by Arne Dahl
‘The name on the grave,’ Jorge Chavez said, ‘has been reconstructed as “Shtayf”. That’s all. We’ll have to find out more about that body.’
‘That can be your job, Jorge,’ Hultin said. ‘What else? What happened with our skinhead, Andreas Rasmusson?’
Kerstin Holm glanced at her papers.
‘Apparently he had some kind of psychosis last night. He’s been moved to hospital.’
‘Under guard?’
‘If you’re arrested as a suspect, you’re treated as a suspect. Yes, there’s an assistant watching over him day and night. From what they’ve said, he seems to be completely out of it.’
‘I think it’s very important we find out what those skinheads saw,’ said Hultin. ‘There must be some way of finding out who he was with, who he met that day, et cetera, et cetera. Gunnar?’
‘OK,’ said Gunnar Nyberg.
‘After you’ve been to the university, though. You and Viggo and Police Assistant Andersson are meeting a Slavicist called Ludmila Lundkvist in the Department for Slavic Languages at ten o’clock. Get hold of Andersson and get yourselves up there to Frescati.’
‘Da,’ Nyberg said like a good linguist.
‘Now,’ Hultin said with brutal neutrality, holding up a piece of paper on which a large plus sign had been drawn, ‘this diagram was sent anonymously to me. There are four segments—’
‘Quadrants,’ said Chavez.
Hultin gave him a very long, very neutral look.
‘… four segments labelled, in turn, “Skansen”, “Skogskyrkogården”, “Slagsta” and “Odenplan metro station”. Beneath Skansen, it says “fingerprints, pistol, metal wire, rope, Epivu”. Beneath “Skogskyrkogården” it says “relatives, modus operandi check, brain surgeon’s verdict on the impact of the metal wire on the brain, skinhead witness, other witnesses, check of the murder scene”. I’ve taken the liberty of adding “Shtayf”. Is that acceptable to my superiors in the congregation?’
‘Yup,’ said Chavez. ‘Good work, young man.’
Yet another tremendously long look.
Then he said: ‘Moving on. Under “Slagsta” it says: “phone call check, forensics technician’s report, vehicle phantom pimp”. And beneath “Odenplan metro station”, it says: “phone, list of calls, language expert”.’
Jan-Olov Hultin stood up and moved over to the whiteboard. With a dramatic gesture, he spun it round so that the back was facing forward. It revealed the same plus sign as the paper.
‘So let’s use this anonymous masterpiece as the hub of the investigation. Don’t let me stand in your way. If we work backwards, we’ve got the “language expert”. That detail will be settled today. The following points, “mobile phone, call list”, are with the technicians, who are working on the SIM card and things like that. With any luck, we’ll have the contract details and a list of calls sometime today. So then the previous … quadrant: “Slagsta”. We’ve got the “phantom pimp”, the face reconstructed by Jörgen Nilsson. Viggo, you’ll work on identifying him when you get back from Frescati. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Chavez.
Norlander looked at him sternly and said: ‘OK.’
‘Then what does “vehicle” mean? An unidentified vehicle heard in Slagsta at half three or four on Thursday morning. Not so easy, but interesting nonetheless. More neighbours to talk to, bus companies and bus departures from Sweden via different tollbooths to be checked. Does that sound unbearable, Sara Svenhagen?’
‘No, it’ll be fine,’ said Sara, sighing inwardly.
‘I can answer the “forensics’ findings” point myself, because I went through the material last night. In the four motel rooms, they found – listen carefully now – semen from eighteen different men. Such is life in a Swedish refugee centre. They found a large number of fingerprints as well, but so far none of them have been a match in the database. That means that these eighteen men seem to be normal, respectable Swedes.’
‘Plus a neighbour or two from the Norrboda Motell?’ added Kerstin Holm.
‘There were no bloodstains, at least, no signs of violence. Physical violence, that is. Basically nothing. The rooms had been emptied of all personal items. Finally, the point called “phone call check”. Could that be something for Paul Hjelm? As thanks for this.’
Hultin pointed to the plus sign on the whiteboard.
‘If I’m given time.’
‘You can have time,’ Hultin said neutrally, continuing: ‘Quadrant two: “Skogskyrkogården”. The new point, “Shtayf”, is Jorge’s. Then there’s “check of the murder scene”, which is done: no answers. After that, we’ve got “skinhead witness” and “other witnesses”: Gunnar will be looking into the other skinheads. As far as we know, there weren’t any other witnesses, but the media’s been blowing it up for a whole day now; maybe someone else will come forward today. We’ll see.
‘The cumbersome point called “brain surgeon’s verdict on the impact of the metal wire on the brain” is now in the material world – if incomprehensible in places. Qvarfordt reports in his usual style that: “The eighty-eight-year-old body is well maintained for its age. No sign of atherosclerosis of any kind. Absolutely no sign of age-typical encephalomalacia. Unusually large cerebrum. Digits tattooed above the left wrist. Evidence of cervical spondylosis. Circumcisio post-adolescent. Rheumatoid arthritis, early stage, presenting in the wrists and ankles.
‘The assisting medical examiner, a brain surgeon called Ann-Christine Olsson, continues slightly more informatively: “The metal wire in the brain cannot definitively be considered the immediate cause of death. It has been inserted via the temple and subsequently moved forward and back through the cerebral cortex. The cerebral cortex is the brain’s pain centre – the part of the brain that makes us aware of pain. The result of a direct trauma of this kind to the cerebral cortex would result in a maximum pain experience. It is possible (though research is divided on this) that the pain experienced may be so strong that it results in death. The fact that the victim was also hung with his head to the ground may have intensified the pain, as a result of increased blood flow to the cerebral cortex. The cause of death is, as such, unclear. The heart stopped. This could depend on either shock or pain.”’
Hultin paused.
‘On Sunday afternoon, a similar metal wire was found among the material gathered from the wolverine enclosure in Skansen. That means both our men seem to have been put to death by being subjected to such enormous, overwhelming pain that it took their lives. The pain itself killed them, in other words.’
‘Unless the wolverines got there first,’ Chavez said.
‘True,’ Hultin admitted. ‘But this is worth considering anyway. If it’s true, there must be a great deal of hate involved. Coming up with such a refined, painful method of execution requires a certain kind of man.’
‘Or woman,’ said Holm.
‘Or woman,’ Hultin admitted again. ‘So the following point, “modus operandi”, is therefore of greatest interest. Has a similar method of execution been used anywhere else in the past? When, where, how? Kerstin?’
‘Sure,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘I’ll try.’
‘The previous point, “relatives”, has already been completed. Kerstin, Jorge and Paul visited each of the Sheinkman children yesterday afternoon. The reports from each of them have been left on our desks. Can we have a summary?’
‘I went to the middle child,’ said Chavez. ‘His daughter, Channa Nordin-Sheinkman, living on Fridhemsgatan in Kungsholmen. A radical woman with strong views. Child of the ’68 movement. Had reduced contact with her father after her mother’s death in 1980. She didn’t have much to say, other than that he’d been an extremely authoritarian man whom she’d wanted to get away from as soon as she could. She wanted me to note down that she wasn’t grieving. I made a note of that. She also offered me an enormous hash pipe. I want you to make a note that I declined it. It looked filthy.’
‘I went to the youngest son,’ said Holm. ‘David Shei
nkman in Näsbypark. He’d largely taken over his father’s work as a brain surgeon and researcher at the Karolinska hospital. Married, four kids between eight and seventeen. Unlike his father, he’s quite religious and active in the Jewish congregation. He’s taken responsibility for the complicated funeral arrangements and I got the impression he was grieving deeply. It seems to have been some kind of love from a distance, mind you. They only met on special occasions, and in quite a formal way. You could probably describe David as quite a formal person. Zealous and restrained. I also got the impression his father had been quite like him. David Sheinkman’s probably as close to Leonard Sheinkman as we’re going to get, but he had very little to say about his father as a person.’
‘I think it seems like our best link to the family is through Harald Sheinkman, the eldest son,’ said Hjelm. ‘Leonard was living in the attic of his house, which had originally been his own. Leonard’s, that is. Harald hit the ropes sometime during the eighties, divorced and burnt out. He’s a doctor, not a researcher; these days he’s an author too. A really nice man with a dark sense of humour. That kind of thing’s appreciated. I went through Leonard’s flat, though maybe someone else should go through it again. I can do it if I have time. I also found out quite a bit about Leonard’s life before the war: poet, family man. I’ve written a proper report for anyone interested and I have his diary from Buchenwald. I’m planning on reading it. Though it’s in German.’
‘Great,’ said Hultin. ‘In your spare time, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re starting to look tired, but we’ve got one so-called quadrant left. “Skansen”. Let’s see what our anonymous artist has written here. “Epivu”. We’re no further with that than we were before. I’m assuming the word is etched into your brains by now, preferably into the pain centre. So, “rope”. Being looked into by Jorge, I understand?’
‘Yep,’ said Chavez. ‘Samples should be arriving from the various factories today.’
‘Then there’s “metal wire”. Found. Part of Kerstin’s modus operandi check. Point number two is “pistol”. As yet, no news on the Luger’s serial number. But – and I started by promising you a little good news – the anonymous author’s very first point is “fingerprints”.’
Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin had the room’s undivided attention. He continued: ‘Interpol sent two matches for the wolverine man’s fingerprints. From two countries: Greece and Italy. Our man was Greek. His name was Nikos Voultsos, born in Athens in 1968. First conviction for assault in Greece in 1983, when he was fifteen. Then there’s a whole string of more or less serious crimes, including procuring.
‘He disappeared when he was suspected of the murder of three women in 1993. That was when he turned up in Italy. Not that he ever really turned up. Nikos Voultsos was clearly under constant suspicion by the Italian police, but they could never track him down. He went underground in Italy – in Milan to be more precise – where he committed at least twenty serious crimes: protection racket, drugs, assault, rapes, murder. And then procuring again. In other words, our man is actually a pimp.’
Sara looked at Kerstin. Kerstin looked at Sara. The glance they exchanged was a satisfied one.
‘The details from the Italian police are quite vague,’ Hultin continued, ‘but between the lines, it might indicate “organised crime”. And what that means in Italy is pretty clear.’
‘The Mafia?’ asked Chavez.
‘If we’re being really precise,’ said Hultin, ‘the Mafia’s a Sicilian phenomenon. Naples has its Camorra, which is similar. And then there’s a northern equivalent, which is just as powerful. It seems as though Nikos Voultsos ran brothels for the north Italian Mafia. If we can call it that.’
‘And then he came to little old Sweden,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘To run brothels for the north Italian Mafia?’
‘And got himself eaten by wolverines instead,’ said Chavez. ‘That’s what you call an alternative career path.’
‘The Italian police were clearly keeping an eye on him. They lost track of him in the middle of April. He died in Skansen on the third of May. It’s easy to imagine the bigwigs in Milan thinking the attention was getting too much and sending him away. Like in The Godfather. Michael Corleone. But he was probably on a mission. It doesn’t seem too much of a leap to assume it had something to do with the procuring side of the business.’
Kerstin Holm was thinking aloud. ‘A week or so before they disappeared, the women in rooms 224, 225, 226 and 227 of the motel in Slagsta started getting uneasy. That takes us back to around the twenty-fifth of April. Maybe we can assume that was when Nikos Voultsos arrived? The first call from the violent Odenplan woman was made to Slagsta on Saturday the twenty-ninth of April. They called one another right up to 22.54 on Wednesday evening, not long after Voultsos died in Skansen. A couple of hours later, they disappeared.’
‘They were freed,’ Sara Svenhagen said breathlessly.
‘She really is a ninja feminist,’ Jorge Chavez said, receiving a surprised look from his wife.
‘If that’s the case,’ Kerstin continued, ‘then she murdered a Mafia man. Once you’ve done that, you probably have to disappear sharpish.’
‘It all fits,’ said Paul Hjelm. ‘It’s all coherent. But where the hell does Leonard Sheinkman come into it? What does an eighty-eight-year-old professor emeritus like Leonard Sheinkman have to do with a man like Nikos Voultsos, with north Italian Mafia whorehouses and ninja feminists with violent tendencies? Why was he of all people murdered in the same way as a notorious rapist and killer? It makes no sense.’
‘I agree,’ said Hultin. ‘Is it just a coincidence? Maybe he got in the way? Hardly. Someone hated him intensely, but it’s by no means certain it’s the woman you’re calling the ninja feminist, whatever that is. The link to her is too vague.’
‘Do we have any pictures of this Nikos Voultsos?’ Kerstin Holm asked.
‘Of course,’ Hultin replied, holding up a colour picture of a swarthy-looking man with cold eyes. A classic gangster. He was smiling wryly, dressed in a summery light pink suit, and wearing a thick gold chain around his neck.
‘I hope he was good,’ said Sara Svenhagen. ‘At least in that sense.’
‘If you go to Slagsta, Sara,’ Hultin said, ‘take this photo with you and show it to everyone. Someone up there might’ve seen him, despite everything.’
Sara nodded silently.
‘We’re going to need to work more closely with the Italian police,’ said Hjelm. ‘We’re still missing a lot of information.’
Jan-Olov Hultin stood up and leaned forward over the desk.
‘That’s just the beauty of it,’ he croaked. ‘We’ve got a man on the scene.’
16
ANJA SAW IT long before he did. Five children saw it long before he did. The entire world saw it long before he did.
That he had, just maybe, had ever so slightly too much ‘beauty’ and ‘peace’.
Arto Söderstedt wandered around the little stone house in Chianti, telling himself he was still enjoying it as much as ever. As the spring evenings turned into night, he sat on the porch with a small glass of Vin Santo, dipping his cinnamon biscotti and thinking: I’m enjoying this. And of course he was still enjoying it. Of course the regenerative powers of the Renaissance had been making their way all the way up to his rustic Tuscan bedroom. Of course marital life was blossoming like never before; he half suspected Anja might be planning a sixth child – what had happened to the usual preventative precautions? And, of course, it was still utterly agreeable to be able to sleep as long as he liked in the mornings, before diving into the books he wanted to read, the music he wanted to listen to, the wine and coffee he wanted to drink, the bits and pieces he wanted to busy himself with. But somehow, somewhere, it still wasn’t quite enough. Somehow, the fruits of Uncle Pertti’s money weren’t quite enough.
Anja, on the other hand, was enjoying herself to the full, but she didn’t make such a big deal
out of her enjoyment. Arto possessed the male species’ tendency to display his well-being to all – displays which have a tendency to consume whatever is being displayed. In the end, the show becomes the main event. And so at that moment, he was living in a shell made from the enjoyment of life. If someone were to inadvertently bump the surface, it would crack and break into pieces and Arto Söderstedt would find himself staring down into the deepest, darkest infernal abyss.
Well, not quite. But occasionally, as he sat there on the porch looking out at Anja’s increasingly magnificent plants, it struck him that he was an addict.
A work addict in detox.
Anja had one passion in life – other than Arto, whom she probably loved as intensely as he loved her. Her second passion was herbs. During their time living in Västerås, she had pursued that passion with a burning frenzy; in the pots lining the windows on Bondegatan, things had been slightly more hesitant. But here, in Tuscany, in the heart of Chianti, in the immediate vicinity of the wonderful little medieval town of Montefioralle, crowning the hillside outside the wine capital, Greve – here, her passion was blooming. She never wanted to leave. The garden was bathed in the most delightful of scents. Her fingers were greener than ever and, according to locals, no one in the whole of Chianti had ever managed to grow sixteen different types of basil. The fact was, they hadn’t even known there were so many different kinds. Still, they were impressed, the neighbours.
The neighbours, yes.
But there was one person enjoying herself even more than Anja. It was Mikaela, their eldest daughter. She was sixteen years old and the most beautiful thing in the whole world. But one morning, she had come down to breakfast in their roomy Tuscan kitchen and no longer been a virgin.
Arto would never be able to put his finger on exactly how he had known, but it was undeniable. She was glowing. Her entire being was shining. He wondered whether he should take on the role of disgraced father, heading out into the bushes with a shotgun and blasting to smithereens every single teenage salami hanging from every single teenage body in the neighbourhood. But things didn’t turn out that way.
