‘No. There’s one more file, and this is where it starts to get interesting.’
‘What is it?’
‘Six years ago, in 2004, our colleagues who work with child porn up at National Crime did a sweep of the internet and picked up a hell of a lot of paedophiles. The sort who sit there downloading child porn and exchanging information with each other. One of the men who got caught was Staffan Leander Nilsson.’
‘You don’t say?’ Johansson said. ‘How did that investigation turn out, then?’
‘The main perpetrator got several years in the clink. Almost all of them were found guilty. All except little Nilsson, whose case was dropped by the prosecutor.’
‘Why? Had he bought a flat off him on the black market?’
‘The prosecutor fell for his story,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Our colleagues didn’t, and, before you ask, no, I haven’t spoken to any of them. I’ve read the preliminary investigation and the interviews with Nilsson; he was questioned four times, and the last time the prosecutor sat in. It was after that interview that the case against him was dropped, but there’s no doubt what our lads thought about the whole thing. The prosecutor bought Nilsson’s story. They didn’t. No proper police officer would have.’
‘What did he say, then? What was his story?’
‘Nilsson claims that he rented a room to a Moroccan immigrant. He said his name was Ali Hussein, and he met him in a gay bar in Gamla Stan.’
‘A gay bar? Nilsson isn’t gay, is he? Is that what he was trying to make out? That he’s gay?’
‘He was asked about that, if he was homosexual.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘That he couldn’t see what that had to do with anything. That his sexual inclination was his private business.’
‘Who’d have thought it?’ Johansson snorted. ‘What else did he say, then?’
‘According to Nilsson, Hussein must have used Nilsson’s computer to surf for porn without his knowledge. He claimed he kept his codes and passwords on a piece of paper in his desk. He was both angry and upset with Mr Hussein. Very upset; he thought it was appalling.’
‘I can only imagine,’ Johansson said. ‘So what did Ali say?’
‘Sadly, Ali never said anything, because our colleagues never managed to get hold of him. According to Nilsson, this was probably because he was in the country illegally. He himself had begun to suspect as much after a few months, but when he asked Ali about it, his response, funnily enough, was to pack his things and move out of the flat. He took all he owned and disappeared that same day.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Johansson said. ‘What kind of prosecutor would fall for a story like that?’
‘Nilsson was able to provide a rental contract. Signed by landlord Staffan Nilsson and tenant Ali Hussein. A standard contract, where he undertakes to rent one room of his four-room flat for six months. Ali left halfway through, apparently, without even paying the contractual month’s notice.’
‘So what sort of things had Ali been downloading?’
‘Almost only young girls. A few young boys, but only if they played a key role in proceedings. It was all about the little girls. Young girls being subjected to sex and violence. A lot of violence, taken from sites like Young Girls in Correctional Facilities, The Strict Teacher, the Children’s Camp, Children for Sale, A Little Jewish Girl’s Story. About as bad as you can imagine. Both as child porn, and as violent pornography. All that kind of crap.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Johansson said. ‘People like him, who have sex with little girls. So that’s why Nilsson claimed to be gay? And that whatever was on his computer wasn’t his thing at all?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think the same thing you do,’ Johansson said.
‘Heterosexual paedophile. Sadist. Nilsson gets turned on by forcing himself on little girls. And likes to beat them about a bit before he does so.’
‘And the prosecutor dropped the case?’ What happened to the sensitive paedophile? Johansson thought.
‘Yes,’ Jarnebring said with a grimace. ‘Maybe because of the aliases Ali Hussein used online. Hussein the Caliph, Master Ali, the Arabian Slaveowner. Total harem fantasy. Plenty of evidence that the perpetrator would be someone like Ali Hussein.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Johansson said. ‘Did our colleagues knock on doors in the building? Talk to Nilsson’s neighbours? Find anyone who’d ever seen Mr Hussein? Anyone other than Nilsson who could confirm that he actually existed?’
‘No,’ Jarnebring said. ‘I don’t suppose they thought of it. Probably hadn’t got time either. The sentence for this sort of thing wasn’t very heavy back then; it was mostly just fines.’
‘Anything else?’ Johansson asked.
‘Like I said before, I’m picking up a fraud vibe. Director Staffan Leander Nilsson is registered as the owner of a total of three small businesses. Staffan Leander Holding Ltd, which in turn is listed as the owner of Leander Thai Invest Ltd, and Staffan Nilsson Property and Hotels Ltd.’
‘Do the companies have any money?’
‘Not according to Gun. No real money, mostly hot air. Nothing to make your brother Evert salivate, anyway. They’re all registered at Nilsson’s home address. Apart from Nilsson, who’s listed as the sole proprietor, two other people appear on the companies’ boards. According to Gun, they’re probably people who work for his accountants. A bit dodgy, but not illegal.’
‘Has he got any money, then? What does the bastard earn?’
‘Less than you, Lars. Considerably less,’ Jarnebring said with a broad grin. ‘So there’s nothing to worry about there. Compared with you, he’s a pauper, and he’d be less than a fly-shit on your brother’s desk. A few hundred thousand kronor a year, judging by his self-assessment tax declaration. Some of that comes from a pension insurance policy that his mother took out thirty years ago, by the way. Her son was listed as the only beneficiary.’
When her brother, the grocer, died, Johansson thought. Vera Nilsson, decent, hardworking, honest. The good mother, who ended up with a child-killer for a son.
‘With the interest that’s built up over the years, that amounts to a reasonable sum now. He gets about fifty thousand per year from that alone. Until he dies, if I’ve understood it right.’
‘Hang on,’ Johansson said. ‘That sort of thing only pays out after you reach fifty-five, doesn’t it?’
‘Don’t ask me. In his case, it might have been earlier because he was registered as retired last year. Whiplash injury. Someone drove into the back of him at the roundabout at Gullmarsplan. The other driver’s insurance company had to cough up some serious money.’
‘Is that everything?’ Johansson asked. A whiplash injury on top of his scoliosis – he really has had it tough, he thought. Wonder how much he fleeced the insurance company for?
‘Yes, more or less. I might have missed something. If I have, you’ll find it in Gun’s file.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Johansson said. Paedophile, sexual sadist, child-killer, still active. Given that Johansson had been a hunter all his life and had shot thousands of innocent animals, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he got a bit more blood on his hands.
Now he’s got that look again, Jarnebring thought. All of a sudden, he looks like he’s miles away. ‘What do you say, Lars?’ he said. ‘Shall we go for a drive this evening and take a look at the bastard?’
‘Yes,’ Johansson said. I want to take a look at him first, he thought. I need to take a look at him first, then I need to talk to him. And then I need to do something.
74
Monday evening, 9 August
When Pia got home from the bank, her husband, his best friend, and their new helper, Max, were already standing in the hall, ready to leave.
‘I see the boys are off to cause trouble,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget your packed suppers and flasks. I hope you’ve got some warm clothes with you? It’s only thirteen degrees outside, and I don’t
want Lars catching a cold.’
‘Take care of yourself, darling,’ Johansson said. ‘And don’t worry.’
Jarnebring started to give orders out in the street before they got into the car.
‘Max, you’re driving,’ he said. ‘Lars, you sit in the front, and I’ll get in the back. That’ll make it easier if I need to take pictures from different angles. Any questions?’
‘No questions,’ Max said.
‘No questions,’ Johansson repeated.
‘Let’s saddle up, then,’ Jarnebring said with a stern expression. ‘Off we fucking go,’ he added, to be on the safe side.
‘What do you have in mind, Bo?’ Johansson asked. Wonder how soon I can have a sandwich? he thought. He was already starting to feel a bit peckish.
‘We’ll start as usual,’ Jarnebring said with a grin. ‘By making a nuisance call to the bastard.’
‘You or me?’ Johansson asked. No sandwich, he thought.
‘I thought I might do the Skåne version,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Have you heard the Skåne version?’
To the point of exhaustion and in every possible form, Johansson thought.
‘The first time was probably forty years ago,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling it was autumn 1975, when we were putting together a map of the brothels.’
‘Unless you’ve got any special requests, I thought I’d go with Larry from Ängelholm – you know, the one who’s a bit indecisive.’
‘I was hoping for Börje,’ Johansson said. ‘Börje from Kristianstad. The one who’s stupid and easily annoyed.’
‘Unnecessary to scare the bastard.’ Jarnebring shook his head, pulled out his mobile and dialled the number of Staffan Leander Nilsson’s home on Gustaf III’s Boulevard out in Frösunda.
Staffan Nilsson answered on the third ring. There followed a confused conversation that lasted two minutes before Nilsson ended it by putting the phone down.
‘Nilsson,’ Staffan Nilsson said, sounding rather formal.
‘Yes, hello,’ Jarnebring said, in a broad, whiny Skåne accent. ‘This is Larry. How are you, Staffan? Well, I hope.’
‘Sorry,’ Nilsson said. ‘Who did you say you were?’ Still formal, but wary now.
‘Larry. You know, Larry Jönsson. We met when you came down to mine for the Farmers’ Cooperative meeting, in Ängelholm. I promised to get in touch when I was in the area, and it just so happens that the wife and I are in Stockholm, so I thought—’
‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number,’ Nilsson said coolly. ‘You’ve called the wrong number.’
‘Wrong number? Isn’t that Staffan Nilsson in Solna, works for Bilia? Bilia in Haga Norra – that’s where it is, isn’t it? Larry, Larry Jönsson. We met at mine back in the spring—’
‘You’ve got the wrong number,’ Staffan Nilsson repeated. ‘My name is Staffan Leander Nilsson, and I’m afraid we’ve never met.’ Judging by his tone of voice, he had already decided Larry Jönsson was an imbecile.
‘Well, I never,’ Larry said. ‘Listen, I can’t help wondering—’
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ Staffan Nilsson interrupted. ‘I’m a bit busy. I’m meeting a friend for dinner.’
Then he hung up.
‘Nice,’ Max said, with a cheery grin.
‘Larry’s an old classic,’ Jarnebring said. ‘When Lars and I used to work in Surveillance in the seventies, we used to get him to call the girls and ask them about prices and what services they could offer.’
‘And it worked,’ Max said, shaking his head.
‘This time it certainly seems to have done.’ Jarnebring pointed at Staffan Nilsson, who was just emerging from the door of his building one hundred metres further up the street, setting off towards his local restaurant.
‘And he wasn’t lying,’ Jarnebring said, when Nilsson walked into the pizzeria thirty seconds later, said hello to the owner and sat down on a stool at the bar.
‘Not this time, anyway,’ Johansson said. ‘Even if his friend doesn’t seem to have turned up yet.’
‘What do we do now?’ Max asked, switching the engine off.
‘Now we wait,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Surveillance is mainly about sitting and waiting.’
Just like hunting, Johansson thought. Hunting is waiting. Waiting for something that almost never happens, yet has to happen.
‘Just like hunting,’ Max said.
Bloody hell, Johansson thought. He can’t have learned that in the children’s home.
‘So you know that?’ he said. ‘Did Evert teach you about that?’
‘It’s in my blood,’ Max said with a shrug. ‘But Evert usually takes me, if we’re talking about elk and hares and so on. Woodland birds.’
Sounds like it, Johansson thought.
‘Are you any good, then? At hunting, I mean?’
‘I’ve never met anyone who was better,’ Max said, and shrugged again, leaning back, with his huge hands resting in his lap.
They sat in the car and waited for almost an hour and a half. Max sat motionless, staring fixedly at the man sitting at the bar inside the pizzeria, fifty metres from the car. He said nothing at all, barely responded when spoken to. His watchful, deep-set, grey eyes were like narrow arrow-slits protected by the bulging edges of his eye-sockets; there wasn’t a blink, not a single movement of his set face, as he stared at their prey.
Staffan Nilsson looked at his watch increasingly often, made a call on his mobile after five minutes, put it back in his pocket thirty seconds later, finished his glass of red wine. He ordered another glass, made another attempt with his mobile five minutes later. It looked like he left a message before putting his phone back in his jacket pocket. He looked agitated now. Worried, impatient. Then he stood up and said something to the man behind the bar, finished his second glass of wine, got a third, then took a menu and went and sat at a small corner table where he had a good view of the entrance to the little restaurant.
‘He’s a cautious bastard,’ Johansson said. ‘Picked the same table I would have done.’
‘Something must have happened to his friend,’ Jarnebring said.
‘Is there any chance of getting a sandwich?’ Johansson said. ‘And a cup of coffee?’ he added.
‘Coming right up, boss,’ Jarnebring said, sounding just as cheerful as he always used to when they were out on similar jobs back in the day. ‘What do you think, Lars? Shall I wander in and try to sneak out with his glass?’
‘Don’t bother,’ Johansson said. ‘There are only five customers in there. We’ll have to wait until there are a few more people, at least.’
Nilsson’s food arrived, along with a fourth glass of red wine. He tried making two more calls while he ate. After half an hour he beckoned the waiter, who took his plate and empty glass away. He returned shortly afterwards with a cup of coffee and a fifth glass of wine.
‘The bastard’s a serious drinker,’ Johansson said unhappily as he peeled the plastic from his third sandwich.
‘You’re just jealous, Lars,’ said Jarnebring, who hadn’t yet touched their packed meal. ‘You’ll have to ask Max to sort out a decent three-course meal next time. A sneaky vodka, cold beer, some decent red wine, the whole lot.’
‘I think it might be time to move,’ Johansson said. ‘It looks like he’s about to leave.’
Nilsson got to his feet and, with his coffee cup and empty glass in his hands, went over and put them behind the bar, then got his wallet out to pay.
‘I’m changing position,’ Max said, starting the engine, then driving one hundred metres up the road. He pulled up just as Nilsson came out of the door and headed towards his building.
‘Wonder what happened to his friend?’ Johansson said, sounding like he was thinking out loud.
‘Her mum probably wouldn’t let her out,’ Jarnebring said with a grin. ‘It’s past eight o’clock, after all. Little girls ought to be in bed by now.’
Five metres from his front door, Nilsson stopped. He looked at his watch, then carried o
n walking, past the door, faster now.
‘Where’s the bastard going now?’ Jarnebring said.
‘To move his car,’ Johansson said, seeing as – unlike his best friend – he had lived in the centre of the city all his adult life and had had to call in favours for parking offences on numerous occasions. ‘My guess is that he’s going to move his car.’ Before he settles down at his computer and starts looking at porn on behalf of some new tenant, he thought.
Two minutes later Nilsson had moved his car to the other side of the street, got out, crossed the road and disappeared inside the building where he lived.
‘Bloody hell,’ Jarnebring said. ‘If we’d been on duty, we could have stopped the bastard, got him to blow into the breathalyser, filed a report, kept the plastic tube and everything would be sorted.’
‘There are other ways to sort it,’ Max said.
‘We’re going to take it nice and gently,’ Johansson said. ‘This character isn’t likely to disappear.’ Wonder if it was such a good idea to bring Max along? he thought.
‘What do we do now?’ Jarnebring asked. ‘Call it a night?’
‘If you gentlemen want to sit here half the night, don’t let me stop you. But I was thinking of going home, having a ham omelette and drinking a couple of glasses of red wine.’
‘Sounds good,’ Max said, and nodded.
‘Then that’s what we do,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Home, James. We can have a bite to eat and talk about where we go from here. While little Nilsson is having a wank in front of his computer.’
Wonder who he was waiting for? Johansson thought before he fell asleep.
75
Tuesday, 10 August
Personal hygiene, breakfast and the first meal of the day, then the daily visit to see the physiotherapist. On this particular Tuesday there was also a check-up with his very own cardiologist, first an ECG, then ultrasound and blood pressure, then finally, a heart specialist, who shook his head unhappily.
‘Seeing as you like hearing things straight, I can say that I’ve had patients who’ve been in a better condition than you,’ the doctor said, giving Johansson a friendly nod.
The Dying Detective Page 29
