Box 21
Page 21
Ewert.
What?
This morning was a complete disaster.
Ewert chased a slice of beetroot across his plate, but gave up when it sank in a pool of brown gravy-powder sludge.
Do I want to know this?
Not really.
Tell me, all the same.
Sven relived the morning.
He had sensed Lisa Öhrströms fear and unwillingness from the moment they met, he said, and went on to describe the line-up, her first negative and his request that she should observe the men moving. All the time, he was aware that she neither dared nor wanted to engage with what she was shown. Then her give-away plea that she loved her nephew and niece, his own anger when he realised that she had been intimidated and her refusal to substantiate her earlier statement. Finally her shame, and the lawyer who insisted that Lang should be released.
Sven knew what would happen next.
Putting down his knife and fork, Ewert went bright red in the face, his eyes narrowed, a blood vessel began to pulsate at his temple. He was just about to thump the table when Sven grabbed his arm.
Ewert. Not here. We dont want to attract attention.
Grenss breathing was ragged and sheer rage made his voice fall into a low register.
What the hell are you saying, Sven?
He got up and walked round the table, kicking each one of its legs.
Ewert, Im just as mad as you are. But pack it in now, were not in the office.
He remained standing.
Intimidation! Lang threatened the doctor! Threatened the kids!
Sven hesitated before he continued. The strange morning replayed in his mind. He took a small audio recorder from his jacket pocket and put it on the table between their half-eaten platefuls.
I questioned Lang afterwards. Listen to this.
Two voices.
One wanting to talk. The other determined to end the conversation.
Ewert listened with concentrated attention, his every muscle tensing when Jochum Lang spoke. When it was all over and Sven switched the tape recorder off, Ewert came to life.
Play that again. Only the last bit.
Sounds, a chair scraping on the floor, someone breathing. Then Langs voice.
Sundkvist, get off my back. Youd better return me to the fucking cells! Or else I might do something that I could be charged for.
This time Ewert howled, and every one of the few remaining customers turned to stare at the big man in the far corner standing by a table waving his fist in the air.
Ewert! For Christs sake! Sit down.
Thats it! Theres no way Ill let Lang decide any more. Hell stay put in the cells and I dont give a rats ass about the consequences.
He was still standing. He pointed at Sven. Her telephone number. Lisa Öhrströms.
Why?
Do you have it or dont you? Give me her number! Were going to do some real police work, you and I, right here in the restaurant.
The waitress, a girl rather than a woman, approached their table timidly and appealed to Sven, ignoring Ewert. It took great effort for her to tell them to please be quieter, show some respect for the other guests or she would have to call the police. Sven apologised and promised it wouldnt happen again. They were just about to leave, could they have the bill?
Here. He handed Ewert his opened pocket diary. Dr Öhrströms phone number was neatly written down. Ewert smiled. All the case contact names were ordered alphabetically. That was how he operated, this young colleague of his.
He got out his mobile phone and dialled her number. He caught her somewhere on the ward. She had gone in to work immediately after the identity parade.
Dr Öhrström? DSI Ewert Grens speaking. In an hour Ill fax you some photographs. I want you to have a good look at them.
She paused, as if she was trying to work out what he had said.
Please explain. What is this about?
Robbery, grievous bodily harm and murder.
I still dont understand.
Whats your fax number?
Another pause. She wanted nothing to do with whatever it was. Why do I have to see these pictures of yours?
Youll understand when you see them in an hours time. Ill ring you back.
Ewert waited impatiently while Sven finished his half of lager and fumbled for the money he said he knew he had somewhere. Ewert waved this away. No problem, hed pay for both of them. He handed over a larger tip than the food had deserved.
They were just about to step out from the smell of stew into the snarled-up traffic on St Eriks Street when Ewert spied two journalists of the kind he definitely wanted to avoid. He pushed Sven back into the restaurant, kept the door ajar and waited until they passed and disappeared down the street.
Back in his room, Ewert picked up a couple of black-and-white photographs and went off to find the fax machine.
Sir?
There she was. She had laughed at him earlier on that morning.
Hermansson. You promised me a report after lunch. Its after lunch now.
He wondered if he sounded brusque. He hadnt meant to.
Its done.
And?
Ive gone through all the statements now. Quite a few interesting points have turned up.
Ewert was holding the photos and she gestured to him, Fax them, of course, Ill wait, but he put them down and asked her to elaborate.
Take the hospital guards account. He mentions a woman who walked past and went into the toilet at the end of the corridor just before Grajauskas went in. From his description, Im sure it was her friend Alena Sljusareva.
He listened to her and remembered this morning, when he had praised her and then felt awkward, weak and exposed. He hadnt quite understood why, still didnt. He wasnt normally laughed at by young women.
The next statement I read was given by the two lads who were sitting next to Grajauskas, watching the lunchtime news. One of them remembers the same woman going by and his description is identical to that of the guard. A perfect description of Alena Sljusareva again. Im positive.
Hermansson had brought a folder full of papers, a twenty-four-hour-old investigation into a murder and a suicide in a hospital mortuary. She handed it to him.
It was her, Grens. Sljusareva supplied Grajauskas with the firearm and explosives, Im sure. In other words, she is an accessory to aggravated kidnap and murder. Well find her soon. She has got nowhere to go.
Ewert took the folder and cleared his throat. The young detective was already walking away.
Look, Hermansson.
She stopped.
By the way. Youre the second policewoman Ive praised. And I ought to do it again, it seems.
She shook her head.
Thanks. But thats enough for now.
She started to walk away again, when he asked her to wait. One more question.
What you said this morning. Am I to take it that you think I have a problem with female officers?
Yes. Thats what I meant.
Not a moments hesitation. She was as calm and matter-of-fact as ever, and he felt just as exposed.
He took the point, though, and remembered Anni.
He cleared his throat again and got himself a coffee from the machine. He needed the simplicity of it, black and hot in a plastic cup. It calmed him down and he pressed for a refill. He knew why he had a problem with female officers. With women in general. Twenty-five years. That was how long it was since he had held a woman in his arms. He could hardly remember what it felt like, but knew he missed it, what he couldnt remember.
One more.
He drank the last coffee slowly. Mustnt allow himself more than three, so better savour the peaceful feeling it gave him. He sipped and swallowed and sipped and swallowed until he realised that he
was still holding the photographs.
He glanced at them, certain that theyd do the trick.
Lisa Öhrström replied after five rings.
One hour exactly. Youre very punctual.
Please go to your fax.
He heard her walk down the corridor, visualised the layout of the ward and knew where she was standing.
All right?
Coming through.
What do you think?
I dont understand what it is you want.
Describe what you see.
He waited.
She sighed. He waited until she was ready to speak.
What do you want me to say?
Youre the doctor. Look at the pictures. What do you see?
Lisa Öhrström was silent. He could hear her breathing, but she said nothing.
Come on. What do you see?
Its a hand, a left hand, with three fractured fingers.
The thumb. Is that right?
Thats right.
Five thousand kronor.
Im sorry? I dont understand.
Index finger is one thousand, little finger is one thousand.
Youve lost me.
Jochum Langs rates and his trademark. The photo was taken by a technician during an investigation into a case of GBH, which was later dropped. This guy, with a pretty useless hand, owed seven thousand kronor. One of Langs victims. Thats how he operates, the man you are protecting. And hell carry on doing this kind of thing for as long as people like you protect him.
He said nothing more, just waited for a while before putting the receiver down. She would sit there with the three broken fingers in front of her until he got in touch again. A door opened along the corridor and Ewert turned to look. Sven was hurrying towards him with swift footsteps.
Ewert, they phoned just now.
Ewert sat down on top of the fax. His leg ached the way it sometimes did and he didnt register the machines thin plastic cover creaking under his weight. Sven did, but couldnt be bothered to say anything. He looked at his boss.
From the ferry port. A Russian interpreter is on the way.
And?
She was about to board the boat to Lithuania.
Ewert waved his arms about impatiently.
Whats this about?
Alena Sljusareva. Theyve arrested her, just minutes ago.
They had talked about it so many times.
He had sat with Bengt in interview rooms and pubs, in Bengts garden or sitting room, and time and again they had ended up talking about the truth and agreed that when all is said and done, its bloody simple, theres the truth and the rest is lies. And truth is the only thing that people can bear to live with in the long run. Everything else is bullshit.
Lies feed on each other, one lie leads to another and then to another, until youre so hopelessly caught up in the tangle that you no longer recognise the truth, even when that is all you have.
Their friendship had been built on this respect for the truth, their shared belief that you should always dare to say what you think, even when it saps your strength or undermines your position. Now and then, when one of them realised that the other was being evasive, maybe keeping quiet out of kindness, they would have a row, shout at each other, slam the door to the corridor shut and only open it again when everything had come out the truth.
Ewert shuddered. What a bloody lie! How had he believed that he and Bengt shared the truth and nothing but the truth?
He sat hunched over his desk, his thoughts circling a video that he had carried around for the best part of a day and night, only to let it sink to the bottom of Lake Mälaren.
And now Im lying.
Lying for Lenas sake.
The plain truth.
Im lying in order to protect your lie.
Ewert Grens pulled over a cardboard box that was sitting on the edge of his desk. He leaned forward, opened the lid and peered inside. The contents belonged to Alena Sljusareva. She had been arrested a few hours earlier by two policemen, who had also impounded all she carried with her.
Ewert turned the box upside down. Her life scattered over his desk. Nothing much to it, only the essentials for someone on the run. He picked over her possessions, one by one.
A money clip with a few thousand kronor, her pay for opening her legs twelve times a day for three years.
A diary. He broke the lock and leafed through it. Cyrillic letters making up lots of words he didnt understand.
A pair of sunglasses. Cheap plastic, the kind you buy when you have to.
A mobile phone. The model was quite up to date, more functions than anyone could ever cope with.
A single ticket for the ferry from Stockholm to Klaipeda for today, 6 June. He checked his watch. The ticket had ceased to be valid.
He started putting her life back in the box, read the chain-of-custody list, signed it and put it in with the rest.
Ewert knew more than he wanted to. Now he had to interrogate her. And she would repeat exactly the things he didnt want to hear. So he would listen and forget, tell her to pack her bag and go home.
For Lenas sake. Not for you. But for her.
He rose, followed the corridors to the lift that would take him to the custody cells. The duty officer was expecting him and led the way to the cell where Alena had spent the last hour and a half. The officer used the small square hole in the door to check on the prisoner. She was sitting on the narrow bunk, doubled up, her head resting on her knees. Her long dark hair almost reached the floor.
The guard unlocked and opened the door and Ewert stepped into the tired little room. She looked up. Her eyes . . . she had been crying. He nodded a greeting.
I am Detective Superintendent Grens. I believe you speak Swedish?
I do, a bit.
Good. I am going to ask you some questions now. We are going to sit here, in the cell, with the tape recorder between us. Do you understand?
Why?
Alena Sljusareva tried to make herself smaller. She did that sometimes when someone had been too rough, when her genitals hurt, when she hoped no one would look at her.
Ewert Grens, interview leader (IL): Do you remember seeing me before?
Alena Sljusareva (AS): In the flat. Youre the policeman who hit a stick on his stomach. Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp. He fell down.
IL: You saw me doing that, but you ran away all the same?
AS: I saw Bengt Nordwall too. I panicked. I just wanted to run away.
He was sitting on a hard bunk in a police cell, next to a young woman from a Baltic state; his back ached from sleeping for a few hours on the office sofa and his leg ached as usual. His breathing was laboured, he was tired and he didnt want to be there any longer. He didnt want to destroy the one thing he had left, his pride, his identity. He hated the lie that he had to live with, that forced him to carry on lying.
AS: I know now. Lydia is dead.
IL: Yes, she is.
AS: I know now.
IL: Before she died, she shot an innocent policeman dead. Then she killed herself, one shot through the head, using the same gun. A nine-millimetre Pistolet Makarova. I would very much like to know how she got hold of that gun.
AS: She is dead. She is really dead! I know now.
She had kept hoping, as one does. If I dont know whatever it is, it hasnt happened.
Alena crossed herself and burst into tears. She wept bitterly, the way you weep only when you finally understand that a person, whom you will miss, no longer exists.
Silently Ewert waited for her to stop, watching the tape unwind. Then he repeated his question.
IL: A nine-millimetre Pistolet Makarova.
AS: [inaudible]
IL: And plastic explosives.
AS: It was me.
IL: Me?
AS: I went to get it.
IL: Where
from?
AS: The same place.
IL: Where is that?
AS: Völund Street. The basement.
Grens slammed his fist into the tape recorder, almost hitting her. How the hell had this broken, scared girl on the run managed to slip past the guard outside the building, raid the basement and carry off enough explosives to blow up a substantial part of a large hospital?
He frightened her, this man who hit out, just like the rest. She made herself smaller still.
He apologised and promised not to do it again.
IL: You knew what she was going to use it for.
AS: No.
IL: You handed over a loaded gun, without asking why?
AS: I knew nothing. And I asked nothing.
IL: She didnt explain?
AS: She knew that if she did I would have insisted on being there.
Ewert switched off the recorder and removed the tape. The lie. Questions and answers which would never be transcribed. This cassette must vanish, just like the film of their shared story had vanished.
He looked at her, she looked away: didnt want anything more to do with him.
Youre going home.
Home? Now?
Now.
Alena Sljusareva got up quickly, stuck her feet in the regulation prison slip-ons, pulled her fingers through her hair and tugged at her blouse.
They had promised each other that they would go home together. That would never happen now.
Lydia was dead.
She was on her own now.
Ewert called a taxi. The fewer police involved, the better. He escorted her to the Berg Street door. An older man with his younger woman, or perhaps a father with his grown-up daughter. Few passers-by would have guessed at a detective superintendent from Homicide sending a prostitute back home.
Alena sat in the back as the taxi manoeuvred through the city afternoon traffic, from Norr Mälarstrand to Stureplan, down Valhalla Way to join Lidingö Way, the route to the harbour. She would never come back here, never; she would never leave Lithuania again. She knew that; she had completed her journey.
Ewert paid the taxi driver and accompanied Alena into the ferry terminal. The next departure for Klaipeda was in two hours time. He bought her a ticket and she held it tightly, determined not to let go until she arrived in her home town.