The Beige Man (13 page)

Tenderly she held Sammie’s head against her face, pressing her cheek to his. At first he was confused, but quickly realized she was upset. He gently butted her with his nose and gave her a little lick. Even if she wasn’t in his good books at the moment—like anyone who attempted to groom him—she was still his beloved mistress.

S
UNDAY MORNING DAWNED
with a clear blue sky and not a breath of wind. Irene ambled slowly down to Fiskebäck marina with a sleepy Sammie. She was warmly dressed, and Sammie’s thick fur protected him from the cold.

The view was stunning when they got down to the sea. She was dazzled by the sun sparkling on the virgin snow covering the ice. The extreme cold over the past few weeks meant that the waters off the Swedish coastline had frozen unusually early. If this carried on, it would soon be possible to drive out to the islands in the archipelago.

Irene let Sammie off the leash and he dashed ecstatically into the snow and started rolling around. He loved snow, and the cold didn’t bother him at all. She was happy to let him run free for a little while; there were no other dogs in sight, and with his increasing age and deteriorating eyesight, he had become less inclined to run away. He came bounding toward
Irene, covered in snow. He looked so happy, the way only a terrier running free can do. There was no sign of old age or illness, but Irene realized with a stab of pain that they were there. It was only a matter of time.

S
AMMIE FLOPPED DOWN
on the rug in the living room when they got home, and within minutes he was snoring loudly. He hadn’t even bothered to beg for a liver paste sandwich, in spite of the fact Krister was having his breakfast. Irene kissed her husband on the cheek. There was a pot of coffee on the table, and she poured herself a mug, filling it right to the brim. She buttered a roll and told Krister about Sammie’s lumps.

“So I was thinking: you’re not working tomorrow. Could you call the vet and book an appointment?”

“Sure. As you said, I’m not working.”

Irene couldn’t miss the bitter note in his voice, but she didn’t understand what the problem was.

“Sorry, did you have other plans?” she asked.

He sighed loudly. “No. I’ll contact Blue Star.”

“Is that okay?” she asked uncertainly.

“It’s fine.”

He gave her a wan smile over the top of the morning paper. He had said it was okay, but Irene didn’t think it sounded that way. She decided not to push it. No doubt she would find out what was wrong eventually. Perhaps Krister was just tired; the weekend shifts were long. Today he would finish at five and should be back just after six. Irene decided that she and the twins would surprise him with a delicious dinner; it would be on the table when he got home.

T
HE PHONE RANG
at about four o’clock, and when Irene answered she heard Fredrik’s cheerful voice trumpeting down the line.

“I think we might have found the Passat,” he began, bursting with enthusiasm.

“What Passat?” she asked before she had time to think.

“The station wagon that picked up the late Heinz Becker and his equally late associate and the girl who’s lying unconscious in Varberg hospital.”

“Sorry. I mean …”

“A guy was picked up for drunk driving last night. He was driving a dark blue Passat station wagon, and he’s a known villain: Anders Pettersson.”

Irene knew all about Anders Pettersson. He was a big-time dealer, infamous for indiscriminately supplying narcotics to children and teenagers. He was unscrupulous and always demanded sexual favors from his young customers once he had them hooked. Some of them hadn’t even lived long enough to become teenagers. Nor did he care if they were girls or boys. He had been arrested for sexual activity with a minor and drug-related offenses on a number of occasions, but often didn’t get as far as court. It had never been possible to prove that he had threatened witnesses or his accusers, but those who might constitute a threat usually withdrew their accusations and witness statements. Pettersson was protected by a notorious gang of bikers, and for many years he had been their coordinator when it came to supplying the schools in Göteborg. The underage addicts didn’t have a chance.

“So the bastard has been arrested for drunk driving?” Irene said.

“Yes. An armed response unit was on the way back to HQ when they saw a car weaving from lane to lane on Södra Vägen. They stopped the car; the driver was alone in the vehicle, and it was Pettersson. He was drunk out of his mind, slumped over the wheel. He was clutching his cell, and he just kept on repeating the same sentence. The officer in charge became interested when he finally worked out what he was
slurring. It sounded like, ‘Gotta call Heinz.’ I wonder if you can guess who that officer was?”

“The guy who was involved in the raid at Biskopsgården,” Irene ventured. It wasn’t really a guess; it was sheer logic.

“Yes! His name is Lennart Lundstedt, by the way. Smart guy. He thought there couldn’t be that many people called Heinz out there, so he confiscated Pettersson’s cell. When he checked the last number called, it turned out to be Heinz Becker’s, of course.”

“The one listed on the Internet ad?”

“Yep. And as I’m on call this weekend, Lundstedt contacted me this morning. He’d had an idea. I did as he suggested, and I hit the jackpot!”

“What do you mean, you hit the jackpot?” Irene asked, feeling slightly irritated. At the same time, she could feel her interest rising.

“I got in touch with our colleagues in Varberg and asked them to get out Heinz Becker’s cell. I called the number in Pettersson’s cell, and guess which phone started to ring?”

“The one in Varberg,” Irene answered obediently.

“That’s right. And they found Pettersson’s number in Becker’s cell. We’ve got watertight proof of a connection between Becker and Pettersson!”

“Neat,” Irene said with genuine admiration.

“The guys in Varberg also said they’re searching for passports and anything else that might provide a clue to the identity of the girl and Becker’s associate.”

“But they haven’t found anything?”

“Not yet. But they are looking. Apparently the car is a real mess; I presume it’s difficult to find bags and so on.”

“So we’ll just have to be satisfied with the knowledge that there’s a link between Becker and Pettersson.”

“Satisfied! We’ve got a winning hand here! But we need to act fast. Like now!”

“Why the hurry?”

“Pettersson has been sleeping like the dead in the drunk tank all day. He had two point three mill of alcohol in his blood, but there’s also a suspicion that he was under the influence of drugs.”

“So what do you mean by a winning hand?” Irene wasn’t usually slow, but right now she couldn’t work out what her enthusiastic colleague was getting at.

“Pettersson doesn’t know that Heinz Becker is dead.”

It took a while for the significance of Fredrik’s words to sink in. “You’re right. We need to talk to him before he finds out,” she said.

“I think it would be best if there were two of us.”

“Absolutely. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Great. I’ll get everything ready.”

I
RENE AND
F
REDRIK
were already waiting in the interview room when Anders Pettersson was brought in by two well-built custody officers. According to the record, Pettersson was thirty-six, but he looked older. He had eyebrow piercings and was covered in tattoos, but that didn’t help; he still looked older. It looked like several days had passed since he had shaved his head, and the stubble mercilessly exposed a well-developed bald patch. Once upon a time he had probably been pretty fit—after a long stretch in jail, perhaps—but now he was hauling around many surplus kilos. He looked like exactly what he was: a middle-aged villain who had had a hard life.

He slumped down opposite them, the chair groaning under his weight. He raised his hands in the air and waved them around demonstratively. “No shackles?” he asked hoarsely.

The comment triggered a wheezing fit of coughing that sounded as if it had its epicenter in the inferior lobes of his lungs. At the same time, a distinct smell of morning-after-breath spread through the interview room. Pettersson’s puffy
face was glistening with sweat, and his bloodshot eyes suggested that he wasn’t feeling at all well.

“Not this time. We just want to ask you a few questions,” Fredrik replied when the coughing had subsided. He introduced himself and Irene.

“What fucking questions? I want my lawyer here! I’m not saying a fucking—”

“Calm down. This isn’t about you.”

Pettersson looked at Fredrik in surprise. Slowly his drug-addled brain processed this information. “No?” was the only response he managed to come up with.

“No. This is about …”

Clumsily Pettersson started to get to his feet. “In that case I’m not fucking staying here.”

“Sit down!” Fredrik bellowed.

“Why the fuck should I? If it’s not about me, then—”

“This is about a murder.”

Pettersson hesitated, his substantial posterior hovering above the chair. He stared at Fredrik, openmouthed. “What the fuck,” he muttered, sinking feebly back onto his seat.

For a fraction of a second Irene was afraid that he might end up on the floor, but he landed safely. She took the opportunity to interject, “I can get you a cup of coffee if you’d like.”

Pettersson attempted to focus his bloodshot eyes on her and grunted something. It seemed as if he was in dire need of something to stimulate his central nervous system.

“Milk? Sugar?” Irene asked.

“Sugar. Lots of sugar.”

She got up and opened the door. With one hand she waved to the guard in the corridor. They had agreed on the signal beforehand, and he nodded and smiled conspiratorially before heading off toward the coffee machine.

“One with sugar, one with milk and one black,” she called after his broad back.

She slid back into her seat as unobtrusively as possible, although it was completely unnecessary, as Pettersson’s undivided attention was on Fredrik.

“What … what murder? I haven’t—”

“We know,” Fredrik broke in. “But you have a pal who is a prime suspect.”

Pettersson tried to stare at him but failed. His eyeballs kept rolling around, reminding Irene of a slot machine; Pettersson’s red eyes could easily serve as two cherries. Although you need three in a row to win the jackpot. All Pettersson was going to end up with was a humdinger of a hangover.

He glowered unsuccessfully at Fredrik until their coffee arrived. He didn’t speak until the guard had left the room and closed the door.

“Who?”

Fredrik pretended not to hear the question. “What were you doing last Friday afternoon at approximately one thirty?”

Instead of answering, Pettersson attempted to sip his steaming coffee.

“Answer the question! Otherwise you will remain in custody for protecting a known criminal.”

Pettersson merely shrugged.

“I’m sure you’re not aware of this, but we put out a call for your car on Friday afternoon just after three o’clock. Every single police officer in Västra Götaland was looking for it, and you decided to drive drunk, and you got picked up by the armed response team.”

Pettersson took a few small sips of his coffee; he didn’t appear to be listening to Fredrik, but Irene could see the confused thoughts ricocheting around in his woolly head. She almost felt sorry for him.

“What the fuck,” he mumbled eventually. “Why were you looking for my car?”

“A witness spotted your car when you picked up Heinz
Becker and the others on Ringön. In the same place where we found the truck they’d stolen. After the murder.”

“What fucking murder?” he groaned.

“The murder of the little blonde girl Becker had with him. What was her name …”

Fredrik pretended to be searching his memory. Irene watched Pettersson, taking care not to reveal the tension she felt as she waited for his reaction. He had knitted his enormous pierced eyebrows. He seemed to be really trying to understand what Fredrik had just said.

“Has Heinz iced the little Russian?” He looked every bit as surprised as he sounded.

“Didn’t you notice she was missing when you picked them up yesterday?” Fredrik asked quickly.

“Yeah … but Heinz said she’d already gone to Tenerife …”

“On her own?”

“No … no …”

“So who was with her?”

“Sergei,” he replied with a weary sigh.

“What’s his surname?”

Pettersson shook his round head.

“You don’t know?”

“No … they just called him Sergei.”

“So Sergei was supposed to have gone off to Tenerife with the blonde girl? Is that what Heinz said?”

“Yeah.”

Irene had a strong feeling that Pettersson was telling the truth. She could understand why he didn’t want to get dragged into Becker’s dirty trade, given the nature of his own shady activities. However, it was obvious that they had worked together in some capacity since Becker had called on Pettersson in an emergency. What was their point of contact? Irene thought she knew, and decided to test her hypothesis.

“She didn’t go to Tenerife with Sergei,” she said calmly, placing the photograph of the dead girl in front of Pettersson.

He glanced distractedly at the picture, but gave a start when he saw who it was.

“You recognize her. Heinz supplied the girls and you supplied the drugs,” Irene stated.

With a weary gesture Pettersson pushed the photograph away with one hand. He clenched the other hand and shook it under Fredrik’s nose. “You’re not going to fucking frame me for this! I want my lawyer! I’ve got nothing to do with that girl, you hear me?” he shouted.

Irene could almost hear the hangover starting to pound inside his head. “I can get you another coffee if you’d like one,” she said in a friendly tone.

“Yes,” he said, calming down slightly.

“I know you take sugar, but can I get you a Danish or a sandwich to go with it?”

“Danish,” he decided after lengthy consideration.

She repeated the ordering process with the guard. Behind her she could hear Fredrik asking, “Do you remember the name of the Russian girl?”