The Treacherous Net

by Helene Tursten

  “I’ll go into town and buy a new one. I’ve been meaning to do it for ages,” she said.

  While Åsa turned her attention to her colleagues, Irene slipped away to the Nordstan mall. She did a quick tour of the fashion stores looking for a new jacket. Eventually she found a blue three-quarter-length coat that was just beautiful. The fine woolen lining was removable, and the coat itself was water-repellent, which was perfect for such a rainy city, Irene thought contentedly. The best thing was the modern generous cut, which meant that the gun holster on her shoulder didn’t show. She just hoped there were no CCTV cameras monitoring the changing room; a woman wearing a shoulder holster while trying on clothes might just raise a few questions.

  She decided to wear the new coat and asked the assistant to put the old one in a large bag. It was colorful and shiny, the perfect accessory for a shopaholic.

  It was ten past five; no point in rushing back to police HQ. She might as well wait around in the mall. She went into a shoe store, sat down on a stool in a quiet corner and called the hospital.

  “We’ve been trying to reach you; I’m afraid Gerd isn’t feeling too good right now,” said the nurse, who introduced himself as Per.

  “What’s happened?”

  “She was complaining of chest pains, and an ECG showed signs of arrhythmia, or an irregular heartbeat. We’re just taking her down to the cardiac intensive care unit; the doctors want to check her over thoroughly.”

  “Oh my God—intensive care!” Irene exclaimed, clutching her cell tightly.

  “It’s just a precaution. She’s quite frail because of the fall; her hip is definitely broken and she has a fracture to the left forearm that will require surgery. She’s also suffered a concussion; we think she probably hit her head on the toilet when she fell, and has probably fractured her cheekbone. We’ll be X-raying her face tomorrow.”

  “Can I come and see her later on?”

  “They’re very strict about visits on the cardiac unit; I suggest you ring and check with them first,” Per said.

  He gave her the number; she could feel her own heart pounding against her rib cage as she ended the call. She immediately rang Krister to tell him about the deterioration in Gerd’s condition; he promised to keep in touch with the hospital while Irene was occupied with plan B.

  She wandered around the mall forcing herself to think about something other than the state her mother was in. In Åhlén’s department store she bought a new mascara, a tinted moisturizer and a fragrant body lotion that was on sale. The assistant looked a little surprised when Irene asked for two large bags, but she obliged—albeit with pursed lips and a muttered comment about a lack of environmental awareness. Getting into the swing of things, Irene slipped into Lindex and bought panties and tights, once again requesting two bags. Surely five shiny bags would be enough?

  She emerged from Lindex and headed toward the pedestrian tunnel leading from the mall to the central station. If she walked slowly, she would arrive just in time. There were crowds of people, all hell-bent on shopping for the weekend. She allowed herself to be carried along. The faces coming toward her came from every corner of the world. You don’t have to go to New York or some other world city to realize that you’re living in an ethnic melting pot; just visit Nordstan on a Friday afternoon.

  Tommy was sitting at one of the small round imitation- marble tables outside Café Expresso, with a cappuccino and a bagel in front of him. He had swapped his usual polo shirt for a dazzling white shirt with a jacket and tie. He was wearing his own reading glasses, and was absorbed in Industry Today. With a few simple tricks, Åsa had managed to turn him into a businessman.

  Irene went over and placed all her bags under the table. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “Hi, darling. Keep an eye on my bags.”

  The café was busy, and there was a pretty long line waiting at the checkout. A young girl with bright eyes took the orders, another filled them, and a third took payment; it was a very smooth operation. Irene glanced around discreetly; she spotted Fredrik at a table over by the other door, while Hannu was standing just a few meters away from her, leaning on the counter. He had a latte in a glass cup in front of him, and was speaking quietly in Finnish into his hands-free. Only the police officers in the café knew that he wasn’t talking to anyone. If Jens or anyone else should call, all he had to do was press gently in order to answer; he had turned off the ringtone and switched to vibrate.

  As far as Irene could see, Hannu had managed to avoid a restyle. However, the little black cabin case now bore a sticky label: nokia business, suomi. So simple, but so effective. Hannu was obviously a Finnish businessman having a coffee while visiting Göteborg.

  Jonny simply had a green-and-black-striped GAIS football scarf draped around his neck, which somehow miraculously took away the smell of cop that might otherwise have emanated from him. He was standing at the end of the bar with an Americano and a chocolate muffin. There was a folded newspaper next to his cup, and he was gazing wearily into space. Anyone who noticed him would assume he was an ordinary commuter on his way home for a well-earned rest over the weekend. But Irene knew better; he was looking out for My.

  Just as Irene was about to pay for her double espresso, she saw Jonny take his cell phone out of his inside pocket. He keyed in a number and put the phone to his ear. This was the signal that he had spotted My heading toward the café and that the operation to pick up Mr. Groomer was about to enter its active phase. Irene felt her heart rate increase.

  “Hi, it’s me. I missed the train. It was all down to that bloody Norwegian . . . picky bastard. We were late getting out. No . . . no . . . I’m in the café at Central Station . . . half six . . . Okay . . . What the fuck!”

  Irene reacted not to the expletive, but to Jonny’s tone. She glanced in his direction, and was surprised to see him staring wide-eyed out of the window.

  “He’s got her! Shit! Outside! Contact the armed response unit!” he hissed into the phone, clearly shaken.

  Irene was already on her way to the door.

  “Excuse me! You forgot your coffee and your change!” one of the girls behind the counter called after her.

  Tommy got to his feet as she came out, looking around in some confusion.

  “There!” Irene yelled as she broke into a run.

  Ahead of her Åsa’s green jacket and curly hair were just disappearing through the glass doors leading to the platforms. The area was packed with people hurrying along with their luggage; Irene almost tripped over a suitcase on wheels that someone was pulling along behind them. She could see Åsa pushing her way through the crowd; she also saw a man dressed in dark clothing and a cap turn the corner by the newspaper kiosk. He was moving quickly without actually running. Irene, on the other hand, was running as fast as she could.

  As she rounded the corner a dark blue van started up and drove off, with Åsa Nyström racing along behind it. The van had been parked in the platform area, and it sped away with the horn blaring. People scattered immediately; the engine revved as the van screeched away and cut across the old taxi zone. A mail van had to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.

  “Shit! Shit!” Åsa screamed as she realized she would have to abandon the pursuit.

  Irene caught up with her, and Åsa yelled, “The car! Come on!”

  Without slowing down they ran to the unmarked police car in which Åsa and a couple of the others had arrived. Åsa took out the key and pressed the button to unlock the doors as she ran. They leapt in and Åsa started the engine. Irene was already calling Jens.

  “He’s got My! In the back of the van,” she panted.

  “Where are you?”

  “Outside the station. In the parking lot . . .”

  “Okay, I’ve got you. Two signals. Who’s with you?”

  “Åsa. We’re in an unmarked car. He . . . Mr. Groomer threw My in the back of a dark blue van
and drove off across the parking lot.”

  “I can see My’s GPS signal; they’re traveling at high speed toward Nya Allén. Now he’s turning right. Heading toward Haga.”

  Irene switched to speakerphone so that Åsa could hear; she was totally focused, trying to find gaps in the traffic.

  “Switch on the radio so everyone can hear,” Jens said.

  Irene turned on the police radio and managed to dig out a blue light from the backseat. She wound down the window and clamped it on the roof with a metallic click. As the siren began to wail, the traffic moved aside, and they were able to start closing in on the dark blue van, although they were still too far behind to be able to see it. The mature trees of Nya Allén flickered by and the Trädgår’n restaurant was no more than an illuminated façade, a bright flash that immediately disappeared in the gathering twilight.

  “Tommy called; he’s on his way to me,” Jens informed them.

  “Have Jonny and the guys taken the other car?”

  “Yes, and the armed response unit is following you.”

  “Is the van still in Nya Allén?”

  “Yes. He’s just about to pass Haga Church.”

  “We’re approaching the theater.”

  “The armed response unit has just turned onto Nya Allén,” Jens reported.

  Åsa didn’t take her foot off the gas as they shot across the intersection by the theater.

  “Shit!” she yelled as they almost ran down a male cyclist in a white helmet.

  “What’s going on?” Jens wondered.

  “We almost mowed down a militant cyclist who thinks he has the right of way over a cop car on a blue light,” Irene said grimly.

  It had been a close call, and she could feel the adrenaline pumping through her body. In the rearview mirror she saw the furious cyclist waving his fist in the air.

  “Mr. Groomer is continuing toward Järntorget. Crossing the square . . . turning into Andréegatan. Left toward Oscarsleden.”

  “Can you try to alert patrols to meet him from the other direction?”

  “Already done, but there’s been a major car accident in Tynnered with several vehicles involved; the place is gridlocked. There are also problems on Backaplan in Hisingen; robbery at a jeweler’s store. But we’ve put out a general call for help.”

  Åsa’s concentration was intense. She hadn’t said a word, apart from the expletive when they almost hit the cyclist. They hurtled past Järntorget and out onto Oscarsleden via Andréegatan.

  “He’s flying. No hold-ups. He’s just passed the German ferry terminal,” Jens said.

  Irene could see the Stena Line terminal for ferries to Denmark on the right-hand side. One of the huge ships was just casting off; it was illuminated by thousands of lights and glowed like a beacon against the black water.

  “It looks as if . . . yes . . . he’s turning off at Rödastensmotet, up onto Älvsborgsbron.”

  “Is there no one who can cut him off?”

  “A car is on its way from Hisingen. It’s on the far side of Brämaregården, but it’s doing its best.”

  Åsa and Irene drove past the German ferry terminal. Åsa unbuttoned her jacket and Irene glimpsed her shoulder holster. She followed suit; she never felt entirely comfortable carrying a gun, but right now she was grateful for the SIG Sauer.

  “He’s almost reached the bridge.”

  The Älvsborg Bridge loomed up ahead of them, with a seemingly endless stream of vehicles driving across in both directions. One set of headlamps belonged to Mr. Groomer, but it was impossible to say which.

  “He’s on the bridge,” Jens said. With the next breath they heard him say, “Hi.”

  Someone had joined him, and after a moment they heard a breathless voice:

  “Tommy here. Where are you?”

  “On the way to Rödastensmotet.”

  “Okay, I can see you on the screen. He’s no more than four hundred meters ahead of you and Åsa.”

  Jonny’s voice suddenly broke in. “Did you run back to HQ?”

  “I took a cab—a quick-thinking driver who realized I was in a hurry. By the way, I brought your shopping, Irene.”

  She hadn’t given her shiny bags a thought. Before she had time to thank Tommy, Jens reported:

  “He’s turning off . . . down onto Oljevägen, heading fast toward Arendal.”

  Åsa put her foot down; they were approaching the exit for Oljevägen. It looked as if Mr. Groomer was intending to hide on the industrial estate.

  “He’s turning left onto Bentylgatan . . . still at speed . . . he’s slowing down . . . turning right! There’s no road there—it must be a little track leading into Rya Forest . . . the nature reserve . . . he’s about seventy-five meters into the forest now. Or whatever the terrain might be—I can’t tell from the map.” Tommy’s tense voice came through the speaker. Åsa followed onto Oljevägen. Irene turned off the siren, but left the blue light pulsating. They were doing 130 when they hit the deserted road; Åsa slammed on the brakes and they took the corner into Bentylgatan on two wheels. For a few seconds Irene thought the car was going to tip right over; the tires squealed, and Åsa was back in control.

  Tall oaks and other mature trees rose up on the left-hand side in the nature reserve.

  “We’re on Bentylgatan. You need to guide us,” Irene said.

  “Keep going, around one hundred and fifty meters. I’ll tell you when you . . . now!”

  Åsa stopped the car, and she and Irene peered into the darkness. All they could see were impenetrable thickets of undergrowth.

  “Are you sure?” Irene asked.

  “Absolutely. You’re exactly in line with My’s GPS, and . . .”

  Irene and Åsa were out of the car before he had finished speaking. Both drew their guns; Irene had brought the flashlight from the car and shone the beam along the side of the road and in among the trees.

  “There!” Åsa whispered.

  They could just make out fresh tire marks in the tall grass, leading straight into the forest. Without wasting any more words they set off at full speed. The ground was wet and sucked at their shoes; there was a loud smacking noise as they lifted their feet. The acrid smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation pricked at their nostrils. Suddenly they heard the slam of a car door ahead of them, very close by. Irene switched off the flashlight and they both stopped to listen before moving forward in the darkness as quietly as possible. Åsa suddenly stopped and Irene almost cannoned into her before realizing that someone was directly in front of them. Heavy footsteps were moving around in the wet grass, and a cough broke the silence. He must be very close. Perhaps no more than fifteen or twenty meters, Irene thought. A second later a door opened, and the van’s interior light shone out into the gloom. It was parked with its rear doors facing them. They could see the silhouette of a man; in his right hand he was holding something that looked like a baseball bat. Irene noticed a small movement from Åsa, and a shot rang out. The man screamed in a combination of pain and surprise as he spun around to try to see who had shot at him.

  “Get down on the ground! Police!” Åsa roared as she began to run toward the van. The man turned back and tried to clamber into the van. There was a sudden flurry from inside, followed by a loud thud, and his head whipped to one side. Without a sound he sank to the ground, and a small, slender figure appeared. My stood motionless in the back of the van, looking down at the man lying on the ground.

  “Keep still, you bastard! Keep still . . . or I’ll shoot . . . I’ll shoot . . .”

  Åsa’s voice broke and Irene heard her colleague start to sob.

  “It’s okay, Åsa. He’s unconscious. I’ll cuff him. You take care of My,” Irene said, trying to convey a calmness she certainly wasn’t feeling.

  Åsa let out another sob and rushed over to My. The two friends hugged each other tightly as if they w
ould never let go.

  Irene bent down and clicked her handcuffs around the man’s wrists. Since he was lying on his back, she secured his hands in front of his body. The side of his chin had already turned bright red. A clean hit from a kickboxer is no joke, even if she is a straw weight, Irene thought. She checked his pulse, which was strong and steady. The bullet had hit the back of his thigh, just above the knee. The wound was bleeding, but not excessively. Irene used her cell to inform Jens, and he immediately requested an ambulance. At the same time she heard her colleagues approaching through the undergrowth.

  “Over here!” she shouted, waving the flashlight.

  The six officers from the armed response unit emerged from the shadows, carrying more powerful flashlights.

  “Good evening, ladies! We heard over the radio that you’ve already parceled him up,” commanding officer Lennart Lundström greeted them. Irene gave him a short summary of what had happened, and Åsa came to join them.

  “Nice shot,” Lundström said.

  It was obvious that Åsa had been crying, but the compliment made her face light up. Irene squeezed her arm, but said nothing; it could wait until they were in the car.

  Irene went over and peered curiously into the back of the van. A shudder of distaste ran through her body.

  The interior was covered in some kind of long-pile nylon carpet: floor, walls and roof—even the inside of the doors in the windowless space. It was highly probable that the red nylon fibers that had been found on both Alexandra and Moa had come from the décor in the van. Irene became aware of an unpleasant smell, just as Jonny and Hannu arrived.

  “My feet are soaked,” Jonny complained.

  Hannu and Irene went over to take a look at their captive. He had started to move his head, and was mumbling something. The cap had fallen off and was lying beside him, with long strands of brown hair attached. The man himself had cropped dark blond hair. He was medium height, and looked fit. Irene thought he was probably around thirty years old. He was wearing blue jeans, heavy work boots, and a dark blue jacket. The perfect outfit for someone trying to pass as a professional driver. She stared at his face, and was absolutely certain she had never seen him before. And yet he had been chatting online from the train she’d been on; where had he been?