Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue

by Mark, David

  An electronic beep announced the call.

  She jumped into the driver’s seat and lifted the receiver. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Events are unfolding as we talk. It’s going to go down at a place called Highwayman’s Pass,’ the voice said. ‘South and west of your present location. Get there, NOW.’

  She frowned, using only one side of her face as she pulled out the geographic map from the pocket at the bottom of the driver’s door, using her finger to locate the place, finding it with ease.

  ‘Find a high place, facing north. You can see the road best near the top.’

  She read the contours, envisaging the steep slopes to each side of the road.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two, with the girl. Take care of her first.’

  Fabian stared out of the windscreen into the shadows, focused on the voice and only the voice.

  ‘Another two or three approaching.’

  Two or three making four or five; she bit her lip, feeling the bitter taste of frustration, the odds moving out of her favor and into the unknown. She hated operations into the unknown and shook her head, looking out at the dark dead ground in the shadow of the evergreens around her.

  ‘Take them out.’

  She bit back a reply she knew could lose her her livelihood... the Services always paid the best. Always, since no one ever knew just how much taxpayers money was used on securing foreign policy. They would never admit who they were, of course. That was part of the game play. That made her expendable.

  ‘Call me when it’s done.’

  She always did.

  She regretted that she hadn’t said anything now, not that it would make the slightest bit of difference. Now she had a job to do... fail to deliver, that was part of the risk she was paid to handle. Except... she hadn’t been paid any risk money. Now it was too late to negotiate.

  It wasn’t too late to get out of the game.

  The line went dead.

  Rumors flew, newspapers rolled and yet the story never seemed to ever roll with it. It was a great story: the one to dream for.

  She’d become so used to lying still for so long she had learned a trick, of letting her mind wander. Ulrika closed her eyes and tried to ignore the cramps and the cold, the bruises, and the feeling of dehydration always lying just behind her eyes, pounding her head.

  Bo Johanesson had just disappeared. Into thin air, as they say. He’d visited Tived in ’82. If it hadn’t been for the developed roll of negatives she wouldn’t even be here. She’d never known spoken to him, never seen him. She’d never known him, a reporter before her time. His name had been legend in the office though. What happened to Bo? they said.

  Ulrika felt the cold and the wind, feeling the damp earth upon her thoughts. Her denims soiled and saturated, her urine having worked its way through her clothes, chilling her to the bone.

  She had been in the right place, at the right time. It could have been the story to end all stories: a powerful businessman with radical right wing elements, caught up in a cover-up campaign of a sordid past. And best of all, she’d put it all together piece by sordid piece... the deaths in the seventies, the ones hitting the headlines. Victims bearing the marks of old practices, mutilated like that. That is what had attracted Johanesson to the place, that had been the reason for his curiosity. What he had discovered remained conjecture, a few notes here and there, separate deaths in separate headlines at different times, and no-one but her had seen the connection. The connection to some obtuse right-wing organization in itself was nothing special, god knows how many Swedish businessmen fought the Social Democrats by turning to extreme sympathies. What was special were the other people involved on the periphery. And the painting of course. It had been valued at two million US according to the insurance documents. At first, she’d thought it had been some art fraud scheme. Some fictitious painting theft to score a shitload of money.

  The Agard connection had arisen from a visit to the Stockholm library. She realized that in the course of following the lead, she’d never put the last pieces together. Not that it made any difference. Not now. It was Agard’s story she found intriguing and the underlying connections. And then came Denisen along with his damned advertisement selling the same painting. And here she was. The Agard painting had been stolen, according to Johanneson, copies of insurance documents he had placed in his own investigation file. Whoever they were, the trail ended at Gotfridsgaarden, the same place Johannesson had taken his damned last roll of film. Instead of being swept along with the surge of adrenalin – the kind that happens only once in a lifetime, when a story of such dimension is uncovered – she cursed her rotten luck. She’d ended up at the same place that had been a contributing factor to her being here at all.

  Reporters don’t just disappear without a reason.

  She heard movement and opened her eyes, realizing in that moment she might not make another day.

  The immediate cognizant reaction to any person facing something vaguely perceived, but imminently dangerous is to recoil. Ulrika Strömberg recounted hearing a sharp crack, followed by what she called ‘a whisper’ of air passing through the narrow space between them. There was no sound of a shot other than the shockwave.

  Ulrika S. recoiled, moving quickly, taking two, three steps backward, before she was able to process what her subconscious had already responded to.

  From her statement: “The same reaction was exhibited by Thomas Denisen, taking two, three steps back instinctively. He turned to save himself, to see how close to the edge he was. I ran forward to save him. I was too late.”

  Filed police report 25.10.1987. Örrebro, Sweden

  Part 2: FLIGHT

  Chapter 14

  A TANGIBLE THREAT

  Stick your tinder-box and clasp-knife in your jacket

  and tie your leather coat at your belt!

  Go then out into the woods

  and keep yourself well hid there

  until we have peace in the land!

  When the Bell Rings 7

  The Charles Men

  By Verner Von Heidenstam

  He saw himself walking amongst the dead, passing empty, silent cars, all burned black. Almquist blinked and the image was gone. He sat back, tapping the enter button again. Nothing. Gone.

  No entries. Cursor blinking. What had happened to the files?

  The files were gone. It shouldn’t have surprised him. There was something almost recognizable about the familiarity of it all, as if his present circumstances cocooned him within some other reality. He could see himself from the outside, pulled forwards, yet powerless to resist, on and on towards an open doorway leading to nothing but darkness. He had the power to do something about it, the free choice of will. Except, whichever way he turned lead back to the beginning, around and around, no way in and certainly no way out. Chivers was the only thing he had to cling to... and the information he’d rather not even think about he’d received from Baron.

  Faintly, he heard the sound of his wristwatch.

  He had to take Chivers back to the homestead.

  Ulrika knew something. He got up and left his office, walking back into the video room and selected the tape with her interview on it. He pushed play and forwarded to when she sat, waiting to start her interview. The camera had been recording, even though the interview hadn’t begun. He watched her unaware she was being recorded, sitting, waiting, the absence of make-up tantalizing. She was imperfect. And yet, her imperfections somehow made her perfect. Rather than making her look plain, the fine edge of her naked eyes required neither accentuation nor liner. Brown eyes and blonde hair, an unusual combination; eyelids delicate yet suggestive in the way she used them to look at you, reinforcing a smile that went deeper than any expression of anything as simple as happiness. And yet, she was more than that. It was the way she found that little part of oneself reserved for the most intimate of moments. A sublime sensuality he had never experienced before. He knew he wasn’t the only one to think so.r />
  Why was she out on the road? Lost, she said. The road was north of Trollkyrka. Her car had been in the visitor’s car park. That placed her within four kilometers of Trollkyrka. Walking distance.

  Had she had contact with Denisen?

  She was there. Almquist leaned forwards, deploying the pause button on the remote as Elin Vikland walked into the room. In her hand was a fax.

  She handed it to him. ‘Information from Interpol.’

  The fax provided a list of times, dates with descriptions. Almquist read eagerly, scanning the times and dates. He handed it to her and sat back, still looking at the frozen image of Ulrika. One entry stood out in his mind from the lists of dates. So much it could have been highlighted in red. ‘Give it back to me a moment...’ He scanned the report in record time.

  ‘Is it relevant?’

  Almquist finished reading it. As he handed it back he thought of Chivers. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  The information disturbed him. Information he was still in the process of processing. His mind turning over, slowing when it got to the image of two fingers. Gustav Kron.

  Vikland stopped on the way out of the door, narrowing her eyes. ‘Hasse... where’s the painting?’

  ‘At the hospital,’ he replied.

  Vikland frowned. Before she could say anything he smiled. ‘Before we take it apart I wanted to have it X-rayed. I’m going to pick it up. Now.’

  ‘With Chivers?’

  ‘You’re concerned he’s going to steal it from me?’

  Vikland pursed her lips, then smiled an apology. ‘I guess not. Now you mention it,’ she shrugged, ‘X-rays is a good idea.’

  Of course it is.

  ‘Hasse, there’s something you’re not telling me.’ She stood with her hand on her hip, thrust forward as a mark of disagreement. ‘Something’s eating you, more than Bok and this trip to Stockholm. Come on, spit it out.’

  Who could fool Elin? He couldn’t tell her about Oskar; he couldn’t tell her about what Conrad Baron had said either. In fact, he couldn’t tell her anything at all.

  ‘I need to check a few things out first. Give me an hour.’ There had been something in Conrad Baron’s eyes. He had been telling him the truth: the girl for the painting. He raised his arm and glanced at his watch. He had to get the painting back to Conrad Baron. ‘I need to get Chivers back to Gotfridsgaarden.’ He looked into her intelligent eyes, the subtle line of mascara, the flick of her auburn hair. ‘All right,’ he said in resignation. ‘It involves Gustav Kron.’ The least he could do was fill her in on the background. ‘We found his body, or what was left of it.’ He didn’t want to lie to her. He could see it disturbed her. It disturbed him.

  ‘Involved?’ She pressed.

  Another thought formed in his head, that this was nothing but a clean-up op. He looked at his watch again, feeling the first pull of tension. He couldn’t tell her. He was working against the clock. ‘That’s what we need to find out.’ Almquist stood up to leave, leaving the rest of the tape unseen, stopping as he came alongside her. ‘If you need to go through my notes while I’m gone, see the expanding file.’

  Vikland moved to stand in front of him, blocking his exit. ‘Talk to me Hasse. I can see it in your eyes.’ She tried to make eye contact, unasked questions waiting for his response. She took hold of his hand.

  The words came of their own accord. ‘I’m the reason this has happened at all,’ he sighed, taking her hand in his.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on yourself?’

  He looked across at the small space between them feeling empty despite the warmth in her hand. ‘It concerns Copenhagen.’ He shrugged. ‘How many cases have I worked on involving cases outside of the county?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Copenhagen?’

  ‘The case I was working lead me on a trail to Copenhagen.’ He paused.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And... the investigating officer, I guess he must have been my age.’ He said absently, before turning to the side to look at her. ‘Elin, he died in an explosion that blew his houseboat to pieces. The same person, a murder victim from 1982, had his apartment blown up as well.’

  She kept hold of his hand, shaking it as she spoke. ‘This was five years ago. You’re not a police investigator in Copenhagen...’

  ‘Last year, Elin. It happened last year,’ he interrupted in a louder voice. ‘Two explosions. One dead investigating officer.’

  Vikland looked across with concern showing in that wonderfully honest face. ‘What were you investigating?’ She said in a small voice, looking at him in earnest.

  He let go of her hand and looked across to the window, seeing how the wind was picking up, a darkening sky threatening rain.

  ‘What were you working on?’

  He turned to her, ‘The same thing I suspect Ulrika Strömberg is working on, just from different angles. I think she’s following a lead concerning the disappearance of a reporter.’

  ‘She never mentioned that. Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s hiding something.’

  She reached out and placed a firm hand on his forearm this time, refusing to let him go. ‘Stop evading me Hasse. What is it? Something’s been eating away at you. I can see it in your face.’ She stared at him, lowering her voice intimately. ‘What aren’t you telling me? I thought we were a team.’

  He swallowed, turning to look at her, eyes warm and sad and so very fragile. ‘The thing is, you see. The thing is, the reporter Ulrika was probably looking into, he took some photographs you see. On one of those photographs is...’ tell her about Eklund ‘...a reporter.’

  ‘What reporter?’

  ‘A reporter disappeared five years ago, the timing you see, it’s the timing,’ he took a deep breath, feeling something tremble. ‘I –’

  ‘You’re exhausted Hasse.’ He took hold of his hand again, ‘and you need some rest. If it happened five years ago it can wait until you’re ready, all right?’

  He sighed, smiling reluctantly. ‘I could do with a little more time,’ he admitted, standing in front of her. He took hold of her forearms in his hands, then leaning forwards dropping his voice. ‘I have a few loose ends to take care of. Can we meet later?’ I wish I’d interviewed Ulrika...

  Did she meet with Thomas Denisen? How much had she known?

  It placed him in a dilemma. If she made it back...

  Elin hesitated for a moment, maintaining eye contact, concern showing in those laughing wrinkles in the corner of her eyes. Finally, he let go, standing back. ‘All right, come with me.’ He motioned to the door.

  She stood aside and followed him back to his office. He motioned to his computer screen and the blinking cursor, sitting down in his chair.

  ‘I just found out all central archive material relating to the draugr killings... the Kron investigation; the information is no longer available, Elin.

  She looked past him to the screen, to where he was pointing.

  No entries.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded. ‘I ran a check and the same also applies to other related incidents.’ He reached out to turn off his PC and opened the right drawer to his desk, pointing to his expandable file. ‘We don’t have much time. If I get back after you leave take them home.’ He looked across at her, ‘And be discrete. Don’t let anyone see you, least of all Oskar.’ He never gave her time to ask. Eklund. ‘The important stuff is in the front section labelled background notes.’

  ‘Why not take them with you?’

  He ignored her question. ‘I don’t want anyone but you reading them.’ He tried to smile. ‘Okay?’ Almquist looked at his watch for a last time, then looked at her. A good detective never takes files with them. You of all people should know that Elin. ‘Get copies of everything you have on file, backup diskettes. I’d like a copy before the replacement gets here. Time’s up.’

&nbs
p; Tick tock tick tock old grandfather clock.

  He’d covered his bases. All that remained to do was delete his own records on the police computer files. The file he’d prepared was at home. Elin, he called it, after the only person who he thought he could trust, leaving one last thing left to do before leaving and headed back to his office to recover his personal organizer.

  She knew it was too late when she saw Thomas lose his balance, arms flailing, unable to prevent the inelegant, vertical falling waltz. She turned to look where he was going, falling, head first, arms outstretched in a futile gesture of survival. Ulrika ran forwards in an equally futile gesture to try and stop him. Hand to her mouth, she saw him hit the first step head first, legs arcing over torso, cart-wheeling. Then repeating the process, arms flailing, hitting twice, three times, over and again, the sound of bones cracking, landing in a heap at the bottom. Motionless.

  Then she ran.

  Her hands were tied behind her back, ankles fastened with tight loops of cord sat in the back seat of the pickup. She heard a word, in English. Pass. Her mind chewed on the word, thoughts fading as cruel gray eyes turned to look down upon her. She looked away, towards his companion with the bad hand walking over to the water bottles. He picked them up with his good hand, continuing past the trees into the woods. That left her alone with Gray Eyes with the bad arm. She didn’t like him. If Gray Eyes had looked mean, the one with the bad hand, Three Fingers she called him, he was the devil himself.

  She tried to think of something else. She had gone to visit the Pastor, the day she had received information that the painting known as the Hangman of the Gallows, painted by Joachim Agard.

  Johanesson had enough on the painting to make it worth her while looking into it. All he’d had was a photograph. No name, no mention of an artist, only the photograph and an entry on insurance documents. It was the librarian at the Stockholm library who had spotted the work was an Agard. The same work she found for sale. On the black market. She had contacted the seller, Denisen... thinking it would lead her closer to the truth. Johannson had made notes purporting to crimes, committed by a radical who had turned insane. Sturla Gotfridsson his name was. Where he’d received his information from, she had no idea. She wasn’t interested in speculation, only the painting. Later, she had cursed her stupidity of course. By then it was too late. Damage done.