VERONICA VON SCHENCK
Veronica von Schenck is almost an atavism among current Swedish crime writers: her favorite character in fiction is Sherlock Holmes; her favorite crime author, Arthur Conan Doyle; and she is fascinated by the intricacies of plotting—planting leads in her work, letting her readers try to outguess her protagonists, and tying together the threads of the story. She came to crime writing after a number of other pursuits: she has been a live gamer, a computer game reviewer, editor of a computer magazine and of a Stockholm events magazine, and a recruitment consultant. She remains the last, part time, while writing; she lives with her husband and two children in a Stockholm suburb.
The protagonist of her first two novels was Althea Molin, a criminal profiler of half-Swedish, half-Korean parentage. She has also written three juvenile crime novels, all based on historical events, since the study of history fascinates her; in her juveniles, the reader is invited to explore both a historical period and a crime in the company of her two young sleuths, Milo and Vendela.
In her story for this book, Veronica von Schenck introduces a new protagonist who will be featured in her next novel. Stella Rodin reflects the author’s fascination with history, artifacts, and solving problems.
STELLA RODIN SIPPED THE CHAMPAGNE IN HER GLASS AND LOOKED AROUND at the exhibition room. The slate-gray walls showed off the colorful modern art covering them like an old quilt. The dark suits of the male guests showed off the colorful dresses of the female guests. The overall effect was attractive and the room was filled. At the center of the show was Stella’s father, Emmanuel Rodin. His glow competed with both his guests and his exhibits; he wore a light tweed suit with a burgundy vest, matching bowtie and pocket handkerchief. This was his favorite moment. To rule absolutely but with mild joviality one of the year’s most important showings and auction afterwards. To introduce with flattery and generosity his experts to interested and inquisitive customers possessing extremely well-stuffed wallets. To personally extol the quality of paper used in Warhol’s serigraphies. As for Stella, she loved art as passionately as did her father, but she hated this world. She had always been a black sheep, ever since day care. A girl as pretty as a doll and with a searing intelligence, who neither in day care nor since had had the sense of hiding her brain’s capacity and hunger for knowledge and truth. Definitely unattractive. She had a way of shaming, irritating or frightening most of the people she met. Mainly because she had never quite learned to keep her big mouth shut when someone stated an obvious lie. Her school years had been understandably painful, but had provided her with a hard shell. Instead of working in the family company atmosphere of flattery and hypocrisy (We do this just because of our passion for art, not at all to make money, of course not!) she had chosen to become a police forgery expert. It had made it possible for her to work with the art she loved, but in an environment a bit more tolerant of her abrupt personality and in her view at least slightly less hypocritical. But since her parents and her older brother, to whom she was close, still ran the auction house, here she was, reluctantly moonlighting as a poster girl for the family business. Her father had resolutely bribed her to do it. A beautiful, burgundy vintage dress with a tight waist, a boat neck and a flowing skirt with several petticoat layers. From the fifties. Dior. She stroked its crisp fabric. It was a bribe she had simply been unable to resist.
Stella walked up to her father and lightly kissed his cheek.
“Hi, Dad. An hour and a half, okay?”
“And what’s so important for you to do then? Do you have a date?” he asked in a kindly but irritated voice. This was a discussion they had had innumerable times. It usually started with some disparaging comment about her choice of profession—working in a police laboratory wasn’t her father’s idea of a successful career for his daughter.
“Yeah. With a good book and my bathtub.”
He sighed.
“Do you even understand how condescending that sounds to me? Don’t you know how hard I—all of us are working for all this? The least you could do is to smile and act a little friendly, at least this one evening. It can’t be all that hard.”
Stella sighed.
“Okay, okay, I’ll stay on.”
After a full hour’s worth of kissing cheeks and smiling, Stella was dead beat. She wasn’t made to stand this much uninteresting human contact in a single day. She turned to the paintings to escape further platitudes, at least for a moment. She stood for a long while watching a Picasso all in shades of gray, for one of his pieces a strange but surprisingly anatomically correct portrait of a young woman named Françoise, if the title was to be believed. If she had happened to have an extra 50,000 dollars she would happily have made a bid for it, but considering her police salary she ought to be happy if she managed to put that much aside during her entire working life. She straightened the frame minutely; it had slipped slightly to one side. Earlier in the day she had helped her brother Nicholas hang the pictures. Even if she didn’t work here she enjoyed helping him create the exhibitions, and he enjoyed having her there. It had almost become a tradition. She loved art intensely. Loved the craft of it. Was fascinated by the hours of single-minded energy and pure love given by artists and artisans to their work, by the combination of deep sorrow and exultant joy coexisting in a truly successful work of art.
Nicholas came up to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Someone named Carl Andreasen wants to talk to you. He’s at the entrance. Isn’t he your boss?”
With a worried frown, Stella looked searchingly towards the door. Yes, that was Carl, all right. A tall, gray-haired man with a crew cut and a lined face wrapped in a gigantic scarf he was trying to untangle himself from.
“Yes, it’s him. What the hell is he doing here?”
She wove through the throng of visitors and reached him.
“Carl. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
Stella caught her father’s disapproving glance from the opposite end of the room.
“Okay. Come along,” she said, pushing him ahead of her, away from the nosy, curious glances of the guests. Carl looked more like an aging soldier turned homeless than as a guest slightly late for the party.
Stella turned, snatched a second glass of champagne and brought Carl up to the library before he had time to object. She gave him the new glass and pointed to a chair. Carl sat down and Stella took the chair beside his.
“I never knew you were playing daddy’s girl during weekends.” His voice was scornful and he put his glass down without touching it.
“So now you know.” Stella smiled, amused at his lame attempt at provoking her. He usually did better. She and Carl were joined by a love-hate relationship to each other. She thought his thinking too traditional and formalistic, though despite that a good policeman. And he, as far as Stella could tell, considered her a troublesome pain in the ass who ought to keep her mouth shut, do as she was told and not stick her nose where it had no business to be—but despite that a good forgery expert. “Now tell me what you need my help with that’s panicky enough for you come looking for me yourself even in a place that’s so obviously uncomfortable to you.”
“I want you to go to another cocktail party tomorrow. I hope that’s not overtaxing your talents.”
Stella raised her eyebrows but said nothing. He sighed and went on.
“We have a guy who’s worked undercover for a long time in a smuggling ring. He’s finally been invited to a party given by the head of the organization, an informal auction of what we believe to be illegally imported works of art. Our guy needs a girlfriend.”
“Doesn’t sound too hard. Don’t you have lots of boobsy police officers who could help you out? It’s been a long time since I did any police work outside the lab, as you very well know.”
“It isn’t your police field experiences I’m interested in. I want you to do what you do in the lab. Take a look at the art and tell us what it is and whether it’s genuine. So simple even an academic like you ought to manage.”
“But—if the guy you’re after is in the antiques business, he might know who I am. I might blow your whole operation.”
“I grant you your daddy is pretty famous. But I don’t think my guy has gotten his stuff from your auctions.”
She drank some champagne and gave him a searching look. He was far from as biting as usual. He must be really desperate. She was far from certain that it was quite as simple as he made it out to be, but the idea of doing something outside of the lab for once sounded like fun. She gave him a brief nod.
“But what has your undercover guy been doing? I don’t believe it’s mainly about antiques. In that case you’d either have talked to me about it before, or your guy would know enough about it for you not to need me.”
Carl looked vexed, leaned back in his chair and swung his foot.
“Mostly it’s about drugs. And weapons. The antiques are just a sideline.”
Stella watched him carefully for a moment. What he’d just said wasn’t the whole truth either. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Good girl.”
Stella followed him to the door—she didn’t want to risk his starting to talk to any of the guests. A cold gust of wind, full of dancing snowflakes, sneaked in when she opened the door for him. Stella shivered and looked thoughtfully at her boss when he crouched down against the wind and slowly disappeared into the darkness.
“So what did your boss want on a Saturday? I imagined police forgery experts only worked weekdays.” It was Nicholas.
“He wants me to play cop for real—do an undercover job. There’s a private auction of illegal antiques of some kind tomorrow night,” Stella said, her eyes still fixed somewhere far off in the wintry night.
“Cool.”
Ali opened the limousine door for her. His black suit was a perfect fit and his smile was broad. He looked just as disgustingly healthy as always, Stella noted, with black curls, slim hips and broad shoulders. Those hips she remembered particularly vividly. They were very attractive when covered only by briefs. Without briefs as well, in fact.
“You look great, as usual.”
“Hi, Ali. Long time. Good to see you.”
Many years ago they had belonged to the same class at the police academy and been a couple during their years of study. But when she decided to go for forensics while he went for investigative work, they separated. Though whom did she think she was fooling? The simple fact was that she had never been able to make any relationship work in the long run. He had been no exception.
“Jump in. I’ll tell you about the party while we go there.” He made an exaggerated bow, helped her into the back of the car and stepped in beside her. Another cop in civilian dress had been given the honorable job of driving them.
“Great. Where are we going?”
“Djursholm. The stronghold of snobbery and wealth.”
“And here I was thinking we were bound for one of the dangerous hoods, given the badly concealed gun you’re carrying under your tux.” She snaked a hand in behind the small of his back to adjust his leather holster.
“Thanks,” he said with an apologetic grin. “Did you see my mike as well?”
She studied him carefully but caught nothing suspicious.
“Nope, all fine—you’re as handsome as ever.”
“Thanks.”
The sky was inky black when they stopped outside an enormous yellow mansion on a low hill. Stella walked carefully up the sanded path in her stilettos, holding Ali’s arm. She savored the cold air, which brought her the scent of his warm body. He smelled of spice and recently showered skin. She snuck her arm deeper under his. He smiled, but she was very aware that his body revealed apprehension rather than any other emotion. She knew that he was not given to worry. On the contrary, he had a definitely exaggerated belief in his own abilities. Like most males, for that matter. Again, she was convinced that this assignment was far from as simple and harmless as Carl had wanted her to believe. Thick walls of chalk-white snow rose on both sides of the path. Lit torches were stuck in the drifts, their softly flickering light casting dancing shadows on the snow. It had stopped snowing only an hour ago.
“It’ll work out fine,” Stella said in a clumsy attempt at sounding calm.
Ali gave her an amused glance.
“Sure. But be careful with Peter. Don’t irritate him. He’s fucking unstable.”
“Don’t irritate him? How would I do that? I don’t even know the guy.”
“Please, just don’t be yourself. You see . . .”
“Shut up and smile, you mean?” She was amused. A little put off deep down, but she certainly wouldn’t let him see that.
“Right. And show him that magnificent chest.”
“Got it. Smile. Flash tits. Almost makes you wonder why I spent seven years in college to get where I am now . . .”
“Seven!”
“Sure. Police academy, art, a few courses in England—”
He gave her a weak smile, shook his head and raised a hand to make her stop. “Sorry for asking.”
Stella punched his arm.
“Hey. That hurt.”
They had arrived at the house and a grave doorman let them in. They left their overcoats with another strict and unsmiling man. Stella heard a murmur of voices. On their way to the living room they passed a pedestal with a cracked and badly worn urn. Mediterranean. Roughly two thousand years old, she couldn’t be more specific without inspecting it more closely. There were still traces of sand left on it. Beautiful and dignified in its pale patina.
“I understand why I’m here,” Stella whispered to Ali and kissed his neck to make her whisper seem less suspicious. Or actually just because she felt like it. He shivered slightly.
They stepped into the huge living room and the rigidly directed performance began again. A nod here, a glass of champagne there. Twice in the same weekend was definitely too many for Stella. Shallow exchanges of pleasantries conveying nothing, meaning nothing and impossible for anyone to remember. Laughter and charming smiles but ice-cold eyes. Superficiality. Stella hated it, but she was a pro. At least tonight she had a job to do. As soon as the tenth smiling male with a forehead unlined as a baby’s bottom had finished his platitudes and turned away, she pulled Ali over to an object placed on a smooth, white pedestal by one of the walls. The wall was made of glass. You could vaguely distinguish the fluttering torches on the terrace outside, but beyond them was only the impenetrable blackness of night. As she came close to the pedestal, Stella’s heart beat faster. She saw an eight-inch-tall bronze statue. Its surface was black, dark with a satiny sheen, but the details were perfect. It depicted a crowned man sitting cross-legged. His right palm was raised to the viewer. His left rested on his thigh, holding a water pitcher. The almond-shaped, half-closed eyes were inlaid with silver and watched Stella kindly along his narrow nose. The statue was perfect. So beautiful that it stole her breath. She had to stop herself from grabbing it and trying to run off with it. She carefully caressed the curves of the statue and felt that there still were remnants of sand at its hollow base. Fury began to seethe in her.
“Ali, let me introduce you to Maitreya.”
“Mai . . . who?”
“The next Buddha. This is a statue made in the first decade after Christ, I’d guess. Probably dug up somewhere in Afghanistan. And very recently.”
“How do you know that?”
“It hasn’t been professionally cleaned. There are still traces of sand on it, and there are scratches made by the clumsy fools who dug him up.” She slid a fingertip across a deep scratch. It was impossible for her to understand how anyone could do something like this. It was an insult to the country, to history and to the present.
Stella saw Ali stiffen and look at someone behind her. Probably the famous Peter. She put on her most simpleminded smile and slowly turned around. Behind her was a tall man with an almost unbelievably huge stomach hanging from a body that seemed to suffer under its extra weight. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored gray suit and the hand holding his champagne flute was adorned by numerous golden rings. He looked at her, or rather at her plunging neckline, in the same way a cat looks at a herring before sinking its teeth into it. Stella pushed her chest out some more. After all, that was her task tonight.
“Ali, I see you’ve brought a little tidbit along tonight.”
Ali gave a hearty laugh and put his arm around her waist. He seemed impressively at ease in this kind of situation, Stella noted.
“Absolutely. This is Stella, my girlfriend.”
“So nice to see you at last.” Stella held her hand out. He took it, pulled her close, and kissed her cheek instead. He smelled of liquor and expensive cologne, with a vague undertone of acrid sweat.
“I see you’re admiring the statue. Are you going to bid for it, Ali?”
“It seems Stella has fallen in love, so I probably don’t have a choice.”
“It’s adorable. Is it Indian?” Stella chirped in her most naïve and imbecile voice.
“You might say so. This little baby is around two thousand years old. It won’t be cheap.”
“Oooh, is it really that old?” Stella said with what she hoped was a surprised look and leaned closer to the statue. So at least he knew what he had, she noted.
“Oh, yes. There aren’t many in this little shithole country that can compete with this collection,” Peter said, then turned to Ali. “So what happened yesterday, did you get anywhere?”
“It’s beginning to come together. They wanted us to talk about the last details tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
“Business on a night like this?” His eyes were suddenly hard; then he began laughing. “Why not? Tonight is all about great deals anyway, isn’t it? Just remember to leave Stella with me when you abandon her for business. I’ll take care of her, okay?”
Stella smiled and preened a bit while suppressing a sudden urge to throw her champagne in his face and respond with a couple of impolite words. She really appreciated the fact that normally her work didn’t entail meeting a lot of people, she thought. She just wouldn’t be able to handle that.
“How do you think he gets hold of things like these?” Ali asked her when Peter had walked off. Their eyes followed him as he moved away among his guests, like a good-natured absolute ruler among his subjects.
“Afghanistan has been more or less systematically plundered of its art objects during the last decade. Items like these are being sent abroad to finance the war. If he is in direct contact with people in the country and doesn’t need any go-betweens, he’s probably gotten treasures like this one very cheaply.”
Ali sighed deeply. Stella took another look at the beautiful Maitreya. “The problem is that it’s almost impossible to prove. A real auction house couldn’t sell things like this, since we demand documentation of provenance. But how are we supposed to prove that it hasn’t belonged to his family for a century? All he needs to say is that the paperwork was lost, or destroyed. Nobody can prove anything at all.”
“Disgusting. At least I’m happy that we’ll soon have enough to get the bastard for other things.”
“His drug deals?” she asked.
“Yes. That’s what I’m going to talk to him about later. With just a little luck he’ll make me an offer. They’re going to give me a job with the organization. We’ve beaten about the bush long enough.” Ali glanced back at Peter. So this is what scares him, she thought, and almost immediately one of the waiters came up to Ali.
“Adam wants a word in his office on the upper floor.”
“Back soon,” he said to Stella and nodded at the waiter.
“Good luck,” Stella said, squeezed his forearm slightly. He responded with a warm glance, then gave her a long, hard kiss. She responded. A little surprised, but why not, she thought.
“How about reliving some old memories later tonight, Stella?”
“Sounds fine.”
He nodded and she studied his back while he disappeared toward a large, curved staircase. When he was gone she turned to the next pedestal. She spent a long time looking at the objects for sale. The room contained a veritable general store of epochs, religions and styles, with the fact that she felt convinced that most of these things had been dug up by clumsy idiots somewhere in Afghanistan during the last few years as their only common denominator. She also studied the buyers and realized that she recognized some of them. They were accomplished collectors, knowledgeable in the history of art. She kept as far away from them as possible. The risk of any of them recognizing her as Emmanuel Rodin’s daughter was small but real—and if any of them whispered something about it in the fat man’s ear, the entire operation would break down. She sent Carl an angry thought. When Ali had been gone an hour, Stella began feeling restless. She went out on the terrace and took a deep breath of the painfully cold air. A waiter offered her a fur-lined blanket, and she gratefully wrapped it around her shoulders. A small group of people was outside, smoking in the flickering torchlight. The quiet was music to Stella’s ears and she lowered her shoulders, trying to relax. Her cell rang in her purse. She walked farther out on the terrace to escape other guests possibly listening in, and took out her phone. The display told her that the call was from Ali’s cell. She put on her wireless headset and answered.
“Ali, where the hell are you?”
The wet gurgling sound ran like a cold wave through her body.
“Ali, what’s happened?” she whispered. The sound went on for a few seconds, then stopped.
Shakily, Stella replaced the phone in her purse without ending the call. She pulled her hair over her ear to hide her headset and went back inside. Without seeming to hurry she wove through the crowd. Behind her relaxed smile she could feel her heart beat hard and fast. She climbed the stair to the second floor without being challenged. The house was enormous. Carefully she opened the doors to a few rooms just enough to glance in. One of them held an intimately occupied couple, but she saw no signs of Ali. Just as she was going to round a corner she heard footsteps. She opened the door closest to her, silently slid in and closed it behind her while praying to the beautiful Maitreya downstairs that nobody had seen the door move. She held her breath and heard them clearly as they walked past.
“Take the body out with the kitchen garbage when the party’s over. Just let it be until then.”
When they were gone, Stella waited for two minutes before returning to the hallway. She still seemed to hear weak, rasping breaths through the headset. She must find him. Before it was too late. She continued in the direction the two men had come from and stopped when she saw a small, almost black mark on the floor outside one of the closed doors. Blood. Almost certainly, and put there by someone’s shoe. She opened the door very slowly. The dark inside was impenetrable. As soon as the opening was wide enough for her to slip through she slid in, closing the door behind her. She turned on the light. A twisted body lay on the floor. Ali, a large, open wound in the middle of his chest. Blood had formed a pool on the floor around him. Stella went down on her knees beside him, feeling the sting of vomit in the back of her throat. She felt his neck, but there was no need. His eyes were staring blindly at the ceiling. Probably she had just imagined those last breathing sounds from her phone. Stella closed the call and carefully took Ali’s iPhone from his hand. She put on the long, black gloves she had worn when they arrived, stretched her hand under his body and felt along his waist, underneath his jacket. Warm blood enveloped her hand. There it was. His gun. She pulled it out, took off her bloody glove and used it to wipe off the gun. She might need it before the evening was over. With a last look at Ali, Stella rose and went over to the window. Standing in darkness, she looked out into the black night. Inside she was cold and hard. She had no time to feel. Later, not now. She saw the fluttering flames of the torches on the terrace below. At last she drew a deep breath, took out her cell and phoned Carl. He answered almost immediately.
“Ali is dead. Shot,” she said straight out.
“What? What are you saying?”
“What the hell have you put us up to?” she asked. “I want to know it all. Right now.”
“We’ll be there as soon as possible.”
“No. Hell no. We have no evidence of anything. You’ll never be able to prove a damned thing. We’ll never get either Ali’s killers or the damned fools who are plundering Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan? What’s that got to do with anything?”
Stella gave an exasperated sigh.
“The antiques they’re selling here tonight are invaluable art treasures from Afghanistan, dug up by assholes whose only thought is to get money to wage war. I’ll get you evidence.” She spoke quickly but with exaggerated clarity.
“It’s too dangerous.”
“You have to trust me. I know what has to be done. I want a backup force in place at a quarter past midnight. Not a second earlier or later. Okay?”
“Stella . . .”
“Did you understand me?”
“Yes. Okay. But . . .”
Stella heard footsteps in the hallway outside and ended the call. She stood immobile, breathing slowly. There was nowhere to hide in the room. The steps faded. Stella felt a rush of relief. She weighed Ali’s gun in her hand and pulled out the magazine. It was fully loaded. Good. She wondered where to hide the gun. It was true that she did have large breasts, but nowhere near large enough for her to be able to hide a nine-millimeter pistol in her bra. On the other hand she wore enormous, flesh-colored “tummytuck” panties under the wide skirt of her 1950s dress. She slid the gun up inside her panties and carefully checked that it would stay there. It did. Peter’s cell phone she put in the inner compartment of her purse, along with her bloodstained gloves. She put on more lipstick and straightened her shoulders, then crouched down beside Ali’s body for the last time. Stroked his cheek. He looked very calm. She remembered his bubbling, ringing laugh. His special way of twisting his fingers in her hair to kiss her neck.
“I promise to find the bastard who did it,” she whispered to him. Not only that, she would personally make sure that he regretted what he had done. Then she stood up, straightened her dress and went back down to the party, without looking back. Gladly accepted a new glass of champagne and sat down on a bar stool. Carefully, so that the gun wouldn’t fall to the floor. She took out Ali’s cell and sent the identical text to the last five numbers he had spoken to. “I know,” she wrote. Then she let her eyes roam, trying to find someone just receiving a text message. She looked for a long time but saw no one. She resent her message. Peter was in the middle of the room, a giggling girl on his arm. Stella studied him, her anger carefully hidden. Instead she hoped to look vaguely admiring. He was at the top of her list of suspects. She looked searchingly at him. He was large, boisterous and extremely pushy, particularly towards the female guests. He behaved as if he owned the place. That made Stella suspicious. Hold on, now, she thought. If he really did own the place he wouldn’t have felt the need to behave as he did. Of course, the house might actually be his. But someone else was more powerful. Who?
Stella sipped her champagne, carefully weighing everyone in the room, one by one. At last she found him. A thin man of average height, light-skinned, with black hair and dark eyes. He was absolutely calm and relaxed. Polite but without the least interest in impressing anyone. He reminded Stella of her black tomcat, Sherlock. He, too, acted just that way: friendly, relaxed and condescending, as if he owned the world. In this case it might well be true. Both the dark-eyed one and the gray-haired man he was talking to turned toward her and looked at her. The dark-eyed man raised his glass to her in a silent toast. She returned the gesture and simultaneously recognized the gray-haired man. He was an art collector. One of Rodin’s regular customers. Her cover was blown. Hell!
Time for a new plan. Stella slid off the stool, in the same movement returning Ali’s phone to her purse. She too knew how to look as if you owned the world. It came easier to women. Tits out, sway your hips and you’re fine. She crossed the floor, went straight up to the dark-eyed man and put out her hand.
“Stella Rodin. I want to attend the auction.”
His velvet eyes smiled at her. His eyelashes were so dark that they looked painted. He took her hand, pressing it slightly.
“Markus From. Aren’t you already at the auction? I assume you have an invitation.”
“No. I came with someone else. I had hoped to be more discrete, but that plan didn’t seem to work out. I represent a client of the Rodin auction house. Someone who is prepared to pay well for your objects. The Maitreya by the wall, for instance, would fit my client’s collection perfectly.”
“And how am I to know that you are who you claim to be?”
“I assume you already know.”
Their eyes locked for a long moment. Stella’s patience began to run out.
“You’re very welcome to phone our office to get confirmation, if you want. I believe my brother is still in.”
She could see that he already was familiar with Rodin and that the man beside him had told him who she was. Hopefully he only knew that she was Rodin’s daughter, not that she was a cop. It was hardly something her father boasted about. On the contrary. And if the man had known and told velvet eyes, she would already be locked away or dead, so it was probably all right. It made her furious to stand here and hint that she or her father would ever buy invaluable antiques stolen from a country torn by war, but in this situation she had no choice. The dark-eyed man watched her searchingly, slightly amused. She appreciated the fact that he at least showed her respect enough not to try to pretend that he wasn’t in charge here. She kept eye contact and hoped fervently that the white-hot anger and grief burning inside her didn’t show.
“Give the number to Daniel.” He gestured to a man who had been standing a few steps behind him and had probably listened to every word they’d said. “Have another glass of champagne, and I’ll see that you get your answer shortly.”
Stella nodded briefly, gave the office number to his assistant and walked toward the terrace. Again she gratefully accepted the heavy blanket one of the waiters offered her at the door, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Now her life might very well depend on if Nicholas realized what was happening and proved a convincing liar. It would be pointless to try to warn him. She had seen the assistant, Daniel, begin to dial as she turned away. Stella thought of Ali’s body upstairs, then immediately forced herself to stop. If she wanted to grieve, she could do it later. First revenge. For Ali and the Maitreya and the rest of the war spoils inside. She spent the rest of her wait making new plans. There was still plenty of time before reinforcements would arrive. After a short while, the man called Daniel came to fetch her.
“Stella Rodin? Everything’s in order; the auction will start in ten minutes.”
Stella thanked him and locked herself in the rest room to prepare. She slipped her iPhone inside her bra to get the best possible sound reception. She carefully wiped Ali’s cell with toilet paper, then tried to fix his gun against her thigh in a more comfortable position. She couldn’t find one. Giving up, she set the cell phone between her breasts to record, then rejoined the throng outside. This time she carried Ali’s phone in her purse. At the door to the auction room two forbidding but polite men were collecting cell phones from the audience. She had counted on that. They surely didn’t want anyone to record this auction. She smiled a friendly smile, put Ali’s phone on the table and put the number tag in her purse. The room, otherwise probably a large dining room, was furnished with numerous chairs turned to a podium, just as at Rodin’s. Peter took the floor and spread his arms.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to this informal auction. I realize that you all want to be certain that the items we offer you are genuine.” A slide presentation began on the wall behind him. Desert and caves. Close-ups of items being dug out of the ground with rough hatchets and shovels. “All objects for sale today have been discovered in Afghanistan. All of them have been found during the last year and are absolutely unique. In age, they vary from around one thousand BC to around five hundred AD. For reasons I’m sure you will understand, no documentation will be provided, so what I now tell you is the only guarantee you will have. However, we do have an expert on the relevant period present.” He pointed to an elderly man who gave the audience a friendly nod. Stella recognized him; he sometimes helped Rodin’s by authenticating objects. “Please make use of his expertise, and after the auction you are welcome to ask him anything you may want to know about the objects you have purchased. Now, let us begin.” He spread his arms and stepped down from the podium. Another man stepped up in his place.
“The first post is this beautiful collection of silver dinars, minted during the fifth century AD.”
The bidding became brisk. Stella bid on a couple of objects, but made sure not to win any of them. The atmosphere was so tense that you could cut it with a knife. Just as at a Rodin auction. Nobody even glanced at anyone else; everyone stared as if mesmerized at the auctioneer and at the objects for sale. Everyone wanted to win. The room was simmering with passion, happiness, anger, frustration, but nothing could be heard or seen on the surface. When the magically beautiful bronze statue was finally displayed, Stella stubbornly bid until the Maitreya was hers. After all, it was just pretend money anyway—once the police arrived, everything would be impounded.
Once the auction was over and all arrangements about how and when money would be exchanged had been made, Stella retrieved Ali’s cell. And finally held the Maitreya in her hand. She went back to the rest room to check on the recording made by the phone between her breasts. The important part was what the dark-eyed man had said. She hoped fervently that it would be evidence enough, but she knew how extremely difficult it was to get anyone convicted in cases of this kind. She mailed the sound file to Carl and added a text. Now only one thing remained. To find Ali’s killer. It was eleven-thirty. She had forty-five minutes left. If she hadn’t identified him when the police arrived, it was all over. She sat down by the bar again. Took out Ali’s cell and sent a new text to the five last numbers on his log.
I know. The terrace at midnight.
That was all she wrote. She remained by the bar, watching the crowd. After a short wait she got two replies, which she immediately discounted. Obviously none of them had any idea of what she was talking about, nor were they at the auction. It was a quarter to midnight. She began to feel very stressed. At last she saw it. One of the guests discretely took out his cell, then put it back in his pocket and looked around. His forehead seemed damp and his hand shook almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t been present at the auction. She slowly weaved through the throng to get closer to him. She was in luck. The expert on Afghan antiquity was standing almost directly next to the man she suspected of being the killer. She talked politely to him about the bronze she had just bought, meanwhile studying her suspect. All of his features were strangely colorless. She tried to come up with some way of taking his picture and sending it off to Carl, but realized that there was no way to do it without being seen. The man had an expensive suit, but it fit him badly. When he turned to look at his watch she saw it. Three small, black, round stains on the cuff of his shirt. Blood. Good. She went out on the terrace. It was freezing cold, even with her blanket and the heaters set up. She liked the cold. It honed her brain. Waiting, she caressed the cool bronze of the Maitreya. Five minutes to go. At the stroke of midnight, the colorless man stepped out on the terrace. At the sight of him, Stella again set her cell to record. He looked around, realizing she was the only other person there. She gave him a warm smile and stepped closer, put her head on one side and lightly put her hand on his arm.
“Why? It’s really all I want to know. After that, I’ll leave you alone,” Stella said.
He looked at her. Surprised. Uncertain how to react. She held her Maitreya in front of him. It was cold as ice. Stella spoke calmly, softly.
“We’re all in the same boat here, so to speak. I don’t want to know who you are. Just why you shot Ali. If I don’t know why, I’ll never be able to let go of it. I’ll chase you forever just to learn why. So just tell me, here and now, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
Stella knew she had just fifteen minutes before Carl would arrive with his backup force. If she hadn’t been able to make him talk before then, it was all over. But she hadn’t dared risk that he would tell the dark-eyed man about her questions before more police arrived, so she had cut it as close to the raid as possible without risking the entire operation.
He looked uncertainly at her, gave a small, disdainful laugh and shook his head. Looked down at the ground. She stepped even closer.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why?”
“He asked too many questions. He wanted to take over. Tried to get close to Markus. I had to stop him. He—”
The silence of the black night was shattered by the sound of cars. Many cars. There was movement in the shadows. Steps crunched through snow. They had arrived. Stella glanced at her watch, realizing her mistake just a moment too late. The man had seen her gesture.
“Hell! You’ve called the fucking cops!” he yelled, pulling Stella to him with a sudden twist of his arm. Her head was thrown violently to one side. She felt a sting of searing pain. He held her neck locked hard in the crook of his arm. “Bitch,” he spat in her ear. She felt her throat constrict. She couldn’t breathe. Sparks lit up in front of her eyes. She felt panic rising within her. In a desperate attempt to break loose before fainting she grabbed the heavy, cold Maitreya in both hands, slamming the base of the statue up as hard as her fear and anger allowed. There was a crunching, thudding sound close to her ear. The man screamed and let go of her. She felt hot blood running down her cheek. She spun round and looked at him. His left eye was a mess of blood and flesh. She glimpsed the white bone of his eye socket. He fell screaming against the terrace railing, through it and into the snow below that immediately began turning red. Stella stared at him, frozen. Why in hell had the police come this early? She clawed her gun out from under her skirt. They weren’t supposed to be here yet. A movement in the corner of her eye made her spin around. A man ran out on the terrace, the gun in his hand aimed at her. Before she could even react there was a loud bang behind her and the man fell headlong. Another man in a black uniform, helmet, and a bulletproof vest ran up to her. The police backup. With thick, black gloves he took hold of her arm, carefully but firmly pulling the gun from her hand. He looked searchingly at her through his protective glasses.
“Stella Rodin?”
She nodded limply and stared dully at the pink stain spreading through the snow around the man with the torn face. He had stopped screaming and lay silent. His warm blood had started to melt the snow under him. To her despair, she realized that all she felt was satisfaction at having had her revenge.
“Are you okay?” the policeman asked, much too distinctly. Stella shook herself to make the world around her return. She heard sounds of uproar, saw police officers in black uniforms and surprised, frightened and upset guests everywhere.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
He nodded and ran off to help his colleagues. Stella stayed on the terrace, waiting while the first phase, that of pushing people against walls and screaming at them, was going on. She saw paramedics lift the colorless man’s body out of the snow. He was dead. She had killed him. When the screaming began to abate she walked back into the house, still with her blanket wrapped around her. A tall, angular man came up to her.
“Did you find Ali’s body?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. That one is the most important.” She pointed at the man with the dark eyes. “His name is Markus From. Then you should talk to this guy, and those two.” She walked through the room, pointing out those she knew had been involved. “Here’s Ali’s cell.” She handed it over. Saw that her hand shook. She felt that just seeing his phone threatened to break all the floodgates and let out the grief and shock she had kept locked away. “I’m off.”
“But—”
“If there are more questions, I’ll be in tomorrow morning. You won’t need me right now. Carl has everything I know and all the evidence I could get.”
“Okay.”
She walked quickly to the cloakroom and got her coat. Walked down the long, sanded path with short, careful steps. The torches had gone out. The sky was turning the color of ashes. The damp cold made her shiver. Her throat hurt. She crossed the road, down to the pedestrian walk along the beach. Looked out at the smooth ice covering the bay. First she sent a short e-mail from her iPhone, then she called Carl. He sounded tired and worried.
“Hi, Stella, I’m—”
“You have my resignation in your e-mail.”
“But what the hell? You’re overreacting.”
“You lied to me about how dangerous this was. You forced me to involve my family. And as if that wasn’t enough, you didn’t trust me and it seems you can’t even tell the time. It’s your damned fault I had to kill him.”
“Now just calm down and stop being silly.”
“I’m totally calm. Beginning today, I’m free of both you and the Swedish police department and your arrogance and damned incompetence. I’ve had it.”
“And what do you intend to do instead? Run back home to daddy?” Carl was angry.
“It’s none of your damned business.”
Stella broke the connection, put her cell in her coat pocket and walked on along the beach. She saw no one, heard nothing in the sleeping suburb. The sky slowly shifted color from black to indigo to violet. Stella cried until her tears made little icicles in the fake fur lining of her coat. Cried until no tears were left. The ice-cold Maitreya rested in her pocket, both comforting her and accusing her.
Veronica von Schenck was born in 1971 and has been a computer gamer, a journalist, and editor in chief of a computer magazine as well as of a Stockholm event magazine. She is also a recruitment consultant and a mother of two, living in a Stockholm suburb with her family. She published her first crime novel, Änglalik (a play on words, meaning both Like an Angel and Corpse of an Angel), in 2008 and her second, Kretsen (The Group), in 2009; the second was one of five nominated for the best novel of the year award by the Swedish Crime Fiction Academy. The two novels feature profiler Althea Molin, a heroine of half-Swedish, half-Korean extraction. A third Molin novel will be published. More recently, von Schenck also published three well-received juvenile crime novels based on historical events.