Something had definitely happened.
He called home but only got the family voicemail. He left a message for Matilda and Theodor saying that he would be a little later than he’d thought, and that they should just go to bed, which he assumed they must have already done. It was after eleven thirty, he thought, putting Harold Budd and Brian Eno’s The Pearl into the CD player. It was far from his favourite album, but it was one of the first CDs he’d ever bought, and so it always had a place in his collection – like most projects Eno was involved in. It suited his mood perfectly today.
Solemn piano tones filled the car as he drove across the Drottningholm Bridge and made the snowflakes outside feel like a pleasant stage in a private theatre rather than the storm it was in reality. If this storm didn’t calm down soon he might never get home at all.
He continued along Ekerövägen to Rörbyvägen, where he turned left and stopped some fifty metres later at a manor-like building with a number of parked cars outside. One of the cars, a red Mazda RX-8, blinked its lights. He parked and hurried through the whirling snow towards the car. He barely had a chance to get into the passenger seat before Niva put it in gear and skidded out on the road.
‘Fucking shitty weather,’ she said, accelerating as if there was no tomorrow. ‘Hi, by the way.’
‘Hi, there. Nice car.’
‘In this weather it feels more like Bambi on ice than a car. Yours would have been better, but I didn’t want to draw a lot of unnecessary attention to us.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay with all of this?’
‘Uh… If I wasn’t, why would I be here instead of inside Spy Bar where it’s warm?’
‘To see me, of course,’ said Fabian with a smile.
Niva burst out laughing, turned right, and stopped at a closed gate with a large sign: National Defence Radio Institute.
‘You’re funny,’ she said, pressing on a small remote control that opened the gate. ‘But I happen to already have a date this evening, so this can’t take all night.’ She had already parked and left the car before Fabian had time to respond.
They hurried through the snow towards the door of one of the nondescript buildings. Only now did Fabian notice her styled hair, little fur jacket, high heels and glittering gold short skirt. Niva really did intend to go out when they were finished. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out himself, especially not on a weeknight.
Niva pulled her pass card through the reader, entered a long code and opened the door. Fabian looked quizzically at the sign on the door in front of them: Department for Operational Support.
‘Aren’t you in the technology development department?’
‘Yes,’ said Niva, hurrying down a stairway. ‘But right now I prefer this route.’
Fabian had a hard time keeping up with her, despite her high heels, and he was struck by how much bigger the building was underneath the ground than above. A few floors down, Niva once again pulled out her pass card, opened a thick iron door and disappeared into the dark. Fabian had no choice but to follow the sound of heels against the concrete floor. Niva flicked on a row of fluorescent lights, revealing that they were in a culvert that was well over a hundred metres long. One more heavy iron door and elevator later they were finally at the Department for Technology Development.
It was NDRI’s most respected department, but the general public knew almost nothing about it. The Department for Technology Development did not face the same legal restrictions as all other departments at NDRI and could basically indulge in any kind of eavesdropping, as long as it fell under the designation of ‘technology development’.
‘Okay. The minister for justice, you said.’ Niva had already sat down at one of the desks in the windowless room and was starting up one of the big computers that covered most of their field of vision. ‘Do you have his cell phone number?’
‘Isn’t that why we’re here?’ said Fabian, pulling up a chair beside her.
She shrugged. ‘You’re the one who called me.’ She entered a number of commands and clicked further into various servers, when her cell phone lit up. ‘Hi… Sorry, but I have to help an old friend with something, so I’m going to be a little late… Absolutely… Yes, I promise… Okay… Bye.’ She set down the phone and entered Carl-Eric Grimås in the blinking search field.
‘Was that your date?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Was he upset?’
‘Who said it’s a he?’
‘Oh, sorry. I—’
Niva gave Fabian a smile that could just as well mean she was pulling his leg, which would be like her, he thought. He looked at the screen that was now filled with rows of names. ‘Where are you?’
‘In SePo and their department for personal protection,’ said Niva, pulling the minister’s secure cell phone number to a search field on an adjacent computer screen. Then she pressed search positioning. On yet another screen a map of Stockholm started zooming in. A few minutes later, a blinking dot appeared in the water outside the Kanslikajen.
‘Is that the last location of the cell phone?’
Niva nodded. ‘At 3:26 p.m. earlier today.’
It was two minutes after he’d disappeared through the door of the parliament building, which would mean he must have gone straight there and thrown in his phone, or else jumped in himself. Why would he do that? There were much easier ways to kill yourself than jumping into ice-cold water in the middle of the afternoon. Or did he run into someone on the way?
‘Is it possible to see whether he had any calls around that time?’
Niva nodded and brought up a graph on one of the computer screens that showed the activity on the minister’s phone number up until 3:26. ‘Here are some calls from this morning, when he was still at Rosenbad.’
‘Can you see who they were with?’
‘Yes, but from what I can tell, there’s nothing that stands out. Actually – he had a brief call with Herman Edelman right before nine.’
‘Edelman?’ Fabian repeated. He couldn’t understand why his boss hadn’t said anything about it. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Yes, thirteen minutes later he called the Israeli Embassy, but hung up before they had time to answer. At nine thirty he spoke with a Melvin Stenberg at SePo’s personal protection.’
‘I’m sure it was about his decision to walk to the parliament building.’
‘There are also some calls with the other ministers and one with the chief of staff at the ministry, but nothing all that exciting.’
‘Are those calls recorded anywhere?’
Niva laughed. ‘You’ve read too much Orwell.’
‘Maybe, but we’re talking about the minister for justice. I imagine his phone would be particularly interesting to you here.’
‘Absolutely. But even we have our limits. But I can print out a list of all the minister’s calls, their times and who they were with. So maybe we’re done for tonight?’
‘Done?’ said Fabian, while he studied the graph of the minister’s calls on the screen.
‘Yes. What would Sonja say if we got snowed in here?’ Niva stood up and went over to a printer, which hummed as it started up. ‘Isn’t that your wife’s name?’
‘Yes. But—’ Fabian stopped himself, realizing that he was about to walk right into a trap. Even though she had a date waiting she was definitely toying with him. It felt like she had picked up the scent of marital crisis and would sink her claws into him at any moment.
‘But what?’ She came towards him with a smile.
‘Wait a second. What’s that?’ Fabian turned towards one of the screens and pointed at two markings on the graph. ‘Both those calls are right after 3:26.’
‘Yes, but they’re unanswered.’
‘So someone tried to call him after the phone ended up in the water. Is it possible to see who?’
Niva sighed and looked at the clock, her smile gone.
‘For my sake.’
‘It’s going to cost you. Just so you know.’ She ga
ve him a look, sat down in the chair, and returned to the keyboard. ‘Unfortunately, the caller at 3:28 has a blocked number.’
‘So that’s not something you can produce?’
‘I could, but not now. It takes a bit more.’
‘Okay. And the other at 3:35?’
‘That number belongs to a… Sten Gustavsson, and he…’ Niva’s fingers danced over the keyboard as if they never did anything else. Fabian realized how impressed he still was with people who could type without taking their eyes off the screen. ‘Works as a chauffeur at Rosenbad.’
‘He was probably waiting and wondering where Grimås was,’ said Fabian. ‘And by the way, what does that mean?’ He pointed at a numbered marking on the graph by the call.
‘It’s a time indication of how long the line was connected. Sten Gustavsson apparently hung up as soon as the voicemail started.’
‘But the anonymous caller didn’t,’ said Fabian, looking more closely at the graph. ‘The call was connected for twenty-four seconds, which is more than enough time to leave a message, wouldn’t you say?’ He turned to Niva, who shrugged without answering. But Fabian did not give in, holding her gaze until the silence became much too insistent.
‘Okay,’ said Niva, shaking her head. ‘But then the fun is over.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Fabian, taking the printed list of calls while Niva continued working. A few minutes later she’d pulled up the message.
‘Carl-Eric Grimås is unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message, or even better, send an email.’
‘Hi, it’s me,’ a female voice said. ‘And yes, I know I really shouldn’t call this number. I’ve tried the other one several times, but you don’t answer. You may not believe it but I actually have a life too. You’re not the only one. So annoying.’ There was a click and the call was over.
Niva turned towards Fabian. ‘Did you hear the same thing I did?’
Fabian nodded.
Grimås had another phone.
7
DUNJA HOUGAARD DEFIED THE snow and pedalled along Gothersgade. But then she remembered what happened when Carsten had biked home three years before after a night of drinking on Vesterbro, and decided to get off and walk the bike instead.
A wrong assessment of the distance to the edge of the sidewalk, and a fraction of a second later his face was in the asphalt. But instead of waiting for help he’d got up and kept biking as if nothing had happened. Not until the next morning did he discover that several of his teeth were bashed in and parts of his face looked as if they had been run through a meat grinder. Since then, he hadn’t touched alcohol – which you couldn’t accuse her of. Nor her new contact person Malin Rehnberg either, for that matter. The evening had far exceeded expectations, and it had been a long time since she’d laughed so much.
The Swedish police officer had initially been just as proper and boring as most other Swedes she’d encountered. But after a little wine, her stiffness transformed into a hilarious and to-the-point attitude. Dunja had no problem picturing them in regular contact and perhaps even becoming really good friends in a few years.
Yet something was bugging her that refused to leave her in peace. Malin had charged in like a bulldozer, maintaining that Carsten didn’t love her. Although she blamed it on the fact that it was the first time in six months she’d allowed herself a little wine, it still didn’t make it easier to take.
The problem was that she couldn’t stop thinking about it, even though she was quite sure that she and Carsten were made for each other. Sure, they had their problems, but who didn’t? And how often did people really have sex? She’d never doubted that she and Carsten would be together for ever – not until this evening.
Now she no longer knew what to believe. Even just the slightest chance that Malin was right was hard to handle. Maybe she was blowing it out of proportion because she was still drunk, so she tried to get it out of her mind and continued walking over Nørreport where the gathering snowstorm bombarded her with its wet snowflakes.
Once she stepped into the apartment at Blågårdsgade 4 she looked like the snow monster from Tintin in Tibet. True to her habit, her clothes were far too thin, and she could feel a urinary tract infection waiting just around the corner.
The lights were on in the living room and she could hear one of Carsten’s favourite pieces from the stereo. It was something classical that she’d heard at least a thousand times, but could never remember the name of. So Carsten was still up, working.
Normally she would go in and say hello, and then ask whether there was tea left or if he wanted her to put the kettle on. But not tonight. No, tonight would be something completely different. She would show that pregnant Swede how in love she and Carsten really were.
She slipped as quietly as she could into the bathroom and closed the door without locking it so that the sound from the creaking old lock knob wouldn’t give her away. She got into the shower and turned on the water. After lathering up and washing herself, she took out the shaving cream and razor and started to shave her bikini line.
She’d thought about it many times, and read that most men preferred it, but she’d never dared to go the whole way; tonight she decided it was now or never. Once she was fully shaved and had dried herself, she stood in front of the mirror and oiled her body with the olive-scented cream Carsten had given her after his latest trip to Stockholm.
She couldn’t tell if it was the heat from the bath, her wandering thoughts, or her soft hands over her body, but she was filled with desire. She put on her kimono and went out into the living room, where Carsten was sitting at the desk with his eyes nailed to the computer screen.
He still hadn’t noticed she was there, so she took the opportunity to study him. He looked good – he always did. He looked like he exercised even though he never set foot in a gym. The only thing she didn’t like was the moustache that he’d had for the past month. It didn’t suit him, and she was sure that he agreed with her, and kept it just to tease her.
‘Hi, honey,’ she said, walking up to him.
‘You’re home already?’ Carsten said without taking his eyes off the stock exchange listings.
‘Hmm… Do you know what I just did?’
‘Yes, weren’t you going out for dinner with that Swedish policewoman? Where did you go?’
‘Not that. I mean now, after I came home.’ She waited for a reaction, but Carsten was consumed by the endless number tables. ‘I took a shower and I’m all warm and clean.’ She started massaging his shoulders. ‘So, I was thinking we could… You know, before we get too tired.’
‘There’s tea, if you want some.’ Carsten nodded towards the kitchen.
‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, wondering how she should continue. She couldn’t just stand there massaging for all eternity. ‘Do you have much left?’
‘Tokyo opens soon and I’m still not done with the figures from Fed.’
Dunja’s desire had pretty much disappeared and she wanted nothing more than to creep under the blanket with a cup of steaming hot tea and keep reading Jussi Adler Olsen’s A Conspiracy of Faith. But she’d promised herself to do everything she could and so decided to cast herself headlong down the precipice and hope that Carsten was there to catch her.
‘Then we’ll have a quick second to be together now?’ She unbuttoned his top shirt buttons, stuck her hands in and started massaging his chest.
Carsten twirled around on the chair. ‘What are you up to?’
‘What does it look like?’ She continued down with her hands and started loosening his belt.
‘Please, not now.’ He pushed away her hands. ‘I’ve got a lot to do and besides I haven’t showered lately.’
‘Forget about that.’ Now I’m jumping, she thought, and let the kimono fall to the floor.
Carsten looked at her. Or rather stared. She felt like a model in a Helmut Newton photo, but wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. Carsten didn’t seem to know what to say, but at last looked
up and met her eyes.
‘You know perfectly well that considerably increases the risk of urinary tract infection.’
Dunja wanted to get away from there as quickly as possible and erase the whole experience, but her legs refused to obey, so she just stood there, feeling more naked than ever, looking like someone who was trying to get her virginity back. Then she picked up the kimono and hurried away.
‘Honey, forgive me. I didn’t mean to…’ Carsten followed her into the hall and tried to open the bathroom door, which she had just managed to lock. ‘Listen, I just said that out of pure consideration for you. I think you’re really beautiful. But—’
‘Carsten, it’s okay,’ Dunja said, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m very tired anyway.’ She pulled on a pair of striped men’s pyjamas and sat down on the toilet seat.
‘Love you, just so you know.’
‘Love you, too,’ she said, but couldn’t stop thinking about how right her the pregnant Swede had been.
8
HAD HE SEEN RIGHT or did it only look like one?
Aksel Neuman was holding on to the steering wheel as hard as he could and cast yet another glance in the rear-view mirror. Dammit – he’d seen right. The police officer was only a few cars behind him. After he’d consumed three beers and one-and-a-half gin and tonics, he suddenly decided not to spend the night in town but to take the car home to Tibberup and surprise Karen. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea: she’d been beside herself with worry and he didn’t have the heart to leave her alone for the whole night. And in his recently purchased BMW X3 with its intelligent four-wheel drive, the trip wouldn’t take more than half an hour.
It didn’t seem like a good idea any more. Why hadn’t he chosen to sleep in the apartment on Vesterbro in Copenhagen? Karen’s anxiety attacks about the dark were starting to become more the rule rather than the exception. If it continued like this, he would be forced to stop his evening show.
He looked in the rear-view mirror again and noted that the police car was still keeping the same distance. If they stopped him now, he wouldn’t stand a chance and there would surely be a scandal. He could already see the headlines: Famous TV Host Drove Drunk – Spends the Night in Jail. The media would wait before giving out his name and spread various rumours about who it might be to try to get people interested. Not until a few days later would they release the bomb along with a lot of spicy details about how he’d peed his pants and needed help out of the car.
The Ninth Grave Page 5
