Protected by the Shadows

by Helene Tursten

  Tommy shook his head firmly. “No, that will be too late. I’ll talk to Åkesson. It’s more important that you act fast.”

  Irene felt a wave of relief, mainly because she wouldn’t have to waste time interviewing the prosecutor, but also because she knew that Tommy didn’t believe she was the leak. She also had a couple of things to do before she set off.

  Irene had finally decided whom she was going to work with. The first was the person who couldn’t possibly be the informant. The second was absolutely essential to the investigation and couldn’t possibly tell anyone what they found. She would contact the third person with no warning, immediately before they were due to start work.

  Perfect, she thought. Time to get moving.

  Detective Inspector Hannu Rauhala had returned to work that morning after a three-week vacation, so there was no way the leak could have come from him. Despite the fact that the whole place had been turned upside down after the violent events of the past week, Hannu was calm and collected as always. Irene had learned to appreciate him more and more over the years. Nothing escaped him when he was after a perpetrator or something in their past that they were desperate to hide. His nose led him unerringly to the place where the stench was at its worst, as Superintendent Sven Andersson used to say.

  He was sitting at his computer surrounded by piles of paper. When Irene walked in he looked up at her and smiled. His teeth and ice-blue eyes seemed almost luminous against his tan skin, and his sun-bleached hair was verging on chalk-white. Irene could see why her friend and colleague Birgitta had fallen for this taciturn man from the far north. Their son, Timo, was about to start second grade; Birgitta had completed her law degree and had been assigned to the court in Uddevalla as a clerk. She would start commuting on a daily basis in September. Her long-term plan was to become a judge.

  Irene quickly filled Hannu in on the situation, and what she wanted him to find out. She didn’t even bother to stress that he mustn’t tell anyone what he was doing; he never did.

  Irene had to contact the second member of her team, the one who couldn’t possibly tell anyone what they found, through an intermediary: Rickard Mellkvist, Frode’s handler. Customs and Excise was doing nothing special that afternoon and evening and was happy to help. Rickard was a little taken aback when Irene explained that their destination was confidential and that at this stage she couldn’t tell him where they were going, but he readily accepted it when she said it was a matter of routine security. As he wasn’t a police officer, Irene was counting on the fact that he wasn’t familiar with normal procedures. They agreed that Irene would contact him as soon as the search warrant was approved.

  Just before setting off for Gunnared, Irene called Matti Berggren in forensics; it took a little persuasion, but eventually he agreed to come along. He found it difficult to accept that he couldn’t tell anyone he was going with her to an unknown destination; Irene and Tommy were the only two people in the station who knew where they were heading. Irene was determined to stay one step ahead, and to block any possible leaks.

  Sirwe Ekici recoiled when she opened the door and saw Irene, Matti, Rickard and Frode. She stood there in silence as Irene introduced her colleagues and produced the search warrant. There was such deep sorrow in her eyes as she stood aside to let them in that Irene had a lump in her throat. How could Kazan cause his mother such pain? The answer was he didn’t really care about her or the rest of his family. All he cared about was getting what he thought he deserved: luxury possessions, a high-status car, designer clothes and access to the best clubs and parties. And last but not least: an unlimited supply of drugs.

  They went straight to Kazan’s room. Irene wasn’t surprised to see that it had been thoroughly cleaned; there was no sign of the previous day’s chaos. In spite of the overpowering smell of detergent, it didn’t take Frode long to find what he was looking for. He stopped and signaled by one of the closets.

  The drugs were in a tin box hidden on the top shelf. The lid wasn’t on properly, probably because Kazan had helped himself to the contents. It was concealed behind a loose plywood panel, easily removed by pulling on a short nylon cord. A simple but not particularly clever idea.

  A thin layer of white powder was clearly visible on the bottom of the tin, which contained eight packages the size of a house brick, tightly wrapped in plastic and sealed with duct tape. There was a small slit in one of the packages, possibly made by a knife; the hole had been covered with ordinary transparent Scotch tape.

  “Cocaine. That’s what it looks like when it arrives direct from South America; I’ve seen it before,” Rickard Mellkvist said. “It’s usually cut in Tenerife or one of the countries on the west coast of Africa before distribution in Europe, and the packaging is different then.”

  Matti picked up the package with the slit and peeled away the tape. He shook a tiny amount of white powder onto his palm and tasted it with the tip of his tongue. After careful consideration he said:

  “Cocaine. Wow, that’s strong! Each pack weighs around half a pound. As Rickard says, it hasn’t been cut yet; it’s very rare to see it in its pure form here in Sweden.”

  “How much will this be diluted before it’s sold?” Irene asked.

  “Between five and ten times; the street value of each of these packs will be at least two million kronor,” Matti said.

  If he was right, they had just found cocaine worth sixteen million kronor in a tin box in Kazan’s room. How come Danny Mara had allowed him to store such an enormous amount? Kazan could hardly be regarded as his right-hand man. Or was it a smart move? Under normal circumstances, the police would never have suspected that Kazan was hiding pure cocaine in the closet in his bedroom at his parents’ house.

  Rickard Mellkvist looked very pleased, and gave Frode a treat. The dog wagged his tail happily, and after a job well done, he and his master headed back to their car.

  Irene called Tommy and told him what they had found. He was more than happy with the outcome and said he would call for back up from Narcotics. He would also make sure the BMW was picked up right away. His next job was to inform Superintendent Stefan Bratt; it would look odd if he didn’t, as they had confiscated such a large quantity of drugs.

  “I’ll go to the hospital to see if I can question Kazan,” Irene said.

  “Good idea.”

  While they were waiting for their colleagues from Narcotics, they carried on searching the room, and found a small-caliber pistol taped to the underside of the bed. Matti photographed the gun in situ before carefully loosening the tape. His face lit up as he contemplated the slender weapon.

  “A Morini CM .22 RF—wow! What a little beauty!”

  “Another area of expertise?” Irene asked in surprise.

  “I’ve been a member of a shooting club for years. This is a fantastic pistol, but it’s quite unusual. The small caliber means it’s not exactly a murder weapon; it’s more likely to be used in competition.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Probably. Top quality, and it would suit someone with small hands. Six bullets in the magazine.”

  Was it possible that Sirwe hadn’t discovered the gun when she was cleaning her son’s room? Hardly. She kept her house spotless; she would never have missed something like that.

  How involved were Kazan’s parents? It seemed likely that they were well aware that Kazan’s money came from criminal activities, but preferred to pretend they had no idea. Maybe they had resigned themselves to the situation. That was what usually happened, in Irene’s experience.

  Narcotics arrived in less than thirty minutes. They couldn’t understand why Irene had requisitioned a dog from Customs rather than one of their own, but accepted her explanation that it had been the quickest solution.

  She mentioned the BMW in the parking lot, but informed them that it wasn’t to be touched. She suspected that it contained trace evidence relating to the murder of P
atrik Karlsson, so it was to be transported to the station where Matti Berggren could go over every inch of it.

  Sirwe was sitting on the stairs, her tears dripping onto the head of the boy she was clutching to her chest. He stared at the police officers, but there were no tears; his eyes burned with hatred. This must be Emre, Kazan’s half brother.

  “Kazan hasn’t done anything! You’re trying to frame him!” the child hissed.

  He was trying to sound tough, but his lower lip was trembling.

  Irene stopped in front of them and said calmly: “Your brother is in hospital because he took so much cocaine that he almost died. He’s very sick. We found an enormous amount of coke in his room; it would be impossible for the police to get ahold of that much in order to frame someone. He hid it all himself so that he could sell it to other dealers. He risks people’s lives just to make money. They die because of the drugs he supplies. But he doesn’t care about any of that.”

  Sirwe looked as if someone had slapped her across the face. The boy probably didn’t really understand what Irene had said; the look in his eyes hadn’t changed. Why bother telling a kid all this? Irene thought. But deep down she knew why: she was sick of taking crap from all sides and constantly being challenged. In a few years this little boy would be throwing stones at the firefighters and police officers who were called out to some suburb because a gang of teenagers was setting cars on fire. Perhaps he would take on his brother’s mantle and begin his progress toward the higher echelons of gang culture. The fact that his parents were decent people made no difference; money and the sense of belonging that came with the gang had a more seductive appeal. Respect, easy money and identity were the key words. Those young men wanted to go their own way. Unfortunately they were on an inexorable downward spiral, sinking deeper and deeper into the morass of drugs and crime.

  Matti Berggren stayed to wait for his colleagues from CSI. Working in tandem with Narcotics, they would search the Ekici house. Sirwe had gone over to her sister’s house with Emre; she lived just a short distance away.

  Irene tried to think straight as she drove to the hospital. There were several new pieces of the puzzle, and a picture was beginning to take shape, despite the fact that some pieces were still missing.

  Kazan had had an enormous amount of cocaine in his possession, but he was well below leadership level in the Gangster Lions. They were hardly likely to trust him with such a valuable asset, particularly given the fact that they must have known about his own problems as a user. Which meant he probably wasn’t hiding the coke on their behalf. So whom did it belong to? Another gang? Surely Danny Mara wouldn’t have stood for that. And Danny had been killed—by Kazan? Again, unlikely. Besides, Kazan had a watertight alibi; he had been out on the terrace with plenty of other people when the shots were fired, and he was already as high as a kite by then.

  But Kazan was a user; had some of the coke been intended for personal use? After all, he had overdosed on pure coke; he probably didn’t realize it was several times stronger than usual.

  Matti had said that it was very rare for such a pure form of the drug to reach Sweden. Irene remembered a narcotics course where she had learned that cocaine is cut several times on its journey from South America to Europe. A common additive is a worming powder that contains tetramisol. It gives the same corrosive feeling on the gums when the major dealers are testing the purity of the drug. The side effects of tetramisol are fatal to both people and animals. Other common adulterants are crushed painkillers that can no longer be sold, and are therefore easily and cheaply available on the black market. The in-crowd are basically inhaling baking powder, crushed painkillers or worming powder, spiced up with a tiny amount of coke. Fools, Irene thought, pursing her lips.

  The question that overshadowed everything was where the hell Kazan had gotten all that cocaine from. Had he bought it? Stolen it, more likely. The logical follow-up question had to be: From whom? That was where things got tricky. He could have stolen it from the Gangster Lions, but would he even get near that quantity? Irene knew from past experience that only the top tier within a gang had access to drugs, even if they weren’t directly involved in dealing. The dealers ran the greatest risk of being caught, so they used errand boys to do that particular job.

  So the question remained: Where had Kazan gotten the cocaine? She had every intention of asking him as soon as he was fit to be interviewed.

  A friendly but stressed nurse in the intensive cardiac care unit informed Irene that Kazan had been moved to a general cardiac ward. Irene took the elevator up to the relevant floor. The nurse in reception gave her a sharp glance when she introduced herself and said that she would like to speak to Kazan Ekici.

  “Just a moment; I know Dr. Enkvist wants to have a word with the police first,” she said, pressing a button on the intercom.

  A male voice answered right away: “Enkvist.”

  “There’s a police officer here, asking to see Kazan Ekici.”

  “Show him to my office.”

  “Will do, but it’s a woman.”

  The doctor didn’t hear her; he had already disconnected the intercom.

  Irene followed the nurse as she bustled along the corridor; she stopped, knocked on a door and waited until a voice called them in. Only then did she proceed.

  “Police Constable Irene Hysén,” she announced.

  “Detective Inspector Irene Huss,” Irene corrected her.

  The middle-aged doctor peered at her over the top of a pair of cheap reading glasses. Exhaustion and many years of smoking had etched deep lines in his thin face. The room stank of smoke, and a packet of Marlboros lay on the desk in front of him. He made a clumsy attempt to smooth down his thin hair, which was sticking out in all directions. He made a move to stand up, then sank back down on his chair.

  “Please sit down, and I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  You say that automatically to everyone who walks in here, Irene thought, feeling vaguely irritated. However, she forced herself to thank him and smile. Dr. Enkvist leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. Slowly he took off his glasses and folded them up. After a little fumbling he managed to push them into his breast pocket among a multitude of pens.

  “I said I’d like a word with the police before Kazan was interviewed,” he began. Before Irene could respond, he waved a dismissive hand and continued. “I know, it’s essential for your investigation, etcetera etcetera. But the patient’s welfare is my responsibility, and in my view Kazan is definitely not well enough to be questioned. Let me explain why.”

  He fell silent and looked down at his hands, clasped together on the desk. The fingertips on his right hand were stained yellow with nicotine. Irene decided to bide her time.

  “Kazan has taken a huge overdose. He has stopped breathing several times, and is still suffering from severe arrhythmia. His heart is badly damaged; there is also a significant risk that he has suffered brain damage. He is on a high dose of a range of medication, mainly for his heart; he is also sedated, which makes him a little confused. We don’t yet know what his long-term prospects are, but . . .”

  He spread his hands wide and looked at Irene with his expressionless eyes.

  “. . . given the current situation, I don’t want him placed under any stress.”

  He leaned back and folded his arms, underlining his decision. For God’s sake! Irene thought, trying hard not to let her irritation show.

  “I understand what you’re saying, but during the past week we’ve had three murders here in Göteborg, with clear links to biker gangs. We believe Kazan is one of the leaders of the Gangster Lions. I’m telling you this in confidence, of course. We’ve just searched his house and found cocaine with a street value of at least sixteen million kronor. That’s one of our biggest finds ever. You’ll be able to read all about it in the papers tomorrow,” she said.

  Sometimes you just have to
tell the odd white lie, let the end justify the means and all that jazz, she thought. Dr. Enkvist raised one eyebrow, and something glimmered in his eyes; she had clearly gotten to him. Irene had mentioned that Kazan was probably one of the gang leaders in order to add weight to her request, and she decided to press home her advantage.

  “We also have good reason to suspect that Kazan was involved in last week’s brutal murder; a man had gasoline poured over him and was set on fire while he was still alive.”

  The doctor gave a start, and his eyes darted around the room. Most people would find the murder of Patrik Karlsson utterly repugnant. Irene didn’t give him a chance to come back at her.

  “I’m very happy for you to be there when I talk to Kazan. This interview is extremely important. He has information that could help us solve one or more of these homicides, and prevent additional deaths.”

  Enkvist swallowed and cleared his throat nervously. His chair suddenly seemed to have become extremely uncomfortable; he started shuffling around. He took a deep breath and said, “Okay. But stop when I say so. Otherwise I’ll throw you out.”

  Good luck with that, Irene thought as she tried to hide the triumph she was feeling.

  The room stank of sweat and urine, and “Handsome” wasn’t exactly living up to his name. His face was grey, his hair plastered to his scalp. No one would have the slightest desire to run their fingers through those curls now. Blue-black stubble highlighted the pallor of his skin, which was marked with angry blotches. Only the shadow of his eyelashes falling on the high cheekbones gave any hint that he was a good-looking guy. His hands lay peacefully folded on top of the yellow blanket—small, well-formed hands with manicured nails, Irene thought. Matti had said that a Morini CM .22 RF would suit someone with small hands.

  Electrodes were attached to his upper body, the slender wires leading to an ECG machine. The screen showed the rhythm of the heart in the form of a graph. Even Irene could see that in several places there were two spikes very close together. This must have been the arrhythmia Enkvist had mentioned. She knew that the plastic clamp on one finger was there to register his blood pressure, which was also shown on the screen: 92/50. Wasn’t that pretty low? A pouch of clear liquid attached to a stand by the bed was dripping slowly down a tube and into Kazan’s left hand via a catheter. The back of his right hand was black and blue from previous needles.