A Beautiful Breed of Evil (The DI Stella Cole Thrillers Book 5)

by Andy Maslen

  Johansson nodded. ‘I’ll add that information to my email.’

  In the face of his evident distress, Stella tried to offer some comfort. ‘If it’s any consolation, I am sure Ambassador Brömly didn’t suffer. Death would have been instantaneous.’

  As she uttered these reassuring words, Stella hoped they were true. Only once she’d read Craven’s report would she know for sure exactly how much Brömly had really suffered.

  By the time she got back to her desk in SIU, the email from Johansson was waiting in her inbox. He explained that finding the next of kin might take a little longer, but he could give her Brömly’s CV, and the two names she needed, right away:

  Karin Malmaeus, priest, Svenska Kyrkan (Swedish Church)

  Lars Bjorling, secretary, Svenska Vänskapssamhället (Swedish Friendship Society)

  She noted down the names and contact details. She sent Bjorling’s details to Roisin, then turned to the CV.

  After twenty minutes of reading, and re-reading, she had built a truncated timeline for Brömly’s professional life.

  1942 Born (17 Jan)

  1960 Left school

  1963 Graduated from Stockholm University with degree in Demographics and joined civil service

  1971 Took sabbatical to do voluntary work in Tanzania

  1976 Joined diplomatic service

  1997 Appointed ambassador to UK

  2002 Returned to Sweden

  2007 Retired

  2008 Moved to London

  2021 Murdered

  His early career looked like a civil service recruiter’s wet dream. But then she took another look at what she’d written. And she realised she’d missed something. It was so obvious in the shortened form of his career, but it had been lost amidst all the detail of his actual CV. The sabbatical.

  How long did people do voluntary service overseas for? Six months? A year? But five years? Really? Mid-career? That was a lot of time away from the greasy pole.

  She left her office and stood in the middle of the open-plan area of SIU.

  ‘Sorry, everyone. Your attention, please, for a moment!’ She waited while those not on the phone swivelled in her direction. ‘Anyone ever do any VSO?’

  ‘I did, boss,’ a DS from a neighbouring team called out.

  Stella crossed to his desk. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Cambodia. Straight after uni. It was awesome.’

  ‘How long were you out there for?’

  ‘It was three months, give or take a week.’

  She returned to her office and circled the item on her timeline. She added a note: Too long?/multiple placements?

  If there were a Swedish equivalent to the British Voluntary Service Overseas charity, would it still have records from the mid-seventies? Stella thought she knew the answer.

  Instead of digging further into the CV, she called the priest at the Swedish Church.

  ‘Hello, this is Karin?’ A lilting voice, with an undercurrent of seriousness.

  ‘Ms Malmaeus, this is DCI Cole. I’m with the police. I was given your name by the ambassador, Anders Jonasson?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Jonas is a good friend. And it’s Mrs by the way.’

  Once more, Stella explained what she was doing. Malmaeus agreed to see her at once.

  The Swedish Church occupied a central position on Harcourt Street, just a few minutes’ ride from Paddington Green. The white stone frontage soared upwards, dwarfing the three-storey office buildings to each side. A copper spire, weathered to a vivid green, stretched higher still, surmounted by a golden weather vane. A Swedish flag fluttered from a pole set into the white stone to the right of the ornate portico over the front door.

  The woman in clerical black and dog-collar who met Stella at the church had a bony forehead, a long, narrow nose and a heavy jaw. Stella felt she could almost see the bones of her skull beneath her pale, smooth, un-madeup skin. Her dazzling pale-blue eyes seemed out of place in such a rough-hewn face, like the pretty flowers one might find growing among the rocks of a sea-cliff.

  ‘DCI Cole, I am sorry not to be welcoming you to our church under happier circumstances. Please, follow me. We should talk in my private office, yes?’

  Having been offered, and refused, coffee and cakes, Stella sketched in the details of the murder. This time she did mention the mutilation.

  ‘I must ask you to keep that detail a secret. I don’t know if there’s a Lutheran equivalent of the confessional, but this is highly confidential.’

  Malmaeus nodded. ‘We believe very strongly in confession and absolution. It is called the Office of the Keys. But in any case, yes. I give you my word as a priest.’

  ‘Two verses in Mr Brömly’s Bible were highlighted. If I show them to you, could you tell me if they might have any particular significance? Perhaps especially to a Swede?’

  ‘Do you have them with you?’

  Stella passed a sheet of paper bearing the two verses across the desk. She waited while Malmaeus placed a pair of black-framed glasses on her nose and read the brief passages of Swedish.

  ‘There’s nothing that makes me think of a particular relevance to Swedes,’ she said, handing the sheet back to Stella. ‘Sin and absolution are universal experiences.’

  Stella stared at the Swedish verses, the English translations reverberating in her head in Malmaeus’s quiet, strong voice. Was her hunch on the money? Was this about Brömly wanting to speak out and his killer wanting to silence him?

  ‘Did Mr Brömly give you any cause to think that something was troubling him? That he had something on his conscience?’

  Malmaeus smiled sadly, and the expression transformed the misshapen face.

  ‘I am sorry. I cannot reveal anything to you about Tomas’s confessions.’

  ‘Of course. I understand,’ Stella said. She frowned. How could she get the information she wanted without forcing Malmaeus to choose between trouble with the cops or trouble with her faith?

  ‘How about outside of the confessional? Had he changed in any way recently?’

  Malmaeus nodded. Her smile was more open, free from the concern that had lent her previous expression a sad edge.

  ‘He had started to appear distant. And he smiled less. Not to the point of rudeness. Tomas was never impolite. But I would just say he had something on his mind.’

  Stella thanked the priest for her time and Malmaeus showed her out. They had to squeeze to one side as five children barrelled along the passageway, laughing and trailing balloons behind them on coloured ribbons.

  Malmaeus smiled at Stella. ‘A family christening. Sometimes the little ones get bored.’

  Stella smiled back. She watched the little girl at the rear of the group and felt a distant ache.

  Later that afternoon, she assembled her team in a conference room. With variations, depending on which aspects of his life they had been investigating, everyone gave the same information.

  Brömly was some kind of modern-day saint. A generous giver to Swedish charities. A regular churchgoer. A pretty sharp bridge player, but, as he and his friends only played for matches, gambling as a motive was off the table. One of the card players told Baz that Brömly had been off his food recently.

  ‘Not much, I know, but he also said Brömly used to be a great one for those cinnamon buns.’

  ‘Kanelbullar,’ Stella said.

  ‘Didn’t know you spoke Swedish, boss,’ Garry said.

  ‘The ambassador’s giving me lessons,’ she said, winking at Cam.

  ‘Oh yeah? Good-looking, is he?’ Garry asked. ‘Blonde hair, blue eyes, proper Nordic type?’

  ‘Actually he was the complete opposite. More Italian-looking. Mind you, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crispbreads, know what I mean, ladies?’

  ‘Anyway,’ Garry said, raising his voice over the female laughter, ‘I got his medical records. And I think I know why he’d lost his appetite. He had terminal prostate cancer. I’ve got contact details for his oncologist. She’s at St Thomas’.
’

  ‘That would certainly account for him being self-absorbed, which is what the priest said.’

  Finally, Stella turned to Def. ‘What news from the world of perverted, fucked-up murderers?’

  Def smiled, brushing a stray lock of long blonde hair away from her face. ‘Since 1950 there have been seven murders where part or all of the victim’s tongue was removed. Four were bites that just removed the tip. Two involved a knife to remove part of it. And in one, the whole tongue was cut out and left on the victim’s chest.’

  ‘Any of the doers possibles for Brömly?’

  Def shook her head. ‘Four of them died of natural causes. One was killed in a gang hit in 2014. One’s ninety and has dementia, is living in a care home. One’s in Holloway serving time for modern slavery.’

  ‘On paper, Brömly’s clean,’ Stella said. ‘But nobody’s that good. We know that, right? And speaking of paper, there’s this one thing on his CV I want to look into a bit more. From 1971 to 1976 it says he was doing voluntary work in Tanzania.’

  Rosh frowned. ‘Sounds like more of the same to me.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s a hell of a career break, don’t you think? The guy looks to be making solid progression in the Swedish civil service for eight years, then he ups sticks and buggers off to Africa for half that time again.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it,’ Baz said. ‘Almost a decade pushing paper in some government office block and he got a bit of wanderlust.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Stella said, though she wasn’t convinced. ‘Right. He had cancer. I’ll take his oncologist. Garry and Baz, can you try and dig up anything you can about those four years in Africa? Rosh and Cam, keep talking to the local Swedish community. Nobody’s that good. Maybe drop down a couple of levels.’

  ‘I’ve got a CI who moves in expat circles,’ Rosh said. ‘Mainly Eastern Europeans, but I’ll ask him if he knows anyone from Sweden.’

  ‘Good. OK, thanks, everyone. I know you’re all working flat-out, and I appreciate it, but remember to take care of yourselves. Get home at a reasonable time and get some sleep.’

  The briefing broke up with a chorus of general assent, although everyone knew they’d be ignoring Stella’s instruction. Including Stella.

  Just as she was leaving for her meeting with Brömly’s oncologist, Craven’s PM report dropped into her inbox. She printed it out and tucked it into her bag. She’d read it later. The covering note put her mind at rest on one important topic. Brömly was already dead when his tongue was removed.

  6

  Stockholm

  Annika re-read the online article about Brömly’s murder.

  Tomas Brömly, 79, a former Swedish ambassador to London, was found dead in his £12.5m Mayfair flat on June 10th. Police are treating Mr Brömly’s death as suspicious. A source close to the investigation confirms that Mr Brömly’s body was mutilated, and a body part was left on an open Bible.

  Closing her eyes, Annika let herself travel back in time to that dreadful day in ’75. Her sixteenth birthday. She could remember it as if it had happened yesterday. No, like it was happening to her all over again, right here, right now…

  …her stomach is fizzing with excitement at the thought of the school bell at the end of the afternoon. She’s arranged to meet Juliana for a coffee at that new place in town. After coffee, they’re going to get their ears pierced together, then go to the record shop on Nygatan and listen to the latest releases. Juliana loves ABBA, but Annika’s into David Bowie. ‘Rebel Rebel’ is literally her favourite single ever.

  The last lesson is English. Normally, Annika enjoys the sound of the unfamiliar words as they escape her lips. But her eyes have been tiring throughout the day. Plus, the classroom is so hot half the class are falling asleep. It’s the heatwave.

  The chalked words on the blackboard are so fuzzy she can’t make them out. Is that ‘chair’ or ‘chance’? She can’t tell. She needs glasses. But that dope Andriesson at the children’s home says she’ll grow out of it. What an idiot!

  Miss Petersson, with her crow’s voice and sleek black hair, has this witchy ability to find the one girl who’s fearful and pick on her to read from the board. Annika tries to pull her head down between her shoulders, like a tortoise.

  Pick Pia! Pick Sophie! Pick Linnea! Pick anyone you like, but please don’t pick me!

  ‘Annika Ivarsson. Stop hiding, girl, and read the next line.’

  Annika’s belly flips, but it’s not excitement this time. It’s terror. She knows she’ll be in trouble again. She squints at the board, forcing her aching eyes to focus just enough on the line of poetry that she can hazard a guess.

  Around her, her classmates are watching her over their shoulders, or whispering to each other just out of her sightline. She hears a suppressed giggle. It sounds like that bitch Maja Jacobsson. Then her voice cuts through the chatter and Annika is sure it’s her main tormentor.

  ‘Don’t they have books at the children’s home?’

  ‘Come on,’ Miss Petersson caws, ‘we haven’t got all day.’

  It’s no good. Try as she might, the chalked words in Miss Petersson’s spiky scrawl stay blurred.

  ‘I can’t, Miss,’ Annika says, finally, dreading what must inevitably follow.

  ‘What do you mean, “can’t”?’

  Miss Petersson loves this, Annika can tell from the triumphant smirk on the woman’s face.

  ‘My eyes, Miss. They’re tired.’

  Miss Petersson raises one finely plucked eyebrow into a perfect arch. She puts the tip of her finger to her thin lips.

  ‘Tired? My dear girl, you should have said so earlier,’ she says, pulling the corners of her mouth down. ‘If you’re tired, of course you mustn’t participate any further in the lesson. After all, it isn’t as if William Shakespeare has anything to teach you, now is it?’

  Her sarcasm has infected the rest of the class. They’re giggling openly, not even hiding their whispers from Miss Petersson behind their hands. No need, when she has made it totally clear whose side she’s on.

  ‘I didn’t mean that, Miss,’ Annika begins. ‘I—’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Petersson snaps. ‘You are excused.’

  Pale cheeks ablaze, Annika gathers her things, stuffs them into her camo-patterned backpack and scuttles out of the classroom. She fights back the tears that threaten to burst their banks before she has reached the sanctuary of the corridor. She won’t give Maya the satisfaction.

  The following day, at 7.45 a.m., she heads for the front door, ready to begin the three-mile walk to school. But the warden’s office door opens and Mr Andriesson steps out to bar her way. He is wearing his usual outfit: skanky tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, sludge-brown corduroys and those weird shoes that look like they’re made of brown pastry. God, he’s so uncool.

  ‘Ah, Annika,’ he says. ‘My office, please.’

  Frowning, she turns away from the front door and follows him into the office. Where a young, good-looking man in a dark pinstriped suit is waiting. He’s taller than Mr Andriesson. Ha! That’s not hard. He has thoughtful eyes and the way he looks at her makes her think he is clever. Like he can see things about her nobody else can. She decides in an instant she likes him.

  Mr Andriesson points to a thinly upholstered armchair. ‘Sit,’ he says.

  What is she, a dog? Arsehole!

  Annika takes the chair and looks at the stranger.

  ‘Who is he?’ she asks Andriesson.

  ‘My name is Tomas,’ the man says. He holds out his hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Annika.’

  Puzzled by the warmth in his voice, she stretches out her right hand and shakes mechanically. Nobody’s ever done that before. She enjoys the sensation of his warm, dry hand enfolding hers.

  ‘Mr Brömly is the regional administrator for all the children’s homes in Umeå,’ Andriesson says.

  ‘And?’ she replies, jutting her chin a little like Juliana taught her.

  ‘Miss Petersson says you’ve b
een having trouble reading.’

  ‘No. Not reading. I read loads of books. Just from the blackboard.’ She looks at Tomas. ‘My eyes get tired. I think I need glasses.’

  Andriesson smiles icily as if she’s just asked for a thousand kronor to spend on sweets.

  ‘You’re to go with Mr Brömly. He helps girls like you.’

  Now she understands. Or thinks she does. There must be some sort of government programme to give out free glasses to, what’s the official phrase? Ah yes, ‘children from non-standard backgrounds’. Yes, well, that just about covers it. Dumped into the care system aged five and left to fight it out with all the other losers.

  Tomas smiles at her and stands.

  ‘Come on, then. I have a car outside.’

  She follows him. No bus for Annika today. Instead, a ride in this smooth-looking guy’s bright-yellow Saab 900. It’s one of those cool ones with a black fabric roof.

  She settles herself in the passenger seat. It’s black leather and smells new. It’s hot on the backs of her bare thighs. There’s a funny cardboard strawberry hanging from the mirror. It adds a sweet perfume to the smell of hot leather.

  She looks down. Her school skirt has ridden up and she unsticks her skin from the seat so she can pull it down a little. She glances across, but Tomas has his eyes fixed firmly on the road.

  They all know what goes on with children’s home kids. It’s no secret. Some even claim they get paid for it. But Annika doesn’t want it. Not one bit. She’s a virgin and she intends to stay that way. At least until she gets married. But if she was going to do it, she thinks Tomas would be the kind of man who’d be all right. Kind. Gentle.

  ‘Buckle up!’ he says, in a fake American accent that sounds like he learned it off the TV. She smiles to show she thinks it’s cool.

  Then he puts the car in gear and drives away from the home.

  …The rest is a blur. Try as she might, and over the years she has, many, many times, she simply can’t remember.