Murder In Lima E-Book

Mats Vederhus

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Kurt Hammer ends up in Lima, Peru to escape his demons and put an end to his alcoholism.

The holiday soon takes a sinister turn though, when Kurt witnesses the brutal murder of an old friend.

Facing the most difficult case of his life, can Kurt find the killer - and avoid succumbing to his demons?

Leseprobe

MURDER IN LIMA

KURT HAMMER BOOK 2

MATS VEDERHUS

CONTENTS

Prologue

New Record at Auction

1. 19 July 2014

2. July 10, 2014

3. July 20, 2014

4. July 20, 2014

5. July, 20 2014

Norwegian billionaire killed in Lima

6. July 21, 2014

7. July 22, 2014

Collision at E6

8. July 23, 2014

9. July 24, 2014

10. February 2, 2014

11. July 26, 2014

12. July 20, 2014

The curious case of Alessandra Chavez part 1

The strange case of Alessandra Chavez

13. July 27, 2014

14. July 28, 2014

15. July 29, 2014

16. July 29 2014

17. July 30, 2014

18. July 31, 2014

- Probably wasn’t shot

19. August 1, 2014

20. August 1, 2014

21. August 2, 2014

22. August 3, 2014

23. August 4, 2014

Epilogue

Thanks

You may also like

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2016 Mats Vederhus

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Emily Fuggetta

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To

Sara Marie, for life

Sunniva, one of the strongest persons I know

Agatha, for a lifelong love of crime and mysteries

PROLOGUE

The black Mercedes Maybach Pullman pulled up in the middle of New Bond Street, under an ashen sky. Raining cats and dogs, the weather gods were clearly in an extra bad mood this day——even for London. A man wearing a black bowler hat and coat stepped out from the driver's seat, closed the door behind him, and with firm steps went to the rearmost door located almost five meters to the rear. When he opened the door, the man bowed and said, "Welcome, sir!"

Cars such as a Rolls Royce Phantom, Porsche Panamera 4, and Aston Martin DB9 occupied all the parking spaces along the narrow street. People who hadn't barricaded themselves indoors to escape the rain stood in small clusters on each side of the street, pointing and whispering amongst themselves, apparently just as curious as the journalists from all over the world who had shown up and were now preparing to assault the newly arrived car.

"Thanks!" the man answered, getting out of the car.

His skin was lightly tanned, and he had black, curly hair which lay in a nice bun on the top of his head. Underneath his light brown leather jacket, he wore a dark blue turtleneck and an orange T-shirt. A green cotton scarf was wrapped around his throat. On the tip of his nose sat glasses with thick, black frames.

An explosion of flashes assaulted him as the journalists screamed at the top of their lungs.

“No comment,” said the man firmly as he ran from the car toward the two display windows of the marble building. He moved with confident steps and a strutting neck to a creamy white façade.

Golden letters spelling the name “Sotheby's” filled the space between the second and third floor. The entrance to Sotheby’s auction house was comprised of black, stately doors with golden handles. As he stood outside, he was met by a tall man dressed in a black coat and top hat.

“Please hurry up, sir,” he said. “The auction starts in five minutes.”

“Thanks. I assume that I have a reserved seat,” answered the man with the green scarf.

"Of course." The tall man opened one of the black doors. "Welcome!"

NEW RECORD AT AUCTION

BY FELICIA ALVDAL AND FRANK HANSEN

The paintings, Several Circles and Autumn in Bavaria, by the Russian artist Vasily Kandinsky (1866 – 1944) were sold this weekend for respectively 15 and 18.9 million pounds at the auction house Sotheby's in London.

“Kandinsky was a very popular artist, and I expected that these would be sold for a lot. We are still overwhelmed by the result,” auctioneer David Bennett said to NTB this weekend.

Record

Several Circles beat the record of a painting selling for eleven million pounds. This record was then beaten again by the sale of Autumn in Bavaria. A bidding war ensued between an unknown Russian buyer and the controversial Norwegian billionaire John Fredly.

Fredly's press secretary, Hans Eriksen, stated to NTB, “John Fredly has been interested in art for his entire life, and Kandinsky is his favorite artist. The fact that the price he paid for these works was a record high is just a footnote in the big scheme of things.”

Uncertain

Questioned about whether or not Fredly could imagine lending the paintings to a museum to share the works with a larger audience, he answered, “This is something he's not yet considered. It isn't impossible that it will happen in the future, but then it'll most likely be in a Peruvian museum in Lima, where he lives.”

The Russian buyer wouldn't be identified but said via his press secretary, “We are very disappointed by the result. Kandinsky is a part of Russian national history and doesn't belong in South America. We are willing to pay Fredly twice what he paid over ten years if he agrees to sell, and we've informed him of this.”

Not going to happen

For Fredly, however, this is unacceptable.

“Fredly will be keeping the paintings in his home in Lima, Peru, for the foreseeable future, where he will be enjoying them together with family and guests,” Eriksen concluded.

1

19 JULY 2014

Kurt Hammer staggered out of a black and white chess-patterned taxi in the Miraflores area of Lima, Peru.

He went around the car to the driver’s side, before remembering that he had already paid, and continued crossing the street, ignoring the traffic signal in front of him. From the driver’s seat of his taxi, Juan Pablo looked on with eyes like saucers.

Oh my God, he will be hit, Juan thought before opening the door and running out to grab hold of his foreign client's arm. Compared to the gangly Norwegian, whose head was almost two meters above the ground, Juan Pablo looked more like a child than a taxi driver.

“Hey, man, where do you live?”Juan Pablo spoke ascalmly as he could and in English. The words exited his mouth with a slight Quechuan accent.

Kurt pointed to a red building across street. At the bottom it said “Ibero Librerias” on a blue background. Between two rows of big windows, in the middle of the building, were the words “Pariwana Backpackers” in white lettering.

Juan Pablo put his arm around his tall, foreign client, who suspiciously resembled some American actor. Who was it … Jeff Bridges! He had the same thin frame, blue eyes, slightly sunken face, and sharp chin covered in a beard. His hair was dark blond, greasy, and touched his shoulders. This Norwegian's nose was crooked from several fights over the years——a fact Juan Pablo didn't find curious in the least, considering how the man drank. He hoped that someone inside would take care of his client so the taxi driver could go back to work. The odd couple was almost run over twice by a green bus and a blue Range Rover as they attempted to cross the street.

Finally, they came to a black door, which was located under a black sign with yellow letters that read “Pariwana.” Juan discovered a red button on his left-hand side and pushed it. After one minute the door opened.

Juan sighed heavily when he pushed the door open and noticed a stairway.

20 July 2014

Kurt Hammer woke up at 11:31 a.m. the next day. His head felt like a water balloon about to burst. What happened yesterday? he thought.

Kurt had no clue, but when he realized that he'd eventually fallen asleep in his own bed, a satisfied little smile spread across his lips. Slowly but surely, he opened his eyes and then looked around the room. It was covered with red wallpaper and sparsely furnished. Except for the double bed fashioned from dark wood and two nightstands, it contained nothing but a closet. When he turned his head, he almost lost his breath. Lying beside him in the bed was a Peruvian woman in her late twenties. She had long, jet-black hair, which touched her shoulders, as well as bangs. Her big lips were still painted red from the night before. Kurt noticed, too, that she had a fairly long scar over her right eye.

Kurt lightly touched her naked shoulder.

She opened her eyes slowly. Then she turned around and looked up at Kurt. Under a couple of thick but manicured brows were almond shaped eyes with pupils like coffee beans.

“Madre de dios,” she cried. Mother of God!

She jumped out of bed, dragging the bedsheet she used to cover her breasts.

“What happened yesterday?” she asked.

“I had hoped that you could give me the answer to that,” Kurt replied.

“Are you used to waking up with strange women by your side?”

“Hmm. It's been a while, but it's happened. Who are you?" Kurt smiled carefully.

“I'm Sara Sofia Ulo. I went out with friends last night, and … Madre de dios! They must be wondering where I went. Do you have a telephone I can borrow?”

"Don't you have your own?"

"I lent it to my friend last night before I blacked out."

"I see …" Kurt reached over to the nightstand, grabbed his iPhone 5s, and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said and sat down on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

After a couple of minutes, she concluded that her friend wouldn't pick up the telephone.

"Fuck it, I'll send her a message," she said.

Finally, she handed the cell phone to Kurt and started to dress.

Sara Sofia put on a short black skirt, long black leather boots, and a red corset.

"Thanks for a nice night, which I cannot remember anything of." As she was about to close door behind her, she turned and said, "Next time, you better remember that in this country the men always open the door for the ladies.” She winked.

Well, that was awkward. I'll never drink again, Kurt thought after she'd left.

He crawled out of the bed, but when he tried getting up, it felt like the room was located in a ship trapped in a hurricane. After spending five minutes finding his balance, he grabbed his black toiletry bag and carried it to the bathroom across the hallway.

There he was met by the hostel's overeager activity leader. The little Colombian barely came up to Kurt’s shoulders and looked at him with wide-open eyes, which seemed like two big coffee beans in the nonplussed face.

"Kurt! Where were you yesterday? I heard that they had to carry you into the room," he said.

"No worries. I was just a little drunk and decided to go home early," said Kurt.

"You ought to shave. And take a painkiller … or five. Your eyes are bloodshot. Good thing no one looked for you," said the activity leader.

Kurt was too tired to search for the possible sarcasm in his voice. He, instead, turned his back so he could face the mirrors above a row of wash basins. He hated being told what he should or shouldn't do. The little prick was still right about one thing, though: his beard, and hair for that matter, could use a trim. His ordinarily shoulder-length, dark blond hair was a rat's nest, and his beard was overly long and bushy.

Kurt decided to take drastic measures. During the next fifteen minutes, he trimmed his hair to a couple of millimeters and shaped his bushy beard into a handsome sailor's beard. Then he quickly downed a couple of aspirin.

A couple of hours later, Kurt Hammer stood on the first floor of the big clothing store, Ripley, at Dean Valdivia 577, looking around. All of a sudden, he heard a male voice behind him talking in Norwegian.

"Aren't you … Kurt Hammer?" said the man.

The man standing before Kurt looked to be in his forties, with short, dark hair and square glasses framing a round face. His eyes were blue with thin brows arched over blue eyes. His dark Armani suit was immaculate, but he was missing the little finger on his right hand.

Trying to place the man, Kurt raised one brow. After a half minute he had to concede. "Who are you?" asked Kurt.

The man stretched out his hand with a smile. "Hugo Friis. I read about you in VG and Aftenbladet last year, you see. My employer subscribes to them. You must be a celebrity in Norway now," he said.

Kurt smiled carefully. "That may be so, but people mostly keep quiet around me. Accident at work?" Kurt pointed at Hugo's right hand.

"Oh, yeah. I used to work as a fisherman outside Harstad, where I come from. What are you doing here?" asked Hugo.

"I needed a vacation. A colleague and friend recommended I travel far away, and my therapist said it would be a good test for me to travel to a place with cheap alcohol. But that's a long story … and what are you doing here? Or more importantly … who are you working for?"

Hugo Friis smiled playfully. "An old acquaintance. Funnily enough, he's hosting a dinner for friends tonight. I think he would appreciate if you showed up," he said.

"Ahh …" Kurt was reluctant to answer.

"Trust me, you won't regret it! Have you heard about Huaca Pucllana?" asked Hugo.

"No …" said Kurt.

"It is a big excavation project in Miraflores, where Lima Incas built pyramids. Come at 8:00 precisely," said Hugo.

The man took out a brochure from the pocket of his suit. It pictured something built with primitive bricks, which resembled a cliff. In the right corner it said "Huaca Pucllana" in white lettering, followed by "the temple of the worshippers of the sea" in yellow lettering.

"Who is this acquaintance, then?" asked Kurt.

"You'll know if you show up! And…" Hugo scrutinized him from top to bottom. Kurt was wearing a canary-yellow suit, a light brown fedora, and red sailor’s slippers "… see if you can find a suitable dinner suit, for God's sake," he said.

With that, the man turned and disappeared to a different section of the clothing store.

What a rude thing to say, Kurt thought and walked back to look for Hawaiian shirts and sunglasses, despite the fact that Lima hardly ever saw any sun. The months of January to April saw an average temperature of twenty-two degrees Celsius, something which suited Kurt well.

At 7:30, Kurt changed into sandals and a Hawaiian shirt. He lay on the Pariwana hostel's roof with earbuds in and a Marlboro gold hanging out of his mouth while reading Fallen Angels by Gunnar Staalesen. All of a sudden, he was shocked to life by someone touching his shoulder. The little Colombian he'd met earlier stood by his side.

"Kurt, Kurt, Kurt," said the man.

"What is it, Jose?" said Kurt.

"There's a man for you in the reception. He says he's there to pick you up."

"Huh? I haven't ordered a taxi," said Kurt.

"I think you should come take a look," said the man.

"Okay," said Kurt.

Kurt reluctantly stood up, noticing that it was almost dark outside and praised Gunnar Staalesen for occupying him for most of the day. A big gang with huge knapsacks on their backs stood, as per usual, in the white reception area on the second floor; they were in the process of checking in. Behind them stood a small man in a black uniform with a driver's hat on his head.

"Kurt Hammer?" he asked when Kurt came into the reception via the broad staircase which led to the roof.

"That's me," answered Kurt.

Kurt noticed the several surprised stares when he spoke to the little man.

"I have been instructed to drive you to Huaca Pucllava," said the man.

"How did you know where I lived?" asked Kurt.

The man smiled. "My boss knows perfectly well who you are," answered the man.

"Ahh, and who is he?" asked Kurt.

"Join me and you'll see," said the man.

Kurt had started to tire of the secrecy around this employer but followed when the little the man started moving towards another staircase which led down to the street level.

The largest car Kurt had ever seen was parked by the street: a black Mercedes Maybach Pullman, which was about six meters long. Kurt started to understand that the list of people he knew who could arrange this kind of dinner just grew significantly shorter. Still, he had no idea who it could be. The little man opened the rearmost door and signaled that Kurt should get inside.

The car had upholstered seats, and an open bottle of Pahlmeyer Napa Valley Chardonnay waited for him between the two rearmost seats. Kurt immediately started sweating. I deserve half a glass, he thought. Right afterward, the image of Felicia's icy blue eyes filled his mind, along with the smell of Chanel No. 5 mixed with the guilt and shock he'd felt when he woke up that morning. "What a fucking idiot you are, Hammer," he said to himself, opened the window, and poured the contents of the bottle out across the asphalt like a seventy-dollar rain shower. Under Lima’s constantly foggy sky, the cars filled the roadway, and Kurt wondered for how long they would be driving. They arrived fifteen minutes later.

Shaking, Kurt opened the car door, only to see oblong pyramids in front of him. They seemed to be made from … sand?! He didn't understand how that was possible in the middle of this big city. Before he had the time to scratch his beard, a man walked out of the entrance between the fence, which surrounded the place, and came over to him.

The man was wearing a green scarf and a light brown leather jacket. His hair was black and curly, fashioned into a nice bun at the top of his head. Kurt's jaw dropped.

"It’s John?" asked Kurt.

"The one and only," the man answered and beamed.

"I realized that you'd become someone big after university, see," said Kurt and gave his old friend a big hug, reminiscing about their time together in Bodø.

A party for the new students, arranged by the eldest prefect at the Police Academy, had resulted in forty-seven people being squeezed into one and a half floors of an old house from the fifties at Mørkved, just outside the center of town. The couches had to have been five years old. The walls were plastered with pictures of Wham! and Ole I'Dole. The eldest prefect had bought A-ha on vinyl, and to this day Kurt could still remember the lyrics of “The Living Daylights.”

During the night, Kurt had tried his luck with Marta with the big boobs, the punk Camilla, and Ragnhild with the pigtails. He was more or less brutally rejected by all of them, but things didn't turn really sour until he made out with the eldest prefect's broad. Kurt was thrown out into minus-fifteen-degrees Celsius weather. On his way home, he managed to fall asleep in a mound of snow. Out of the blue, John Fredly, his old classmate from Trondheim, appeared like a shadow in the night. He had to practically carry him home on his strong shoulders and helped get him to bed.

The next day, Kurt had made up his mind about starting a regular training regimen. He was out of shape and knew it, realizing that it was a miracle he had passed the physical examinations for the Police Academy. For the next three months, the pair worked out two or three times a week.

"You helped me become a better policeman," said Kurt.

"How so?" John asked, beaming at him at him with a funny smile.

"If you hadn't saved my life in the mound of snow that night, I never would have realized how out of shape I was and started working out."

"Haha, I didn't save your life, but you probably would have gotten serious frostbite." John friendly across his back.

"Sorry for what happened after," said Kurt.

"Don't think about it. We … didn't turn out so well," John said and sighed.

"What are you doing here?" said Kurt.

"Well, maybe you heard that I became a tax refugee a few years back. First I moved to Colombia and then here. I came over for this project, which I wanted to invest in and keep a closer eye on," said John.

"Really? And what's going on here? Digging?" asked Kurt.

"Not just any digging. Lima was founded in a desert, Kurt. The Incas built pyramids here, where they sacrificed and buried young women and babies," answered John.

Kurt scratched his beard. "Interesting! So, you're into charity in your older years?"

John Fredly laughed the short, snorting laughter which was customary for him.

"Well, I'm still into shipping, even if most of the money comes from fish farming nowadays. We actually do a lot of exporting to Lima and Peru," he explained.

Kurt lit up. "Then all the ceviche I've been eating down here has been Norwegian fish!"

John grinned. "Some of it, at least. Speaking of, please join me inside. Let's eat," said John.

John showed the way to the entrance, and Kurt followed him.

"What's the occasion?" asked Kurt.

"I've collected more art for my personal collection. I thought we could eat here because the surroundings are magical," John answered.

He was right about that, thought Kurt. The pyramids stood almost six meters tall, surrounded by Inca buildings, complete with life-size models of Incas in contemporary costumes. When they walked past the ticket office inside the fenced-in area, they took to the right and were welcomed by Hugo Friis, who was wearing a gray Armani suit and white dress shirt. Kurt, a man who spent extremely little time on his own appearance, couldn't help staring at the suit which he knew had to have cost at least two to three thousand dollars. Hugo Friis, fortunately, chose not to comment on it.

"Welcome to Huaca Pucllava," Hugo said with a smile. "I'm the waiter for the evening. Take a seat in the restaurant and make yourselves at home."

"Thanks," said Kurt.

As they entered the restaurant, which resembled a veranda, Kurt discovered why the myth of the Incan city of gold existed. The floodlights surrounding the pyramids made it look as though they were made of gold.

A long table covered in a white tablecloth was set up on the veranda. Several people were already sitting around the table. Kurt recognized some of them, but others he'd never seen. An attractive blonde dressed in a tight-fitting, black dress sat on one of the sides. To her right was a short man in a black suit. Kurt recognized him as the king of hotels, Jarle Sørdalen, and his wife, Anastasia. The short man immediately got up and came to them.

"I see you've made a new friend," he said to John and beamed.

"Kurt Hammer is actually one of my oldest friends. We attended secondary school together and studied in the same city," he said.

"Jarle," said the man and held out a hand to Kurt.

Kurt noticed that he was wearing black leather gloves.

"Kurt Hammer. Any particular reason you are wearing gloves in this climate?" Kurt smiled.

Suddenly, a light appeared in Jarle’s eyes. "Mysophobia. Quite frankly, I don't like germs. You're that journalist who was fired by NCIS, isn't that correct? And almost died when Trondheim Torg was blown to smithereens."

"Yeah," said Kurt, smiling apologetically.

"Jarle is a friend and business partner," John added.

"Come on, we're best friends, aren't we?" Jarle put an arm around John's back.

"Yeah," answered John, clearly bothered. "Let's sit down?"

"Yeah, let's," Kurt answered and rubbed his hands together.

John settled down on the opposite side, next to a lady with red hair, who looked like she could be in her sixties. She was wearing a purple dress and a dark, broad-brimmed hat with feathers.

"This is Rebecca Swanson," John said to Kurt. "She is a tax refugee from England."

Kurt settled down at her left side.

"We met through a mutual hatred of tax authorities," John continued.

"I see," Kurt answered. "Nice to meet you." Kurt stretched out a hand.

"You too," she said, shaking his hand. Her eyes shone like two green gems.

"Rebecca, this is Kurt Hammer. He is a famous Norwegian journalist and will probably tell us the dramatic story of how he ended up here."

Kurt sighed. This will be a long night, he thought.

"Can’t wait," Rebecca said and smiled.

At the sound of someone briskly walking up behind them, Kurt, Rebecca, and John all turned around.

"Ah, friends, this is Karl Homme," exclaimed John and immediately got up.

The man seemed to be nearly two meters tall and was tanned, with long, brown hair which he kept in a man-bun. He wore a black fedora, and Ray-Ban sunglasses covered his eyes. The cream-colored suit from Dolce & Gabbana contrasted sharply with his beard and mustache. A brown leather bag hung from his shoulder, and he held up a hand to wave. Around his right wrist was an Omega Seamaster watch.

"As you probably know, he's known for writing travel books from different countries. He informed me that he was in the area, so I invited him to dinner," said John.

"Ah, if it isn't Kurt Hammer. I attended journalism in Bodø while you were studying at the Police Academy," said Karl.

"Really, I didn't notice," said Kurt and nodded in Karl's direction.

Jarle immediately got up and walked over to say hello. "Jarle Sørdalen. An honor to meet you," he said.

"Karl Homme, charmed," said Karl.

"I have tons of hotels over all of Norway. Just call me if you need a place to write," said Jarle.

Anastasia sighed. "Jarle, come and sit."