Protected by the Shadows

by Helene Tursten

  “The tall guy with the tattoos could easily be the man in the CCTV footage from Södra vägen, and from the images we have of Jan-Erik Månsson being forced to drive out to Landsvetter,” Irene said.

  “He also matches the description of one of the men seen arguing with Soran Siljac a few days before he was blown to pieces,” Fredrik added.

  “Do you know who he is?” Hannu asked.

  Fredrik shook his head.

  “It could be Soltan Milosevic,” Hannu suggested. “Wanted for war crimes during the Balkan conflict.”

  None of the others had heard of him.

  “He’s a psychopath. Vanished without a trace after the war. Distinguishing features are his height, his athleticism and his tattoos,” Hannu went on.

  No one in the Västra Götaland police force had a memory for people like Hannu did. He could well be right; that would explain why no one had recognized the tall guy in the CCTV footage. He wasn’t on their system; he was wanted by Interpol.

  “Even if he’s living under a false identity, it’s strange that he’s prepared to show himself so openly,” Stefan Bratt said.

  “Maybe he’s been in Sweden for a long time without any problem. Maybe he’s getting careless. That always trips them up in the end,” Fredrik said.

  “What a coup! We mustn’t let any of them slip through the net when the meeting is over!” Stefan exclaimed.

  A combination of heat and excitement had brought a flush to those pale cheeks.

  Irene could hear the gang leaders greeting one another. She couldn’t make out individual words, just a general hum as everyone said hello. After a while she heard Andy Mara’s slightly shrill voice:

  “Thanks for coming in spite of all the shit that’s gone on lately.”

  “No problem. And let me tell you right now that we didn’t fucking shoot Danny, okay? And we haven’t heard a fucking thing about who was responsible.”

  Per Lindström’s rough bass voice.

  “Sorry for your loss,” he added.

  “Thanks.”

  There was a brief uncertain silence before Andy continued.

  “Please sit down. We’re here, you’re over there.”

  Chairs scraping on the floor, another burst of muted conversation, then Andy again:

  “Casim and Ali—drinks, please. Whatever our guests would like.”

  Champagne corks popped, while the odd click and fizz indicated that some people clearly preferred beer.

  “We’ll eat first,” Andy said briskly.

  The suggestion seemed to meet with general approval, and was followed by the clank of metal, presumably as the lids were lifted off the large food containers, and various comments such as: “. . . I don’t mind potato wedges, but what the fuck are those pine needles doing in there . . . Whadya mean, rosemary? What the fuck?” and “Whadya mean, there’s no fucking sauce?” It was clear that Ali Reza and Casim had their hands full keeping the guests satisfied.

  Once things had calmed down, Andy said, “I’ll call you when you can pick up the dishes.”

  “Okay. The desserts are in that box and . . .”

  Ali was rudely interrupted by Andy: “Just leave.”

  “Okay.”

  Shortly afterward Reza and Casim could be seen emerging through the front door. They jumped into the little van and shot away with a screech of tires, disappearing in the direction of Åvägen in a cloud of dust. The drivers in the other two cars were sitting smoking, and didn’t even bother glancing at the lackeys. They were ignoring each other equally studiously.

  “Let’s talk business while we’re eating,” Per Lindström suggested in his deep voice.

  Everyone seemed to agree; the clatter of knives and forks already formed a wall of background noise.

  Andy Mara nervously cleared his throat several times before he began. “As you’re all aware, it was my brother, Danny, who convened this meeting. He wanted us to call a truce. Per, I know when he contacted you he assured you that the Gangster Lions weren’t responsible for Patrik Karlsson’s death. It was a horrific, brutal murder, and we absolutely distance ourselves from it. None of us had a personal issue with Patrik; we’re as much in the dark as you guys. And now the murder of my brother . . . we think . . . well, I think . . .”

  Andy Mara paused for effect. Both the cops in the trailer and Göteborg’s gangster elite held their breath. Instinctively Irene and her colleagues cupped their hands around their headphones, pushing them closer to their ears to make sure they didn’t miss a word:

  “. . . there’s a third gang fucking around with us.”

  There was silence as his words sank in.

  “What the fuck . . . You mean another gang took out both Patrik and Danny?” Per Lindström exclaimed. His voice was full of suspicion, but there was something else, as if the idea wasn’t totally new to him.

  Andy cleared his throat yet again.

  “That’s . . . that’s what we think.”

  Per Lindström seemed to be considering what the new leader of the Gangster Lions had just said.

  “That would explain everything! So we’re being fucked over by . . . who exactly?”

  The listeners in the trailer were also very interested in the answer to that question, even though they knew that Kazan and Fendi were responsible for the murder of Patrik Karlsson. They only had Kazan’s verbal confession, of course; they needed evidence. With a bit of luck, the Gangster Lions might have come up with something.

  “I have no idea,” Andy said.

  The disappointment was equally palpable in both locations.

  “Anyone want more food?” he went on. He had taken over hosting duties following his brother’s death, so it was important to make sure the guests were satisfied.

  “No? Okay then, we’ll clear away. The desserts are in that box over there: ice cream and some chocolate thing. Of course there’s more booze! Wine? Beer? Just help yourselves!”

  The clatter of dishes being stacked up meant that it was impossible to hear what the men around the table were saying. Everyone in the trailer had their eyes fixed on the screen showing the main door of the restaurant and the two drivers, still smoking away.

  Irene noticed something in her peripheral vision; there was a movement on the screen beside her, the one transmitting images from the camera pointing west, in the direction of the closed-off side street leading to Åvägen. When she turned her head, she saw a scooter slowly approaching. The rider was wearing a full helmet with a black visor, white sneakers, jeans, a white T-shirt and a dark-colored padded vest. He stopped just before reaching the street on which Pravda lay. Neither of the drivers appeared to have heard him; they were both looking in a different direction. Irene noted that he was thin and wiry, and just below average height. In spite of the helmet, there was something familiar about him. When she spotted the heavy gold watch on his left wrist, she knew exactly who he was: Fendi Göks. Either he had inherited Kazan’s watch, or he had an identical one. The sunlight caught it when he reached into his pocket and took out a cell phone. To Irene’s surprise he held up the phone and took a picture of Pravda and the cars parked outside. Before she could alert her colleagues, she caught a glimpse of something behind Fendi: a little boy on a bicycle, heading for the trailer at full speed. He zoomed past Fendi, and as he reached the trailer Irene heard Andy Mara’s voice in her headphones:

  “What do you mean, you can’t get the lid off? Just get a good grip, for fuck’s sake . . .”

  A pair of amber-colored eyes with a malicious glint flickered through Irene’s mind, and Kazan whispered: “The twenty-fifth . . . that’s when it all goes bang!”

  An ice-cold hand clutched her heart as she realized what was about to happen. Her colleagues were astonished when she leapt up and ripped off her headphones. She strode to the door and turned the key, ignoring the agitated voices behind he
r: “Irene! What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?” She dashed outside and ran after the little figure on the bicycle. He was only a few yards away, and she was moving as fast as she could. When she caught up with him, she yelled:

  “Stop!”

  He took no notice of her. Irene flung her arms around him and pulled him off his bike. The shock wave reached them as they landed on the ground. Over thirty years of training in how to fall meant that they had a soft landing, but she felt her face hit the tarmac because she couldn’t use her hands to protect herself. Quickly she rolled over and pressed herself against the wall with the boy underneath her as debris rained down on them. Neither of them moved; presumably the child was paralyzed with fear. It was almost impossible to breathe; Irene found herself inhaling dust and sand. There wasn’t a single clear thought in her head, just an instinctive urge to protect the boy with her own body. She pushed harder against the wall in a vain attempt to give the projectiles hammering down a smaller target area. She lay motionless with her eyes closed for what seemed like an eternity.

  Irene didn’t lose consciousness, but felt battered and dizzy when she was lifted onto a gurney. The blast had also deafened her, and she couldn’t hear what those around her were saying, even though their facial expressions told her they were yelling. Fredrik had taken care of the little boy, and was leading him gently toward a second ambulance. As the child stepped inside he suddenly began to sob helplessly. Fredrik place a protective arm around his narrow shoulders, speaking reassuringly to him as the paramedics closed the doors and drove them to Queen Silvia’s Children’s Hospital.

  Superintendent Tommy Persson’s face was pale and strained; he was as shocked as everyone else over what had happened. Irene forced herself to give him an encouraging smile, but it was a pathetic attempt. She couldn’t speak. Her hearing had started to return, but with a loud, irritating buzz deep in the ear canal.

  Through the noise she suddenly recognized a familiar voice.

  “Don’t you think it’s time you considered a change of profession, fru Huss? Being a police officer doesn’t seem to be particularly good for your health,” it said dryly.

  Dr. Enkvist was standing in the doorway of the examination room. Irene was about to tell him to go to hell when he came over to her. His face was even more haggard than before, but he was actually smiling, much to her surprise. Good grief, he was making a joke! The occasion hardly could have been more inappropriate, but Irene didn’t have the strength to tell him. Instead she closed her eyes, pretending to be worn out. The next moment she was fast asleep on the gurney.

  “. . . covered in bruises, but no fractures. Miraculously, it appears that the head wasn’t struck by any heavy objects. The fact that she fell asleep is due to exhaustion, not a fresh concussion.”

  So Dr. Enkvist was still there. Irene opened one eye a fraction; Tommy was by her bed talking to the doctor. Bed? Yes, she was actually in a bed. When she opened her eyes properly, she discovered that she had been moved to an ordinary ward. Good. Much more comfortable, she thought as she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

  Irene stirred when the food trolley clattered by in the corridor. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starving. A young nurse appeared and asked if she would like something.

  “Yes, please, a large portion of anything at all. And lots of water.”

  “What time is it?” Irene asked when the nurse returned with a tray.

  “Almost five. How are you feeling?”

  “Okay, if I don’t think about it too much.”

  In fact it was the pain that had woken Irene. Her entire body was throbbing like one huge bruise, and her cheek was itching. When she raised her hand to scratch it, her fingertips touched a large dressing holding a pad in place. Presumably she had grazed her face when she threw herself on the ground. She had no recollection of any pain at the time; the adrenaline rush had no doubt prevented her from feeling anything.

  “Do you know if the little boy on the bicycle is all right?”

  “He’s fine. Shocked, of course, but completely unhurt. It’s all over the Internet,” the nurse replied with a big smile.

  Irene could imagine how the story of the bomb had spread like wildfire. She was probably one of the few people who didn’t know what had happened after the explosion.

  “Do you know how many were killed or injured?” she asked as she greedily attacked her sausage and macaroni. It was a long time since she had eaten anything so utterly delicious.

  “No, they just said there were people inside the building, but nothing about the number.”

  With a reassuring smile the nurse left the room, closing the door behind her.

  An hour later Tommy turned up.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good, under the circumstances. I want to go home.”

  Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t it be best to stay here overnight?”

  “Not this time. I’m bruised, but not seriously injured. I want to go home to my apartment and sleep in my own bed,” Irene said firmly.

  “Okay. I’ll have a word with the nurse, then I’ll drive you home.”

  “I’m sure they’re short on beds; they’ll be glad to get rid of me.”

  It took less than thirty minutes for the duty doctor to discharge her.

  “The Konsum store is still open,” Irene informed Tommy as they parked in the visitors’ lot opposite the apartment block on Doktor Bex gata.

  “Okay. I’ll go and do some shopping while you take a shower and freshen up.”

  Tommy smiled, and it occurred to Irene that their relationship was getting back to the way it used to be: good friends through thick and thin. Being there for each other. They’d lost that closeness over the past few years.

  A pile of mail, newspapers and magazines was waiting behind the door. Irene pushed the whole lot aside with her foot; right now she didn’t have the strength to bend down and pick it up. The apartment smelled of dust and wilting pot plants, but the smell of her family was there too. She felt a lump in her throat. She was home at last.

  A glance in the bathroom mirror made her flinch. She had a large white dressing on her cheek, and a smaller one on her forehead. Dr. Enkvist had informed her that she hadn’t needed stitches, but that the dressings had to stay on for a few days. She also had dressings on her left palm and on the outside of her left ankle. Her arms, legs and back were covered in angry red marks that were already beginning to turn bluish-black. She would certainly be a colorful sight when Krister and the girls got home! The thought of her family brought tears to her eyes once more, but she resolutely wiped them away and said out loud to her reflection:

  “Pull yourself together!”

  With that she peeled off her dirty clothes, dropped them on the floor and stepped into a long, hot shower.

  Irene and Tommy were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea and eating ham and cheese sandwiches. Irene was wearing the soft velour leisure suit that her daughters had given her for Christmas.

  “So tell me what happened,” she said, looking at Tommy over the rim of her teacup.

  “Okay, so you know everything up until the bomb went off . . . By the way, how did you know there was going to be an explosion?”

  Tommy narrowed his eyes a fraction; was there a hint of suspicion in his gaze? Did he think she was the one who had planted the bomb in the food container? She immediately realized she was being ridiculous; he was simply asking a perfectly reasonable question.

  “I saw Fendi Göks appear on a scooter; he stayed just around the corner, then took a picture of Pravda on his cell phone. Before I had time to tell the others that he was there, that little boy came whizzing along on his bike. In my headphones I heard Andy Mara telling someone to get a good grip on the lid because they couldn’t get it off . . . and suddenly I realized what Kazan had meant when he said, ‘the twenty
-fifth . . . that’s when it all goes bang.’ He meant exactly what he said; there was a bomb. And the kid on the bike was heading straight for the place where it was about to go off. Everything happened so fast . . . I didn’t have time to tell . . .”

  Irene fell silent as she remembered racing out of the trailer and hurling herself at the unsuspecting child.

  “I understand. Thank goodness you caught up with him; it was a hell of an explosion. Everyone inside the restaurant died, plus one of the drivers; a lock flew in through the open side window and hit him on the head.”

  “That must have been the Gangster Lions’ driver; their car was parked right by the door.”

  “Possibly; we haven’t started identifying the victims yet. Nine dead. It’s going to take a while.”

  “What about the other driver, the young guy?”

  “Serious head injuries; he’s in a critical condition.”

  Irene gazed pensively into her empty cup, then said slowly, “Do you think either of the gangs will be able to carry on as before?”

  “Hardly. Both the Gangster Lions and Gothia MC have lost their key players. This kind of gang can’t cope without strong leaders.”

  Irene swallowed a couple of times before asking the most important question of all. “So does that mean Krister and the rest of the family are no longer in danger?”

  Tommy looked at her for a long time before responding. “I believe so. The most-likely scenario is those two gangs will break up, and their members will join other gangs.”

  “Thank God!” Irene felt such a physical surge of relief that she almost fainted.

  “Have you spoken to Krister or the girls?” Tommy asked.

  “I tried calling and texting, but he did say it wouldn’t be possible to contact them until tomorrow evening, so I guess I’ll just have to be patient.”

  “You really don’t know where they are?”

  “I haven’t a clue!” Irene’s smile was so wide that it hurt her injured cheek, but she couldn’t have cared less.