Out in the corridor, someone calls her name. She goes out and finds one of the clerical staff standing there with a phone in his hand.
‘What is it?’
‘For you.’
It’s a journalist, from the tabloid Aftonbladet. He wants to know if reports that the man found dead yesterday was a policeman are correct.
‘No, that’s not correct.’
‘But …’
Tove hangs up and carries on with her own calls, until something makes her look up from the list.
There’s a man standing at the meeting-room door, with a knuckle poised as though ready to knock.
‘Oh, er …’ he says. ‘Hi. I’m looking for Ola Davidsson.’
He’s about Tove’s age, and is wearing a pair of Converse, dark jeans, and a grey T-shirt with PRINCE printed across the chest, next to an image of the artist’s face. The man’s hair is dark, and he has a prominent nose, pale skin. He looks like he used to be quite good-looking, the way that some emaciated addicts might have been before they destroyed themselves.
A black wave washes over her.
The man in the doorway shot dead her brother.
According to Morovi, the investigation is being led by a man named Ola Davidsson. The door to one of the offices carries a sign with his name and the title SUPERINTENDENT. It’s open, and the computer is on, but the room is missing its owner. One of the walls is covered by a notice board, featuring a poster listing frequently used nicknames for the likes of us: filth, pigs, po-po, peelers, rozzers, tyre biters, scum.
PC Plod? Not heard that one in years.
I carry on, into the meeting room, which is a long, narrow room with a light wooden table in the middle, surrounded by a dozen chairs. On the table are rows of shut laptops, piles of paper, and various belongings that I guess have come from Levin’s home, all bagged up in marked paper or plastic bags.
A large whiteboard covers most of the wall at one end of the room. Someone has written CHARLES JAN LEVIN, 1947-01-25 4694 — his national ID number — as a heading in black marker pen, and there’s something about that that really brings it home to me. Alongside his name, there’s a picture, attached to the whiteboard with a magnet. The picture has been circled, and a line drawn from the circle leads to a question mark. The photograph is blurred and depicts a dark-coloured car.
At the table, a woman is sitting with a telephone in one hand and a pen in the other. She seems to be filling in a form of some kind. Her forehead is shiny, and she’s pale for the time of year. Her rye-blonde hair is up in a lazy bun. She’s scrawny in that way that only people who have lost weight much too fast can be.
‘Oh, er …’ I say. ‘Hi. I’m looking for Ola Davidsson.’
Against the bright light pouring in from outside, her eyes look almost black.
She puts the pen down.
‘About what?’
Her voice is rough and muffled. She must smoke more than I do. I glance at the whiteboard, then at the telephone in her hand. She’s gripping it so hard that her knuckles are white.
I take a step into the room, and it’s like walking into a stifling wall of heat.
‘Charles Levin.’
She’s studying me, squinting.
‘I thought you were on Stockholm’s Violent Crime Unit?’
‘Have we met before?’
‘No. Are you from the Violent Crime Unit?’
‘No.’
Strictly speaking, it’s not a lie. I’m not here on their orders.
‘Are you from National Crime?’ she continues.
‘Yes.’
The word drops out of my mouth before I have time to change my mind.
‘I thought you’d be arriving the day after tomorrow, or even Monday.’
‘I see. Yes. But I’m here now.’
I want to say something else, but I don’t know what. There’s something familiar about her.
‘I’m Leo.’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’
She looks down at her hand, which is clasping her phone. Her ears are red, as is her neck. Slowly, she unclenches her hand and places the phone on the table.
‘So we have met before?’ I say.
‘Davidsson said you were coming.’
I walk over to the table with my hand outstretched.
‘Leo Junker.’
She places her right hand in mine. It is small and hard.
‘Tove.’
She doesn’t blink. Pretty unsettling. She lets go of my hand. I wonder what she’s thinking, what exactly is wrong with her, or whether it’s me. I’m not good at making people feel at ease. I squint at the whiteboard.
‘Who’s that there?’
‘In the picture?’
‘Yes, the man in the car. Is it him?’
‘What do you mean, him?’
‘The perpetrat—’
Tove gets up from her chair, which slides backwards from the force of her sudden movement, scraping on the floor. She walks quickly out of the room, leaving me standing there, halfway through a sentence, watching her go.
The world is a strange place.
I walk over to the whiteboard and the picture that someone’s stuck there with a little magnet. It’s a blurred photograph, an out-of-focus man in an indistinct, expensive-looking car. He seems to be leaning forwards. I squint. The face is more of a grey smudge than features and lines.
Photographs of the crime scene and piles of paper are spread across the meeting-room table. It’s just a skeleton, but then, of course, you have to start somewhere. I examine the contents of the bags: a few clothes, ring binders and books, a laptop charger. In combination, these items reveal just why they’re here — those at the scene didn’t know what they were looking for.
I take a Halcion. There’s a constant strange flickering just behind my eyeballs.
From the corner of my eye: I see photographs of Levin’s dead body.
They’re treating it as suspicious. That’s all Morovi said.
I pick up one of the pictures. Levin is lying on the floor, and blood has poured from a hole, at around head-height. A lot of blood. At first, that’s all I see. It has a hypnotic effect.
I drop the picture. It lands next to a photograph taken by what must be the kitchen door: the body and the blood are visible — but, at a distance, that’s easier to deal with — along with the sink and the fridge, and, at the edge of the picture, two chairs and a table. There are two coffee cups on the table. The position of the chairs could be significant.
A third picture captures the cloud of blood splattered on the kitchen wall. It takes a minute before I get my bearings myself and realise what I’m looking at. Levin must have been sitting on the chair when he was shot.
The fourth picture I pick up from the table is a picture of the rubbish bin under the sink. It is a small blue bucket, and there isn’t even a bag in it.
I start going through the rest of the material on the table but the suffocating heat is distracting. I leave the papers and go over to the window, place my hands on the sill. Burning hot. The streets are just as empty as these offices.
Where the hell is everyone?
I look up towards the sky.
There’s something about this place. Everything is quiet, but unpredictable; we could be swept away by an enormous wave at any moment. That’s how it feels.
What the hell was Levin doing here?
Footsteps, footsteps behind me. Tove comes back, sits down again, and examines the piece of paper — some kind of list. She pulls out her phone.
‘Where is everyone?’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, there’s no one here.’
‘There aren’t that many of us,’ she says, without looking up, ‘and the few that we have … It’s Midsummer’s eve.�
��
‘But it’s lunchtime. It’s only one o’clock.’
‘They’re in a strategy meeting. Out the door, turn left, then it’s the big room at the end.’
‘Is Davidsson there?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Where is he then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you got his number?’
‘Of course I have. He’s my boss.’
‘I’d like to speak to him.’
No response. I consider taking the phone off her, before realising that that is probably a very bad idea.
‘Is that him?’ I ask instead, and sit down opposite her. ‘The perpetrator?’
‘Do you mean in the car in that picture?’
‘I never got an answer earlier, you … you just left.’
She activates the screen-lock on her phone, and puts it to one side before making eye contact.
‘We believe that it is him.’ At first, that answer seems to be as much as she can manage, but then she continues: ‘It was taken by a witness. He sees a man walking away from the house towards the car. The man then gets into the car and it drives off.’
‘And you have no idea who the driver is?’
‘No.’
This time, that’s all I get. I’d feel better for a glass of water. The Halcion pill has started working, I can feel that gentle buzz around my temples, and the vibrations in my chest ease off. My eyes become comfortably fuzzy.
‘What do you think happened?’ I ask.
‘You want me to guess?’
‘I’m asking you what you think.’
Are they all like her?
‘The suspect arrives in the Volvo, and parks up at around nine thirty.’ She is scraping the tabletop with her thumbnail, as though she was trying to get rid of a mark or something. ‘Levin lets him in, which suggests that it was someone he knew, or at least knew of. They end up in the kitchen, and Levin presumably makes coffee. Levin drinks some, the suspect doesn’t. They talk to each other, we have to assume, perhaps for as long as forty-five minutes. The suspect then stands up, and shoots Levin in the head.’ Tove folds her arms across her narrow chest. ‘Something like that.’
‘And then?’
‘He takes a few things from the desk in the bedroom — I’m thinking computer, printer, mobile. Then he makes off in the Volvo.’ Tove chews her bottom lip. ‘Along those lines.’
‘I … This witness.’ I look for the notes. ‘Fredrik Oskarsson, who sees a man walking along the path in the woods behind the house.’
‘What about him?’
‘Well …’ I wonder if this could be construed as an insult. ‘It might be the perpetrator he sees.’
Tove shakes her head. ‘We have a witness who sees the car park up outside Alvavägen 10. Why would the driver head off into the woods?’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But …’ When our eyes meet and I see her icy stare, I realise that we’re not going to get anywhere, and that whatever it is that’s wrong with her doesn’t have anything to do with me.
‘You’re right.’
‘I’ll see if I can get hold of Davidsson,’ she mumbles, fiddling with her phone.
‘How did you know my name was Leo?’
‘I told you.’ She puts the phone to her ear. ‘Davidsson mentioned it.’
‘But …’
‘It’s me,’ she says when the call is answered. ‘I’ve got a guy here from NCS. He’s wondering … Yes, I know, but one of them is already here. Are you going to call Stock— … Okay. Yes, we’ve started. He’s had a look at the pictures and some of the … I’m sitting here with a list of people in the area who might have seen the car. I’m about to go and speak to them.’
I can hear their voices, Tove’s next to me and his at the other end of the line, a rough, ugly voice, but I stop listening to the words because I spot a polaroid photo sticking out from underneath one of the binders.
I pull it out and hold it between my index finger and thumb. A man, a woman, a small child. All smiling.
I turn it over, and on the back, Levin’s handwriting, written long ago:
Me, Marika, and Eva, spring ’78.
Tove hangs up.
‘If you wait here, Davidsson will be here in half an hour or so.’
‘Good,’ I say, studying the picture again. ‘Nineteen seventy-eight. Do we know where the picture was taken?’
Tove looks through the prints of the crime-scene photos.
‘Here.’
I compare the two pictures. On the newly taken one, it looks like a combined study-bedroom.
‘Same house?’
‘Same room.’ She gets up from her chair, gathers her things. ‘I’m going now. Davidsson will be here in a bit. Wait here.’
I look at the whiteboard again — the photo of the man in the dark-coloured Volvo.
‘Have you done a search on the vehicle?’
‘Of course. But given the circumstances, it’s not likely to tell us much.’
‘What circumstances?’
‘False plates. Didn’t I tell you that?’
‘No.’
She shrugs and walks out.
I’ve started looking at the little biography while I’m waiting for Davidsson, and I wish I hadn’t.
I know about his marriage to Elsa Wiklander, and that she died a few years ago, but when Levin talked about her, and on the few occasions I saw them together, I always assumed that they’d been childhood sweethearts.
Eva Levin, née Alderin.
The idea that he had been married to someone other than Elsa is at first so unexpected that I’m convinced they’ve got his details mixed up with someone else. But they haven’t.
Eva Levin. Killed in a road accident, winter 1980. A police investigation got underway — there’s a light-brown file lying on the table next to the biography, containing a handful of old documents. I flip through them. There don’t appear to be any suspicious circumstances; she was on her way home after collecting their daughter, Marika, from a friend’s house. The mother died, the girl survived. Photos show a clump of trees, the car that hit one of them head-on, and the blackened wreck that was left when the flames had died down. It was an old car, according to the notes, and it needed a new fuel tank. The impact caused a fracture in the tank. That, and a spark, was all it took.
A sharp pang in my heart, maybe the pain you feel when you realise that someone close has experienced losing the one he loved.
A pang in my heart, perhaps for Marika Levin.
He has a daughter.
I stare at the name, trying to understand its significance. Why did he never tell me? Did he keep her a secret? If so, why?
I leave the brick building. A kit-car with two young men inside rolls along the road. The spluttering din of its engine mixes with the doo-wop music blaring from the stereo, something about the book of love.
I watch the car drive off, and that’s when I remember.
I’ve heard her name before — not Marika Levin but Marika Alderin.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, in fact, when two of the staff on reception at St Göran’s were going through the patients’ medication and I was waiting to sign Grim’s visit list. Marika Alderin was one of the people they mentioned, I’m sure of it.
It must be the same person.
This realisation is so absurd that I can’t help but laugh. An incredible twist of fate: Levin’s daughter is on the same ward as my best friend.
Standing next to my car on the square, I’m fairly sure that there isn’t an awful lot to do here. There’s a bar, Brukets Bar; a convenience store; outfitters, Hannes Fashion; a newsstand; some sort of all-round service shop for photocopying, parcel collection, and P.O. boxes; the state-run alcohol store; and a boarded-up old hotel. That’s pretty much everything I can see, but
then again, that might be everything you actually need.
I put out my cigarette and fumble with my car keys. Kit is lying in the shade of the passenger footwell, and when I open the driver’s door he lifts a sleepy head and blinks, before he realises who it is and looks annoyed.
‘It’s probably not good, you lying here.’ I pick him up, struggle out of the Opel and close the door. ‘It’s so bloody hot.’
I then go back into the police station with the cat in my arms. He looks around, wide-eyed, and seems to be asking himself where the hell he has ended up.
Still no sign of Davidsson. I put Kit down on the floor of the meeting room, close the door, and fiddle with the windows to put them on the catch. I slip, cut myself on something, don’t know what, and the palm of my hand is bleeding. When I finally manage to pull the windows to, they’re smeared with blood.
Kit is sitting on the floor next to me and looks faintly amused.
I go to the toilet to rinse my hand, wrap paper around it, and on my way out I pull up Gabriel Birck’s number on my phone.
The ringtone is slow and oscillating, sounds in some weird way almost as though it’s about to take off. One, two, three rings before a sharp crackle.
‘And where the fuck are you?’
‘I’m on leave.’
‘You’re not on leave. You’re on call.’
‘I applied for leave two days ago.’
In the background, there’s the sound of tapping on a keyboard. A television on low volume, some kind of news bulletin. And, beyond that, the sound of Kungsholmen, the hum from the open window in Birck’s room.
‘And you got it approved? Just before Midsummer?’
‘Yes. What are you doing?’
‘I’m on an attempted murder in Observatorielunden Park.’
‘And?’
‘Oh yes,’ Birck says, tapping away. The sound is aggressive and sharp. ‘DNA match, according to forensics. What are you doing, if you’re not here somewhere?’
‘I’m in Bruket.’
‘Bruket? Is that outside Uppsala?’
‘On the border between Halland County and Småland, somewhere. I couldn’t tell you exactly.’
Master, Liar, Traitor, Friend: a Leo Junker case Page 8
