EQMM, May 2012 (6 page)

She laid the pistol on a towel and signed into Asphyxia 1.3 and navigated her way to the hard drive of SNBP's mainframe. She typed in firearms registration, clicked on Search, and entered the pistol's make, model, and serial number. Not found.She typed in missing weapons and retyped the details. Her screen went blank and then reported: Polish P-83 Wanad, 61068798, reported stolen 2007-06-22, Manfred von Otter, 22 Haagen-Dazs, Stockholm 111 43.

Manfred von Otter!

She reopened Asphyxia 1.3 and hacked her way into von Otter's system. Folder after folder was in a lawyerly order. She opened Olaf Gedda's will and slogged through the legalese, stopping at the list of beneficiaries: Paulsson and herself, a few well-known charities such as Trout Unlimited and Pearl S. Buck International, and a much longer list of organizations she'd never heard of. Out of curiosity she picked Worldwide Daycare, earmarked for one billion kronor, and Googled it. KinderCare topped the list. No Worldwide Daycare.

Salamander Googled a second one-billion-kronor beneficiary, Help Homeless Haitians. UNICEF, USAID came up, but no Help Homeless Haitians. She opened a Word document titled “Help Homeless Haitians.” The content was short and sweet. Deposit one billion kronor in Barclays Bank PLC, Account No. 40408743.

She opened “Worldwide Daycare.” Same instructions, same Barclays account number.

How did he ever get Papa Gedda to sign this? Well, Advokat von Otter, no catch-and-release for you!

Rhindtwist was preoccupied by the deadline for the upcoming issue of Umlaut when his iPhone quacked like a duck. He sighed. It was Tonsoffun.

"I'll be quick,” Tonsoffun said. “Have you heard from the girl?"

"No."

"I don't believe you, but okay.” Tonsoffun paused. “Jerker, man to man?"

Rhindtwist scowled and said, “Man to man."

"At one time, Gotilda and you were intimate."

"Intimate?"

"You were sleeping with her, right?"

"Torsten, what's with you and Noonesson and your sexual fantasies?"

"Cool it,” Tonsoffun said. “Does she have a strawberry birthmark on her lower back?"

Rhindtwist sat stock-still and stared at his mobile. Howinthehelldoesheknowthat? He lit a Chesterfield and nodded as though Tonsoffun could see him. “Yes, but she covered it with a tattoo of a rainbow trout.” He heard Tonsoffun begin to sob when his ICQ pinged. [I've got our man.] “I'll call you right back,” he said to Tonsoffun, and hung up.

[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 ushered 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

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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.