Authors: Torquil MacLeod
He hadn’t arrived with any real expectations. Dobson was a wiry man with darting, intelligent eyes. Now in his mid-fifties, he had kept himself in good condition. And he was more forthcoming than most prison inmates Ash had had dealings with. Maybe it was the light at the end of the tunnel – the prospect of his imminent release – that made him more accommodating. Ash had opened the encounter with the offer of a packet of cigarettes, which Dobson had surprisingly turned down. They had kicked off the conversation by talking about his time in prison – or “Doncatraz”, as it was known by the incarcerated residents.
With his years in the North East, Ash had learned to interpret thick Geordie accents, which was just as well in Dobson’s case.
‘I’m into cookin’ these days. Might try to get some chef work, like, when I get oot. If anybody gives us a chance’
Ash was amused. ‘And what brought that on?’
‘Gordon Ramsey did one of his programmes in ’ere a few years back. By, that lad’s got a filthy mooth on ’im. But he was all reet. So impressed wi’ one of the boys, he offered him a job when he escaped from ’ere!’ He had a guttural laugh.
Then they got round to Nicky Pew.
‘What went wrong that night on Commission Quay?’ Ash asked.
‘The silly tosser of a security guard tried to be a hero. Must admit I was surprised it was Nicky who pulled the trigger, like. Gary was the one into shooters. Liked to think he was bloody Reggie Kray.’
‘Who tipped you off about the diamond delivery?’
‘Nicky always played his cards close to his chest. No one was ever sure what he was thinking. It was a bit weird, like, ’cos we never normally did jobs in our backyard. Suppose this was a biggun and he couldn’t resist it. Twat.’
‘You know Billy Hump’s dead?’
Dobson appeared genuinely surprised. ‘I heard about Gary. When did Billy gan?’
‘Beginning of last week. Hit-and-run. Outside his local boozer.’
‘He was thick as pig shit. Mind, he was all reet. Just mixed with bad company from an early age. Like the rest of us, except for Nicky of course. Who ran him ower?’
‘They don’t know.’
‘Typical police. If it were someone from somewhere snotty, they’d be like blue-arsed flies. A felon like Billy, and they don’t give a rats.’
‘Chapman and Hump reckoned that Pew stitched them up.’
‘Too bloody reet. I’m sure he did the same thing to me in Oz. He’d cocked up in the first place, so it was easier to cover himself by getting us oot the way. I’m glad the bastard’s dead. If he wasn’t, I’d track him doon after I got oot.’
Ash fished out the photograph of the jazz event in Ystad.
‘Carol Pew’s been tracked down in Sweden. Calls herself Johansson now.’
‘Stuck up cow. Nicky was obsessed wi’ her. Sharp as a knife, she was. Not a woman to be crossed. Vindictive. Always thought she might have been behind a lot of wor jobs. Nicky was all front. She was the brains, I reckon.’
‘Well, if she was, it was never proved. Sounds doubtful to me; she didn’t even get his money from the diamond heist. You know Nicky was with another woman at the time he was killed?’
‘I heard that. Big surprise.’
Ash pushed the photo across the table. He pointed to Carol Pew sitting in the audience. ‘That’s her now.’
‘Blonde now, then. Still a looker. Can’t deny that.’ Then Dobson went quiet. He started to shake his head very slowly. His eyes bulged, and Ash could see the vein on his forehead pulsing.
Minutes later, Ash was rushing down a corridor with a warder. He showed Ash into an empty office and pointed to a phone.
‘Do you know what time it’ll be in Australia?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ the warder replied. ‘But I tell you something, I’d rather be there than here right now.’
‘So would I,’ said Ash as he hurriedly picked up the receiver.
CHAPTER 47
Hakim was enjoying the sense of freedom Anita’s sudden lack of interest in the Todd case had allowed him. He drove round the outskirts of Ystad and headed out on the Simrishamn road. As soon as he moved to Gothenburg, he would buy himself a car – he’d be able to afford it then. And he would keep it in better nick than Anita’s. The Peugeot was a mess.
He was looking forward to Gothenburg. He was dying to get away from the stifling environment of the cramped family apartment and, particularly, his annoying sister. He grudgingly admitted that recently she’d been less trouble, now that she was hooked up with Lasse, but his father still wasn’t totally happy with the relationship, and there was still something of an atmosphere between them. What was weird was having your sister going out with your boss’s son. He smiled. He wouldn’t have to live with that problem after Christmas. He would miss Anita of course. They had a good rapport, and he had learned a great deal under her guidance. That was why this was such an exciting possibility. If he could help solve this case, she would be impressed. It would be his leaving present to her.
He eased the car onto the coast road. Now Peter Johansson was occupying his thoughts. It may be just a hunch, but something wasn’t quite right. Johansson was wealthy. He owned property. Four houses in the same place. Hakim had found no evidence that they were rented out in the summer. Of course, they might just be investments that he would sell on when the market was right, though Sweden wasn’t suffering the same property slump that much of the rest of Europe was subject to. Yet it was odd that such an astute businessman wouldn’t try to make some money on them instead of leaving them idle. Hakim decided to have a closer look at the properties. However, his first destination was going to be Kåseberga. Peter Johansson had his boat registered there. And it was the sort of place where he could pick up a bit of gossip.
Hakim turned the car off the road and made his way through the village. He reached the tiny harbour just below the cliff where the famous stone ship, Ales Stenar, was situated. Even at this time of year, there were a few sightseers trekking up the hill to the ancient site, which overlooked the grim, grey Baltic. He pulled up in the cobbled car park next to a German motorhome, which dwarfed Anita’s old Peugeot. He gazed out seawards. The harbour walls enclosed a small haven where half a dozen craft rocked gently in the swell. Behind the car park, the little local museum and a collection of timber-built tourist shops were strung along the bottom of the cliff. Hakim got out and locked the car. He scrutinized the boats in front of him. One took his attention more than the rest. This vessel wasn’t just for pottering along the Scanian coast.
Diamanten
was a gleaming-white, sleek-hulled craft with highly polished, light brown decking and shining chromework. This was Peter Johansson’s boat. Hakim decided first to visit the shops and herring stalls to see if anyone knew anything about the New Zealander. Then, if the coast was clear, it might be interesting to have a look round the boat.
The unremitting, grey cloud that blanketed the city gave it a drab winter feel, though it wasn’t especially cold for late October. Anita’s feet were uncomfortable. In her haste this morning she had put on a pair of ankle boots, a rare fashion extravagance. She had paid handsomely for them, only to regret the purchase during their first outing. They were too tight, and the thick heels made her clomp around inelegantly. Now she was wobbling over the cobbles of Lilla Torg with a photograph of Greta Jansson in her grasp. The pretty face stared up at her. What a waste of a human life! The passing pedestrians heading for the shops, and the office workers returning after lunch could have no idea of the turmoil in the mind of the blonde woman with the glasses, tottering past the old telephone box in the centre of the square. She was almost trembling with excitement and anticipation. She might not be any closer to finding Nordlund’s killer, but Greta Jansson’s was another matter. She now knew that her mentor really had been onto something.
She was startled out of her reverie by her mobile phone ringing. She looked at the caller’s name. It was Kevin Ash. She hoped he had some real news, and that it wasn’t just some pretext to ring her.
‘Anita here.’
‘Hi. Can you speak?’
‘Yes.’
‘You might have to sit down, given what I have to tell you.’ She could hear the animation in his voice.
‘Just tell me.’
‘Nicky Pew is alive.’ At first, the words didn’t register. She found herself staring at the half-timbered facade of the Lilla Torg Steakhouse. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘That can’t be.’ Anita was absolutely stunned. Her mind had been so full of finding Greta Jansson’s murderer that she had filed away the Todd case in the “visit later” folder.
‘George Dobson recognized him in the photo you sent over. He’s one of the jazz trio. The drummer.’
Anita’s head was reeling. She couldn’t see how that was possible. Unless? ‘Deputy Chief Constable Weatherley?’
‘Oh, yes. He didn’t kill him at all.’
‘But he was so sure.’
‘I’ve been on to Australia. The body was never actually recovered from the sea. The local police had no reason to doubt Weatherley’s story, especially as he had been shot. He wasn’t wounded seriously, of course, but enough to make it all look and sound believable.’
Anita was frantically processing this astonishing information.
‘It makes total sense of everything.’ In his growing excitement, Ash’s words were running away with themselves. ‘Pew and Weatherley faked the death, Pew re-emerges as Peter Johansson a few years later, with the same wife, and hides away in Sweden. It would’ve stayed that way if it hadn’t been for the death of Doris Little and a tenacious heir hunter. Once Todd had found Carol and made the Nicky Pew connection, he must have checked the jazz photo out with Billy Hump, just as I did with Dobson this morning. Then he realized he’d hit his “jackpot”. With Nicky still alive, it didn’t take a genius to work out that he still had the diamond money – all the proceeds split one way, as he’d shopped his three accomplices to Weatherley, who emerges a hero. I suspect that Graeme Todd thought he could blackmail Nicky. Books into a posh hotel in Malmo because he thinks he’s about to make himself rich. Big mistake.’
‘So, he meets up with Nicky or Carol in Ystad,’ said Anita as she pieced together the story from the Swedish end. ‘They aren’t going to give him anything, let alone leave him alive to give them away. But they have to discover exactly what he knows, hence the torture. God, the severed hand. It’s probably no coincidence that Carol’s a butcher’s daughter.’
‘I bet they’ve got a boat.’
‘Well, yes. Carol said Peter had a boat moored in the harbour nearby. That’ll be how they got the body out to sea. In the meantime, they feed back the information they’ve extracted from Todd to Weatherley, and he tries to tie things up at the British end.’ Anita’s mind was still racing. ‘Kevin, you’ve done a fantastic job.’
‘Thanks.’ He sounded genuinely pleased at her congratulations.
Then she had a sudden thought.
‘Hakim!’
‘What?’
‘Look, I’ll ring you back soon. I’ve got to call a colleague before he does something stupid.’ The moment Ash rang off, she punched in Hakim’s mobile number.
Hakim glanced around him. No one was watching. He leapt over the small gap between the harbour wall and the stern of
Diamanten
. He had some difficulty regaining his balance as the boat rode on the lapping water. He was out of his comfort zone – dry land was his natural habitat. He ducked through the cabin door and found himself in the saloon area. It was not as luxurious as he had expected. Blue padded benches tightly abutted the legs of the vinyl-topped table. The galley was compact and functional. Beyond it was a high seat in front of the wheel and controls. Four paces took him to a step down, and into the bow area with a bedroom, and small shower room complete with basin and toilet. Somewhere on this boat Peter and Carol Johansson must have hidden Graeme Todd’s body. He was now convinced.
The local storekeepers hadn’t been much help. The New Zealander kept himself to himself, though he was always pleasant. But then, while he was having a coffee sitting on the harbour wall, Hakim had picked up an email on his mobile phone. It was from his police contact in New Zealand, and it brought him some startling news. Peter Johansson had been born in Auckland in 1955. And then he had died there in 1961. The Peter Johansson now living in Skåne was roughly the right age, and had obviously taken over the dead boy’s identity. Hakim had no inkling who he really was, but now he was sure that he was behind Todd’s death. Or certainly a party to it. He just couldn’t fathom a reason. All he knew was that Todd had been taken by boat to near the Öresund Bridge and thrown overboard. He could have been tortured anywhere – the Johanssons owned four houses, after all; they’d bought themselves real privacy, with no prying neighbours to worry about. But the boat was a fact, and Hakim just knew it was this boat.
By this time, he was sitting on the double bed in the bow end. He heard a car draw up. He peered through the thin, horizontal cabin window. Out of a green Saab stepped a figure he recognized from the photo in
Ystads Allehanda
. The blond quiff of the jazz drummer was unmistakable. He had no time to slip off the boat, as Johansson was a few metres from the stern. He quickly nipped into the shower room and sat on the toilet seat as quietly as he could. The boat lurched as Johansson stepped on board. He was whistling. Hakim held his breath as he heard footsteps approach his hiding place. The whistling continued just outside the door. Hakim thought he was going to be sick. Through the thin wall, he heard Johansson opening a cupboard in the bedroom. Retrieving something from the cupboard was hopefully the reason for his visit to the boat, and he would now leave. Hakim could hear him jump up the step and go back into the saloon. Further creaks confirmed that he was heading back off the boat. Hakim was about to breathe a sigh of relief when his mobile phone went off.
Anita only got Hakim’s answer phone. He would call back when he got the message. She started to worry. Where was he? She should never have let him go on his own. She should never have taken her eye off the Todd case. What a fool she was – and an unprofessional fool at that! By this time, she was moving through the crowds on Skomakaregatan and was soon in the wide thoroughfare of Södergatan. As she entered Gustav Adolfs Torg, she paused briefly to redial. Soon she was running, as fast as her boots would allow, along the canal back to the polishus. Her mind was whizzing ahead. She would have to get hold of a car, as Hakim had taken hers.