At first Gonzales had been excited by the idea of peeking into the rarefied world of Olof Wijks gata, of charting the illicit relationships struck up behind its stone walls. But now he was tired of hearing the same thing over and over again. Some knew Henrik Samuelsson as a charming, intense, perhaps slightly arrogant know-it-all who liked getting into theoretical debates. Many thought he was inoffensive. The words charming and committed came easily to those who liked him. Gonzales found the workings of the female mind incomprehensible: on paper Henrik was a loser who could barely support himself. And yet he had obviously been popular with the ladies.
No one had a word to say against Ann-Marie. She was an expert in her field, inspiring, modest, blah blah.
Gonzales sighed. He flicked aimlessly through the reports, stopping at the transcript of Karlberg’s interview with Marie Hjalmarsson. She had mentioned someone called Annelie Swerin, who had also been in Istanbul. Hjalmarsson had reluctantly talked about conflict within the group. Was it worth taking a closer look? According to the report, Swerin was working on a dig in India, but perhaps she was back now.
He checked the telephone lists and keyed in Swerin’s number. Just as he put the receiver down, having gone through to voicemail, his phone rang.
‘Gonzales speaking.’
‘Gonzales? I asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Christian Tell. I’m afraid I’ve misplaced his number.’
Was it another Dane? Gonzales’s mood lifted. ‘DI Tell isn’t here; can I help you?’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘What is your name, and what’s it about?’
‘Forgive me. My name is Alexandr Karpov and I work at the Archaeological Institute in Copenhagen. I’d like to arrange a meeting with Inspector Tell . . .’
‘I’m working on the same investigation,’ said Gonzales, turning to a clean page in his notepad. ‘If there’s something you’d like to tell me I can pass it on. But I think Inspector Tell is actually in Copenhagen as we speak.’
‘Yes. But I’m at a seminar in London, at least for the next few hours.’
Karpov seemed to hesitate. ‘Christian Tell spoke to me about my wife. My ex-wife Ann-Marie. And he talked about—’
‘I’m aware that he spoke to you.’
‘. . . about specific artefacts on the Red List.’ Karpov took a deep breath and exhaled as he spoke. ‘I think I’ll have to call back.’
‘Please tell me what this is about.’
‘No. For personal reasons I would prefer to speak to Christian Tell face to face. But I can tell you that I know the murdered man, Henrik Samuelsson, had in his possession a stolen item which is probably extremely valuable. And . . .’ Karpov took another deep breath. ‘And I know who knew he had it.’
‘And how did you know that?’ Gonzales pressed the receiver to his ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Because I was the one who told them. I told Knud Iversen and Dorte Sørbækk. My assistants.’
Gonzales went over the conversation with Karpov in his head. He took out his notes from their recent briefings.
For some time Tell had been convinced of a missing link. Antiques. Danes. These apparently odd coincidences.
Gonzales stared in bewilderment at the paper in front of him. Sørbækk. Iversen.
He tried Tell’s mobile. Even if Tell were mid-interview, he would prefer to hear the latest news, especially as he was in Copenhagen and could perhaps act on the information.
The person you are calling is not available.
What people like Mads Torsen and possibly Rick Pedersen had to do with this . . . gang of academic archaeologists was still a mystery to Gonzales. Tell was right, there was a missing link. Could Karpov’s assistants be that link?
Gonzales spent half an hour ringing around Copenhagen police stations without understanding a fraction of what the receptionists said. The only thing he had grasped was that they couldn’t help him to find a visitor, irrespective of whether this visitor was a detective inspector, and no matter how important the message might be.
Gonzales made an instant decision.
37
Copenhagen
Pedersen hadn’t been in the tiny room for long. He was still furious, a frame of mind at odds with his fey appearance. He was slightly built, with downy blonde hair. He wore a shabby suit several sizes too big, which made him look pathetic, like a little boy wearing daddy’s suit for his first night out. His shoes also looked too big; they were brown and scruffy and didn’t match the black suit. And then there were his white sports socks, which poked out every time he crossed his legs. His face was pale, narrow and pointed, with almost no sign of stubble.
His eyes were the only thing that gave him away; they were penetrating in their milky-blue intensity. Dark rings formed craters around them.
‘He’ll be a nasty piece of work in a few years – just look at those eyes,’ Tell said to Dragsted as they stood watching Pedersen through the glass.
‘You’re right there. He’s one to watch. His sister’s a bloody mess as well. But nicer. That one . . .’ He waved in the direction of Pedersen, who was now rocking back and forth. ‘You don’t know where you are with that one. Twenty-two years old, and on his way up.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Barely. But he knows what this is about. You can see that. He’s scared.’
Enrique Pedersen grinned. He was trying to play the big man, but had ended up looking even more desperate. His eyes flitted constantly between Tell and Dragsted.
‘This is Detective Inspector Tell. He’s come over from Gothenburg, as I said.’
‘I’m a Danish citizen. He has no right to question me . . .’
‘No, but I do,’ Dragsted snapped. ‘I’m the one questioning you. Inspector Tell will merely sit in on the interview, since we have discovered that you and Mads Torsen broke into a house in Gothenburg. There’s no point denying it.’
Tell nodded in agreement, even though Dragsted was stretching the truth.
‘However,’ Tell went on quickly when it looked as if Pedersen was about to protest. ‘You might be able to help us if you just listen. The thing is, we know we’re looking at something much bigger than a little break-in. I wouldn’t have come all this way to hear about a little break-in, as I’m sure you’re well aware.’
Pedersen had pricked up his ears. He was tugging down his sleeves, which were already too long, presumably to hide the track marks on the back of his hand.
‘So. We know that you’re mixed up in this. The question is: do you know what you’re mixed up in? Are you just an errand boy, or were you in on it from the start?’
Pedersen snorted, but continued to glare at the floor.
‘How much money were you promised? How much did you and Torsen get for shooting Henrik Samuelsson and Ann-Marie Karpov?’
Pedersen looked up, obviously confused. ‘Shooting? I didn’t . . . I haven’t fucking shot anybody, I—’
‘Yes?’
‘I . . . I don’t know about any shooting.’
Tell shrugged. ‘You’re the best lead we have in the case of a double murder in Gothenburg. A dozen clues lead straight to you and Torsen, via stolen goods worth . . . Well, it’s impossible to say. Millions, perhaps. Do you know how much they’re worth?’
‘What the fuck? I don’t know a fucking thing.’
‘Was it you who beat up Torsen before he died? He was found dead and he’d been badly beaten; you were the last person to see him alive. We can prove that.’
‘For fuck’s sake, I didn’t kill Torsen! If you go around saying that, I’ll be dead in two days!’
‘I’m a police officer. I don’t spread gossip among junkies.’
Pedersen pressed his hands against his bony knees, frantically shaking his head.
‘I hit him. I was furious, I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. I mean, the stuff was supposed to be in the house, loads of it. He must have taken it all himself! When I realised he was going to sell it, I . . . but I didn�
��t kill him. I suppose he must have OD’d, he wasn’t taking decent stuff, and there was something wrong with him. I didn’t take the same stuff, because—’
‘The same heroin?’
‘Yes, but I took—’
‘So you admit you were in Gothenburg with Torsen at the time of his death? It would be better for you if you did. We have several witnesses who can testify that you attacked him in a public place in Gothenburg. We have also taken his fingerprints from the house in which the burglary took place, and we know that he was not alone. What you need to tell us now is who was behind this.’
‘OK, yes. For fuck’s sake! I went to Gothenburg with Torsen. It was just a job and we were supposed to look for some fucking . . . ornaments and stuff, I’d only seen a picture of them. Old things and gold. Cash in hand, and I don’t know any more because Torsen wouldn’t tell me a fucking thing.’
‘Sure.’
‘I didn’t fucking shoot anyone, I didn’t shoot this Samuelsson and I definitely didn’t . . .’
His voice cracked and he swallowed before going on. ‘I didn’t kill Torsen. He took a fucking overdose. That’s all I can tell you.’
In the cafeteria Dragsted introduced Tell to some of his colleagues. Tell was distracted and not in the mood for small talk.
‘Could you possibly find me a computer? I’d like to check my messages.’
Dragsted showed him to a computer and helped him to log in.
Dragsted had treated Enrique Pedersen like a hardened criminal. But his shell had buckled under a small amount of pressure; just below the surface he had seemed shocked and desperate. Scared. As if he had been lured into something on a false premise, only to discover too late that . . . what? That shooting Samuelsson and Karpov was part of the deal?
If Samuelsson had indeed been in possession of extremely valuable artefacts, for reasons unknown, this might well have been the motive for the break-in. But the murders? Why not just take the stuff, go home, sell it on the black market and earn a bit of cash? After all, that must have been the idea from the start. Why go to the trouble of tracking down Samuelsson at Karpov’s apartment and killing them both? Why take the risk? It was illogical. Tell contemplated the alternatives. Either one line of enquiry had nothing to do with the other or Henrik Samuelsson had some other link to Mads Torsen. Perhaps Torsen had got angry with Henrik and decided to put him out of action. Were they in on the same scam? Were they in a smuggling ring?
Tell switched on his phone and rang Gonzales for an update. He was surprised to find that his colleague was in the same building.
38
Stenared
Seja was puzzled, but Christian’s message had given her a boost nonetheless. She had gathered quite a lot of information on the illegal trade in artefacts of cultural importance. Whether this might lead to an article was as yet unclear, but if Christian could make use of what she had found out, that was fine by her.
She suspected the question might also have had a subtext: they should let bygones be bygones. He trusted her judgement. When she had written about the infamous Granith case eighteen months earlier, Christian had suggested that she had gone behind his back and exploited him after they’d got together.
With hindsight, the very fact that they had got together surprised her.
I just couldn’t resist you, he had said. She was very happy about this temporary weakness – or perhaps you could call it a strength?
Seja went into the garden with her laptop. She had an hour to put together some material before she was due to pick up Hanna and her son at the bus stop. The incident by the lake hadn’t been mentioned. After Hanna’s initial refusal to answer the phone, Seja had let the matter rest.
When they eventually spoke, Hanna had been a little short with her. Markus had started chattering in the background about going riding and sleeping over at Seja’s, but Hanna suggested that Seja might not have time. Seja made it clear that she had all the time in the world. Her irritation hadn’t gone away, but it no longer chafed.
We’ll talk about it one day, she thought. I’ll explain what I really meant. But their exchange hadn’t exactly cured her of her fear of conflict.
The sound of snorting made her look up. She watched the horse rooting around among the tufts of grass and fir cones behind the stable. Even though she knew how much Lukas would enjoy grazing on the local farmer’s extensive pasture, she was reluctant to move him. He made her feel safe.
But she really should move him.
‘What do you think about that idea, Lukas?’ she asked, kicking off her shoes under the garden table and resting her bare feet on the grass. She immediately felt a tickling sensation beneath the arch of her foot: an army of black ants on the march towards her larder.
The cat had spent the winter motionless at the bottom of the bird table, covered in a shower of seed husks, displaying the patience of a saint: one day surely a little bird would fall off. Perhaps it would forget to flap its wings, and it would be in his power. He would launch himself at the table, paw outstretched, causing a flurry of feathers. Very occasionally, he managed to catch one; he would play with the bird for a while before carrying the small dead body into the kitchen like a trophy.
The horse raised his head, registering her movements before going back to his grazing.
‘We’ll get you some company. When you come back after the summer, we’ll get you a friend.’
She was talking mostly to herself, trying to ease her guilty conscience after reading an article about the psychological stress horses could suffer if they were kept alone. She had rejected the idea of another horse; she didn’t have enough space and she couldn’t afford it. It would have to be a different animal, but she suspected that the cat didn’t count.
‘You can’t get a sheep or a goat just so the horse won’t be lonely, for God’s sake,’ Christian had expressed his view in disbelief. ‘Anyway, the horse isn’t completely stupid, is he? Surely he can see the difference between himself and a goat?’
‘Of course. But it would still be company for him. Or do you think he’ll refuse to go near a goat or a sheep?’
She knew he found it difficult to understand how she lived, but she didn’t really think the odd medium-sized animal ought to make too much of a difference. Having Lukas meant she was already tied down.
She thought about ringing Christian, if only to check whether he had arrived safely in Copenhagen, but decided against it. Sometimes he seemed determined to misunderstand her. The silly quarrel they had had in Copenhagen had its basis in a significant issue, but that was the way things usually were with Christian. Constant guessing games, until he finally came out with the real problem in a burst of frustration. Christian found it very difficult not to interpret Seja’s care and attention as some kind of implied demand on her part. No matter how often she told him that she asked nothing of him, nothing beyond his presence at that particular moment. She had never looked for promises about the future. Except in secret, when she was alone.
And yet she was sure he wanted her as much as she wanted him. They had found a safe harbour with one another, however odd that might sound, and in spite of their many differences.
They had changed the subject from animals quite quickly, but the idea had been born, and still lingered. Seja would have other matters to discuss with the farmer apart from summer grazing; for example whether he might have a sheep he was thinking of getting rid of. But not now. Now she was going to work.
She stretched and moved to a different chair, trying to find a spot where the light didn’t create glare on the screen. In the end she gave up and took the laptop inside.
The kitchen looked dark. Pretty untidy too. She blinked away the sun-blindness. Cups filled with dark sediment cluttered the top of the wood-burning stove. She quickly washed them up and hung them up to dry on hooks above the sink.
She started to print out material relating to the Red List, which she had first heard of on her tour of Glyptoteket with the Assyriologist Alexan
dr Karpov. She carried on Googling, reading information on Cultural Heritage Without Borders, an organisation formed in the wake of the Yugoslav war, following the systematic destruction of Bosnia-Herzegovina. She printed out an article by a member of the Swedish Museums Association:
Red List Can Save Cultural Heritage
Just imagine: Sweden is invaded by another country. Every single item is plundered from the Nordic Museum, the National Museum and the Historical Museum. Carl Larsson’s paintings, Sergel’s sculptures and medieval baptismal fonts are sold on the black market and taken out of Sweden. Part of our cultural heritage, our history, our identity and our future is gone for ever. How would that feel?
That was what had happened in Iraq. Over the course of a couple of days in mid-April 2003, archives, libraries and museums in Baghdad had been plundered and burnt. Seja read about the list of missing artefacts which had been compiled and saved the articles on her hard drive. She didn’t know whether the information had any relevance to Christian’s investigation. As usual, he hadn’t told her very much.
39
Gothenburg
Bärneflod would never have driven to Denmark in this heat on his own initiative. Motivating himself to go to work in the mornings was difficult enough. Particularly as his own car didn’t have air-con; by the time he got halfway to work, he was stuck to the seat.
Babylon Page 20
