“Everyone kept saying that I shouldn’t lose hope. That that was the last thing I should do. So I kept hoping. Every night before I went to sleep I lay there hoping I was wrong. That what I knew deep down inside would turn out to be wrong. But it didn’t, and now it’s like I’m losing her all over again. I don’t know why everyone always says you should keep hoping. If they hadn’t said that, I wouldn’t have any tears left by now.”
Fabian disregarded all the rules, both written and unwritten; he lifted her onto his lap and put his arms around her. She didn’t resist at all. Not like Matilda. Instead she sank into his embrace as if it were the very thing she was missing.
He wanted to say something about how the amount of tears a person had was a constant, and how the tears she cried now couldn’t have come out before. Help her to understand how important hope still was, and how it was there whether you wanted it to be or not. How it had helped her with everything from getting out of bed in the morning to making the yummiest banana cake in the world. But he remained silent — every word he might have said would have fallen flat.
“She was supposed to help me with my homework. I was supposed to write an essay about my horse.”
“You have a horse?”
“Not really. I’m allergic. And she promised to read me four chapters of Pippi because she hadn’t read me anything the night before.”
“What about your dad, couldn’t he read you something?”
She shook her head. “Mom always read to me. She did different voices and stuff. Sometimes she even did the sound effects, like bang and crash, so you would, like, jump. But now I just read to myself.”
“Do you remember anything else about the day she didn’t come home?”
“She was grumpy that morning. She wasn’t grumpy ever. I tried to put on some music so she could dance around and be happy. But she didn’t want to, even though I put on The Smiths, which was her favourite band. She said she had been up working all night. Then she just left, without even saying goodbye.”
“You don’t know what she was working on that night, do you?”
The girl shook her head. “She always kept her office door closed when she needed to be left alone, and no one was allowed to come in. Not even Dad. I thought she would come out and read when she was done, but she just sat in there working all night.”
“Her office. Is it still here?”
“Yes, but Dad locked the door and said we’re never allowed to go in there again. Even though I know the same key works on all the doors.” Her eyes met Fabian’s.
The room wasn’t much larger than ten square metres, if that. Yet there was space for a well-worn reading chair with an ottoman and a side table, a TV with a combination DVD/VCR, a large bookcase with shelves that bent under the weight of all the books and stacks of paper and other objects, a table with a sewing machine and the beginnings of a patchwork quilt, and, by the window, a desk piled with dirty coffee mugs, binders, and documents.
Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust. No one had been in there since Marianne disappeared.
Fabian sat in the desk chair, letting his eyes take in the piles of documents, trying to figure out what he was looking at. Most of them were bank statements, he could see that much. Some had the green SE-Banken logo in the top left corner, and others showed the names of foreign banks he’d never heard of. A number of binders were filled with long lists of transactions and balances, and under the layer of dust he could see sales orders and withdrawal slips with circled and more or less illegible signatures.
But what was all this, really? What could be so important that Marianne had kept the door closed, neglecting to read Pippi to her daughter, even forgetting to come out and say goodnight? He tried to focus his thoughts as he picked up a document here or set aside another there, but it was impossible. His mind wouldn’t obey, and at last he gave up his attempts to keep it in check. He allowed his eyes to roam aimlessly across all the tables and rows of numbers until they flowed together and took on a life of their own.
Like a lens suddenly coming into focus, he understood exactly what was in front of him.
Just as they had learned, Marianne Wester was Johan Halén’s personal banker. But she hadn’t stopped at a suspicion that something wasn’t quite right, that her customer might not be the person he said he was. Marianne had dug deeper and followed the transactions from the sales of all Halén’s assets in great detail.
It was a task that would have taken the police ages. It was nearly impossible to obtain the necessary documents from banks in countries that lacked information exchange agreements with Sweden. But somehow she’d managed to follow all of Halén’s millions out of the country as they were scattered around the world by way of a number of offshore accounts, only to return to Sweden a few months later via paid insurance premiums or alleged gambling winnings.
This wasn’t what Fabian had expected, and at first he assumed he had misread. But after a closer look, he was certain. Fourteen months later, the money was back, in an account with Nordea. Freshly laundered and white as snow.
An account with two holders: Sten and Anita Strömberg.
There they were, in black-and-white, with their signatures, personal ID numbers, and scanned driver’s licences. They did look older, different, but just as Jeanette Dawn had, he recognized the eyes and the intense gazes looking up at him.
Marianne Wester had done all the work, and it shouldn’t be much of a problem now to link the murders of Halén, Brise, and Dawn to the killers, by way of a chain of transactions. Of the bodies found in the grave at Halén’s house, that left only Bernard von Gyllenborg’s murder unsolved. Was his death also linked to his finances? What about his brother and his father’s deaths? Fabian knew he would need to look deeper. He also had the tingling sensation he always got when a case began to crack open.
At last, they were closing in.
80
Dunja hadn’t been to Café Sebastapol in almost ten years. Not that she had anything against it, quite the opposite. The food was pretty good — classic French bistro fare at reasonable prices. What’s more, the neighbourhood around Sankt Hans Torv, which was only a stone’s throw from her apartment on Blågårdsgade, was one of the nicest in Copenhagen.
Yet for some reason, she never felt quite at home. The charming interior felt superficial, something that would fit in better downtown or out in Østerbro, not here in Nørrebro. So far she hadn’t seen a single guest who looked like they belonged in her neighbourhood.
She didn’t mention this to Magnus, who was about to burst with pride. He had tied himself in knots trying to find the perfect spot and had also insisted it had to be a surprise.
Dunja hadn’t realized he was taking her out for that long-awaited dinner date until he held the door for her and the host showed them to their reserved table. She’d been expecting a quick kebab before they went home to work on their list of possible suspects at Fenix Martial Arts in Helsingborg. A long, sit-down restaurant meal was really the last thing she felt like doing.
But she did appreciate the effort. Magnus was sometimes pretty stingy, but he’d turned out to be a true gentleman when it came down to it. He had ordered champagne and a three-course dinner. No expense was spared, and now that they were heading home along Fælledvej, crossing Nørrebrogade, she couldn’t help recognizing that this was the nicest thing anyone had done for her in a long time.
“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea with a splash of rum,” he said, offering her a smile. “Do you have any at home? Otherwise we can buy some. Rum goes with just about everything. Like hot chocolate. Have you ever tried that? Nothing better.”
“Magnus.” Dunja tried to capture his unsteady gaze. “It’s been a really nice evening, truly. But I think it’s best if we each head home now.”
“Already? It’s only ten fifteen.”
It was that last, extra-large whiskey h
e’d insisted on. It was kicking in.
“When did you become such a bore?” Magnus stopped and turned to her on unsteady legs. “You think I haven’t heard the rumours? Huh? The stuff you get up to every Tuesday. Okay, today is Thursday. But as far as I know there wasn’t much hanky-panky going on last Tuesday, unless you managed a quickie in one of the cars while you were running around on the highway.”
The sound of her palm striking his cheek echoed down the empty street. She felt the blood rush in and her whole hand started pulsing. She’d only wanted to shut him up, but she’d almost knocked him over, although his reddening cheek didn’t seem to be bothering Magnus in the least. He mostly just looked crestfallen.
“Sorry.” He touched his cheek as if the pain had only just penetrated the wall of alcohol. “That was a dumb thing to say, really dumb…you’re just so pretty and nice, and I thought…well, we have, you know…but you’re right, and I really mean it. I’m sorry…”
“Magnus, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, and I’m going to say something now.” He tried, but couldn’t focus his eyes on her. “I know what you think of me. That I’m too big and boring and not that cool type of guy who —”
“Magnus, you don’t need to —”
“Shh,” he interrupted her, holding a wavering index finger in the air. “I just want you to know that everything I do is for you. Everything.”
“Okay, I know. Now go home.”
“Don’t be mad. Promise you’re not mad.”
“I promise. It’s fine. Now let’s get you home.”
“You’re so great. You’re the fucking best, Dunja. But you knew that already. The thing is, if anyone deserves everything to go right, and not go too fast, it’s you. Y’know?”
Dunja nodded. “And that’s exactly why you’re not coming upstairs with me.” She tried to meet his gaze, but it kept slipping away.
“Sorry…sorry…” Magnus turned around and started walking off. But if it was home he was aiming for, he was going the wrong way. His steps were so wobbly it was a wonder he was still upright.
“Magnus, wait.” She moved to catch up with him. “You can sleep on my sofa.”
He turned to her with hazy eyes. “The last thing I want is —”
Dunja barely had time to jump aside to keep from being hit by the vomit, which looked like pea soup even though he’d eaten meat, potatoes, and drunk red wine.
“Oh, shit…” he managed to say before the next load shot from his mouth. “Oh hell, I’m so embarrassed…”
When he was done, she took him by the arm and led him to her front door, up the stairs, and into her apartment. “Magnus, are you okay, or is there more to come?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Much better. I’m just going to…” He stumbled into the bathroom, and she heard him run water in the sink and start washing up and brushing his teeth.
She was too tired to consider whether he had brought his own toothbrush. She walked to her bedroom, where she took blankets and sheets from the drawer under the bed, went back to the living room, and made up the sofa. It was a little too short for him, but it was all she had to offer.
When she was finished, she went back to the bedroom, closed the door, and undressed as she heard Magnus on his way through the hall to the living room. “I made up the sofa,” she called. “So help yourself, and see you in the morning.”
There was no response, but she heard the door behind her creaking open. “Magnus…I said the sofa, not the bed.” She bent over and pulled on her pyjama pants as quickly as she could. Her pyjama top, where was it? “Dammit, Magnus, I’m serious here. Get out of my bedroom this minute.” Shit, she couldn’t just turn around while she was naked from the waist up. She heard the door close behind her. That bastard was still in the room. She could hear him breathing. Goddammit…He was just like all the rest. But why wasn’t he saying anything? “Okay, I want you to leave my apartment,” she went on. “I want you to go back to the living room, then down the hall, and get out of my apartment. Do that, and we’ll forget all of this. Otherwise I’ll have no choice but to —”
The pressure on her back made her think of a game she used to play when she was little.
Bulleri, bulleri billy-goat-gruff. How many horns do I have sticking up?
But this time there were no fingertips pressing into her back. It was the barrel of a gun.
81
When Theodor was little people had called it “running away from home.” But that wasn’t what he was planning to do. Running away from home implied that the place you lived was in fact a home. But this snooty row house in charming Tågaborg would never be his home.
He didn’t need anything more than what fit in his backpack. All he had to do was leave. Take a ferry and head for Copenhagen, where he could jump on the first train going south. No one would notice. His parents seemed to have finally decided to get a divorce, and by the time they figured out he wasn’t in his room he would be well into mainland Europe.
Maybe he should head east. Everything would still be cheap, and it wouldn’t be too hard to get a job. He was willing to do almost anything, as long as he could survive on the wages. And if he couldn’t — well, in some ways it didn’t fucking matter. This shitty life was screwed anyway.
The only reason he wasn’t already out the door and on his way was Alexandra. He’d thought about asking if she wanted to come with him, but decided it was too big a risk. No matter how strong his feelings were, it was best to stay as far away from her as possible.
He put on Nirvana’s Nevermind and cranked the volume high enough that no one would hear him packing. Everything he needed was here in his room, and he would have no problem finishing up before Dad was done making dinner. Then he would just stuff himself as full as he could, offer to clean up the kitchen so he’d have the downstairs to himself, and take off as soon as he was finished.
He wasn’t expecting the knock at the door.
“Theodor, you have a visitor.” It was his father. What the hell?
“Okay, I’m coming.” He shoved his backpack into the wardrobe and opened the door.
“It’s a friend of yours.” His father looked like he’d just won the lottery.
He was about to ask who it was when he saw Henrik Maar, of all people, coming up the stairs.
“Hey, Theo. ’Sup?” Henrik raised his hand for a high five and Theodor found himself slapping it and forcing a smile.
“Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” his father said. “You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
“Sure, why not?” Henrik shrugged. “I have to say, it smells really good.”
“Dad, he can’t. He’s only here for a minute to show me something on COD.”
“All right. If you change your minds, just give me a shout.” His father turned and went back down the stairs.
Theodor dragged Henrik into his room and closed the door. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Take it easy.” Henrik held up his hands. “I come in peace.”
“Like hell.” He grabbed Henrik by his green bomber jacket and pressed him up against the wall. “What the fuck do you want?”
“What? We’re buddies. Had you forgotten already?” Henrik tore Theodor’s hands from his jacket, went over to the desk chair, took a seat, and propped his feet on the desk. “And buddies help each other out, don’t they? Gotta make sure they’re okay and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t ask me.” Henrik started messing with the items on Theodor’s desk. “Like talk to Daddy a little too much or think about breaking the agreement.”
“We never agreed on anything. Do whatever the hell you want. I don’t care.”
“You don’t? That’s too bad. We were about to go on another little mission. Wow, is this what I think it is?” Henrik held up his diary. “O
h my God, how adorable.”
Theodor yanked the diary out of Henrik’s hand. “If you think you’re going to make me come along for one of your executions, you’re wrong. Anyway, I think it’s best you leave now.”
“Already? I didn’t even get to show you my COD moves. Or tell you what we’re going to do.”
“That’s fine. Like I said, I’m not interested. Bye.”
“See her?” Henrik unfolded a picture of a woman, printed off from one of the many YouTube videos where she was walking down the pedestrian mall in Helsingør, her arms and T-shirt covered in blood. “Her name is Sannie Lemke, and she’s the only one who can identify us. If we shut her up, it’s over, and we can all take it easy. And you and Alex can bone as much as you fucking want.”
“You must have skipped a lot of Swedish classes.” Theodor headed for the door. He’d decided to fight fire with fire. “You don’t seem to understand plain Swedish, so I guess I better go talk to Daddy.” He opened the door. “Dad?”
“Yes? What is it?” his father’s voice came from downstairs.
There was a click behind him, and although he’d never heard the sound in real life, Theodor had no doubt what it was. He turned around and looked at the gun in Henrik’s hand.
“Isn’t it nice?” Henrik turned the pistol in the light to show it off from every possible angle.
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“Don’t worry your little head about that. The only thing you need to focus on is closing the door and listening to me.”
“Never mind,” he called as he closed the door.
“There we go. You can do anything, as long as you want it enough.” Henrik waved the gun at the bed. “Like I said, we only have one left, and as soon as we find her it’s on.” He took a black bundle of fabric from the inner pocket of his coat, tossed it to Theodor, stuck the gun back in his waistband and under his shirt, and headed for the door.
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