Savage Spring

by KALLENTOFT MONS

  ‘You can buy it from a wholesaler if you’ve got a licence. Most construction companies are licensed. And if you’re an officer in the military you can probably get hold of it. And of course there’s a whole lot of illegal material circulating out there. Things that have been stolen from military stores and building sites. And you can get hold of that if you’ve got contacts in the underworld. You can probably buy it online as well, from other countries. But TATP has a short shelf-life, so there’s a constant flow of it out on the market. Supplies need to be replenished, so whoever’s behind this bomb must have got hold of it fairly recently.’

  Zeke nods, and Malin sucks in her lips, thinking that Börje Svärd and Waldemar Ekenberg can focus their search more precisely now that they know what was used, although that probably only makes it harder. Standard-issue explosives. Probably impossible to trace.

  ‘Is TATP common in other countries?’ Zeke asks.

  ‘It’s available in every country in Europe. It’s produced in several countries, but not here in Sweden. If you wanted to get hold of some, you could. You could even make it yourself. A lot of the bombs in Iraq and Afghanistan are made of TATP, in case you’re interested. And it’s been used in several terrorist attacks, most recently in the attacks on public transport in London. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, seeing as it’s probably what anyone wanting to make a bomb would use.

  ‘In Iraq and Afghanistan the perpetrators also use ammonium nitrate, which has a similar chemical structure, but that’s too bulky for our case. You’d need at least a ton to produce the explosive effect we saw in the square.’

  Karin can see how disappointed Malin is. And she realises how difficult it will be for the detectives to do anything useful with this new information.

  ‘Sorry, Malin. I wish I could give you something more specific. But I can tell you that whoever put this bomb together knew what they were doing. This was no amateur job, but a stable device cased in some sort of metal construction. TATP is extremely sensitive, a lot of amateurs manage to blow themselves up, so this person knew what they were doing. And using a remote is pretty advanced.’

  ‘So we’re talking about a professional?’ Zeke says, and Karin nods.

  ‘And it looks like he was able to direct the force of the blast towards the square on purpose. But that’s impossible to say for certain. The charge ought to have weighed between three and five kilos. That much TATP would be enough for a bomb like ours.’

  ‘And the detonator?’ Malin asks.

  ‘I only found one small fragment. I’m afraid it isn’t possible to say anything about it.’

  The man in the black hoodie.

  The man who left the bomb outside the bank, on the bike.

  He must have left the square, Malin thinks, then stood somewhere and detonated the bomb. Could he see the square from there? The girls? Maybe he’d gone further, out of sight, because if he saw the girls getting closer and still detonated it, what sort of evil are we dealing with then? The demiurge itself, fashioning the world out of chaos, the skinless, bloody monster waking up in its pit in the spring after its winter sleep and setting out to hunt for human souls. A beast that kills for the sake of killing.

  A finger pressing a button.

  Possibly a solitary perpetrator. The head of the Economic Liberation Front? Or someone else? A biker trying to get Stensson? But the bomb missed Stensson by a considerable margin, and why would that happen if it was detonated remotely? But surely there are often problems with bombs? That seems to be the rule rather than the exception, judging by known cases, so we can’t rule out the possibility that Stensson was the target.

  It could also be a religious group, showing their strength by demonstrating that they can strike anywhere, at anytime, but there’s nothing to support that theory.

  Al Kabari probably keeps a close eye on his flock, Malin thinks. And I got a strong feeling that he was telling the truth, that he really does want to help create an integrated society.

  ‘What about the detonator caps. Can they be traced?’ Malin goes on.

  ‘The same thing there, all I’ve been able to conclude is that they were the most common sort. Maybe he or they knew that the detonator caps would be practically impossible to trace.’

  The three of them sit there not saying anything for a while.

  Karin takes a deep breath.

  ‘And finally, I can confirm that the dead girls were the Vigerö twins. Tuva and Mira. They saw a dentist when they were five, and he took X-rays because they had unusual teeth, some of them had grown together in pairs. We’ve compared the records with what we found in the square, and there’s no doubt at all.’

  ‘So now we know for certain what we already knew,’ Malin says.

  Where there used to be panes of glass in the SEB bank in the main square there are now large sheets of plywood, as if someone has covered the windows in advance of a powerful hurricane.

  Waldemar Ekenberg and Börje Svärd knock on the already replaced door. Behind them the memorial candles have gone out and the flowers are already beginning to wilt. But new people are arriving all the time, with new candles, new tulips in the same fiery colours as the core of the explosion, bringing with them new fear, a new, strange sorrow that their sense of security has been pricked.

  A young woman in a grey dress opens the door of the bank a minute or so later.

  They go in. In the absence of daylight the whole building is like some dark chamber.

  Some scared-looking cashiers are trying to appear busy behind an oak-veneered counter, their jobs must be secure in spite of the crisis. The only people who seem to be earning more money than ever are the banks and their employees, despite their huge credit losses, Waldemar concludes.

  It’s stupid to be scared, he thinks as he approaches the counter, followed closely by Börje. If there’s one bank that it’s safe to visit, it must be this one, and he can feel his irritation rising.

  Bastard bankers. His body is twitching for a chance to express its displeasure.

  Fine, beige stone dust covers the internal ceiling. Some newly woken flies have wandered to and fro through the dust, leaving little trails that together form an unsettling, incomprehensible pattern.

  Like a sketch of the whole investigation, Waldemar thinks as he pulls out his wallet from the back pocket of his brown wool trousers and shows his police ID to one of the cashiers.

  ‘We’re looking for your boss,’ Waldemar says, trying to sound as intimidating as possible. ‘I believe his name’s Jeremy Lundin.’

  He sniffs the air.

  Only a day since the explosion, but it feels like much longer ago than that. The bank is almost completely undamaged, the bomb must have been planted by an expert, all the force directed outwards, towards the square, the people. But shouldn’t it have been the other way around, Waldemar thinks, if the bank was the primary target? Shouldn’t the force of the blast have been aimed towards the branch? But the bomber might have been nervous, and could have parked the bike with the rucksack the wrong way around.

  For the first time he entertains doubts about the Economic Liberation Front. To start with he didn’t even want to hear about this business with Stensson on the video, still less follow it up with an interview. But now he’s starting to wonder if there might be something in it.

  And why would the Economic Liberation Front appear out of nowhere like this? Mind you, that’s what happened with Baader–Meinhof in the seventies. Out of nowhere.

  Almost.

  ‘He’s in his office,’ the young red-haired woman says.

  ‘We want to talk to him.’

  And the woman makes a call. Talks, nods, and when she hangs up Waldemar asks: ‘Do you know if Dick Stensson was in the bank yesterday? He is a customer, isn’t he?’

  ‘I wasn’t working yesterday, thank goodness,’ the woman says. ‘And I can’t divulge anything about the bank’s customers. You’ll have to talk to Jeremy.’

  ‘You know who Dick Stensson
is?’

  The woman shakes her head.

  None of the bastards employed here mentioned Stensson yesterday when they were questioned. They didn’t mention any customers by name, perhaps because they’ve had it drummed into them: our customers’ identities must be kept confidential. Yet they still get milked for as much money as possible.

  Or did the explosion just leave them confused?

  It feels as if the whole world is turning too quickly.

  Waldemar puts both hands on the counter in front of the woman.

  ‘These are exceptional circumstances,’ Börje says.

  Waldemar’s eyes narrow to thin strips. Almost without moving his lips he says: ‘Two young girls were blown into tiny pieces. They were six years old, but a little bitch like you doesn’t feel able to divulge anything. We’re going to get the recordings from your cameras in here soon enough, and there’s a good chance he’s on there. You know who he is.’

  The woman looks up at them.

  Without fear.

  More with a sense of clarity in her eyes.

  Then she nods, says: ‘He’s one of the bank’s customers, yes, but I don’t know if he was here yesterday. You’ll have to talk to Jeremy about that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Waldemar says.

  ‘You can go through to Jeremy now. The last door in the corridor over there.’

  ‘Is Dick Stensson one of your customers, and was he here before the explosion?’ Waldemar says, leaning across the desk towards Jeremy Lundin.

  The branch manager, in his mid-thirties, overweight and dressed in a shiny blue suit, with his long blond hair slicked back over his head, looks horrified as he sits there in his chair. It looks as if he wants to pull back, away from Waldemar’s nicotine- and caffeine-tainted breath, but also from his anger.

  Jeremy Lundin pants, filling his pudgy cheeks with air, as his watery grey eyes try to understand what’s going on.

  ‘Calm down,’ Börje says, taking on the role of good cop.

  But Waldemar doesn’t back down, and says: ‘Listen, you little shit, Dick Stensson was in this bank just before the bomb went off yesterday, wasn’t he?’

  Jeremy Lundin drums his fingers on the pale desktop, looking past them at an empty wall.

  ‘Stensson was here, yes. He’s a customer here.’

  ‘And you know who he is?’ Börje asks.

  Jeremy Lundin nods.

  ‘And you, you little shit,’ Waldemar says, ‘didn’t realise that this was extremely important information for us when you were questioned yesterday? You must know perfectly well who he is. And it’s not entirely unknown for rival biker gangs to try to blow each other to pieces.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Börje says, sitting down in one of Jeremy Lundin’s visitors’ chairs.

  Waldemar remains standing, rocking back and forth towards Jeremy Lundin.

  ‘I didn’t think it was important. But now I can see that it might well be. I was thinking of calling you. But we’re very careful with our customers’ confidentiality. And he’s a good customer. He has several successful businesses, all with accounts at this branch.’

  ‘What was Stensson doing here yesterday?’ Börje asks calmly.

  ‘And you’re going to tell us the truth,’ Waldemar hisses, sitting down on Jeremy Lundin’s desk, close to his computer.

  ‘He was here to pay some money in.’

  ‘I presume he brought cash? Does he do that often?’ Waldemar asks.

  ‘Every Monday morning, same time each week. At the counter out there. I took the cash in person yesterday. But don’t get any funny ideas. He always has receipts to prove where the money has come from.’

  ‘Same time every week?’ Börje asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Jeremy Lundin says. ‘There’s nothing odd about that. I know about his reputation, but he’s never been convicted of anything, and his companies are all legitimate. For us he’s just another customer, like all the rest.’

  Is he lying? Waldemar wonders. Probably not. For him Stensson’s just an ordinary customer. Whose anonymity needs to be protected at all costs, no matter what the circumstances. And that way the bank and its profits are protected.

  ‘At some point we’ll be requesting all the details of Stensson’s transactions here at the bank. You can be sure of that,’ Waldemar says.

  Jeremy Lundin smiles.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he says.

  ‘One more thing: what do you know about the Economic Liberation Front?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Jeremy Lundin says, as a greasy lock of hair falls across his brow.

  16

  It’s almost four o’clock when Malin and Zeke park outside the industrial building that the Dickheads biker gang calls home.

  Low clouds have drifted in from the south, and the clear May sky is smeared with grey, seeming to press the bikers’ fortress into the ground.

  Jägarvallen.

  A sleepy little industrial estate a few kilometres from Ryd. Closed-up workshops, a popular dog kennels in front of a hesitant patch of woodland, and the biker gang’s walled collection of buildings, with security cameras above the two rusty metal gates in the wall.

  A doorbell and speakerphone.

  They ring the bell, Malin’s never been inside but has a mental image of an open gravel clearing with motorbikes, a few workshops and a run-down office building.

  Drugs.

  Extortion.

  Cowboy builders. Protection rackets, fraud, counterfeit money. There are plenty of rumours about what the Dickheads are involved in.

  Contract killings.

  They got one of the leaders of the Hells Angels in Gothenburg for murder last year. But in Linköping they haven’t got anywhere with their associates, the Dickheads, nor with their rivals in Los Rebels.

  A hoarse, tired, almost hungover voice: ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  Malin looks at the gates and feels that she’s standing outside an impregnable fortress based on pure evil.

  You mustn’t let the shit get a foothold.

  Because then it takes over.

  The world becomes a dark place.

  Zeke holds his ID up to the camera.

  ‘Police. We’d like to talk to Dick Stensson. Is he here?’

  A long silence. Then there’s a crackle over the speaker and the gates open with a grinding sound, and Malin can see how well her mental image matched the reality. Big, long-framed motorbikes lined up in front of two grey-painted workshops.

  What’s in here? Where are the bodies hidden? What’s locked away?

  A shabby office building, then a bearded ape in a leather tunic and checked shirt striding towards them with threatening, heavy steps, holding out his hand and saying in a mild, friendly voice: ‘Welcome to the Dickheads.’

  A firm but not unpleasant handshake.

  Zeke shakes his head gently as they follow the man towards the office building.

  ‘Dick will see you at once,’ the man says, and a minute later he leaves them alone in a waiting room outside a solid oak door, and if the building looks shabby on the outside, it’s in perfect condition inside. The walls shine with white paint, and the ceiling is smooth, with inset halogen lights, and the leather armchairs beside Malin and Zeke are plump and modern. The black leather looks soft and malleable, and Malin knows it must have cost a great deal, and she has the impression that she’s in the home of a successful entrepreneur with very good taste.

  Then the oak door opens and a deep voice, slightly bored but businesslike, calls from inside the room: ‘You can come in now,’ and a moment later Malin sees Dick Stensson sitting behind his desk in a grey hooded top, beside a large, flat computer screen. Then, as if he were a financial advisor in a bank or insurance company, he asks: ‘And how can I help you?’

  An amused smile on his thin, strong face, and Malin feels the whole of her weight as she sinks into one of the two office chairs positioned in the middle of the room.

  ‘You were in the bank yesterday, just be
fore the explosion. Is that correct?’ Zeke asks.

  Dick Stensson nods.

  ‘That’s correct,’ he says. ‘I was seriously lucky not to get caught up in those lunatics’ evil act. I’d got as far as the castle when it went off. It sounded extremely loud, even up there.’

  ‘What were you doing in the bank?’ Malin asks.

  ‘I was paying in money. The weekly takings from our various businesses, and a bit of private money. Nothing funny. I checked my shares. I’ve got a few Kurtzon global shares. Highly recommended.’

  ‘The director, Lundin, said that you usually visit the bank at the same time each week.’

  ‘He’s a branch manager, not a director. I’m the sort of man who likes things to be regular,’ Dick Stensson replies, leaning back, his eyes twinkling.

  He’s good-looking, Malin thinks. Almost attractive, with all his self-confident authority.

  Is attractive.

  Focus, now.

  ‘You’re not scared of too much regularity?’ Malin asks, and Dick Stensson grins at her, then adopts a look of surprise.

  ‘What would I be scared of?’

  ‘Regularity might make you easy to get at.’

  Dick Stensson nods.

  ‘But it also proves that I don’t care, doesn’t it? That I’m the one in charge.’

  Malin nods, thinking that the man in front of her is intoxicated with himself, he thinks he’s invincible, and there’s something in that which she reluctantly has to admit arouses her physical interest.

  ‘So you don’t think someone who was after you could have left the bomb outside the bank?’ Zeke asks.

  ‘I think that would be unlikely,’ Dick Stensson says, as his fingers dance over the keyboard in front of the screen, as if he’s answering an important email that can’t wait.

  ‘Why would it be unlikely?’ Malin asks. ‘You don’t have any enemies?’

  ‘No enemies,’ Dick Stensson replies with a shake of his head.