Protected by the Shadows

by Helene Tursten

  “Can we check out the tattoos on his hands? They’re pretty clear in these images too,” Jonny suggested.

  “The Audi reappears at the Råda intersection at 5:06, heading back into the city.”

  Sara ended her report with the relevant images; the driver looked the same, and sitting beside him was Andreas Brännström.

  “So we know that Månsson was alive at 4:17 on Monday morning,” Tommy summarized. “Andreas Brännström was in the backseat, and forced him to drive to the location in Landvetter where we found the car. It seems likely that he was killed almost as soon as they arrived; the time of death is somewhere between 4:35 and 4:55. There are no reports of smoke or flames by the lake, which is hardly surprising; no one lives around there, and people aren’t likely to be out and about at that hour in any case.”

  He informed them that a call had gone out for Andreas Brännström, but with no luck so far. There were images from the previous day of a lone motorcyclist traveling across Öresund Bridge. He had no logos on his helmet or jacket, but his physique matched Brännström’s description. He might have left the country, which would explain why Interpol was now looking for him. He could have been supplied with a false passport by associates in Copenhagen and boarded a plane with an unknown destination. At this point he could be anywhere in the world.

  It didn’t take him long to find out he’d been identified, Irene thought.

  “Have you spoken to Kazan Ekici?” Stefan Bratt asked, looking at Ann and Fredrik.

  Fredrik nodded. “I interviewed him yesterday, but he denies being anywhere near Kolgruvegatan. He claims that he and his friend Fendi Göks were on their way to a party out in Lillhagen. They’d borrowed Daddy’s car, but they took a wrong turn after the Tingstad tunnel and ended up on Ringögatan. They tried to pick up their route via the Branting intersection, but they went wrong again and decided to skip the party. They drove back the same way and went to a bar instead. Fendi Göks tells exactly the same story. We spoke to the bartender who was on duty on Saturday night, and he confirms that Kazan and his pal arrived some time before eleven. We have no evidence to suggest that Kazan and Fendi have anything to do with the murder, so they were released.”

  “Who’s Fendi Göks?” Irene asked; she had never heard of him.

  “He just turned eighteen and has a brand new driver’s license. He has a record for minor violations, but nothing serious. According to Kazan, he and Fendi are cousins, but I don’t know if that’s true. They live at home with their respective parents in Gunnared,” Fredrik clarified.

  “Thanks for the information, Fredrik, and for conducting the interview. We still have people on vacation, but we’ll be back to full strength on Monday,” Tommy said.

  Stefan Bratt leaned forward. “Speaking of full strength: we’re also a little short-staffed at the moment. This evening we’re supposed to check out an interesting party: Danny Mara, the leader of the Gangster Lions, is having a fortieth birthday celebration at a conference center in Sävedalen. Or just outside Sävedalen, in fact. The place is owned by a property company that Danny runs with his brother. It’s important to have a legitimate business for money-laundering purposes.”

  He sat back with a meaningful smile.

  “So the mafia king is holding court. Fascinating,” Jonny commented.

  “That’s right. I’m sure most of the gang will be there. Those who aren’t on our wanted list or behind bars, anyway,” Bratt said, his smile even broader now. He quickly grew serious and nodded toward the picture of Brännström and his associate in the Audi.

  “We’ve also heard from various sources that a new war is brewing between Gothia MC and the Gangster Lions. It seems likely that Gothia will want to avenge the murder of Patrik Karlsson; what better time to strike than when the Gangster Lions are partying?”

  “Partying . . . you mean totally wasted on booze and narcotics. Keeping an eye on those bastards is always a fucking nightmare; it costs a fortune and it means extra work for us. Can’t we just forget the whole thing? Let them sort it out among themselves? Cheap and . . . self-cleansing,” Jonny said with a grin.

  Stefan Bratt raised his eyebrows. Tommy glared at his inspector, but Jonny didn’t let it bother him one iota. To her surprise, Irene noticed that Ann Wennberg was smiling at Jonny. Did she really find him funny, or was it more of a supercilious smirk?

  Bratt considered for a moment before responding.

  “There are definitely those who take that view, but right now Göteborg is a city under extreme pressure from gangs. Politicians and public servants are being bribed; those who can’t be bribed are threatened. It’s endemic, and even innocent citizens are dragged down. It’s all about power and money. The mafia gangs control drug dealing, prostitution, human trafficking, illegal gambling, protection rackets plus several other grey areas, not least in the building and catering industries. The mafia is a financial power factor. This affects all of us, one way or another. And now we have a new gang war, which once again is about who is in charge of these lucrative interests. Which means it’s our job to get in there and put a stop to it.”

  Jonny shrugged, but didn’t say anything. However, his expression made it clear that he hadn’t changed his mind about the way in which the gang problem should be solved.

  “So is there any chance that you guys could help us out tonight?” Bratt asked, glancing around the room.

  Irene thought fast. It was better to spend the evening with her colleagues than trying to stay out of Gothia MC’s way on her own.

  “I’m in,” she said.

  “Me too,” Sara said.

  Tommy Persson looked troubled.

  “I’m at a conference in Stenungsbaden. I’m leaving after lunch and I won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”

  Which Irene already knew, of course.

  “Unfortunately I can’t help—family reasons,” Jonny said firmly.

  “At least that’s two extra bodies, and I’ll be there too. It’ll be good to get out in the field again,” Bratt said enthusiastically.

  Straight after the meeting Irene borrowed an unmarked car and drove home to Guldheden to pick up her uniform. When she tried on the pants, which she hadn’t worn for a couple of years, her suspicions were confirmed: they were pretty tight around her waist and over her backside. There was no denying that she had put on a few pounds, which was annoying.

  Krister wasn’t due to hand over the money to Gothia MC until the evening, so it was too early for them to realize that something had gone wrong. Just to be on the safe side, Irene gave the plants an extra drink of water. She checked the refrigerator just to make sure there was nothing in there that was going to start stinking over the next seven days.

  She also called Glady’s on the landline; as she had expected, the maître d’ was devastated to hear that the restaurant would have to remain closed for at least another week. However, when Irene explained that the staff and customers could be in danger because of the car bomb and the murder of Jan-Erik Månsson, he didn’t protest. He promised to call everyone who had already made a reservation.

  Before Irene left the apartment, she took a good look around. The place really was lovely now they had finished all the renovations. Every room had been redecorated, and they had bought several new pieces, but it still retained that cozy, familiar feeling. She was happy there; she didn’t want to live anywhere else. No fucking lowlife gangster was going to force her out! Resolutely she locked the front door behind her, but she couldn’t ignore the heaviness in her heart. She had no idea when she would be able to come back home.

  It had just stopped raining, and the flashing blue lights of two parked squad cars were reflected in the wet tarmac. Superintendent Stefan Bratt was in one car, with Irene, Sara, Fredrik and Ann in the other. Two officers from the security detail who had arrived with Stefan had positioned themselves on either side of the imposing gates of the
conference center; their job was to check the ID of all arrivals before they drove onto the complex. Stefan himself stayed in the background, keeping an eye on proceedings. As he worked for the Organized Crimes Unit, he recognized most of those who turned up; he also made a point of memorizing some of the younger partygoers. He knew it was only a matter of time before he came across them again.

  Irene could see smartly dressed people moving around in the lobby; she too recognized a number of faces. Before they parted company after the meeting, Stefan had shown her and Sara some photographs taken by a surveillance team at an earlier party; the Gangster Lions had been celebrating the release of some of their older members from various jails at roughly the same time. That particular party had also been attended by scantily clad girls who, according to Bratt, were neither the wives nor the girlfriends of the “gentlemen” who were there.

  The parkland surrounding the venue itself was an odd shape—long and narrow. Apparently it was because the palatial manor house had been constructed on a plot in between two pieces of land, one owned by the church and the other by a family of noble birth. A wealthy trader had built the “shopkeeper’s palace,” as it was known locally, in the 1880s. The head of the noble family had refused to cede a single square yard to the “upstart grocer.” They became bitter enemies, and the trader had an exceptionally high wall erected all the way around the parkland, making a point of separating himself from his neighbors.

  The sturdy wall made of Bohuslän granite was still just as solid as the day it went up. The only way to see what was now the conference center from outside was to stand in front of the impressive gates. Irene had learned that there were two smaller gates set into the wall, one halfway down each long side. They provided access to the park, but it was impossible to see the front of the center from either gate. The police had had no choice but to stick to the main gates if they were to have any chance of monitoring what was going on. At the same time, their obvious presence acted as a warning signal to the Gangster Lions: we’re watching you.

  Irene could see Danny Mara standing in the middle of the crowded lobby beneath an ostentatious crystal chandelier. Two enormous heavies behind him were checking out anyone who came near their employer; they might as well have had “bodyguard” stamped across their foreheads. Irene recognized them right away: the Iranian brothers Ali and Omid Reza. They had been part of a gang that had split because of internal squabbles over drug money, which had ended with two dead and one seriously injured. The rest of the gang got stuck serving long sentences in jail, including the Reza brothers. They had a reputation for being real tough guys. As soon as they were released, Danny Mara contacted them and said he could use them as his personal bodyguards. And when the leader of the Gangster Lions makes an offer, everyone knows you have no choice. It was non-negotiable; it was an order. They had accepted immediately.

  One by one, Danny’s guests walked up to him, shook hands and gave him a present. Mostly envelopes, as far as Irene could see. She noticed their stiff posture, and how uncomfortable many of the tattooed men looked in their dark suits and new shirts. Their attitude to their leader was one of respect; some even bent over his hand as if to offer a kiss. Behind Danny, Irene could just see a younger guy: his brother and right-hand man, Andy Mara. The two of them were very much alike, although Andy was perhaps a little slimmer than Danny.

  A young woman was standing beside Danny with two children, the smallest in a stroller. He was sucking enthusiastically on a pale blue pacifier that bobbed up and down as he watched everything that was going on, wide-eyed. His older sister was clutching her mommy’s hand and gazing down at her shiny red shoes. Occasionally she would glance up and smile shyly when someone spoke to her. The girl couldn’t be more than four years old, but it was already clear that she looked just like her mom; she was a pretty child. Her mother was elegant and slender, with long dark brown hair tumbling in loose curls down her back. Her dress was an off-the-shoulder dream in ivory silk.

  “Is the woman in the stunning dress Danny’s wife?” Irene asked.

  “Yes, Elif,” Ann replied. “Six years ago she was the prettiest eighteen-year-old in Göteborg. She caught Danny’s eye, and he made up his mind; he usually gets what he wants. They married after a very short time, and everyone was happy. But not anymore—at least as far as Elif’s family are concerned.”

  “How come?”

  “You see the heavily pregnant girl behind them, on the stairs?”

  Irene could hardly miss her; she looked as if she was ready to pop at any moment. Unlike most of the other guests she had a Nordic appearance, with pale blonde hair and blue eyes.

  “She’s nineteen, her name is Jannike, and she’s been Danny’s mistress for the last year. Officially she’s Andy’s girlfriend, but everyone knows the score; that’s Danny’s baby she’s carrying.”

  “And what does Andy have to say about that?” Irene asked.

  “Andy’s always been single, and rumor has it that he prefers guys. But that would be completely unacceptable within both the gang and the family, so I guess this arrangement suits him too. They say his last girlfriend was also Danny’s mistress.”

  “So Danny is notoriously unfaithful to his wife?”

  “So it seems.”

  Their attention was diverted by a white limousine pulling up by the gates. The tinted rear window slid down and a face appeared. The man’s bleached locks were slicked back in a style that looked ridiculous on someone who was well over forty, with thinning hair. With some difficulty he fished a wallet out of the inside pocket of his smoking jacket and waved his ID at the uniformed officers. One of them took it and examined it at some length, his face expressionless, before handing it back with an exaggerated bow. The man in the backseat grabbed his ID card and the window silently closed. The car slowly rolled forward to the wide steps leading up to the main entrance; the passenger got out and chivalrously held open the door for his female companion. She appeared to be distinctly unsteady on her feet as she tottered out of the car; the man in the smoking jacket tightened his grip on her arm and steered her up the steps.

  “Wow! The mafia’s lawyer, Christoffer von Hanke, in person. We are honored!” Fredrik exclaimed.

  Irene watched as the couple was absorbed by the crowd.

  The radio crackled to life, and Stefan Bratt’s voice informed them that there were now one hundred and thirty-seven guests inside the building. The party had begun.

  The guests had settled down in the dining room. The laughter and the hum of conversation pouring out of the windows increased in volume with every toast. Irene, Sara, Fredrik and Ann stayed in the car, drinking coffee that tasted like dishwater and making small talk to pass the time. As it was a private party in a private venue, the police had no authority to go through the gates, but nobody could prevent them from monitoring the event from outside.

  “Did you fix your motorbike?” Fredrik suddenly asked.

  “I did. It was just some moisture in the engine,” Ann replied with a wry smile.

  Ann had a motorbike? Irene raised her eyebrows and gave Fredrik a quizzical look. He nodded eagerly in response.

  “She’s got a massive machine; it refused to start yesterday,” he explained.

  At first Irene was completely taken aback at the news that a colleague who was investigating criminal biker gangs was actually in the habit of riding around on a powerful motorbike, but then her curiosity got the better of her.

  “So did your job inspire you to start riding?” she asked.

  “No, I grew up around cars and motorbikes. I’ve been riding for sixteen years. My father was a car dealer, but he specialized in bikes as a kind of sideline, mainly the heavier models. My two older brothers run the business today, and of course they ride too. And so do their wives. My eldest nephew is about to get his license, so . . . you could say it runs in the family,” Ann said.

  “Ann’s knowledge
of the biker world was one of the reasons why she became part of the team; she knows the culture inside out. And she can fix her own bike,” Fredrik said with an unmistakable note of admiration in his voice.

  Several young men in suits emerged onto the steps for a smoke, laughing and pointing at the police cars. They were joined by another man holding a large glass; as he staggered out of the door he realized the glass was empty, and angrily hurled it onto the ground. It shattered on the concrete and the shards flew in all directions. The others laughed, and one of them offered a cigar to his drunken companion, who somehow managed to insert it between his lips. He waved his hands around, and someone offered him a light. In the glow of the flame, Irene recognized Kazan Ekici. The heavy gold chain around his neck glinted, and as he cupped his hands around the lighter, Irene and her colleagues saw the glimmer of his gold watch.

  “That guy likes his bling,” Fredrik commented.

  “That’s not bling, that’s the real deal,” Sara said firmly.

  They sat in silence for a while; it was beginning to feel unpleasantly warm and damp inside the car.

  “Maybe we should stretch our legs,” Ann suggested; she was unable to suppress a yawn.

  All four of them got out and tried to ease their stiff muscles. Irene was feeling restless; she needed to move. It was a huge effort to keep her thoughts about Krister and the girls at bay. They were safe right now, but what did the future hold? What would the situation be in a week’s time? A month? A year? She pushed aside her worries and tried to focus on the here and now.