“Good God!” Julén exclaimed.
“He beat his wife to death with a golf club,” Jonna added.
The telephone line fell silent.
Lilja stared down at the table resignedly.
“The modus operandi seems to indicate that Drug-X is involved,” Jonna continued. “So Ekwall should be tested for the drug as quickly as possible.”
They heard a sharp intake of breath down the phone line. “Transfer Ekwall to SÄPO immediately,” Julén ordered. “We will have to include Lantz, Sjöstrand and Ekwall in the same investigation.”
“Absolutely,” Lilja said. “I’ll take care of it straightaway.”
“From now on, this is to be kept under wraps,” Julén clarified. “I don’t want to see so much as a syllable about this in the media. Is that understood?”
“There’ll be no leaks from those of us at the CID at any rate,” Lilja promised. Chief Prosecutor Julén did not sound completely convinced as she ended the conference call.
“I would like to know if there are any more concrete connections between Bror Lantz, Karin Sjöstrand and Lennart Ekwall other than that plaster figure,” Walter said, pressing the lift button. “Something more than the fact that they moved in the same judicial circles and therefore ought to have known each other quite well. We also need to find out where the death angels can be purchased. They’re hardly off-the-shelf items from the corner gift shop.”
“Definitely not. But who drugged them and for what purpose?” Jonna interjected.
“Quite right,” Walter smiled. “Motive. Can you see any other lead that might be of interest?”
Jonna looked pensively at Walter for a brief moment.
“Apart from the angel of death, there’s the food.”
“What about it?”
“If all these people were drugged, it had to have been administered in some way.”
“Carry on,” Walter said.
“Both Ekwall and Sjöstrand complained that what they ate and drank the day they committed the crimes tasted bad.”
“Precisely,” Walter said. “The only thing that did not taste strange, according to Sjöstrand, was the tap water.”
“Then it follows that Forensics should find traces of Drug-X in the food from the homes of Ekwall and Sjöstrand,” Jonna said.
“Very probably,” Walter said.
“But what about Lantz?” Jonna wondered.
“Whoever drugged Bror Lantz must have been on the train from Gothenburg. And it seems likely that it happened on the train. If we ask Judge Lantz nicely, maybe he can tell us if something on the train had an odd taste.”
Jonna nodded. “There should be traces of the drug in both Ekwall and Sjöstrand, similar to the traces in Lantz,” she said. “But why was the drug found in Malin Sjöstrand?”
Walter nodded. “That’s where the chain of logic is a bit weak. If it’s found in Lisbeth Ekwall and the taxi driver, it becomes more consistent,” Walter said. “I can’t see the link to the last person.”
“No, because the taxi driver and Lantz didn’t know each other,” Jonna said.
Walter scratched his head thoughtfully. “Wasn’t the train from Gothenburg to Stockholm late?”
“Yes, I believe that it was,” Jonna hesitated.
“How late was it?”
“A little over an hour, if I remember correctly,” she said.
“It probably takes a certain amount of time for the drug to take effect from the time it enters the body,” Walter said. “The question is how much time.”
“You mean that the taxi driver was an unfortunate bystander. That Lantz was drugged, but that the train got delayed and therefore he didn’t make it home to his wife?”
“Exactly,” Walter said. “The objective was that he would kill his wife, but he didn’t get home on time. Instead, he strangled the taxi driver.”
Jonna suddenly looked horrified. “What type of sick drug is this anyway and who’s behind it? Imagine if they poisoned the water supply.”
“That thought also occurred to me,” Walter said. “But there’s another possibility, which I think is the most plausible. I need to confirm a few things first.”
“And what is your theory?” Jonna asked curiously.
“I need to run some personal errands for the rest of the day. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow and discuss the matter further. As you know, we’re on call this weekend.”
“But now SÄPO is taking over the case,” Jonna objected despondently.
“Good advice is always welcome,” Walter said. “I’ll write them a memo later today.”
Jonna felt her pulse quicken as things started to fall into place. This was better than the ending of a John le Carré novel.
JÖRGEN BLAD WAS, for the moment, wing-clipped.
Not at the news desk, where he now enjoyed the fullest confidence from the head of the news desk. It was the flow of information from his mole within the police that troubled him most right now. Without any explanation, the police mole had stopped using the method of delivering information that Jörgen had meticulously devised. For a long time before that, he had determinedly looked for a contact and informant within the police who could continually leak information to him. His technique had already been decided. He used the same approach that the Soviet intelligence agency, the KGB, used against foreign diplomats during the cold war.
Within the KGB, there was a unit consisting of female agents called the Swallows. These young volunteers were selected for their loyalty to the Soviet system as well as for their good looks. They were schooled in lovemaking and the technique was as infallible as the sexual urges of their victims. The victim was brought into contact with a Swallow at an embassy function or another appropriate engagement. The Swallow initiated a campaign of seduction against the diplomat, who usually ended up between the sheets. The love nest was, however, rigged with cameras and tape recorders as well as watched by KGB operatives. Before the sexual rendezvous was over, the KGB officers stormed in on the unsuspecting victim. They explained that the newly recorded film was of excellent quality and that the photographs would be sent to the victim’s family, his country’s news correspondents and his Foreign Office section if he refused to co-operate on certain issues, which was another way of asking him to become a spy.
The diplomat would have to supply the KGB with classified information in return for non-publication of the photographs and, as a bonus, he would also receive money. In most cases, the diplomat accepted the KGB’s demands and became a traitor. Jörgen had made himself into a Swallow in the pursuit of information. He lacked the beauty of his predecessors, but had compensated for this with flattering conversation. At the gay club “PinkyTinky”, rumours had long since been circulating about a policeman who was a closet transvestite. Jörgen realized immediately that this was the man he had been looking for. After some research, which had forced him to jump in and out of several beds to gather sufficient information, he finally made contact with his victim.
Initially, the operation seemed to fail. Despite an unrivalled charm offensive, he was unable to get his target to bite.
The closet transvestite was hopelessly enamoured with a student from Uppsala and had no plans whatsoever to break up that relationship. Jörgen was therefore forced to split up the lovesick victim and the student. By starting a gossip campaign in Stockholm’s gay community, he was able to make the victim’s partner look like a notorious nymphomaniac. One month later, the relationship was in ruins and the transvestite was falling to pieces. Jörgen seized the opportunity. With a broken heart, the man was fragile and vulnerable to manipulation and Jörgen’s new method of attack was to comfort and confide in him. After a week, the trap was sprung. With a video of the policeman in full leather gear and matching dildo accessories, it was impossible to resist Jörgen’s stranglehold. The transvestite had not only lost his partner, but was also exposed to Jörgen’s unscrupulous blackmail, and he could find no other way out other than to submit to the manipulative journalist. If the
video should ever reach his colleagues, his days on the force would be numbered, to put it mildly. And on top of that, he had to think about what his wife and adult children would say.
If the flow of information had dried up, Jörgen would have a tough time reproducing the Karin Sjöstrand exclusive. He would not be able to shine by using information to which he alone, outside the police headquarters, was privy. But why the sudden radio silence? Was his informant after the video?
The evidence that gave Jörgen his hold over the man was, for the time being, safely stashed. He had decided that the best place to store the video was in a safety deposit box at the bank. The police source probably had not realized that the video would certainly destroy Jörgen’s career, let alone how it would affect his relationship with Sebastian. It was therefore just as much in Jörgen’s best interest that the images never became public.
Jörgen was worried that his “partner in crime” had realized how high the stakes were for him if he were exposed. Was he now testing Jörgen’s resolve, to see if he had the nerve to publish the images?
Jörgen was not sure why he could not get hold of the man. The first place the policeman would instinctively search would be his home and the safety deposit box. But with bent cops, one could never be sure.
His informant was hardly going to ask for a warrant to do a search at Jörgen’s place. Even Jörgen’s safety deposit box would be subject to the search warrant. His informant would probably hire a thug, perhaps even to use physical violence in the hunt for the video. Jörgen had therefore done something he thought was exceptionally innovative and clever. He had let his mother hire the safety deposit box in which he kept the video. Jörgen then kept the key to that box in another deposit box in his own name. An anonymous key is impossible to trace, he thought. The key to his own deposit box, which was no larger than a bicycle key, was kept in a heart-shaped locket around his neck.
Jörgen was in desperate need of insider information. He understood that something big was brewing. A juicy scandal inside the Swedish court system was, without doubt, a major story that could take him all the way to the prestigious “Journalist of the Year” award. He would confront the informant and force him to deliver information on Karin Sjöstrand no matter what his excuses were. Jörgen sat at his computer and logged into his email account. He typed an email, despite the fact that they had agreed never to communicate over the internet and only to meet at various cafés to hand over information.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: What’s going on?
Please stick to our deal.
Need info on Sjöstrand ASAP
//J
To Jörgen’s great surprise, he got a reply after only five minutes.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: What’s going on?
Do not know who you are nor what you are talking about. Please check that your email address is correct.
Mrs Maud
Maud? What a poor imagination, Jörgen thought. He was not sure whether he had been rejected or if his informant was trying to protect himself by claiming it was the wrong address. He decided to send a new email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: re: RE: What’s going on?
Come to the last meeting place tonight at 7 pm.
//J
After half an hour, he logged out and shut down the computer. There were no more emails, which could mean one of two things. Either the deal was off and his informant had decided not to follow their “contract” or his informant would come to the meeting place this evening but, for obvious reasons, could not put this into writing. The secrecy surrounding their meetings was the top priority and his informant was most insistent on that point. Electronic fingerprints, in the shape of emails or telephone conversations that could be traced and then link them together, were not allowed.
Jörgen had therefore started a public website, which he named “StockholmInsight”, under an assumed name. He hoped it was totally meaningless and uninteresting for anybody who accidentally surfed to the page. The site comprised a few photographs of Stockholm and a description of a few points of interest. In one corner of the page, there was a header that read, “Café of the week”. Under it, Jörgen posted the name of the café where the meeting with his informant would take place. The time and date were posted on the left-hand side of the page, in the form of fabricated events that were supposedly happening during the week.
Accordingly, the coded message was “Café of the week: Vete-Katten, Kungsgatan 55” and “Event of the week: Poetry reading with Michael Rhenberg in ABF Building, Sveavägen 41, 18 November at 8:30 pm.” The meeting place would therefore be Vete-Katten at eight-thirty tonight. Jörgen considered the system foolproof and was satisfied with the way it worked.
He wondered if his informant would show up tonight. The Swallow tactic had been ingenious and he had felt confident that it would last for many years. For the first time, he felt disheartened.
CHAPTER 12
AT SEVEN-THIRTY ON Monday morning, Chief Prosecutor Åsa Julén first got hold of the Director-General of the National Courts Administration, Margareta Fors.
Margareta Fors had landed at Arlanda airport after a long and tiring flight from Los Angeles. One week at a conference that she just as easily could have done without and her mood was at an all-time low. On top of that had been a shock that remained in the body like a stubborn cold. They had hit severe turbulence over Greenland, and the ninety-tonne jet had flown like a paper plane at ten thousand metres. After one hour, the sporadic shaking had stopped. She herself was not particularly afraid of flying, but it was only when the cabin crew became pale-faced that she had felt anxiety creep over her. She never usually panicked, but she was seriously preoccupied by the prospect of not landing in one piece.
After that incident, it had been quite impossible for her to sleep during the remainder of the trip, even though she was behind on her sleep. She knew very well that she could not influence the situation in which she found herself, with a useless seat belt around her stomach. She was at high altitude and completely in the hands of others. Yet she had been so damn scared.
Margareta first turned on her mobile phone when she sat in the taxi driving home to Östermalmsgatan. Before she could finish punching in her home number, the phone rang. She looked at the display, which showed an ex-directory number. In a weary voice, she answered.
Earlier that morning, Åsa Julén had spoken with the Minister for Justice and the National Chief of Police, who had already been updated with the details of the Lantz and Ekwall cases on Sunday evening. The Sjöstrand case was being tossed around by the press already, so they knew about her. Åsa was anxious to get hold of the Director-General to give her the latest news. Both woman bureaucrats had known each other since their university days, but saw each other more seldom nowadays. Work and family took up most of their time.
“I apologize for the early telephone call,” Åsa began. “But I need to inform you about a few things.”
Margareta answered hesitantly. “I see.”
“The Minister for Justice and the National Chief of Police have already been informed,” Åsa continued.
The manner in which Julén started the conversation and the tone of her voice did not bode well. Neither did the fact that she called so early in the morning. If the Minister and the National Chief of Police had already been informed by the Prosecutor’s Office, it had to be something serious.
The first thing that occurred to Margareta was another Anna Lindh type of murder – that a cabinet minister had been murdered by a random loony. The mental health reform that allowed severely sick psychiatric patients to self-medicate had infuriated many within the judicial system. The number of maniacs walking the streets was steadily increasing. This was all attributable to weak and inconsistent legislation from the
politicians, as well as the constant cutbacks. Those ticking timebombs were walking among ordinary people, just to provide treatment that was more humane and less costly to society. Who would pay the price for its failure? The sick, who needed psychiatric care, or somebody who just happened to get in their way and paid with a life? Margareta felt anger building within her as she speculated.
“Carry on,” she said in a cold voice.
District Prosecutor Lennart Ekwall has confessed to murdering his wife,” Åsa said.
At first, Margareta did not believe what she had heard. “Can you repeat that?” she asked.
“He has admitted during a police interview that he killed his wife with a golf club in their home. But that’s not all,” Åsa said.
That a district prosecutor had killed his wife was a catastrophe for the reputation of the justice system in the country. This much, Margareta understood. But how did this involve the National Courts Administration? This was really a problem for the Prosecutor’s Office.
“As you know, Judge Bror Lantz of Stockholm District Court was involved in a car accident with a fatal outcome,” Åsa continued.
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Margareta answered. “But that was an accident.”
“There’s reason to believe that he is guilty of manslaughter by strangulation of the taxi driver. In actual fact, most of the evidence indicates that this is the case. We just can’t prove it. And there’s no motive.”
Margareta felt an icy chill spread through her body. “What’s going on?” she exclaimed. “Are people going crazy? Isn’t it enough that Karin Sjöstrand killed her own daughter?”
“We have a credibility crisis brewing and there’s a risk of panic spreading among staff in the courts system,” Åsa explained. “For the time being, the media don’t know about Ekwall and Lantz. They’re content with Sjöstrand right now; I couldn’t cover that up. It was just a matter of time before it leaked out because there was an eyewitness in the stairwell, which the media had managed to uncover. For Lantz and Ekwall, it looks better. The Lantz case is still classified as an accident and will stay that way. Ekwall has no witnesses.”
Anger Mode Page 13
