MemoRandom
Page 26
• • •
Sarac locked the door, using all the new locks. He was exhausted and simply couldn’t talk anymore. All he wanted to do was collapse in bed and close his eyes. Try to convince himself that everything he had been through recently, everything he had found out, was just a bizarre dream. When he woke up in the morning in his old bed, life would carry on on the other side of the chasm in his head. And this whole nightmare would be over.
Sure enough, the message on his bedroom wall was gone; Janus had probably wiped it off. He’d done such a good job that you couldn’t see the slightest trace of it with your bare eyes.
Why hadn’t he told Molnar the truth? That Sabatini had mentioned both Janus and Erik Johansson? Why hadn’t he told him about the room in his dream, or the fact that he could remember an alarming amount of detail about Brian Hansen’s death?
The explanation was simple. Somewhere deep inside he was still trying to protect Janus and preserve their shared secret. Even though the person he was trying to protect was probably a murderer. As soon as he shut his eyes he saw Sabatini’s ashen face in front of him and heard his rattling breathing.
Five men on his list, a list crowned by a Janus symbol. Now four of them were dead. Why? That question was still waiting for an answer.
But everything that had happened had at least done something to his brain. It was probably the conversation with Molnar that had helped most. Ever since he found his office empty, Sarac had had the feeling that he was missing something. That he was interpreting things wrongly. And now he was certain of it. He had emptied his office himself; he even thought he could remember being there in the middle of the night, carrying out boxes. Moving everything to a safer place, away from prying eyes. Which meant that the room in his dream really did exist. That had been his base, the place where he had managed the whole Janus operation. It was somewhere out there in the winter darkness, maybe just a few blocks away. Guarding its secrets as it waited for him. That room was the corner piece he needed if he was to make a serious attempt to put the puzzle together. The only question was whether he really wanted to find it.
He slipped slowly into sleep and for a brief while was floating in a gray limbo. In the distance he could hear a siren. He didn’t know whether it was outside or just in his head. The sounds from the apartment upstairs. Someone was walking with heavy steps across the floor up there. An image appeared in his mind’s eye. A dark silhouette in a hood, facing away from him. The silhouette slowly turned around, so slowly, almost in slow motion. The light fell on the man’s shoulder, then the hood. But just as the light reached his face, just as he imagined that he recognized the man, another thought occurred to him. And suddenly he was wide awake. He had forgotten something, something he needed to check before he could sleep.
He got out of bed and limped into the bathroom. He opened the cupboard under the basin and pulled out the bag Bergh had given him. The zipper was stiff, but after a bit of fiddling it reluctantly opened. At the top of the bag was a blue bulletproof vest, similar to the one that had saved his life in the crash. Beneath the vest was a shoe box, and on its lid was a note with a short message. Big, jagged letters that reminded him of the ones he had seen in the hospital.
Everything begins and ends with Janus.
The box contained a snub-nosed revolver with its serial number filed off.
THIRTY-NINE
“In summary, we can say that the combination of these measures will result in an entirely new Swedish justice system. A justice system with consolidated management, control, and clear goals. A justice system for the future.
“That’s all I wanted to say,” Jesper Stenberg added after letting his words sink in properly. There were a few moments of silence in the room as the lights were turned back on. Stenberg took the opportunity to smile at the small group around the conference table.
“Well, thank you, Jesper.” The prime minister gestured to Stenberg to sit down. “An exemplary presentation, I must say. Short and concise, not like so much that one has to endure. ‘Death by PowerPoint,’ have you ever heard that expression?” The prime minister smiled at the people around the table and was rewarded with the expected chuckles. Everyone laughed at the boss’s jokes, no matter how many times they had heard them before.
“You’ve got some fairly radical proposals there, Jesper,” Carina LeMoine said. “A reduction in sentences for people who give state’s evidence, harsher sentences for organized crime.”
Stenberg nodded. This lightly concealed criticism wasn’t unexpected, nor indeed was its source. LeMoine was one of the boss’s favorites. Legal training, a bit too young to be eligible for his job. At least for the time being. She was also very attractive, actually looked a bit like Sophie. He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on giving an appropriate response.
“That’s right, Carina, I’m glad you’ve raised that.” He used his most professional voice. And took her trick of using his first name and lobbed it back over the net. Fifteen–all, game on. “But I’ve studied the methodology very thoroughly. And looked at the results achieved in other countries. And I know from practical experience how much easier it is to get someone to cooperate if they have something to gain from it.”
Thirty–fifteen to him, for his studies and practical experience. He looked her in the eye and raised the stakes with a smile.
“You’re not worried there’ll be problems when it goes out for consultation? The Bar Association is unlikely to be pleased.” He thought he could detect a hint of uncertainty in her voice and seized the initiative.
“I have a very good relationship with the Bar Association, Carina, and I can assure you, and everyone else, that if my proposals are presented, they will be very well supported.”
Forty–fifteen, match point.
He smiled again, raised his eyebrows slightly, and turned his head almost imperceptibly, as if he was waiting for her next question. But Carina LeMoine just looked down at her notes instead.
Game to him. A walkover. Karolina would have been proud of him.
For a couple of seconds he almost felt disappointed, as if he had been denied victory. But he quickly recovered. He smiled his very best television smile at the small group. The boss gave him a nod of approval. He looked like a big, happy toad.
• • •
“Jesper, wait!” The elevator doors were about to close when Carina LeMoine called to him. He thought about ignoring her and letting the doors close in her face. But before he had time to decide the elevator doors opened again. She must have managed to press the button.
“We can go down together.” She smiled at him as she stepped into the elevator. She stood slightly too close to him, making him take half a step back without realizing it. The smell of her perfume brought him up short. Narciso Rodriguez, the same as Sophie’s. That only emphasized the similarities. For a millisecond he thought he could hear a noise. A faint, rhythmic knocking against the metal walls of the elevator. He swallowed a couple of times.
“Are you all right, Jesper?”
“Hmm.” He started and was forced to get his mind back on track.
“You look a little pale.”
“Oh no, I’m absolutely fine. I was just thinking about something.”
The elevator began to make its way slowly downward. Carina LeMoine made a little gesture with her hand, tucking a lock of blond hair behind her ear. Her skin was white, almost like porcelain.
“There was something I wanted to tell you, Jesper. In relation to our little discussion up there.” She tilted her head toward the ceiling. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others.”
She smiled, revealing a row of tiny, pearly-white teeth.
“No?” he said. He regretted it at once. No? Pull yourself together!
“I happened to run into John Thorning the other day. We ended up talking about you, which isn’t really that surprising.”
She smiled again, and he smiled back automatically. What the hell was going on?
Stenberg nodded as he felt the elevator slowing down.
“That’s why I asked about the Bar Association earlier. John’s general secretary, of course, so we talked a bit about your plans for restructuring the justice system. Just as you mentioned upstairs, I was assuming that you had already sounded him out.”
“Yes.” Stenberg kept smiling, trying to work out where the conversation was going. He didn’t like the way she said John. It was too intimate, as if they were more than fleeting acquaintances.
“Obviously I wouldn’t want to give you any advice,” Carina LeMoine went on. “As Minister of Justice, naturally you have a broader overview.”
She brushed something from the shoulder of his dark overcoat.
“But if I were in your shoes, Jesper, I’d probably make an appointment to see John Thorning, as soon as possible.”
• • •
Sarac had put the key on the table in front of him. He had removed it from his key ring and thrown the other three away, the ones that fit his former office in Regional Crime and the old locks in his front door.
One key remained. A perfectly ordinary, flat key that fit a lock with seven tumblers. There was no number on it, no clues of any kind. He couldn’t remember it, had no idea what lock it might fit or what the door looked like. It was the very absence of any memories that convinced him. He had emptied his office himself, he knew that now. He had kept it secret from Molnar and Bergh so that they could both claim ignorance if anything went wrong. He had become the “lone cop acting on his own initiative,” just as they had decided. So it seemed reasonable to assume that this key belonged to his new premises, the base from which he had single-handedly managed the entire Janus operation.
He leaned over the key, examining it as closely as he could. An uneven saw blade, with seven jagged points of varying lengths. He picked it up, held it in his hand. Shut his eyes. Waited . . .
Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes again. Of course nothing happened, he wasn’t a fortune-teller, for fuck’s sake. He had been too exhausted to take in what Molnar had said. But now, after a couple of nights’ sleep in his own bed, after a shower, breakfast, and not least a change of clothes, he was in a much better state.
He had taken drugs, he had smoked both dope and methamphetamine. Maybe it had been a way of dealing with the constantly growing pressure. Living twenty-four hours a day with his work and with Janus, without anyone to confide in, and without anything resembling a safety net.
The drugs explained the terrible state of his apartment, and possibly even some of his hallucinatory memories. He had carefully examined the things Bergh had given him. Trying to work out exactly what his boss had meant by giving him the bag. Not to mention the message on the lid of the box.
Everything begins and ends with Janus. What did Bergh mean by that?
A hardened criminal commits a murder at the same time as working as an infiltrator for the police. If something of that sort got out, the media would go crazy. Any police officer who could be linked to the case, no matter how distantly, would be fired instantly, and maybe even prosecuted. It was hardly surprising that he had sworn to keep a secret like that.
So what should he do? Tell Molnar everything? Ally himself to Wallin and hope that he didn’t cut him adrift the moment the secret got out? Or had Bergh tried to imply an entirely different solution to his problems? Getting rid of Janus for good, before he was uncovered. Murdering the murderer?
He shook the thought off. Bergh was feeling guilty about pushing him out into the cold. Leaving him unprotected. Wallin was probably right, and if there was someone out there trying to get at Janus through him, the gun and bulletproof vest would come in handy.
The fact was that he had no evidence at all that Janus was responsible for Hansen’s death, just his own fragmented memories and assumptions. And he still didn’t know anything about the man concealed behind the code name. The answer was in that room, in his secret base, he was convinced of that, and that was why he had to devote all his energy to finding it.
He got up and went over to the window. A curtain was fluttering opposite, drawing his eyes to it. There was no one in sight. The street was full of parked cars. About half of them had snow on their roofs, so they must have been there a couple of days. One of them was a Golf, which reminded him of Natalie’s car, and he suddenly got the idea that she had come to see how he was. Then he realized that this one was newer, and in better condition. He actually felt a bit disappointed. But at the same time he felt ashamed. Natalie was a civilian, but he hadn’t hesitated to drag her into this mess as soon as he had worked out how to make use of her. He had got her to exploit her personal contacts to get hold of information he needed, without any thought of what he was getting her involved in. Ruthless, that’s what he was. Once Natalie realized what her assistance had helped him find, including the time and location of Sabatini’s death, she was bound to ask to change patients. That was probably just as well. If Wallin was right, and there were people out there looking for him, he would do best to keep her well out of it.
He shut his eyes and closed his fingers over the key. Then he changed his grip and held it as if he were going to open a lock. He tried to imagine the key sliding into place, how the ridges matched up with the tumblers inside the lock. He turned it, feeling the lock click. He raised his left hand to where the door handle ought to be. He thought he could almost smell the metal against the palm of his hand. Slowly he pushed his hand down, pulling the door toward him. Then he slowly opened his eyes . . .
The clatter from the door of the apartment made him jump. For a moment he thought someone was trying to get in, that the events of the night he left the hospital were repeating themselves. Then he heard a gentle thud followed by the metallic clatter of the mail slot closing. He waited a moment as relief spread through his body, then went out into the hall to get the mail.
Two window envelopes and one small, brown, padded envelope with his name on it. He put them all on the kitchen table. He opened the bills first, then the brown parcel. It contained a small, cheap cell phone. On the screen was a yellow Post-it note.
Pin 9595.
He stared at the phone, then switched it on and tapped in the code. The keys were so small that he had to concentrate hard not to let his fingers slip. The start-up screen lit up, then the phone connected to a network. In one corner of the screen the message icon started to flash.
Move away from the window.
Then ring the last number called.
Sarac hesitated, but curiosity got the better of him. He went into the hall, then pressed the Redial button. The phone was so small that it almost vanished into his hand. The call was connected and he heard it start to ring. Then it rang a second time. He could feel his heart beating faster.
“Hello, David, good of you to get in touch,” a hoarse male voice said. Sarac’s pulse began to race. He recognized the voice: it was the tobacco man, the man with the gold tooth, the one who had visited him in the dark room at the hospital.
“We didn’t have time to finish our conversation in the hospital,” the man said, confirming his suspicions.
“W-who are you?” Sarac’s voice sounded hollow.
The man let out a low laugh.
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?! And we were such good friends.”
Sarac gulped. Janus, he thought. But for some reason the conclusion didn’t feel as satisfying as it should.
“I’d like to meet you, David, preferably straightaway,” the man said.
“I-I . . .” Sarac looked into the kitchen. He could see his own cell phone on the table.
“You’re thinking about calling your friend Peter Molnar, aren’t you?” The man emphasized the word friend in a way that Sarac didn’t like.
“Do you know what, David, go over to the window. Stay tucked behind the curtain.”
Sarac did as he was told. His heart was poundin
g so hard that he was having trouble breathing.
“You see the yellow building in front of you? Fourth window from the left,” the man said.
“Hmm . . .” Sarac swallowed. It was the same window where he had seen the curtains fluttering a little while ago.
“There are two men in there watching you. Two of your so-called friends. Did Molnar tell you that?”
Sarac gulped again.
“Look farther down the street. Do you see the black Volvo, the one with no snow on the roof? There are two more police officers in there, working for Superintendent Wallin. I don’t suppose Molnar mentioned them either?”
Sarac shook his head, then realized that the man couldn’t see him. Peter should have told him, should have asked him to be careful, unless . . . He shut his eyes, trying to get past the thought that had just crept into his head. Unless . . .
“Your friends are lying to you, David, or they certainly aren’t telling you the whole truth. They’re scared of you, scared of what you might reveal. Maybe there’s even some surveillance equipment in your apartment. In which case it won’t be long before your phone starts to ring.”
Sarac glanced at the cell phone on the kitchen table.
“Like I said, David, I’d like to meet. Preferably—”
Sarac ended the call. He slowly lowered the hand holding the phone. In the window on the other side of the street he thought he could see a slight movement. But that could be just his imagination. All of this could be his imagination. A fucking nightmare. Maybe he was actually still lying in his bed in the hospital, stuck in a coma, a world where his brain could do as it liked? In which case he’d dearly like to wake up. At once.
He turned and looked around the living room. The sofa was new, but everything else looked the same as usual. Or at least how he thought it should look. The leather armchair, the battered teak coffee table that he had brought from his parents’. The television, the rug, the bulbous lamp above the coffee table. His eyes followed the cable up to the ceiling. Did he really have a smoke alarm in the living-room ceiling, so close to the kitchen? When he looked closely, he could see the little light flashing. But he couldn’t remember ever changing the battery.