The Memory Man Read online

  His crime? He’d been using the refugee crisis to smuggle girls from the Eastern Bloc into Scandinavia, hiding them with legitimate asylum seekers, and once they were over the border stripping them of the vital papers they needed for legitimate work and forcing them to live like cattle in a hostel he’d turned into a brothel in one of the most expensive streets in the city. If any of the girls refused to work they ended up as a newspaper headline, no second chances. They were replaceable. When Division had raided the house on Strandvägen they’d liberated thirty-two girls, some as young as fifteen, none older than twenty-two. The oldest of them had been there for three years. It was a mess that would take a lot of cleaning up, but Frankie had made sure the son of a bitch running the gig would stand trial for what he’d done to those kids even if letting him die would have been the expedient option. That spoke volumes about the woman.

  Mitch had nicknamed her the Wolf, a literal translation of her surname, and given the stories, it was easy to imagine Frankie Varg in that role.

  He opened the case file.

  The politician, Jonas Anglemark, was no longer categorized as missing. He’d been marked as deceased. His body had been found floating naked in the water. A second notation on the file caught his eye: Anglemark’s tongue had been taken by his killer.

  Thinking about wolves and tongues, Ash looked out at the line of lights that appeared to strobe across the length of the train’s windows as it hurtled on. The porter pushed a trolley cart with unappetizing sandwiches and overpriced drinks on it down the aisle. He didn’t feel much like eating but waved the man over.

  ‘Une bière, s’il vous plaît.’

  NINE

  Tournard’s prayers went unanswered.

  There had been a time when he was sure God had at least heard his prayers. Receiving an answer had never been essential to his belief. It was enough to know the Almighty was listening. But that had changed. He blamed himself, thinking his prayers had lost their conviction. Lacking conviction, he had begun to doubt his own faith. Doubting something so essential to his self, he had struggled. He had found a compromise; even if his belief in the Lord had wavered, the Church was everything. It did not matter if he no longer saw God in it.

  The lock rattled with the key, drawing his eyes to the door as it opened again.

  The man stepped inside, carrying a small tray with a chunk of bread and a glass of water on it. Was this to be his test? A deprivation of the luxuries he had grown used to? He ate well every day, it was true. He enjoyed the finer things in life, including a nice sherry after his meal, perhaps a brandy snifter before sleep. But going without did not mean someone else would eat, only that the food would go to waste. He understood the modern world well enough to know that privation did not make the slightest difference.

  ‘How long?’ he asked.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘How long do I have to live on bread and water?’

  ‘How long do you think would be a true test of your faith? A week? Two? Forty days and forty nights? Do you think that would be long enough?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Tournard said, though he doubted he would last half that time on a subsistence diet of bread and water. He was an old man, and though far from frail, he lacked the will to starve himself merely to amuse his captor. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, meeting the man’s eye. ‘You have to believe me.’

  ‘I don’t,’ the man said. He picked up the tray and left Tournard with nothing to eat or drink, which the priest couldn’t help but think was the most he deserved.

  Tournard paced the room. It was a frustrating nine and a half steps long, a little less than five wide, thanks to the bed. The only other furniture was a small cabinet which, like a cheap hotel room, contained a Bible. He sat with the good book, turning to familiar passages for comfort. There was barely enough light to read by, but the words were so very familiar he didn’t need to see them for them to come alive in his mind.

  It wasn’t until he took the book over to the narrow slash of light coming in through the transom window that he realized it wasn’t in French, and neither was it in Latin. He was a well-read man, versed in Italian and English, with a basic understanding of German and Spanish, but his knowledge of other languages was limited to little more than hello and goodbye and even then he could not be sure he had them in the right order. Still, with the familiarity of memory to guide him, he tried to read. He could fathom out the rudiments of the language without knowing which country it belonged to. There were roots that ran from language to language, and with a basic understanding of one Germanic and one Romance language it wasn’t unreasonable to think some element of sense could be deciphered, given time. At the moment time was something he could only hope he had plenty of. But then again, perhaps he didn’t. Only his captor knew his intentions. Perhaps he was destined to suffer the same fate as the man who had gone before him, his own tongue or some other organ sent on to the next unfortunate on his captor’s revenge list.

  It didn’t take long to discern the extra letters that marked it as a Scandinavian language, but rather than the Danish and Norwegian Ø it was the Swedish Ö he saw repeated in the text. Not that it helped him much to know that slight difference, as one was much like another when you couldn’t read it properly. There was enough similarity to the base German that he could decipher a few words in the opening sentences even if he couldn’t work out the full extent of the text.

  He tried to sound some out, stumbling over the peculiar placement of vowel sounds and the seemingly endless consonants that butted up against them. He tried to convince himself that this holy book was his best way of finding his route back to God and clung on to that idea even as the words he stared at lost all meaning.

  Telling himself he wasn’t giving up, merely resting for a moment to conserve his strength, Tournard set the book down on the bedside cabinet and lay on the bed. He closed his eyes.

  It was as though his tormentor had eyes in the room, because no sooner had he settled than the door opened again. This time when he entered, the man carried a small gas lamp, which he set down beside the Bible. The flickering blue flame was no brighter than the light streaming in through the open door.

  ‘It should be enough to read by,’ he said. He returned to the door and knelt to retrieve the tray with the hunk of dry bread and the small glass of water.

  ‘Bless you,’ Tournard said, as the man set the tray down on the bed.

  His tormentor said nothing, leaving him alone again.

  Tournard drank down the water greedily, then tore off a chunk of bread and swallowed it, barely chewing in his hunger. That was enough to bring a surge of appetites he couldn’t resist. In less than a minute both the bread and the little that had remained of the water were gone.

  Tournard was still unsure what exactly was required of him, but perhaps it was as simple as truly believing he could once more connect with his Lord?

  The light was barely enough to read by, and then only if the book was held close to the blue flame. He felt the urge to remain where he was for a moment longer and simply rest his eyes. He hadn’t understood how very, very tired he was.

  Tournard eased himself up off the bed, his left knee threatening to betray him as he struggled into the kneeling position. He focused on his need to pass this test of faith, his mouth drier than it had been even a few moments ago, and tried to find the words to say to his God, to forgive him his silences and deliver him from this evil, for His truly was the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory.

  The words were a comforting ritual. They were part of the process of cleansing his mind, communing with the divine. But this time the memories would not be held back.

  Hoping that the concentration trying to decipher more of the book demanded might be enough to silence them, he returned to his task.

  ‘God give me strength,’ he implored, as another wave of tiredness swept over his old bones. Sleep was such a temptation. The warmth of it irresistible.

  This wasn’t right.

&
nbsp; He shouldn’t have been so tired, but with each passing moment it became harder and harder to resist the lure of unconscious oblivion.

  All he wanted was to close his eyes.

  He leaned forward, resting his head on his arms, the pages of the Bible creasing beneath his cheek as he promised himself no more than a moment’s rest, but sleep soon overtook him and with it came the fear that he had already failed.

  TEN

  It was gone eight at night by the time Ash stepped off the train in Paris.

  Almost as soon as the Eurostar had left the tunnel Donatti’s text had come through with details of the hotel.

  A second text offered a pick up at Gare du Nord, but Ash had texted back that he’d meet him at the hotel and they could grab a bite while Donatti filled him in on the Monsignor’s disappearance.

  Despite his basic secondary school level French, he wasn’t worried about the taxi driver treating him like a tourist. He had a way of making sure he didn’t end up going on any scenic tours of the city. He wrote the name and address of the hotel on a slip of paper and tucked it into the wallet beside his warrant card. He walked up to the first taxi in the rank and made sure the driver saw the card as well as the address before he clambered into the passenger seat. The driver nodded but made no attempt at small talk. With his overnight bag on the floor by his feet, Ash settled in to enjoy the ride.

  The city looked as if it was in the middle of a shift change. The office workers were gone, even the most determined shoppers were flagging, the tourists heading to restaurants in search of food. The taxi driver avoided most of that, taking them through narrow back streets to find the fastest if not the shortest route to the hotel.

  He paid cash, tipping the man well as they pulled up outside the art deco portico.

  He double-checked the name of the hotel against the one on his phone. It was the right place. First impressions, the grandeur might have faded, but once upon a time it must have been quite luxurious with its grand ballroom, crystal chandeliers, and sweeping marble staircases.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said to the smiling receptionist as she looked up at him. The teeth behind the smile were a little too white, the lip gloss a little too shiny, the smile itself a little too forced, but that was probably in her job description.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she responded instantly in English, her French accent thick, like a well-smoked Gitanes. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You should have a room reserved for me? Peter Ash.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Ash,’ she said. She quickly checked him in and leaned back to take an oversized key with an oval brass tag stamped 229 from the rack behind her. There was a folded note in the box beneath the key. She put both of them on the counter.

  ‘You need me to sign anything?’

  ‘All taken care of, Mr Ash.’ She pushed the key and the note towards him. ‘Monsieur Donatti has made sure everything is covered. The elevator’s down that corridor.’ She indicated a passageway across the foyer’s mosaic floor, second on the left.’

  He opened the slip of paper.

  Call by my room when you’ve dropped off your luggage, Room 301.

  It only took five minutes to dump his luggage and splash some water on his face. The room was spacious, with high vaulted ceilings and a king-sized bed. The en-suite was a wet room. The minibar was generously stocked with a variety of chilled beers and a half-bottle of red, as well as snacks. He was tempted to crack open a bottle, but work had to come first. He pocketed his key and made his way to Donatti’s room.

  He gave the two sharp raps on the door.

  It swung open.

  ‘Peter, good man. Come in, sit. We have a lot to talk about.’

  The room was similar to his own, though as a corner room, it had two windows on adjacent walls. It overlooked both the main road and a side street lined with tall plastic bins. There was an orange glow from the streetlights. Two armchairs were set either side of a cast-iron fire grate. Coals smouldered in the grate. Two tumblers of single malt waited on a low table, one cube of ice in each.

  ‘I thought you might be ready for one,’ Donatti said.

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe, my friend,’ Ash said, sinking into the chair. He lifted the glass to his nose and breathed in the sweet wood-smoke fragrance. It was like a hit of ambrosia. Donatti was right, he was ready for it. He stretched out his feet in front of him. Donatti sat down across from him, his posture upright, more intense, more precise as he leaned forward and reached for his own glass.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming at such short notice.’

  ‘Anything for a decent Scotch and a few moments of peace,’ Ash said.

  Donatti raised his glass in salute. ‘Well then, here’s to a few moments of peace before we have to ruin it with work.’

  ‘I can drink to that.’ He took a mouthful, savouring the flavour, then nursed the glass for a full minute before he asked, ‘So, how about you bring me up to speed?’

  Donatti put down his glass and produced a sheet of brown waxed wrapping paper. ‘Monsignor Tournard received this yesterday morning. There was a note inside. I have been careful not to touch the inside of the paper on the off-chance the sender was careless.’

  ‘Always possible,’ Ash agreed. He pulled a small tobacco-tin sized package from his pocket and rolled it open on the table. He wasn’t a forensics expert, but he carried some of the basics with him. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled a pair of tweezers from the roll.

  ‘My first thought was to see if any of the staff remembered seeing Tournard and whoever had gone there to meet with him, but the cafe was already closed when I arrived. They open again at seven. Fancy an early breakfast?’

  ‘Sounds good to me. So, Tournard? No obvious health problems?’

  ‘That was my first thought when his man called, but he wouldn’t have been given the position if he was suffering from dementia.’

  ‘Dementia? How old are we talking?’

  ‘Seventy.’

  That raised an eyebrow. ‘Isn’t that a little long in the tooth to be offered a big job like this one?’

  ‘The reward for long and loyal service to the Church,’ Donatti explained.

  ‘Is that how it works? The Church, not the congregation?’

  ‘The Church is the people, my friend,’ he replied. It was a well-practised answer that tripped off his tongue without much thought. Ash resisted the urge to laugh. He’d seen the reach of the Church first hand, and it was hard to believe its actions were always in the best interests of the people it supposedly served.

  ‘So, what was in the package?’

  ‘I need your assurance that what I tell you stays between us.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that, not if a crime has been committed. That’s not how it works.’

  ‘At least until we are sure we know what has become of Tournard?’

  ‘I’m not promising anything. I can’t help with one hand tied behind my back. For one, we’re going to need help running any prints from the wrapper.’

  ‘If you must.’

  Donatti rose from his chair and walked to the small refrigerated minibar and opened it. A shelf had been cleared to make room for a plastic container.

  Donatti put the box on the table.

  A dark liquid had settled around the bottom of the container, but it wasn’t thick enough to hide the darker stain of something heavy swimming in it.

  Ash peeled back the lid to reveal its grotesque contents.

  ‘It’s a tongue,’ he said, stating the obvious.

  ‘You think it’s human?’

  ‘I know you do or you wouldn’t have called me in.’

  Donatti nodded.

  ‘And it just so happens I think I know whose it is.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘A little wolf told me.’

  ‘I’m not following?’

  ELEVEN

  It was late, but then it always seemed to be late by the time Frankie found herself wanderin
g down the supermarket’s aisles. She wasn’t big on domesticity. There was a Pot Noodle in her cupboard that had been there for nine years. She wasn’t about to eat it, but it was part of the furniture now, so it wasn’t going in the bin, either. She preferred to order in two or three times a week, but even then was adult enough to know a kitchen needed a certain amount of supplies, so as infrequently as possible she made the pilgrimage to the huge all-under-one-roof supermarket out towards Fitja. It wasn’t a great area. She wasn’t prejudiced, but it was undeniable that there was a heavy Syrian contingent in the region, and problems had increased over the last couple of years, especially with kids stealing cars and torching them.

  The only other souls she encountered were the staff restocking shelves.

  She was only after the bare essentials: coffee, milk, bread, cheese, a couple of frozen pizzas, maybe some fresh fruit and veg if she was feeling ambitious.

  She used the self-service checkout and bagged her meagre purchases in a reusable cotton ‘earth’ bag and went out into the cold night.

  The weather was turning. Give it a few weeks and it would still be light at this hour.