Also by Helene Tursten
Detective Inspector Huss
Night Rounds
The Torso
The Glass Devil
The Golden Calf
The Fire Dance
The Beige Man
The Treacherous Net
Who Watcheth
First published in Swedish under the title I skydd av skuggorna
Copyright © 2012 by Helene Tursten
Published in agreement with Copenhagen Literary Agency, Copenhagen
English translation copyright © 2017 by Marlaine Delargy
All rights reserved.
First English translation published in 2017 by
Soho Press
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tursten, Helene, author. | Delargy, Marlaine, translator.
Protected by the shadows / Helene Tursten ; translated by Marlaine Delargy.
Other titles: I skydd av skuggorna. English.
An Irene Huss investigation; 10
ISBN 978-1-61695-845-9
eISBN 978-1-61695-846-6
1. Policewomen—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction.
3. Gangs—Sweden—Ghoteborg—Fiction. I. Title.
PT9876.3.U55 I313 2017 839.73’8—dc23 2017021389
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Karin A. and Ola C.
because you’ve been with me all the way
The delivery car moved slowly along Ringövägen as the driver spoke agitatedly on his cell phone.
He ended the call abruptly and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. The boss had bawled him out because he couldn’t find the address, and then the stupid jerk couldn’t remember the number. “It’s on the piece of paper, Adem! Just read it!” he had yelled. But the scrawled figure could have been two, seven or nine. Where the hell was Kolgruvegatan anyway? And was it too much to expect the boss to install a GPS system in the car? Unfortunately his old cell didn’t have one. That was the first thing he planned to buy when he got paid: a new cell. An iPhone.
It was Adem Guzel’s third night delivering pizzas, and right now he bitterly regretted taking the job. He had only just acquired his driver’s license, and in two weeks he would be starting his final year of high school. He had spent the summer in Turkey; it had been good to catch up with family and friends, but there had been no opportunity to work. At least this gave him the chance to earn some money before he went back to school, plus he got to drive. The owner of the pizzeria was an old friend of his uncle’s, and it was this uncle who had brokered the deal. Unfortunately the pizzeria was in Brunnsbo, a part of the city Adem had never even visited.
He tried to cheer himself up with the thought that this was his last delivery of the night. The pizzeria stayed open until 11:00, which meant he would get back more or less at closing time. If he could find the goddamn address, of course.
He peered at the street signs, but it was too dark to see properly. In several places the signs were missing, or were twisted so that he couldn’t read the names. Some were covered in black spray paint. And it had started raining again, which didn’t exactly help.
An old VW pickup behind him signaled, wanting to pass. The driver looked like an old hippie, with a floppy hat and a long grey beard. He gave Adem the finger as he shot past. Adem swore and was about to put his foot on the gas, but he changed his mind when he spotted a street sign that seemed legible. He stopped the car and leaned over toward the passenger window. Kolgruvegatan—yes! He might manage to make the delivery after all. He made a ninety-degree turn onto the street. He loved the sound of screeching tires and the smell of burning rubber. Car chases. No one’s going to catch me, he thought, laughing to himself. Then he slowed down and checked out the low buildings, trying to see the numbers.
The dark, desolate area seemed to consist mainly of run-down blocks and storage depots. Most of the street lamps had been smashed, but a few faded signs informed him that he was passing a car shop, some kind of import company, and a paint shop. Everything was derelict; no commercial activity seemed to have taken place here for several years. Adem felt like he was driving through a ghost town. A chill made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and the sense of being in a horror film was steadily growing. He let out a yell, his heart pounding like crazy, as something swept by in the beam of his headlights. But it was only a large black bird, probably a crow.
A street lamp that was actually working illuminated the hull of an old boat propped up on bricks ahead of him. It was probably The Flying Dutchman, Adem thought in an attempt to dispel his fear with humor. Beyond the boat he could just make out the black surface of Göta River. This was the old docks; no one lived out here. Who would call and order a kebab pizza with extra sauce late on a Saturday night? No one, no one at all. He tried to breathe calmly, but panic was making his stomach contract into an ice-cold lump. What if he were driving straight into a trap? The place was deserted! Best get out of there right away.
Adem stopped the car to turn around, but realized the street was too narrow, so he started backing up. On one side was a high fence topped with barbed wire; the iron gates were almost nine feet tall, with a faded, illegible yellow sign on one of them. The asphalt in front of a single-story wooden building was strewn with trash. Suddenly Adem thought he saw a flicker of light at one of the filthy windows; there must be people around after all. He slowed down, searching for a number. Had he found the right address at last?
All at once a heavy door was flung wide open, crashing back against the wall. Adem braked instinctively, wondering what the hell was going on.
A blinding light streamed from the doorway, then he heard a loud roar. The roar turned into a heart-rending scream, and a man staggered out into the yard, arms flailing as he tried to run toward the gates. He dropped onto all fours, his cries growing weaker by the second.
Adem sat in the car, frozen to the spot as he watched the burning man’s death struggle. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horrific sight. When the man finally fell silent and collapsed on the ground, there was an eerie calm. Adem could hear the crackle of flames, and the acrid smell of burned flesh filled the air.
The car jolted and shot backward as Adem released the brake pedal and reversed toward the main road at full speed. Two motorbikes were traveling slowly along Ringövägen, and Adem avoided a collision by a hair’s breadth. The bike he almost hit was on the wrong side of the road; it was sheer luck that he didn’t crash into it.
His heart was pounding so hard he felt as if it was trying to hammer its way out of his chest. Waves of panic flooded his body, and all he wanted to do was floor the accelerator and get away. He didn’t care where he ended up, as long as he was as far from Ringön as possible. He managed to suppress his flight impulse and pulled over. With shaking fingers he picked up his cell phone and called the emergency number. Almost immediately a professional female voice asked how she could help him.
“He’s . . . he’s on fire! He’s . . . on fire!” Adem managed to sob.
The Huss family was celebrating. As one might expect, given their connections to the restaurant business, the table was adorned with artistically folded linen napkins and flickering candles, along with a range of glasses and cutlery to go with each course. Needless to say the menu was pretty special too, thanks to the two chefs in the family.
Krister raised his glass and cleared his throat. “Right now we have plenty to celebrate. Jenny, your mom and
I are so pleased that you’ve completed your training to become a chef, and found an apartment and a job. Congratulations!”
Everyone joined in the toast, sipping vintage Champagne, while Jenny stuck to alcohol-free cider. When she was a teenager she had followed a strict vegan diet. Her training in vegetarian cuisine had softened her approach somewhat, but she still refused to touch alcohol.
Krister allowed the delicious sparkling wine to linger on his palate for a moment.
“And of course we want to congratulate Katarina and Felipe, even though it’s been a month since you got engaged. We wish you every happiness!”
Once again the glasses were raised.
“And on Wednesday Irene and I celebrated our silver wedding anniversary. Twenty-five years. And you’ve been with us for twenty-four of those years,” Krister went on, winking at his daughters.
That wasn’t quite true; the twins had been there throughout their marriage. Irene recalled the wedding photo with a shudder; she had been seven months pregnant, and had looked like the battleship Potemkin in the full-length shot. She hadn’t framed it, but had chosen a close-up where she and Krister were both smiling into the camera. We were so young, she often thought when she glanced at the picture. She had been almost a year younger than the twins were now when she became a mother. Somehow they had managed to steer their little family through a quarter of a century; it hadn’t always been easy, but now it seemed as if things were beginning to fall into place for all of them—not least Krister.
“My turn, I think,” Irene said, smiling at her husband. He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide his pleasure.
“We all want to congratulate you, my darling, on becoming the owner of Glady’s. You’ve run the place for many years, so I have no doubt that it will be a success. Here’s to you, my love!”
With that she kissed Krister on the lips as the others whistled and cheered.
“Why did Månsson suddenly decided to sell the place to you?” Jenny asked when things calmed down.
Krister’s expression immediately grew serious.
“He didn’t have a choice. I had no idea, but apparently he gambled, and he was heavily in debt. That was the reason behind the divorce, and that was also why he moved here just under two years ago. He must have gotten a good price for the restaurants he owned in Stockholm, because he was able to pay off his debts and buy both Glady’s and Sjökrogen. Or maybe he borrowed some of the money . . . I don’t know.”
“So now he’s sold both restaurants here in Göteborg in order to pay off new debts?” Katarina said.
“Presumably. He had some counseling to help him beat his addiction back in the spring, and he seems to have sorted out his finances; he and his new girlfriend . . . what was her name . . . Jeanette Stenberg, that’s it. She worked as head waitress at Glady’s for a while before she took over at Sjökrogen, that’s how I know her. Nice girl.”
Krister took a sip of Champagne before going on:
“Anyway, Janne and Jeanette are moving to Majorca on Monday. He called me yesterday to say goodbye. He was still packing and I was working, so we didn’t even manage to get together for a beer.”
“What are they going to do over there?” Irene was curious.
She didn’t know Jan-Erik Månsson very well; he was an old friend of Krister’s. They had worked well together in Stockholm, and had become friends. Irene and Krister had met while she was doing her police training in Stockholm, and she had seen Janne a few times. He was a friendly, likeable, outgoing guy. When Irene completed her training she wanted to move back to Göteborg, and Krister joined her. Janne worked overseas for a few years, then returned to the capital where he had a brilliant career. A lot of people were surprised when he suddenly sold his two-star restaurants and relocated to Göteborg, his hometown, following his divorce.
“They’re going to run a restaurant in an upmarket hotel in a small town called Puerto Pollensa. Apparently the owner is an old friend of Janne’s,” Krister said.
It was time to serve the starter. Krister headed for the kitchen to grill Jenny’s herb and tofu stuffed tomatoes and the omnivores’ lobster, almost tripping over Egon, who suddenly appeared, moving at top speed.
“Egon!” Krister exclaimed, saving himself by grabbing hold of the doorpost.
The little dachshund stopped dead. In his mouth he was carrying his beloved blue ball, which he had inherited from Sammie, the family’s first dog. He sat down and tilted his head to one side, his tail swishing to and fro as he kept his eyes expectantly fixed on his master. Naturally Krister melted as usual. He bent down and picked up the dog.
“Not now, little man. Later. Let’s find you some food first,” he said, burying his nose in Egon’s soft coat.
The word “later” wasn’t part of Egon’s vocabulary, but he heard “food” very clearly and started yapping. It was one of his favorite words.
“I’ll come and feed Egon so you can concentrate on dinner,” Irene said, getting to her feet.
Through the half-open bedroom door, Irene watched as Egon scrambled up onto the bed. He belched a couple of times, then rolled over on his back with his paws in the air. His meal of dog biscuits mixed with morsels of tender saddle of venison had obviously been delicious; he had eaten every scrap and licked the bowl clean.
Egon fell asleep on the bed as the conversation and laughter continued in the living room.
The insistent sound of the telephone woke Irene early on Sunday morning.
“Leave it,” Krister murmured, trying to pull her close.
“I can’t. It might be important,” Irene said, fumbling for the receiver. Her head felt heavy, and she knew she had drunk more than usual the previous evening. But it had been a family party; they didn’t get together very often now that the girls were grown up and living their own lives. It was hard to find an opportunity when everyone was available at the same time.
A glance at the alarm clock told her she had slept for less than four hours, so it was hardly surprising she wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
“Irene Huss,” she said, trying to sound brighter than she felt.
“Morning—it’s Fredrik. I’m really sorry, but you’re going to have to come in today,” said Detective Inspector Fredrik Stridh, as full of life as ever.
“But it’s my day off. Krister and I celebrated our silver wedding anniversary yesterday.” Irene didn’t even try to hide the yawn that made her jawbone crack.
“So you’re a little the worse for wear? I do understand, but there’s no one else. Hannu, Sara and Jonny are still on vacation. I’ve checked the roster; Jonny and Sara are due back tomorrow, but I can’t get hold of either of them. I’m afraid you’re the only member of the team who’s available.”
Krister had been right; she shouldn’t have answered the phone.
“Okay. What’s it about?” she said with an audible sigh.
“There was a barbecue at Gothia MC’s old place out at Ringön late last night,” Fredrik replied.
“A barbecue?”
“They decided to flame-grill some guy.”
After a hot shower, three large cups of coffee and a cheese roll, Irene got into the car and set off for Hisingen and Ringön. There was hardly any traffic at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, so the trip into Nordstan and over the Göta Bridge was fast. The light drizzle enveloping the city was unlikely to inspire the residents to leap out of bed at this hour.
The air was still warm in spite of the fact that it was the middle of August. In just a few weeks the first real autumn winds would sweep in across the west coast. The thought of fall made Irene sigh, but it was a sigh of contentment; she really liked that time of year.
She and Krister had been back at work for only a week following a fantastic summer vacation. They had taken the car and traveled around northern France, staying in charming hotels in small towns and villages. T
hey had celebrated their silver wedding anniversary in advance by booking a night in a top hotel right in the center of Paris, where they had eaten a lavish dinner in a ridiculously expensive restaurant; she couldn’t even remember the name of the place. They had drunk fine wines and more than one glass of Champagne during the course of the evening, and the next day she had felt more or less the same as she did right now. Perhaps slightly worse, in fact. But it had been worth it.
It suddenly occurred to Irene that she could be stopped and breathalyzed by uniformed colleagues. There was no guarantee that she was under the limit. What had she been thinking of, getting in the car? She slowed down and tried to focus. Kolgruvegatan wasn’t the easiest street to find, even though she had been out there several times in the past.
It had been a while since she’d seen Fredrik Stridh. The two of them had been co-workers in the Violent Crimes Unit back in the day, but he had been transferred to the Organized Crimes Unit. They worked on long-term projects and monitored criminal gangs in the city but were not involved in homicide inquiries. When incidents of that kind came up, they contacted the unit where Irene had worked for almost twenty years.
“We haven’t identified the victim yet; there’s no wallet, no ID card, no cell phone. However, we don’t think it’s a straightforward mugging. No one saw or heard anything, apart from the pizza delivery kid, and he only saw the guy stagger out of the building in flames. He didn’t see who was responsible for setting fire to the poor schmuck,” Fredrik said. “Even if we assume the dead man is a gang member, it’s a hell of a way to die.”
Irene and Fredrik were standing in the yard outside the dilapidated building that had once been Gothia MC’s base in Hisingen. The CSIs were busy packing up the tent that had sheltered the scene of the crime from last night’s rain. The body had just been removed; the fire had burned the outline of the dead man into the asphalt. The stench of charred flesh still pervaded the whole area, making Irene’s stomach turn over. In an attempt to distract herself, she gazed around the yard. A faded yellow sign with red writing hung on the tall gates: trespassers will be shot! survivors will be shot again! bandidos. The motorbike gang known as Bandidos had used this place for a few years before handing it over to Gothia MC, another gang.
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