Zack

by Mons Kallentoft

  Zack always wants to throw himself at things.

  For him, that’s the reward.

  That’s the only time he ever feels truly present in the moment.

  That’s when he feels he can do good.

  Real good.

  But he still wishes today’s chase hadn’t happened.

  No one should have died today.

  So damn unnecessary.

  They could have done with being able to question the guy, find out what he knew. If he had anything to do with the murders.

  If he was the murderer.

  But debriefing? My ass.

  “Do you know who he is?” Douglas asks, nodding toward the plastic sheet.

  “Suliman Yel. He had a foreign driver’s license in his pocket. I asked Sirpa to do a quick check. Turkish citizen. Wanted by Interpol for drug smuggling and trafficking. Just like Ösgür Thrakya.”

  “In other words, he had every reason to want to run,” Douglas says.

  “If he killed four people in Hallonbergen the night before last, he had even more reason.”

  “Did Sirpa manage to find any clear link between this man and Ösgür Thrakya?”

  “No. But she said she’d dig a bit deeper.”

  Zack pulls out a folded scrap of paper.

  “I found this number in Suliman Yel’s inside pocket. I can’t find out any details, so I’m guessing it’s a pay-as-you-go cell. I was thinking of starting with that. I’m not suspended, am I?”

  “No, you can carry on working, but be prepared to come in as soon as Internal Investigations call you. By the way, where’s Deniz?”

  “She got held up at the hospital. Didn’t I say?”

  Douglas gives him a weary look.

  Zack turns away and calls the number.

  A woman with a lively voice answers and gives her name as Rebecka Reschy. Zack introduces himself, and explains that he’d like to ask her some questions.

  “Oh, what about?”

  No hint of aggression in her voice. Just surprise.

  “I’d rather talk face-to-face. It will only take a few minutes. Are you in Stockholm?”

  “Yes, I work at the Hair Daze salon in Fredhäll. The next hour looks fairly quiet, so you can come now if that suits you.”

  As Zack ends the call he sees Deniz walking into the courtyard. He can just make out a fresh white compress under her scarf.

  “How did you get on?”

  “The doctor says it’s healing fine. And that I should go home and get some rest.”

  “So what are you doing here, then?”

  “Disobeying orders. Anyway, apparently I can’t leave you alone for half an hour without you causing trouble.”

  She looks at the yellow tarpaulin and turns serious.

  “Zack, tell me what happened.”

  “Come with me to Fredhäll. I’ll explain in the car.”

  He turns around and calls out:

  “Douglas, I got through to that number. We’re going to check it out.”

  “Will you and Deniz have time to have a late lunch with me after that?”

  “Sure.”

  “The bar of the Opera House, one thirty.”

  Damn it, Zack thinks. So he wants to look after us now, when we’re having a seriously bad day. Unless he has some other motive?

  * * *

  ZACK IS driving down Mariebergsgatan, through Rålambshovsparken. Deniz is sitting in silence, thinking about what Zack has just told her about Ösgür Thrakya, Suliman Yel, and the chase across the rooftops.

  “Okay, so the Brotherhood and this Turkish mafia might have started fighting about the income from the massage parlors. But we don’t yet know which of them attacked Sawatdii and Sukayana Prikon.”

  “If it was actually one of them at all. Someone else could have murdered them and tortured Sukayana, someone who knows that the criminal gangs will blame each other. Like that racist IT boss who paid for sex at Sawatdii even though he hates Asians and has no alibi for the night of the murders. Did you know he’s got a medal for competitive pistol shooting as well?”

  “Yes, Niklas mentioned it. Have we checked to see if he’s got a dog?”

  “We have. And the answer is no, he hasn’t. None that shows up on any databases, anyway.”

  Zack rubs his eyes. The adrenaline surge from the chase has gone, replaced by a stinging tiredness.

  Deniz looks at him.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks. “Shall we take a break?”

  “No, let’s get this done first. We’re almost there.”

  The hair salon is in the ground floor of a pale yellow building from the 1960s. Leafy trees shade the quiet street and Zack guesses that the apartments on the upper floors have a view of the water.

  He opens the door of the salon.

  Hang on a minute.

  What’s this?

  It can’t be true.

  The woman standing there with a broom in her hand next to two black leather treatment chairs, it’s her, the dark-haired beauty he danced with out at the club the other night. In Heraldus’s old shipyard.

  The one he took cocaine with.

  He remembers her bare, sweaty skin. Her lips.

  Why has she popped up in this context? He considers the raid on the club again. Is all of this connected somehow? Is he going to get dragged into his own investigation?

  It must be a coincidence.

  A very unpleasant coincidence.

  But what if she got pulled in? He had a look at the list of people who were arrested. Was there a Rebecka Reschy on there? He can’t remember. The only name he was looking for was Abdula’s.

  What will she do if she recognizes him? Will she give him away?

  “Hi, are you from the police?” she asks warmly, and smiles at Zack in recognition.

  She’s wearing a tight, V-necked top, and a belt containing scissors, combs, and other small tools is hanging nonchalantly from her hips.

  Just as attractive as before, Zack thinks. Just rather less provocative. Beautiful, in an everyday sort of way.

  He feels slightly lost and steps behind Deniz to let her take the initiative. He doesn’t particularly want to show the girl his ID, even if he has to.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Deniz says, holding up her own ID. “Deniz Akin. And my colleague Zack Herry.”

  Rebecka puts the brush down.

  “Well, what have I done?” she asks curiously. “I’ve been wondering ever since you called.”

  “Do you know a Suliman Yel?” Deniz asks.

  Rebecka gives the question some thought.

  “Suliman? The big guy who’s blind in one eye?”

  “That’s right,” Zack says.

  There’s a large mirror behind Rebecka, and Zack can’t take his eyes off her slender back and behind.

  “I met him yesterday. Well, this morning, really. We were at Under the Bridge at Skanstull until five o’clock. You’ll have to forgive me if I look a bit rough. I don’t usually party on a Monday. But apparently Suliman parties a lot. He was there on Sunday night as well.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “My friend Katja said so.”

  “We’d like to find out how long Suliman was there then,” Deniz says. “Can you call your friend for us?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t tell you that. Can you call her now?”

  Rebecka calls her friend, explains briefly what’s going on, and hands her phone to Deniz.

  “Hello, Deniz Akin, Stockholm Police. I was wondering if you knew how long Suliman Yel was at Under the Bridge on the night between Sunday and Monday?”

  “I got there with my friends at about two o’clock,” Katja says in a loud nasal voice that both Zack and Rebecka can hear clearly. “I think he was already there with his gang then. He was drunk and happy and buying all the girls drinks. But I don’t think he speaks any Swedish, and only really bad English. He mostly just stood there waving all his thousand
-kronor notes around.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  “Until they closed. I remember that because one of his friends offered to let me and my friend share a taxi with them. But we didn’t want to.”

  “Thanks. We may need to talk to you again.”

  Deniz hangs up and looks at Zack. They’re both thinking the same thing: another suspect to take off the list. According to Koltberg, the women were shot between half past two and half past four in the morning. Suliman Yel had an alibi for the whole of that time.

  “What’s happened?” Rebecka asks.

  She holds Zack’s gaze. He looks back. A little too long.

  “How well do you know Suliman Yel?” Deniz asks.

  “I’ve only met him twice. The first time was at Riche, I think. But that was several weeks ago.”

  “Who was he with last night?”

  “A few guys that a friend of a friend knows.”

  “Do you know any of the guys he was there with?”

  “No.”

  “Does your friend?”

  “I doubt it. She might know a few of their first names, but I’m not sure. Why are you asking me about all this?”

  “We can’t say. But can you explain one thing to me—if you barely know this man, why does he have your phone number in his jacket pocket?”

  Rebecka shrugs and replies cockily:

  “How should I know? Maybe he likes the way I look and wants to ask me out. He must have got hold of my number somehow. It’s not that unusual for men to want to ask me out.”

  Deniz realizes she’s not going to get anywhere with that line of questioning.

  “What do you know about an organization called Yildizyeli?” she asks instead.

  “Called what?”

  “Never mind. Do you know what Suliman Yel did as a job?”

  “No idea. But he seemed to have plenty of money.”

  “Do you know an Ösgür Thrakya?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Deniz hands over a business card.

  “Feel free to call if you think of anything that might be of interest to us. And we might have to get back to you to speak to that friend you mentioned,” she says.

  Rebecka turns to Zack.

  “And you’ve got my number. Give me a call.”

  “I will . . .” Zack says.

  He leaves a theatrical pause.

  “. . . when we’ve thought of some more questions.”

  On the way out of the salon he can feel his heart beating harder than he’d like.

  They get into the car. Deniz glares at him.

  “And what the fuck was all that about?” she says.

  23

  DOUGLAS IS sitting on a thronelike leather two-seater sofa at a table in one corner of the Opera Bar, surrounded by lively conversation.

  Zack guesses it’s his regular table.

  As for him, he’s never set foot in the building before. He looks around. The ceiling is exuberantly decorated and dark oak panels on the walls are so highly polished you can see your face in them. Around the tables sit advertising executives in designer suits, businessmen with graying temples, and elderly upper-class people with scarves and comb-overs.

  Douglas stands up to welcome them. Once again, Zack wonders what they’re doing there. Why he’s invited them there today.

  “You’ve been through a few rough days, so I thought you deserved a decent lunch in one of the most beautiful rooms in Stockholm. It’s rather nice here, don’t you think?” Douglas says.

  “Sure,” Zack replies.

  “I hope you’re both hungry?” he asks.

  “I could probably eat for two,” Zack says.

  Douglas orders them the salted salmon with dill potatoes. Zack can’t help being fascinated by the people at the tables around them. The way they’re dressed, their gestures, haircuts.

  Their air of natural superiority.

  One man in his midfifties, with a white handkerchief sticking out of the breast pocket of his blue linen suit, nods to Douglas before sitting down with some men in their sixties at a table some distance away.

  Zack recognizes the man. But where from?

  Then he remembers.

  He’s the managing director of that property company, the one Sukayana snorted at when he was being interviewed on television.

  The CEO is smiling and laughing with his associates. He looks considerably more relaxed among his friends than he did with the interviewer’s microphone thrust into his face. A real upper-class asshole.

  Hatred of rich people. Zack feels it strongly at times, but he’s starting to find it harder to accept that he feels that way. His disproportionate anger is often unjustified. After all, it really isn’t the fault of the rich that he grew up with a dying father in a suburb on the wrong side of town.

  He ought to hate the politicians instead, the ones who set the rules of the game. And who have chosen to sit in the lap of the capitalists.

  But nothing’s black or white, just shades of gray defining the human desire for power.

  Human greed.

  And inhuman.

  Zack wants to ask Douglas how he knows the CEO, but decides not to. It’s none of his business, and he didn’t actually see if Douglas returned the greeting. Perhaps the man was merely gesturing to the waiter who happened to be passing their table just then. The waiter who is now standing behind the bar in his white uniform, sorting glasses. Cheeks flushed red, deep lines on his face. Looks like an old alcoholic, Zack thinks. He clearly drinks too much of what he serves his customers.

  A slave to desire.

  Just like me.

  The coffee arrives and Zack drinks it in deep gulps, even though it’s so hot it burns his tongue.

  Must wake up. Fight the tiredness back.

  Tonight I’m going to sleep.

  “How did you get on in Fredhäll?” Douglas asks.

  Deniz gives him an account of their visit, without mentioning anything about Zack’s relationship to the hairdresser. But Zack starts to feel uncomfortable and quickly changes the subject.

  “Have you heard anything more from Södermalm Hospital?” he asks Douglas.

  “No. I thought I’d call when we’re finished here. But they promised to get in touch if Sukayana Prikon died, so with a bit of luck they’ve managed to save her life.”

  “Have we started looking for more crazy dog owners, the sort who’ve been banned from keeping animals by the local council and so on?” Deniz asks.

  “Not yet,” Douglas says. “But you raise a good point. It’s not unreasonable to think that anyone who’s trained their dogs to attack other people might have been in trouble with the authorities before, like Danny Johansson.”

  “What about this Ösgür Thrakya, then?” Zack says. “If he really has boiled people alive in the past, then he’s pretty likely to have an assortment of other torture methods.”

  Zack sees Deniz purse her lips as he speaks. But Douglas picks up the subject:

  “That means he’d have had to bring his man-eating dogs with him to Sweden. That sounds a bit far-fetched.”

  “And we mustn’t let ourselves get fixated on the idea that the same perpetrator is behind both the murders and the mutilation,” Deniz says. “Let’s say that this Turkish mafia, Yildizyeli, are behind the murders—what happened to Sukayana Prikon could be a revenge attack for that.”

  “But if that’s the case, why not kill her?” Zack says.

  “Extreme torture can in some cases act as even more of a deterrent,” Deniz says.

  Zack nods.

  He can clearly remember the way his own legs began to weaken when he saw Sukayana Prikon in hospital.

  Douglas goes on:

  “Maybe Sukayana Prikon received an offer from the Turks and decided to work with them instead. In which case her torture could be a way for the Brotherhood to warn the managers of other massage parlors involved in prostitution against following her example.”

  “But think about how
scared they were,” Zack says. “Would those same guys, just a few hours after we paid them a visit, manage to kidnap and mutilate a woman? That’s hard to believe. Especially when Sonny Järvinen is still in custody.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Zack,” Douglas says. “We still know far too little. And bear in mind what Östman said, about the perpetrator probably being a loner, not part of a group. That points more in Peter Karlson’s direction.”

  “Have we found out any more about him?”

  “We’ve got hold of the footage from a surveillance camera in a nearby building that might be able to tell us when he got back home in his car the night before last. We might also be able to get the recording from the garage in his block. We’re also going to try to obtain a search warrant for his car. Then we can use his GPS to see where he was on the night of the murders. But I’m not sure the prosecutor’s going to agree to that.”

  “How are we going to proceed with the Turks?” Deniz asks. “Can’t we find out more about Ösgür Thrakya and his organization, and what he’s really doing in Sweden, if he’s actually here?”

  “We’ve got a list of five or six other massage parlors where we suspect prostitution and where there are rumors of links with the Turks. But the information’s extremely vague so far. It doesn’t look like anyone can say for certain whether or not the Turks have established themselves in the city. But I’ve got people working on the massage parlors’ accounts, looking for suspicious transactions. We’ve got officers out in the field checking them right now. With a bit of luck that’ll be one way of finding out how they recruit their staff. But it could be tricky, especially if everything’s been done with fake passports. We still don’t know the true identities of the murdered women. And their passports were unusually skillful fakes. Our forgery expert sounded almost impressed when he described the way they’d managed to split bonded plastic and whatever else it was.”

  “Are we going to put more pressure on the Brotherhood?” Zack asks. “After all, they don’t seem entirely unwilling to talk to us.”

  “No, we’re holding back with that,” Douglas says.