In Harm's Way

by Viveca Sten

  Well, they would just have to see how things went. He hoped Pernilla would understand—Nora, too.

  In an attempt to find some fresh energy, he dug half a bar of chocolate out of a drawer and offered Margit a piece.

  “Maybe we should have given Michael Thiels some chocolate truffles,” she said as she helped herself. “It would have been interesting to see his reaction.”

  “Not exactly in keeping with ethical guidelines.” Thomas wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

  Margit popped the piece of chocolate in her mouth.

  “We’re not going to be able to arrest him on what we have at the moment,” she said when she’d finished.

  “Probably not, but we’ll continue our questioning as soon as his lawyer shows up. I’m not done with Thiels, not by a long shot.”

  “We didn’t even have time to talk about Bertil Ahlgren.” Margit suddenly sounded downcast. “Or pressure him about the burner phone. If there’s one place we ought to search, it’s the Thiels house in Vaxholm. I’d love to see a forensic examination of that kitchen.” She took another piece of chocolate. “So what do you think? Shall we at least try for a search warrant? Remove some kitchen appliances—the mixer, for example?”

  Thomas could see that she, too, was feeling the strain; her eyes seemed more deep set than usual, her skin had taken on a grayish pallor. It had been a long day. A hard day.

  Karin had called the hospital to see if there was any change in Aram’s condition, but he was still sedated. Sonja was at his side, having left the girls with her parents in Norrköping.

  “If we could do the search while Thiels is still here, we might be able to find his second phone,” Margit added.

  Thomas didn’t answer immediately; something in the back of his mind was bothering him.

  “There’s another possibility,” he said. “M doesn’t necessarily stand for Michael. It could be a last name—Peter Moore.”

  Margit sighed. “Don’t you think you’re grasping at straws, Thomas? Let it go. You heard what the Old Man said. I know where you’re coming from, but there’s no evidence. I realize you want to nail him for what happened to Aram, but seriously . . .”

  She got up and headed for the door.

  “I need to go and find something to eat if we’re going to be stuck here all evening. Can I get you anything?”

  “A sandwich would be good.”

  Margit disappeared, leaving Thomas staring blankly out of the window. Could Peter Moore have been a secret source, supplying Jeanette with information for a series of articles? That would explain the need for anonymity. Maybe Moore had wanted to back out, but Jeanette refused to give up her scoop. Moore became desperate; he couldn’t risk anyone finding out that he’d been talking to a journalist.

  So he came up with a solution.

  The phone on Thomas’s desk rang, breaking the silence. He looked at the display; the call was coming in via the main switchboard.

  “Thomas Andreasson.”

  “Holger Malmborg, Uppsala police.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think one of your colleagues, a guy with a foreign name, has been trying to get ahold of me. The switchboard said he’s sick, so they’ve put me through to you instead.”

  Thomas sat up straight. “Are you talking about Aram Gorgis?”

  “I guess so—it was a little hard to make out. He called yesterday and left a message asking about a man named Peter Moore.”

  This couldn’t be yet another coincidence.

  “Aram isn’t in today, but you can talk to me. What’s this about—do you know why he contacted you?”

  “He asked why the case against Moore had been dropped.”

  “Case? What case?”

  “OK, let’s start at the beginning,” Malmborg said. He sounded older, maybe nearing retirement. One of those cops who’s seen it all.

  “Wait a second, let me bring in someone who needs to hear this.” Thomas caught up with Margit by the elevators.

  “Come back—I’ve got the Uppsala police on the phone. It’s about Peter Moore.”

  The two of them sat down. “I’m putting you on speakerphone; my colleague Margit Grankvist is with me.” He pressed the button; Margit moved her chair closer and shrugged off her jacket.

  Malmborg cleared his throat.

  “Moore featured in an investigation into a near riot in Uppsala four years ago. It was in connection with a nationalist demonstration on November 30. You know, the anniversary of the death of Karl XII,” he added for clarification.

  The hero king, Thomas thought, embraced by the neo-Nazis for his warlike spirit.

  “There were several hundred activists on the streets,” Malmborg went on. “Swedish flags, burning torches, white power—you name it . . . A definite provocation.”

  “So what happened?” Margit asked.

  “Someone organized a counterdemonstration. The whole thing got out of control and became violent. A number of young immigrants were badly beaten with iron bars. One almost died.”

  “And Moore was involved in these attacks?”

  “Two of the victims claimed he was.”

  “You say ‘claimed’—you couldn’t make it stick?”

  “You know how it is. Several witnesses said that Moore had been there and participated in the violence, but he had an alibi.”

  “How come?”

  “Someone swore that Moore had been in Stockholm the entire evening. To be honest, the witnesses weren’t totally reliable. It was dark, chaotic; a lot of people had been drinking and were alleging all kinds of things.”

  “One person’s word against another’s.”

  “As is so often the case. Anyway, in the end the prosecutor refused to pursue the matter, so Moore had nothing to worry about.”

  “Do you remember who provided Moore with his alibi?”

  “Now, who was it? My memory isn’t what it used to be. I’m thinking of our former prime minister . . . Palme, something like that.”

  “Palmér?” Thomas suggested.

  “Could be—wait a second.”

  It had to be Pauline Palmér. She’d provided Moore with an alibi, saved him from a court case. Loyalty could be bought in many ways.

  “Here we go—it was Lars Palmér.”

  “You don’t say,” Margit said.

  Pauline’s husband. Smart—that meant she didn’t need to feature in the police investigation at all.

  “Can I ask why you’re interested in this guy?” Malmborg said.

  Thomas hesitated; should he say that Aram had ended up in the hospital? He settled on a compromise.

  “Moore’s name has come up on the periphery of a case we’re working on, plus one of our colleagues has been beaten up, and we were wondering if Moore could be involved.”

  “I probably shouldn’t ask, but I’m going to: does this colleague maybe come from an immigrant background?”

  “Yes,” Margit said slowly. “He does.”

  Thomas felt his pulse increase. Malmborg’s reaction made him even more certain that Moore had something to do with the attack on Aram.

  And maybe with Jeanette’s death, too.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Malmborg said. “One thing I will say: Peter Moore is not a nice guy. He has some very unpleasant opinions—he’d fit right in with any Ku Klux Klan group.”

  “Why do you say that?” Margit asked.

  “I took a closer look at him. I have an old friend who used to work for the FBI, and he owed me a favor.”

  Margit and Thomas exchanged a glance.

  “Moore was convicted of assault in Mississippi,” Malmborg went on. “He attacked two Arab boys, exchange students, when he was at college in the US. That’s why he applied to come to Sweden; the college kicked him out.”

  “I thought he’d gone to school in Minnesota, where he’s from?” Thomas said.

  “That’s not the whole picture. He spent a year at college in Minnesota, then he transferred to Jackson State College in Missi
ssippi. The good old South—need I say more?”

  “You seem to have put a lot of effort into digging up information on Moore’s background,” Margit said.

  Malmborg’s reply was surprising.

  “My wife comes from central Africa—our two kids are just out of their teens. They’ve had some problems when they’ve been out at night. I would have nailed the guy if I could, but when the prosecutor decided to drop the case, that was the end of it.”

  “Thank you so much,” Thomas said. “You have no idea how valuable your input is.”

  “Peter Moore is a pig,” Malmborg said in conclusion.

  Just as Thomas put the phone down, Kalle stuck his head around the door. It was obviously something important; he could hardly get the words out.

  “I’ve spoken to the phone company about Aram’s cell; I wanted to check if they could trace his movements last night.”

  “And?” Margit said.

  “He sent his wife a text at around nine fifteen. He was just south of the place where he was found.”

  Thomas pictured the map of Stockholm.

  Karlbergsvägen 62 was immediately south of the Solvändan play area. He looked at Margit.

  “This has to be enough to bring the bastard in,” he said. “I have no intention of allowing him to clean up after himself.”

  “What about Thiels?”

  “He can wait.”

  Margit got to her feet.

  “I’ll go and call the prosecutor. Will you speak to the Old Man?”

  CHAPTER 88

  Darkness had fallen, and Alice’s room was lit only by the glow of her laptop screen.

  The phone had rung again half an hour ago, but she hadn’t bothered to answer. If Dad wanted to speak to her, he’d call her cell instead. She couldn’t handle talking to Petra again. She was lying on her bed with her back against the wall, totally absorbed in what she was reading.

  Mom’s USB stick had been encrypted, but it hadn’t been too hard to find the password. She’d tried Alice first; that didn’t work, so she switched the letters around. That was no good either. She thought for a little while, then typed Sushi, and she was in. The realization that Mom had used the name of Alice’s cat almost made her cry.

  There was only one file on the little blue stick. It was a Word document, and it was large—a whole megabyte. Alice had stared at the weird name for quite some time.

  MEMDEC2008

  She could almost feel Mom’s disapproval when she finally opened the file. She found it hard to shake off the feeling that she was doing something wrong.

  The first page appeared, and at the bottom of the screen the counter quickly registered 376 pages; 89,294 words.

  A book. A new book.

  As soon as Alice read the title, she knew exactly what it was.

  A Life in War and Peace

  by

  Jeanette Thiels

  Mom had written her memoir. Why? She was only fifty-three; surely people only did that kind of thing when they were really old?

  The lump in her throat was getting bigger.

  Had Mom known she was going to die? Was that why she’d asked Alice to look after the envelope?

  Alice didn’t like that idea at all.

  The first part was about Mom’s childhood in Tierp, an hour and a half outside Stockholm. Alice remembered going there when she was little, when Grandpa was still alive. But it was such a long time ago; she had only vague memories. Mom preferred to visit her parents in the cottage on Sandhamn.

  Mom wrote about what it had been like growing up in the sixties and seventies. Alice couldn’t imagine it; it was like a different country, a different planet.

  Reading Mom’s story made her sad, but she couldn’t tear herself away. It was almost like having Mom sitting beside her, hearing Mom’s voice inside her head.

  Over the past few days, she’d called Mom’s phone over and over again, just to hear her on the outgoing voice-mail message.

  She felt a little dizzy; it had been awhile since she’d eaten. Breakfast had consisted of tea without milk or sugar, and a banana. What time was it? It was already dark—around four o’clock, maybe? Dad should be home soon.

  The phone rang again.

  She didn’t bother answering this time either.

  CHAPTER 89

  Thomas took off his gloves and rang the doorbell. The sound echoed through Moore’s apartment.

  Is he waiting for us in there?

  A locksmith and two uniformed officers were behind him, Margit by his side with her hand resting on her gun.

  Thomas nodded to the locksmith, a young woman with a thick brown braid hanging down her back. She did her job; it took a little longer than usual, but finally the door opened.

  Thomas felt a surge of adrenaline. He drew his gun and stepped across the threshold. The apartment was in darkness, and he couldn’t see much, in spite of the lighting on the stairs and landing.

  “I don’t think he’s home,” he said quietly to Margit as he listened for the slightest sound, all his senses on high alert.

  “He can’t possibly have known we were on the way,” she whispered back. They should have brought a floor plan, Thomas realized, but it was too late now. He edged forward, feeling for the light switch.

  When the ceiling light came on, it revealed a square hallway. The bedroom lay straight ahead; the living room, study, and dining room were on the left. There were two closed doors on the right. Margit moved toward one of them, miming to him: “Can you take the other?”

  “On three,” he said quietly. They flung both doors open at the same time. Thomas was faced with an empty kitchen, and when he turned around, he saw Margit looking at an equally empty bathroom.

  He had been right; there was no one home.

  “He’s not here,” Thomas announced, even though it was superfluous. He walked into the modern living room: black leather sofa, dark rug, black glass table. A pinball machine in one corner. Margit slipped her gun back in its holster and headed for the small study. One wall was lined with bookshelves, and the desk was piled high with papers.

  “Thomas, look at this,” she said, pulling a book off the shelf. The dust jacket was red, and on the front was a black-and-white image of a man and woman, both with a gun in their hands, both aiming at something.

  The Turner Diaries.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “It’s a bible for Moore and his kind. It was written at the end of the seventies and published under a pseudonym. It’s about a US in the future, which has been taken over by Jews and blacks. The hero is Earl Turner, and he fights to save the white race.” She grimaced in distaste and replaced the book. “It’s total crap.”

  “How did you come across it?”

  “I read about it in Expo.”

  Expo. The real story behind Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy, the magazine Larsson founded in order to combat racism and right-wing extremism.

  Suddenly they heard raised voices outside the front door.

  “What’s going on?”

  Thomas went out into the hallway. An elderly, white-haired man in a jacket and tie was on the landing. He pointed at Thomas and said belligerently: “What are you doing?”

  “We’re looking for Peter Moore. Do you happen to know where he is?”

  “What are you doing in his apartment?” the man said, ignoring Thomas’s question.

  “We’re police officers. We have a search warrant.”

  “Prove it!”

  Thomas armed himself with a patient smile. It was only on American cop shows that written confirmation of a search warrant was required, but many people believed he ought to have a court order tucked away in his pocket.

  “I don’t need to do that,” he said, holding up his police ID. “Who are you, anyway?”

  The man scrutinized Thomas’s ID, then said, a little less aggressively: “My name is Carl-Gustaf Gorton, and I’m the chair of the residents’ committee.
I’m going to call Peter right now.”

  “Wait,” Thomas said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that.” He took out his notebook. “How well do you know Peter Moore?”

  “Why?”

  Thomas could feel his irritation rising.

  “Does this have anything to do with yesterday’s break-in up in the attic?” Gorton went on.

  “Sorry?”

  “We had a break-in last night. That’s the second time this year!”

  “Have you reported it to the police?”

  “The secretary of the board said he’d take care of it.” Gorton adjusted the knot of his tie; a gold tiepin glinted in the light. “The door was wide open this morning, and several storage facilities up there had been broken into. It’s appalling!”

  “What did they steal?”

  “Nothing, as far as I’m aware, but not all the residents have had time to check yet.”

  “Is it open now? I could take a look.”

  Gorton pointed up the stairs.

  “Feel free—I don’t think the lock’s been replaced yet.”

  Thomas turned away, then paused.

  “Which storage facility belongs to Peter Moore?”

  Gorton looked suspiciously at him, but decided to answer.

  “I think it’s number nine.”

  CHAPTER 90

  Thomas took the stairs two at a time. The door was ajar, the hasp missing its padlock. He went in and switched on the light, looking around in the cold glare of the bulb on the ceiling.

  The still air smelled of dust. The walls were made of rough, unpainted wooden boards.

  The first storage facility was piled high with large cardboard boxes; it would be easy to hide behind them. He moved farther in, checking each compartment as he passed by. Two doors had clearly been broken open; he could see the marks of a crowbar on the frames. However, there was no sign that they’d been searched; everything inside was neat and tidy behind the chicken wire. No boxes had been ripped apart.

  How convenient—a break-in by an unknown perpetrator. Thomas couldn’t help suspecting that this had something to do with Aram. He just didn’t believe in coincidences.