by Arne Dahl
‘I don’t see how that applies to our pursuit of William Larsson,’ Blom said.
‘Olle Nilsson,’ August Steen said. ‘We haven’t found any trace of a William Larsson in this case.’
‘Olle Nilsson,’ Berger said, ‘who managed to pass the Security Service’s notoriously thorough background check with flying colours when he was employed by Wiborg Supplies Ltd in November three years ago.’
‘And the reason for that is, quite simply, that he was Olle Nilsson,’ Steen said, fixing his gaze on Berger. It was the first time he had felt it, and he really felt it.
‘There has to be some trace of Olle Nilsson’s past as William Larsson on his computers,’ Berger managed to say.
‘Analysis of his computer equipment is ongoing,’ Steen said. ‘But there is nothing in your “unofficial” investigation that proves your missing and presumably long-dead childhood friend William Larsson had anything to do with this Olle Nilsson.’
‘We found the kidnapper,’ Berger said. ‘We would never have done that without Molly’s unofficial investigation.’
‘You found the kidnapper because he refused to use state resources to provide an illegal service to someone whom he, from what he could tell, believed to be a private individual – Molly Blom,’ Steen said calmly. ‘So he installed a warning in that illegal device so that we would discover you when you were in the process of committing a serious crime. You, Molly Blom, infected the interview room’s recording equipment with a virus, and now you have the gall to claim that this isn’t disloyalty to your superiors.’
‘So it was just a coincidence that the technician happened to be the serial killer and kidnapper we were looking for?’ Berger said.
‘It looks like it,’ Steen said. ‘But, like I said, the investigation is ongoing.’
‘So we just got lucky?’ Berger exclaimed.
‘Not at the denouement. You acted effectively then, albeit with a serious excess of force. But we’re even prepared to turn a blind eye to that, seeing as it led to the rescue of six girls.’
‘An excess of force?’ Berger said.
‘I daresay that every police officer knows that a shot from a range of one metre, using hollow-point ammunition fired directly into the genitals, is going to cause the kind of blood loss that will rapidly lead to death.’
Berger bit his tongue and glanced at Blom. She was sitting perfectly still and met his gaze with a neutral expression. It helped him to keep his tongue in check.
Steen went on: ‘Because you were able to extract information from the perpetrator about where his victims were before he died, we have approved the request of the Stockholm Police that the shooting be regarded as self-defence. Even if it’s perfectly clear that it wasn’t.’
‘What was it, then?’ Blom asked.
‘Murder, of course,’ Steen said, looking back towards Blom. ‘Murder, as retribution for some imagined childhood injustice. And that isn’t the only suspicious death in your vicinity during this so-called unofficial investigation. When we finally managed to reverse the GPS in the stolen Security Service vehicle, you were on your way to a care home for dementia sufferers in Vendelsö. My men caught up with you there and you managed to evade them. But you left a body behind you.’
‘We did?’ Berger exclaimed.
‘You were the last people to see a patient named Alicia Anger alive. Even in that instance we were able to divert the police investigation in order to save your skins and get this very obvious murder written off as an accident. But I can’t help wondering what you wanted with this woman, and what she revealed that required her permanent silence.’
‘You know perfectly well that we didn’t murder her,’ Berger said as calmly as he could.
‘How am I supposed to know that?’
Berger managed to detect the trap built into the question just as Blom cleared her throat loudly and began to speak, ‘Alicia Anger was William Larsson’s aunt. We believed that she had further information about William’s disappearance.’
‘And did she?’
‘Not at all. She was completely senile. She claimed to be a Valkyrie called the red girl, living in the tenth century. It was impossible to get any sense out of her. And of course we didn’t murder her.’
‘Hmm,’ August Steen said, regarding Blom sadly.
Berger looked over towards Blom. He could see the strength of resistance in her eyes and realised which of them ought to do the talking.
August Steen tapped his desktop lightly with his fingertips, playing an imaginary piano for ten seconds. Then he said: ‘It’s extremely important that you don’t withhold any information from the Security Service. We need to have a clear picture of the whole case now that the investigation is entering such an acute phase. Are you quite sure you’ve told us everything you know?’
‘Yes,’ Blom said.
Steen watched his former acolyte intently.
‘Hmm,’ he said once more. ‘I’m not entirely satisfied.’
‘What more can we say?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you. Right now I’m not getting a good feeling about the two of you.’
‘Feeling?’ Berger blurted out, and regretted it immediately.
‘I don’t imagine I need to explain the importance of feelings to you, of all people, Sam Berger,’ Steen said. ‘You seem to work entirely on feelings. So you know how valuable they are. And right now, like I said, I’m not getting a good feeling about you.’
He paused. ‘You’re far too cocky considering that the entire Swedish police force was recently trying to track you down. A trace of humility would have been more becoming under the circumstances.’
‘Becoming?’ Blom said.
‘Not only that. Also more effective. If you had shown even a trace of regret or awareness of your many mistakes, I would have been able to make you an offer. I actually had authorisation from the senior management of the Security Service to do precisely that.’
August Steen grimaced briefly and stared at the wall above their heads. ‘While you were absent, Superintendent Allan Gudmundsson and I agreed that charges should be brought against you; you would be held to account in a regular criminal trial, and then sent to prison. That is no longer the case. Both the Security Service and the Police Authority have come to realise that you were driven by an excess of ambition as police officers, and nothing else. So we are dropping the case that we had been preparing. But we can’t overlook numerous instances of misconduct and multiple criminal offences. You’ve broken so many laws, written and unwritten alike, that it would be very difficult to retain you in the force. You simply aren’t police officers any more. And I regret that.’
Berger and Blom looked at each other. None of this came as any great surprise. The best option was to soak it up. Keep quiet. Look upset.
It was impossible. Berger said: ‘And the offer?’
August Steen frowned. ‘Senior management was so pleased with your efforts that they wanted me to offer you positions as external resources for the Security Service. But they left the final decision up to me.’
‘External resources would mean that we worked for the Security Service but without being police officers?’ Berger said.
‘As of this morning, you are no longer police officers,’ Steen said. ‘That’s irrevocable.’
‘I get a suspicion that’s only slightly better than being a junior clerk in the police archive,’ Berger said, unable to hold back a smile. He felt like laughing out loud.
‘That’s not the case,’ Steen said. ‘Our external resources are important assets.’
‘Like hell!’ Blom exclaimed.
‘Good,’ Steen said. ‘I wasn’t going to make that offer anyway. Like I said, I’m not happy. We could of course dismiss you in black and white, but that wouldn’t look good for either party. It would be better for you both to resign voluntarily. We’re prepared to offer six months’ pay as compensation. What do you say?’
‘A year,’ Blom said.
Be
rger stared at her, but managed to stop himself from saying anything.
‘How so?’ August Steen snapped.
‘Obviously we have to take the question of the media into account,’ Blom said. ‘The release of Ellen Savinger and the other girls is a huge story right now – good luck finding anything else in the newspapers and on television right now, blogs, Twitter, Facebook you name it – and so far you’ve been able to keep these more sensitive details out of the public eye. I assume it wouldn’t look good if it emerged that two rogue cops succeeded where both the Security Service and National Crime had failed.’
August Steen regarded her with icy cool. After a pause of thirty seconds, he said: ‘Let me see if I’ve understood. For one year’s pay, you guarantee that nothing will reach the media, whereas that can’t be guaranteed if you only receive six months’?’
‘A reasonable summary,’ Molly Blom said.
‘You may go now,’ August Steen said.
They turned and walked towards the door. When they were on their way out, Steen said by way of conclusion: ‘I want to stress that it’s of the utmost importance that you don’t withhold anything from the Security Service. It’s of the utmost important for everyone concerned that we have all the information you have.’
Berger and Blom looked at each other once more.
Then they turned and walked away.
43
Sunday 1 November, 10.14
An enchanted sun was filtering its weak rays through the leafless branches of the aspen trees and the grimy windows, settling like a thin layer of fluorescent paint across the interior of the boathouse. Molly Blom was walking around the building. She put her hand on the pillars, felt the mooring rings in the wall, crouched down and inspected the six bullet holes in the floor. Then she crawled over to the corner of the boathouse and listened for the sound of barely audible breathing.
Death and life.
She looked up at Sam when he rushed in from the jetty door.
‘The hedgehogs are fine anyway,’ she said. ‘Fast asleep.’
‘Come with me,’ he said, taking her hand.
They went out onto the jetty. Down on the strangely still surface of the water was William Larsson’s rowing boat. It was scattered with flowers.
‘You’ll never get me down in that,’ Molly said, looking at the flowers.
‘Don’t chicken out, now,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we call it an Indian summer? The last proper sun of the year.’
She smiled in spite of herself and climbed down into the boat, pushing the flowers aside and making herself comfortable. He rowed off. It was like something from from the eighteenth century. All that was missing was the strumming of a lute and the trilling of a few graces.
When they were some way out Sam let go of the oars and pulled a bottle of champagne from his old rucksack. He found two glasses and asked Molly to hold them. The cork flew ten metres, and half the contents of the bottle bubbled out into the waters of Edsviken.
‘Cheers, partner in crime,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘What are we toasting?’ she said. ‘Getting fired? The fact that after years of loyal service – crowned by a spectacular rescue – we’re now unemployed ex-cops?’
‘The fact that we managed to keep our mouths shut, for instance?’
‘We did manage that, yes,’ she said. ‘They can’t have any idea that we know.’
‘No,’ he said, lowering his glass. ‘But obviously we can’t work with them until we know exactly what this is about.’
‘Never,’ she said.
Sam suddenly seemed revived. He raised his glass again. ‘No, a toast to all the new opportunities life is offering.’
Molly raised her glass with a grim smile. ‘A toast to one year’s pay, if nothing else.’
‘Two,’ Sam said, and took a sip.
Edsviken spread out like a mirror, lending peace and calm to everything around them. To the badlads. The sunshine was only fleeting of course, so they had to make the most of the short time on offer.
Carpe motherfucking diem.
Sam dug about in his rucksack and pulled out his watch box. He opened the gilded catch and looked at his watches. There were five there now. He took off his Rolex Oyster Perpetual Datejust and noted that the condensation was gone. He put it back in its place. Now there were six of them. All six watches in their places. He picked up the Patek Philippe 2508 Calatrava and put it on his wrist.
‘I change my watch every Sunday,’ he said. ‘And at this precise moment, one week has passed since we broke into the house in Märsta.’
‘And what a week it’s been,’ Molly said.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the sparkle of the sun, enjoying the beauty of life, a beauty that always came back, no matter what.
‘Time to look for a new job,’ Molly said after a while, sipping her champagne. ‘It almost feels a bit sad to leave this place. And I hardly think I can go back to life as an actor now that I’m pushing forty. But you can become a philosopher. They always need old men. You can be a professional cultural commentator.’
‘That’s what I meant when I said “two”,’ Sam said. ‘We’ve got two years’ wages to work with. If we want to stay.’
‘Stay? Why the fuck would we want to stay?’
‘I don’t think I’ve heard you swear before.’
Silence spread out around them. At the northern end of Edsviken they could see for the first time the soft yellow facade of Edsberg Castle, with its parkland and its paths edging the water. It was incredibly beautiful.
Sam lay back and stared up at the blue sky. It was a ridiculously long time since the sky had last been blue.
He closed his eyes. ‘I checked with a solicitor today. The legal tussle arose because the boathouse is the only remaining part of the shoreline that can be built on. But the two companies are fed up with the stalemate. They’re prepared to sell quickly for a reasonable offer and split the money. So can I suggest a quick and relatively reasonable offer?’
‘You think you and I should buy the building where a crazy murderer tortured me and where I killed him quarter of a century later?’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ Sam said.
They laughed. At the same time. Neither of them was sure if that had happened before.
‘You and me together?’ Molly said. ‘As freelance cops? With a shared business? A detective agency?’
‘I’d rather call it a … hmm … professional investigative service available for private and public commissions …’
‘That won’t do,’ Molly said. ‘A … hmm … ultramodern investigative service for … oh, activities in the badlands.’
The boat drifted freely across Edsviken. Berger took out his old mobile. The SIM card was back inside. He brought up the pole star, the fixed point, the still point of the turning world. Marcus and Oscar in the ditch full of coltsfoot, eight years old.
It was time to call Paris.
The boat drifted on. Perhaps they fell asleep. Perhaps Sam never heard Molly say: ‘Six girls rescued.’
And perhaps Sam never replied: ‘That’s what it was all about. The rest was bullshit.’
Either way, they were woken by the first raindrops. So far it was just gentle rain, almost mist. They both sat up in the boat as if risen from the dead.
‘From now on, we never talk about this case,’ Sam said.
‘You mean like some sort of oath?’ Molly said. ‘We swear never to talk about this case again?’
‘Yes, why not? An oath is good.’
They exchanged glances, from prow to stern and back again. Neither of them was really sure if they saw the power of genuine conviction in the other’s eyes.
‘We caught William,’ Sam said in the end. ‘It’s just that William wasn’t quite who we thought he was. Sure, he was mad, but he didn’t come here as a madman. He came here as a professional, employed by the Security Service to act as liaison with the Pachachi family, about whom we still don�
�t really know anything.’
‘Except that there’s a big hole in the Security Service archive for 1991,’ Molly said. ‘That’s the only gap we can’t account for.’
Sam nodded and said: ‘That’s when the Pachachi family arrives in Sweden from war-torn Iraq. Gundersen, who had been fighting in Iraq, says something about the family that gets the Security Service interested. And some sort of link is established between them and the Pachachis.’
‘A link that leads to them taking over the flat in Helenelund from William’s mother.’
‘That link between the Security Service and the Pachachi family is the key to all of this, I swear,’ Sam said. ‘I really hope Syl manages to uncover it.’
At that moment Edsviken was shaken by a powerful explosion. The sky had contracted to a heavy, greyish-black blanket of cloud, and not too far in the distance sparks of lightning shot back and forth across the sky.
They sat still. Waited for the downpour.
Then Sam said: ‘Was that the last thing we’re going to say about this case?’
‘Oath?’ Molly said.
‘Oath,’ Sam nodded, then laughed.
While Sam rowed back as fast as he could, the gently increasing rain seemed to be preparing for more grand deeds.
They threw themselves up the steps and stopped beneath the roof extending over the jetty. They looked out across the water. The yellow facade of Edsberg Castle was starting to disappear into the distance with its parkland and paths.
Sam turned round and glanced down at his Patek Philippe. He couldn’t quite see what time it was; gentle condensation was covering half the face.
He opened the door and looked up from his wrist.
There was a figure sitting with its back to them at one of the carpentry benches. Its hair was medium-length, thin and mousy, and it was perfectly dry.
‘Syl!’ Sam exclaimed. ‘Great. What have you found out?’
As he went towards the bench and walked round it he glanced back at Molly. She looked oddly pale.
Then he met Syl’s gaze.
It was broken; there was no one there. And out of her mouth hung a black sock, like a blackened tongue.
