Malin.
He’s not sure what’s going on with her yet. She seems to be able to keep the drink at bay, and she seems to be getting on well with Tove again. But Janne?
I don’t regret forcing her into rehab, but somehow I get the feeling that she’ll never completely trust me again, as if she used to take it for granted that I’d listen to whatever she wanted, no matter what happened.
She was guilty of drink-driving.
She was drunk on duty.
It could have turned out really badly, and someone else could have got hurt. And I couldn’t let either of those things happen.
And now her mother. I remember when my mother died. It was as if all my security was pulled away, as if I finally grew up, liberated by the reality of her death from the fear that she might disappear.
I grieved, but I also grew as well. She had lived her life, she was old, and I can still feel her love to this day. But if she had lived her life without showing me love, maybe I’d feel differently. Maybe I’d feel that there was a hole in me that could never be filled now.
She’s balancing on a very fine line, Malin. Anything could tip her into the darkness. But Malin’s a human being, and that’s what we all have to deal with, being human.
Vulnerable little people.
I’d kill anyone who attacked them.
Kill them.
Johan Jakobsson watches his children sleep in their beds in the room they share on the ground floor of their terraced house. Lets his feelings run free, refusing to let guilt tarnish them.
His children are almost the same age as the girls who died in the square. The whole thing seems unreal. Yet still horribly real.
And Malin.
She buried her mother that morning. The explosion seemed in some paradoxical way to hold her together. As if it made her more focused, made things clearer, helping her cope with the very fact of being human.
He closes the door to the children’s room.
Stops in the darkness of the hall.
Whoever it was who carried out the bombing, we’re going to catch him, or her, or them.
There’s a dividing line there, he thinks. Anyone who is guilty of violence against children, the abuse of children, breaks our shared human contract, and that contract can never be restored. Those people have forfeited their right to be part of society.
Why does anyone join the police? Why did I join the police?
God knows, I’m not a macho-man like Waldemar. Or Börje, come to that.
But I like the intricacy of the work. Mapping out people and events. Digging into people’s pasts. Seeing the patterns that have led them to a particular point in their lives.
And the clarity. In cases like this. Because behind the smokescreen, the conflict is straightforward. Me against the people who harm children. Black and white. It’s as easy as that.
Börje Svärd is asleep.
Waldemar Ekenberg is asleep.
They’re asleep in their respective unassuming Östergötland villas, united by their untroubled breathing.
Börje’s Alsatians are lying on his bed. They’re allowed on there now, it makes the nights feel less lonely, and he’s noticed that it makes them feel more secure.
That he himself feels more secure because of the dogs’ watchful, protective presence.
As if they are capable of holding evil at bay.
Börje had been in the cathedral, at the service, together with another two and a half thousand of the city’s inhabitants. He was standing right at the back of the church, looking out over the rows of people in the pews, seeing the soft yet powerful light shining on the crucifix on the altar, and the lamps on the walls made the stone sing, demanding something from the congregation, demanding that their fear and anxiety be brought under control, and that was also the bishop’s message: ‘In times like this we must stick together. Not point the finger, but show tolerance and not let fear rule our lives and our choices. By having faith in the good within us, we can defeat evil.’
And Börje had been scornful. How had faith helped Anna? Had it overcome her evil, evil illness?
No, hardly.
But until close to the end she’d had a good life. Difficult and painful, but every day he had seen the unshakeable power within her, the desire to live, and possibly also faith in human goodness.
He had thought about Malin in the cathedral.
The way she actually seemed to be carrying the same torment as Anna. How she tried to reach out for goodness even though a powerful dark force was constantly threatening to take over. But, he thought, it’s probably only when life becomes so black and white that existence becomes truly clear to us, when we might feel able to understand that its inherent contradictions are the whole point.
But here, in this cathedral, he had thought, we try to convince ourselves, jointly, that those contradictions don’t exist, no matter what the bishop says. In times of need we seek solace, otherwise we don’t give a damn.
He had left the cathedral before the end of the service.
He had felt the oxygen in the air running out, as the flames of the candles reached out to him. He had walked home through the mild spring evening. Longing to be at home with his dogs’ simple, easily comprehensible love.
Waldemar Ekenberg has his arm around his wife. She’s awake, and is looking at him, admiring his solidity, his ability never to give in. She doesn’t mind about his tendency towards racism and over-simplification. He probably has good reasons. He looks after her, always has done. They can manage on his wage alone, if they have to. She never liked the job at Rex Components, sitting in front of a screen and typing in data all day long. But at the same time, it was nice to feel needed. But Waldemar seems happy about her not working, because then everything at home works perfectly, and he gets properly cooked meals on the table every evening.
Waldemar cares about the people closest to him.
His colleagues.
Börje, Johan, Sven. And Malin. He said he was worried about her at the dinner table this evening. Worried she was going to start drinking again now that her mother was gone. But she seems to have a grip on things, doesn’t she, he says, as if I’d know. I do know one thing, though: however much you might want to help someone, he or she will eventually have to overcome their demons themselves.
And who knows what nightmares are really haunting that Malin?
Zeke is sitting in front of his computer in the kitchen of his villa. He’s just woken up and couldn’t get back to sleep.
He’s opened a picture of his grandson in Canada. His name’s Per, but he’s called Pelle, and Zeke has seen far too little of him.
Inside the bedroom his wife is snoring, and the soft, rumbling sound of her breathing makes Zeke feel calm, at the same time as making him feel wide awake.
Bloody awful, those girls in the square.
What would he do if anything like that happened to Pelle?
He’d smoke the bastards who did it out of their holes.
But he knows that unfocused aggression is pointless in a situation like this. Now was the time for them to be methodical, not let themselves be blinded by hate or anger.
He looks at the picture of his grandson.
Taking some of his very first steps in his son Martin’s lush garden.
Bloody awful.
He knows he can let rip if need be.
Go to hell, Zeke thinks, and in his mind’s eye he sees a monster in human disguise.
12
Tuesday, 11 May
What does a journalist want?
To capture the truth. To let it loose.
Become a parasite on it, profit from it. Give their own view, share it with those who choose to listen. If they actually want anything, journalists.
It’s only a quarter to seven when Malin parks outside the police station, but in spite of the early hour there’s a minor horde of journalists outside the entrance.
There are vehicles from Swedish Television and TV4. With a case like t
his, in such an extreme situation as this one, it’s even more important than usual to hold the media at a distance, not let the vultures set anything in motion that might affect the general public and foster fear in society.
But perhaps Linköping’s inhabitants ought to be afraid now? Who knows when the next bomb might go off? Or what has already been set in motion?
Malin breathes in the morning air. Detects the smell of newly woken chlorophyll, life waiting to be lived, the way the whole of nature seems to want to make love to itself in a boisterous orgy.
Is Daniel Högfeldt there? In the horde?
She can’t see him, and as she approaches the entrance the journalists shout at her: ‘Malin? Have you got anything for us? What are your main lines of inquiry? Activists, Islamic extremists . . . Has anyone claimed responsibility?’
She shakes her head, puts one hand in front of her face, and wishes she had put her sunglasses on, but is still glad she’s wearing her nice blue dress if she has to have her picture taken. The holster containing her SIG Sauer is concealed beneath a white cotton jacket. White plimsolls, French sailor style. She felt properly chic when she looked at herself in the mirror in her bedroom, and that cheered her up, the way her appearance has recovered and improved since she stopped drinking.
Properly attractive.
Vivacious skin that sits tightly on her high cheekbones, glossy hair. Alert blue eyes.
Not bad at all.
So why am I still so alone? she had wondered.
‘No comment,’ she says as the crowd parts, possibly out of respect for her, a number of them have covered other cases she’s been involved in, and they know what sort of person she is.
Then the automatic doors open and she goes in, hears the sucking sound as they close behind her, then her mobile rings. She looks in her bag, gets hold of it, sees Daniel’s number and doesn’t feel like taking the call, but does so anyway.
‘It’s me, Malin.’
And she can hear from the efficient tone of his voice that this is strictly a work call.
He doesn’t want to meet up for a fuck.
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I wanted to call you first considering the current situation. I’ve received an email in the newsroom from a group calling themselves the Economic Liberation Front. They say they’re at war with all banks, which they call outposts of greed, and they’re claiming responsibility for yesterday’s explosion. And they say they’re going to strike again.’
Malin stops in front of the reception desk, and Ebba, the receptionist, who’s just arrived, nods in her direction.
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard. The Economic Liberation Front. Ever heard of them?’
‘No. Never.’
Malin starts walking towards her desk in the open-plan office, the first detective on the team to arrive, but there’s a countless number of uniforms and civilian staff wandering to and fro with cups of coffee and bundles of documents in their hands.
‘I’ve never heard of the Economic Liberation Front,’ she says.
‘But they seem to be genuine,’ Daniel says. ‘They sent a link to a website, and it’s not a pretty sight.’
In front of her computer now.
‘The address, Daniel. The address.’
‘As it sounds. Dot S E.’
‘Hold on, I’m opening it now. And the email address?’
‘The mail came from an anonymous server.’
Her fingers race over the keyboard.
Wrong.
Damn. Then she gets the right address in the browser.
Heavy blue text on a pale green background. A graphic consisting of the burning logos of SEB, Nordea, Handelsbanken, and Swedbank.
She reads:
The country’s banks and the indescribable greed expressed by them and their owners, management and staff, are threatening the whole climate of society. Their behaviour is creating a predatory cage for our children to live in.
The Economic Liberation Front is therefore declaring war on Sweden’s banks. They and their greed will be wiped out.
Pictures from the main square following the explosion.
Malin scrolls down.
Pictures of bank branches in other cities. The caption beneath every picture is the same.
The next target?
The next target?
Then, at the bottom of the page, another short text:
Civilian casualties cannot be ruled out in our struggle to save public decency, selfless compassion for others and love between people.
‘Have you looked?’
Daniel’s voice is full of fear and distaste, but also expectation, as if he’s waiting for a pat on the back.
‘Yes.’
No other pages, nothing more about the organisation than what it says on the home page.
‘Bloody dodgy,’ Malin says. ‘Have you put this up on your own site?’
‘No. I came to you first.’
‘Can you hold back for a bit? Until we can check this out. Bloody hell.’
‘I can’t wait, Malin, you know that.’
‘You could start a panic, Daniel.’
‘People have the right to know, Malin. And what’s to say they haven’t sent this to loads of people in the media? If you check, you’ll probably find the link on other sites. Hasn’t anyone else contacted you? You didn’t get the email?’
Did we get the email? I don’t know. Has anyone else received it? Or just Daniel? If so, why just him?
She shuts her eyes. Sees the photographs of the girls on the bedroom wall in her mind’s eye, and she knows that Daniel’s right.
People have to know.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Do what you have to do. You haven’t got any idea why you specifically were sent this email?’
‘No. But I’m the lead reporter in the city’s pre-eminent news organisation, so it’s hardly that surprising, is it? If they’ve got local connections.’
‘But shouldn’t they have gone to the national media?’
‘Maybe they have, who knows? It’ll only take two seconds, then it’ll be everywhere else anyway. Maybe they wanted to maintain the local angle. How the hell should I know? They must have known it would spread, whatever they chose to do.’
‘OK. Thanks again. We’ll be in touch. Not least Forensics, when they get to tracing the email. Can you forward it to me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’
Then silence on the line.
‘How are things otherwise?’ Daniel asks after something like ten seconds, which feel like a year. ‘I heard about your mum . . .’
‘Sorry. I haven’t got time to talk about that now. I need to get going with this.’
She hangs up.
Civilian casualties cannot be ruled out . . .
The photographs of the scene seem to have been lifted from various newspapers. Sharp and edited, the way that professional news photographers’ pictures always are.
The yellow plastic sheeting clearly visible in the pictures of the square yesterday.
Doesn’t want to think about what’s under it.
. . . war on Sweden’s banks. They and their greed will be wiped out.
Can this be true? Malin wonders. Is the demon of money behind this? The bizarre greed of the banks and financiers, biting itself in the tail?
Half an hour later the entire investigative team is standing in Sven Sjöman’s office.
Waldemar Ekenberg, Börje Svärd, Johan Jakobsson, Zeke, Malin, and Karim Akbar. They’re staring at the computer, trying to grasp something that they imagine is there.
‘That’s it, then,’ Waldemar says. ‘We just have to get hold of the nutters behind the Economic Liberation Front, then case solved.’
‘Doesn’t that site look a bit thin?’ Johan says. ‘And I haven’t come across any Liberation Front in my search of extremists in the city up to now. The ones around here seem mainly interested in animal rights.’
‘New groups do pop up,’ Börje
says. ‘Who knows what a financial crisis and insane levels of injustice can drive people to, how desperate they might get?’
‘We’ll get the technical guys to try to trace the email and the server the site’s hosted on,’ Sven says. ‘We haven’t heard anything from any of the other media, and the Correspondent put the details up on its site five minutes ago, so the chances are that the email was only sent to Daniel Högfeldt.’
‘Which suggests a local connection,’ Börje says.
‘Well, it might do,’ Malin says, ‘but at the same time they might be using the Correspondent to get us to think that they have a local connection.’
‘If they’re any good at technology,’ Johan says, ‘they could already be a hundred steps ahead of us. It might be impossible to track them down this way.’
‘How many of them can there be?’ Zeke wonders.
‘It’s impossible to say,’ Sven replies, updating the site on his computer.
The page has changed.
At the top there is now a videoclip linked to YouTube.
Sven clicks to start the film.
A man wearing a grey hooded jacket and black jeans, with a black mask over his face, is standing in what looks like a warehouse with a sheet of paper in his hand. The hand holding it appears to belong to a white-skinned person.
‘This looks like an Al-Qaeda video,’ Karim says. ‘One of the ones where they cut the head off some westerner they’ve captured.’
‘Shit,’ Zeke says, and Waldemar exclaims: ‘We’re going to get that bastard.’
Malin thinks it takes an age before the man starts reading from the sheet of paper into the camera.
A sharp but slightly hoarse voice. No accent, and evidently distorted to make it hard to recognise.
‘People of Sweden,’ the man says. ‘Stay away from the banks. You never know when the next greeting from the Economic Liberation Front will come. The banks and finance companies and venture capitalists must be punished, wiped out. Quake, oh ye capitalists, and let a new age be born, with new ethics and compassion between people, free from avarice.’
Then the clip ends.
Savage Spring Page 9
