that was parked across the street.
Winter called Gothenburg.
“Ringmar here.”
“It’s Erik. How’s it going?”
“No disagreements about the weather forecast, anyway.”
“What’s he like?”
“Cool.”
“Too cool?”
“Not exactly. But he’s obviously hiding something.”
“Good to hear.”
“It may or may not be important.”
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