Page 18 of We Chase Shadows

‘Vern Blackwood says he’s a killer,’ says Rosie. ‘Can you confirm that?’

‘A definite killer,’ says Ernesto. ‘He killed plenty of people, don’t you worry that he hasn’t killed no one.’

Ernesto expands a photograph of a bald man, perhaps in his early seventies, taken from an airport security camera. He looks, to Steve, like Death himself. ‘This is him in Bratislava a year ago. We have another one of him flying back out the next day. Between the two photos a Czech gentleman is murdered in a hotel in the centre of the city.’

‘And you’re sure it was Eriksson?’ Steve asks.

‘Only God can tell for sure,’ says Ernesto. ‘But he has a habit of being in town when these things happen. We have a murder in Helsinki two years ago, another in Minsk around four years ago. Every time a murder, every time there is Jakob Eriksson. The most dangerous man in Sweden, they call him. Though I guess there’s not much competition.’

‘And he’s not in jail?’ Rosie asks.

‘You want to find us some evidence,’ says Ernesto, ‘and we’ll put him in jail. I can’t arrest him for being in an airport. This isn’t Russia.’

‘Or America,’ adds Rosie.

‘All to do with drugs,’ says Ernesto. ‘But not, you know, not Van Halen drugs. Medicine drugs. Tablets, Viagra, you know, Ritalin, those sorts of drugs. That makes sense to you?’

‘It makes perfect sense,’ says Rosie. ‘And Tommy Griffin is in the same business?’

‘Correct,’ says Ernesto.

Rosie gives a slow nod. ‘We think Eriksson might have just killed someone else.’

‘You want to give me details?’ Ernesto asks.

‘In good time,’ says Rosie. ‘Vern doesn’t believe it’s him, so we’ll tread carefully for now. And Jakob Eriksson is his real name?’

Ernesto shrugs. ‘Maybe. Definitely we’ve known him as Jakob Eriksson for about twenty-five years. First mentioned in 2001, an anonymous tip-off about an illegal factory in Morocco. Twenty-five years would be a long time to have the same alias.’

‘Great year, 2001,’ says Steve. ‘I saw AC/DC at Wembley, and I also caught a guy who was murdering gang members and leaving their dismembered limbs in supermarket toilets.’

‘How were AC/DC?’ Ernesto asks.

‘Epic,’ says Steve. ‘2001 they were in their pomp.’

Ernesto nods enthusiastically. ‘Did they play –’

‘And back to Jakob Eriksson, boys,’ says Rosie.

‘You must have found something on Eriksson since 2001,’ says Steve. ‘You’re Interpol.’

‘I am Interpol, yes,’ says Ernesto. He adjusts the wing mirror on the SEAT and it falls off. He picks it up, looks at it accusingly, then throws it on to the passenger seat.

‘Can you send us everything you have?’ Rosie asks. ‘On all three of them?’

‘Legally, no, of course not,’ says Ernesto. ‘But yes, for you and Steve.’

‘And do you know anyone in Sweden who might be able to help us track Eriksson down?’ Rosie asks.

‘Spanish cops are better than Swedish cops,’ says Ernesto.

‘I see,’ says Rosie. ‘Do you think Swedish cops would agree with that?’

‘How could they not?’ says Ernesto. ‘It’s just facts. But I know a guy, Larssen. For a Swedish cop, he’s good. For a Spanish cop, he would be second-rate, perhaps third. He’s the guy they got tracking down Sara Lindstrat, so you know they rate him.’

‘Who’s Sara Lindstrat?’ Steve asks.

Ernesto shakes his head. ‘You really don’t know any of the “Europe’s One Hundred Most Dangerous Criminals” list?’