Åke Edwardson - Death Angels

“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.