Still, she knew it was just a question of time before her background would become common knowledge at the police station. There would be whispering and gossiping behind her back no matter what she did, and parking a million-Swedish-crowns car in the police garage would not make the situation any less difficult.
Walter stared tentatively at Jonna’s car, which was parked in a corner of the second floor of the police garage.
“A Porsche 911 Carrera convertible,” he declared in disbelief.
“4S Cabriolet,” Jonna added. “It’s a four-wheel drive. It also has a sequential transmission.” No point in being modest now that the cat was out of the bag.
“Looks like a new car,” said Walter. “At least, if the licence plate is authentic.”
“Almost one year old,” Jonna said and unlocked the doors with the remote.
Walter said nothing and instead made himself comfortable in this premier icon of capitalism, a symbol of the industrialized nations’ wanton luxury. Probably cost at least three years’ wages, Walter thought, and closed the door. The scent of new leather enveloped him.
“But I didn’t win the lottery,” Jonna began and turned the ignition key. It was better to pre-empt the tide of questions that would inevitably follow. The six-cylinder Boxer engine roared into life and then faded to a muffled growl.
Walter put his seat belt on and tried to raise the seat. It felt as if he was sitting directly on the ground.
“It’s an advance on the family inheritance,” Jonna explained, and swung out of the car park.
“Since you brought it up,” said Walter with a thoughtful look, “where have I heard the name Brugge before?”
“Perhaps as in Brugge Line,” suggested Jonna. Now it starts, she thought.
“Exactly,” said Walter. “The shipping family Brugge. I knew I’d heard your surname before.”
“de Brugge,” corrected Jonna. “We have Dutch roots.”
Walter looked at her thoughtfully. “Haven’t you chosen the wrong profession? Ships should be more suitable for you.”
Jonna stopped at a red light. “What was your father’s profession?”
“He was a lumberjack for the first half of his life. The second half he spent researching all the different brands of booze.”
“I see,” said Jonna, immediately regretting the question.
“He became an alcoholic after we moved to Stockholm,” Walter continued. “The sawmill in Övik was shut down, and there were no timber stocks in Stock-holm, despite the implication in the name.”
Jonna’s mouth smiled a little at Walter’s irony. “I should have applied to the river police with my background.”
“And spend each and every day giving breathalyzer tests to the hobnobbers as they cruise by in their million-dollar yachts? I don’t think there’s any upside to that job, unless you’re looking for a year-round suntan of course,” said Walter, looking at Jonna’s lightly tanned skin. She definitely had something southern European about her, maybe also a bit of Belgian Wallonia in her ancestry. He had done some genealogy research on himself and had ended up among farmers and peasants north of the Dalälven river.
Jonna did not know what to say. “Not everyone has million-dollar yachts,” she blurted out.
“No, true enough,” Walter agreed. “I myself have a boat in the same price range as one of the wheels on your car.”
Jonna felt the situation becoming even more uncomfortable. This was exactly what she had wanted to avoid. She had not asked for such an expensive sports car. She had escaped from the family’s traditionalist claws and made her own way in the world. Made it by herself without their money or connections, and sought a life far away from the demands and expectations that the name de Brugge placed upon a person. Yet still she was sitting here, forced to defend herself. Damn this car and damn my grandfather, she swore silently to herself. There would be a hell of a to-do over this tomorrow. Glib comments and gossip about her money and her family would spread like the plague throughout the department.
But then Walter smiled. “You can relax. I won’t say a word about your car or your family, even though it will come out sooner or later. Many here will find it difficult to handle the news about your, shall we say, class membership. Not only are you a woman, you have a background that will provoke many of your testosterone-charged colleagues with muscular arms and wagging tongues – especially the ones who drive around in old Saabs and have second mortgages on their terraced houses.”
“I know,” said Jonna, pressing her lips together into a thin line. She would not sound embittered. Instead, she was quietly grateful to Walter for the integrity he had shown despite his shabby appearance.
“How long will you be training with the CID?” Walter asked, offering a box of cough drops that he had pulled out.
“Two months, to start with,” Jonna answered, declining the cough drops. “But it depends. I don’t want to finish in the middle of an investigation; that pretty much defeats the point of the training.”
“How many are there at RSU?”
“About fifteen analysts and investigators.”
“And the average age is what? About twenty-five or so?” said Walter, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Most of us are young, yes,” answered Jonna.
“And the average IQ is what?”
Walter observed her as she turned onto Torsgatan. She looked relaxed and experienced as she drove and could, unlike David Lilja, conduct a meaningful conversation while simultaneously handling a motor vehicle in a safe manner.
“No idea,” she answered after a while.
“But you’re supposed to be part of a talented elite,” Walter continued.
“And I’ve also heard a lot of good things about you,” Jonna said, changing the topic. “For example, you’re apparently a living legend.”
Walter cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told,” he said. “The police station is one big rumour central. I call it Sweden’s biggest sewing circle.”
Jonna laughed. “That may very well be true – at least when it comes to real-life operational departments.”
If only you knew what it was really like, Walter thought, and then he too laughed.
KARIN COULD NOT get Malin out of her head during the entire journey to the district court. She would have to do something drastic to make Malin take school more seriously.
Outside Alvik tube station, Karin took out her mobile phone. Malin was answering neither the home phone nor her mobile. She hoped that Malin had gone to school, but felt deep down that she had not. Malin would definitely miss PE, as she had already been late. As usual, the school did not help as much as Karin thought they should. They would not even ring and inform her when Malin did not turn up at school. Lack of resources was the usual excuse but, more often than not, the reply was that “It is the parents’ responsibility to ensure that the student comes to school.”
Karin’s anxiety started to grow. The problem was that there was little she could do about it. She needed to concentrate on her work and the deferred football proceedings. Karin shook off her thoughts of Malin and got off the train. In twenty-five minutes, she would be sitting in a courtroom full of lawyers, spectators and a posse of journalists.
THE RED-BROWN FACADE of Karolinska University Hospital towered upwards as Walter Gröhn and Jonna de Brugge passed over Solna bridge. They exited onto Berzeliusvägen and drove towards the psychiatric clinic, which was wedged between two wings. Inside the clinic, they identified themselves and asked to be shown to Bror Lantz’s room. A nurse told them to wait by the reception while she fetched the physician who was responsible for Bror Lantz. After they had waited a few moments, an elderly man rushed down the corridor, with his white coat flapping behind him.
“Are you from the police?” he asked, harassed.
“That’s correct,” answered Jonna politely. She shook hands with the doctor and presented herself and Walter.
“You wish to m
eet Bror Lantz,” the doctor said.
“Bingo,” cried Walter.
“You can see him,” the doctor answered. “He’s been sedated for his anxiety and, under the circumstances, is feeling well. Even so, I anticipate having him here for at least another week.”
“Has he had any visitors?” Walter asked.
“His wife,” replied the doctor. “May I ask what this is all about?”
“You may ask, but you won’t get an answer,” Walter informed him, stuffing a cough drop into his mouth.
The doctor pulled in his chin, insulted. “If it affects the patient’s health, then I’m afraid that it’s very much a concern of mine.”
“We are only going to ask some simple questions,” Walter reassured him. “No one has ever died from that.”
The doctor looked at him suspiciously.
“Has he sustained any head injuries that could affect his memory?” Walter asked.
“Nothing that indicates it; it’s just a minor concussion,” the doctor answered dispassionately.
“Is his room in this direction?” Jonna queried and started to go down the corridor. She did not have the patience to wait for Walter and the doctor to decide whether Lantz was in a condition to answer questions or not. The doctor did have the right to block police questioning if the patient’s wellbeing was at risk. Walter knew this, so she could not understand why he was being so confrontational.
“Yes, he’s in ward fifty-five, room twelve,” the doctor answered, taken a little off-guard by her direct question. He quickly followed Jonna.
Walter was also upstaged by Jonna’s forwardness and was left a few steps behind. He had to dash to catch up. After passing a few wards and making a right turn into a new corridor, they arrived at room twelve.
In one of the corners, there was a wardrobe with one door slightly open. A metal stool and bedside table stood by the bed. Apart from that, there was no furniture in the room. A man with thin hair and closed eyes was lying in the bed. He had a pale, elongated face that was wreathed with a few days’ stubble.
Jonna carefully pushed past the doctor and approached the bedridden man. She felt her pulse quickening. This was her second real investigation and her third interview.
“Is your name Bror Lantz?” she began, for the sake of formality, while sitting down on the stool.
The man did not react.
Jonna carefully brushed Bror’s arm.
“I think he’s sleeping,” the doctor said. “The sedative is making him tired. You’ll have to come back a little later.”
“Thank you, we’re fine,” Walter said and showed the doctor the door. “We’ll call you if we need any more help.”
The doctor started to protest, but Walter closed the door after him.
“Can you hear me?” Jonna asked and bent over Bror. “We’re from the police.”
The man wheezed.
“He’s waking up now,” Walter said and positioned himself on the other side of the bed.
The man struggled to open his eyes.
“Could I have a little water?” he coughed and looked at Walter. He made an effort to lift his upper body, but sank back into the bed.
“Of course you can have some water,” Walter answered. “But not from us, since we don’t work here. You know what the union thinks about that. We’re from the police and have some questions for you. That is, assuming you are Bror Lantz?”
The man nodded. “Yes, that’s correct,” he said.
“My name is Jonna de Brugge and I’m with the RSU, and with me I have Walter Gröhn, a detective inspector from the County CID,” Jonna introduced them both.
And with me … Walter thought, and did not know if he should laugh or be pissed off. I will have to pull a bit on the handbrake if she continues like this.
Jonna ran some tap water into a disposable cup and handed it to Bror. He took some sips and put the cup on the bedside table. Walter rolled his eyes. “Right then,” he began, “you know very well why we are here.”
Bror nodded.
“Let’s talk about what happened in the taxi on Sveavägen. Or do you want to drink some more?”
“I don’t remember much about what happened,” he said, wrinkling his bushy eyebrows.
“No? But you must remember something?” Walter said. “It’s not a total blank inside your head?”
Bror said nothing; instead, he turned stiffly towards Jonna. “RSU?” he said, questioning her.
“Now, judge, this is the way it works,” Walter clarified. “We ask the questions and you give the answers. We’re not playing “Jeopardy” or some other quiz game here. Are we clear about that?”
Silence.
“Let me rephrase the question,” Walter continued. “A witness saw you in some kind of a struggle with the taxi driver. According to the same witness’s statement, this occurred inside the taxi and immediately before the accident. Why were you fighting?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bror answered. “To be honest, that sounds totally out of character for me.” He slowly shook his head. “In addition, I find your tone and manner to be very unpleasant.”
“What was the struggle about and why?” repeated Walter.
“I don’t know,” Bror answered, resignedly.
“Don’t know!” exclaimed Walter, exaggerating his dismay. “Surely you must know what you were arguing about!”
Bror looked at Walter without saying a word.
Walter bent slowly over the bedridden man. “Was he trying to rob you or did you lose your temper because he was cheating you out of your money?” he whispered.
“I’m really sorry, but I really don’t know,” Bror apologized and switched his gaze to the ceiling.
“Come on, Mr Lantz,” Walter said, exasperated. “We have your trouser belt, which happened to be lying in the car, and the marks on the driver’s neck that Forensics can tie in to the belt. You were not intending to strip in the car?”
Bror continued to stare at the ceiling.
“Why don’t you just confess?” Walter said, throwing his arms up in exasperation.
“Confess to what?”
“That you strangled the driver with the belt!” Walter yelled.
Bror did not move a muscle.
“What’s the last thing you actually remember?” Jonna asked and took Bror’s hand to comfort him.
He turned stiffly towards Jonna again and looked thoughtfully at her for a short while.
“I was already angry on the train from Gothenburg,” he said. “After I got into the taxi at the Central Station, everything became hot. It was like a furnace inside my body. I heard voices and sounds. After that, I can’t remember anything.”
Jonna looked at Walter.
“Are you taking any drugs?” Walter asked.
“Why would I do that?”
“Do you have mental problems of any kind?”
“No, that’s not it either,” Bror replied, irritated.
“You consider yourself to be completely lucid, in other words,” concluded Walter. “Yet still, you remember nothing.”
“As you may be aware, I ’m entitled to legal representation,” Bror pointed out in a stern voice.
Walter nodded in confirmation. “Of course, you are. If you feel you need a lawyer to vouch for your absent-mindedness, then of course, you shall have one. But we are only here to collect information at the moment. You’re not formally charged with anything yet.”
“That’s not how you’re behaving,” Bror answered dryly.
Walter shrugged his shoulders. “Then you’re misreading me.”
Bror’s eyes narrowed. He started to say something, but stopped himself.
“Have you suffered from memory loss previously?” Jonna asked.
“No, no more than any of us who binged during our student years,” Bror smiled painfully.
“The circumstances and the witnesses are more than enough to convict you. And that’s without the film from the taxi’s securit
y camera.”
The last statement was a lie. It had not been possible to retrieve any information from the taxi’s camera. Some bright spark had installed the camera recorder under the car bonnet, which resulted in its total destruction in the collision. The only thing that Forensics was able to see on their monitor was a snowstorm.
“In your case, that’s enough for manslaughter,” Walter continued. “You of all people should know what that means.”
Bror looked at Walter for a few long seconds.
“Give me a few days and maybe I’ll have a better memory.”
Walter shrugged, frustrated. “I don’t think we’ll get much further right now.”
“No, you’re probably right,” Jonna agreed and got off the stool.
Bror watched as the two police officers left the room. Before Jonna closed the door, she turned around. Bror met her eyes without saying a word. Jonna was just about to ask a question when he closed his eyes. She checked herself and closed the door.
“Did you test Bror Lantz for drugs?” Jonna asked the doctor, who was standing behind the reception desk, making case notes.
He hesitated for a few seconds, trying to think.
“No, why should we do that?” He lifted his eyes from the file.
“He heard voices inside his head,” Jonna explained.
“I don’t know anything about any voices,” he answered.
“Keep us informed if you move this patient to another ward,” Walter said and gave the doctor his business card.
Anger Mode Page 4
