by Mark, David
‘Look, my life has been in just as much danger as anyone else’s. I’ve already told you this.’
The intercom buzzed. It was Elin. Almquist lifted the phone without taking his eyes off Chivers.
‘Concerning the hunting licenses. I’ve finished checking the list of names for everyone with a gun license. Only five in a five kilometer radius; the area is sparsely populated. I’ve called all numbers, four have a verifiable alibi for the time in question. That leaves only one on the list. He has been hard to contact and seems not be answering the phone. I’ve cross-checked local records.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Tived Store keeper. Name of... Alvar Bok.’
Almquist felt his heart quicken. ‘Okay.’ He looked across at Chivers. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. We can see him when we get time.’
‘I also pulled in a couple of those favors we talked about.’
Almquist recognized the edge to her voice. She had something. ‘Don’t keep me hanging Elin.’
‘A discrepancy; I asked for a crosscheck on the case files for all the draugr killings. Despite being labelled Active Investigation there’s not been any follow up, no case officers, no research. Nothing. In other words, they’ve been sitting in the system gathering dust. Anything that is specifically case sensitive has been buried.’
Almquist could have kicked himself for not following up on Oskar. Why had he tried to hide an old intelligence report? The thought struck him that it might have been one of their old files. They didn’t file copies to Central back then; and neither of course, had they been written electronically... Almquist felt that sensation when the mind recoils from bad news. What had he been told? He looked at Chivers who looked unhappy. That made their own archives valuable, he realized. A resource. He felt a premonition, of when something simple happens that could have a fundamental influence on outcome.
‘I have an interesting little titbit, Hasse. I cross-referenced any death involving blindness, or loss of eyes.’
Almquist felt his heart quicken. ‘Anything?’ He looked across at Chivers and wondered for a moment whether he understood Swedish. If he did, he was a good actor.
‘What about the feet?’ He listened. Almquist was disappointed. ‘See if you can find anything else. I’ll go and take a look. In the meantime, increase all those with gun licenses to cover a ten kilometer radius. We take it from there.’
Vikland clicked off.
Almquist looked into the distance. He thought back over the last twenty years, the lack of result had always bothered him. There had always been something else he needed to look at. His thoughts drifted to the interview room and the meeting with Jayaraman.
Chivers looked tired. ‘So who did you deal with?’ His question was met by silence. Now it was Almquist’s turn to be silent, waiting to see what he would say. ‘Should my investigation concern you?’
Chivers looked away, biting his lip. Finally he said: ‘I don’t know.’
‘Look,’ Almquist said gently. ‘You are in a lot of trouble. Someone is dead. Murdered. Please, help me. Then, I can help you.’ Almquist waited. Then he slammed his hand hard down on the table, making Sebastian Chivers jump. ‘I need your help!’ He shouted.
‘I only dealt with the middle man,’ Chivers spat out, then looked ashamed with himself.
Almquist shook his head. ‘That’s not good enough; an address. Name of the contact for the painting...’
Chivers didn’t answer, sitting back and looking away.
The backdrop of silence broken by the rhythmical sound of breathing. Somewhere the sound of a wristwatch, seconds ticking.
Almquist sensed fear. But fear of what? He leaned forward, dropping his voice. ‘If anyone gets hurt... because, you have been withholding information,’ he waited for Chivers to turn his head in his direction, ‘then I will personally make it my job, to make sure you serve a very long time back in prison.’ He underlined his words with a long, hard look of determination. ‘Tell me, what was the food like?’
‘I do not take too well to being treated in that manner,’ Chivers frowned. ‘You would do well to remember that.’
‘We are running out of time.’ Almquist stared at Chivers. ‘Now I need your information. And I need it now.’
Chivers nodded, his eyes flicking first left, then right. ‘He called it Barzan, not Asgarth.’
Almquist frowned, sitting back, folding his hands on his lap.
‘The painter, Ikim Agar, he called it Barza. Everyone I spoke with said it was called Asgarth.’
‘Is that important?’
He sighed with a sense of resignation, ‘yes, it was his last painting. Look,’ he suddenly looked nervous, his eyes shifting to the side. ‘It... was a stolen work. No one has seen it for, well, for many years. In the art market circles it is infamous.’
Almquist’s eyes narrowed. ‘For what exactly?’
Chivers shifted his position in his chair. ‘It is rumored Agar died painting it. And... those who have owned it were long dead too...’
‘That is why it is worth so much?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘It generates interest, having a rather macabre background. Collectors have been looking for it for, well, since it was stolen.’
‘When was it stolen?’
‘1982. From someone in Copenhagen.’
‘Who?’
‘An old Archaeologist.’
Almquist froze. ‘Good god,’ he breathed. ‘A stolen painting. From 1982?’
That was when Chivers looked genuinely scared, seeing Almquist’s reaction.
‘Copenhagen you said.’ He placed a hand inside his jacket pocket. When he removed it he was holding the hotel card. He placed it down on the table between them. He turned it over and watched Chivers as his eyes locked onto the scribbled name, his face turning white. Written on the back of the card was a name, a name that changed everything.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’
He looked up and smiled at Elin, feeling relaxed for a moment. ‘Come in.’
She came in and sat down, looking across at his list, nodding. She frowned. ‘1982 someone died you said?’
‘Chivers says the painting was stolen in 1982.’ He shrugged as he leaned forward, removing the sheet from the pad and placing it inside the folder, closing the latch. ‘Normally, I’d say conspiracy theory is just the little person’s explanation for a complex world.’
Vikland shook her head. ‘The more complicated the situation, the more we are ready to accept coincidence. There’s nothing coincidental going on Hasse...’
‘So that means denying the obvious? Seek other explanations?’
He chewed on that. Other explanations. The only one he could think of was so remote and unlikely he dismissed it out of hand. ‘No,’ he couldn’t help himself, feeling agitated. The thought struck him that Agard might have known something that had gone on in these parts, things that would have equal relevance after his death. That would explain the time perspective. The idea that someone is behind it all, pulling the strings... ‘We must work with what we have.’ He almost hated himself for saying it. The Hangman was Archaeologist Karl Oskar Eklund’s painting. So how did it get to Justin’s neighbor? Could they have known each other? He glanced across at his notebook.
‘You mean we’re getting out of our depth?’
‘Agard painted something someone wants badly. Denisen attracts attention, he dies.’ He shrugged. ‘Everything can be reduced.’ Except, he wasn’t convinced by his own words. Of course they were out of their depth. He felt the weight of the past bear down upon him, feeling the return of the familiar burn in his gut. This time it was worse, a cramp that never went away.
Vikland glanced over her shoulder towards the ops room and the overflowing investigation board. ‘Neither do we have the people. Oskar isn’t around as much as he should be.’
‘I thought he was going through the tapes,’ he said, hearing the weariness in his own voice.
‘That’s what I mean.
He is; it’s a lot to get through. He’s not the fastest person to deal with this.’ She turned to look at him, eyes more alive than ever. ‘There’s a young woman out there who has just had her freedom taken from her. We have no ID, no idea why they took her or where they are. For all we know, she might have been raped and killed. We don’t even have time for background!’
There was a trace of concern in her voice he hadn’t heard before. That worried him even more. ‘We’re on our own.’ He felt it then, the sense of isolation. For the first time he truly doubted his course and tried to shut out the pain. He swiveled his chair in Elin’s direction, his voice constricted. ‘I asked Oskar to call in help.’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing’s happening.’
He was running out of options. ‘I know – don’t you think I know that? It’s all I can do to –’ he heard his own betrayal in the break in his voice, the wave of emotion coming from nowhere. He tried to recover but she had heard it, her face altering, concern showing where before there had been frustration. He raised a hand as he took a deep breath, feeling vulnerable. She had seen me dammit. He felt embarrassed, he had shown himself and now, well now she had seen him, for who he was.
He had to think about something else.
He swallowed. ‘Chivers says he decided to come in person because it was the nature of his living. So far we don’t have anything to corroborate that.’ He looked away from those searching eyes and turned to his reports, pushing sheets of paper to the side with a quick wrist. ‘Why would he appear just before a kidnapping? Only a fool would do that. I just don’t think that’s the line here.’ Who could he fool? Not Elin. He dare not even confirm that prejudice by looking at her. Not now.
‘Line?’ Vikland stood up, eyes pleading, dropping her arm in a gesture of impatience. ‘We’re in the middle of a great big, deep ocean Hasse. You can see that yourself. And to be honest, right now I could really use a life jacket!’
He knew. Of course he knew. He had had the growing feeling ever since the two assistant detectives had been taken away from him, almost from the start. He felt it in the resilience of the powers-that-be to even make themselves available to his phone calls. The Commissioner would be back next week. Most of all, he felt it in the eyes and steadfast determination to continue against the odds he felt when he looked at Elin, seeing in her the things he had never seen in himself. Almquist paused to collect himself, waiting until he had her attention. ‘Okay. Let’s take it one step at a time.’
‘We don’t have time. We need to jump - now!’
Finally, Almquist nodded. All they had left was the logic of the investigation. It was a lifeline. All they had to do was... create, no, make, well, map out the damned thing. Reason it out. Of course. They had the pieces. All they needed was the right fit.
He stood up wearily and stopping, walked over to a white board. He lifted a black marker pen. ‘All right, let’s take it from the top...’ he drew a line across it horizontally, making a small, vertical line to the left. ‘Timeline. Here Swift is contacted. Until then, he’s just a simple married man living his simple married life, right?’
Vikland nodded, taking his place in his chair as Almquist drew another little vertical line, just to the left of the previous one. ‘And just before that, his old neighbor dies.’ He drew another line, to the right of the first line. ‘Then, Justin is contacted by people with whom he has never spoken to before. He is given charge of a painting, a fictitious account about a will. Some involvement of the British Embassy. All right,’ he raised his hand holding the marker. ‘I admit it.’ He turned to look down at her as she sat there watching him. ‘Maybe there is a puppet master. Maybe.’
Vikland stood up and tapped the board. ‘Whoever wants the painting must have some connection to the neighbor. It starts here. The puppet master might even be in Sweden.’
‘If there is a puppet master. I have two scenarios. The first...’ Almquist took a deep breath and drew a longer line to the right of the first line. ‘Scenario 1: They set off from Denmark.’ Another line to the left, between them. ‘Do whatever it is they’ve been doing.’ He drew another line, twice, making it thicker. ‘Thomas Denisen makes a deal for money before the painting is exchanged. Something goes wrong. He falls or is pushed down a flight of thirty-one steps. Then he has his eyes poked out, his face and his feet mutilated.’ He tapped the board with his marker. ‘By a group who had at least a little knowledge of the nature of this part of the country and knows the painting has value and who wants it enough to kidnap someone.’ He made a line, closer to the right. ‘Chivers turns up. The painting, again; Thomas has put it out on the grapevine, attracting flies to shit. The black market.’ Another line, farthest to the left. ‘Then they disguise the death, making it look like one they had read about. Except, they don’t get what they want, coming back to the place Denisen was staying to get their hands on it.’
‘And the second scenario?’
He tapped the board again. ‘Something happened here long ago that set all of this into motion.’ He tapped the board farthest left. ‘A stolen painting from 1982. The original owners want it back.’
‘So we find out what the catalyst is?’
‘We define our search,’ he agreed, looking across. ‘Then we have the angle.’ They looked at each other. Reluctantly, Almquist replaced the marker back into the tray under the board then sat back down. ‘Even if we have been burdened with this, for whatever reason, we still have a kidnapping to deal with.’ Almquist stood up again and reaching for the marker, removed the cap and made a series of new lines, one after the other to the right, then dropped the marker back into the tray. ‘The rest is cause and effect - the domino effect.’ He stabbed his finger out in the white space to the far right. ‘And we’re here. Right now. You and me talking – here,’ he moved his left hand to the first mark on the far left, keeping his right to the other side of the board. He turned to look at her, hands spread apart. ‘As you say, we can’t cover all the spaces.’ He dropped his hands, looking back to the empty spaces to the left of the board. ‘In theory, with the angle, the rest should fall into place.’
‘We need to find the reason Hasse.’
‘Reason,’ he snorted softly through his nose. ‘That might prove to be a little difficult,’ he said quietly, avoiding eye contact and feeling deeply troubled.
‘So what you’re saying is, we’re in the dark in a situation beyond our control?’ She waited for him to look at her. ‘We don’t have any angle, do we?’
He hated to hear her say it.
‘Involving people who we really don’t have the slightest information about?’
Almquist looked past her. Except, he did have some information. A Detective had been in all probability murdered last year, in Copenhagen. An explosion he had been told, just like Eklund’s apartment the same year. ‘I don’t know,’ he said softly. ‘Elin, I don’t know.’
‘Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is no puppet master.’ Vikland said with frustration. ‘Maybe this is all some... I don’t know, the painting, the dead neighbor...’ she stopped and looked at the lines on the whiteboard. ‘All some domino effect itself.’
‘What we’re dealing with here is a pattern.’ He looked back at the board. ‘Which right now, I admit looks like a bit of a mess.’
She looked up at the board, hair falling forwards. ‘One of them might be part of the those who took Ulrika.’ She wore a solemn look.
He nodded. ‘With Chivers here, we need to try a new approach.’
Vikland had her mouth open, about to say something.
‘We have been through their testimonials. Now let’s see if we can gather some dust.’
Almquist’s phone rang.
‘Almquist.’ He nodded, listening, then replaced the handle back on its base and half-smiled. ‘It’s time to go and pay the storekeeper a little visit.’ He got up, walking to his coat stand and taking his jacket. ‘That was Oskar. The registered address for Gotfridsgaarden is Tivedshandel: Tived Genera
l Store runs the rentals for Gotfridsgaarden.’ So Oskar was doing something after all. For a moment, he felt like his old self. In control.
Tived General Store was obliterated by the build-up of faded stickers: Advertising anything from ice-cream and cola, to beer and camping gear, framed on each side by two large glass windows that hadn’t been washed for years, save by the rain. Frowning, Almquist walked forwards and placed his face to the window, cupping his hands as he looked inside. Then he turned to Vikland in the car, and waved for her to come as he pushed on the brass door handle, a jingle announcing their arrival.
Rows of shelves lined with tins, cartons, packets and bottles, all disappearing into a scruffy, murky interior. To the left, a small open counter with cured meats and a small selection of cheeses. To the right, a stack of local bottles of beer in nostalgic clay containers, next to portable gas cookers and other camping equipment.
A bearded man as big as a bear entered: brown hair graying on the tips of curls, wiping his hands on a blue striped kitchen towel. He wore an old-looking dark green woolen jumper under a white apron and nodded a cold greeting. Vikland walked up to the counter as Almquist stood back, taking in the scarring of his ear.
The storekeeper’s eyes tore into Almquist, jawline tightening. Almquist nodded, face straight. Vikland stepped forward, offering him her ID. ‘I’m Elin Vikland. Örrebro Police.’
The storekeeper towered above her, eyes framed by suspicion, waiting for her to continue.
