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Toro, Bergia
Saturday, 30 January, 2:58 p.m.
––––––––
Before lunch I asked to use the restroom and as I wondered up the stairs and down the hall – the wrong direction to which Astrid gave me – it became clear they kept this house free of Mikolaj. Not a single photo of him hung among the others on the walls leading to the bedrooms. Chambers?
Katja's face a prominent feature, but no sign of the tyrant who had ruled this land for far too long. In every photo Ragnar wore a shirt, even when the family were on holiday somewhere tropical. This house was their sanctuary. A place where they could be like any other who didn't live in the spotlight or have a legacy of wars and evil.
I bumped into something solid as I exited the restroom and stared up at a face I hadn't seen this close since Dubai. "My apologies." I held out my right hand towards him. "I'm Finley."
The man shook my hand, his covered by black leather, and stepped aside. "Please to meet you, Finley. I'm Dietrich, and this is Princess Ylva."
I greeted the princess but didn't curtsy or whatever commoners are expected to do.
Ylva spoke in Polish, and Dietrich left us without saying another word. I wondered if she wanted to add her own blocks to the tower her parents had already constructed for us. My focus remained on her but I kept an ear on Aidan's conversation with Szymon and Astrid. To wear a mask isn't easy for him, but I couldn't be prouder of my husband. He held his anger, bit his tongue, and spoke as if one of his most trusted friends and allies hadn't stabbed him in the back or used him as a pawn. Aidan has a long fuse, but at the end is an atomic bomb. The countdown started the moment he had learned the truth.
"These are wonderful photos. Looks like you've had quite adventurous family holidays. Why aren't there any photos of your brother?"
Ylva pointed with a perfectly manicured finger to Ragnar's face. "That's my brother."
I forced a shrug and a humiliated smile. "I assumed he's one of your bodyguards as he's the only person wearing a shirt."
Ylva and Astrid lay on sun loungers; both wore bikinis. Szymon and Ragnar stood behind them, Szymon's torso uncovered. The tattoo on his chest an eagle. The Stein family's coat of arms.
"Ragnar never takes his shirt off in front of my parents. He's worried about what they'll say about the tattoos on his back." Ylva hooked her arm through mine and guided me further down the hallway, pointing at more photos. "See, in none of these he's ever without a shirt, but I've seen it. Faces. Women's faces. I don't know if he has a grading system, that only say the number ten's make it onto his back. Ragnar has slept with a lot of women, since high school."
Ylva didn't drop breadcrumbs at my feet. She threw them in my face. "Perhaps they mean something to him; more than just how good they are at the act of sex."
The princess let out a deep breath. "Of course, they do, but he won't tell me. Not even when he got the first one after his trip to Mexico almost a year-and-a-half ago."
Aidan listened; he's always aware of everything around him. In his right ear, he heard the truth – his friend wasn't a serial killer. A question answered. My prey now had a face and a name. Another question took its place – did Szymon and Astrid know their son is a murderer? Probable, as they kept grandpa Mikolaj's vile secrets.
For the time being, I played dumb. "Why aren't there photos of your grandfather on the walls? Your grandmother was a beautiful woman."
"Mikolaj doesn't deserve to be in this house." Ylva touched a finger to Katja's face on a photo of her taken a few years before her death. "Babcia is my role model. She was everything a woman should be. Strong. Resilient. A protector."
"Babcia means grandmother," Rowan said to me.
Ylva used the Polish word for grandmother when talking about Katja yet called Mikolaj by name. Now or never. "Did your Babcia protect you against Mikolaj when you were a teenager?"
Ylva straightened her spine and pressed a finger to the corner of her right eye. "Come, lunch is ready."
Without realising it, or perhaps she did, she answered my question. Mikolaj, or one of his friends, had infected Ylva's young life with their depravity. Why aren't you screaming it from the rooftops? A person in her position has a voice and a platform countless victims would give anything for.
I followed her down the stairs and into the dining room. Outside the window snow fell, creating a picture-perfect winter wonderland. Perhaps not the beauty of the white landscape, but my curiosity and thirst for the truth caused goose bumps to spread across my skin.
Aidan stood and placed his hand on my lower back, above the Glock 43 Gen4. "What took you so long, honey?"
Never before had Aidan called me honey. This was his mask talking and not my husband or Commander Walker.
"I got lost. Remember when we went to Scotland and I got lost in Edinburgh Castle, despite all the direction boards and tour guides? I have no sense of direction." I shrugged and sat down when Aidan pulled out a chair for me.
Piotr's head tilted to the right as he took a seat across the table. "Getting lost can be dangerous. I hope you don't plan to go hiking while you are in Bergia. Snow is much more treacherous than sand."
My mask didn't move. Ivana warned him. She made a big mistake thinking I won't make her son suffer for standing by while Ragnar murdered twenty-five people. Time to play with your prey. "Now that you mention sand, Piotr, when last did you visit Dubai?"
Ylva covered the glove on his right hand with her left hand. "Dietrich, not Piotr. You don't speak Polish?"
I nodded. "Apologies, Dietrich. Not fluently, only a few words which aren't suited for your young ears. How long have the two of you been in a relationship?"
Aidan bumped his shoulder against mine. "Sweetie, what's with all the questions? Did you leave your manors in Dubai?"
"I'm sorry, darling, just trying to get to know your friend and his family. You've spoken so highly of them and I'm curious by nature."
"Tomorrow is our two-year anniversary." Ylva stood and dished lasagne for her boyfriend and herself. She said something to Astrid in Polish and I waited for Rowan to translate for me.
"Ylva, we never speak in a language our guests don't understand." Astrid handed me the salad. "Please excuse my daughter."
I took the salad and wondered why Astrid bothered making it with such a big lasagne and bread rolls on the table. In this cold weather I wanted to carbo-load. "Please, don't apologise." After eating nothing but hotel food and takeaways, I welcomed a home cooked meal.
"I asked my mother why she didn't cook a decent lunch instead of taking lasagne out of the freezer. I keep telling them they must hire a chef to cook over weekends. It will give her more time to focus on her precious business."
"I also cook big batches and freeze it for days when I don't have time to cook." I wondered how high this ranked on the list of biggest lies I've ever told. Lizzie is the chef in our family. Whenever I want to make something special, she needs to be on speaker phone and give me clear instructions. My talking cookbook, even though she had bought me a stack of the ones you need to read for Christmas.
"What line of work are you in?" Szymon asked before stuffing his mouth with a fork-full of layered pasta.
I placed my hand on Aidan's thigh. "I'm a criminal psychologist. My field of expertise is serial killers, but I hunt all kinds of serial offenders. Most people refer to me as a profiler."
Even though my eyes were on Szymon, my focus remained on Piotr. He choked, and Aidan pushed to his feet. Ylva grabbed her lover's arm but made no attempt to save his life.
"Stand." Aidan commanded the patient and performed a Heimlich manoeuvre.
I poured Piotr some water once the food dislodged from his trachea. Over the years I learned a few things from Aidan, but Biology had also been my favourite subject at school. It appeared Ivana hadn't dug deep enough to learn what I brought to Fortius' table.
"So, you arrest serial killers and they are sent to jail?" Astrid asked once Aidan returned to his chair and continued eating.
"I'm a freelance profiler, so whatever happens to the serial killer once the local authorities arrest him or her, isn't my concern. In some countries they get the death penalty, in others life imprisonment. I worked a case this week in Moscow. Such a sad story. For the victims, of course."
Aidan placed his hand on my arm. "Honey, they don't want to hear about your work. It's hard enough for me to listen to your cases. Please don't tell them about what happened to Oleg Petrov, the paedophile."
Szymon and Ylva both stopped chewing when Aidan said Jefferson's assumed name.
"You're right, darling. Please excuse me everyone, I'm very passionate about my work and forget most people don't have the stomach for it." I continued eating and waited for the ball to drop. It didn't. These people were good at covering things up, even their emotions.
After lunch Ylva helped me clear the table and once we were alone she asked, "What happened to Oleg?"
I did better than tell her. Ylva lifted a hand to her mouth; tears streamed down her face. We both turned when Astrid walked into the kitchen.
"What's wrong now?" Astrid asked and started loading the dishwasher.
Ylva grabbed the phone from my hand and held it up to her mother. "The man Mikolaj allowed to rape me is dead. See who it is, Mother? Look at is his face! You dined with him, danced with Oleg even after I told you what he did to me. Babcia begged you to send me away, but you refused. If you had listened to her, none of it would've happened." No translation needed, Ylva spoke in English.
Astrid looked at me. "Not in front of our guest, Ylva."
"Why not in front of me? Scared I might learn the truth about Mikolaj? I already know everything, Your Highness. Don't worry about your public image. The world won't learn about your despicable family secrets. Because I'm going to do that to every single person who knew about the rapes, and murders, and didn't do a damn thing about it. You just made my list."
Astrid glanced at the knife on the cutting board. I showed her my teeth. "Your Majesty, I don't want to hurt you. Not before I tie you to a chair like I did your buddy Oleg. Do you want to see what happened to Volkov?" I took my phone from Ylva's shaking hand and showed Astrid.
The queen screamed. Dare I say she attempted to scream her head off?
I wedged myself between the refrigerator and the kitchen door. With my Glock in hand, I waited for Piotr to come do his job. He rushed through the door; the barrel of my gun pressed against his temple. "Don't do anything foolish, Piotr. We have the same enemy, remember?"