Tommy frowned. “You think it’s possible that neither Brännström nor Gothia MC were behind the car bomb?”
Ann moistened her lips and took a sip of cold coffee. “It could be them, but maybe we shouldn’t focus on that angle to the exclusion of everything else. This could be the Gangster Lions too; they’ve insisted for a long time that this section of the Avenue is their territory.”
They spent a little while discussing their next moves, and were about to bring the meeting to a close when the intercom on the desk crackled into life.
“Hello? Lennart Lundstedt would like to speak to Tommy Persson. He says it’s urgent,” a female voice informed them.
Lennart Lundstedt was the head of the special operations team.
“Put him through.” Tommy leaned forward, ready to hear what his old friend and colleague had to say.
Lundstedt got straight to the point: “Morning. We’ve found Jan-Erik Månsson.”
“That’s great news! Has he said anything?” Tommy asked.
There was a brief pause before Lundstedt responded. “This guy hasn’t said anything for quite some time.”
A group of people out picking mushrooms had found the burned-out car. It had been driven into a dense thicket behind a rocky outcrop. One or two of the closest trees were singed, but the fire hadn’t spread. The foragers could see that the car was empty, but the stench from the trunk was overpowering. They had seen plenty of crime series on TV, and had a good idea what was in there. Instead of opening it up to take a closer look, they called the cops.
The scene of the discovery was at the end of a narrow forest track leading down to Lake Landvetter. The perpetrators had gone to considerable trouble to hide the vehicle, choosing an uninhabited and isolated area surrounded by thick vegetation.
The body in the trunk was largely unaffected by the flames, though it was still a horrific sight. The registration plate from the back of the car lay a short distance away; it belonged to Jan-Erik Månsson’s missing Renault Megane, which made the identification of the deceased considerably easier.
Establishing the probable cause of death wasn’t too difficult either: Jan-Erik Månsson had been shot in the head, at least twice.
“Executed,” Jonny stated gloomily, staring down at the corpse.
Irene had seen a lot of dead bodies during her career, but not since the very first case had she felt as physically sick as she did now. Less than six weeks ago she and Krister had had dinner with the charred, rotting mass of flesh in the trunk of the burned-out car, when they got together to sort out the final details regarding Krister’s takeover of Glady’s. What made the situation worse was that Krister was clearly in danger too. These guys were serious. She couldn’t put it off any longer; she had to get him to tell her everything he knew. Right now he was busy with final preparations for the reopening of the restaurant tomorrow, but she would tackle it this evening.
“How long has he been here?” Jonny asked.
The question was directed to Matti Berggren, who was gathering evidence from the scene of the crime. The photographer had gone, leaving Matti with the painstaking task of going over the area with a fine-tooth comb.
“Hard to say—at least a couple of days. The pathologist should be able to tell you more,” Matti said without looking up from the dark patch next to the rear offside tire.
Irene’s cell phone burst into a rendition of “Mercy.” It was a nurse from Sahlgrenska Hospital, informing her that Ritva Ekholm had regained consciousness and been moved out of Intensive Care. The doctors had said she was well enough to answer questions, so Irene and Jonny decided to go straight over.
“Only one of you can go in,” the male nurse said firmly.
He was young and dark-skinned, and spoke Swedish with a very slight accent. He folded his arms and gazed implacably at the two police officers. Jonny started to protest, then changed his mind.
“You go, Irene. She knows you,” he said.
Irene had to put on sterile clothing before she was allowed into the room. Ritva’s thin body was barely visible beneath the yellow blanket. Her face was ashen, and the contrast with the livid purple bruise around her left eye and temple was shocking. The wound on the side of her head was bandaged. One eye was swollen shut, although according to the nurse it wasn’t damaged; the heavy bleeding had caused the swelling. He quietly informed Irene that their experienced senior consultant thought the injury had been caused by a blunt object with a sharp edge—some kind of metal weapon, he had said. Bearing in mind who they were dealing with here, Irene favored a knuckle duster.
“Just a few minutes,” the nurse reminded her before leaving the room.
Irene turned to the small figure in the bed.
“Ritva? It’s Irene Huss from the police. Do you think you could manage to answer a couple of questions?”
Ritva opened her right eye and looked up at Irene. She moved her lips, but nothing came out.
“As I’m sure you understand, we’d like to know what happened,” Irene went on.
Ritva’s gaze darted to and fro, and eventually fixed on a point on the ceiling.
Irene tried again:
“Do you remember what happened last night?”
Slowly the eye focused on Irene once more; Ritva’s expression was unreadable.
“No. Nothing,” she whispered.
“Nothing at all?”
“No. No.”
Had the trauma affected Ritva’s memory, or was she too scared to talk?
“You really don’t remember anything?”
Ritva moved her head slowly from side to side.
“During the course of this investigation we’ve come across a number of people who’ve been threatened. Has anyone threatened you?” Irene asked, feeling as if she was being unnecessarily brutal.
Ritva froze, then she gave an almost imperceptible sigh. “No.”
Irene decided to try a new tactic. “Do you remember our conversation yesterday evening?”
“Yes.”
Not a hint of hesitation, which was encouraging. “Do you remember me leaving your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember telling me you were going shopping later?”
“Yes.”
“And did you do that? Did you go shopping?”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate and confident.
“What time did you go out?”
There was a lengthy silence.
“I don’t . . . remember,” Ritva said hesitantly.
“Where did you go? The 7-Eleven? Domus on the Avenue?”
“I don’t remember.” Ritva closed her eye.
“Did you see anyone when you got back to your apartment?”
“I don’t remember. All . . . black.”
“You don’t recall anything that happened before the attack?”
“No.”
Irene asked a few more questions, but it was a waste of time; Ritva just kept on repeating that she didn’t remember a thing. When the nurse came in and informed Irene that her time was up, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Their only witness in the car bomb case appeared to have lost her memory. She consoled herself with the thought that it might only be a temporary state of affairs.
Late in the afternoon they received confirmation that the dead man was Jan-Erik Månsson; the charred corpse had been identified with the help of dental records. Due to a skiing accident in his teens, Jan-Erik had a small bridge in his upper jaw, and so did the victim. There was also a gold watch on the wrist with the inscription “Jan-Erik 2009. With all my love, Sissela.” Jan-Erik and Sissela had divorced in 2010.
Professor Yvonne Stridner had personally called to give Irene the news, which was unusual.
“This is a repulsive crime, definitely on a par with the young man who was
set on fire out in Ringön,” she explained. Then she hung up before Irene had the chance to thank her.
Irene sat there for a while staring blankly at the faded print of Monet’s Impression, soleil levant, which had adorned the wall during all the years she had been with the unit; it had even come with them when they moved upstairs. When she stood up, she had made her decision. It was definitely time to talk to Krister.
At first he refused to go with her. He got annoyed and pointed out that he had his hands full getting the restaurant ready to reopen, and that took priority over her nagging.
That was the final straw as far as Irene was concerned. She grabbed his upper arm and looked him straight in the eye, making a huge effort to keep her voice under control.
“Listen to me. Janne has been found dead. Murdered. The boss has told me to question you, but if you’d prefer one of my colleagues to do it, we’ll go to the station right now.”
Krister stiffened and stared at her as every scrap of color drained from his face. Irene was genuinely afraid he might faint, and when his knees began to shake she forced him to sit down on a stool just inside the kitchen door.
“Put your head between your knees and take deep breaths. There you go. It’s okay, honey.”
After a while he began to look a little better, but it was obvious he was still deeply shocked.
“Would you prefer to talk at home or at the station?” Irene asked, fighting back the tears.
“At home,” he mumbled.
“Fine. But remember I’m not taking any crap.”
She immediately regretted her brusque tone, but at the same time she realized that if she was going to get anything out of him, she had to stick to her guns. Her compliant approach had achieved nothing.
During the drive home Krister sat beside her in the passenger seat without saying a word. Irene didn’t feel like starting a conversation either; this wasn’t the time for small talk, and the serious discussion could wait.
She parked the car and got out, but Krister didn’t move. She walked around and opened his door.
“Come on, honey,” she said gently.
He gave a start, but made no effort to get out. Staring straight ahead, he said in a voice that was far from steady:
“Is it . . . is it definitely Janne?”
Irene took a deep breath.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
As Irene and Krister walked into the apartment, Egon came hurtling toward them like a little cyclone made of silky reddish-brown fur. He wound himself around their legs whimpering with joy until Krister picked him up. Overcome with delight he licked his master’s face. Like all dogs he liked the taste of salty bodily fluids, but after a little while he realized that Krister was sad. He calmed down, but carried on licking away the tears. He scrabbled his way up Krister’s chest and buried his nose under his master’s ear, licking and rooting around until Krister couldn’t help laughing.
“I know this is a formal interview, but is it okay if I have a whisky?” he asked with a wan smile.
“Sure,” Irene said, kissing him softly.
The last week had been something of an ordeal; a drop of Scotch wouldn’t do either of them any harm. She poured both of them a generous measure of the amber-colored liquid, using the crystal glasses they had inherited from her parents. On the way to the living room she stopped in the hallway and took a small tape recorder out of her jacket pocket.
Krister settled down in one of the armchairs with Egon contentedly curled up on his lap. Slowly he stroked the little dog’s back as he gazed out of the large picture window. The sun was setting, and the clouds were lit from below with a beautiful pink glow.
Irene handed him his drink; they both took a sip, then she said, “I’m sorry I told you about Janne’s death in such a brutal way, but ever since the car bomb I’ve had the feeling that you’ve been avoiding talking to me. This can’t go on; you have to tell me everything you know. This is serious. And I have no choice but to record what you say.”
She switched on the tape recorder and placed it on the coffee table. Krister still didn’t meet her eyes; instead he looked down at Egon, who was snoring quietly. Irene gave the date and time, but before she could state their full names, Krister interrupted her.
“How . . . how did he die?”
“Janne was shot. Then they hid his body in the trunk of his car, drove out to an isolated spot near Lake Landvetter, and set fire to the car.”
Krister swallowed hard.
“When was this?”
“We don’t know for sure, but probably at the beginning of the week.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Irene really wanted to go over and put her arms around him, but she knew she had to remain as professional as possible, otherwise there was a significant risk that they would both break down. She decided to try something out, see if he took the bait.
“We know that Janne was contacted by the gang known as Gothia MC. Did he mention it to you?”
Krister stiffened and gave her a quick glance before returning his attention to Egon.
“No. Janne didn’t say anything to me. Nothing at all,” he muttered.
Irene refrained from asking him to repeat his answer a little more clearly. It would have to do; she could see how hard this was for him. There was a lump in her throat, and she had to swallow several times before she was able to continue.
“We know he sold both restaurants very quickly. We also know that he was in the process of selling his luxury apartment, but he couldn’t wait until that sale went through; he tried to run.”
She told Krister about Jan-Erik’s desperate attempt to flee to the US without his girlfriend, and that he had failed to check in at the airport. The last person to see him alive, as far as they knew, was Jeanette Stenberg at around eleven o’clock on Sunday night. Irene paused as she considered her next move.
“We know that Janne had gambling debts, but we don’t think this is about those debts. It’s something to do with the restaurants. Or in the case of the car bomb, your restaurant. Am I right?”
Krister sighed and took a large swig of his whisky. He rubbed his face, as he were trying to wake himself from a bad dream.
“It started with the gambling debts. They’re saying he didn’t pay off everything he owed, so now they want me to pay!”
The last words were followed by a sob. Egon whimpered in confusion and pressed himself closer to his master’s chest.
“When you say ‘they,’ who do you mean?”
Irene did her best to sound unmoved, but her throat was constricted by the effort of holding back her own tears. She knew her voice was shaking, but hoped it wouldn’t come across on the tape.
“The gang . . . the biker gang.”
“Gothia MC?”
“Yes. There were two of them. They wore vests . . . Oh God, I can’t believe it’s only been a week since this nightmare began!”
He put down a protesting Egon and got to his feet. He strode out of the room; Irene heard the bathroom door open, and sound of water running for a long time. When he came back he seemed more composed, although his hand was trembling as he raised the whisky glass to his lips. He put it down and looked her in the eye.
“They threatened to kill you and the girls. Then me.”
Irene felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach, but she managed to maintain a neutral tone. “So why did they plant a bomb under our car?”
“I don’t know. To show me they weren’t messing around, I guess.”
He could be right, Irene thought. The bomb had been a warning.
“Why did they threaten to kill us? What did they want you to do?”
Krister sighed, but at least he was facing up to the situation. “They said I’d inherited Janne’s debts, insisted I had to pay.”
“They said you’d inherited his deb
ts?”
“Yes. As if . . . as if he was already dead. But he wasn’t. Jeannette saw him on Sunday. But he must have been . . . condemned to death.”
“When was this?”
“Last Friday.”
Irene tried to think back. “We got home at almost the same time, around six,” she said.
“Yes. They were waiting for me outside the restaurant when I left.” He fell silent, clutching the crystal glass which was now empty.
“Can you remember their exact words?”
Krister got up and went over to the window, where the last rays of the setting sun caught the treetops down in the valley. He and Irene had stood there side by side enjoying the spectacle many times during the summer. When he turned around, his expression was grim. He went back to his armchair, picked up the empty glass and put it down again. It was a couple of moments before he felt he could trust his voice.
“The fat guy with the tattoo on his face informed me that because I was now the owner of Glady’s, I had to pay four hundred thousand by Friday. Tomorrow. That’s how much Janne owes them, and according to this guy, he used the restaurant as collateral.”
“Four hundred . . . ! And what did you say?” She could hardly get the words out.
“I told them I don’t have any money. That we’ve put everything we had into the restaurant, plus we’ve taken out a loan . . . Well, you know all that. I told them it was impossible.” He slumped down in the chair, as if all the strength had left his body.
Irene knew exactly what their financial position was. Before she could ask a question, Krister continued. “If I don’t come up with the money, they are going to consider themselves joint owners of Glady’s.”
She had been expecting something along those lines, but still her stomach contracted. A feeling of fury and impotence flooded her body. There had to be a solution, but what was it?
“So what did you say to that?”
“I told them to go to hell!”
Protected by the Shadows Page 8
