Death Angels

37

WlNTER FLAGGED DOWN A NORTHBOUND TAXl ON EARL’S COURT Road. It was fifteen minutes to Notting Hill Gate on the narrow streets past Holland Park. He had hiked around there occasionally in his younger days.

The houses on Kensington Park Road shone like marble. At the Pembridge intersection, a café owner was putting checkered tablecloths on the outdoor tables. People were already waiting for the first cappuccino of spring.

The buildings on Stanley Gardens were surrounded by silence and shade. Number 32 had an entrance where anybody could go in and out. Winter continued down the street and then turned back to Kensington Park Road. He stood still on the corner. A couple his own age stopped before him.

“How do we get to Portobello Road?” the man asked with a Swedish accent.

“It runs parallel to this street. Just turn right down there.”

“Thank you very much,” the couple said in unison and Winter flashed them his best British smile. I’m a member of the anonymous public, he thought.

It was a Swedish area of sorts. Within walking distance to his east was the Bayswater district, whose hotels around Queensway Street were the favored accommodations of Scandinavian tourists.

A taxi pulled up and Macdonald wriggled out. “A train and then a cab from Victoria Station,” he said. “It’s the fastest way.”

“It’s over there.”

“Did you go inside?”

“No.”

“I’ve issued an order for the building to remain under 24/7 surveillance from the moment we leave.”

“Excellent.”

“I had a chat with a judge, who said no, of course, so that investigation of yours needs to turn up something pretty damn quick.”

They went over to the building, and Winter read the nameplates. He tugged on the heavy door to the northern stairway. It was locked. “I assume you have the entry code,” he said.

Macdonald nodded. “We can always count on the janitors.”

The hallway had the cool smell of polished wood. The light spiraled up the stairs to the roof. They followed the light and stopped on the third floor. Macdonald put on a pair of gloves and tapped on the door with the lion-faced knocker. “A custom left over from our colonial era.”

No answer. Macdonald tapped again, brass against wood. “Nobody’s subleasing the apartment,” he said.

“We don’t know that.”

“Whatever. Nobody’s home right now.”

Winter heard a clatter beneath them. The elevator hissed, went down and stopped. A minute later it passed by on the way back up. The passenger couldn’t have seen Winter or Macdonald, who stood in the blind corner of the staircase.

Macdonald tossed a pair of gloves to Winter. “Put these on.”

“I never thought you’d have the nerve to do it.”

“This is dangerous as hell.”

“Open the door.”

Macdonald handed Winter some blue plastic hospital booties. “These too.”

He must have been a burglar in a past life, Winter thought. The blood swelled in his chest.

Nothing but silence from the stairway and the other apartments. Macdonald’s picklock clicked softly and they slipped inside.

It’s all about ends and means, Winter thought. We’re burglars, but we’re fighting for the survival of others. That’s what sets us apart from the real thieves.

They found themselves in the middle of the living room. It was hot in the apartment, and the sun beating down on the closed blinds provided more than enough light.

Macdonald nodded to the right side and Winter followed him. There were no leftovers or dirty dishes in the kitchen. Towels hanging in a neat row, a rack of knives on the wall.

“All the knives are right where they belong,” Winter said.

“None of them double-edged.”

We’ve invaded someone’s privacy and Steve is playing it for all it’s worth, Winter thought. We have no respect anymore, not for anything. But I’m glad we’re here.

They picked up and examined everything in the apartment.

“The guy’s a fucking perfectionist,” Macdonald said.

“He’s into music.”

“Reggae.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“He’s got quite a bit.”

“Lots of locked chests,” Winter said.

“And cabinets.”

“Right.”

“Something’s not right about this place,” Macdonald said. “Do you feel it too?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Here’s a photo of him.” Macdonald leaned over a desk. Vikingsson smiled unassumingly at the camera. He had short, straight, blond hair. “Wh-i-ite.”

Winter went and stood next to him.

“How can a flight attendant afford an apartment in Notting Hill?” Macdonald asked.

“I don’t know what Scandinavian Airlines pays.”

“I couldn’t live here on my salary.”

“That’s because you fly too close to the ground.”

“That doesn’t seem to be a problem for you, judging by your clothes.”

“No.”

“So you’re independently wealthy?”

“You might say that.”

“Damn, I knew it.”

“It’s a mix of old and new money.”

“You’re like a British officer,” Macdonald said. “Their salaries pay the bill at the mess hall and that’s about it.”

“We’ll have to do a little checking into Vikingsson’s finances. Remember, he’s got that place in Gothenburg too.”

They opened all the closets. The clothes were impeccably stacked.

“Perfectionist,” Macdonald said.

“What were you expecting? Another garbage bag of bloody clothes?”

“Once doesn’t count.”

“We’ll come back.”

“You’ll be gone by then.”

“I’ll be with you in spirit.”

“What time is your flight?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“Will Vikingsson still be there when you land?”

“Just barely. Unless we get a detention order.”

“Somebody has to convince the D.A.”

“Everybody’s nervous now. We can take advantage of that.”

“Or else Vikingsson will be cleared by the time you get home.”

“That would also be a step in the right direction.”

“The process of elimination. That’s our stock-in-trade.”

They came out on Stanley Gardens and walked over to the intersection. Macdonald nodded at someone in a Vauxhall that was parked across the street.

Winter called Gothenburg.

“Ringmar here.”

“It’s Erik. How’s it going?”

“No disagreements about the weather forecast, anyway.”

“What’s he like?”

“Cool.”

“Too cool?”

“Not exactly. But he’s obviously hiding something.”

“Good to hear.”

“It may or may not be important.”

“My plane lands at ten o’clock.”

“That’s too late.”

“So we’re still not close to having probable cause?”

“We haven’t got a thing.”

“This is moving fast, but that’s the way I like it. Make sure you’ve got something on him by the time I arrive. I’m counting on results.”

Winter hung up. It was late afternoon and more people were out, on their way to the markets. He heard cheerful Scandinavian voices. “Vikingsson isn’t talking.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” Macdonald said.

“It’ll happen. We just need a little more time.”

“They’re waiting for us at the studio.”

“I’d forgotten all about that.”

“They haven’t forgotten about us.”

Winter played the part of Macdonald’s advisor. It was a small studio. The lights were bright but Macdonald wasn’t the least bit sweaty.

This might do some good, Winter thought. You never know.

They didn’t mention the interrogations in Gothenburg. If it had been just three days from now, or five, Winter thought, we would have had a photo to hold up, a head of short, straight blond hair.

They held up other photos. People could call in during the program. The crew recorded all the calls. But when Macdonald listened to the tapes afterward, he didn’t hear anything that merited immediate attention.

Winter thought about Vikingsson. The events in Gothenburg were a welcome distraction.

After the show, they sat in Macdonald’s car outside the studio, then rode to a pub for lunch. As soon as they were through the revolving door, Winter was assaulted by the smell of beer, fried liver and cigarette smoke. They ordered their meal.

“We’re going to hear from some witnesses this time,” Macdonald said.

“About Christian?” Winter lit a cigarillo.

“Yes.”

“Because of the color of his skin?”

“Yep. The victim was a black person from another country. People aren’t so afraid. And considering that the murderer was white…”

“That’s an assumption on our part.”

“We have no reason to believe otherwise.”

“Here comes the beer.”

“And your quiche.”

“Now I won’t get a chance to meet your family,” Winter said.

“That makes two of us.”

“Do your kids remember what you look like?”

“Just as long as I don’t get a haircut.”

“Do you have a picture of them?”

Macdonald put his glass down and took his wallet out of his inside pocket. His holster strap stretched tightly across his chest like a big leather bandage. The metal revolver gleamed under his arm.

He pulled out a photo, a side view of a dark-haired woman sitting between two teenage girls. All three of them had ponytails.

“That’s the way they wanted it.” Macdonald smiled.

“Where’s the other half of the mug shot?”

“They’re a wild bunch.”

“Twins?”

“Uh-huh. Here’s another shot of them.”

“They look like your right side.”

“It’s the hairstyle.”

They ate in silence. Macdonald ordered coffee for both of them. He drove Winter back to the hotel. The traffic was hardly moving on Cromwell Road.

“ London is a hellhole,” Macdonald said. “At least to drive in.”

“I always end up back here. It’s one of the few truly civilized cities there is.”

“You just can’t resist our cigars.”

“The diversity is what most appeals to me.”

“Right, real diverse-murderers and rapists and pimps and junkies.”

“And soccer teams and restaurants and jazz clubs and people from all over the world.”

“It’s true. The eternal empire, although we call it the Commonwealth these days.”

“Could you imagine living anywhere else?”

“Somewhere other than London? I don’t live in London. I live in Kent.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“Not to mention that you can sunbathe when it’s still winter in Sweden.”

Winter picked up his bags from the hotel. Macdonald coaxed the car back onto A4 and drove through the borough of Hammersmith onto M4 south of Gunnersbury Park. Winter looked out at the urban landscape. Children were playing soccer in Osterley Park, the wind ruffling their hair. Nothing ever changed. Middle-aged men strolled past, golf carts in tow. Three horses trotted by below him. He couldn’t tell whether the riders were women or men. He saw the last horse leave a trail of manure without breaking its elegant stride.

Winter felt the cold air as soon as he was out of the terminal. Spring was dawdling over the North Sea.

Ringmar was waiting in the car. “We had to let him go,” he said.

Winter waited.

“But he doesn’t have any alibis.”

“That’s good.”

“He can’t prove where he was during any of the murders.”

“Fine.”

“We’ve contacted the airlines, and he wasn’t on duty when they were committed.”

“Hmm.”

Out on the expressway, they drove through the town of Landvetter at eighty miles an hour. The lights of Gothenburg glimmered ten miles away.

“He was in London when it happened there and in Gothenburg when it happened here,” Ringmar said.

“What does he claim he was up to?”

“This and that. Laundry, cooking, going to a movie.”

Ringmar tapped his fingers on the wheel, as if to make the car go faster.

“No holes in his story?” Winter asked.

“Nope.”

“Have you checked whether he was working on the days that the victims were en route?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He was on all the flights.”

“That’s a little too good to be true.”

Ringmar switched on his turn signal and passed another car. They zipped by the suburb of Mölnlycke, a cluster of lights on the left. “Aren’t you the one who wanted quick results?” he asked.

“It wasn’t long ago that we were wondering if somebody had been on one of the flights, and now we’ve got a man who was on all of them.”

“And that’s too good to be true?”

Winter rubbed his eyes. He had dozed for half an hour on the plane, had shaken his head when they’d come around with the food and coffee. “All this is based on the suspicions of a self-confessed burglar,” he said.

“It wouldn’t be the first time we solved a case that way.”

“How discreet have you been?”

“We’re not going to botch a lineup.”

“We can’t afford to.”

“That’s what I’m saying. We won’t jeopardize what we’ve got.”

Waving photographs around before you can get a proper lineup together is a mortal sin, Winter thought. It’s spending your best ammunition, maybe for good. They had tried a photo lineup once, ten pictures in a row in front of the witness, but that was a huge risk.

“We’ve got to play by the book all the way,” Winter said, thinking of his escapade with Macdonald on Stanley Gardens.

“We took Vikingsson’s keys, but we didn’t have the chance to search his apartment very thoroughly.”

“I’ll go there right away.”

“If we want to know anything more about this guy, we’ll have to get a detention order,” Ringmar said, “so we can sit down with him and get to the bottom of things.”

“What does Birgersson have to say about it?”

“He told the D.A. that he’s never going to talk to him again unless he issues an order.”

“That’s quite a threat.”

“Birgersson is willing to take the chance. Also, the D.A. can consider it a promise. But so far he’s looking at whether we have probable cause.”

“And he’s decided that we don’t.”

Ringmar parked outside police headquarters.

Winter’s whole body was stiff as he got out of the car. Welcome to Sweden, he told himself. “What’s going on with Bergenhem, by the way?”

Ringmar locked the door with the remote. “He sniffs around like a bloodhound.”

“Has he come up with anything?”

“He says he’s waiting for a name.”

Winter meandered through Vikingsson’s two-room apartment. It was suffused with an air of transience and sudden departure. What does he need this place for, anyway? he wondered, looking around. Something’s wrong in here. I can sense it.

He rummaged through the drawers. Vikingsson’s apartment on Stanley Gardens was lived-in and comfortable, but these walls-this floor and this ceiling-were mute and impassive, and the rooms rejected him like a foreign object. Had the burglar really been here? What an insolent lot they are.

What are you looking for?

Where would you keep something important, even if you were just passing through?

Papers, rolls of film, addresses, receipts? Where?

Where would you put something that you don’t want anybody to see even though you have no reason to believe that someone is going to come barging in?

He went into the sparsely furnished bedroom: a bed, chest of drawers, bookshelf, chair with a telephone on it.

A telephone.

People had called Vikingsson and he had called them. Winter closed his eyes and imagined the chart on Macdonald’s wall. Phone calls like satellite orbits high above the Western Hemisphere, a map that tracked every last sneeze that went out over the lines.

That was one approach they could take. If Vikingsson was innocent, they would help him prove it.

He opened his eyes and moved around. Nothing on the walls. The chest looked like someone had flung it across the room. He went over and pulled out the drawers, one by one, each of them scraping as it resisted.

He couldn’t budge the bottom drawer. Had the police been in here and tried before?

He pulled harder. The drawer came loose and he fell down and felt like an idiot. He looked around. The drawer was empty.

He lay back on the floor and looked up at the room. A mirror dangled from a hook on the wall above the chest, which now had a gaping hole like a missing row of teeth where the drawer had been. Even eight feet away from the mirror, he could see behind it. Something stuck out like a silhouette in the light that filtered through the space between the mirror and the wall.

Praise the Lord, Winter thought, standing up. He turned the mirror around and looked for the silhouette in the brighter light of the room.

It was gone. He gazed down at the floor. No paper, no photo, no receipt-nothing. A piece of fabric stuck out from the back of the mirror. He didn’t see anything else in there.

He hung the mirror back up and lay on the floor once more, trying to position himself at the same angle. He saw the space and the silhouette again. It was the loose piece of fabric. I’m letting all this get to me, he thought.

He had saved the photos for last. A collage was tacked up on a little bulletin board over the kitchen table. Ringmar had said that Vikingsson was vain. People like that don’t go very far without a mirror or a photo of themselves.

The collage was the only object in the apartment that revealed who lived there. Winter leaned over the table and looked at it. He counted the photos-eight in all, and Vikingsson the only person in each of them.

They had been arranged in a circle. He followed them clockwise, returning to the one on top: Vikingsson sat at some kind of counter that looked like a bar. He took up most of the photo. You could see behind his shoulders and five or six feet along the counter. Somebody had stood behind it and taken the picture with a wide-angle lens. Winter’s gaze meandered from Vikingsson to the area in back of him and off to the side.

Something about the place was familiar. The windows behind Vikingsson… Winter closed his eyes and saw the windows emerge from the past. The same bar. He saw himself sitting there and saying something to the man on the other side.

Take it easy, he told himself. It’s just a coincidence. The city is full of popular bars-and ones that aren’t so popular.