The latest reorganization of the police in Västra Götaland had produced two positive changes, in addition to the name change: the Organized Crimes Unit had moved up one floor in police HQ, and Tommy was made superintendent on a permanent basis. His predecessor, Efva Thylqvist, had resigned after the attack on her the previous year. She had been left with long-term repercussions; among other issues, her voice was hoarse and rasping following the violent attempt to strangle her. Her secret affair with Tommy Persson had also come to an end. He had been devastated to learn that she had been sleeping with another colleague, and the fact that the man in question was a superior officer made it so much worse. Irene couldn’t suppress a sigh of relief when she heard that Thylqvist wasn’t coming back. Apparently she had transferred to the National Crime Unit in Stockholm; Irene had no idea what she was doing there.
Tommy had asked Irene if she wanted to take over his role as deputy, but after careful consideration she had turned down his offer—mainly because she didn’t enjoy admin, but also because she was very happy in her present post. She preferred action and variety to being stuck behind a desk. She also struggled with spelling and written communication. These days it was called dyslexia. When she was in school she had been dismissed as stupid and lazy.
Hannu Rauhala had taken over as Tommy’s deputy, which turned out to be an excellent move. Hannu was a master when it came to combing the archives and producing information that no one else could find. How he did it had remained a mystery over the years. He would be back from his vacation the following week, and Irene knew that he was much missed.
“We’re conducting this investigation in collaboration with the Organized Crimes Unit, and in particular with our old friend and former colleague Fredrik, of course,” Irene said.
“Excellent. He has detailed knowledge of what goes on among Göteborg’s gangs,” Tommy said, topping up his coffee.
“He can take over the whole thing if you ask me,” Jonny muttered, grabbing the last bun.
Tommy smiled, then grew serious as he began to go through each person’s tasks for the day. As usual it was a matter of gathering all available facts about the victim and the crime as quickly as possible.
During the course of Monday morning, a young wannabe tough guy walked into the police station and demanded to “talk to the fuckers who’ve pulled in the boss.” It was some time before the duty officer understood that the fat teenager in the hoodie wanted to speak to the police officers who were investigating the Per Lindström case.
The boy was doing his best to look as arrogant as he sounded, but his eyes were darting all over the place, and his forehead was shiny with perspiration. No teenage criminal feels comfortable in a building crawling with cops. He also realized that this visit was going to cost him a year or two in the care of the state, but it was part of his duties; the reward made it worthwhile.
He was taken to an interview room and left to sweat for an hour or so. His name was Kevin Berg. He was seventeen years old, and a member of the Desperados, as the black and white emblem on the back of his hoodie confirmed. It was around sixteen inches in diameter, with a smoking gun in the center. The Desperados were a suburban gang made up of teenage boys who aspired to gain entry into Gothia MC. Kevin already had a record for stealing cars and mopeds, possession of cannabis for personal use and helping to break into a tobacconist’s shop.
He confessed that he was the one who had stolen the BMW on Friday night. The following day he had contacted Per Lindström, offering to sell him a top car. Needless to say, he didn’t mention that the car was stolen. At first Kevin stated that the two Gothia MC bosses had come over to his place to inspect and test drive the car, but when he was asked where exactly Per Lindström’s own car was parked right now, he couldn’t come up with an answer. After a while he changed his story. In the new version two older associates had helped Kevin, driving the BMW over to Gothia MC’s base outside Gråbo. No, he didn’t know their names, but he was sure they both had a driver’s license. One had driven his own car, the other the BMW. When they arrived, Kevin had handed the BMW over to the prospective buyer; they agreed that Lindström would call him on Sunday to settle the deal. That didn’t happen, of course, because Per Lindström and Jorma Kinnunen were picked up by the police.
He knew nothing about the gun; the owner must have hidden it. Since the legal owner of the car was a seventy-one-year-old retired female dentist who had never featured in any criminal investigation, this seemed unlikely.
Disappointingly there were no fingerprints on the gun; it had been meticulously wiped clean. Jorma Kinnunen didn’t even bother trying to explain why he had been wearing thin leather gloves when the car was pulled over. He simply gave the officer who asked a blood-chilling look.
Since Kevin was under eighteen, he would be given a reduced sentence if he was convicted, meaning that he would serve only half. When he came out he would either become a full member of Gothia MC, or at least be among the first of those eligible to be admitted. The Desperados were all between thirteen and eighteen years old, and carried out the riskiest enterprises, particularly any activity that could carry a jail term, such as drug dealing. Gothia MC distributed narcotics to the Desperados, who were then responsible for selling to addicts on the streets, which was where the greatest danger of being arrested lay. The teenagers were prepared to take their chances in order to win the greatest prize of all: entry into Gothia MC.
On Monday evening Per Lindström and Jorma Kinnunen were able to walk out as free men, although Lindström had had his driver’s license revoked, and had been charged with driving under the influence. Everyone involved in the case was asking one question: Where had the two men been going in the stolen car, wearing bullet-proof vests and carrying a fully loaded semi-automatic gun? They would probably never know.
Krister Huss had increased his hours when he became the owner of Glady’s. The time he devoted to admin was still sufficient, but an extra pair of hands was needed in the kitchen, so he worked every Monday evening and every fourth weekend to give the other chefs a decent amount of time off. When Krister was in the office, Egon accompanied him to the restaurant and settled down in his basket. When the little dog got bored, he reminded his master of his existence, and Krister would take a break. They usually went for a walk in Lorensberg Park, or around Heden center. It suited both of them, and Krister thought it was good he had a reason to get some exercise at regular intervals. Egon didn’t have to be alone for long on Monday evenings when Krister was in the kitchen, because Irene would make an effort to get home early.
Both Irene and Krister were fitter since moving to the city center. This was particularly true in Krister’s case. They had sold the old Volvo and now had only one car, a Renault Megane that was in pretty good condition. They took the tram or the bus only if it was pouring rain; the car spent most of its time in their private parking space, but when Krister was working in the kitchen he always drove because he rarely got home before midnight. It took him around fifteen minutes to walk to the restaurant, while the police station was about half an hour away for Irene. Sometimes she cycled and was at her desk twenty minutes after leaving home. The return journey was significantly more taxing, as she had to climb a long, steep hill up to Guldheden. She usually went straight to the bathroom and took a hot shower, followed by a blast of cold water to wake her up. Cycling was the perfect form of exercise; it didn’t require any extra time, and it cost nothing. Together with two jiujitsu classes a week, it kept her fit. The disadvantage was that as a cyclist in Göteborg during rush hour, she felt like a living air filter. In spite of the fact that she had never smoked, she had a suspicion that her lungs would eventually become completely blocked up by filth and exhaust fumes.
Krister drove to Glady’s on Monday; it was normally the quietest evening of the week, but tonight they were fully booked. A large party was celebrating with a six-course tasting menu and a selection of wines to accompany
each course. Jenny had helped him to come up with vegetarian alternatives to each dish. He was so proud of his daughter and her choice of profession. No doubt in the future all restaurants would have chefs who could prepare gourmet vegetarian food, but right now Glady’s was on the forefront.
He began to sing, loudly and out of tune, but it didn’t matter because the kitchen was buzzing with activity, drowning out his efforts. His colleague Ingrid grabbed a bottle of Pernod and headed for a table where the diners who had ordered flambéed fillet of beef were waiting expectantly. A tap on Krister’s shoulder interrupted his warbling. It was Anton Fritzell, who had recently joined the team. He was a hard worker and a phenomenal fish chef. Right now he looked terribly embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry Krister, but I have a problem.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Linda called; she’s locked herself out of the apartment, and the car keys are inside. She’s got the kids with her. Could I possibly borrow your car and nip home? I cycled in today, so—”
“No problem. We’re busy, so it’s in my interest to have you back as quickly as possible,” Krister said with a smile.
He asked Anton to stir the sauce while he went to the changing room to fetch his car key. When Krister returned, Anton looked relieved and thanked him profusely before dashing out of the door without bothering to change.
Krister hummed to himself as he reached for a pot of fresh thyme. Before he touched it the building was rocked by a deafening explosion. The large windows overlooking the yard shattered, and the kitchen was showered in fragments of glass. For a fraction of a second no one moved as they froze in shock; when someone started screaming the others regained the power of movement. Krister raced toward the reinforced back door.
“Anton!” he yelled.
He ran outside; his own car was ablaze, and the flames had spread to the car parked beside it. Thick, billowing smoke made his eyes and airway sting. A few yards from the burning cars, he saw a body lying motionless on the ground.
His voice thick with tears, Krister mumbled, “Oh my God! This is my fault . . . My . . .”
He tried to hold his breath as he rushed over to Anton. The heat was almost unbearable, but he forced himself to keep going. Tears were pouring down his face now, and the pain in his lungs was agonizing. Several of the staff joined him, and together they managed to move Anton away from the cars. They were all coughing and gasping for air. Anton was bleeding from two deep wounds in his head. His eyelids were twitching, but he didn’t respond when they spoke to him.
After a few minutes the small backyard was illuminated by the flashing blue lights of the emergency services. The ambulance was first on the scene. The paramedics confirmed that Anton was alive but unconscious. They informed his horrified colleagues that he had a broken arm and trauma to the head, then sped away to Sahlgrenska Hospital.
Jonny Blom and Irene stood side by side in the pale light of dawn, contemplating the blackened vehicles. The nauseating stench of burning at the scene of the crime was starting to become routine, Irene thought gloomily. She was deeply shaken by what had happened, but at the same time she couldn’t really process the fact that something like this had affected her family. Why? Why? The question went around and around in her head, but she resolutely pushed it aside and tried to concentrate on what was in front of her. A glimmer of light in the darkness was that Anton’s injuries weren’t life-threatening. He had a concussion, but the doctor Irene had spoken to had assured her it wasn’t serious. They would operate on his arm later that day; the break was complex, but the doctor promised he would make a full recovery. It would be several weeks before he was able to work, however, so Krister had lost a full-time chef. Not a good start for a new owner.
Jonny wandered around the wreckage, yawning widely. He nodded to himself several times before turning back to Irene.
“This is going to take more than one cup of coffee. By the way, does Krister have life insurance?”
“No,” she replied; his question had surprised her to say the least.
“Good. In that case it probably wasn’t you who planted the bomb under his car,” he said with a broad grin.
“Very funny!” Irene snapped. This really wasn’t the moment for humor. She was worn out after a sleepless night, and her emotions were all over the place. And Jonny was making jokes! With great self-control she quashed the impulse to kick his fat ass.
Jonny didn’t appear to have noticed Irene’s fury. He gazed at the depressing sight of the cars and said, “You have no idea who could have done this?”
“No.”
“In that case we’d better ask your husband.”
Krister was at home, so Irene suggested they drive over to Guldheden.
“Katarina is with him at the moment; Jenny is coming over this afternoon, and I’ll be there this evening. We don’t want him to be alone—at least not today,” Irene explained.
“And what does he think?”
“He says he’s fine, but I can see how shocked he is. Last night he kept saying it was all his fault, but he doesn’t have to feel guilty just because Anton was borrowing his car. It could just as easily have been . . . him.”
The word stuck in her throat. The very thought of it was unbearable.
It was obvious that Krister hadn’t slept a wink. The morning sun shining in through the kitchen window emphasized the deep lines in his face and the bags under his eyes. Admittedly he was ten years older than Irene, but for the first time in their twenty-five years of marriage, it suddenly struck her that he looked his age. Her heart filled with love and sympathy. Poor Krister; this was more than anyone could handle.
Katarina made a pot of strong coffee, took some rolls out of the freezer and defrosted them in the microwave.
Jonny asked the first question: “Did anyone know Anton was going to borrow your car?”
“No . . . it just came up. His wife called to say she’d locked herself out. She had the kids with her, and it was late. Anton always cycles to work, so he asked if he could borrow my car to speed things up.”
Krister rubbed his eyes as if to try and keep himself awake, but Irene knew the real aim was to improve his concentration. He was bone weary, and he couldn’t relax. He had barely touched the roll on his plate.
“So we have to assume the bomb was meant for you,” Jonny said.
Krister was already pale, but now his face turned almost grey. What if he faints? Irene thought. Jonny may have been an insensitive jerk, but it was probably best if he led the interview so she could focus on listening to Krister’s answers.
Krister swallowed several times before he spoke.
“It . . . looks that way. Or maybe they got the wrong car?”
“The wrong car? Does anyone else have the same model?” Jonny said with a frown.
“Well . . . Janne also has a red Renault Megane, although it’s newer than ours. I guess one Megane looks much like another in the dark.”
“Who’s Janne?”
“My former colleague, Jan-Erik Månsson. He bought Glady’s just under two years ago, and now I’ve bought it from him.”
“When did you take over?”
“The sale went through three weeks ago.”
“And does this Janne still park in the yard? I mean, you’re the owner now, right?” Jonny looked searchingly at Krister, who seemed to wilt under his scrutiny.
“Well no, he doesn’t . . . No, not really,” Krister mumbled, shifting uncomfortably on his chair.
Jonny allowed the silence to grow. The sunshine flooding in was reflected in the shiny new cupboard doors, bathing the small kitchen in light. Neither Irene nor Krister noticed; Irene felt as if darkness was slowly filling her mind. This has nothing to do with us! she thought, over and over again.
Krister took a deep breath. “There are four parking spaces in the yard. Janne doesn�
�t live far away, so if he can’t park close to his apartment block, he sometimes borrows one of our spaces,” he said with a certain amount of desperation.
“And does he do this on particular evenings?”
“No . . . No, not really,” Krister said quietly.
Jonny leaned back, and his chair creaked loudly.
“So this Janne doesn’t work at Glady’s anymore. But you do. Sometimes Janne uses one of the parking spaces in the yard, but no one knows when he’s going to be there. But everyone knows that your car is always there on Monday evenings. Janne might have an almost identical vehicle, but I think we can rule him out as the target of this attack,” Jonny concluded.
Something occurred to Irene. “Krister, do you remember when Janne sold the Merc? Was it March or April?”
Krister rubbed his forehead.
“I’m not sure. The end of March, I think. Why—is it important?”
Irene didn’t know, but she had a feeling it could be significant. “Maybe not, but he was driving around in one hell of a smart Mercedes—one of the largest models, and it was almost new. And then suddenly he turned up in the Megane, which is much smaller and cheaper.”
Krister nodded and said thoughtfully, “You mean the change of car could have something to do with his gambling debts? You might be right. He probably sold the Merc to pay off at least part of what he owed. And then he sold the restaurants and—”
“Hold on. Are you telling me this Janne has gambling debts?” Jonny interrupted.
Krister nodded wearily. “Yes, but he said he’d paid them off. And last spring he went to counseling to help with his addiction.”
“Hmm. I’d like to speak to this guy. Where do I find him?” Jonny asked.
“Majorca. He left yesterday. He and his girlfriend are going to stay over there for a few months; they’ve already sorted out work and somewhere to live.”
Protected by the Shadows Page 3
