by Viveca Sten
“OK,” the Old Man said with a sigh. “How about her personal emails?”
Margit didn’t look happy. “Unfortunately she was freelance. She used her own computer, and had a private Hotmail address, based in the US. Trying to get anything from them is just hopeless. It would be a different matter if she’d used Telia—then we’d be able to go right in and read everything.”
The Old Man shook his head. “Not good enough. Aram, since you’ve already got the letters, take over, see if you can get anywhere. Threaten them with the Ministry for Foreign Affairs if necessary.”
He turned back to Erik. “Did you manage to contact the hotel guests?”
“We’ve spoken to some of them, and will keep at it today. It’s going to take a while to track down everyone.”
“I thought I’d go over to Sandhamn when we’re done here,” Kalle said. “Talk to the staff at the Sailors Hotel.”
“Good idea. Anything else before we finish?”
Aram held up a folder and passed an identical one to Thomas.
“This is material about New Sweden that was found in Jeanette’s study.”
“You’ve been busy,” Margit commented. “Did you stay here all night?”
Aram shrugged. “I’m home alone right now. Anyway, it looks as if Jeanette did a great deal of research linked to New Sweden. In fact I got the impression she’d been following the organization for quite some time.”
He pointed to various newspaper articles and clippings, some of them yellowed with age.
“The oldest articles are from several years ago; she was definitely interested in their activities. She hadn’t collected this much documentation on any other topic—believe me, I’ve plowed through everything.”
“But you didn’t find an explanation?” the Old Man said.
“No.”
“She was a war correspondent,” Kalle said. “So why would she suddenly want to write about a lobbying group?”
“I’ve no idea, but something seems to have captured her attention.”
“Shouldn’t we be focusing on other leads first?” Kalle insisted.
Aram fingered the folder. “What do you think, Thomas? My feeling is that we should take a closer look at Jeanette’s interest in New Sweden.”
Thomas remembered what Aram had said about his childhood, his parents’ fear of the movements spreading anti-immigrant propaganda.
“It might be worth investigating,” he said, opening his copy of the folder and noticing how many clippings there were. Could Aram have a point? “Bearing in mind the threats Jeanette received; I imagine some supporters of New Sweden are more than capable of writing letters like that.”
“Those kinds of people rarely put their threats into practice,” Kalle said.
Aram was waiting for the boss’s verdict. The Old Man scratched his chin.
“OK, check it out, but take it easy. I don’t want to hear any crap about police harassment of political organizations. They’d be very quick to make a formal complaint.”
He glanced in Aram’s direction. “I think it’s best if Thomas and Margit contact them.”
CHAPTER 53
Erik’s office door was closed. Thomas knocked gently and opened it a few inches. Erik was at his desk, staring at the computer screen.
“Am I disturbing you? Or can I come in?”
Without waiting for an answer, he went in and sat down in the visitor’s chair. Someone had spilled coffee on the green upholstery, and the dark stains made the seat look dirty.
“How’s it going?” he said tentatively.
“OK, I guess,” Erik replied without looking up. “Are you here about the report on the guests at the hotel that we’ve managed to speak to? So far no one’s said they met Jeanette Thiels.”
“That fits in with Sachsen’s assessment—he thought she’d been lying in the snow for at least twenty-four hours before she was found.”
She must have gone straight from reception to her room. No one had seen her after that. Why did she leave the room? Thomas asked himself, then answered his own question: Because she was going for dinner in the Sailors Restaurant. She’d booked a table for eight o’clock.
Would she have done that if she’d suspected she was in danger?
Thomas contemplated his colleague. Erik was a few years younger than he; they’d worked together ever since Thomas took up the post in Nacka after a long period with the maritime police. He had applied for a transfer only when Pernilla became pregnant with Emily, after many attempts. He wanted more stability, rather than spending days at a time out at sea.
He and Erik had never hung out away from work, but they’d always gotten along very well.
At one point after Emily’s death, Thomas had barely been able to get out of bed in the mornings; the idea of seeing his colleagues in a social context was out of the question. But Erik had always reached out, asked if he wanted to join the rest of them for a beer. Thomas had refused over and over again, but Erik never took offense or gave up.
Thomas waited. Maybe Erik would say something, tell him what was wrong. Instead he moved a couple of sheets of paper from one pile to another, his attention still fixed on the screen.
“So how are you feeling?” Thomas said eventually.
A dismissive shake of the head. “I’m just tired; I haven’t been sleeping too well lately. You know how it can be.”
Thomas looked searchingly at him. Was it better to leave him alone, wait until he was ready to talk about whatever was on his mind?
“Are you sure that’s all it is?”
Erik played around with the mouse; he seemed undecided. Then he ran his hands over his hair and said quietly, forcing the words out: “It’s my kid sister, Mimi. She’s sick.”
“What’s wrong?”
“She has leukemia.” Erik’s face contorted with pain. “Acute myeloid leukemia.”
“Leukemia. How old is she?”
“Three years younger than me; it just seems unreal.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“She was diagnosed in November, although she’s not been feeling too well for quite a while. She was nauseous, she was running a temperature, and she kept on getting nosebleeds. But she was lucky . . .”
He broke off, took a deep breath.
“She was able to get treatment almost right away. But Jesus, Thomas—these days she does nothing but throw up. Whatever she tries to eat or drink, up it comes.”
Erik paused once more, pressed his lips together.
“She’s my little sister,” he said after a moment. “She’s still young, she doesn’t have any kids, she’s not even in a long-term relationship.”
Just like you.
Erik looked away, out the window. Across the street lay a redbrick office building. Thomas had the same view from his room. One evening he’d sat for hours staring at the building rather than go home to the apartment, where Pernilla was weeping over the loss of Emily. He reached across the desk and placed a hand on Erik’s arm.
“It’s never easy for the family either. It’s tough being close to someone with . . . with a serious illness.”
He felt the need to avoid the word leukemia, for some reason.
“I’m terrified,” Erik said hesitantly. “I’m so fucking scared. I can’t sleep; I just lie there thinking that things aren’t going to go well, that she’s going to lose the battle.”
Thomas tried to come up with something reassuring, but couldn’t find the right words.
“If you want to talk about it, I’m always here,” he said eventually. Pathetic; why was it so difficult? Erik got up and went over to the window.
“They think she’s had it for quite a while. But the first time she went to the doctor, he didn’t take her seriously because she was so young. They could have started the treatment back in the summer. I’m so fucking furious with that doctor who didn’t see what was really going on.”
Erik clenched his fist. His voice was thick with emotion as he w
ent on: “But that’s not important now. The important thing is that she gets through this.”
“Should you really be working?” Thomas said gently. “Are you sure you can cope?”
Erik nodded.
“I can’t handle sitting at home and worrying. It’s better to be at work.”
Thomas joined his colleague at the window. Erik was known as the joker, the guy who never settled down. Karin used to tease him about it; whenever Erik got a text message, she wanted to know if it was from a hot new girlfriend.
“Mimi and I have always been close,” he said quietly. “Mom died ten years ago when both Mimi and I were young. Breast cancer.”
The sound of noisy laughter sliced through the silence in the room as someone passed by in the corridor.
“How’s your dad taking this?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t think he understands how serious it is. Or he doesn’t want to understand. He was devastated when we lost Mom; I guess he can’t cope with the idea that Mimi’s sick, too.”
Erik’s arm flew out, seemingly involuntarily, and his elbow hit the wall so hard that the color drained from his face. Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It’ll be fine, you’ll see. It’s OK.”
He led Erik away from the window and removed his jacket from its hook.
“I think you should go home and get some rest. Have a whisky or two if that will help, but make sure you catch up on your sleep.”
Gently but firmly he steered Erik out of the door.
“Tomorrow we’ll reallocate your duties. You need to take some time off to look after yourself and your sister. I’ll speak to the Old Man.”
CHAPTER 54
The Vaxholm ferry sounded its horn three times before drawing away from the steamboat jetty on Sandhamn.
Nora yawned as she headed for the cafeteria on the upper deck; she took her coffee to the lounge in the bow. There were plenty of seats; passengers were few and far between on the early morning ferry at this time of year.
Nora liked sitting there, right at the front as the boat glided through the wintry archipelago. The sea was choppy today, with whitecaps rolling in toward the shore.
The islands and skerries passing by were clad in various combinations of black and white, with the pine trees beyond the flat granite rocks heavily weighed down with snow. As the boat split the surface of the water, the foam turned gray, the thick cloud cover above reflected in the waves.
How was she going to explain the situation to Einar when she got to the office?
Since his appointment as chief legal adviser to the bank, Einar Lindgren had spent three days a week in Stockholm and two in Helsinki, where his family still lived. Nora had never met his wife, but had seen her photograph on his desk. She looked around thirty-five, fifteen years younger than Einar, who for his part looked much younger than he was. In the picture she was holding a three-year-old boy by the hand; he had the same white-blond hair as his mother.
She’s beautiful, Nora had thought the first time she saw the framed photo.
Arranging a meeting with Einar had been straightforward; he had texted to say that he would be in Sweden on Monday and Tuesday, and would be happy to set aside an hour for her in the afternoon. Nora hadn’t told him exactly why she wanted to see him, just that it was urgent and confidential. And that it concerned Project Phoenix.
What would be the best way to start? Should she say something about how difficult it was to work with Jukka Heinonen? She saw the project leader in her mind, those sharp eyes above the cheeks marked with a network of blood vessels, the chin sagging with a combination of age and obesity. Once again she felt that creeping sense of unease.
She hoped Einar hadn’t told Jukka that she’d requested a meeting at short notice. It wouldn’t be much of a challenge for Jukka to figure out why.
She thought about how the atmosphere at the bank’s head office had changed since the merger. A new, treacherous attitude had crept in, an expectation that everything must be perfect, that no mistakes were permissible.
Everyone was watching everyone else, and suspicion flourished.
Maybe that wasn’t so strange, Nora thought wearily. Everyone was worried about their own job because of the cuts. Any sense of solidarity had sadly disappeared.
Nora really wanted to be honest with Einar, to say that she didn’t trust the Finnish project leader. He wasn’t easy to work with, and could even be ruthless toward his coworkers. However, there was a danger that she would come across as a total bitch. Better to stick to Project Phoenix and the risks she had identified from a purely legal perspective.
She had to persuade Einar to back her up on the basis of facts, not some nonspecific “bad vibe.” Feeling uneasy was a poor argument, and pointing to the difficulties of working with Heinonen was even less convincing. He mustn’t get the wrong impression of her; otherwise her position would be untenable.
She was beginning to warm up; she took off her jacket and laid it on the sofa beside her.
If only Jonas had been in Sweden; she could have talked the whole thing through with him, gotten his perspective on the issues involved. His support would have given her confidence today. With Jonas she had found a sense of calm that had been missing for the past few years, both before and after the divorce. When she found out that Henrik was having an affair with Marie, she had felt utterly worthless, but that was no longer the case. Her damaged self-esteem had begun to heal.
Nora looked at her watch; it was the middle of the night in New York. She couldn’t disturb Jonas at this hour. She had to get through this on her own.
What do I do if Einar doesn’t believe me? Or decides to remove me from the project?
She had never wanted to get mixed up in a power struggle with someone like Jukka Heinonen; she just wanted to do a good job. She wasn’t the kind to trample over dead bodies in order to advance her career.
The ferry was approaching Styrsvik, directly opposite Stavsnäs. In five minutes it would be time to disembark. The plan was to stop by the apartment in Saltsjöbaden to change into her office clothes. She didn’t want to go and see Einar in her jeans and sweater; she needed the security of a well-cut jacket.
“I’m good at what I do,” she murmured to herself, like an affirmation. “I only want what’s best for the bank.”
She’d finished her coffee, and put down the empty cup. The boat was reversing now; it made a sharp turn and set its course for Stavsnäs.
Her stomach contracted once more.
CHAPTER 55
Olof Palmes gata.
Thomas got out of the car and looked around. Both sides of the street were lined with parked vehicles. Hötorget and its market were nearby, and the area was teeming with shoppers eager to hit the stores between Christmas and New Year’s.
Only a few hundred yards away, Sweden’s former prime minister, Olof Palme, had been murdered in 1986 as he strolled home with his wife after a visit to the movie theater.
“Their office is at number thirteen,” Margit said from behind Thomas. “Over there.”
She pointed to a modern office block with a display of Swedish flags on the façade. Thomas wondered what Palme would have thought about the fact that New Sweden had its headquarters on the street that was named after him.
Margit pressed the intercom buzzer; there was a click, and a female voice answered: “Who do you wish to see?”
“We’re from the police.”
“Come up.”
When they stepped out of the elevator, they were faced with a locked door. Thomas spotted a CCTV camera above it.
“I wonder if they have a permit for that?” Margit said.
“We can always check with the security services.”
Before leaving the station, they’d talked to the Old Man about whether to inform Säpo, the Swedish security police, about their visit. It was always a sensitive matter when a political organization came up in an investigation. However, they were only in the initial phase; at this stage
they were merely gathering information. After a brief discussion, they’d decided to keep it to themselves for the time being.
A girl of about twenty-five, with short brown hair and a white polo-neck sweater, was sitting behind an impeccably tidy reception desk.
“Good morning,” she said, with a slight upward inflection.
Thomas held up his police ID.
“Thomas Andreasson from the Nacka police; this is my colleague, Margit Grankvist. We’d like to speak to your boss, the general secretary.”
The receptionist shuffled uncomfortably.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Margit said.
The girl looked relieved, as if she’d been worried about being blamed for their wasted journey.
“I’m afraid Pauline isn’t here. She won’t be in this week.”
“Do you know where she is?” Thomas asked, slipping his ID into his pocket.
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”
“As I said, we’re from the police,” Margit reiterated. “We need to speak to Pauline Palmér. We’d appreciate it if you could help us out here.”
“I’m not allowed to tell anyone where she is.”
Nervously the girl tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, but then she brightened up.
“You can speak to her personal assistant if you like.”
“That’ll do for a start.”
Thomas looked around as the girl called Pauline’s assistant. The décor looked more suited to a legal practice than a political pressure group, in his opinion. Pale-gray fitted carpet, black leather sofa against one wall. On the coffee table in front of the sofa lay several brochures adorned with New Sweden’s logo.
He picked one up and flicked through it; the first article was about how best to combat the so-called honor killings of young girls.
“Would you like to come with me?” the receptionist said. She led them into a conference room with a round table and four chairs. There was a bowl of candy in the center, and one wall was covered in large New Sweden posters.
“Wait here, please,” she said, and left the room.
