The Beige Man (24 page)

“There’s one thing I think you ought to know—de Viera is a blood relation to Jesus Gomez. He has always protected Gomez. And vice versa.”

It took a few seconds before Irene grasped the implications of what Rejón had said. So that was why Miguel de Viera had been so stubborn, refusing to give up until the police in Göteborg had agreed to send over an investigator. This wasn’t just an ordinary homicide case; this was first and foremost a matter of the chief of police saving his own skin. And in spite of Irene’s limited knowledge of vendettas in Southern Europe,
she realized that it could ultimately cost him his life. If he had protected Jesus Gomez, who was now dead, he could well be the next target.

“So this isn’t about tourism, which is what he told my boss. He wants to put a stop to any further escalation of the violence between the Gomez and Saar gangs. His last chance is to find out the truth about what happened in Sweden,” Irene said.

“Yes.”

“He must be pretty desperate.”

Inspector Rejón nodded. The fleeting expression that crossed his handsome face told Irene that she had just delivered the understatement of the year.

Inspector Rejón parked outside the flamboyant entrance of the Golden Sun Club Hotel. When they stepped out of the car, he pointed diagonally across the wide avenue. “Over there is Lembit Saar’s newly opened casino and nightclub, Casino Royal de Tenerife. It’s the biggest and most exclusive club on the island,” he said.

Irene could see the façade of the casino between the palms lining both sides of the avenue. It looked like a palace, which was no doubt the intention. Replicas of classical Greek statues adorned the wide steps leading up to the entrance. The building itself was made of golden yellow sandstone, shimmering in the bright sunshine. On one wall a little waterfall tumbled between bronze statues representing sea gods and mythical sea monsters. The splash as the water cascaded freely into a pool at the bottom could be heard all the way to the hotel where Irene was standing.

“So tacky,” as her beloved father-in-law from Säffle would have said.

It would surely be easy to find women who would be happy to work in such an extravagant establishment. Why had Saar asked Gomez for two girls through the sex trafficking channel? Irene thought she knew the answer: he hadn’t been looking for
ordinary girls. What he had wanted, what he had demanded, were two young blonde sex slaves.

Inspector Rejón accompanied her into the elegant hotel lobby. He spoke to the female receptionist in rapid Spanish; he evidently wanted to make sure that Irene was properly checked in. The young woman handed Irene a small envelope containing the key card; the room number was written on the outside in green ink.

“Room three twelve. I hope you enjoy your stay with us,” she recited in a monotone, unable to take her eyes off Juan Rejón.

He seemed oblivious to the receptionist’s doe-eyed attentions and turned his back on her to speak to Irene.

“I’ll pick you up at four o’clock on the dot,” he said, firing off a smile that would have floored the receptionist behind him if she had been able to see it.

Irene nodded and headed for the elevator, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking faintly on the polished pale-grey marble floor. Huge white lilies arranged in tall red glass vases filled the air with a wonderful perfume. Next to the elevator a sign indicated the way to the pool bar and restaurant, which was where Irene intended to go as soon as she had dumped her bags in her room. Lunch on the plane had been a joke. The wrapped baguette she had bought at the airport had been a godsend, but now she was ravenous.

The room was large and airy, with grey-blue and white as the dominant colors. The pale-grey tiled floor felt pleasantly cool beneath her bare feet. One wall consisted entirely of glass sliding doors, leading out onto a generous balcony. She had a view of the leafy garden and the bathing area; there were two large pools and a children’s pool, arranged like a clover leaf with the bar in the middle. Irene could see people eating at small tables. Most of them were dressed in swimwear, and there were large glasses of beer in front of several diners. Suddenly
Irene realized how dry her mouth was. An ice-cold beer was exactly what she needed.

She made an instant decision, then got undressed and took a quick shower before applying plenty of sun lotion and putting on her bikini. She slipped her pale blue T-shirt and shorts over the top. She grabbed a white towel from the bathroom and put it in her rucksack, and slid her feet into her sandals. A quick glance at the time told her that she had exactly two hours for lunch and a swim before Juan Rejón came to pick her up.

T
HE TOMATO SALAD
with a chicken kebab had tasted delicious. The fried potato wedges and a large glass of beer had significantly raised the GI-index of the meal, but what the hell; it wasn’t every day that she had lunch by a pool, wearing nothing but a bikini. And it was definitely a special occasion at the beginning of February.

Irene’s rucksack occupied the chair beside her, her clothes neatly folded on top. The swim could wait; there were too many people in the pool. She ordered dessert: three scoops of differently flavored ice creams, along with a double espresso. When the ice cream dish and the coffee cup were empty, she leaned back on the plastic chair and observed the lively activity around the pool.

It was clear that the school vacation had begun in Sweden. Several of the children jumping up and down in the water were yelling at each other in Swedish. Irene was a little taken aback to see Lukas and Simon come hurtling along, each with an inflatable ring around their tummies. To be on the safe side, Simon was also kitted out with inflatable armbands. In their wake came their parents, pulling Natan along in a little cart. He was fast asleep. His mother was wearing black bikini bottoms and a low-cut top that generously exposed the deep cleft between her heavy breasts. His father wore only swimming trunks in a hallucinogenic tropical pattern of apricot and pea-green. Irene couldn’t help smiling to herself as she pictured
what Krister’s face would look like if she were to present him with something similar.

She looked at her watch and realized it was time to head back to her room to get ready for her meeting with de Viera. She still wasn’t sure of his correct title. Was he the chief of police for the whole of Tenerife, or just Playa de las Américas? Or was he the equivalent of a superintendent?

“W
HAT IS DE
Viera’s actual rank?” Irene asked Inspector Rejón.

“He’s the head of the Policía Nacional in Playa de las Américas and Los Cristianos. It’s not very big in geographical terms, but this is where most of the tourists are, which means that he has a very important area of responsibility.”

They chatted easily during the short trip to the police station, a large two-story limestone building not far from the freeway exit ramp. It was obviously old, but well maintained. The blue emblem of the Policía Nacional was displayed above the entrance. The entire place, including the large paved yard at the front, was surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence. They drove in through the open gates, which were made of heavy wrought iron, and parked in the shade of a large palm tree.

Inspector Rejón tapped a series of numbers into the keypad next to the sturdy oak door. A click revealed that it was unlocked. He pushed the heavy door and politely held it open for Irene, who jokingly saluted him as she walked past. The entrance hall was cool and completely deserted. Their footsteps echoed between the bare, pale grey walls. In spite of the fact that Irene was wearing her sandals, it sounded as if she were tap dancing across the floor.

They went up a worn limestone staircase and along a dark corridor with several closed doors. There was a strong smell of wax polish and detergent. Fat, iridescent bluebottles buzzed lazily in the windows. Juan Rejón stopped outside the only set
of double doors in the corridor and knocked. A few words in Spanish came from inside the room; Inspector Rejón opened the door and held it for Irene.

Chief of Police Miguel de Viera got to his feet with some difficulty on the far side of the polished conference table and waited for Irene and Rejón to come to him. He was in uniform and looked exactly as Irene had imagined: just like Superintendent Andersson, but shorter. De Viera was probably a few years younger than his counterpart in the north, but otherwise they were very much alike: overweight, with thinning hair and high color. The latter could be due to the temperature in the room; an air-conditioning unit protruded from the wall, rattling like a threshing machine.

The entire over-furnished room gave Irene the feeling that a point was being made. It was hardly likely to be an office, not even for a Spanish chief of police who should at least have a computer on his desk. The only modern thing in this room was an ordinary black push-button telephone in the middle of the table.

Inspector Rejón introduced Irene to de Viera, who gave her a charming smile, revealing nicotine-stained teeth, and said a few words in Spanish. Irene didn’t understand a thing, so she simply murmured in agreement. With an extravagant gesture, de Viera indicated that she should sit down on one of the carved chairs along the wall. The old leather creaked ominously as she complied. The chief of police then signaled to Inspector Rejón that he wished to speak to him out in the corridor. In his left hand, de Viera was holding a rolled-up newspaper, which he had been clutching when Irene and Rejón came into the room.

Irene felt a little foolish, perched on the edge of the chair with her laptop case balanced on her knee. It was almost like sitting in an empty waiting room before an unpleasant procedure. And there were no old gossip magazines to read.

What happened next made her forget such thoughts.

Through the door came the sound of an increasingly heated exchange of words, which soon turned into a full-blown argument. The main protagonist appeared to be de Viera, whose hoarse barking dominated the quarrel. He really was incensed with poor Rejón, who spoke up for himself as best he could when de Viera paused to catch his breath. The respite lasted only a few seconds, and soon the chief of police was sounding off once more. Irene didn’t need to understand a word of Spanish to realize that Rejón was in deep shit.

Suddenly there was silence outside the door. They’re throttling each other, Irene thought. She slid forward a fraction on her chair so she could leap up and save her colleague. Although she wasn’t sure which one, she had to admit.

Before she had to make a decision, the door flew open and de Viera came barreling in as fast as his bulk would allow. His face was even more purple than before. A small, anemic-looking middle-aged woman came bobbing along in his wake. She looked around the room with big eyes, and Irene realized this was the first time she had ever been in there. Eventually her gaze settled on Irene. The brown eyes were the only element of color in her entire appearance. She looked like an ancient, faded sepia photograph.

De Viera slapped the highly polished surface of the table with the newspaper as he growled, “She
habla ingles
.”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the pale woman, who nodded mutely at Irene. She evidently had no name, or at least not one that was worth mentioning.

“Should we wait for Inspector Rejón?” Irene dared to ask.

She was trying to look as if she hadn’t heard the row in the corridor. De Viera glared at her before answering curtly in Spanish. Irene looked inquiringly at the interpreter, who translated what the chief of police had said, her voice shaking:
“Inspector Rejón has been removed from the case. His position was … compromised.”

Her voice was barely audible in the large room, but her English was perfect. Only then did Irene realize that the woman was in fact English, not Spanish.

“Compromised in what way?” Irene asked, looking straight at de Viera. He understood perfectly without any need for the interpreter to translate. He kept his eyes fixed on her as he raised the newspaper, which was still tightly furled in his hand. Slowly he began to unroll it, then he held it out to Irene, pointing with his fat index finger at a picture on the lower half of the front page. He tapped the picture peremptorily with his nail, demanding that Irene take a closer look. The old chair pad made a sucking sound as she got up and went over to him. Today’s date was at the top of the page. She leaned forward and peered at the image.

There were two people in the photograph. One was an attractive blonde in her early twenties. The other was Inspector Juan Rejón. Both of them were smiling at the camera, and they had just gotten out of a limousine. They were a very good-looking couple. She was wearing a close-fitting silver evening dress, and he was dazzlingly stylish in a dark suit. Once again Irene thought he could make a fortune as a model, but apparently he was intending to make a fortune in a different way. The headline proclaimed:
NUEVO BOYFRIEND
, and even Irene could guess what that meant. Underneath the picture were the names Juan Rejón and Julia Saar.

“Is Julia Saar related to Lembit Saar?” she asked, although she suspected that she already knew the answer.

“
Sí
,” de Viera replied grimly.

“His daughter,” the interpreter piped up boldly.

De Viera gave no indication that he had heard her. Instead he cast a final glance of loathing at the picture before screwing
it up and throwing it in the waste bin. He then spat out a few brief comments, which the interpreter quickly translated.

“As Rejón is now off the case, you are to report directly to the chief of police,” she said.

“Only to him?” Irene asked, feeling somewhat surprised.

“
Sí
,” de Viera said before the interpreter had the chance to ask him.

Irene took out her laptop. When she asked if there was a projector so that she could give a PowerPoint presentation, both de Viera and the interpreter looked blankly at her. Irene suppressed a sigh, while at the same time blessing her foresight in bringing hard copies of all the case notes. It was a substantial bundle. She passed the top sheet of paper to de Viera and began: