by Kepler, Lars
Using both hands, she’d managed to fold back one corner of the tarpaulin.
Then she had quickly picked up her phone and aimed the torch at it.
She saw a coffin made of unpainted plywood resting on two sawhorses.
On the floor beneath had been a circular saw and some grey boxes full of nails and brackets, straps and blocks of veneer.
She’d crouched down and shone the torch further under the tarpaulin. Next to a row of large blue plastic barrels was a half-finished coffin, the right size for a child.
78
The temperature has fallen to sixteen degrees below freezing. The heat inside makes Joona’s face flush as he hurries along the corridor. His pistol is knocking against his ribs under his jacket. A notice about this year’s Christmas collection comes loose from the wall and drifts to the floor as he passes.
Carlos is standing beside his aquarium, and has just finished feeding his fat goldfish when Joona opens the door.
‘No, you have to share,’ Carlos is saying, tapping the glass.
Joona has already called him from the car to tell him they’ve cracked Jurek’s code, meaning that there’s a chance they can rescue Pellerina and Valeria.
He requested an immediate operation involving the collective efforts of the Stockholm Police, National Response Unit, and Special Operations to check out the coordinates of the fourteen remaining stars.
Carlos listened and said he understood, but because this would entail the largest police operation in Swedish history, he would have to go via the National Police Committee and ask for a green light from the Ministry of Justice.
‘Have you spoken to them yet?’ Joona asks.
Carlos looks away from the fish, sits back down on his chair, and sighs.
‘I explained that you’d identified fourteen addresses where Jurek Walter might be … I didn’t mention the constellation, I don’t think that would have helped.’
‘Probably not.’
‘Look, you have to understand that I tried,’ Carlos says awkwardly. ‘I stressed how urgent this was and so on, but the Justice Minister was very clear. He isn’t going to authorise any more operations … Hold on, Joona, I know what you think … but try to see it from his point of view, this is about kidnap, not terrorism.’
‘But we—’
‘There’s no obvious threat, the general public aren’t in danger,’ Carlos interrupts.
‘Call and say we’ll accept a smaller operation focused on eight locations.’
Carlos shakes his head.
‘There aren’t going to be any more operations at all, not until we have definite proof of where Jurek or his victims are.’
Joona gazes out through the window behind Carlos, at the dark treetops in the park, the frosted grass hillocks.
‘This isn’t good,’ Joona says in a low voice.
‘We’ve already used the Rapid Response Unit twice this week,’ Carlos reminds him. ‘With nothing to show for it.’
‘I know.’
‘You have to understand.’
‘No,’ Joona replies, looking him in the eye.
Carlos lowers his gaze, runs one hand across the top of his desk, then looks up again.
‘I can reinstate you, if you like?’ he says.
‘Good,’ Joona replies, then leaves his boss’s office.
He takes the lift to the tenth floor, walks quickly along the corridor and opens the door to the investigation room.
With the help of their technical experts, Nathan and Saga have put together a precise map matching the constellation, using the house in Stigtorp and the workers’ barracks in the gravel pit as their starting points. There were only 200 metres between the twins’ heads in Lill-Jans Forest, but this time there are 8,000 metres between the heads, and 86,000 metres from head to foot.
‘This version of the constellation is four times the length of Manhattan,’ Nathan points out.
They’ve pinned the map to the wall next to the photographs of the gravel pit, the Beaver and the various crime scenes.
Jurek’s brother Igor represents Castor, whose hand is on the smaller version of the constellation of Gemini in Lill-Jans Forest. The stomach is located on Ekerö, and the feet down in Tumba and Södertälje.
Saga takes her jacket from the hook on the wall and pulls out the hat she’d stuffed into one sleeve.
‘Print out the exact addresses and coordinates,’ Joona says.
‘We’re going to have a meeting of all the teams as soon as we can organise it,’ Nathan says, standing up from his place at the large table. ‘I’m going to need at least three command vehicles.’
‘I forgot to mention, we’re going to have to handle this on our own,’ Joona says.
‘OK,’ Saga sighs.
‘So it’s over before we’ve even started,’ Nathan says, sinking back down onto his seat again.
‘Nothing’s over, we carry on,’ Joona says. ‘The only difference is that we’re going to have to search the locations one at a time, just us.’
‘Fourteen stars,’ Nathan says.
Saga puts her jacket and hat on the table, grabs the list from the printer and hands it to Joona.
‘You’re both in agreement … that Pollux in the constellation of Gemini represents Jurek, because the star for Pollux’s head is located at his house?’
‘And the other twin …’ Nathan frowns.
‘Castor,’ Joona fills in.
‘His head matches Igor’s home in the gravel pit,’ she concludes.
‘And the interesting thing is that Castor’s hand in the large version of the constellation is where the graves Igor was responsible for were located,’ Joona says.
‘Yes.’
‘That makes me think that there’s a symbolic logic, that these stars represent more than coordinates to Jurek.’
‘I agree,’ Saga says.
‘And because we need to take a quick decision … I think we have to follow the same logic, that Jurek has abandoned the stars that make up Castor now that Igor’s dead.’
‘Which leaves us with eight locations,’ Nathan says.
‘Take another look at Pollux,’ Joona says. ‘Where are Valeria and Pellerina?’
‘I’d start with the hands,’ Saga says.
‘One hand is indicating an industrial estate in Järfalla, the other a summerhouse south of Bro,’ Nathan says, showing them on the map.
‘Joona?’ Saga says.
‘We go to the industrial estate,’ he says. ‘That’s where the twins are holding hands, as if the dead brother is handing responsibility to watch over the graves to Jurek.’
Saga and Nathan don’t say anything else, and the three of them run out of the room, pulling their jackets on as they hurry along the corridor.
Saga and Joona are in one car, Nathan in another. On the E18 both cars get up to 160 kilometres an hour, but by the time they turn off Viksjöleden they’re down to half that.
They’re now following the satnav’s instructions as they head along Järfallavägen beside the railway tracks, into a rundown industrial estate.
Rubbish has blown into the weeds along the tall fence.
They pass low buildings made of concrete and metal sheeting, tarmacked areas full of shipping containers, stacks of pallets and a row of abandoned caravans.
They slow down and turn right by a sign advertising car servicing.
Slowly they drive past vacant buildings surrounded by trucks, old trailers, poles with tatty company flags hanging from them. They pull up in the empty car park in front of JC’s Car Service.
An advertising hoarding has blown over.
The three of them get out of their cars.
It’s very cold, a snowstorm is approaching from Russia, the Swedish Met Office has issued a level 2 warning.
They pull on their protective vests and check their weapons. Nathan lifts a Benelli M4 Super 90 from the boot of his car, a semiautomatic shotgun used by rapid response units around the world.
Joona grabs the bag conta
ining the bolt-cutters, crowbar, lock-pick gun, and angle-grinder.
Saga checks her Glock, then slips it back in her holster.
Nathan wraps his shotgun in a waterproof jacket.
They set off.
The industrial building at Åkervägen 14 is owned by an export company registered in Poland, but whose ownership is rather unclear.
It’s located precisely where the two twins’ hands meet when the constellation is superimposed on the map.
There’s no one in sight anywhere.
The tarmac has been left pitted and damaged by heavy trucks.
The shabby building is tucked behind a tall fence with three rows of barbed wire above it. Immediately below the zinc roof there’s a row of narrow windows that runs the whole length of the building. At one end there’s a loading bay and a large retractable metal door to allow goods in and out.
Crows are crying loudly around a skip at the end of the turning circle.
The entrance to number 14 is blocked by a heavy gate bearing the logo of a security company.
Joona puts the canvas bag down, takes out the bolt-cutters, and cuts through the lock.
It clatters to the ground and Joona kicks the pieces into the ditch, opens the gate and walks in.
A commuter train passes behind the building, making the bushes by the fence sway.
There’s a dented metal advert for Camel cigarettes on the wall next to the door. The rust from the screws has run down over the face of a smoking doctor.
They stop and listen, but there’s no sound from within.
Saga uses the lock-pick gun to unlock the door.
Nathan unwraps his shotgun.
Joona puts the canvas bag full of tools on the ground, draws his pistol, looks his colleagues in the eye, then opens the door and goes in.
He checks the cramped lobby.
There’s nothing there apart from an empty coatrack and a junction box with ceramic fuses.
The main circuit breaker is switched off.
Saga and Nathan stay close behind him as he goes over to the next door. He can hear Nathan’s breathing behind him.
Holding his pistol at face-height, he gets ready to cover the right-hand side of the room, while Saga takes the left and Nathan the area in front of the door.
Joona cautiously presses the handle down, then shoves the door open, and points his pistol into the large space.
They count down from three.
Sounds from outside reach into the room through the row of narrow windows up by the roof. There’s a strip of lighter patches across the bare cement floor.
Saga follows Joona in and they systematically check the dark corners in unison.
Nathan walks towards the middle of the room and sweeps round with the barrel of the shotgun.
The large space is empty.
Their footsteps echo off the bare walls.
Joona turns round.
One end of the room consists almost entirely of a single huge door, made up of horizontal metal strips, that can be raised up into the roof.
There’s nothing here, the floor has been scrubbed clean.
There’s a bit of tinsel hanging from an air-vent, swaying jerkily in the draught.
Without a word they cross the floor towards a dark corridor. Using the same system as before, they search two more empty rooms and the bathroom.
Judging by the marks on the linoleum floor, there were once shower cubicles next to the drains.
The last room is an empty storeroom, with a bit of sawdust on the floor.
They return to the large room. Joona walks to the middle of the floor and turns round, looking at the narrow windows, the blank walls.
‘I’ll check out the back,’ Saga says, and sets off.
‘Has this place ever had anything to do with Jurek Walter?’ Nathan wonders.
‘Yes,’ Joona says in a low voice.
‘I mean, the whole idea with the constellation could be wrong,’ Nathan says.
Joona doesn’t answer, just walks over to the retractable door leading to the loading bay. The floor is scratched, the metal sill buckled.
He follows the black-rubber seal with his eyes, then turns to look at the room again.
Dust particles are floating in the weak sunlight.
The floor is perfectly clean. It hasn’t just been swept, it’s been scrubbed. Recently, too.
Joona walks over to the drain in the floor, kneels down and detects a strong smell of bleach.
He removes the grille, pulls out the filter and sees that it too has been cleaned.
Nathan mutters something about going outside, and walks out.
Joona gets to his feet and glances over at the loading bay again, then walks slowly after Nathan.
He stops at the open door to the lobby. This part of the building is darker.
Joona looks at the hinges and door. He closes, then opens the door again.
There’s a long strand of hair stuck to one of the screws holding the sill in place.
Joona moves to one side, stands right by the wall and inspects the edge of the door.
There are three small ovals, not far from the floor.
At first he thinks they’re knots in the wood that are visible through the paint, but the angles of the ovals prompt him to bend over and photograph them, using the flash on his phone.
The corner lights up, then goes dark again.
He hears a loud, scraping sound outside. Like a digger dragging a scoop across the ground.
Joona enlarges the image on his mobile and sees that the ovals are actually bloody fingerprints.
Someone’s been dragged through this door and tried to hold on.
He can’t see any blood in the lobby, but it looks like a fitted carpet has recently been removed – fragments of glue are still visible on the cement.
Joona goes out into the cold air and sees around thirty crows circling a white industrial unit some distance away. They’re focused on a skip that’s in the process of being lifted onto a truck. That’s where the noise is coming from.
Saga comes round the corner of the empty building. She shakes her head, and seems to be holding back tears.
Several of the crows land and start pecking at the ground where the skip was standing.
The truck rolls out through the gates of VVS Enterprises and turns slowly onto Åkervägen.
Joona runs out into the road, stops right in the middle of it and gestures to the driver to stop.
The heavy vehicle slows down, rolls towards Joona and comes to a stop with a hiss.
The driver winds his window down and looks out.
‘What the hell’s your problem?’ he calls.
‘I’m a police superintendent with the National Operational Unit, and—’
‘Have I broken any laws?’
‘Take the key out of the ignition and throw it on the ground.’
‘I pay your wages, and—’
‘Otherwise I’ll shoot your tyres out,’ Joona says, pulling his pistol from its holster.
The keys rattle as they hit the tarmac.
‘Thanks,’ Joona says, and climbs up onto the truck.
He heaves the heavy metal bar aside to open the skip, pulls the hatch open and is met by a terrible stench.
Beneath a pile of old drainpipes, insulation and packaging, damp cardboard and a broken toilet seat are six black bin-bags.
The bottom of the skip is covered with blood.
A naked arm is sticking out from a tear in one of the bags, broken at the elbow, dark with internal bleeding.
The hand is small, but not a child’s.
The six bin-bags are large enough to contain a body each.
Six people killed at the place where the twins hold hands.
The building was scrubbed clean, and the bodies dumped in a skip.
Joona pulls out his mobile and calls Nils Åhlén. While the call goes through he looks down into the skip again, staring at the broken elbow and the odd angle of the lower arm. He t
hinks about the bloody fingerprints on the doorframe, looks at the pale hand resting on the black plastic, then sees that two of the fingers are moving.
79
Valeria wakes up in the darkness with a splitting headache. They’ve put some thick socks on her feet, and laid a blanket over her. Even so, she’s so cold that she’s shaking.
‘Pellerina? Are you cold?’
Valeria fumbles for the water bottle, unscrews the lid and drinks the last drops.
‘Pellerina?’ she says, louder this time. ‘Are you there?’
When the girl doesn’t answer, Valeria smiles so broadly that her dry lips crack. They’ve taken her up into the house. That must be what’s happened. Seeing as she herself has been given a blanket, at least some form of communication has been established. She was taking a risk when she pretended to be a drug addict, it could have gone badly wrong.
She still doesn’t know what they think she’s done, but if she’d told them the truth and denied everything they’d never have listened to her.
Valeria doesn’t know where she got it all from, but she did her best to use her time as an addict to sound plausible.
She’s sure they’d already noticed the ugly scars on her arms.
Valeria has never tried to hide them, never enquired about plastic surgery, because she thinks she deserves the contempt they sometimes prompt in other people.
Her own sense of shame is so much worse.
The family had probably already been having trouble believing that Pellerina was involved. When Valeria confessed that they were both being punished for her drug debts, things became more comprehensible to them – and at the same time, more morally confused.
The last time they removed the floorboards and opened the coffin she had sat up, even though they were yelling at her to stay down, calling her a junkie whore and saying they were going to shoot her in the head.
‘Do it, then,’ she had replied. ‘Then you’ll be responsible for my debts to Jurek.’
‘Shut up!’ the woman had said.
‘I need you to know that I’m sorry for everything I—’
‘You want us to forgive you?’ the man interrupted. ‘Is that it? You’re scum, you’re not even human.’
‘Stop talking to her,’ the woman whispered.
‘I don’t want to do bad things,’ Valeria said. ‘It was only that I couldn’t borrow any more, and the withdrawal kicked in and I was just so desperate … You never worry about AIDS or overdosing, or getting beaten up or raped … but withdrawal terrifies you, it’s like being in hell.’
