Protected by the Shadows

by Helene Tursten

  “Kazan is sleeping,” she said quietly.

  “It’s almost eleven o’clock. Could you please go and wake him?” Irene said.

  Sirwe shrugged and avoided meeting her gaze. She kept her eyes fixed on the rug and mumbled, “Difficult. He is tired. He does not feel good.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m afraid we need to speak to him right now.”

  “He has been . . . drinking.” Sirwe risked a quick glance at Irene, but Sara jumped in before Irene could speak.

  “Where’s the rest of the family?”

  “Melek is at the café. So are the girls. Washing dishes. To earn some money during the holidays. Emre is at my sister’s house. Playing with his cousin.”

  “So Emre is your youngest son?” Sara asked.

  Irene wondered if she should take back control, but maybe Sara was going down the family route for a particular reason. Sirwe certainly seemed to have relaxed a little.

  “He is seven,” she said.

  “Such a lovely age, and it’s great that he has a cousin the same age. So your sister lives here too. Did you come over at the same time?” Sara sounded genuinely interested.

  “Yes. She came with us. Melek and me and Kazan. My sister met her husband here.”

  “I see . . . There’s a big age difference between Kazan and his siblings.” It was a statement, not a question. Sirwe gave a start and seemed to hesitate before she spoke. Sara was watching her closely.

  “Kazan’s father . . . my first husband. He was killed. My sister and I took Kazan and fled. We stayed on a farm with Melek’s parents. We worked there. Melek and I fell in love. That meant we could not stay there. Forbidden. His family . . . no. No good.” She shook her head.

  “So Melek isn’t Kazan’s father.”

  Sirwe gave Sara a mournful look and shook her head. Irene glanced around the cozy living room. It was spotless, and the whole house was filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread. Kazan’s parents were decent people who worked hard to give their children a good upbringing and a future, and still the handsome young man had been drawn to the criminal gangs in the city. He had hardly even started his high school career when he had ended up in a juvenile detention facility for drug dealing. According to his latest tax declaration, his income for the last year was in the region of 72,000 kronor, allegedly earned from a series of modeling jobs. Kate Moss wouldn’t even get out of bed for that kind of money. But last night Kazan had been sporting a heavy gold chain around his neck and a striking gold watch. These two items alone had to be worth at least double his stated income. Irene decided she would take a little walk around the neighborhood when they were done here just to check on a couple of things.

  “No. Melek and I have three children,” Sirwe murmured, her eyes drawn to several framed photographs on the wall around the television, some more recent than others: happy children with gappy smiles.

  “Could you please go and wake Kazan? Otherwise we’ll have to do it,” Irene said sweetly.

  She knew it wouldn’t be possible to question Kazan with his mom around; they would have to take him down to the station. Sirwe shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

  “Kazan is . . . not well. He . . . took a pill. To sleep.”

  Irene thought fast. Kazan was obviously out of it, and last night he had been extremely drunk. There wasn’t much point in trying to talk to him if he was semi-conscious, so perhaps it would be best to defer the formal interview. However, she didn’t want to have come all the way out to Gunnared for nothing. She stood up and said firmly, “Okay, but I’d like to take a look at him before we leave. See if it’s possible to have a quick word.”

  Sirwe nodded resignedly. She led the two officers through the hallway to a closed door. She knocked and said something in a language that was presumably Turkish, or perhaps Kurdish. She knocked again, but there was no reaction whatsoever from inside the room. After a moment Irene pushed down the handle and went in. She stopped dead and almost backed out again; the stench of vomit was overwhelming.

  “Oh no! I didn’t know he was so sick!” Sirwe rushed over to her son’s bed. She dropped to her knees, calling out to him in her own language. Kazan lay motionless; there wasn’t even a flicker of movement in the long eyelashes. Irene and Sara edged closer. He was lying there in his own vomit, still wearing the same dark suit from the previous evening. His pants were undone, but a large stain at the front revealed that he hadn’t made it to the bathroom. What worried Irene was the fact that he seemed completely unreachable. She took his wrist and searched for a pulse; when she eventually found it, it was weak and irregular.

  The blinds weren’t fully closed, and a small amount of daylight was seeping into the room. Irene noticed the king-size bed, the black leather Jetson armchair, and the wall-mounted Bang & Olufsen music system. Together with the gigantic speakers, it must have cost at least 50,000 kronor. This boy had plenty of money. Even allowing for the fact that he lived at home and probably didn’t pay any rent, there was no way he could have bought all this with his declared income, Irene thought.

  Kazan’s face was a horrible shade of grey, and covered in a thin sheen of perspiration. When Irene lifted his eyelid, he didn’t react to the light. His pupils were dilated and his skin felt cold, even though he was sweating.

  “We need to get him to hospital,” she said. “Too much booze, too many pills.” She placed a gentle hand on Sirwe’s shoulder as Sara called an ambulance. Kazan’s mother seemed oblivious to what was going on as she sat on the floor in the middle of a pool of vomit, clutching her son’s hand and weeping.

  The ambulance was there in no time, and the still unconscious Kazan was whisked off to Eastern Hospital. Irene offered Sirwe a lift since they were going back into town that way, and she accepted gratefully.

  When they reached the lot where Irene and Sara had parked the unmarked police car, she looked around and saw it straight away, just as she had expected: a gleaming black BMW 6-series Coupé. A very expensive car, especially for a young man. She didn’t believe for a second that it belonged to Melek; if it did, he would have driven off to work in it that morning.

  “How long has Kazan had his BMW?” she asked casually.

  “A month . . . or two . . .” Sirwe sobbed.

  When she realized what she had said, she stiffened.

  “Not Kazan’s. Melek’s.”

  It wouldn’t make any difference if the car was registered in his stepfather’s name, Irene thought. It was illegal to handle goods that could come from the proceeds of a criminal act. According to the law passed on 1 July 2008, all of Kazan’s luxury possessions could be confiscated if the crime of which he was convicted carried a jail term of at least six years, and if they could prove he was involved in the murder of Patrik Karlsson, he would go down for a lot longer.

  By late afternoon Irene and Sara had questioned almost all the guests from the party in Sävedalen who were on their list. They hadn’t managed to get in touch with two of them, and would catch up with them later. Danny’s young widow, Elif, was also one of theirs, but after speaking to her mother on the phone, they had decided to wait a while. Apparently she was still in shock and heavily medicated.

  The team gathered in the conference room. Irene had stocked up with two large cups of coffee and a sticky Mazarin cake from the machine. Once again she had no intention of sharing the coffee, though she might give them a taste of the cake. Tiredness had begun to catch up with her, and she needed her caffeine.

  Irene reported on the visit to Kazan Ekici’s house; Stefan Bratt was very interested in her comments on Ekici’s finances. For a moment his weary eyes lit up.

  “We’ve used the law prohibiting anyone from profiting as a result of criminal activity on several occasions. In the past we weren’t able to confiscate assets, however obvious it was that they’d been acquired with stolen or dirty money, but now we can. And the cash f
rom the sale of these goods goes to the state, so all Swedish citizens benefit,” he said with a smile.

  When the laughter died down, Fredrik asked, “Do we know what caused the overdose?”

  “No. I called the hospital a while ago; he’s still unconscious, but he is stable and they expect him to make a full recovery,” Sara said.

  They discussed the results of the day’s interviews, which were sparse to say the least. To be fair, no one had expected anything else, since the witnesses at the party were all old acquaintances with a record as long as your arm. It seemed that Danny’s guests were neither willing nor able to help solve his murder. Many of them spoke poor Swedish, or pretended to—particularly the women. Some refused to talk to the police at all, mainly on principle. However, some of the men had hinted that they were planning on taking care of both the investigation and the punishment of those responsible, which definitely wasn’t what Stefan Bratt wanted to hear. With a sigh he commented that a major gang war was getting closer and closer, if it wasn’t already in full swing.

  “Danny Mara was shot at 11:34, which probably means that the killer was in hiding for a couple of hours beforehand. Has he left any traces of DNA in the summer house, or in the bushes outside the gate where he was standing?” Ann Wennberg asked.

  Stefan shook his head. “Not as far as we know at the moment; in fact the CSIs were surprised that he’d left nothing but footprints.”

  Irene pictured a big man creeping around among the sheep in size 45 hand-stitched biker boots without being seen by either the police or Danny’s own security guards. “In my opinion it took more than cold-bloodedness to carry out this murder. And I don’t believe the perp was standing there for hours; if that were the case he would have left his DNA,” she said.

  “So what’s your take on this?” Stefan Bratt said, looking energized.

  “Okay, so maybe cutting the chain doesn’t require inside knowledge, but the rest of the operation definitely does. And the longer he hung around, the greater the risk that someone would see him.”

  Irene fell silent, giving herself a few seconds to think things through.

  “He knew that Danny and the other guys were in the habit of going outside to piss in the bushes by the wall, which means he was familiar with what went on at their parties.”

  She was convinced that the killer knew the bushes were always used as an outdoor toilet; the execution of the crime depended upon it.

  “Okay, I’m with you so far, but how did he manage to slip away without anyone seeing him?” Stefan wondered.

  “He walked across the path and returned to his hiding place. Fredrik and Ann passed within a few feet of him as they raced back to the main entrance. When they had gone, our perp simply returned to the path and ran in the opposite direction, across the field to the other side, where he had some form of transport waiting—probably a car, but it could just as easily have been a motorbike.”

  When Irene had finished speaking, everyone spent a little while considering what she had said, while she took the opportunity to polish off her second cup of coffee.

  “I think you’ve given us a very credible scenario,” Stefan Bratt said pensively.

  However, Irene wasn’t quite done.

  “I’ve been thinking about the pictures you showed us this morning—the ones from the Gangster Lions’ party back in May. Several featured guys pissing in the bushes, and there were also photographs of the summer house. Who else has seen those pictures?” she asked.

  Everyone looked at her in surprise. Where was she going with this? After a few seconds they realized why she was asking the question, and one or two looked more than a little annoyed.

  “I’ve seen them,” Stefan said, raising his hand.

  Fredrik Stridh, Ann Wennberg and two more members of the Organized Crimes Unit followed suit.

  “Plus our colleagues in Narcotics; it was one of them who took the pictures.” Stefan added.

  “I know. Sara and I were shown these photographs in the briefing before Danny Mara’s party. My point is that no one else, apart from the people you’ve just mentioned, knew about the Gangster Lions’ little outdoor facility, and the strategic position of the summer house in relation to the lilac bushes,” Irene said.

  “Maybe we weren’t the only ones spying on their parties,” Sara objected.

  “You mean another gang?” Stefan asked.

  Sara shrugged, but didn’t say anything. She was right, of course, Irene thought; Gothia MC could well have done the same thing.

  “But would Gothia MC really dare to hang around when the Lions were having a party?” she said. “They would be in real danger of being caught. Then again, Narcotics managed to take the pictures, so it’s not impossible.”

  “No, and that’s why we’re going to pay a little unannounced visit to the boys out in Gråbo. We’ll meet here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to go through the details; we leave at noon. We’ll take the SWAT team and a dog with us.” Stefan Bratt got to his feet; the meeting was over.

  Just before five the police in Lerum called to say that a man out training his hunting dog in the forest had seen a burned-out car at the bottom of an abandoned quarry, not far from Björbo. It turned out to be an Audi A4 with a sunroof; the registration plates had been removed. As there was an alert out for a car of that type, the discovery was immediately reported, and the CSIs were already on their way.

  Those who had been at the party in Sävedalen the previous night were gathered in the conference room. It had been an intense day, and the atmosphere was subdued.

  “I checked on our hospital patients,” Sara began.

  “So that’s our responsibility as well, is it?” Fredrik complained.

  Ignoring his comment, Sara continued. “Ritva Ekholm is making a good recovery and will be discharged on Monday.”

  “Anything on the painting?” Stefan Bratt asked.

  “No; we’re monitoring various auction sites, but there’s no sign of it yet,” Fredrik said.

  “It’s probably not that easy to sell; no doubt it will go on the black market.” Stefan attempted to hide a yawn behind his hand and blinked a couple of times.

  “As far as Kazan is concerned, his condition is unchanged and he remains stable,” Sara continued. “We might be able to talk to him tomorrow, but there are no guarantees.”

  “In that case I suggest that as we’ve been working for a day and half, we all go home and get some sleep. A meal and a good night’s rest will make us much more effective tomorrow,” Stefan concluded.

  Irene stayed in her office for a while; it was still too light outside for her to be able to sneak into Tommy’s house unnoticed. They had both agreed that it would be best if the neighbors didn’t see her; it would only lead to gossip. However, they did have a cover story ready if it became necessary: Irene was his cousin. She had lived in Karlstad for many years, and was staying with Tommy while she was taking a course in Göteborg. They had decided that Tommy’s “cousin” worked as an emergency nurse at the central hospital in Karlstad; the idea was that a practical course in the emergency department at one of the city’s largest hospitals would explain Irene’s comings and goings at odd times. It ought to work, Irene thought, but it would be best if they didn’t have to use it at all. She was determined not to be seen.

  She could feel the exhaustion like a weight behind her eyeballs. It was almost seven o’clock; definitely time for something to eat.

  As so often in the past, she headed for the pizzeria on Färgaregatan. It wasn’t far from the police station, and the pizzas were excellent. Many of her colleagues went there, and at the moment that was something Irene regarded as a major point in its favor.

  The coleslaw was delicious; Irene hoped it would compensate at least in part for her poor intake of fiber and vitamin C over the past few day. Neither bread rolls nor Mazarins contain much in the way of
those particular nutrients.

  Irene had almost finished her Hawaiian pizza when she suddenly became aware that she was being watched. She looked up and saw Ann Wennberg standing just inside the door. Ann smiled and came over.

  “Hi. Mind if I join you?”

  It would have been extremely rude to say yes, so Irene forced herself to smile.

  “Of course not.”

  Ann sat down; a waiter appeared immediately and took her order for a calzone and a large glass of iced water. “If I drink anything alcoholic I’ll fall asleep on the table,” she said.

  “Same here.” Irene pointed to her glass, which by now contained nothing more than a half-melted ice cube.

  “Very sensible.”

  “Sara and I haven’t had a proper meal all day.”

  “Nor me. I guess Sara’s gone home? I think she mentioned a boyfriend?”

  “Yes, she lives with her partner.”

  The waiter arrived with Ann’s water, and set out silverware and a napkin. He gave her shiny red hair an appreciative glance, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “I hear your husband’s a chef. Is he working this evening? As you’re eating here, I mean,” Ann said.

  “No.”

  Irene was immediately on her guard. Admittedly Ann’s questions could be interpreted as friendly interest, but Irene didn’t like them. She had no wish to discuss what her family was doing right now. The truth was that she didn’t actually know, but she had no intention of telling Ann that. In order to avoid further interrogation, she decided to turn the tables.

  “How about you? Do you have a partner?”

  “No, I’m divorced. It was a short marriage, and we parted as friends.”

  “Was that why you moved to Göteborg?”

  “No. I applied for a job with the task force and got it. The first female in that role in Sweden, in fact. I’ve been with the Organized Crimes Unit for six months now. And Göteborg is a much better city for a single woman,” Ann said with a smile.