Stone Coffin

by Kjell Eriksson

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “We think maybe three million, maybe more.”

  “Have you talked to the Financial Crimes unit yet?”

  Sammy shook his head.

  “Then we have a mysterious transaction with a company on some island somewhere, a tax haven.”

  “I see,” Lindell said with a sigh. She had trouble with finance. It became too technical, too many numbers. She had problems interpreting her own pay stubs.

  “We’ll ask Molin to do a brief report,” Ottosson said. “Then we’ll have to evaluate how we proceed. It may not have anything to do with our investigation.”

  “Molin is never brief,” Beatrice said.

  Lindell was quiet. She didn’t want to get stuck with a financial crimes investigation. The FC unit could do that.

  “Maybe we should connect with Bosse Wanning in FC?”

  Ottosson’s question hung in the air.

  “At least he’s someone who’s possible to understand,” he added.

  Lindell nodded.

  “Let’s put Bosse and Molin together and see where it leads.”

  She paused, glancing at the clock on the wall. She wanted to shower. And she wanted to eat again. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to call Edvard. Anything other than this airless and stuffy room, the sticky T-shirt, and the feeling of being behind on everything.

  “Anything new on Cederén?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Sammy said, “even though the entire building has been on it.”

  “He’s holed up somewhere,” Beatrice said with a sharpness in her tone that was unusual.

  * * *

  Lindell left the station shortly after seven and decided to pass by Vaksala Square to pick up some groceries.

  As so often happened after she had been working long and hard, she was struck by a feeling of unreality as she stepped into the completely ordinary surroundings. The canned goods, grains, and health food on the shelves in the ICA store seemed foreign, as did the other customers who pushed their carts around, discussed dinner plans, and disciplined their children.

  Ann walked dispiritedly through the aisles and picked out a mismatched jumble of food. A vague feeling of hunger mixed with indifference made her walk in circles until she was able to decide what to buy.

  She settled for some smoked salmon, a dessert cheese, some fresh pasta, four chocolate bars, a couple of cans of crushed tomatoes, and some instant coffee. Then her imagination and spirits failed her and she left the store with the unsettled feeling of not having bought anything sensible.

  She was overwhelmed by a feeling of grief as she loaded the bag into the backseat. Is this how it was going to be? She sagged next to the car, with one hand on the sunwarmed roof and the other dangling limply by her side. An image of passivity. She heard laughter and saw four teenagers huddled closely together outside the display window of a furniture store. They were talking about a bed on display but quickly moved on, disappearing around the corner.

  Thirty years ago in this place two young men—brothers—had died in a terrible car accident. An older colleague—one of the first to arrive on the scene—had confirmed the details. It had been very early in the morning, and the only witness was a taxi driver standing next to his car at the taxi stand some fifty meters away.

  The story had been etched into her memory, and every time she passed this intersection she thought of the brothers and the third young man in the somersaulting car—the driver, who survived. Every place had its history and many times it involved both death and sorrow, but most people, ignorant of what had happened there, just unknowingly walked on by.

  As a cop, you got to know too many sad locations. She had come to this conclusion as the years went by. Could no longer see normal life and people in the city without the images being darkened by violence, tragedy, and the strained faces of those chosen to remember and bear witness.

  Ann stepped into the car and suddenly felt she had no choice but to call Edvard. No choice. There was no other way. Why leave the man she once loved and perhaps still did? How could she otherwise explain the strong feeling of agitation and also longing that she had felt when she heard Edvard’s voice on the answering machine?

  Her loneliness was eating into her, and although she wouldn’t admit it to herself, she was afraid of ending up alone. She wasn’t young anymore. If she wanted a child, this was the time. She had toyed with the idea of getting herself pregnant with Edvard, whether or not he wanted to, and then leaving him if he didn’t want to become a father again.

  Edvard had his moments, but he wasn’t worse than anybody else. Quite the opposite. He had much of what Ann was looking for. She had to call him. Hear his voice, maybe meet up with him. Didn’t he ever drive into the city? They could have a coffee together at the very least.

  * * *

  The first thing she did when she got home was to turn on the television. She half listened as she undressed. The weather report was promising more warm weather. She sniffed her underarms and immediately headed to the bathroom. The toilet had been leaking for a couple of weeks. She had removed the lid and stared into the tank, but that hadn’t made her any the wiser. She decided to write an enormous reminder and put it on the refrigerator door. The property manager—if there was one—would be able to fix this in about five minutes, she was sure of it.

  She showered for a long time, soaping every nook and cranny, allowing the warm water to spray across her body. She thought of Edvard. Could she perhaps spend a couple of her weeks of vacation at Gräsö?

  She put on her robe with a strong conviction that her summer was going to be good. It was as if her repressed love for Edvard had been released by his message and the heat in the shower. Her face flushed, smiling at herself in the mirror, she brushed her hair with strong strokes. She tried to imagine what he was doing right now, how he would react if she called. It struck her that he might have gotten over his longing for her and was able to contact her now because he was sure of his feelings and wanted only to be friends. She didn’t really believe this, but the thought was enough to make her lower the brush and stare at herself in the mirror. Then she resumed brushing. She knew him too well and was positive he would never call her to make small talk. It was his voice. He still loved her, she knew he did. I have to call him, she thought, and left the bathroom.

  The bottle of red wine that she had opened the other day was still more than half full, so she poured herself a glass, busying herself in the kitchen by watering the flowers and wiping down the table before she took a first sip. Then another. The television was still making noise in the other room, so she walked out and turned it off. The evening sun shone through the blinds and created a striped pattern of dust across the floor. She vowed to vacuum the entire apartment, mop the kitchen floor, and clear off the balcony so that she would finally have time to set out her garden chair, if Edvard picked up and said he wanted to meet with her.

  She went back to the kitchen, took a sip of wine, and picked up the phone. As she dialed the number, she realized she hadn’t thought of Sven-Erik Cederén for at least a couple of hours.

  He picked up on the second ring and Ann fumbled for her glass, but it was empty.

  Eleven

  Jack Mortensen was basking in the strong afternoon sun. There was a strong smell of barbecue in Kåbo. His nearest neighbor—who was not visible behind the massive hedge—was having a party, which was growing louder as the day went on.

  Mortensen leaned his head against the rough wall. The neighbor’s party distracted him, but not so much that it prevented him from systematically reviewing the events of the past few days. The call from Málaga was what worried him more than anything else. The purchase of the land in the Caribbean had been the last step and the Spaniards were losing their patience. That Cederén’s family had been obliterated and that Cederén himself was missing did not seem to concern them very much. De Soto almost sounded relieved. On the other hand, he had never worked well with Cederén and he h
ad never met Josefin, much less Emily.

  But wait a minute, hadn’t he met her? Three years ago right here in the garden, as they were successfully marketing Cabolem. It was the profit from that launch that was right now being sunk into the Parkinson’s project.

  Then they had celebrated. He had taken care not to overindulge, as he was the host, but the rest had drunk all the more. He recalled how De Soto and his lady—or however one should refer to her—had downed their drinks, fondled each other, and ended up together in the hammock. It is said that Swedes have trouble holding back, but these Spaniards had put them to shame. One of them, the light-haired fellow from the Basque country who talked about ETA, had jumped into the pool fully clothed, and another—the head of lab two—had been blind drunk only an hour into the event.

  Mortensen had felt embarrassed. If he felt irritated by his neighbor’s noise level, what couldn’t others have been able to reveal about that party? The following day he had bumped into one of his neighbors, the one who was known as professor although he was only a lecturer, and he had mentioned something about the carryings-on that went on long into the night. Mortensen had apologized but since then had always felt ashamed when they bumped into each other in the street.

  Although the young police officer—Molin was his name—who had gone through the company papers had appeared young and awkward, Mortensen was convinced that he would discover the transaction from last December. This was not good. At first Mortensen himself had argued against it despite the financial and practical advantages, but had given his consent three days before Christmas. It was too late now, he realized. That operation would have been easy enough to conceal if only he had acted earlier.

  The Spaniards were furious, but Mortensen had calmed them. The Swedish Financial Crimes division was overworked and lacked the necessary resources and knowledge, he claimed. It would take some time before the three million was unearthed, and a skilled business lawyer could punt it around as long as necessary. Perhaps it could be recast as an unfortunate misstep, intended only to strengthen the company’s possibilities for expansion. They could blame their own amateurism and the fact that they had been so caught up in the medical research that they did not realize they had made themselves guilty of a financial crime.

  More troubling than this was Uppsala-Näs, the purchase of the property, and Cederén’s disappearance. The police would not give up easily. He thought of Lindell’s visit. She had made a sharp impression, but also seemed strangely absent. Would she manage to uncover Gabriella? That depended entirely on Gabriella herself, if she could manage to stay calm. Mortensen had his doubts. She was weak. He had called, but no one had answered. That was not a good sign. Perhaps she was with Sven-Erik, but where were they?

  On the other hand, Gabriella knew nothing that could tarnish MedForsk’s reputation, unless Sven-Erik had talked to her. That was not inconceivable. Sven-Erik had grown increasingly soft in the fall, questioned the entire enterprise and his own role in it, slipped away to the golf course more frequently, lost his edge in the laboratory, and simply become unpleasant.

  The argument that they had to succeed—and quickly at that—was one that he had waved away, snorted at. Which was hypocritical, in Mortensen’s mind, because Cederén had been in on the plan from the beginning. Back then he had not protested—in fact quite the opposite. Mortensen remembered his enthusiastic introduction at the April conference two years ago, when the entire project was conceived.

  Now he wants to discuss ethics, he thought bitterly. That’s what they all do, come back after the fact, complaining when the problems start to pile up. If things go well, they grab all the glory. It had been the same thing at Pharmacia.

  He felt deeply uneasy, could not escape the thought that the Spaniards were secretly pleased that Cederén had disappeared from the scene. And if the family had been wiped out—well, that was hardly something they could do anything about. De Soto’s comments—about finally being able to work in peace and move forward—had appeared just as cynical as he felt their business ethics to be.

  Mortensen gazed at his hand, the pulse under the skin in the fold between his thumb and forefinger. He made a fist so that his knuckles whitened. The neighbor must have gone inside because now the area was completely still.

  Should he call his mother? She had already called him a couple of times that day, had been concerned and asked if he was managing. Mortensen smiled. That was just like her, he thought. Tomorrow she would most likely turn up in time for breakfast, with fresh-baked buns and fresh carrot juice.

  He got up stiffly. How long had he been sitting against the wall? At least a couple of hours. Normally this was his primary mode of relaxation, these hours that he could steal to spend in the garden, but right now he felt no joy as he looked out over the profusion of flowers.

  The telephone had been ringing off the hook since Cederén had dropped out of sight. The Spaniards aside, everyone at MedForsk wanted to talk to him about what had happened. Everyone had been upset and shaken, but a certain anxiety about the future of the company—and thereby their own—had also been evident.

  Mortensen had calmed them all. We’ll move forward regardless, he repeated.

  If only he knew where Sven-Erik was hiding. Mortensen was convinced that Sven-Erik would eventually be in touch and had brought the cell phone with him into the garden, but the only caller was a reporter from the evening paper, Aftonbladet. A nosy type whom Mortensen had quickly brushed off, but in a polite and proper way. He did not want any trouble because he had been rude to a hack. There was enough bad press right now as it was.

  Where on earth could he be if he wasn’t shacking up with Gabriella? Mortensen had puzzled over this but had come up with no reasonable alternative. At one point he thought that Cederén might have gone out to Mortensen’s cottage in Möja. Cederén was familiar with the place and knew where the key was hidden. Mortensen had called out there at least a dozen times, but there had been no answer. He had not mentioned this to Lindell. And why would Cederén want to hole up there? It was more likely that he had gone overseas. Had the police located his passport? Lindell had not said anything about that.

  If Cederén was alive, he would attempt to contact him sooner or later. He would want to talk. He could manage to keep himself hidden and isolated for a couple of days, but Mortensen knew him too well to think that he could hold out any longer than that.

  And if he was dead? Mortensen didn’t want to believe it. They had been friends since they were in their twenties, when they were both studying chemistry. They had been roommates for a time, had backpacked through Europe, had fallen in love with the same woman—Sven-Erik the one who had won the fair maiden, of course—and had fallen out of touch but had been reunited at Pharmacia. The fact was that Sven-Erik Cederén was the person he had been closest to, with the exception of his mother. The one who knew his strengths as well as his weaknesses but who never abused this, never taunted him for his inability to keep a woman more than a month of two, never said a harsh word about his mother.

  Mortensen had always trusted Sven-Erik. He was a person you trusted. Not a slick, socially adept charmer, but loyal as a friend and unusually honest at work in a way.

  They had built up MedForsk—a huge risk at first—into a successful company with positive headlines in the business weeklies and a good reputation among their competitors and research colleagues. Now they were facing the largest step since the beginning, the public offering. Three hundred million. Everything was ready. They had hired a PR consultant to prepare the way, and he had succeeded beyond their expectations. The firm’s results spoke clearly. Last year’s profits had been almost fifty million.

  Now all of this was threatened and Mortensen was not sure how he would be able to contain the damage. The Spaniards were furious, his head of research was in all likelihood a murderer and also nowhere to be found, the police were examining everything and everyone, and the mass media were on the hunt.

  Mortensen shivered. He
took the phone and went inside. After he had shut the door and turned on the alarm, he got a feeling of looming catastrophe. He closed the metal blinds in the textile room. The pale pieces of fabric displayed in glass and silver frames gave him no joy. Lately he had started to wonder why he had put so much effort into creating one of the foremost private collections of textiles from South America and Southeast Asia in the country. To what end? he thought as he closed the door behind him, locked it, and switched on the alarm. No one ever sees the collection, except for the occasional guest, who is only moderately impressed and interested.

  Should he call that attractive policewoman? He had put the card with her home phone number on his bulletin board above his desk. He walked into his home office, turned on his computer, and looked up at the card.

  What should he say? Should he tell her about Gabriella? It was tempting. He wanted to have something to offer her to get her to return, but revealing Gabriella’s identity was too dangerous. The price could be too high. Ann Lindell’s interest in him was probably only professional, and she would chew up Gabriella with relish and then it would be his turn.

  He remained standing in front of his computer for a long time, wondering if he should put in a little work with the CAD program. He had decided to rip up a quarter of the garden, build another pond, connect it with the old, and also create a little woodland area for acidic-loving plants. The drawings on the computer were almost ready. Then all he needed was the listing of plants. Construction would begin in the fall.

  He was just about to turn on the computer when the phone rang. He looked at the clock and picked up the receiver. Málaga. He had time to say only that Cederén was still missing before De Soto interrupted him. Mortensen was quiet, pulling over his chair and sinking down in it.

  De Soto’s long monologue paralyzed him. He hung up without saying another word.