By the time Jonny had finished, Irene was feeling dizzy, almost seasick, as if her chair was bobbing up and down in a heavy swell. She needed food and sleep. Her legs were far from steady as she got up and made her apologies.
Egon was barking and scratching at the inside of the door. Irene had no idea how he could distinguish her footsteps and Krister’s from those of everyone else who lived on their staircase. Dogs have excellent hearing, of course. When she walked in, Egon was so happy he didn’t know what to do with himself. Every fiber of his little body radiated joy because his mistress was home, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t been alone for a second all day. Jenny came into the hallway and gave her mother a big hug. The top she was wearing revealed her tattooed arms; it was cut low at the back, and in the mirror Irene could see the design on the back of her neck that spread across her shoulders. Jenny had gotten the tattoos when she was a teenager, singing in various punk bands. A few days ago she had mentioned that she was thinking of having the inking on her upper arm removed with laser treatment: a skeletal hand clutched a heart, in the middle of which was the name of a long-dumped boyfriend. She had abandoned the piercings on her face when she started working in kitchens.
To Irene’s disappointment her daughter couldn’t stay for dinner even though Glady’s was closed. Her former employer at the Grodden restaurant had asked if she could fill in there for a few hours, and she had said yes.
“Dad managed to get some sleep this afternoon; he’s feeling a little better,” she whispered before she left.
“I’m glad one of us has slept,” Irene said with a sigh.
Krister was preparing dinner: fishcakes and new potatoes cooked with dill. He planned to serve a cold sauce made of crème fraîche with chopped chives, which he grew on the balcony. A seductive aroma emanating from the oven told Irene that there would be apple cake for dessert. She was drenched in sweat after cycling home, and jumped in the shower. Alternating between a stream of hot and cold water brought her tired body to life, and she began to feel human again. She used a perfumed lotion that she had bought in France; it was ridiculously expensive, but a little luxury now and again is no bad thing. It was lovely to slip into her velour robe and pad barefoot across the smooth new wooden floor. She crept up behind Krister and wrapped her arms around his waist. She kissed the back of his neck, burying her nose in his T-shirt and inhaling the smell of him. A warm wave of happiness and gratitude flooded her body. Thank God Krister hadn’t been in the car when it exploded!
He turned and kissed the top of her head. He still looked tired, but his warm smile lit up his eyes. He put down the fish slice and pulled her close. They stood there holding each other for a long time.
“How are you feeling?” Irene asked, gently extricating herself.
“Better. I’ve spoken to the glazier; he’s boarded up the windows, and he’ll replace them tomorrow. Once that’s done, the whole team will come in and clean the kitchen. Fortunately there was no other damage. Anton has been discharged from the hospital, but he’ll be out sick for at least a month. We’re closed until Friday.”
Krister smiled at the thought of Anton going home. The pan was bubbling away, and the tempting smell of fresh fennel filled the air. He turned around and lowered the heat just as the timer pinged; he bent down and took the apple cake out of the oven. Irene’s mouth was watering, and she realized how hungry she was.
“I called the insurance company and they said we can have a replacement vehicle until everything has gone through,” Krister said, snipping chives into the crème fraîche.
“That was quick. Hopefully they’ll give us the same one. I like the Megane; it suits us. Then again, sometimes I think we don’t need a car now that we’re living in town.”
“We do need one occasionally—when we’re buying something bulky, or when we’re going up to the cottage.”
Irene’s stomach turned over when Krister mentioned the cottage. As far as she was concerned, the place was linked to a terrifying experience that she was finding difficult to deal with.
The previous year, a serial killer had followed her as she drove up to their special retreat in Värmland, and low on gas and without a working cell phone, she had been forced to carry out a terrible plan down by the bog in order to escape with her life. The events that frosty night in October still haunted her today. Only one of them had survived.
Irene had been totally exonerated in the subsequent inquiry, but that didn’t help. In her nightmares she was still standing there listening to the man’s death throes.
She had forced herself to spend time at the cottage, but that horrible feeling wouldn’t go away. She refused to go and pick cloudberries. The very thought of going anywhere near the bog gave her palpitations.
Tentatively she had suggested selling the cottage and buying something a little closer to Göteborg, but Krister wouldn’t hear of it. He had been born and raised in Säffle, but he and his siblings had spent the summers at the cottage outside Sunne, as had their own twin girls. Spending the winter mid-semester break up there was almost better than the summers. No, there was no way they would get rid of such a wonderful place. Irene’s terrifying memories would fade with time, he said. And that was the end of the discussion.
Irene made a salad of radishes, baby spinach, tomatoes and cucumber. The crispy fishcakes were garnished with a slice of lemon and a few sprigs of dill. Krister drained the potatoes and tossed the fennel in salted butter. The afternoon sun was still warm, so he had set everything out on the small table on the balcony. The fact that it faced west was a major bonus; it was in the afternoons and evenings that they had time to sit out there.
The ice cubes clinked in Irene’s glass of water as she absent-mindedly swirled it around. Dinner was over, and it was high time she tried to talk to Krister about the car bomb. She had promised to find out if he knew more than he had admitted to her colleagues. On a personal level she also felt it was important; she just didn’t quite know how to start.
“I was wondering . . . Has Janne ever said anything about being threatened?” she asked.
Krister didn’t answer right away, and she avoided looking at him. Which was why she didn’t realize that he was about to explode.
“No he fucking hasn’t! What the hell are you and that idiot Jonny talking about?!”
Irene was totally taken aback by his reaction, and for a moment she was lost for words. Eventually she stammered, “But sweetheart, what’s . . . what—”
“Nobody has threatened anybody, okay?”
Krister leapt to his feet with such force that he banged the table. The jug of water crashed onto the cement floor and shattered. Ice-cold water splashed over Irene’s bare feet, but she hardly noticed. All she could see was the furious expression on her husband’s face. She had never seen a reaction like that in all the years they had been together.
“Fuck! I’ll clear it up,” he said, disappearing into the apartment.
While he was gone, Irene tried to gather her thoughts. He returned with a dustpan and brush and a cloth, and quickly cleared away all trace of the incident. Without a word he went back inside. Irene could hear the tinkle of glass as he emptied the dustpan into the recycling bin. It seemed to her that even the sound was angry. Had he lost it because he was still in shock? She would like to think so, but her instinct as a cop told her it was something else. This was a sensitive issue, and it had to be sorted out.
After a while Krister reappeared with a fresh jug of water; this one was made of plastic, to be on the safe side. He slumped down on his chair and put on his sunglasses. Was it because of the evening sun, or because he didn’t want to look her in the eye? Irene suppressed a sigh.
“I know I overreacted. I’m sorry. I just can’t talk about that fucking bomb anymore,” he said, turning to face her with a wan smile. But he didn’t take off his shades, so Irene couldn’t see if he meant what he said.
Enough pussyfooting around, she thought. “You have to talk to me, otherwise you’ll be called into the station for a formal interview, which will be conducted by someone else. I’ve requested the opportunity to deal with this on an informal basis so you don’t have to go through that.”
Krister took a deep breath and focused his attention on the setting sun.
“I don’t know what you want me to say!”
“Just tell me. Tell me what you know. We can help.”
“There’s nothing to tell! And I don’t need your help.”
The last vestiges of Irene’s patience were rapidly ebbing away.
“So someone put a bomb under our car for fun?”
“How the fuck should I know?!”
She reached across the table for his hand, but he pulled away. Trying to hang on to her self-control, she said, “You have to understand that we’re taking this extremely seriously. We recognize the signs. A car bomb is a signature move for criminal gangs around here. You knew Soran Siljac. Who was killed by a car bomb. Which was exactly like the one that blew up our car.”
Krister didn’t reply; his jaw tightened even more. Irene decided to try a different tack.
“Krister, talk to me. I love you, and I’m just trying to help you. There have been plenty of car bombs in this city in recent years; all the victims were threatened before the bombs were planted. Every single one of them, without exception. But you maintain you haven’t been threatened, and you have no idea why someone put a bomb under our car.”
“Got it in one.”
Before Irene could think of anything else to say, Krister stood up.
“I’m taking Egon for a walk.”
A couple of minutes later Irene heard the front door slam.
Irene managed only a few hours of restless sleep that night, but she was grateful all the same. Every time she woke up, she could hear Krister tossing and turning. She spoke to him or reached out to caress him, but he simply rolled over and pretended to be asleep.
When the alarm clock went off, Krister’s side of the bed was empty. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the apartment; she pulled on her robe and got up. The sun was shining straight into the kitchen, but to her surprise there was no one around. A quick check revealed that neither the dog nor his master were home. Little Egon is going to get a lot of extra walks over the next few days, she thought wearily.
At their daily meeting, affectionately referred to as “morning prayer,” the team had two additional members—or three, to be more accurate, because Fredrik Stridh was there too.
When everyone had a cup of coffee and a cookie, Tommy Persson smiled and introduced his inspectors to the newcomers. “We’re joined today by Superintendent Stefan Bratt and DI Ann Wennberg, both of whom work for the Organized Crimes Unit, and are colleagues of our old friend Fredrik. Perhaps you’d like to say a few words?”
Irene noticed that Ann Wennberg had a particularly friendly smile. She was in her thirties, slim and fit. Her chestnut hair was cut short, with a long, thick fringe. She wore discreet makeup that brought out her blue eyes. She reminded Irene of a highly efficient personal assistant, possibly thanks to her dark blue linen suit and white blouse.
The man beside Ann Wennberg cleared his throat. “Stefan Bratt. I’ve been with the Organized Crimes Unit since it was set up, and became a superintendent six months ago. We work on various projects. Fredrik, for example, has been analyzing the development of violent crime within the gang culture in Västra Götaland, focusing especially on assault and homicide.”
Bratt was in his early forties. He had alert grey-blue eyes, thin dark grey hair with the beginning of a bald patch on the top of his head, and he was slim, almost skinny in fact. Irene thought he looked more like an amiable bank clerk than a senior police officer. Maybe it was what he was wearing: beige chinos, white shirt, sand-colored linen jacket. Okay, so we’ll be collaborating with a bank clerk and a PA, she thought, suppressing a giggle. Not that she doubted her colleagues’ competence for a second.
“Ann Wennberg. My specialty is biker gangs. I’ve been with the unit for six months.”
Her voice was warm and inspired trust. Irene was surprised; the biker gangs were a tough assignment for a woman. I guess I have my preconceptions, she thought; if she’d said financial irregularities I wouldn’t have reacted.
“Okay, let’s see what we have so far,” Tommy Persson said energetically.
“So there’s no doubt that the car bomb and the murder of Patrik Karlsson are linked to the biker gangs?” Jonny broke in.
“Yes, we’re pretty much one hundred percent convinced on that score.”
“I knew it,” Jonny muttered.
Stefan looked amused, while Jonny glared into his almost empty coffee cup.
Tommy continued: “Let’s start with Patrik Karlsson. We’re in the process of going through the footage from CCTV cameras in the area. We are mainly interested in the Ringön and Frihamn intersections; everyone has to pass through one or the other in order to get to Ringön. The motorbikes the pizza delivery guy saw should be on film; we know the time frame.”
“Did you find any prints or anything else at the scene of the crime?” Stefan asked.
Tommy nodded to Sara, who took over.
“Plenty inside the building; most were already in our records. They belong to the older members of Gothia MC, and there were even a few from the dear old Bandidos. Unfortunately the plastic container was clean.”
Tommy turned to Ann Wennberg.
“So what do you think? Is this an inside job?”
“You mean did Gothia MC kill one of their own?” She considered the question. “It’s unusual for a gang to do that. It could happen if the victim had betrayed someone, or tried to swindle the club out of a large sum of money. Occasionally a gang member dies after being beaten up because of some perceived transgression, but such a brutal murder? No, I don’t think so.”
“So what is going on here?” Tommy asked.
Once again Ann took her time before answering. “The most-likely scenario is we’re looking at a revenge attack by another gang. Or it could be a private matter that has nothing to do with the gangs.”
“If it is another gang, who would you go for?” Irene asked.
This time there was no hesitation.
“The Gangster Lions. Revenge could well be a motive. According to our informants, the member of the Gangster Lions who was shot outside McDonald’s on the Avenue back in March was killed by bikers, but no one knows which gang was responsible.”
“I don’t know anything about that incident, apart from what was in the press; could you refresh my memory?” Jonny said.
“No problem. Caesar Roijas was shot from a car at two-thirty in the morning. Classic drive-by; the killer simply put the window down and fired, then the car disappeared down the Avenue and across the bridge. It was found burned out on an industrial estate not far from Säve Airport the following day; presumably the perpetrators got in a waiting car. According to the guy who witnessed the shooting, there were two people in the car. Unfortunately he wasn’t close enough to see their faces,” Fredrik explained.
“That doesn’t sound too promising. If you’re right, it looks as if we have a new gang war on our hands,” Tommy said.
Irene had been given the task of contacting the witness who had seen a man enter the backyard at Glady’s. Her name was Ritva Ekholm. Jonny had referred to her as an old woman, but in fact she was a year younger than Irene. She was a lecturer in organic chemistry. Irene managed to get ahold of her at Chalmers University of Technology, and discovered that she spoke with a soft Finland-Swedish accent. There was a hoarse quality to her voice, as if it had been strained for some reason. They arranged to have Irene visit Ritva Ekholm’s apartment just after five, which suited Irene perfectly; she wouldn’t need to divert from her normal cycle rou
te home.
During the afternoon they had both a positive result and a setback. The two guys on motorbikes were spotted on the CCTV footage from the Ringön intersection, and the emblems on their vests indicated that they belonged to the Red Devils, a Hells Angels subchapter. Unfortunately the time was 10:36 p.m., which meant they couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the murder of Patrik Karlsson; by then he had already staggered out into the yard and burned to death in front of a horrified Adem Guzel. No, the two bikers had nothing to do with the murder, but the question remained: What were they doing nearby? The police had no answer yet, but the information was added to the file as a detail worth pursuing.
Ritva Ekholm lived in an apartment block directly opposite Glady’s; the entrance leading to her staircase was on Södra vägen. A small brass plaque on the carved oak door with small, beautifully polished panes of glass informed Irene that the building dated back to 1892. Ritva had given her the entry code, and she tapped in the numbers. The door opened with a low hum. Inside time had stood still. There was a wealth of stucco on the ceilings, attractive floral frescoes, and an impressive, sparkling chandelier. Irene felt as if she had stepped back a hundred years, but at least there was a modern elevator to whisk her up to the fifth floor. Ritva had told her to walk up another flight of stairs; the elevator didn’t go all the way to the top.
The heavy front door looked brand new; Irene noticed that it was equipped with three locks, two of which appeared to be seven-pin cylinders. From inside she could hear the sound of classical music: a string quartet, perhaps. She had to ring the bell several times before she heard footsteps in the hallway. Keys were turned, and the door opened on a security chain. The music was deafening; Irene could just see a pair of large glasses and bushy blonde hair.
“Detective Inspector Irene Huss,” she said, showing her ID.
Protected by the Shadows Page 5
