Nina was sharp, but anyone could have figured that out. I had expected her to arrive at something more. After a quick look at the clock she got up and put on her trench coat.
“I wish we could have lunch together, but I have to get to court.”
It had been a month since we last had lunch.
“No problem, we’ll do it next week,” I said.
Nina and I had met for the first time seven years earlier, when we were both working on an arson investigation. It was a messy case. In order to have any time at all to eat during the day, we started having lunch together, so we could talk shop at the same time. We had become friends, I guess.
Close friends, others would say.
But I don’t really have friends like that.
Nina looked out for me, I could see that. And when she had gotten married four years ago, to a man who started abusing her only a few months after the wedding, she had turned to me. As a prosecutor she had seen many abusive men go free, so she chose not to report it but instead asked for my help “off the record.” Of course I agreed. With the help of some colleagues, I made sure to scare the man soundly, so that Nina could file for divorce without having any more problems with him. After that, she had told me many times that she saw me as one of her closest friends.
I had hoped for a somewhat less involved prosecutor. Even though I knew Nina had confidence in my ability to handle the investigation, there was a risk that she would interfere in the work too much. At least she understood I worked best independently. That was important to me. Especially with this case.
As I left the conference room I took out my phone, opened the English text message, pressed reply, and started typing.
FIVE
Journalist Christer Skoog was waiting for the press conference at Rosenbad to begin. As usual, someone had underestimated the number of journalists and had organized the press conference in a room that was much too cramped. There was almost no oxygen.
He was dressed warmly, though it was only early September. It had been a cold summer, and the autumn wasn’t looking much better. But the layout of the room didn’t really allow the air to circulate, so the couple of open windows didn’t make a difference. Christer pulled off his navy sweater and shoved it down into the side pocket of his laptop bag. His wavy hair, which these days displayed a large number of gray streaks, hung halfway down the back of his neck and stuck to his skin. During the two hours he’d been in the room the temperature had risen at least five degrees. He shook his head to get a little air under the hair on his neck.
The press conference’s PR officer seemed nervous. Either it was the warm room that had made her face flushed, or else she was unprepared for the large group of journalists that were gathered. Christer didn’t care which. He was just waiting for her to leave. Instead she placed herself right in front of all the microphones.
“In view of the accusations directed at the minister for finance, the minister for foreign affairs, and the finance commissioner for the city of Stockholm, a press conference will be held shortly where the attorney general will announce the decisions made regarding the indictment. After that there will be an opportunity to ask a few brief questions.”
Christer looked at the clock again. It was really about time they got started.
The buzz in the room was replaced by flashes and the sound of clicking cameras as the attorney general stepped into the room. He walked up to the bank of microphones, standing tall. His suit hung on his body as if it were still on the hanger. He cleared his throat. Christer took a deep breath. It was time.
“The evidence that has emerged in the preliminary investigation of Minister for Finance Niklas Olander, Minister for Foreign Affairs Lars Tranberg, and Finance Commissioner Hans Nordwall concerning accusations of purchase of sexual services has been clear in some respects, while in others it has created such doubt that it has been difficult to assess its credibility.”
The attorney general’s voice was loud and clear, which was helpful for the audio recording. Everyone was silent. Prepared to bombard him with questions as soon as the decision was announced.
A journalist from Expressen turned to Christer, shaking his head and whispering, “What do you think?”
Christer didn’t reply. There was no point in speculating. Especially not with competing journalists. Besides, it was impossible to make any meaningful guesses. How the prosecutors reasoned was generally completely incomprehensible. They always found some loophole to allow them to interpret the law the way they wanted to. Christer was still hopeful, however.
He had specifically requested to report on events that concerned the finance minister, but so far there had been very little of interest. Most recently it had been the EU’s new banking regulations, which required all member states, even those outside the monetary union, to hold a certain amount of euros in cash, so that citizens would be able to get their money out in a safe currency in the event of a bank collapse. The Swedish banks had protested loudly that it was unreasonable to expect them to hold such a large percentage of their liquid assets in euros, but the finance minister had stood behind the EU’s decision. The criticism the government had received as a result of the minister’s position was nothing, however, compared to the onrush of dissatisfaction and blame that had broken out now that he and two other politicians had been accused of criminal activity.
No one knew how much Christer disliked the finance minister. Every time he showed up on television Christer saw only the young bully from the Trollboda School in Hässelby. At the time Christer had been a taciturn student, shy and retiring. A tempting victim for Nino, as the finance minister, Niklas Olander, had been known in grade school. As a result of Nino’s bullying, Christer had been afraid to go to school, and had eventually been forced to repeat a grade, as he had missed too many classes. Christer had known that Nino had joined a political youth association right after high school, but it was beyond his imagination that Nino would eventually be appointed as a cabinet minister and head of the Ministry of Finance, one of the youngest ministers in the government. When it was revealed that a police report had been made and that several politicians had been accused of paying for sexual services, Christer had reveled in the thought that reality had finally caught up with Nino.
Christer had been sent to report from the annual Swedish Moderate Party conference in Örebro, and by chance had ended up at the same hotel as the politicians. Relaxing with a beer in the hotel bar at the end of the day was the norm. At the end of the second-to-last day of the conference, the three government ministers had gotten drunk and started joking a little too loudly about whether or not they would dare offer a woman money for sex, how much intercourse was actually worth in monetary terms, and tactics for bargaining. The minister for finance had seemed particularly amused by the discussion and started making bets with the other two about how low a price they could get for various sexual acts. Christer had been sitting with his back toward them and had heard the whole conversation. He remembered the feeling. It had been pure pleasure to hear what they were saying to each other. Now he would finally get his chance to strike back for the years of anxiety, fear, and depression he’d suffered as a result of Nino’s bullying.
Christer’s editor had been dubious about printing the article, but Christer had insisted. The outcry did not take long. Other politicians, feminist organizations, and readers from every corner of the country expressed their opinions. All three politicians denied the allegations in the press, protesting that it was all a lie. They would never even think of discussing something like that, much less act on it, they said. It all probably would have ended there, but one event distinguished this incident from similar ones that Christer had reported on in his career. A prostitute suddenly filed a police report accusing the three politicians of purchasing sexual services.
In the majority of previous cases involving elevated individuals paying for sex, the prostitutes hadn’t wanted to report the incidents. The few who had spoken out were given
little credence either in the media or in the courtroom, if the cases even went as far as indictment. But this woman was different. Christer had heard rumors that she wanted to stop walking the streets, and that she saw it as her duty to show society what was going on behind the scenes in politics.
He had labeled it the Hooker Affair in his article, and to a direct question the prime minister had responded that the incident had very seriously damaged the credibility of Swedish politicians, both nationally and internationally.
The attorney general’s decision today would be momentous.
Christer had demanded a place at the front at the press conference. He came from Aftonbladet, after all, not some local rag. He couldn’t stand most of his colleagues. Some came directly from journalism school and had no idea how things worked, taking up valuable time by asking stupid questions with no sense for when it was time to back off. Others snooped around in their colleagues’ notes or paid for information that they then distorted to fit their angle.
The attorney general continued.
“I have therefore made the decision that the allegations with respect to Minister for Finance Olander, Minister for Foreign Affairs Tranberg, and Financial Commissioner Nordwall do not have sufficient grounds for indictment. The charges against them are hereby dropped.”
The room where the press conference was being held went from total silence to complete chaos. Journalists crowded closer, all calling out at the same time.
“Is it true that the prostitute recorded everything?”
“As always I have weighed all the evidence we have received and as I said earlier it has been of variable quality. For that reason I consider that what has emerged so far does not constitute sufficient grounds for indictment.”
“Didn’t the prostitute describe the bodies of the accused in detail?”
“As I said I have weighed all the evidence and concluded that…”
Christer signaled to the photographer that they should leave. It was pointless to stay. The attorney general was simply reeling off the same response over and over again. Christer squeezed past reporters and photographers to make his way to the exit, shoving aside a young journalist who refused to move, his eyes glued to the attorney general and his body pressing in toward the middle of the throng. Christer’s clothes felt too tight on his body and he was having a hard time breathing. He had to get out. Quickly he made his way down the corridor to the doors, stopping on the steps just outside. He fanned his face with his notepad.
“Crowded in there.”
The photographer had caught up and positioned himself by the railing, putting his camera back in his bag.
“We don’t need any video of that shit. Just send a still picture, and I’ll bang out something readable in the car.”
As Christer started to leave he pulled out his phone and punched in the prostitute’s number. He had been trying to reach her ever since she had made the police report. Without her, the series on the politicians who bought sex would be dead within a week. Just as before, there was no dial tone.
“The number cannot be reached at this time. Please try again later.”
SIX
Office after office was empty. The clock in the corridor told me it was only two-thirty and the fluorescent lights were on in most of the offices, which suggested that my colleagues hadn’t gone home for the day. I could hear a keyboard clattering from Claes’s office, and I positioned myself in the doorway. The windows along the one long side did not admit much light from the autumn gloom outside. He only had his desk lamp on. The yellow glow cast shadows over half his face as he was writing. If he didn’t insist on having the curtains facing the corridor closed, the room would feel more open and welcoming.
“Where is everybody?” I said.
Claes looked up. The distance and the low light meant that I couldn’t make out his expression. He had the biggest office on the squad. Some thought that was completely acceptable. Others were irritated that the boss sat alone in an office that could hold four detectives while some officers had to sit at makeshift desks in the corridor. A new colleague had suggested at a squad meeting that Claes’s office could be divided up for newly hired detectives to sit in. Claes hadn’t even bothered to comment on the proposal. His look and loud snort let everyone understand that it was completely out of the question. Personally I had been amused by the new guy’s naive conception of workplace hierarchy.
“Come in, Leona.”
He looked at the long and narrow calendar on the desk.
“Tuesday, September 3 — all of them are at the narcotics seminar. Did you miss that email?”
His voice was flat. I tried to interpret his mood without success. After the squad meeting yesterday, I didn’t know where I stood with him. The other officers had sat in silence, seemingly shocked that I hadn’t backed down when he got going.
I’d always thought that there was something peculiar about Claes. There were rumors that he was the kind of officer who didn’t always play with a clean deck, but those kinds of rumors circulated every now and then about various colleagues. What fascinated me was that he, more than anyone else, seemed to act based on emotional impulses. He flared up easily and often made decisions in an agitated state. As a relatively young, recently appointed squad chief, he had managed very quickly to gain power through methods that were not particularly appreciated by some of the staff. During the last nine months alone he had transferred three investigators on the basis that they had “problems with authority.” He amused himself by moving those of us who were left between various offices along the corridor as it suited him. He and I had clashed before, and I was convinced that I was now at the top of his transfer list. Despite this, I couldn’t help being amused by his way of making unpopular decisions. My colleagues complained that they didn’t have time to “settle in” and have peace to work because they were constantly being shuttled around between various office spaces. Personally, I didn’t care. I didn’t understand how they could become so attached to a certain office. All the offices were the same — the same white, sterile walls, the same shelves, the same desks. In fact, they resembled the nearby jail cells.
Police and criminals, locked in, just in different ways.
Almost wall to wall.
The irony of fate.
It didn’t bother me that Claes had scolded me in front of my colleagues. I found it stimulating, oddly enough. Flattering actually. His intense reaction to my comments gave me a kind of satisfaction. It convinced me I meant something to him.
Claes got up. He nodded at the chairs around the conference table at the other end of the room and calmly closed the door, as he always did when he wanted to indicate that something was serious. I quickly smoothed out the tablecloth before I sat down. I studied him carefully. He went back to his desk and leaned against the edge. His choice to stand when everyone else was seated wasn’t unusual — the height difference gave him the power. Last week at the two o’clock break, when everyone was sitting down in the circle formed by the couches and armchairs, he had positioned himself in the center and rattled on loudly, at the same time gesturing expansively with his arms. At the team meetings he often looked out over the heads of everyone like a president speaking to a crowd of people. He truly did not apologize for himself, Claes. Some people were bothered by that. I saw the whole thing as theater and was amused by the scene he performed.
He crossed his arms.
“What the hell kind of maneuver was that at the meeting yesterday?”
So that’s what he wanted to talk about. I shrugged.
“You were late and I pointed it out, that’s all. The rest was your doing.”
He took a breath and started pacing around the room.
“You should be very clear that I won’t accept that kind of attitude, especially not in front of the whole squad.”
Why on earth was he harping on about this? Could he really have taken it so seriously? The two of us had treated the others to a show, and they were proba
bly happy that someone had managed to inject a little drama into the meeting, which was usually deadly boring. The only thing I would have wished was that the door had made more noise as I closed it behind me. The hinges on the glass door were designed to close quietly and had eliminated any dramatic effect. Other than that, I had been pleased with the drama of our performance. Claes should be able to take a few taunting remarks. Especially because I was right. He had arrived late to the meeting and hadn’t apologized.
“I think you should keep in mind who it was that got you to where you are,” he said, crossing his arms.
As usual, superiors within the police seemed to believe that everything good in the world was their doing and everything bad someone else’s. I let him have his way. He continued to scold me.
“You’ve been damned awkward for a long time now, Leona. If this continues then I won’t have any choice but to move you.”
Now I had to bite my tongue. This wasn’t the first time he made threats about transferring me, but they had never been this direct. Previously he had phrased it differently, saying that he would be “forced to take measures” if I didn’t stop challenging him. Even though my pulse rate was rising, I did my best to hold back my impulse to put him in his place. I didn’t have anything to gain by fighting with him. The only way to turn the whole thing around was to try to warm up the frosty mood.
“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Claes. But I’ll try to think of a way to make it up to you.”
It was a line from a B-grade movie, but along with a smile it sounded good, I thought. It would probably work. I got up and slowly walked closer. He looked me right in the eyes, searching. As if he didn’t know what I intended to do. I stood in front of him and carefully put my hands on his shoulders.
Leona Page 4
