Babylon

by Camilla Ceder

  Höije winked at Gonzales conspiratorially.

  ‘Oh, come on, Michael. Don’t tell me you’ve never toyed with the idea of promotion. And if you do, I won’t believe you. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still new. We’re talking about the future here.’

  Gonzales could feel his irritation growing. ‘I thought you were doing most of the talking.’

  Höije didn’t return Gonzales’s smile; instead he looked serious.

  ‘In that case, now it’s your turn to talk. According to what I’ve heard, from various people, I have the impression that Christian Tell can be . . .’

  He fell silent, pretending to weigh his words carefully.

  ‘Can be . . .?’

  ‘Can be a little . . . unusual to work with. He likes to do his own thing.’

  Gonzales adopted a puzzled expression.

  ‘I’ve heard he can be impulsive in a way that might negatively impact on team morale.’

  Höije removed his glasses and rubbed at a mark on the lens. ‘The quality of our work is largely dependent on teamwork. If a leader is unwilling to listen to the concerns of his colleagues—’

  ‘Who – forgive me for interrupting – has this come from?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. The main thing is that I know. And I want to hear what you think. You’re relatively new, you haven’t become institutionalised, you have a fresh pair of eyes and you can look at things in an objective, constructive way. My predecessor mentioned that—’

  ‘Östergren had complete faith in Tell.’ Gonzales knew that his gaze was utterly steady. ‘And so do I. Besides which, I’m sure that the clear-up statistics prove that he’s good at his job.’

  Höije pursed his lips; suddenly he didn’t look half as conspiratorial.

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the clear-up statistics, I was talking about what Tell is like as a leader, and how you function as a team.’

  ‘Brilliantly.’

  The situation no longer felt uncomfortable; in fact, Gonzales wanted to prolong it, make it into a short film and post it on YouTube.

  ‘As I said, we work very well as a team.’

  ‘Thank you, in that case I’m satisfied.’

  ‘No, thank you. Can I go now?’

  Höije laughed sourly. ‘You can go whenever you like.’

  Gonzales made the victory sign at himself as he passed the mirror in the waiting room. Then he realised he really did feel sick.

  56

  Gothenburg

  As she looked around the corner shop, Karin Beckman decided that the owner must have been a stickler for detail. A place for everything and everything in its place, if you ignored the equipment the investigators had spread around. There was a little label under each item for sale and not a single one was crooked. The floor was polished to a high shine, except for the pool of blood in which the man lay. The very picture of life’s fragility. He had been particular about his polished floor, but here he lay, and for what? A few hundred kronor?

  Bärneflod put her thoughts into words in his own way as he fiddled with the buttons on the till. ‘What’s happening to this country? Mark my words, we’ll soon be in the same mess as America, where you can be stabbed for a crap pair of trainers. I remember when there used to be a code of honour, even for gangsters. You didn’t shoot a guy for the day’s takings, it just wasn’t the done thing.’

  He brought his fist down on the uncooperative machine and was about to threaten it with further violence when Beckman bent down and found the button underneath.

  ‘There. And keep your voice down. The family are still in the back.’

  The man’s wife and son were in the room behind the shop. Beckman had made a fruitless attempt to persuade the family to go to hospital to see if they needed treatment for shock; the wife was on the verge of total collapse. The boy kept mechanically stroking her hair, his eyes frightened and full of tears as he took in the extent of her despair. He had lost his father. He swallowed. Over and over again. Beckman had seen it all before.

  When the ambulance arrived, Beckman saw paramedics give the woman an injection, then she looked into the boy’s desperate eyes one last time before the doors closed.

  She went back inside to Bärneflod, who was waving a bundle of hundred-kronor notes in the air.

  ‘I just don’t get it! Look at this!’

  ‘Perhaps they only took the bigger notes.’

  ‘There’s a couple of thousand here – show me the thief who’s too good to pocket that! Do you really think this was a robbery?’

  Beckman put her hands in her pockets. The smell of blood seemed stronger now the body was gone.

  ‘I don’t know – it seems a bit odd. Have we got anything else on this place? Known association with gang activity?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Did you manage to get anything out of the woman?’

  ‘No.’

  Bärneflod disappeared into the back room and spoke to one of the technicians, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. She let her gaze wander over the display of magazines: hardly anything but naked female bodies in degrading poses. One glossy was adorned with a picture of a pouting young woman with nothing but a big lollipop to cover her modesty.

  She went outside to get some air. At first her legs seemed to move of their own accord, then she decided to go for a short walk. Not so long ago she had hardly known that this area existed. She set off at a fair pace towards a yellow brick building which turned out to be a care home, then along a track that snaked down the hill. After the second bend she was confronted by the roofs of Majorna: a high, recently built tower block in the foreground, with Gothenburg’s trademark ‘governor’s houses’, imposing buildings set around courtyards, in the backdrop. Far away in the distance, toy cars sped across the Älvsborg Bridge towards the Sandarna area of the city. A mist was rolling in off the sea in spite of the fine weather. Or was it exhaust fumes?

  Beckman turned, having established that the track went all the way down to Mariaplan, then marched back uphill until she could see the shop once more. Had the shooting been a spontaneous act? Surely the perpetrator must have checked out the area in advance, or at least known the lie of the land?

  She scratched her hand as she grabbed a dry branch and pulled herself up onto the hill directly opposite the crime scene. Beer cans and sweet wrappers were strewn on the ground and there was certainly an excellent view into the shop. She would have a word with the crime scene technicians and ask them to take a look before they packed up; better safe than sorry.

  A tiny drop of blood oozed from the scratch on the back of her hand. Beckman wiped it off on her jacket and looked up at the apartment blocks with their gleaming windows, then she slithered down the hill and went back into the shop.

  Bärneflod had brought out a couple of files from the office behind the shop and was leafing through them. He made a note of a couple of names and telephone numbers. ‘I thought the owner’s name was David Sevic?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘It says Josef Sevic here in the annual accounts.’

  ‘A relative, maybe?’

  ‘Check it out.’

  ‘We’ve got a team meeting with the boss,’ said Beckman. ‘Soon.’

  ‘I thought Tell was on holiday.’

  ‘I meant Höije. He wants to discuss the Linnégatan case.’

  ‘Mm. I suppose he wants to make sure we’re behaving ourselves.’ Bärneflod hated to be interrupted when he was in the middle of something.

  ‘I’ll go to the meeting,’ Beckman decided. ‘I can report on what we’ve found here and see if there’s any new information. Then I’ll come back. I’ll leave you to go through the office in peace.’

  Shortly afterwards, Beckman nodded in Höije’s direction and sank down next to Karlberg, who was looking lonely at the shabby conference table across from the boss.

  ‘So where’s Gonzales, then?’

  ‘He went home, a stomach bug or something.’

  Höije pushed his glasses on
to the top of his head and leant forward; he looked like a rugby player preparing for a scrum.

  ‘Karlberg and I were talking about the murders on Linnégatan before you arrived. I suggest we change the subject and talk about this new case while it’s still fresh in our minds. Karin, if you could give us a short summary, I’ll suggest the allocation of tasks and you can pass that on to your colleagues when they return. When everybody knows what they’re doing, you can get started. OK?’

  They nodded in some confusion: was there any other way of doing things?

  Beckman began. ‘It’s a corner shop in Gråberget. The owner was one David Sevic. He was married with a ten-year-old son and he’s been running the shop for about four years. According to his wife there were no known threats against him. He had no employees at the time of his death; his wife used to cover for him. A couple of students had worked there on and off in the past. The family lives on Södra Dragspelsgatan in Frölunda. It seems as if the business was in pretty good shape; the accounts were taken care of by a Josef Sevic and we’ve just identified him as David’s older brother.’

  ‘Has he been informed of the death?’

  ‘Not by us.’

  ‘Was he David’s business partner?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so . . . I rang his work mobile, and his voicemail says he’s caretaker at the Carl Johan church. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘David Sevic was shot in the head in the shop. Nothing else of particular note. And that’s more or less all I know at the moment.’

  ‘In the head?’

  ‘Yes. Either at very close quarters or else we’re dealing with an excellent shot.’

  ‘We don’t know that yet,’ Höije interrupted. ‘Has a thorough investigation of the crime scene been carried out?’

  ‘It’s ongoing.’

  ‘And you’ve been there?’

  ‘I left a little while ago. Bärneflod stayed behind. He might well have made a start on door-to-door enquiries.’

  ‘Good. In that case Karlberg will assist Bärneflod. Karin,’ Isn’t it just typical that he calls the men by their surname and me by my first name. – ‘I’d like you to try to get hold of Sevic’s brother. If you have time, check out David Sevic, then think about how we can proceed. Contact whoever’s looking after his wife at the hospital and find out when we can speak to her.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Good. And while Tell is on holiday, you report directly to me. That includes outside normal office hours.’

  It was almost evening. Beckman wasn’t due back at the office; her report could wait until tomorrow and she didn’t have the children. She was sitting on the steps of the Carl Johan church, getting her breath back after informing Josef Sevic of his brother’s death. She hadn’t done it alone, but these things were never easy. It was obvious that the brothers had been very close, but Josef Sevic knew of no threats to the family or the business.

  ‘Some kind of protection racket?’ Beckman ventured tentatively.

  ‘Not as far as I know. Everything David did was above board. It must have been a meaningless, opportunistic . . . robbery?’

  He buried his face in his hands when Beckman said that the police would need to talk to him again, as soon as he felt up to it, preferably tomorrow. He pulled himself together, the pain etched on his face, and got into the police car which would take him to the hospital and to his brother’s son and wife.

  The graphite-grey stone was soft to the touch. Beckman remembered how, as a child, she would count the fossils embedded in the steps of the church at home: snail shells or huge, grotesque wood lice.

  She looked down at what she was wearing. Brown, low-heeled shoes, thin cotton trousers. The lace trim on the top under her sweater was just showing. She smiled without quite knowing why. The rush of happiness she had experienced when she talked to the pregnant woman by the paddling pool had faded, leaving a surprising feeling of acceptance: life really was very strange. Beckman had always been absolutely certain that we choose our own fate, but at the moment she was prepared to reconsider.

  The traffic on Karl Johansgatan was beginning to ease. She walked along the narrow path around the church and the roar from the four lanes of traffic on Oscarsleden grew louder. She could see the water now: the Stena Line complex, one of the ships resting in the harbour like a white whale.

  She was surprised that the church was open to the public and went inside. It was empty, her footsteps echoing as she walked up the aisle.

  Karin Beckman had not walked towards an altar since she was a child at Sunday school. When she married Göran it had been a civil ceremony with four friends as witnesses – they had been very careful to keep it small and low-key. They went to Greece for two weeks instead of having a reception. She could hardly remember a thing about that trip. From time to time she regretted not getting married in church, since she was getting married anyway. Not having had the full works.

  She tipped her head back and gazed at the paintings on the ceiling. The light in churches was always somehow ethereal, falling through high windows and capturing the drifting dust motes; licking its way along the ceiling as darkness fell. Beckman didn’t have her glasses with her and couldn’t make much out, but she could see many different colours, dull with age, merging in front of her. Was that the Last Supper? The rail on the balcony was covered in cherubs, just as the balcony in the church of her childhood had been strewn with winged infants. Beckman shuddered; she couldn’t help thinking of the cherubs as dead children, children who had died and gone to heaven. Perhaps that wasn’t exactly what she had learnt at Sunday school, which had been held on that very balcony above the rows of pews. She breathed in the smell of every Swedish church: paint and ancient bibles.

  In spite of the fact that she had never been particularly religious, Beckman felt as if she had come home. Not that she necessarily welcomed the idea of coming home. She felt the security of the familiar, but also a growing sense of defiance, just as when she was a child but with no clear target.

  She cleared her throat and the sound echoed off the stone walls. I’m going to stay here for a while, but I’m not going to pray. In her mind she lit a candle for the future.

  57

  Gothenburg

  Annelie had called a girlfriend and asked if she could stay over, claiming her encounter with David had left her feeling bereft; it wasn’t really an excuse. It was good to talk about David, but she hadn’t been able to talk about this business with Axel. She wouldn’t have known where to start.

  It was nice to hear her friend singing in the bathroom.

  Annelie had finally decided to report the matter to the police, but they had got there first. She was surprised. The officer she spoke to was calm and authoritative, in spite of the fact that he sounded very young. Although his questions gave her no reason to feel that he was doubting her, she could hear herself downplaying what had happened.

  It was as though she couldn’t quite trust her instincts. She felt a pang of guilt as she heard herself listing vague accusations against Axel, and in the middle of it all she suddenly thought about Henrik and the way his enthusiasm had held together people who were essentially very different.

  There was a cold, brief flash of light as yet another police car passed her building and disappeared, this one in less of a hurry than the first. What had happened to Henrik and Ann-Marie was still impossible to take in or understand. Now it looked as if something else had happened, and not very far away. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what it might be: the police cars gathering, the silent ambulance that braked every time it hit a speed bump. But there was nothing she could do. After everything that had happened, it was entirely possible that she was making the business with Axel out to be more than it was.

  But in Istanbul his eyes had terrified her, pinning her down. For a few moments she became an insect under his microscope, in his power.

  ‘It’s simple, you have to leave David alone.’ Axel had still been clutc
hing her hand tightly. When she hadn’t understood what he was talking about, he had tried to explain: ‘He makes you dirty, you make him dirty. He’s betraying his family because of lust, just like those two over there. She means nothing to him, nothing at all. Henrik would never risk what he and I—’

  ‘You and Henrik? Axel, you’re mixing up—’

  ‘I’m talking about our friendship. Nothing else.’

  ‘I—’

  He stopped her again. ‘You and David have power, but you’re abusing it. Do you understand? You’re weak and self-centred and you’re closing your eyes to the pain of others. Do you really want to be that kind of person?’

  Annelie withdrew her hand. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You asked me for advice and it’s simple: you must put everything behind you. Find a way back to your own moral compass and allow David to do the same. You and Ann-Marie and Henrik have to save yourselves while you can. If you can. I’m just trying to help.’

  He had gone on. He had started talking about his ex-girlfriend; Annelie remembered his words in fragments, crazy words from a crazy person, even if Henrik and Ann-Marie had brushed it all aside the next day when Axel was normal again, insisting he’d just had too much to drink. Nothing to worry about. Annelie was making a mountain out of a molehill. But they hadn’t seen the look in his eyes.

  58

  Axel had been reading his old notebooks. After his first proper meeting with Henrik, he had written: He is intelligent, loyal, but untaught. There is hope.

  At first Henrik had been a project.

  Henrik’s standard response when he was asked to nail his colours to the mast was: ‘I believe in something. I believe in something greater than us, I just don’t know what it is.’

  No indulgence was to be expected when it came to similar evasions. Loyalty was what he wanted from Henrik.

  Many of the twists and turns in their friendship had been influenced by Axel’s own confusion; he was the first to admit his weakness. At times he had found himself indolent and incapable, looking at things the wrong way. He had often doubted his project.