The Beige Man (23 page)

The assistant asked to see her boarding card, then scanned her purchases.

“Two thousand nine hundred and forty kronor,” she said.

Irene’s immediate reaction was that she must have misheard. Almost three thousand kronor for cosmetics? At that very moment her flight was called.

“This is the final call for Spanair flight three-one-two-one to Tenerife, departing at seven fifteen. Please proceed to gate twelve,” a voice announced brightly over the loudspeaker.

Irene feebly handed her credit card to the assistant, who yawned without a trace of embarrassment as she asked Irene to enter her pin number. Irene realized there was no time to ask if she could put something back; besides which, she needed the whole lot. The face in the mirror had been in dire need of an emergency extreme makeover.

I
RENE STOWED HER
thin poplin coat and knitted cotton cardigan in the overhead locker, then slid her laptop underneath them. The outside pockets of the laptop case contained all the paperwork relating to the investigation. She wanted to be prepared for every eventuality. She checked to make sure that the case and all its pockets were securely closed, then settled down in her seat. She was wearing stretch jeans that could cope with a long journey without getting creased, and a thin woolen polo neck sweater with a short-sleeved top underneath. She had dressed according to the onion principle. On her feet were ordinary deck shoes, with knee-high socks made of the finest wool. When they landed she would take off the socks and go barefoot in her shoes. Before that she would probably have already removed the polo neck. In her rucksack she had packed her toilet bag, her newly acquired rejuvenating
creams, clean underwear, a bikini, two T-shirts, a pair of light sandals and a nice pair of shorts. In the outer pocket were her passport, e-ticket and wallet. She would need to withdraw some money at the airport when she arrived, but in spite of the short notice, she thought she had everything under control.

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.

I
RENE SPOTTED
D
ETECTIVE
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 from 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.