‘Got to give the right impression,’ Johansson said, for some reason.
‘Yes,’ his brother-in-law agreed. ‘If only you knew what problems that sort of name change can cause people like me. I could tell you stories from my time at the tax office that would make your hair stand on end, even a man of your background.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Johansson said. What do we do now? he thought.
‘So, what do we do now?’ Alf Hult said.
‘We’ll have to dig deeper,’ Johansson said, having just decided.
‘Maybe the man you’re looking for isn’t a family member at all. Assuming there are any, of course.’
‘Maybe not,’ Johansson conceded.
‘If there are any relatives, we’ll find them,’ Alf Hult said. ‘You don’t have to worry on that point.’
‘Of course not,’ Johansson said. If there are any, he thought, and ended the call.
Unless you’ve got the whole thing wrong, because you had a blood clot in your brain when it was actually your heart that was going wrong, he thought.
Then he fell asleep on the sofa. He woke to find Matilda leaning over him, gently nudging his shoulder.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she said. ‘A police officer. Says he’s got some documents for you.’
‘Does he have a name?’ Johansson said.
‘Not that he told me,’ Matilda said, smiling as she said it.
‘How do you know he isn’t lying, then?’ Johansson said. Patrik Åkesson, P-2, he thought.
‘It’s written across his forehead,’ Matilda said, grinning at him. ‘Just like it is on yours and your best friend’s, that huge guy who looks like a wolf.’
Not written across his forehead, Johansson thought. It’s in his eyes. Like all good officers. Like his best friend, like he himself, like all the former colleagues who were just like him and Jarnebring. The friendly, watchful expression that could only mean that you were in trouble if you didn’t behave. You’d find yourself in handcuffs, being told to keep your mouth shut, or kicked in the backside. Or worse, depending on the circumstances.
‘Sit yourself down,’ Johansson said. ‘I’ve told the maid to bring us coffee.’
‘Sounds good,’ Patrik Åkesson said.
‘So tell me, P-2. Enlighten an old man. Have you found anything on our drunk, Högberg?’
‘My father-in-law phoned and hassled them this morning,’ P-2 said, smiling for some reason.
‘I can imagine.’
‘So Högberg, Tommy Rickard, has given a DNA sample. My colleagues and I just happened to be passing,’ he said, with a smile and a shrug.
‘What did he think about that?’
‘No objections at all. He was very accommodating. A bit tired, perhaps – he’d evidently had a late night – but once we managed to shake some life into him there were no problems. The super was going to send it to the National Lab at once. Apparently, we’ll get the results by tomorrow, at the latest.’
‘I can imagine,’ Johansson grunted. ‘Have you got a picture of him?’
‘Of course,’ P-2 said. He dug through his papers and handed over a custody photograph from 1987, taken by the Stockholm Crime Unit when Tommy Högberg was arrested on suspicion of aggravated burglary. Frontal, right and left profiles, and, despite the circumstances, he was smiling at the camera.
Curly, dark hair, regular features, white teeth, a broad smile. Tommy Högberg, ladies’ man, Johansson thought.
‘What do you think, boss? Is it him?’ P-2 said, nodding inquisitively at the photograph in Johansson’s hand.
‘I doubt it,’ Johansson said, shaking his head. Too weak-willed and a bit too stupid, to judge from his eyes, he thought. ‘Time will tell,’ he added with a shrug of his shoulders. Fairly soon, he thought.
‘If it does turn out to be him, I’d be happy to go and bring him in,’ Patrik Åkesson said, with a look in his eyes that didn’t bode well for Tommy Högberg.
‘Prescribed,’ Johansson said. ‘Not as simple as that,’ he said, for some reason sounding just like P-2’s father-in-law, Superintendent Hermansson of the Stockholm Regional Crime Unit.
‘He must have done other stuff,’ P-2 said. ‘Men like that never stop, do they?’ he said with sudden vehemence. ‘We’ll find something. You only have to pick up the phone and I’ll go and bring him in. I’ll rip his arms and legs off if he puts up a fight.’
Goodness, Johansson thought. Now where have I heard that before?
‘There’s nothing you want to tell me?’ Johansson said.
‘Has Herman said anything? My father-in-law, I mean?’
‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘But I’d be happy to listen to you.’
‘Our youngest girl, Lovisa, was at that fucking nursery out in Tullinge. We lived there at the time. Four years ago, now. You must have seen it in the papers. There was a huge fuss in the media, even though social services tried to hush it up.’
‘It’s not ringing any bells,’ Johansson said. ‘Remind me.’ Someone must have deleted loads of stuff from my head, he thought.
‘They’d employed a male trainee who was studying to be a preschool teacher. He’d only been there a couple of months when they worked out that he’d been . . .’
Patrik Åkesson fell silent, swallowed, leaned forward in his chair, his hands hanging between his knees as he clenched and unclenched them.
‘Abusing the children?’ Johansson said.
‘Showing them his cock and asking them to touch it while he fiddled with them. Right in the middle of the nursery. Took his chance when he helped them go to the toilet, and not a single one of the other staff had a fucking clue what the bastard was up to. Until the manager caught him with his trousers down. After three months, even though he’d probably started on day one. Blind as fucking bats.’
‘Your daughter,’ Johansson said.
‘No,’ P-2 said. ‘This particular one was only interested in little boys. So not Lovisa. She was the wrong sort, thank God. On that occasion she was the wrong sort.’
‘It can’t have been easy,’ Johansson said. It must have been hell, he thought.
‘No,’ P-2 said. ‘It’s not easy to have to take a four-year-old girl for a gynaecological examination. Not to mention all the hours she spent talking to a load of psychologists who just sat there nodding their empty heads.’
‘Time will tell,’ Johansson said. ‘And if it was him, then obviously we’ll find something.’
‘If we don’t, we could always make sure that we do, anyway,’ Patrik Åkesson said. ‘I think I’ll skip that coffee. Hope you don’t mind, boss,’ he said, and stood up.
‘Of course not,’ Johansson said. ‘Look after yourself. And, just in case, I don’t want you doing anything stupid.’
‘I promise, boss,’ Patrik Åkesson said. ‘I promise,’ he repeated. ‘You have my word on that.’
That evening, after dinner with Pia, when he was lying on the sofa in his study, alone with his thoughts, his mobile rang. Alf, the old stalwart, the Einstein of genealogy, has found him, Johansson thought.
‘Johansson,’ he said.
‘Herman,’ Superintendent Hermansson said. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you?’
‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘Have you found him?’ Not exactly Einstein, he thought.
‘Afraid not. I got a call from the lab a little while ago. No match for Tommy Högberg in the Yasmine case. Nor with any other case, for that matter.’
‘Well, then,’ Johansson said. For some reason, Erika Brännström’s face popped into his mind.
‘You’ll get him next time.’
‘Yes,’ Johansson said. Of course I will, he thought. Wonder what she’s frightened of? A hardworking Norrlander with hands marked by years of toil. Two daughters who are doing well in life. Unlike Yasmine, who would have been the same age as them if she’d been allowed to live, and for whom things would doubtless have gone even better. In a material sense, at least.
‘Promise to call me,’ Herma
nsson said. ‘That I’ll be the first to know.’
‘Of course,’ Johansson said. ‘We’ll stay in touch.’
Once I’ve found him, I’m certainly not going to tell either you or your son-in-law, he thought as he put his phone down. A moment later it rang again.
‘Yes,’ he said. Someone else who wants to rip someone’s arms and legs off, no doubt, he thought.
‘Evert,’ Evert grunted. ‘Your big brother. Perhaps you remember me?’
‘And what does my big brother want?’ Evert must have ripped loads of arms and legs off in his time, Johansson thought. Tons of them in the People’s Park in Kramfors alone.
‘Our lad will be with you on Saturday,’ Evert said. ‘But I’ve already arranged that with Pia, so there’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘So why are you calling, then?’
‘There was something I forgot to say.’
‘What’s that?’
‘About the lad.’
‘Oh,’ Johansson said. I knew there was something fishy about this, he thought. ‘I’m listening.’
‘He’s Russian.’
‘He’s Russian,’ Johansson repeated. ‘Does he speak any Swedish, then?’ Evert’s sending me a bastard Russian, he thought.
‘Of course he does,’ Evert said. ‘He’s lived here almost fifteen years, for God’s sake.’
‘How old is he, then?’
‘He was born in ’87, came to Sweden when he was a young boy. Ten years old, something like that. Before that he was in a children’s home in St Petersburg, and I daresay he didn’t have much to laugh about there.’
‘But you’ll vouch for him?’
‘Of course I will. He’s a good lad, not remotely spoiled, unlike my own children.’
‘What’s he like, then, as a person? If you had to describe him?’
‘Like me,’ Evert said. ‘He’s good. He’s like me.’
‘Does he have a name?’ Johansson said. I’m going to end up with my own Little Evert, he thought. All I had to do was have a stroke first.
‘Maxim – Maxim Makarov. You know, like that ice-hockey player. The disgustingly talented bastard who used our lads in the Three Crowns as marker buoys, back in the day. He’s called Max for short, by the way.’
‘Sergey,’ Johansson said. ‘The ice-hockey player. His name was Sergey Makarov.’
‘Who knows, maybe that was his father?’ Evert chuckled.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘No,’ Evert said. ‘Actually, yes, one more thing. He’s bringing your new car with him. Same as before, but with an automatic gearbox.’
‘Thanks,’ Johansson said. His very own Little Evert, who was going to be living with him and Pia. In the home that up until recently had been his castle. What the fuck is going on? he thought.
55
Friday morning, 30 July
‘Have you got a moment?’ Matilda asked. ‘There’s something I thought we could get out of the way before we go to see the physiotherapist.’
‘Sure,’ Johansson said, putting the newspaper down. Just as well, he thought, because whenever he tried to read his head started to ache.
‘It’s about that Joseph Simon you asked me to check out on the internet.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Loads,’ Matilda said. ‘There’s no end of stuff.’
‘Try to give me a summary.’
‘Okay,’ Matilda said. ‘Born in 1951 in Tehran. Came to Sweden as a refugee in 1979, together with his wife and young daughter. His name back then was Josef Ermegan, and he was a trained doctor. He worked as a researcher and doctor at the Karolinska Institute in Solna. Swedish citizen in 1985. Divorced the same year. Changed his name to Joseph Simon a year later. Left Sweden in 1990 and moved to the USA: he had a green card before he even stepped off the plane. He became an American citizen in 1995 – apparently, it’s unusual for that to happen so quickly. Especially these days, after 9/11, but of course this was before that. But you already knew all that, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘But I’m wondering what happened after that.’ You could say what you liked, but she certainly wasn’t stupid, even though she did look like that, he thought.
‘There were three things that struck me.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Firstly, he seems to be incredibly rich. I repeat,’ she said with a smile, ‘incredibly rich. He’s a big name, a really big name, in the pharmaceutical industry. Owns or controls loads of drugs companies, and even a number of IT firms active in that area. He recently sold one that had developed some sort of software that means they don’t have to experiment on animals. All the mice, rats, rabbits, chimpanzees, cats and dogs, you name it, that they usually kill. Have you got any idea how many animals the drugs industry and cosmetics companies kill every year?’
‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘How many?’
‘Several hundred million, according to their own figures, and over a billion according to other independent sources. The company he sold has come up with some computer-simulation program that means they can save almost twenty per cent of the test animals. Not because rabbits are cute or anything like that, but because Peter Rabbit costs them a hundred kronor before they’re finished with him and can chuck him in the bin.’
‘So how much did he get for the company?’ Johansson asked.
‘He got 1.7 billion dollars. Almost 13 billion Swedish kronor, just like that. When he started it seven years ago, he invested only a few million in it. Dollars, that is.’
‘In other words, he seems to have made a bit of money over the years,’ Johansson said.
‘Yes, boss. He’s made a fuck of a lot of it. He’s on that list, too. Has been for years.’
‘What list?’ Johansson said.
‘The one of the five hundred richest people in the world.’
‘How much is he worth, then?’
‘Last year his personal fortune was estimated at between 12 and 15 billion. Dollars, that is.’
Drop dead, Evert, Johansson thought. If he changed all that into Swedish money he could fill a swimming pool, and even old Scrooge McDuck could go fuck himself.
‘And secondly?’ Johansson said.
‘Secondly, he seems to be running some kind of crusade against paedophiles and child molesters.’
‘What kind of crusade?’ Johansson asked. ‘How does he run it? I can’t imagine he goes running after them with a sword?’ Not such a bad idea, he thought. A big, swarthy Persian with a fez and scimitar, meting out a bit of cold, biblical justice to men like John Ingvar Löfgren, Ulf Olsson and Anders Eklund, a millennium on.
‘He does, actually,’ Matilda said. ‘Well, as close to that as he can get, anyway.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘All sorts of ways,’ Matilda said. ‘He set up a foundation – way back, in 1995 – called Yasmine’s Memorial Foundation. He and his businesses have pumped hundreds of millions of dollars into it since it was set up.’
Tax deductible, Johansson thought. Tax deductible for him and his companies. Not that that mattered when it was also ‘good for business’ in the country he lived in, and probably even better in the industry he was in. Whatever difference that makes, he thought. Seeing as Joseph Simon had lived alone for twenty-five years with that fire burning in his heart and head the whole time, a fire he could now afford to throw any amount of fuel on.
‘That’s just an accounting error to someone like him,’ he said. ‘What do they actually do? The foundation, I mean?’
‘Mostly, they seem to run campaigns. They run adverts against paedophiles and child molesters absolutely everywhere. Television, radio, newspapers, internet, ordinary old-fashioned books, even. Political campaigns, basically.’
‘How’s it been going, then?’
‘Very well indeed,’ Matilda said. ‘In the USA these days, anyone convicted of sexual assault of a child is obliged to tell the police their address whenever they move. And where
they work, what their phone number is, their car’s registration number, who they’re living with, their families, kids, anyone else who lives there – you name it, whatever. That applies in almost all the American states now. It doesn’t matter where you served your sentence and were released. Or if you were only fifteen and were found guilty of sleeping with a girl who was fourteen, and that it was her crazy father who handed you in. But that’s just the start, only one part of the whole package.’
‘What else is there, then?’
‘The local police can also decide where you’re allowed to go and who you’re allowed to see. You can’t go near any nursery, preschool, school, swimming pool or sports centre where children and young people go. Or anywhere else where you might succumb to temptation. You only have to drive past the same school twice in one afternoon and you could end up back in prison.’
‘What’s the third thing, then?’ Johansson said. It’s just like it soon will be here, he thought. But only on the internet and in the evening tabloids so far. And no one seems to care.
‘He hates Sweden,’ Matilda said. ‘There isn’t a single interview with him where he doesn’t throw a load of shit at Sweden. And the interviews are almost always about completely different subjects – about his business, usually. But that doesn’t make any difference. He always finds a way to make a detour and land a few more blows on his old adopted homeland.’
‘Anything else?’ Johansson asked. How come we never read about that over here? he thought.
‘I’ve got something like twenty pages for you.’
‘I shall read them with great interest,’ Johansson said. As soon as my headache lets me, he thought.
‘He’s also very good-looking.’
‘In what way?’
‘A real hunk,’ Matilda said. ‘I mean, he’s sixty, or something like that. But he looks more like fifty, at most. He looks like your best friend. Well, physically, anyway. Not his eyes.’
The Dying Detective Page 21
