To the Top of the Mountain

by Arne Dahl

  ‘This is Sven Joakim Bergwall, the man shot in the face. He’s followed by this man, a real jailbird called Dan Andersson, often called Danne Blood Pudding because of the burns he suffered as a young offender when a large chunk of his skin turned purple. I’m not sure how they got to blood pudding from that. Andersson’s thirty-eight and has been convicted of – wait for it – eighty-six crimes, mainly bank robberies, since the age of fifteen. He left Kumla in February and was a member of that so-called Nazi clique in there, even if the right-wing extremism has never been one of his main activities. He’s a professional criminal, simple as that.

  ‘This man is Roger Sjöqvist, the only member of the gang convicted of murder. Thirty-three, bodybuilder with a military background. Killed a drug dealer ten years ago, escaped when he was on leave from Tidaholm a year ago, and has been lying low ever since. He appears more frequently in right-wing extremist circles and was probably involved in a number of bank robberies. He’s a wanted man.

  ‘Finally, this man, the shorter of the well-built men, is the technician in the gang. Agne Kullberg, called Bullet because a tough guy can’t have a name like Agne. He’s only been inside once, for assault and battery. Was released six years ago. He beat up and blinded a Turkish pizza chef in Hagsätra. He’s thirty-six and trained as a civil engineer when he was inside, specialising in telecommunications. He’s never had any work as a civil engineer, though. Doesn’t feature directly in a right-wing extremist context, but he’s a member of a dodgy shooting club which also had two of our more notorious colleagues from Norrmalm’s police as members, as well as Bergwall.’

  ‘Where the hell did these pictures come from?’ Hultin exclaimed, staring at the enlargements.

  ‘Can’t we wait a minute before going into that?’ Chavez asked, continuing: ‘We’ve still got picture three. In this one, Gang Two have disappeared as well. It’s from when the doormen managed to block the door in Kvarnen. The Hammarby fans are still there, talking; they know it’ll be a few minutes before the police arrive, that there’s no rush. The queue, apparently full of “difficult immigrants”, didn’t exist, as you can see. Just fans. Apart from this man, who’s sadly almost completely hidden behind the fans and who, in all probability, is our so-called “policeman”.’

  They looked at the figure. He could hardly be seen at all. Only the very left edge of him. He might have been dark-haired. Maybe he was wearing jeans. His right shoe was clearest. Nike Air trainers.

  ‘We’ll see what the technicians can do with the picture,’ said Chavez. ‘They’re working flat out.’

  ‘Where are the pictures from?’ Hultin asked, mustering his best ice-cold neutrality.

  Chavez looked at him. There was a pause which seemed to go on for an eternity. A trial of strength. Hjelm sensed that he was looking at the beginnings of a future power struggle.

  ‘They were taken from a high spot nearby,’ said Chavez, telling them nothing in particular.

  ‘Haglund’s Semi,’ exclaimed Södermalm inhabitant, Arto Söderstedt.

  Chavez was silent.

  ‘Where are the pictures from?’ Hultin repeated, iciness intact.

  Chavez broke free from the clinch hold and leaned back against the ropes, catching his breath.

  ‘I can’t say for the moment,’ was all he said.

  ‘My room,’ said Hultin.

  Chavez nodded. Then he said: ‘Just let me sum up first.’

  Hultin allowed him to sum up first.

  ‘Times,’ said Chavez, following the Hultin model and drawing a kind of flow chart onto the whiteboard. ‘Where does this story start? What comes first? The “policeman” prepares an attack on Nedic? Why? Does he have something to sell? Is it blackmail? Is it the start of a future collaboration? In any case, he makes contact with Nedic, and Nedic goes along with delivering whatever was in that famous briefcase. It’s looking more and more like money.

  ‘Somehow, someone in what turns out to be Gang Two finds out that a handover is going to take place. Considering Niklas Lindberg seems to be the driving force, we can assume that it was him, or at least his so-called “Nazi clique” in Kumla, who found out about the delivery. Probably via Nedic’s right-hand man, Lordan Vukotic. Sven Joakim Bergwall and Dan Andersson are part of this gang. Andersson is released in February, so he’s probably already out when the information reaches the “clique”. Bergwall, who was released in May, and Lindberg, who was released on the morning of the twenty-fourth of June, were still inside. Maybe they happen to overhear some part of a conversation that Vukotic is having with someone inside. They realise that it’s about something big – probably just a lot of money – and they bide their time, join forces with their prison friend Dan Andersson plus Bergwall’s mate from the shooting club, the civil engineer Agne “Bullet” Kullberg, and a couple of right-wing extremist friends – the as-yet-clean Eskil Carlstedt and the murderer Roger Sjöqvist.

  ‘Bit by bit, they work out that a meeting’s going to take place in Kvarnen. It turns out it’s going to happen the night before Niklas Lindberg gets out. He probably thinks this seems like a happy coincidence, so he pulls Lordan Vukotic’s shoulders out of joint the same evening, to get the information out of him or just because he enjoys it. But the fact that Vukotic keeps quiet about it suggests it wasn’t just a bit of fun for Lindberg. In other words, Lindberg manages to get information out of Vukotic, probably the provisional meeting place for the handover; the other details are going to be decided in Kvarnen by the “policeman” and Nedic’s men: Gang One.

  ‘The “policeman” has picked a public place like Kvarnen because he’s afraid of Nedic’s men; he obviously knows what they’re capable of, after the genocides in the former Yugoslavia. Maybe they’re also working out some kind of insurance policy, so that both the “policeman” and Gang One know they’ll be leaving the meeting place alive. Maybe that’s what their conversation in English was about. Anyway, we’ve got five men led by Sven Joakim Bergwall there, too. Eskil Carlstedt, Dan Andersson, Roger Sjöqvist and Agne Kullberg are there, the latter wearing an earpiece. He’s managed to plant a microscopic listening device under the table where the “policeman” and Gang One are sitting. When the Hammarby fans start flooding in, they’re about to reach some kind of negotiated solution. Even though it starts getting crowded, they keep going. And Gang Two sits there, listening from the table against the opposite wall, even though they’re constantly being disturbed by the Hammarby fans. They must’ve reached a solution – at two the following morning in the Sickla industrial estate – just before one of the Hammarby fans decides to smash a glass on a Smålander’s head. Both Gang One and Gang Two realise they’ve got to leave as quickly as possible. Still, both manage to rapidly think the situation through. Everyone in the pub suddenly becomes a witness. Neither of the gangs can go unnoticed any longer. They know their presence is going to be remembered. That the police are going to be analysing every single detail of the scene in Kvarnen. The “policeman” makes sure the Slavs leave before him, so that they’re not linked to one another; he stays behind for a few seconds longer and is forced to show his ID to get out. We can assume that Bergwall makes sure that the only one without a record, Carlstedt, stays behind to take the questioning, and turns the mysterious gang with an earpiece into a group of salesmen out chasing women. It works. They spend the night going through their plans. Carlstedt will wait in Stockholm and come up with a nice story for the police while Bergwall, Andersson, Sjöqvist and Kullberg drive to Kumla to pick up Lindberg. They’re probably not expecting him to blow up the bunker while they’re out in the open, but he does it not least to show them who’s boss. Power markers are always important in the criminal world, as you know.

  ‘Then they pick up Carlstedt; maybe they park their van outside the police station and wait for Paul and Kerstin to finish their interrogation. Maybe the six of them make off to their hiding place immediately, and go through their plan for the evening. They get to Sickla just before two, planting a micro-bomb on t
he way, and then they wait. At two, the Mercedes arrives. Somewhere nearby, the “policeman” is waiting. He probably hears the explosion. He realises it’s gone wrong and leaves. Lindberg, Bergwall, Carlstedt, Andersson, Sjöqvist and Kullberg go over to the blown-up car. Just like in Vukotic’s cell in Kumla, it’s a precisely measured explosion. It goes off right under the back seat of the car. There were three men talking to the “policeman” in Kvarnen, so they’re presuming it’ll just be those three coming again. One of them will be sitting in the back seat. He’ll probably have the briefcase, and since it’ll contain the money, it’s likely that it’ll be bombproof. And it is. The man in the back seat, 1A, is blown up. The two survivors are forced out of the car and placed either side of it, 1B by the passenger side, and the driver, 1C, by the driver’s seat. They’re frisked. Bergwall walks around the car and stands on the other side. Carlstedt takes the briefcase from the back seat and clips the chain with some bolt cutters which we’ve found, by the way. It gets messy here.

  ‘Something happens to make them lose their concentration. The weapons-fixated war criminals, 1B and 1C, have – and this has been confirmed by forensics – some kind of device in their jacket sleeves which means they can hide their Izh-70-300 pistols and whip them out in a flash. Like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. A firefight breaks out. 1B shoots over his shoulder and hits Bergwall in the eye. Carlstedt, who can’t get hold of his weapon because of the briefcase, chooses to run. 1C shoots him in the back. Carlstedt’s hit in the heart and dies at the very moment he reaches safety. 1C probably already had a number of bullets in him by that point. He keeps shooting anyway, and then drops down dead with five bullets in him. 1B is also on the floor, six bullets in him. Maybe dead, though probably still alive, since Niklas Lindberg (or maybe Sjöqvist or Kullberg) then goes over and puts eighteen bullets into him. A man wearing size 7 Reeboks takes the briefcase, and finds it covered in Carlstedt’s blood. It’s Kullberg, the smallest of them; he has size 7 feet. The one who’s shot and injured is Dan Andersson, Danne Blood Pudding, with AB negative blood. The amount of blood suggests it’s a serious injury, but he’s not in hospital anywhere, so if the group hasn’t split, if it’s planning something else, then Andersson’s still with them. If they didn’t just kill him, that is. Maybe he’s starting to be a burden by now.

  ‘So, the Sickla Slaughterers who are still fit and healthy are: Roger “Rogge” Sjöqvist, Agne “Bullet” Kullberg. And Niklas Lindberg, of course. What about on the other front, then? There are two other fronts. The “policeman” and Rajko Nedic. Will the “policeman” do anything? Most likely not. He’s probably waiting until Nedic’s got the money back, or maybe he’s demanding new, clean money. It’s not his fault that Nedic was careless, after all. Nedic isn’t careless. He hates the thought of being careless. He conducts his illegal business with clockwork precision. He manages to run an enormous drug business and seems to enjoy working openly as a legitimate restaurateur. Not much else can have gone wrong in his life. He’s probably fuming right now. But the situation isn’t the same any more, for Nedic or for the “policeman”. The “policeman” has ended up in a nightmare situation; he can hardly have predicted that five men would die for his money, and he can hardly be comfortable with the enormous police investigation focusing on his little transaction. Nothing can take place in secret any more. Nedic knows we’ve got him in our sights, too. He knows we know more than the media are claiming. He needs to find a solution which gets him his money back, punishes the bandits and makes the “policeman” happy. Otherwise, he could take out the “policeman”, who must realise that that risk has grown. He’s safest if he’s got a rock-solid insurance policy. Presumably he has. What must be happening right now is this: Gang Two is hiding from Nedic, he’s hunting flat out for them, and the “policeman” is nervous but passive. End of story.’

  Hultin’s room. The high-school student, taken down a peg or two, facing his head teacher. And yet not quite. Not mutinous or career-driven. Nyet. A proud man. A proud man asserting his rights – actually, not even his rights – against supremacy.

  Supremacy felt tired.

  Jorge Chavez was Jan-Olov Hultin’s best find. His own, personal find. The rest of the A-Unit had been put together based on tips and advice from various quarters, but he had found Chavez himself. Working as Norrland’s only immigrant policeman, as he labelled himself, on a nightmare duty in Sundsvall. He had proved himself to be a real success. The most energetic policeman Hultin had ever come across. And now this – what was it? Insubordination. This direct refusal to obey orders. A fantastic find, the photographs, but then this incomprehensible refusal to reveal their source.

  He looked at Chavez, waiting him out. Expecting him to talk any moment. Eventually, Chavez said: ‘It’s complicated.’

  Nothing more. Hultin waited. It continued in the same fashion.

  ‘It’s a moral conflict. An ethical dilemma. The photos have helped us with the identification, we don’t need them any more. It’s a thing of the past.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Hultin. ‘We have to give the Kvarnen Killer’s picture to the press.’

  ‘But we can do that without giving a source.’ And then, almost pleadingly: ‘Just as I’m saying it to you, Jan-Olov, I’m also saying it to Mörner and the Police Commissioner and the entire bloody force.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Jan-Olov Hultin neutrally.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Chavez, looking him in the eye. ‘You can’t afford to keep anything from Mörner after the Kentucky Killer. You’ve been given a second chance and you’re not planning on throwing it away.’

  Hultin met his gaze without hesitation.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Jorge. It’s the opposite, I have nothing to lose. Nothing at all.’

  Chavez swallowed and came to a decision. He said: ‘They were taken by a paedophile living in Söder Torn. Haglund’s Semi, like Arto said. Sara Svenhagen arrested him, if you’ve heard of her.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hultin. ‘I’ve known her since she was little. Brynolf’s daughter. A great policewoman.’

  ‘But Sara has been given orders by her boss to investigate that case in private. She can’t, under any circumstances, reveal anything related to her investigation. Not even internally.’

  ‘Hellberg,’ said Hultin, feeling weary. ‘A more modern detective superintendent than me. Why?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Chavez. ‘All I know is that Ragnar Hellberg has sworn her to absolute secrecy. She broke that already when she showed me the photographs. She developed them herself. At home. Because of a hunch that the paedophile might actually have captured the aftermath of the Kvarnen Killing. A hunch which was spot on.’

  ‘At home?’ Hultin asked knowingly.

  Chavez was silent. Silent and proud. Proud of his silence.

  ‘Why are you going to such trouble for Sara Svenhagen?’ asked Hultin, though he was starting to understand.

  Jorge Chavez took a step towards him, leaned over the desk and said clearly: ‘Because I love her.’

  28

  AND SHE LOVED him. It felt a bit pathetic.

  She knew how it was meant to work. That love had to develop slowly and be carefully nurtured, that it took time and effort to create a relationship, that it wasn’t something that just popped up all of a sudden, ready-formed. She definitely didn’t believe in love at first sight. It hadn’t been very first sight, anyway.

  Though almost.

  She had thought herself immune. Thought that she had seen and heard far too much to be susceptible to Cupid’s arrows. She had thought that the paedophiles’ arrows had caused irreparable damage to her emotional life. But then she realised how strong people are, despite everything; how much we can really endure.

  She put all of the critical questions to herself. Was this really love? Hadn’t he just turned up at a moment when her emotions were in turmoil? Hadn’t he used his thoroughly silky tongue in a pretty dishonourable way? Hadn’t she just fallen victim to a
classic Latino seduction ritual?

  But this questioning didn’t last long. She found herself thinking about him all of the time. She felt happy, expectant, longing. A new energy had grabbed hold of her, and she found herself working with a completely new drive.

  Because, strangely enough, love didn’t have a paralysing effect on either of them, as it had done during their teens. Maybe this could be called a more mature love, one that seemed to have a positive effect even at work. Both were working harder than before, which seemed impossible, and both imagined that they were thinking more clearly. Jorge had neatly summarised the whole Sickla Slaughter, and Sara was able to take stock of her own situation with great clarity.

  She had two things to do. First, she had a list to work through: the address list on which she had found John Andreas Witréus’s name, the one which had appeared so briefly on that temporary web page. Second, she had a computer to work through. John Andreas Witréus’s computer. By using the clues she found on his computer, she would try, first and foremost, to find the website which had detected his email address and added him to the list she had mistaken for a network. It was a potential network, after all. Someone, somewhere, was compiling the addresses of everyone who visited a certain website. This website had to be found and, in time, maybe the people behind this new means of gathering paedophiles could be identified.

  It was a difficult job, but she was in full swing, without any kind of professional, technical help. Though by this point, she had become a kind of technical professional herself. She began to think that she could do anything at all with just a computer and a phone line.

  How was it possible to live with your head held even slightly high in a world like this? Everything was for sale. Everything was possible for the right money. How many people across the globe were really active in this underground business? What had she come across? Was it . . . Hell?