Anger Mode

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  “You’ll have to explain,” said Walter.

  “I mean, what possible motive could he have unless it was pure self-defence, which is what I personally think seems to be the most reasonable explanation?”

  Walter looked inquiringly at Lilja. “In other words, I’m not to get to the bottom of this investigation. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I didn’t say that,” sniped Lilja. “I just want you to remember that this is a judge with an impeccable background who has landed in the middle of, you could say, a disadvantageous situation. And, that self-defence seems to be the obvious conclusion. I believe that you will also reach the same conclusion.”

  “So you haven’t got orders from high up to, shall we say, sugar-coat the investigation a little bit?” asked Walter.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Besides, I’m not finished with the prostitute’s shooting yet,” Walter protested, with his mouth full of bread. “The pimp has an alibi, but I’m on the way to untying that knot as well. Laid awake all night thinking it over and …”

  Lilja stopped him. “Excellent, but Jonsson and Cederberg will handle the investigation on the female prostitute from now on. I’ve already spoken to them about that. You are, from this moment on, formally in charge of this office’s investigation for the Prosecutor’s Office.”

  Walter had no problems with jumping into a new murder investigation, with or without interventions, divine included. Just as long as he got to finish what he had started. And Jonsson and Cederberg were unfortunately not among the most talented in the County CID. To be sure, they were his nutters and part of the group that he unilaterally bossed over. But they were a very mediocre pair of murder detectives, who would try to tie up any loose ends by pinning it all on the prostitute. Cederberg was a semi-alcoholic from Värmland, who had problems with multitasking. He was all too easily sidetracked by small details.

  Jonsson was his alter ego. He was rigid in his way of thinking and about as creative as an inspector from the tax office. Without Walter driving this two-man engine, the train would definitely go off the rails. They would never be able to break the pimp’s alibi.

  “And who’s going to be on my new team then?” wondered Walter. “I’m assuming that this is not going to be a solo act?”

  “Yes, there was one other thing,” Lilja added, ignoring Walter. “Your team, if you can call it that, will consist of one other person.”

  “One person?”

  “Yes, a colleague from the Special Investigation Unit. You can meet her later today. The only thing I know is her name, Jonna de Brugge.”

  “The RSU,” muttered Walter. “My team is a single investigator from that new, pedantic, elitist unit, whose only achievement is to hire misfits and academics.”

  “It wasn’t my decision that newly recruited RSU analysts and investigators should serve on active police duty,” interrupted Lilja abruptly as he got up from his chair. “However, even though they were picked for their high intelligence, they still need on-the-job experience.”

  “The Security Service probably doesn’t want them tripping over their feet. Otherwise, they’d suit each other well, since both services are as equally unfamiliar with real-life police work,” retorted Walter.

  “You know very well that RSU was created to support both the Security Service and the regular police, according to ”

  “According to the American model of the FBI special analysis units,” Walter filled in the blanks.

  “Whatever. The case file for the judge is lying on your desk,” Lilja finished and turned to take a file from one of his piles of paper.

  Just as Walter was on his way out of the door, Lilja called him back.

  “By the way,” he said, while reading something in his file, “how’s your progress in that social interaction training that we agreed you would attend?”

  “Thanks for asking,” replied Walter. “The course trainer and I couldn’t interact. She should have taken the course herself first.”

  “You know what the deal is if you don’t complete this training,” Lilja insisted, looking up from behind the document.

  “I’m giving it another shot,” lied Walter. He would rather eat a tin of rusty nails than subject himself to something as meaningless as yet another course in social interaction.

  CHAPTER 3

  KARIN SJÖSTRAND STUCK her head inside Malin’s room for the second time that morning.

  “It’s seven-thirty. You’ll be late again.”

  “I’ve already said that I’m fucking awake!” screamed Malin under the duvet.

  “Okay, I can hear you,” sighed Karin as she closed the bedroom door.

  It was always the same ritual every morning – nagging and scolding to get the kid off to school. Karin tried in vain to recall if she had been as much hard work and as defiant when she was fifteen. She had always been on time for school and had obtained good grades. But there were more rules and regulations at school in the seventies. Nowadays, it seemed as if school was one big youth centre where all the kids were left in charge of the teachers.

  Janne had left Karin when she got pregnant with Malin. He had found a new woman, one who was not expecting. Perhaps it was just as well that he had abandoned them. He would not have been a good father figure anyway. On a few occasions, Malin had asked after Janne, but she did not seem very interested in meeting him when Karin had asked her outright.

  It could hardly be Karin’s genes that were at fault. More likely then Janne, Malin’s long-lost father. There was a lot to be desired when it came to his DNA. It was pretty hard to imagine anything closer to a two-legged pig. He was lazy and incapable of doing anything other than gambling away his wages.

  Karin was stressed because she was due to be at the district court by nine o’clock, as a lay juror, for closing statements. She browsed quickly through the case notes to be sure she had not forgotten anything, just in case the court judge quizzed her. A male football player from one of the lower divisions had been shot in broad daylight during a match. The media interest in the incident was huge and it increased the pressure on the court.

  Eight forty-five. The door to Malin’s room opened and a tired teenager dressed in an oversized T-shirt saw the light of day. Her long, ruffled hair hung over one shoulder and she announced her entrance with a loud, drawn-out yawn. After that, she moved slowly into the kitchen.

  “Hello, are you still here?” she yelled, while getting the milk from the fridge.

  No reply.

  She topped up with cornflakes and some slices of bread from the pantry and sat down at the breakfast table.

  “I think it’s really bad of you not to get up on time,” said Karin, entering the kitchen in her outdoor clothes. “Now you’re going to be late for school again,” she continued, upset.

  Malin casually flicked through a magazine while the cornflakes slowly found their way into her mouth.

  “Chill, Mum. I’ve got it under control,” she mumbled, without lifting her eyes from the magazine. “I’ve got PE this morning, so it’s not as if I’m missing anything important.”

  Since Karin did not have the time for a drawn-out discussion, nor for repeating the same old series of entreaties, she decided to nag Malin only moderately this morning.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she retorted. “You should be on time even if it is only PE. Besides, I don’t want you being with that Sanna and what’s-his-name …”

  “Musse,” Malin reminded her.

  “Exactly, Mustafa and his friends,” Karin said. “Saga’s mother has definitely told me that this Mustafa is into drugs.”

  Malin looked up from her magazine with an irritated expression. “Just drop it, okay! What drugs? Saga’s mum is talking bullshit.”

  “I don’t believe that she is,” Karin responded firmly.

  “Saga is a fucking martyr and her mum’s a weirdo. Do you really believe them?”

  Karin felt her patience running out, but checked herself. She had an appointm
ent, and this could go on for the rest of the morning if she persisted.

  “I don’t have time to discuss this with you right now,” she said. “But this evening you and I are going to have a serious talk.” This last phrase she had uttered many times previously, without having brought about any improvement. But this time, she was determined really to follow through on her word. The only question was what she would use to threaten her with. A move away from the city, perhaps.

  Karin shut the front door with a sigh.

  After breakfast, Malin went back to her room. She threw herself on her bed, picked up her mobile phone from the bedside table, and flipped to her best friend’s number.

  “Uuuuh … Sanna,” replied Sanna, just awake.

  “Are you going today?” Malin asked, while nonchalantly turning her bedside lamp on and off.

  “Noooo … I don’t think so. Are you?” Sanna answered after a moment’s thought.

  “PE sucks; shall we check what Musse’s doing instead?”

  “I know already,” Sanna retorted, much more awake. “He’s skiving off and hanging with those guys from Rinkeby. He called me yesterday evening and wanted to see us today. ‘Take Malin with you,’ he said.”

  “He did?” Malin sat up.

  “I think they have something going on. Are you up for it?”

  “I dunno,” Malin hesitated. “Are you?”

  “I am if you are. No fucking way am I going there by myself, and Musse knows that. That’s why he wants you to come along.”

  Malin thought for a brief moment. She thought about what Karin had said, but dismissed it as quickly as her maths homework.

  “Okay, it’s cool,” she said finally.

  “I just have to call Musse and grab a bite to eat,” yawned Sanna. “Shall we meet at eleven outside the 7–11 by the tube station?”

  “Okay,” Malin agreed and folded shut her mobile phone.

  Anticipation suddenly overtook Malin and she found herself in a good mood. A few minutes ago, everything had felt like shit. Sanna was really the best of best friends and this day had got off to a great start. No schoolwork on her horizon – not today at any rate. Even her mum had been unusually subdued and had not nagged until she was blue in the face like she usually did. That was probably because something at work was taking up her time. As far as Malin was concerned, she was welcome to work around the clock.

  CHAPTER 4

  FROM A CRACK in the cloudbank, the sun found its way through the dirty window in Walter’s office. A welcoming warmth met him as he stepped over the threshold. He had not seen the sun for some time. Nor had anybody in mid-Sweden over the past few weeks, and he stood with eyes closed, feeling embraced by the heat. Memories from the summer floated up, and he thought about when he had anchored at a secluded beach and had spent a whole weekend lying on the foredeck with a Patricia Highsmith in his arms and a Bell’s whisky. Life had been carefree and he had been far away from the stress of the everyday world. The gentle slapping of the Baltic as it hit the hull of his small sailboat had had a healing effect. It soothed him, even though he knew that he would never heal completely. Not a day went by when he didn’t think of Martine.

  The sun went behind a cloud and he was back in the doorway. He saw the blue folder tossed onto the keyboard and had just picked it up when he heard a woman’s voice behind him.

  “Excuse me.”

  Walter turned around.

  “Are you Walter Gröhn?” asked a young lady with inquisitive brown eyes.

  “That’s correct,” Walter hesitated, as if he first needed to recall his name.

  “Jonna de Brugge, RSU.” the woman smiled and stretched out a hand. “It seems that we’ll be working together.”

  “That’s correct,” Walter answered, wondering if he should try to vary his replies.

  She was young. Young in a way that made Walter feel like an old, dead battery. Probably around twenty-five. She had a soft face with high cheekbones that were framed by shoulder-length, chestnut-coloured hair. Unlike Cederberg and Jonsson, her eyes revealed intensity and focus. Whether they reveal her true character is still to be proven, Walter thought, and shook her hand. She had a firm handshake.

  “So, when do we start?” she asked eagerly, eyeing the folder that Walter was holding in his hand.

  To Walter, his new partner’s boldness came as a surprise. He was used to a calm, sensible pace among hardened veterans, in late middle age, who were more concerned about promoting their own personal wellbeing than operational efficiency. Neither Jonsson nor Cederberg ran the risk of a heart attack, at least not during office hours. That probably applied to the rest of the police staff as well.

  “Actually, we can start right away,” Walter said and handed over the file. “While you read through this, I’ll go and get us some coffee and cake.”

  “I’ve already read it,” Jonna replied, taking the file anyway. “Perhaps we should go and interview him instead. He’s been admitted to the psychiatric emergency unit at Karolinska.”

  “All right, so now we have saved some time and I always welcome time-saving,” said Walter. “We shall go and interview him, but not right now. Instead, maybe you can tell me what is in the file while we walk to the canteen. They’ve got insanely good pickled herring sandwiches there.”

  Jonna hesitated at first. She would rather have left for the hospital than go and eat herring sandwiches, which, incidentally, she detested. But now Detective Inspector Walter Gröhn was her superior, albeit temporarily, and it would not look good if the first thing she did was to question his judgment.

  “Absolutely,” Jonna said and put the file down. “His name is Bror Gustaf Lantz, and he’s been a judge at Stockholm District Court for the past eleven years. He’s been an employee of the Justice Department for thirty-two years. He’s fifty-six, has been married to Elsa Lantz for twenty years, and resides in Täby. No children are registered. He has no criminal record – speeding a few times, but not enough to lose his driving licence. He’s had fourteen parking tickets in the last three years.”

  “A regular Snow White,” said Walter, “which, in itself, is not so unusual, considering his profession. They’re supposed to set a good example, or whatever you call it.”

  Jonna continued to recite from memory as they walked down the corridor. “He was found sitting by the side of a crashed taxi on Sveavägen on Friday evening. The taxi had driven head-on into an oncoming car after swerving over to the wrong side of the road. Lantz was apparently the passenger in the taxi, and one witness saw what he thought was some kind of a struggle inside the car while it stood parked at the kerb. It was unfortunately too dark for the witness to be able to describe in detail what was actually going on in the car. The victim was the taxi driver; his name was Ojo Maduekwe. He is, or rather was,” Jonna corrected herself, “married to Britt-Marie Maduekwe for three years and had worked as a taxi driver for five months. As far as we know, there are no previous connections between Bror Lantz and Ojo Maduekwe.”

  “I think we shall rename our Snow White the Evil Queen, or whatever her name was,” Walter said and clicked his fingers.

  “The Evil Stepmother, perhaps?”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” said Walter.

  The forensic technicians found what they think is Lantz’s trouser belt in the back seat of the car,” Jonna continued. “The buckle has the Justice Department’s symbol etched into it. Apparently, this is an emblem of long and faithful service. Maduekwe also had the symbol on his neck and Forensics believe it can be linked to the belt. Therefore, one might deduce, with a little bit of imagination, that Lantz tried to strangle Maduekwe, probably from the back seat. Maduekwe had burst vessels in his eyes and lungs, which are normally the result of asphyxiation. But the actual cause of death was almost certainly a broken second vertebra in the neck, which probably happened because the steering-wheel airbag detonated too close to Maduekwe’s head during the collision. Why his head would be so close to the wheel is not known, just that there
were powder burns from the airbag’s explosive charge on Maduekwe’s face.”

  “The judge perhaps was pissed off about the cost of the taxi and tried to choke Ojo What’s-his-name and avoid the bill,” Walter said. In a gentlemanly fashion, he held the staircase door open.

  “Hardly believable,” Jonna answered dryly.

  “Whether Ojo What’s-his-name died of strangulation or because of the airbag significantly affects the charges brought,” Walter said. “If he died from being strangled, the charge is murder for the Evil Stepmother; if he died because of the airbag, the charge will probably be manslaughter. The difference is a few years’ jail time for the judge. If he ever gets charged, that is.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be charged?” Jonna asked, surprised.

  “Some among us can unfortunately dodge the long arm of the law,” Walter said, and held open the door to the canteen.

  Jonna looked at Walter suspiciously.

  Welcome to the real world, little girl, Walter thought to himself.

  As the herring sandwiches had run out, much to Jonna’s relief, there was no coffee break in the police station’s large canteen. Walter decided, after a brief lecture to the serving staff in which he deplored the lack of herring sandwiches, to sign out an unmarked vehicle and go to see Bror Lantz at the Karolinska University Hospital.

  When they came to the police garage reception, it turned out that the only unmarked car that was available was an old model of a Volkswagen minibus, probably a vehicle that the Drug Squad used. They had a fondness for older minibuses. A stench of ingrained nicotine and something that reminded him of ancient vomit hit Walter when he opened the minibus door.

  “Do you have a car?” he asked and closed the door.

  Jonna frowned. “If you mean my private car, the answer is yes.”

  “Good,” said Walter. “Do you have it here?”

  “Coincidentally, I did drive my car in today because …”

  “Then I think we should take it,” Walter interrupted. “I’ll see that you get reimbursed.”

  “Reimbursed?” Jonna cursed the fact that she had taken the car this morning. She had intended to run some errands after work, buy some plants at Weibulls garden centre, among other things. Using her private car for work was something she avoided as much as possible, due in part to the Swedish tall-poppy syndrome, and a stubborn grandfather as well. He was wealthy and used to having things his own way. Jonna had defied him as much as she was able to do without hurting his feelings. But if you belonged to a shipowning family with roots going back to the seventeenth century, it was a simple matter to take away the silver spoon from a pretty mouth when the family fortune was to be shared between heirs. And she could not sell the car without inflicting major bruising to her grandfather’s car-obsessed ego. Why did she decide to pick up those plants today?