Fryxender looked pleased at the thought of rummaging through all those old files. Andersson didn’t share his enthusiasm, and sighed loudly. Less than six weeks to go until I retire, he thought.
They went into the newspapers’ databases, and also contacted SÄPO to ask for more information. After a great deal of hesitation they were allowed access to a number of documents containing details about Calle and Oscar during their careers in the Foreign Office.
In 1946 Carl-Johan Adelskiöld had gotten engaged to a girl by the name of Greta Bergman. She was twenty at the time, he was twenty-nine. Two years later the engagement was broken off. There was a note stating that Greta Bergman married a doctor the following year. In 1951 Carl-Johan married the operetta singer Lilly Hassel, but the marriage ended in divorce in 1953. There was no reference to any further relationships as far as Calle was concerned.
“Nothing after 1953,” Andersson commented.
“And we know that he lived in self-imposed isolation here in Göteborg after his retirement,” Fryxender said pensively.
“He was active for a few years after the war, then that was that. No women after the age of thirty-six. Which is weird,” Andersson mused.
“I agree. According to Oscar and Astrid, he was good company.”
“Oscar, on the other hand, had plenty of women. Which is also weird, considering he’s gay,” Andersson said, holding up a photograph.
It was taken in 1948 and showed a young couple on their way into a theater premiere. The woman was strikingly beautiful; she was wearing a long black gown that clung to her voluptuous curves. A white mink stole was nonchalantly draped around her shoulders. The caption beneath the picture read: “The enchanting actress Kerstin Dahl, 28, arrived with her very good friend the diplomat Oscar Leutnerwall, 33. The couple has been seen together on a number of occasions recently, and rumor has it an engagement may be imminent. It would be hard to find a more attractive couple.”
Andersson and Fryxender could only agree; the two people in the picture were extremely good-looking. Oscar was a more handsome version of Cary Grant, with his thick dark hair, sharply delineated features and an intense expression in those sapphire-blue eyes. A heartbreaker if ever I saw one, Fryxender thought.
“But he had lots of women on the go!” Andersson pointed out.
They looked down at the documents and pictures on the desk. Oscar was posing with beautiful women on a whole range of different occasions. They all looked very happy to be with him as he directed the full power of his smile at the camera, apparently in his element.
“There’s one thing all those pictures have in common,” Fryxender said slowly. He pushed a few across to Andersson and pointed.
“Look at his eyes. That warm smile never reaches them. His expression is ice-cold. And he never looks at the woman he’s with, but straight into the camera.”
“Too true. He’d rather be posing with some handsome guy. Those women were nothing but camouflage to hide the fact that he was gay.”
“Probably. I don’t suppose it would have been acceptable for the charming diplomat with his glittering career to admit he was gay. It was the same for a lot of Hollywood actors back then; they were married and had kids, but all the time they were hiding their sexual orientation.”
“Women are always attracted to slimeballs like that.”
“Which is strange, when they could have guys like us,” Fryxender said in a deadly serious tone of voice. Then his thin face broke into a grin, and Andersson couldn’t help smiling too.
Irene was clutching the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She had to make a concerted effort to stop herself from flooring the accelerator in the old Volvo. It would be pointless anyway because the traffic was already building up throughout the city. The monotonous squeak of the windshield wipers normally made her feel sleepy, but not this morning. Right now the sound was slicing through her brain and stabbing at her nerve endings. And then there was the rain, lashing against the windshield, and the hum of the engine. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the wheel as the car ground to a halt for the hundredth time. The traffic lights on the hill leading up to the hospital were probably the reason, but it could be something else. If she was really unlucky, there might have been an accident. Please God, don’t let it be that! Let me just get there!
The phone call had woken her just before six. Still half-asleep, she had mumbled, “Hello?” It had taken several seconds for her to realize the call was from Sahlgrenska University Hospital, and that it was about her mother.
“We’re keeping her under observation at the moment; the doctors will be examining her at about eight o’clock. The doctor on duty thinks she’s injured one arm, but he’s not sure if it’s a fracture or just a cracked bone. Unfortunately, it looks as if she’s broken the other hip—the one she hasn’t had surgery on,” the nurse had explained.
Irene had suddenly felt wide awake and sat bolt upright in bed.
“. . . a neighbor heard her banging on the radiator and shouting for help. She was lying on the bathroom floor,” the calm voice had continued.
That was one of the disadvantages of being an only child: you were on your own when something happened to a parent. Krister was always there for her, of course, but she couldn’t expect him to sacrifice his work.
She had managed to get a hold of Åsa Nyström, who promised to pass on the message that Irene would be in as soon as possible. It was Friday morning, and later that day plan B would be put into operation. Nothing must go wrong. They hadn’t made allowances for an elderly, ailing mother. Irene’s only consolation was that Gerd was being cared for in a large ward in the hospital with moveable screens around the beds.
“Help me. Can someone help me?” an old man whimpered behind one of the screens.
“We’ve given her an injection to help with the pain. The poor soul was exhausted; she’d probably been lying on the floor for quite some time. The home care service had a key, so they were able to let the paramedics in,” said the nurse who had taken Irene to her mother.
Irene thanked God that she had managed to persuade her mother to sign up for the care service’s alarm system.
“Was she conscious when they brought her in?” she asked.
She had always been terrified that Gerd would have a stroke and end up like a vegetable.
“Oh yes—she knew she’d had a fall and was in the hospital. But she was extremely tired and in a great deal of pain.”
“When will they operate?”
“The doctors will decide when they’ve examined her. We’ve sent a note to radiography, so she’ll be going down there this morning, then we’ll see what the X-rays show,” the young nurse said with an encouraging smile.
“Can I give you a call to find out what’s happening?”
“Of course—leave it until after one o’clock. You can pick up a card in reception with all the numbers on it, and you can also leave your number, so we can get in touch with you if necessary.”
She smiled again and hurried over to the nurses’ station. There were more patients and relatives who needed her help.
Back in her mother’s ward, Irene edged toward the bed. Gerd looked so frail and tiny. Like a bird. One thin hand lay on top of the faded yellow blanket. Irene stroked it gently and bent down to kiss her mother’s pale forehead.
Gerd opened her eyes a fraction and said faintly, “Sweetheart. You came.” She licked her cracked lips to moisten them, but to no effect; there was no saliva.
“Would you like some water?”
There was a lump in Irene’s throat; she felt so powerless. Her dear mother was lying there, incapable of taking care of herself and entirely reliant on other people. And there was nothing Irene could do.
“Please,” Gerd whispered.
Irene picked up the glass of water from the bedside table and carefully inserted the st
raw between her mother’s dry lips.
Gerd sucked gently. “Thank you,” she murmured, and closed her eyes. The next minute she was asleep. Irene noticed a red mark above one eye, extending down toward the cheekbone. It was already starting to take on a bluish tone; it was going to be a pretty impressive bruise within a few hours.
As she drove toward police HQ, she called Krister to tell him how Gerd was.
“She’s having an X-ray this morning, then the doctors will decide what to do. The nurse said we could call after one. I gave them your number too in case they can’t get a hold of me. Shit!”
The expletive was prompted by the fact that she had to slam on the brakes in order to avoid a group of teenagers who had decided to run across the road even though the light was green.
“Sorry, honey—I nearly hit some jaywalking kids!”
She swallowed hard several times to push her heart back down to its proper place. She could definitely feel it stuck in her throat.
“Anyway, back to Mom: there’s another problem. I have to switch off my cell this afternoon. We’re being issued with special phones for this operation, and they can’t be used for private calls . . . no, exactly. At five . . . before you start work? Fantastic! In that case I’ll call at one. Love you.”
She made loud kissing noises into the phone to let him know just how much she loved him because he always came through for her. Without Krister she never would have coped with all the practicalities of everyday life.
They had gone over plan B in detail that morning, then worked on other cases until lunchtime. Irene called the hospital before she rushed off for something to eat. The nurse couldn’t tell her anything because Gerd was still down in radiography.
After lunch they gathered in the conference room; My Björkman was there too. She looked just the same as the last time they had seen her, except now she was wearing black nail polish. Irene didn’t really think it was her style; the cerise pink from their first meeting had suited her much better, but it was much more likely that a fifteen-year-old would go for edgy black rather than pink. My seemed completely calm and focused.
Tommy Persson had projected a large sketch of Café Expresso on the wall, and was channeling his inner schoolteacher as he pointed with a laser pen. The red dot bounced all over the place when he forgot himself and started waving his hands around.
“We have to assume that Mr. Groomer is watching the café at all times. It’s essential that we act naturally. This is door A; it faces the ticket office. There are a number of tables and chairs just outside. I’ll sit down there with a cup of coffee and a newspaper at about 5:40 p.m. Irene will come along ten minutes later, laden with bags as if she’s been shopping. She’s my shopaholic wife.”
This produced delighted giggles from just about everyone in the room, providing a welcome light relief; the tension was palpable.
Tommy smiled at his own joke, then went on. “She will go inside and buy a cup of coffee, then she’ll come out and join me, and we’ll sit and chat. So we’ve got door A covered.”
He turned to My Björkman. “You arrive on the bus at 5:56 p.m. Åsa will be standing inside the door of the terminal and will follow you to Café Expresso. She will carry on to the table where Fredrik is sitting, near door B. You buy a hot chocolate and sit down at the bar counter in the middle of the café. There’s always plenty of room, because everybody wants to sit by the window and watch the world go by. So you and Åsa will arrive last, when all the other officers are in position.”
The red dot stopped in the middle of the café on the outline of a long bar counter. Tommy highlighted both ends of the counter.
“Jonny and Hannu will be sitting at either end of the bar, which means that My will have a police officer on either side of her. Jonny will arrive at about the same time as me. He’s an ordinary commuter on his way home from work, just waiting for his train. Hannu is a sales rep with a train to catch. Did you remember the suitcase?”
Hannu bent down and picked up a small black cabin case. Tommy nodded his approval, then moved the red dot over to door B.
“Fredrik will be sitting by door B alone to begin with, then when Åsa arrives at the same time as My, she will do roughly the same as Irene, joining Fredrik with her shopping bags. When Jonny sees My approaching the café, he will use his cell to call Jens. You can pretend you’re calling the little woman at home or something.”
Tommy cleared his throat. “So to summarize: Jonny and I will take up our positions at 5:40. Irene, Hannu and Fredrik will be in position just before 5:50. My and Åsa will arrive at approximately 5:57. Any questions?”
“What about the armed response unit?” Jonny asked.
“They’ll be parked next to the Nils Ericson Terminal, facing the shopping mall.”
Tommy opened an anonymous grey box on the table in front of him.
“There you go: cell phones, courtesy of Jens. He will be our central control and will monitor our location. He will also call us if necessary. All the cells are equipped with GPS. Jens has programmed in his own number, plus My, the armed response unit, and the six of us. That means there are only eight numbers in the memory, listed under first names. The armed response unit is under A, of course.”
Åsa had a question. “My has some clothes and other stuff with her so that she can transform herself into little Ann. Hannu has his suitcase. Has anyone else brought anything?”
The response was a bewildered silence, then one by one her colleagues slowly shook their heads.
“I thought so. Just as well I’ve brought along some props and makeup,” she said cheerfully
“What . . . ? Surely that’s not necessary,” Jonny protested.
“But we were supposed to be in plainclothes,” Irene said.
Åsa rolled her eyes and sighed theatrically.
“Just consider yourselves with critical eyes. Do you blend in? Does Irene look like Tommy’s shopaholic wife?”
Everyone stared at Irene. To her surprise they started to shake their heads again, one after another.
“Exactly! Mr. Groomer isn’t going to fall for that. And the rest of you smell like cops from a mile away. I’ll sort you out. You have to immerse yourself in the role, feel like the person you’re supposed to be,” Åsa instructed.
“You should have stayed in the theater,” Jonny muttered.
She ignored him and continued. “I’d like to get started right away. Nothing major, but as we know it’s the smallest details that make the difference.”
Jonny snorted, but said nothing.
Irene couldn’t help feeling slightly hurt. What was wrong with a black polo, white cotton cardigan, black prêt-à-porter jeans and black loafers? Okay, so maybe the shoes weren’t exactly glamorous. As if she could read Irene’s mind, Åsa turned to her.
“I’ll start with you.”
“Best to tackle the most difficult challenge first,” Jonny sniggered.
“In that case you’re next,” Åsa informed him with a smile. She led Irene back to their office; Irene stopped dead in the doorway, completely taken aback. The place where she had worked for the past nineteen years had been transformed into a dressing room. Åsa had put Irene’s lamp on her own desk, so that both sides of the face could be properly lit as the makeup was applied. In the middle she had placed a rectangular mirror. She had moved Irene’s desk closer to her own, and it was covered with bags of clothes, shoes, purses and a plethora of makeup.
“Åsa . . . I mean . . . is this really necessary?” Irene said wearily. She could hear how bewildered she sounded.
“Absolutely! You’re just out of practice. Sit!” Åsa said, pointing to the visitor’s chair that had been upgraded to a makeup chair.
I can always go and wash it off afterward, Irene thought as she obediently sat down.
“Look at yourself in the mirror. You’re only wearing a little bit of m
ascara. And you’ve got your hair in a ponytail. It just won’t do!”
With practiced hands Åsa began to apply moisturizer, followed by foundation and a little blush high on the cheekbones, then a light dusting of loose powder. Irene sneezed; her face felt stiff and peculiar.
“Bless you! Good job I hadn’t started on the eyes,” Åsa said. Eyeliner came next, then a little more mascara. Finally she produced a bright red lipstick.
“Here, take this. Don’t forget to reapply it later. No serious shopaholic would ever dream of letting the surface crack.”
“But I’ve got my own lipstick—”
“Which is a super-discreet nude pink. Excellent for work. But totally lacking in the glam factor,” Åsa stated implacably.
She was right. A very attractive face was looking back at Irene from the mirror; evidently time and skill could work miracles.
“I’m sorry, Åsa, but you’re going to have to come into work half an hour earlier from now on,” Irene said seriously.
“And why’s that?”
“So that you can do my makeup before I start. After this I can’t possibly show my real face again.”
They both laughed as they started to go through the clothes Åsa had supplied. Eventually she picked out a wide scarlet belt that she cinched around Irene’s waist, with a purse to match.
“I can’t do anything about the shoes; I don’t have any ladies’ shoes in a 41.”
“To hell with the shoes—can you fix my hair?”
Irene had decided it was great fun being transformed into a woman who had all the time in the world to wander around town. Åsa combed her hair and twisted it into a chignon, with a casual little tuft at the top.
“Great! That just leaves one thing,” Åsa said after examining her handiwork from every angle.
“What’s that?” Irene asked anxiously.
“Your jacket.”
Irene knew what she meant. Her old reefer jacket was warm and practical, but it had seen better days. It had long since been demoted to a walking-the-dog jacket, but now she didn’t have a dog anymore; she just used it when the weather was bad. She had pulled it on this morning as she dashed off to the hospital in the pouring rain.
The Treacherous Net Page 20
