“Then we would have found her in the garage too,” said Myhre. “No, I think it was Jeremias who was the target and no one else.”
“We’ll have to present this to Ottosson and Hällström,” said Fredriksson. “You can compile what you’ve come up with so far. It’s a little delicate of course with a Swedish diplomat involved.”
“He’s not really a diplomat, more a consultant associated with the embassy.”
“Bad enough,” said Fredriksson, getting up.
“There’s more,” Myhre resumed. “Millgren also has his own company, Neoinvest, but it is registered with his wife, Carolina, and his brother Arnold. Although I am quite convinced that it is Sture Millgren who stands for the substance in Neoinvest.”
“Is that allowed?”
“They work with environmental impact analyses, as it’s so nicely called on their website, primarily where exploitation of oil assets is concerned. It may concern the effect on the marine environment of extraction of oil offshore or, like now, the pipeline that the Russians and Germans want to lay through the Baltic Sea. So he and the little woman also have a more commercial connection to the industry.”
“Is that allowed?” Fredriksson repeated. “On the one hand working as a semi-diplomat, and on the other hand making money through your own company?”
Myhre shrugged.
“That’s how it is, a fucking mess. Money talks. They’re the same type of people, the whole lot of them.”
“One more thing,” said Fredriksson. “How are you able to even find this information? So unbelievably stupid to leave a trail behind you.”
“Fedotov seems to be a self-confident type,” said Myhre. “He writes about it in a regular e-mail. On the surface it appears to be an ordinary business transaction, but considering how it works we can assume that this million dollars should be seen as a bribe. Millgren probably doesn’t need to do too much analysis, instead it’s about paving the way. He writes a report, perhaps for the sake of appearances including a few critical viewpoints and side comments, but basically positive to RHSKL GAS, as Fedotov’s and Kumlin’s biggest and oldest company is called. And just like that they can bring home a pile of cash, and now we’re talking lots of zeros. So a million dollars to Millgren is a good investment.”
“But this pipeline is a Russian project, isn’t it?” Fredriksson objected. “How can a Swedish consultant’s statement play any role?”
“I don’t know,” said Myhre. “But there is a connection of some kind, I’m convinced of that. Maybe Millgren’s report is intended to look good internationally. The project has gotten a lot of criticism, and if Putin and the boys in the oil mafia can show an honorable document from an honorable Swedish expert, that looks extremely confidence inspiring. A Russian statement doesn’t impress anyone at the EU, but Millgren is known in Brussels as an irreproachable Swede. Perhaps the Fedotov–Kumlin duo have also hired others? They have contacts with several other European consulting companies, including one in France. Possibly the idea was that they could present a whole bundle of independent reports. A mess, like I said, and somewhere in that pudding is an almond that’s worth millions.”
“But Kumlin seems to be a small-timer,” said Fredriksson, who was thinking about his little office with all the binders. “If this was about billions, he ought to be sitting in a nice office.”
“Appearances deceive,” said Myhre. “He was certainly good for a couple hundred million.”
Fredriksson was amazed.
“So why does Kumlin die?” he asked.
“That’s your thing,” Myhre grinned. “I pull out the numbers, you capture the Russian mafia.”
Fredriksson made a face that showed what he thought about that mission.
“But I don’t believe in chance,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“First Gränsberg, then Kumlin. Those two knew each other from before. Add to that Ingegerd Melander’s fall in the stairway. And then this journalist on top of it, an old buddy too.”
“Maybe Gränsberg was Kumlin’s man,” Myhre threw out. “Kumlin brought in his old bandy teammate for some dirty jobs. Gränsberg needed the money.”
“Where does Brant fit in?”
“Maybe he was on the trail of something and was threatened by Gränsberg, who was sent out by Kumlin. Maybe this talk about Brant writing about the homeless is just bullshit. His real work was about Russian oil.”
“Gränsberg didn’t seem to be that type,” Fredriksson objected.
“Money,” said Myhre.
“Inheritance,” said Fredriksson.
Myhre grinned.
“The merry widow who invents a Russian,” he said.
Fredriksson sighed heavily.
“Jesus H. Christ, such a beautiful day!” he exclaimed.
“I’m comfortable here,” said Myhre with another grin.
Fredriksson shook his head and left his colleague who had the nerve to be happy at work on a beautiful summer Saturday.
He went slowly back to his office while he considered whether he should slip out, but realized that was a little too much. First he had to write down what Gunilla Lange had told him and make sure that Sammy Nilsson and Beatrice Andersson got a copy. It was not sensational information, but along with everything else they had collected perhaps a pattern would emerge.
Could it be Jeremias Kumlin who had been the cause of Gränsberg’s optimism, that the former teammate, now a multimillionaire, would contribute capital to the planned construction company? But who then would have an interest in killing Gränsberg? And why did Kumlin have to die? Had a Russian been dispatched? Was it just mere coincidence that the two murders involved mutual, old connections? Improbable, but still a conceivable possibility. Over the years chance had played numerous tricks on Fredriksson, but he was an experienced investigator and gambler, chronically suspicious of coincidences.
Those were the kinds of questions that Fredriksson devoted his time to as he suffered through the afternoon. He was not noticeably wiser when he left the police building at five o’clock.
Forty
Anyone who saw Ann Lindell return to the police building on Monday morning would not have guessed that the Friday before she had been close to a definitive breakdown. She walked briskly into the elevator, inspected her face in the mirror, and adjusted her hair.
As the elevator door slid open, she walked right into Sammy Nilsson. Lindell took a quick look in both directions before giving her colleague a hug that was as quick as it was unexpected.
“That was a pretty nice welcome,” he said.
“Anything new?”
Sammy Nilsson told about Fredriksson’s conversation with Gunilla Lange and that Myhre has been hunched over Kumlin’s accounts all weekend. Lindell realized at once that this opened several possible pathways that might raise the investigation from the question mark level, but she could not keep from thinking about Brant’s possible involvement.
“Although we must have a chat with Brant,” said Sammy Nilsson, as if reading her thoughts. “And now a chat is actually approaching. By some miracle Haver managed to find out that Brant is booked on a flight from Brazil to Madrid tomorrow, and from there to Stockholm by Spanair.”
Sammy Nilsson leaned forward and pressed the elevator button.
“Who should—”
“Me,” said Sammy Nilsson. “I’m going to Arlanda to meet him so he doesn’t disappear again. You don’t want to come along?”
Lindell shook her head.
“You could do a separate interrogation,” said Sammy Nilsson, trying to strike a light tone.
“Doubtful,” said Lindell.
“Take the chance,” said Sammy, getting into the elevator and blowing her a kiss.
Lindell headed for the coffeemaker but changed her mind when she saw that Riis was standing there. Talking with him would be a real step down after the encounter with Sammy and probably ruin her good mood.
Instead she went into Ottosson’s offic
e, mostly to make an appearance. She considered telling him that she hadn’t had a drop of wine, either on Saturday or Sunday, but such information would surely make Ottosson nervous. He was a specialist in finding reasons to worry in anything that deviated from the usual. “Are you sick?” he would probably ask.
“You look frisky,” he said enthusiastically.
“Blame it on the booze,” she blurted out.
Ottosson looked surprised at her before his face cracked open in a smile. The message was received.
She went up to the desk, leaned over, and patted him on the cheek.
“What now?”
“It’s WHO International Pat-on-the-Cheek Day, didn’t you know that?”
Ottosson, sometimes painfully lacking in imagination, looked even more confused.
“I didn’t know that,” he said. “But that was a good idea from the UN.”
“I thought about skipping morning chapel this morning,” said Lindell. “I have a few ideas.”
Ottosson started to protest, but stopped himself and nodded. Like no one else on the unit, Lindell was allowed to run her own race, and she knew how to exploit this to the breaking point.
* * *
“A few ideas,” she had said to Ottosson, but the fact was that she had turned onto two dead ends, Fredrik and Andreas, and now did not have a single reasonable idea of a passable way to proceed.
“Horny little bastards,” she mumbled.
She devoted an hour to making a clean copy of her notes from the interviews with both of them. Sometimes it helped to go over everything again with fresh eyes and a rested brain. But the results were the same this time as well.
The question of the grave in the forest constantly returned. That was the key. Deep and carefully dug, by someone who was cold and calculating, not a rush job. The only weak point was that it was so close to the shed. For the only thing that might lead to a discovery of Klara Lovisa’s body was that someone could say she had been there. There were two to choose from, Fredrik and Andreas, but both had kept quiet. They could have gone to the police but didn’t, afraid and ashamed.
The murderer must have realized that but took the risk anyway. That argued for Andreas, but against Fredrik. Did he come back, unaware that Andreas had also made a visit and then disappeared? Perhaps there was no third man? Andreas, one visit, but Fredrik two. The latter with Klara Lovisa’s death as a result.
Her musing was interrupted by the phone. She answered immediately, happy to break the vicious circle.
“I’m back now,” he said in his light voice.
It was Håkan Malmberg, Klara Lovisa’s soccer coach.
“I see, that’s nice,” said Lindell absentmindedly.
“You wanted me to call.”
“Exactly. I have a few questions about Klara Lovisa, perhaps you can fill in a few things.”
“I doubt it,” said Malmberg. “What’s it about?”
Lindell glanced at the clock.
“Is it possible for you to drop by this morning?”
“Drop by,” Malmberg laughed. “That sounds like a social visit, but sure, I’m going into town, so I guess I can drop by.”
* * *
Håkan Malmberg was a tall man—Lindell estimated his height at 190 centimeters—and when he took off his motorcycle jacket it was clear that he spent many hours at the gym. He radiated energy in an unexpectedly attractive way to her. Otherwise she had a hard time with tattooed, leather-clad men with bandannas around their necks and ponytails, maybe because she associated them with biker gangs. There was also something pathetic in their attempts to radiate masculine energy, which in Malmberg’s case was dampened somewhat by his shrill voice.
He also lacked a ponytail and was constantly rubbing his hand over his shaved head. Lindell guessed that he had very recently shaved his head and was not used to it, perhaps unsure whether it had been a good idea.
He was noticeably nervous. She could only speculate why. His body language gave her the impression that he had something to hide, or else he was just uncomfortable about being at the police station.
“How well did you know Klara Lovisa?”
“Pretty well, she was on the team for several years.”
“Have you played soccer yourself?”
He simply nodded, and Lindell noted that he did not take the opportunity to tell when and with which club, an area that was reasonably not a minefield.
“Do you know Klara Lovisa’s parents?”
“Well, not really, I guess I’ve seen her mom at a match sometimes.”
“Did you have a relationship with Klara Lovisa?”
Malmberg looked up at her, then his eyes wandered toward the reception counter and around the reception area, where people were coming and going in a steady stream, the majority on their way to the passport department, before he answered.
“No, damn it, she was jailbait.”
Those were Fredrik’s words.
“She definitely did not look like a fourteen year old. Was she flirtatious?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Malmberg. “More or less like the others, a little giggly sometimes. You know how girls are, like hens, cackling.”
“And you were the rooster?”
“Sure,” said Malmberg. “No, damn it! You have to keep your distance. I’m a coach and I like it. The girls are good for the most part. We have a good time together.”
“But the club wasn’t doing so well,” Lindell observed.
“Not good? It wasn’t working at all.”
“Do you know why Klara Lovisa stopped playing soccer so suddenly?”
Malmberg shook his head.
“Were you upset?”
“Of course I was,” he muttered.
“What did you have against Fredrik? He was forced to quit.”
“He was too on all the time.”
“What do you mean? Where soccer or the girls were concerned?”
“Both,” said Malmberg.
“Was that why she left the club? Did he hit on her?”
“I don’t know, but I guess it’s not inconceivable.”
“Do you think he murdered Klara Lovisa? You said something about that when we talked on the phone.”
Malmberg hesitated. He was obviously unpleasantly affected.
“Do you know or do you suspect anything that you ought to cough up?”
“Well, no…”
“But you think—”
“No! In a way I was completely floored when I heard you’d arrested Fredrik, but at the same time not particularly surprised, because he’s a really smarmy type. But to be honest I had a hard time believing that kid would have the nerve to kill someone and then bury the body. I didn’t believe that about Fredrik. He’s a bastard, but—”
“Have you talked with him lately?”
“No, not since he left the club. I thought I saw him in town last winter.”
“Alone?”
“I don’t know,” said Malmberg.
“Don’t know?”
“It was so quick. He went past in his dad’s car and maybe there was someone in the car.”
“Klara Lovisa?”
“It was a light-haired girl anyway.”
Lindell tried to ferret out more detail about where and when Malmberg thought he had seen Fredrik and a possible passenger, but he could not remember more than that it was on Kungsgatan, near Stadsteatern and that it was some time in March, because it was before he had taken his motorcycle out for the season.
“When do you do that?” Lindell asked.
“It depends on the weather, but usually in the middle of April.”
“Have you talked with anyone else about this, I mean since Klara Lovisa was found? Anyone in the club?”
“I’ve been out with the bike and got home yesterday. My sister called right away. I’m going to help her move.”
“Can you imagine anyone else in Klara Lovisa’s surroundings who may have anything to do with the case?”
Mal
mberg shook his head.
“So to summarize: You haven’t heard or seen anything, and you think Fredrik in principle is an oily bastard but not capable of murder?”
“He’s probably capable, but I was a little surprised.”
“Okay,” said Lindell, extending her hand. “Thanks for taking the time for this social hour.”
Håkan Malmberg smiled at her. She guessed that smile had put ideas in the heads of many soccer players.
Ann Lindell accompanied him to the entrance, watched him leave the building and straddle the motorcycle, which he had parked right outside. He waved to her, pulled on his helmet, kick-started the motorcycle, and disappeared onto Svartbäcksgatan.
A feeling of calm came over her: She looked down at the notebook. There was a single word noted: March.
Forty-one
“Shadows,” said Allen Fredriksson. “They’re there, but we don’t see them, other than as shadows.”
He said this quietly, as if he had thought of something but did not have the whole context clear.
“What do you mean?”
Sammy Nilsson sensed what his colleague wanted to say but wanted to hear more, how Fredriksson developed a theme that he had never put into words before.
“Kumlin, that Fedotov guy, and now consultant Millgren in Moscow, and then everything behind that. There must be a lot. Gränsberg and the others, we understand them well enough. They assault and kill each other, get drunk, throw up and act out, stink, yell and scream, lie and make flat denials. But this gang is just formless figures. We know they exist, we see them on TV, and read about them in the newspapers—successful, promising, but that’s just bullshit. Just the surface. Kumlin, for example, who the hell would believe he was good for over two hundred million? Where does the money come from?”
Fredriksson threw out his arms and stared encouragingly at Myhre, as if he could explain.
“You’re just jealous,” said Beatrice. “You play the horses and want to win the big pot every week. You wouldn’t turn down a few million.”
Black Lies, Red Blood Page 29
