Death Angels (43 page)

“Neither of us has dismissed him from our thoughts, or from the investigation, or whatever you want to call it at this point.”

“Of course not.”

“I was disappointed too. So we talked with Vikingsson ourselves when he was in London. It was just like you said once. There was more to him than he was letting on to; I could also sense it. So I did what you said, or what you wanted.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Listen carefully now. You sat in my office once and told me that you believed in a merciful God. And here’s your reward. It happened late last night. I wanted to wait to tell you in person.”

“Tell me what?”

“We kept Vikingsson under surveillance. Something about him kept bothering me, so I put two men on him for a few days just to see what would happen. Frankie had also said—”

“Steve!”

“Hold on, I have to say this first. Frankie ran across someone who had something to sell. Nothing you’d ever see at a porn theater in Soho. Be that as it may, it all ends up in that part of the city eventually.”

“Vikingsson was in Soho?”

“Some blond guy was making the rounds with a special offer. He was extraordinarily discreet, but not discreet enough to escape the attention of Frankie and his sources.”

“Who are his sources?”

“Neither you nor I want to know that.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing has made it to the market yet, according to Frankie.”

“Then how can we get any further?”

“We have gotten further.”

“What?”

“Vikingsson let down his guard last time he came back to London,” Macdonald said. “He had been released after all, and he apparently figured that the path was clear. We stalked him to Heathrow, but he wasn’t there to report for work, at least not above sea level.”

As Macdonald leaned forward in the chair, his jacket tightened across his shoulders. He was paler than ever and his voice was thin and strained. “He went to his locker and removed a little sack, and we strolled up and helped him empty it out. Lo and behold, it was the tripod.”

“The what?”

“The tripod we’ve been looking for. I’m sure of it, and do you know why? Because one of the legs was missing a sleeve. The technicians at the Yard aren’t finished yet, but there’s no doubt in my mind.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“Do you really believe I’d do that, after what we’ve been through together?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, you’re not putting me on.”

“Thanks.”

“The tripod,” Winter said. His mouth tasted of blood and vinegar.

“The wizards at the Yard assure me it’s got fingerprints all over it, and it doesn’t matter how old they are.”

Winter started to sweat again.

“And that’s not the end of it. An envelope was taped to the top of the locker and they found the key to a safe-deposit box inside.”

“A safe-deposit box?” Winter’s cigarillo had gone out ages ago but he held on to it.

“Vikingsson’s safe-deposit box in London.”

“Have you been there?”

“You’d better believe it. And, sure enough, we found another key.”

“Another key.” Winter’s voice was barely strong enough to get the words out.

“It’s to a locker at one of London’s railroad or underground stations.”

“How many of those are there?”

“Lockers? Tens of thousands, and hundreds of stations. But we’ll findi t .”

“What does Vikingsson have to say for himself?” Winter asked.

“Not a thing. He seems to think he’ll be in the air again tomorrow.”

“Where is he now?”

“At headquarters in Eltham.”

“And he’s not talking?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you think the tripod is all we need?”

“We’re getting there,” Macdonald said.

“So there were two murderers.”

“That explains quite a bit.”

“What?”

“How they got away so fast without leaving any of their equipment behind.”

“It could also be coincidence.”

“No way.”

“We don’t have any other evidence that Vikingsson and Bolger know each other. Apparently we haven’t been looking in the right places.”

“We’re going to find it now. That’s the way it always is.”

“If we want to get Vikingsson convicted, we need more than circumstantial evidence.”

“We’ll put the squeeze on him.”

“That’s not good enough. And I’m not as optimistic as you are.”

“The squeeze,” Macdonald repeated.

Half an hour later, Winter strolled through the park outside police headquarters. The fragment of an idea had rattled around his brain since the conversation with Macdonald.

He remembered the times he had talked to Marianne. There had always been someone else lurking in the back of her mind, and she’d seemed confused whenever he brought up Bolger. Or when he talked about Bolger alone. As if Winter had sown the confusion and caused her to doubt her own eyes and ears. Or to forget that other, most important detail, whatever it might be.

The feeling he had after talking to her was like a pebble in his shoe. He had to question her again, or at least sit down and talk to her.

But that’s not what bothered him most now.

Bolger was trying to show him something.

Scratching his scalp as if it were responsible for a traffic jam in his brain, Winter thought again about all the hints Bolger had dropped over the previous months.

They had been looking out over the archipelago, and Bolger had made a remark about beauty and having a clear view . . .

Winter stood still. He looked down at the ground without seeing it. The scraps of thoughts in his mind were beginning to converge.

He saw Bolger in front of his cottage. They had just stepped out. Bolger talked about building the new fireplace for himself, then lit it and walked slowly around his proud creation.

When Winter had gone out to the island the last time, Bolger threw his poker at the glowing stones.

The fireplace.

Bolger’s cliff-top monument of brick.

Winter ducked under the police cordon. The cottage was amorphous in the reflected sunlight. He said a couple of words to the officer who was keeping an eye on the place and sent him down to the boat. Then he laid his coat on the ground, slipped on his work gloves and picked up the sledgehammer he’d brought for the task.

He moved from left to right, smashing the brick to pieces, feeling the heat gather in the small of his back as the blood flowed to his arms. The fireplace slowly gave way under the relentless blows. He took a break to wipe the sweat from his neck and threw his sport jacket onto the grass, relishing the cold wind against his back. When he resumed his assault, his sore toe throbbed from the effort.

After an hour of hacking with the sledgehammer and then prying with a crowbar, he glimpsed the edge of a flat oilcloth bag in a little space between the bricks. But he couldn’t dislodge it. His forehead was pounding, and not just from physical exertion. You should have taken a tranquilizer or two before coming out here, he told himself.

Carefully he pried at the mortar around the bag and tried to wrench it loose with his gloved hands, but to no avail. Then he swung the sledgehammer in six inches below it and the mass finally gave way.

Exhausted, he leaned on the sledgehammer. His breathing was heavy, but the wind soothed his back and neck again, and he watched the heather sway on the surrounding cliffs.

The bag was light and fragile when he picked it up. He walked over to the cottage and unlocked the door.

Opening the sack in the kitchen was like peeling away layers of bark. A videotape was inside. A sheet of typing paper had been folded in half and taped to the front. TO ERIK, it said in tall letters, meticulously traced with a blue felt-tip pen.

He closed his eyes, but the words were still there when he opened them again.

He tore off the sheet of paper and crumpled it up in the palm of his hand, then threw it to the ground.

There was more. Credit card receipts from stores and restaurants. Bus passes, underground tickets.

Everything was from London. Winter poked at the pile as if it were alive. A taxi receipt lay on top. Someone had scrawled STANLEY GARDENS across it with the same felt-tip pen.

He saw a letter to Geoff from Sweden.

One of Bolger’s last bread crumbs, Winter thought, but I haven’t watched the videotape yet. This is where it all comes together.

He had seen the television set last time he was here, a small LCD monitor with a built-in video player. After checking the main switch on the power strip, he turned it on.

Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, he thought, pushing the tape in.

The speakers roared. He turned the volume down and watched the static dance on the screen. He recognized the music immediately, and it made him sick to his stomach.
New York Eye and Ear Control
.

The video started off with a panorama of Bolger’s bar; the camera must have been perched on the mirror behind the counter. Winter saw himself. The screen filled with static and quickly cut to the next scene: Per Malmström on a bar stool. Cut. Winter again, a glass of beer in his hand. Cut. Per. Cut. Winter. Cut. Jamie Robertson. Cut. Winter. Vikingsson sat ten feet behind him and smiled. The camera zoomed to his face. Cut. Geoff. Cut. Winter, smiling at an invisible figure in front of him. Cut. Vikingsson, at the bar. Cut. Winter. Cut. Vikingsson. Cut. Per again. Cut. Back and forth, faster and faster.

The music stopped and the screen went blank.

A room appeared. A naked boy sat in a chair. A man came into view, bare chested with a piece of cloth covering his thighs. Winter stared at the boy’s eyes and heard his muffled cries as a rag was stuffed into his mouth.

The man took off his mask and peered into the camera. It was Bolger.

Winter heard a male voice.

Bolger’s lips weren’t moving and the boy was in no condition to speak.

Winter’s jaws began to ache. He tried to open his mouth but couldn’t. He grabbed his chin and pulled down. His mouth opened and the pain subsided.

He stopped the tape, rewound it a few seconds and hit play. There was the voice again. It sounded like an announcement. Winter replayed it, catching something about a camera.

Somebody else was in the room. It could be the same voice they had on the interrogation tapes. Vikingsson’s voice. Bolger wanted him to know that Vikingsson had been there. The police had experts who could compare and match voices. It was only a matter of time and effort. The eternal routine.

Winter let the tape run this time, for another three minutes, then stopped it and walked quickly out of the cottage to inhale all the oxygen he could find there at the top of the cliff.

EVERYBODY GATHERED AT WINTER’S PLACE. THE MOOD WAS
hushed, dominated by an overpowering need to be together. Some of them were drinking, but Winter refrained, having numbed himself sufficiently after hours under the shower.

“Get as drunk as you want,” he had said when they arrived, ushering them into the dining room, where the bottles were lined up on the table.

Winter hugged Bergenhem, careful not to touch the bandage around his head, and then Martina, who had an easier time hugging him back.

They all oohed and aahed over the baby.

“What’s her name?” Djanali asked.

“Ada,” Martina answered.

“Permit me,” Winter said, coming back with a box of Cuaba Tradicionales he’d bought at Davidoff.

“I was supposed to bring those,” Bergenhem said.

“Right,” Winter said. “But that headache of yours isn’t quite gone yet, and in the meantime I’m going to hand out these fine old cigars as tradition dictates.”