Zack assumes that the man working on the car is Mehmet Drakan. He takes a few cautious steps across the concrete floor, but accidentally kicks a small steel spring that rolls off and hits a white metal panel leaning against the wall.
The knocking stops.
The man under the car calls out “Hello?” and Zack responds by grabbing hold of his legs and pulling him out from beneath the car.
It turns out to be unexpectedly easy. The man is lying on a wheeled trolley, and Zack’s hard tug means that he shoots out at speed and hits his feet on the metal panel.
Mehmet Drakan is sinewy and muscular, and dressed in dirty green overalls.
He yelps in a language that must be Turkish, and slips partway off the trolley as the metal panel falls on his legs. He kicks at it angrily and makes a move to stand up and go on the attack with the heavy wrench in his hand.
Then he sees the pistol pointing at him.
He puts the wrench down and holds his hands up in front of him.
He looks like his passport photograph, Zack concludes.
Shaved head, with a large tattoo covering half his neck and part of his left cheek. A skillful but unpleasant image of a rearing horse with predator’s teeth.
Zack shows his police ID and Drakan looks relieved, as if the police were the least dangerous of the possible alternatives.
“Lie still, you bastard,” Zack tries to say, but his jaw muscles won’t obey him and the sounds that emerge are strangely twisted, as if certain letters have been removed.
The amphetamines.
“I don’t speak Swedish. English?” Drakan says, and starts to sit up.
“Stay where you are,” Zack says, having to make a real effort to control his jaw muscles.
Drakan lies back on the uncomfortable trolley, and Zack starts to question him in English.
“Tell me about Ösgür Thrakya.”
“Who?”
“I know you know him. Tell me.”
“I don’t know anyone of that name.”
“We know you’re involved in the murders in Hallonbergen and on Klara Norra Kyrkogata.”
“What murders? I haven’t murdered anyone.”
Really?
Zack ponders various ways to get the Turk to talk, and finds himself thinking of the scene in Reservoir Dogs in which Mr. Blonde cuts off a policeman’s ear.
Or should he slowly lower one of the Chevrolet’s wheels down onto Drakan’s legs?
An eye for an eye, a leg for a leg.
Zack is suddenly struck by how easily such violent thoughts come into his mind. Without any emotion at all. As if they came from the very deepest part of his being. He knows other people don’t react that way. That most people have emotional boundaries different from his.
He wonders if Mehmet Drakan was there when they kidnapped Sukayana Prikon. And stood and watched as her legs were torn apart.
“Where are the wolves, Mehmet? And the girls?”
The Turk starts.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The girls, for fuck’s sake.”
“What girls?”
“You don’t know much. So you might as well shut the fuck up.”
He doesn’t recognize his own voice. The words sound wrong as he says them, and his jaw is so tense that he could chew through wire.
Christ, he’s thirsty.
He imagines he sees movement from the corner of his eye and spins around.
No one there.
Or is there? Is there someone there somewhere? Someone he can’t see. Has that Audi pulled up outside?
Stop it, Zack. You’re being paranoid, and you know why.
But he can’t shake the feeling. He takes a few steps away from Drakan, without letting him out of sight, and looks around the garage once more.
At the back there’s a small office. He looks inside. No one there.
“Everything’s a real mess here, Mehmet. Maybe I should help you tidy up.”
He gets his handcuffs out and fastens Drakan’s right hand to the left front wheel of the Chevrolet.
Then he starts searching the garage with all the finesse of a steamroller. He needs to give his muscles something to do, get rid of all that energy. He empties boxes, clears shelves with a sweep of his pistol, tips the contents of various wooden crates on the floor, and kicks though the resulting mess.
“Like I said, Mehmet, it really is a fucking mess in here.”
It seems to him that he’s given Drakan the chance to talk, to cooperate. But given that he’s chosen not to . . . well, Zack’s just going to have to underline the point.
In the office he discovers a dirty fridge with a bulky old television on top of it. He opens the fridge, finds a can of Coca-Cola, opens it, and downs it in a few short seconds.
He crumples the can and throws it hard against the wall. He sees some papers on the desk. A dreary vehicle service history. He leafs through the pile, but is unable to concentrate properly.
He sweeps all the papers onto the floor and starts tugging at the doors of the cupboard on which the desk is perched.
Locked. Shit.
I’m going to smash this fucking cupboard apart.
He goes back out into the garage to find a suitable tool. Sees a crowbar leaning against the wall next to a shelf of tools. He grabs it with both hands, liking the weight and the coolness of the metal in the palms of his hands. Then he returns to the office and smashes the crowbar against the cupboard, over and over again. He strains and pulls until sweat is trickling down his temples and the doors are lying in pieces on the floor.
The cupboard contains a few folders and a small black sports bag. He pulls it out and opens the zipper.
The bag is full of cash. Thick bundles of used notes, held together by brown elastic bands. On top is a page torn from a spiral-bound pad.
“Dirty money for Dirty Sanchez.”
Zack stops. Tries to calm down.
Dirty Sanchez.
The alias that Sirpa hasn’t been able to crack.
He takes the bag out to Drakan and shows him the contents.
“I assume you’ve declared all this for tax purposes?”
For the first time, Drakan looks scared.
“It’s not my money. I didn’t even know what was in the bag. I’m just looking after it for a friend.”
“Of course you are,” Zack says. “Who’s Dirty Sanchez?”
The words are still coming out strangely.
“Don’t know.”
Zack leans over and pushes his pistol hard against one of Drakan’s nostrils.
“Wrong answer,” he snarls. “Seriously fucking wrong. I’ll ask again: Who. Is. Dirty. Sanchez?”
Zack twists the barrel, trying to stick it up into Drakan’s nostril, but it’s too big. Drakan grimaces with pain, but says nothing.
“Okay. You need to listen to me seriously fucking carefully now,” Zack begins, but falls silent when he sees a shadow on the floor.
Zack and Drakan are hidden by the Chevrolet and the new arrival hasn’t seen them yet.
“Mehmet?” a male voice calls out.
Zack peers over the hood of the car to see who the man is. He’s expecting some guy from the suburbs in a hoodie, but instead sees a well-dressed man with graying hair in a dark gray suit. The man turns in Zack’s direction, and suddenly he recognizes him:
Sten Westberg, CEO of the large property company Merkantus.
48
WHEN WESTBERG catches sight of Zack he turns and runs out of the garage, while Zack remains rooted to the spot.
What’s Westberg doing here? And why is he running away?
He hears Sukayana Prikon’s voice in his head:
In my homeland they’re all like him: corrupt.
It wasn’t just a passing remark.
She knows him.
Doesn’t she?
Zack doesn’t want to leave Drakan alone in the garage, but he needs to get hold of Westberg.
He quickly
kicks any tools out of Drakan’s reach, then runs out into the road.
He can see Westberg barely fifty yards away, and sets off after him. Westberg isn’t used to trying to shake someone. Instead of dodging in among the buildings he carries on running straight, in full view of his pursuer.
Zack feels like a wolf hunting a rabbit, a terrified little wretch that’s missed its last chance to jump into a hole and hide.
Zack the wolf is young and fast.
Westberg is over fifty, dressed in a suit and smart shoes, and is running like a man who’s used to doing no more than walking.
Zack is gaining on him with every meter.
Westberg tries to shake him off by running into a parking lot where some sort of local market is taking place, zigzagging between the tables and stalls. When he turns and sees that Zack is still gaining on him, he manages to overturn a table full of glass ornaments, which crash to the ground.
People start screaming and shouting.
Zack takes a different route, behind the tables, and sees Westberg set off toward a large patch of trees on a hill beyond the parking lot.
The path through the trees slopes steeply upward, and the CEO can’t get any grip with his hard, flat soles. Zack is right behind him now, but he lets Westberg run a bit farther until they’re both out of sight of the parking lot. Then he kicks one of his legs out from beneath him, sending him tumbling over some twisting tree roots before he has time to break his fall. Zack forces him onto his back, sits on his stomach, and locks his skinny arms down with his knees. He clenches his right fist and pulls his arm back, and all he wants to do is punch him, and keep on punching. But the amphetamine rush isn’t as intense now, and when he sees Westberg’s wide-open eyes, he manages to redirect the downward momentum of his fist, and punches the ground next to the man’s ear instead.
A thin cloud of dust swirls up.
Westberg shuts his eyes and turns his head away.
“Who are you? And what do you want with me?” he asks.
Zack pulls his ID from his inside pocket and holds it up in front of his face.
“Zack Herry, detective inspector with the Stockholm Police.”
At first Westberg doesn’t seem to understand.
He blinks the last of the dust from his eyes and looks up at Zack, and a thought slowly seems to take shape inside him.
He practically grins.
“Why did you run?” Zack asks.
“I thought I’d stumbled into some sort of gang dispute. What the hell do you think it looked like? Mehmet Drakan’s a tough guy.”
“What were you doing there in the first place?”
“I was going to pay the bill for repairing my car.”
Zack sucks his lips in, then spits out:
“Would a man like you leave his car to be repaired by a Turkish professional criminal with a garage in Farsta?”
“What do you mean, a man like me?”
Zack opens his mouth to say that he knows who he is, but changes his mind.
“You look pretty upper class. The sort who gets his chauffeur to take his car to a garage in Östermalm.”
“This place was recommended to me. Rumor has it that there aren’t many mechanics who understand old cars like Mehmet Drakan.”
He’s breathing hard with Zack’s weight on his chest.
“I’ve got an old Chevrolet Impala from 1974. There aren’t many mechanics who know how to look after it these days. Can you get off me now? It’s a bit hard to breathe with you sitting on me.”
Zack ignores the request.
“So you weren’t actually there to pick up a small bag?”
“What sort of small bag?”
“Payment for your dealings with the Turks. The Turks who rent a number of your properties.”
“I have tenants of many different nationalities, among them Turks, I assume. So?”
“Why is your own name on the tenancy agreement for the Sawatdii massage parlor at Hornstull? And on the contracts covering the leases on other massage parlors controlled by the Turks?”
Zack imagines he’s forced the CEO into a corner, but Westberg looks at him scornfully.
“You really don’t seem to like Turks.”
“I asked you why you personally signed the rental agreements for the massage parlors.”
“My name is on a lot of contracts. That’s standard practice, especially if they’re needed in a hurry, or people are on holiday. It means I can sign them straightaway, without having to sort out power of attorney for people lower down the organization. I’m a very hands-on person.”
“What do you know about Yildizyeli?”
“This is getting ridiculous.”
“Mehmet Drakan is mixed up in all this, and so are you.”
“I want you to move, so I can get up and go. Unless you’ve got any more conspiracy theories you’d like to get off your chest first?”
Zack hesitates.
He’s trying desperately to think of something smart to say, something that would make Westberg reveal his hand. But he can’t think of anything. So he stands up and moves aside.
Westberg gets to his feet and starts to brush off the earth and pine needles. Some red ants are crawling across the back of his jacket, and Zack can’t help hoping they manage to find their way under his shirt collar. Without another word, and without looking at Zack, Westberg walks away, out of the woodland.
Zack stands among the trees for a while.
Westberg is lying, he’s sure of that. Maybe that Chevrolet isn’t even his. He’ll have to check.
If only I’d got to the garage quarter of an hour later, he thinks. Then I could have caught Stenberg with the bag of money in his hand, and that would have been more than enough to take him in.
Now I haven’t got anything at all.
His arms are itching. And his chest. A vague sense of unease is creeping up on him, and he knows this is only the start.
He has to go back to Mehmet Drakan and the bag. He runs back to the garage and finds the door still open.
Two teenage boys cycle past on mountain bikes. He waits until they’re out of the way, then draws his pistol and peers inside.
Empty.
One part of the cuffs is still attached to the wheel. There’s an angle grinder on the floor.
How did he get hold of that?
His cell, you moron. He called for help. Why didn’t you take his cell off him?
He’ll show up again. Probably when I least expect it.
He looks for the bag, but of course there’s no sign of it.
He curses himself. Now the Turks know that they’ve been detected, and have presumably already begun to cover their tracks.
All he’s got is the link between the money and that email address in Sukayana Prikon’s computer.
Dirty Sanchez.
An alias. But whom does it belong to? The connection to Peter Karlson turned out to be too weak, after all.
It could just as easily be Sten Westberg. Or Ösgür Thrakya.
Or someone else entirely.
You know nothing, Zack. Nothing.
You had your chance, and you blew it.
Will more women die as a result?
And what about the girls?
Where are they?
49
ZACK IS sitting on the visitor’s chair in Douglas’s office, shivering. The rush has been replaced with withdrawal.
He really did do it.
Took drugs in work time.
He’s taken benzos a few times in the past, but only small doses to stop himself feeling anxious. This is different. This is definitely crossing a boundary.
He looks at the time: ten to six. It’s been about three hours since he took the pills. The worst of it is about to start.
All he was thinking of doing was dropping his pistol in at headquarters; he can’t afford a third warning in such a short space of time. Then he was going to go home and call Sirpa and Deniz to tell them about the note in the bag, and the mone
y, and Sten Westberg’s unlikely appearance at a garage he had received a tip-off about.
But in the lobby he bumped into Douglas, who was walking through in the company of a superintendent from National Crime.
Douglas turned to him and said:
“Zack, my room in five minutes.”
He went completely cold.
Saw the blue Audi in his mind’s eye.
He knows amphetamines usually make him paranoid, but maybe he really was being followed this time. Maybe they were filming him as he rode far too fast, without a helmet.
He shivers again and wonders how long Douglas is going to keep him. Quarter of an hour, maybe, half an hour at most.
Thirty minutes. Can he hold it together that long? He’ll have to.
Fuck, it’s cold.
But Douglas has taken his jacket off. He’s even loosened his tie.
He must have noticed something when they met down in the lobby. Zack wonders if his pupils are starting to go back to normal, or if they’re still covering almost the whole of his irises. Probably. That’s why Douglas has taken his jacket off. To demonstrate his power. So he can roll his sleeves up, fold his arms, and tell Zack he’s a disgrace to the force, and that Douglas therefore has no choice but to fire him.
Zack wonders what happens when a police officer is fired, if it’s like in American cop shows, where the dismissed officer has to leave his badge and service weapon on his boss’s desk before leaving the room with his head bowed.
His heart is pounding like a hammer.
Pull yourself together, Zack, for God’s sake.
Zack looks at the picture on the wall behind Douglas’s desk to have something to concentrate on. It’s a small painting in various shades of ochre, of books in an evidence bag. Zack’s never noticed it before.
“It’s a Carl Hammoud,” Douglas says, noting what Zack’s looking at. “I like him. He always seems to be searching for some kind of truth, just like us.”
Zack nods. Keen to show agreement. Keen to keep Douglas in a good mood.
He guesses he could buy thousands of books for the price of that picture. Or another motorcycle.
But now he won’t be able to afford anything, now that he’s going to be dismissed. He squeezes the armrests of the chair so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and tries to focus on looking normal.
Zack Page 29
