by Kepler, Lars
‘Don’t get married to him,’ she says to Saga, then leaves the veranda.
Saga and Nathan walk through the living room, lined with bookcases and with a brown tiled fireplace.
‘Her underwear,’ he says, gesturing towards the floor. ‘I thought she could make a start by selling that, then we could divide the profits.’
‘Don’t be mean, Nathan.’
‘I’m not,’ he replies.
The deep lines on his face and wrinkles around his eyes make him look tired, but his eyes are as impenetrable as stone.
‘Shall we take a look at what Joona sent?’ she asks.
‘It’ll take a while.’
He shows her into the kitchen, where there are ten removal boxes on the floor. He’s started to unpack one of them, and the table is already covered with maps of the sites where the bodies were found, as well as railway maps and photographs.
‘Joona’s written down a few notes,’ Nathan says, showing her a full page of writing in a notepad.
‘OK,’ she says, looking at a photograph of the graves in Lill-Jans Forest.
‘The first thing he wants us to do is get protection for Valeria.’
‘I can understand that, looking at it from his point of view,’ Saga says.
‘It isn’t that straightforward, though,’ Nathan goes on. ‘He says it has to be done in secret, because she doesn’t want protection.’
He shows Saga a sketch Joona has made of Valeria’s nursery, and the best locations to post ten police officers.
‘That looks good,’ Saga nods.
‘Obviously he says it’s impossible to protect yourself against Jurek … but that you can destroy a spider’s web with a stick.’
‘Jurek’s dead,’ Saga mutters.
‘The second thing he wants us to do is interview the churchwarden who was keeping Jurek’s finger in a glass jar.’
‘He’s senile, it’s impossible to get any sense out of him.’
‘Joona’s aware of that, but he still thinks we could get something if we give the old boy some time … because Jurek’s plan would never have worked without the churchwarden’s involvement.’
‘I saw the body, the decayed torso, the bullet holes exactly where I shot him.’
‘I know,’ Nathan says, digging out the letter from the papers on the table. ‘This is what Joona says: “The chapel on the island is the only way into Jurek’s world that we’ve found so far … that’s the crack he crawled out of, that’s where you …”’
There’s a loud thud from upstairs, followed by the sound of something shattering on the floor.
‘I collect art glass,’ he says laconically.
‘Shall we get going?’
26
In the north-eastern part of Huvudsta is an area known as Ingenting, ‘Nothing’. The name can be traced back to an eighteenth-century estate. And this where the new headquarters of the Swedish Security Police is located.
Because information-gathering is at the core of the Security Police’s activities, the institution is characterised by paranoia. The fear of bugging is so widespread that they have more or less built a prison for themselves, with extreme security measures.
The same firm that built the high-security prisons at Kumla and Hall constructed the secure seven-storey building with its balustrades and glazed entrance.
Saga and Nathan get out of the lift and head past the large windows along the open walkway. Saga still has the hood of her tracksuit top pulled up after her bike ride. Nathan’s silver ponytail bounces against his back with each step.
Both of their bosses are already in the room when they arrive. It looks as if they’ve had a brief preliminary meeting.
Verner Sandén is sitting at the table in his suit and tie, his long legs crossed. One trouser leg has ridden up, revealing a stripy black sock.
Carlos Eliasson is wearing a burgundy sweater and white shirt. He’s sitting slouched in one of the armchairs, holding a clementine in his hand.
The large windows of Verner’s office look out onto a building site, with some industrial units and Ingenting Forest beyond. The world outside looks oddly soft around the edges through the reinforced security glass.
‘What’s for lunch today?’ Saga asks as she sits down at the oval table.
‘That’s a secret,’ Verner says, without smiling.
‘One of the murders in question took place in the south of Sweden,’ Carlos begins as he peels the clementine. ‘And five took place outside our borders, two of them in—’
‘Joona thinks Valeria de Castro needs police protection,’ Saga interrupts.
‘So he told me in the message he left on my phone … and obviously she’ll get it, like anyone else in the country, if there’s a clear threat against her,’ Carlos replies calmly.
‘Joona thinks there is.’
‘But the person responsible for the threat is dead,’ Carlos says, and pops three segments in his mouth.
‘In theory there’s an infinitesimal possibility that Jurek Walter is still alive,’ Saga says.
‘Naturally, we don’t believe that,’ Nathan interjects.
‘But Joona’s convinced that Jurek is alive, and is behind the murders of these criminals around Europe,’ Carlos goes on.
‘And if he’s right, the threat against Valeria is pretty damn extreme,’ Saga says, placing the sketch-map of Valeria’s nursery and possible police positions on the table in front of Verner.
‘It’s clear that what unbalanced Joona was the fact that two of the victims had connections to him,’ Verner says, without looking at the map. ‘That’s understandable, it’s deeply upsetting that his wife’s grave was vandalised, truly awful, but the man in Oslo had collected body parts from thirty-six different people.’
Carlos stands up and throws the clementine peel in the bin.
‘As for the second victim … it’s undeniably difficult to explain why a German sex offender would try to call Joona shortly before he died,’ Carlos says.
‘Why a Swedish police officer?’
‘We have no idea. But the victim had been locked away in a secure psychiatric unit for years, and – according to files I’ve received – he was in a ward containing at least three inmates who were active in Sweden.’
‘And you can find Joona’s phone number on the Internet if you know where to look,’ Verner says.
‘We’re not going to drop this, absolutely not,’ Carlos says, taking a seat at the table. ‘But we can’t devote a lot of resources to it either.’
‘OK,’ Pollock says quietly.
‘It would have been good if Joona could have been here for this meeting,’ Carlos says, holding his mobile up for no apparent reason.
‘He’s probably left the country by now,’ Saga says.
‘Because of this?’ Carlos asks.
‘I think he’s doing the right thing,’ Saga says, looking him in the eye.
‘You think—’
‘Hold on,’ she says, cutting him off. ‘I’m sure I killed Jurek Walter, but I still think Joona’s doing the right thing seeing as he personally isn’t convinced Jurek is dead … So I’m glad he’s gone off to protect his daughter and has left the investigating to us.’
Carlos shakes his head doubtfully.
‘I’m going to make sure he sees a psychologist when he gets back,’ he sighs.
‘The killer is someone – or possibly more than one person – who’s taken upon themselves the task of cleaning things up around Europe,’ Verner says.
‘But that’s not Jurek’s style – why would he want to clean up society?’ Carlos says.
‘Joona believes that Jurek Walter has recruited an accomplice,’ Saga says. ‘That he’s spent several years testing candidates … and now he’s killing the ones that didn’t make the grade.’
Verner gets up and fetches a laptop from his desk.
‘Joona left Carlos a message saying that Jurek Walter had whipped the man at the campsite the same way he used to whip his twin b
rother,’ he says, connecting the laptop to the socket on the table.
‘Yes, I know,’ Saga nods.
‘And when Joona found out about a murder in Belarus where the victim had similar wounds on his back, he took that as proof that Jurek is responsible for the murders of criminals all over Europe,’ Carlos says.
‘We’ve now received a recording from the Belarusian police. Some surveillance footage that caught the killer on camera,’ Verner says, tapping the laptop. A large screen on one wall comes to life.
‘You can see the murderer?’ Nathan asks.
‘The national park is closed at night. It’s not quite ten o’clock, and the security guard is doing his rounds,’ Verner replies cryptically as he turns the lights off and clicks to play the soundless footage on the screen.
Three words in white Cyrillic lettering appear at the bottom of the screen, next to a counter.
The security camera is pointing at an ornate house built of dark wood, with a wealth of carving and exuberant detailing. The walls, veranda, railings, and pillars are covered with fairy-lights, all of them switched off.
‘A gingerbread house,’ Nathan murmurs.
‘Their version of Santa Claus is called Ded Moroz, and apparently this is where he lives,’ Verner rumbles.
The wintry park is dark. The only light is coming from what look like electric torches with pointed glass domes which line the paths. A uniformed guard in a fur hat checks that the door to the house is locked, then walks back down the steps. His breath clouds around his mouth in the cold air. He carries on along the ploughed path lined by an ornate wooden fence.
‘The Belarusian authorities haven’t confirmed this,’ Verner says, ‘but we know that the victim was previously employed by the secret service to deal with critics of the government.’
The guard stops and lights a cigarette before carrying on towards the left of the screen.
A large shape emerges from the darkness between the trees and follows the guard.
‘Bloody hell,’ Saga whispers.
The black-and-white recording is low resolution, and the pursuer’s movements seem to be subject to some sort of lag, as if part of his dark persona lingers like an elastic shimmer.
‘Watch this,’ Carlos says quietly.
The thickset figure has pulled a silenced pistol from his bag, and is obviously moving silently across the snow seeing as the guard doesn’t react.
‘That’s not Jurek,’ Saga says, staring at the recording.
The man catches up with the guard beside a plastic snowman and shoots him in the back of the head without any preamble. The end of the silenced barrel flares for an instant. Blood and fragments of bone burst from the guard’s mouth like some terrible attack of projectile vomiting. His teeth and tongue follow, spraying across the snow.
The cigarette is still clasped between his fingers as his legs give way. The large man hits him in the head with the butt of the pistol.
The dead body subsides onto the snow, but the attacker doesn’t stop. He slips, takes a step to the side, puts the pistol away, then goes back and starts kicking wildly at the body.
‘What’s he doing? The man’s dead,’ Nathan whispers.
The man grabs one of the guard’s arms and drags him off behind the fence, leaving a dark trail of blood across the snow. His mouth is opening as if he’s shrieking as he smashes the guard’s head against a rock.
‘Christ,’ Carlos groans.
The man straightens up, evidently out of breath, then stamps on the guard’s face and chest over and over again, then drags the body out of shot by one leg.
‘The body was found twenty metres away behind some bins,’ Verner says.
The large man returns, but it’s still too dark for his face to be seen clearly. He wipes his mouth, then turns and walks back a short way, kicks and smashes one of the glass lanterns lining the path, yells something, then disappears.
The recording flickers and comes to an end.
‘This disproves Joona’s theory one hundred per cent,’ Carlos concludes.
‘It could be the accomplice,’ Saga says.
‘The secret accomplice who kills other secret accomplices in Belarus,’ Verner mutters.
‘We do realise how this sounds,’ Saga sighs.
‘There’s no logic to it,’ Carlos says, not unpleasantly. ‘If Jurek’s alive and has an accomplice, then surely the accomplice ought to do what Jurek wants, and bury people alive – not clean up society.’
‘We’d still like to conduct a preliminary investigation,’ Saga persists.
‘Into the murder in Sweden, then,’ Carlos replies.
‘This is a serial killer,’ she says.
‘We can’t go outside the country if no one’s requested our help … people are only too relieved to get shot of some of their worst criminals.’
‘Give us a month,’ Nathan asks.
‘You can have a week, just the two of you, and that’s being generous,’ Carlos says, glancing at Verner.
27
Valeria has gathered her curly hair into a thick ponytail and changed into a clean pair of jeans and white vest. There’s a cup of tea on the kitchen table, next to a paperback edition of My Brilliant Friend and her cheap reading glasses.
She’s standing at the window talking on the phone to her younger son Linus as she gazes out at the dark greenhouses.
Linus lives in Farsta, only twenty minutes away from her if he drives through Älta. She’s promised to let him have an old bureau that’s been standing in the attic for years.
‘I’ll pick it up next week,’ Linus is saying.
‘Have a word with Amanda and see if you’d like to stay for dinner,’ she says.
‘Will Joona be there?’
‘He’s away at the moment.’
‘How are things going with him?’ Linus asks. ‘You’ve sounded happier recently.’
‘I have been,’ she says.
They end the call and Valeria puts her phone down on the table and looks at her reading glasses. One of the screws fell out some time ago, so one arm is held on with a paperclip.
She’s used to being on her own. Her years in prison have made loneliness a part of her, but when Joona comes back home she’s planning to ask if he’d like to try living together, to see how it goes. He can hold onto his flat, there’s no hurry to do anything, but she’d love to spend more time with him, doing ordinary, everyday things.
She gets a glass out of one of the top cupboards and half fills it from the wine-box on the counter, then walks into the living room and glances at the dark television and black windows before switching on the record player and playing the album already on the turntable. The speakers crackle, then Barbra Streisand’s 1980s album Guilty starts to play.
Valeria sits down on the arm of the sofa and thinks about how odd it is that she’s met up with Joona again after so many years.
She thinks of her car journeys to Kumla Prison, and the anxiety she felt when the steel gates clanged shut behind her. She felt the same panic every time she passed the guards, walked in through Door 3, handed over her ID, was given a visitor’s badge and told to hang her coat and leave any loose items in one of the lockers. She would nod and smile at the immaculately made-up women who were always there with restless children milling around their legs. The waiting room contained a bathroom, several sofas, information for visitors, and a rocking-horse with worn rockers.
You weren’t allowed to wear a bra with a catch on it, nor tampons or pads. You had to put your shoes on a conveyor-belt before you walked through the security gate and were searched.
But she still loved the dull visiting room. She loved Joona’s attempts to make it nice with napkins, coffee and biscuits.
And now he was free.
He’s spent the night with her, they’ve made love and worked in the garden together.
Valeria drinks some more wine and starts to sing along to ‘Woman in Love’ before she realises and stops, embarrassed.
&n
bsp; She goes out into the hall and stops in front of the mirror, where she blows a lock of hair away from her face, raises her chin and concludes that she does in fact look happy.
The tattoos on her shoulders have become blurred over the years, and her arms are muscular from hard work, and scratched by brambles.
She carries on into the kitchen, puts the wine-glass down on the counter and turns out the light that Joona always hits his head on.
The music in the living room is muffled by the walls, as if a neighbour was having a party in the flat next door.
She thinks of the fear she saw in Joona’s eyes when he asked her to leave everything and go away with him.
It frightened her that he genuinely seemed to believe that Jurek wasn’t dead.
She understands why he might think that. A trauma never really leaves you, it just hides in the shadows, ready to leap out on you at a moment’s notice.
It’s good that he’s gone to see Lumi.
Valeria hopes it will help calm him down, spending a few days with her in Paris, seeing that she’s doing well there.
The wind has got up, and is whistling in the chimney.
Valeria is about to pick up her book and reading glasses when the light from a car’s headlamps shines through the kitchen window. They flicker between the trees like the images in a kinetoscope.
Her pulse-rate speeds up as she sees the unfamiliar vehicle stop in the turning circle. Its headlamps are shining right into the first greenhouse, lighting up the plants and casting multiple shadows.
Valeria goes out into the hall and pulls on her raincoat, then puts her boots on, reaches for the torch on the shelf and opens the door to the cold evening air.
The strange car is parked motionless outside. A cloud of exhaust fumes is billowing gently in the red glow of the rear-lights.
She thinks momentarily of the pistol in the drawer of her bedside table.
The gravel crunches under her boots.
The driver’s door is open, the seat empty.
There’s someone in the nearest greenhouse, a dark shape moving between the racks and plants.
Valeria turns the torch on as she gets closer, but the beam fades almost instantly, so she shakes it and points the weak light towards the greenhouse.
