by Jens Lapidus
Now there was just one thing that seemed like it would kill everything. Niklas was a no-show.
59
The cell was situated fifty feet above the ground, not a chance. If Niklas managed to break into a hallway, the doors had armored Plexiglas that he could probably smash in a minute or so, but that wouldn’t be enough. Even if he made his way through them, he’d need to take the elevator to get down, and it didn’t go further than to the sixth floor. After that, you had to pass through several more doors equipped with surveillance cameras before switching to a new elevator. The hallway route was a no-go too. Other alternatives: getting ahold of a weapon—taking a hostage. The crux: the jail staff only carried batons. The cops that came to conduct interrogations checked their weapons somewhere downstairs. If only he hadn’t had these vile restrictions—someone, maybe Mahmud or Benjamin, could possibly’ve smuggled in a firearm. But probably not: the metal detectors sniffed every fucking thing that moved. Another possibility was taking apart the ventilation duct in the ceiling—somehow crawling and slithering his way out. But he wasn’t thin enough for that. He could try to start a fire—split during the fake-fire chaos. Start an uprising—escape while the jail was in riot mode. Niklas crossed out the alternatives quickly from his inner list. You couldn’t escape from the Kronoberg jail—not without massive aid from the outside.
There was a better way. The other day his lawyer, Burtig, had explained that they weren’t allowed to detain him for more than two weeks at a time without a court ruling. Today it was time for his hearing in the District Court.
Niklas ate breakfast early. He did push-ups and sit-ups. When he stood up, it felt like all the blood rushed from his head. At around ten o’clock, there was a knock at the door: Markko, a big detention officer. Niklas asked to change his shirt—he was soaked in sweat and wanted to feel fresh in court.
Markko put handcuffs on him. He and two other detention officers led him down the hall. There was nothing wrong with them, they were just doing their job. Niklas eyed the information panels on the cell doors. Allergies: Nuts. No pork. Allergies: Fish. No pork. Reminded him of the Americans and their weird prisons down in the sandbox.
They walked into a small room with a metal detector. Markko undid the handcuffs. Niklas walked through the metal detector: it remained silent. The cuffs went back on. They took an elevator down. This was a part of the building that he hadn’t known existed.
“We’re going to the tunnel under the Kronoberg Park,” Markko explained. “They call it the Path of Sighs.”
The guards unlocked two metal double doors. The road to the District Court, underground. Like a bomb shelter dug out by al-Sadr’s mujahideen. Their steps echoed. The fluorescent lights gave off a cold glow, the concrete looked like the sand down there after rain: full of small holes. Markko tried to make conversation, be as nice as possible. Niklas couldn’t concentrate.
They reached another set of metal doors. He was led into the bottom level of the District Court. Granite hallways and reinforced wooden doors. A small detention room. A wooden table. Two chairs. On the other side of the table: his lawyer, Burtig, was sitting, waiting.
“Hey there, Niklas, how are you?”
“I’m fine. At least they let me make a snowball yesterday.”
“Was there snow in the rec yard?”
“Tons.”
“Yeah, it’s some climate thing, all this. It’s snowing like never before. Do you feel prepared for what’s going to happen today?”
“I’m assuming it’s pretty much the same deal as last time.”
“In principle. Some new things have come to light. They’ve gone through your computer.”
“What’ve they found?”
“Take a look at this.” Burtig handed him a pile of papers. Niklas flipped through them. Realized already by the fourth page—the seizure report—that they’d gotten ahold of his surveillance videos.
He didn’t really have the energy to read more. If it was all over, fine. There were more important things to think about right now. He couldn’t wait around for a conviction.
“Are we meeting in the same room as last time?” Maybe his question seemed strange.
Burtig held his poker face. “No, we’re meeting in room number six.”
“And where is that?”
“How do you mean?”
“I was just wondering. I’m feeling a little nervous. Is it on the same floor as last time?”
“I think we were in room four last time. So yes, it’s on the same floor.”
Niklas nodded. Continued to flip through the arrest memo. The cops hadn’t only found the files with the videos he’d saved. They had the info he’d written down, too: lists of routines, photos of the wife-beaters, bugging equipment. They had nearly everything.
He asked Burtig a few more questions. At the same time: laser focus on a different target.
The case was called a little while later. Burtig rose. The detention officers came back into the room. Put the handcuffs on. Led him through a hallway.
They stepped into the courtroom.
It was large: high windows with long curtains, the prosecutor’s desk, Niklas and his lawyer’s desk, the witness stand, a raised platform, the railing. The judge was sitting up there, along with a thin, dark-haired guy who was going to take down the transcript: the court reporter. The judge: the same old man as at the last hearing. He was in his sixties. Concentrated gaze. Tweed jacket, pale-blue shirt, green tie with ducks on it. It might actually be the same tie as last time. There was a computer on the table and a law book in front of the judge.
Niklas turned around. Stared for a brief moment. The room was filled with spectators. Burtig’d already warned him—journalists, law students, the curious public. They’d be crowding outside trying to get a seat. In the last row, he spotted his mom.
The detention officers spread out. Markko and one of the other two sat down behind Niklas. The third sat down by the entrance. Kept watch.
Markko unlocked the handcuffs and told Niklas to sit down.
On the other side: the two prosecutors. In front of them: piles of paper, notebooks, pens, and a laptop. They were also the same team as last time—one man and one woman. The man was apparently the chief prosecutor. Burtig’d explained, “You have to understand, Niklas, that this isn’t just any old case. The key witness in the Palme trial has been killed—and everyone thinks you’re the murderer.” Niklas agreed. It really was not just any old case.
The judge cleared his throat.
“The Stockholm District Court will conduct a hearing on detention in case B 14568-08. The suspect, Niklas Brogren, is present.”
Burtig nodded. The judge went on.
“And his public defender, Jörn Burtig, is present. On the side of the prosecution, we have Chief Prosecutor Christer Patriksson and County Prosecutor Ingela Borlander.”
The prosecutors responded affirmatively. Niklas thought it seemed like they were making an effort to sound authoritative.
The judge leaned forward. “Mr. Prosecutor, please present your charges.”
“We move for the continued detention of Niklas Brogren based on reasonable suspicion for the murder of Claes Rantzell on June second at Gösta Ekman Road in Stockholm. He is also reasonably suspected of the murder of Mats Strömberg on the fourth of November of this year as well as the murder of Roger Jonsson. The sentence prescribed for these crimes constitutes imprisonment for not less than two years. The special reasons for detention are due to the risk that, if Niklas Brogren is able to move freely, he may impede the investigation by tampering with evidence, that he may continue his illegal activities, and that he may evade punishment. Furthermore, we move for a private hearing for the remainder of the hearing.”
The clerk was taking notes like a maniac.
The judge turned to Burtig.
“And how does Brogren view the matter?”
Burtig was flipping his pen back and forth between his thumb and index finger.
&nbs
p; “Niklas Brogren objects to the request for continued detention and seeks his immediate release from pretrial detention. He denies that reasonable suspicion exists for the alleged murder in June and for the alleged murder on November fourth. He also objects to the special reasons for prolonged pretrial detention. However, there is no objection to a private hearing.”
“Okay,” the judge said. “In that case, the District Court rules that the hearing will proceed as a private hearing. All spectators must leave the courtroom.”
Niklas didn’t turn around. The sound of rustling, whispering people could be heard behind him. Two minutes later, the room was empty of spectators. Go time.
Christer Patriksson, the chief prosecutor, began to read details about the Rantzell murder. How he was found, what the cause of death was, who he’d been. Then he went on. He described Niklas’s relationship to Rantzell. What’d emerged regarding Rantzell’s treatment of Marie. Finally, the information from her interrogation—in which she claimed that Niklas’s alibi didn’t hold up. Why the hell did she say that? Niklas didn’t get it. The cops must’ve pulled a fast one on her.
He waited. Thought about Claes. Those nights down in the basement. With the table-hockey game, with Mom’s old clothes and suitcases. Those nights when Rantzell’d beaten. Repressed. Humiliated.
His lawyer began to speak. Went on and on about what Niklas’d been doing that night, the movie he’d watched at Benjamin Berg’s house, the pizzas they’d bought at the local pizzeria. Burtig argued, attacked the prosecutor’s purported evidence. Burtig kept flipping his ballpoint pen back and forth the entire time. Soon they would turn to Niklas and ask him questions. He wasn’t listening.
Niklas was breathing in through his nose. Out through his mouth. Slowly. Was filling his lungs with oxygen. Focusing on Burtig’s pen.
Tanto dori feel. The pen. As if he were holding it in his own hand.
Weighed it.
Breathed in.
Relaxed.
Breathed out.
He stood up. Tore the pen from Burtig’s hand.
Ran toward the railing. The judge stood up. Yelled something. A guard reached for Niklas. Missed. Rushed after him.
Niklas leaped up onto the raised platform. The clerk looked scared out of his mind. The judge backed up. The detention officer grabbed hold of Niklas. That was to be expected.
He breathed quickly. Pen in hand. The detention officers weren’t evil, but Niklas’s mission was more important.
He made a perfect straight-motion jab. Out and back.
The pen stuck out of the guard’s gut like an arrow. The man realized what’d happened. Started howling. Staggered backward.
Niklas lifted the judge’s chair. Threw it at the window. The sound of the window breaking reminded him of Claes’s bottles, which he used to throw straight down the garbage chute on Gösta Ekman Road.
Niklas picked up the law book. Used it to break off the sharp edges of jagged glass that were still sticking up. They shattered. Would give him fewer wounds. He stepped up onto the windowsill. Markko ran toward him, yelling something. Niklas actually didn’t want to hurt him. But this was war. He kicked. Saw Markko fall backward.
It was over now.
He jumped out the window. Not more than ten feet. Easy fall in the soft snow.
Pulsed forward.
His breath steamed.
Up on the sidewalk. He was panting. Could feel the cold against his feet. He was wearing only socks. The jail slippers were left behind in the snow.
He concentrated. Knew where he was going.
Toward the subway station.
The cold filling his lungs.
Focus on his mission objective.
On his steps.
He saw the entrance to the subway station. No cops’d showed up yet.
Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve.
60
The snow continued to fall. The precipitation lay like a four-inch layer of cotton on the windowpanes. The greenhouse effect could go to hell, all the fuss about the end of winter was seriously exaggerated.
They were sitting at Thomas’s house again. Documents in piles everywhere. Searching. Looking for signs, leads, information about what Ballénius’d told them—payments to Rantzell. They worked feverishly. Like during a preliminary investigation. No mistakes allowed. Time was running out—they’d gotten hold of Ballénius, but the guy might sing, whoever’d attacked Thomas in the parking garage might understand that they were onto something, the Palme Group might get wind of their private little parallel investigation. And tonight was the night of Bolinder’s party. Thomas still hadn’t said anything about it to Hägerström. Really: if there was no reason to go to the party, there was no reason to tell him about it, either. And so far, Thomas couldn’t see that there was anything to gain from going.
The hours passed. At six at the latest, Thomas was going with Åsa to the New Year’s Eve party their friends were having. What he really wanted to do was work through the night with Hägerström, but a man has to have his limits.
On the floor, they lined up all the documents that they’d designated with the highest priority according to their point system, as well as those that had to do with finances. The total amount’d shrunk, but it was still more than five hundred documents. They crawled around like two toddlers. The crux: How would they know what was shady and what wasn’t? There were verifications for payments made to suppliers and payments made by customers, bank statements that listed transfers, price quotas, tax returns, balance sheets, ledgers. They were looking for large sums. Preferably during the spring. Hägerström decided on a minimum figure: anything over 100,000 was of interest. They checked cash withdrawals and amounts that were moved to strange accounts.
Four o’clock rolled around. They scrutinized thirty or so documents more carefully. A few concerned the more than three million kronor that’d been paid by a company named Revdraget in Upplands Väsby AB to a private account at the Nordea Bank. But the private account number didn’t correspond with Rantzell’s information. Still—the sum’d been transferred straight from the company to a private person. It could be a salary, but there was nothing noted in the accounts to suggest that this was so.
Several sums were only recorded as withdrawals in four different companies’ account statements—for example, Roaming GI AB: one million kronor. No receipts, verifications, or other documents indicated what the sum was intended for. Suspicious. But there was nothing that pointed directly to the payments having been made to Rantzell. And nothing connected the payments to any other person, either. But it was Rantzell, together with a few other front men, who’d formally run the companies.
Even more information: sums that were paid into company accounts without any indication of the identity of the recipient, sums that were paid out as loan repayment without any documents supporting the existence of a loan, dividends made out to unidentified stockholders without records of such a decision in the minutes from the shareholders’ meeting. The document piles contained a lot of oddities. Hägerström saw things that Thomas didn’t understand, even after Hägerström’d tried to explain.
Time was running out. Should he say something about Bolinder’s party? Maybe Hägerström would think of a reason to go there that he hadn’t thought of. But no, that was just too much. They’d have to continue tomorrow instead. Åsa wouldn’t be happy, but that’s just how it had to be.
Thomas went to the kitchen to put on some coffee. When he came back out, Hägerström was sitting down on the couch again. Was staring into space with an empty gaze.
“How’s it going, H.? You getting tired? I made coffee.”
“Aren’t you leaving in half an hour?”
“Yup. And what about you? You going to Half Way Inn again tonight?”
“Not impossible.”
Thomas looked at him. Weird, if you thought about it—it was five-thirty on New Year’s Eve and they hadn’t even talked about how Hägerström would be spending the evening until now.
Hägerström smiled. Slowly—the corners of his mouth slid up like on a cartoon character. He remained sitting like that for a few seconds.
“What is it?”
“I just found a very strange payment.”
Thomas looked at the piece of paper Hägerström was holding in his hand. “What? Where?”
Hägerström remained sitting calmly. “It’s a payment from a foreign account to Dolphin Leasing AB for over two million kronor, made in April of this year. And that wouldn’t be strange in and of itself, but I checked the IBAN number on the account from which the payment was made.”
Thomas interrupted him, “What’s i-ban?”
Hägerström spoke slowly, almost as if he wanted to keep the suspense going. “It’s the international bank account number, abbreviated to IBAN. It’s used to identify a bank account for a transaction between different countries.” Hägerström played with the piece of paper he was holding. “And the first thing I noticed was that the IBAN number for this payment denoted an account on the Isle of Man. What do you know about the Isle of Man?”
“Not much. I think it’s outside England. Isn’t it one of those tax havens?”
“Yes, and more than that, it’s a secrecy haven too. Companies with accounts on the Isle of Man usually want to hide something. It’s difficult to find out who they belong to because there is complete bank secrecy.”
“Very suspicious.”
Hägerström kept on smiling. “You can say that again. But so far it’s not any shadier than a lot of the other stuff we’ve seen. But, later, Dolphin Leasing paid an invoice to a company registered in Sweden called Intelligal AB for the exact same sum of money as the payment from the Isle of Man. The account number on that invoice is an account with the Skandia Bank. I recognize those kinds of accounts. It’s a private account.”
He let his last word hang in the air.
Thomas got worked up. Analyzed, connected the dots in his head: a large sum is paid from a secret offshore account to a company in Sweden that then pays an invoice to another company whose account is actually held by a private person.
