He ran even faster, crossing Torkel Knutssonsgatan as he approached the back of the bus.
Fifty metres.
Forty.
Thirty.
‘Hi, Nina Brandt here!’
‘Hi Nina, can you hang on …’
She put the phone down, stood up from her desk and closed the door to her office.
‘There, now I can talk.’
‘Is everything okay, Becca?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ she lied. ‘A few too many balls in the air, maybe …’
‘So you’re keen to get back to the Firm …?’
She forced out a laugh.
‘Well, not just yet, at any rate … Have you managed to find out anything?’ she added quickly before Nina had time to go on.
‘Not really …’
Rebecca breathed out silently.
‘There’s no record of the revolver in the system. It’s never been reported stolen, nor registered in connection with any crime.’
‘Okay, good.’
‘But my contact up in Forensics would still like to take it in for some test shots.’
‘Okay, what for?’
‘Because it’s a .38 calibre manufactured before 1986 …’
‘What …?’
‘Come on, Rebecca, the revolver is at least in theory a potential OPW …’
‘I’m not with you, Nina …’
‘An Olof Palme Weapon.’
A short silence followed as Rebecca tried to take in this information.
‘But the killer used a 357 Magnum? Holmér went on television and said …’
She must have seen the image at least a hundred times over the years. The press conference, with the county police commissioner confidently waving two powerful revolvers.
‘Well, Holmér managed to get most things wrong, including the gun. Look, Rebecca, the .38 and the 357 have the same sized bullets, only their length is different. Some makes of .38 can be used to fire 357 ammunition, which is why Forensics are so keen to test-fire all old guns that match the OPW profile. My friend in Forensics could deal with it next week …’
‘Okay, sure … Listen, I’m going to have to call you back, Nina, I’ve got a call waiting … Thanks a million for your help,’ she added. ‘I’ll be in touch next week and we can have lunch together …’
She clicked to end the call, put her mobile down on the desk and leaned back slowly. Then she opened the desk drawer and took out some sheets of paper. Since her visit to the bank vault she’d found it impossible to fit together any of the pieces of the puzzle she’d found in the box.
Not until the copy of the contract for the safe deposit box arrived.
She had been certain it was Henke’s box. And she had been wrong. The agreement had been set up in 1986, and her and Henke’s names had been listed in the section for other individuals with access to the deposit box.
In other words, Henke probably knew as little about the box as she did.
The reminders about the overdue payments must have been sent to both of them, the only difference being that his stack of unopened post had probably been seized before he had time to open it. So, the box’s secrets weren’t Henke’s after all, but belonged to the person who was listed as the principle name on the contract. The person who had owned the bunch of keys before Henke inherited it.
Erland Wilhelm Pettersson.
Their father.
When he was twenty metres away the bus’s indicator lights began to flash.
He put all he had into it.
The bus pulled away from the stop.
Ten metres left.
Eight.
Five.
The distance stopped shrinking.
Then it began to grow again as the bus picked up speed on the long slope down towards Slussen.
Fuck!
His stomach clenched and he felt the first convulsion and tried to swallow it. Forcing his legs to carry him forward …
The square outline of the back of the bus was getting smaller and smaller.
The second retch almost reached his mouth.
The bus disappeared out of sight.
But he couldn’t give up now.
He didn’t manage to catch the third convulsion, and had to take a few stumbling steps to avoid throwing up on his trainers.
The bus must have pulled up outside the underground station at Slussen at least a minute ago, which meant that he was going to get there too late. The bus would already have set off for Skeppsbron and on into the city centre.
But he’d just have to take a chance.
He’d seen the Erman lookalike at Slussen station last time, so maybe that’s where he was going this time as well?
With a bit of luck he’d manage to catch up with him before he got inside the ticket hall.
All he needed were a few seconds at close range …
He veered off right, up into Götgatsbacken, then forced his aching legs round the corner of the City Museum.
His stomach was letting him know it was ready for a new salvo, but at that moment Ryssgården opened up in front of him and he stopped abruptly. He coughed up a mouthful of bitter vomit from his throat and spat it out from the side of his mouth. His lungs were burning and his heart was thumping so hard that he couldn’t help squinting with pain, but he didn’t take his eyes off the square. He was out there somewhere, among the crowd.
Well, he ought to be.
Unless …
He wasn’t …
Fuck!
His pulse gradually slowed down, which helped the cramps in his stomach subside.
He took a few steps out into the square. Still no sign. Either Erman was already inside the station, or else he had carried on towards the city centre on the bus.
Just his sodding luck!
The adrenalin kick was starting to fade and all of a sudden he felt almost faint. He leaned his hands on his knees, gathered another gob of saliva and spat it out on the cobbles.
‘Disgusting!’ someone hissed off to his right, but he ignored them.
The cobbles beneath his feet seemed to be slowly turning clockwise, as sweat poured down his back, soaking the waist of his trousers and removing the last pale patches on his t-shirt.
He lowered his head a bit closer to his knees to improve the blood flow. He stood like that for a couple of minutes, trying to recover.
When the ground had stopped spinning he straightened up, took a deep breath and turned round.
And that was when he caught sight of him. Inside the glass box of the lift, just nine, ten metres away. White shirt, smart trousers and a pale jacket slung casually over one shoulder.
In spite of the unfamiliar clothing, in spite of the fact that the man was clean-shaven, considerably thinner and seemed perfectly normal, he looked a fuck of a lot like Erman.
Disconcertingly similar, in fact …
He needed to get a bit closer, to make absolutely sure.
HP took a few unsteady steps forward, then a few more, but at that moment the lift began to move downwards. He speeded up, forcing his legs to obey him.
The man’s feet disappeared into the ground, then his legs, torso, and, just before his head vanished below street-level, HP looked into the man’s eyes.
Fucking hell …
Why on earth did Dad have a secret safe deposit box with false passports, thousands of dollars in cash and a large-bore revolver?
If they’d been in a spy novel the answer would have been obvious, but this was her dad, for God’s sake. A perfectly ordinary Swede with an ordinary job, a flat in Bagarmossen, and a wife and two children.
There were five passports in total spread out on the desk in front of her.
There was the South African one, then one each from Switzerland, Canada, Belgium and Yugoslavia. They all had various foreign entry stamps in them, mostly from the USA, but there were also some from other countries. On the last but one page of the Canadian passport she also found an old black and white photograph that was a
lmost stuck between the pages. It showed some sixty or so young men in uniform, posing around a tank. The letters UN were painted on the turret in large white capitals.
Blue berets, Cyprus 1964, someone had written on the back in old-fashioned handwriting that looked so much like her dad’s that her heart skipped a beat.
The focus of the photograph wasn’t great and a lot of the faces were blurred. But one of the men, squatting in the front row, had a very familiar look to his nose and eyes. Had her dad served with the United Nations? And if he had, why hadn’t he ever mentioned it?
She knew he’d been in the reserves when he was younger, that was how he and Uncle Tage had got to know each other, and the meetings of the veterans’ association were one of the few things that used to put him in a good mood. But the fact that he might have served abroad and never mentioned it seemed very odd. Okay, so he hadn’t been the talkative type, but at the very least he ought to have had one of those pennants, certificates or some other souvenir, like the things all her colleagues who had served with the UN usually adorned their offices with.
She had been through her childhood home in her head several times now, but couldn’t recall ever seeing anything like that. Mum’s collection of Spanish bullfighter dolls and jubilee plates were pretty much the only ornaments they’d had in the house, and there had been nothing among Dad’s possessions after his death that gave any clue. Apart from his shirts and suits, a few bits of heavy furniture and his worn out typewriter, his remaining possessions had fitted into a plastic bag.
She had pretty much given up any idea that the revolver could have been Dad’s old service weapon. Officers in the reserves in the fifties and sixties had been allocated pistols rather than revolvers, as far as she had been able to find out. Besides, the Army would have been in touch if his gun had gone missing. Nothing she had found in the safe deposit box made any sense, and there was really only one person who could help her get to grips with it.
She pulled the keyboard towards her, logged into her hotmail account and opened a new email.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: UN service
Dear Uncle Tage,
I hope you are well.
I have recently come across some things of Dad’s that were stored in a safe deposit box. Among them is a photograph from a UN mission in Cyprus in 1964.
I didn’t actually know that Dad had served with the UN, and I was hoping you might be able to tell me a bit more?
Feel free to call me!
Best wishes,
Rebecca
He raced towards the lift, then realized it was on its way down to the City Museum and changed direction towards the large stone staircase a few metres away instead.
He took the steps two at a time, pushing some parents with small children out of the way as he rushed for the main entrance. He had lost a bit of time, but there was a long, glassed-in corridor leading from the lift to the entrance to the museum. There was no way the bloke would get to the end of the corridor before he did.
The sliding doors had barely opened before he was through them.
Just as he had expected, he got there first.
He took a couple of deep breaths, then began to walk slowly down the long corridor leading toward the shiny lift doors.
He jaw was clenched, and he could feel the blood surging behind his eyelids. Any moment now the lift doors would open and he would be standing face to face with Erman.
Because that must have been Erman he saw?
Clean-shaven, nice and clean, and several kilos lighter. But it was still him, for fuck’s sake.
So he clearly hadn’t been burned alive out there in the bush at Fjärdhundra, it didn’t look as if the allergy to electricity that had forced him to lead a low-tech life was bothering him any more.
Which meant what …?
Well, that was what he was planning to find out the moment the lift doors opened. Possibly rather more violently than the situation demanded …
He was clenching and unclenching his fists, and could almost taste the adrenalin on his tongue.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Okay, so the lift was the slow sort meant for the disabled, but still – it ought to have been there by now.
He hit the lift button, then looked round, wondering for a moment if he should dash back up to the square again.
But suddenly the lift made a pinging sound that almost made him jump out of his shoes.
His heart was turning somersaults in his chest as he raised his fists and got ready.
The doors slowly opened.
8
… it doesn’t mean they aren’t after you
‘Yes, hello?’
‘Good afternoon, my dear friend, or perhaps it’s morning?’
‘Yes, it’s actually morning here. It’s good that you’ve called. Is everything okay?’
‘More or less …’
‘What do you mean? Shouldn’t …?’
‘Don’t worry, my dear friend, the pieces are about to fall into place.’
‘I hope so. Failure is not an option.’
‘So I’ve understood …’
‘My dear Rebecca, how lovely to see you!’
‘Hello, Uncle Tage, good to see you too …’
She was ten minutes early for their meeting, but of course he was already there.
‘I thought you were abroad, when did you get home?’ She leaned over the café table and kissed the old man on the cheek.
He still smelled the same. Shaving foam, aftershave, cigars and something else very familiar. Something she liked …
‘Oh, a few weeks ago. Would you like something? Coffee, tea? No, how silly of me … Excuse me!’
He waved the waitress over.
‘A cappuccino please, with lactose-free milk, if that’s possible?’
He smiled at Rebecca, but it took her a few seconds to return his smile.
He didn’t seem to have noticed her reaction.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch before, Rebecca, dear, but since I got home my diary has been completely full … These are hectic times, but of course you know that as well as I do.’
He smiled again, then sipped his coffee.
‘Of course,’ she mumbled. ‘Absolutely,’ she added in a clearer voice.
The waitress returned with her cappuccino, and she took a quick sip.
‘So, how’s your new job, Rebecca? I can imagine it’s rather different from working for the Security Police?’
‘It’s good, thanks. We’ve had a bit of trouble getting everything set up – equipment, staff, licences and a whole load of other things. The paperwork has taken much longer than I expected.’
‘The wheels of Swedish bureaucracy turn very slowly …’
‘You can say that again!’ This time his smile was easier to return.
‘In which case I would guess that you’ve applied to be allowed to bear weapons in the course of your work. It’s not usually particularly straightforward for private companies to get approval for that. The state is very precious about its monopoly on violence …’
She opened her mouth to say something but closed it again at once. Instead she merely nodded. She shouldn’t really be surprised. Uncle Tage had always seemed to know almost exactly what she was doing, even when she worked for the Security Police, and nothing seemed to have changed just because she had a new job. The idea that he was somehow watching over her made her earlier disappointment disappear completely.
‘Perhaps I might be able to help? As you know, I still have a number of contacts …’
‘That would be great!’
She remembered very well how his contacts had helped her the previous winter. He had managed to get her cleared of suspicions of misuse of office, and saved her from getting fired. She really shouldn’t be exploiting his willingness to help in such a paltry matter, but he had volunteere
d, and she had already had two applications for a weapons licence rejected.
The members of her team were complaining more loudly now, and it was only a matter of time before their grumbling reached the bosses. And that was something she could do without …
‘If it isn’t too much trouble, I mean …?’ she added.
‘Not at all, I’ll make a couple of calls on Monday. No guarantees, of course, but I shall do what I can. What else are friends for, if not to help one another …?’
‘Thanks very much, I really appreciate it, Uncle Tage.’
He put his cup down and gently pushed it aside.
‘Now, to the matter you were asking about. As I said, I didn’t really want to discuss it by email. Some things are better dealt with face to face …’
She nodded.
‘I’m very happy to tell you about my and your father’s shared past, but first it’s my turn to ask you for a small favour, Rebecca …’
‘Anything, Uncle Tage, you know that …’
‘Good.’
He lowered his voice and leaned across the table.
‘You mentioned a safe deposit box that had belonged to your father, and an old photograph?’
‘Yes, that’s right …’
He leaned forward even further.
‘I want you to tell me exactly what you found, Rebecca. It’s very important that you don’t leave anything out!’
She was taken aback by the sudden sharpness in his voice, and leaned back slightly.
‘Some documents,’ she replied, fingering her coffee cup.
‘What sort of documents, Rebecca?’ His stare seemed to go right through her and she took an exaggeratedly slow sip of coffee to have a reason to look away. Tage Sammer was one of her dad’s oldest friends, someone she trusted. Yet she still felt suddenly hesitant.
‘I understand that this is rather sensitive. We are talking about your father, after all.’
His tone was softer now, more personal.
‘Let me see if I can’t help you a little, Rebecca, my dear …’
He glanced quickly at the next table, then lowered his voice a bit more.
‘Might the documents possibly have been passports – foreign passports containing your father’s photograph?’
The Game Trilogy Page 73
