‘Where the fuck are you?’
‘I’m driving him back to Stockholm.’
‘Why the hell are you doing that?’
‘So that we know he won’t come back.’
Davidsson was far from convinced, but went along with it — he had no choice. The interview with Bredström had been due to continue, but he’d asked for food and drink and to speak to a lawyer. Not only that, Davidsson had had to get hold of the prosecutor again.
‘It’ll be hours before I get to question that bastard again,’ he sighed. ‘I hope I make it, before it gets too late.’
Before NCS get there and steal your thunder.
I don’t know what made her drive me up. It might not have had anything to do with me. Maybe she shares my hunch that the answers to the questions surrounding Levin’s death are not going to be found in Bruket. Or perhaps she doesn’t want me to disappear from her orbit.
Maybe she hasn’t yet decided what she wants to do with me.
I study the documents on the screen. Almost all of them are in chronological order, evidence of Levin’s fastidiousness. He departs from the stringent succession on only a few occasions: a memo from October 1981 appears before one from March of that year; the same thing happens with some from the years 1982 and 1983; and an incident report from early-December 1984. It informs the reader that a known addict and petty criminal, Jan Savolainen, has died after an accident. It says that he fell from a rooftop in central Stockholm. The report’s author is Charles Levin.
‘I don’t get what this is,’ I say. ‘Who the fuck is Jan Savolainen?’
‘It might not be the individual parts that are important.’
‘Well, what is, then?’
‘The whole. The combined picture that those documents give of … someone. Or something.’
‘Yes. Yes, maybe.’
I turn carefully in my seat and open the basket in the back, let Kit out. He peers out as if checking the coast is clear before he emerges, hesitantly, from the cage.
I pause. In the 84 folder, there’s a file named contact.
It’s a text document comprising only three lines.
Gabriella Halvardsson, prosecutor, 0732 87 78 08
Joakim Sturup, journalist, 0708 19 05 40
JO, 0737 28 88 47
I read them aloud for Tove.
‘JO? As in the Justice Ombudsman, in Parliament?’
‘I guess so,’ I say.
‘Is that his private number there?’
‘It could be.’
‘Do you recognise any of the names?’
‘No.’
‘Not even the prosecutor?’
I shake my head, carefully.
‘Call them,’ says Tove.
I fish up my phone and dial JO’s number. It rings, for ages, the ringing tone oscillating and scraping in the poor reception.
‘No answer.’
‘Well, call the next one, then.’
I call the journalist’s number. No answer. Finally, I dial the third number and put the phone to my ear.
Outside: detached homes on the outskirts of Jönköping. The houses are made of wood, and are beautiful. The flora seems less green than in Bruket, the sun more forgiving.
There’s a click in my ear.
‘Gabriella.’
‘Hi,’ I say, with no idea how to carry on from there. ‘My name is Leo Junker. I have … Is this Gabriella Halvardsson?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a prosecutor?’
‘What did you say your name was?’
Her voice is alert and coarse, apprehensive.
‘My name is Leo Junker. I’m a policeman,’ I say. ‘I’m sitting in a car on the way to Stockholm, from Bruket. I’m with … I have a computer in front of me, with a large folder, that belonged to Charles Levin. You are aware that he is dead?’
‘I know that they suspect a crime, nothing more.’
‘The folder is full of scanned documents and photographs. One of them contains your name and telephone number.’
‘Right?’ she says, puzzled.
‘I know this is a strange question. But do you know why he had written down your name?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know each other?’
‘Are you in charge of the investigation?’
‘The National Crime Squad are in charge now,’ I say, glancing at Tove. ‘But I’m sitting in the car with a colleague, Tove Waltersson, who was on the case down in Bruket. That was where he was found.’
The balance of the conversation shifts, and, before long, Gabriella Halvardsson is the one asking me the questions, asking for my ID number, my police badge number, where I’m stationed, and why someone from Stockholm’s Violent Crime Unit is involved.
‘I knew him,’ I say. ‘He was my boss, first at the Violent Crime Unit and then at Internal Affairs.’
She goes quiet, for a long time.
‘Now … I … with her …’
‘The line keeps cutting out,’ I say. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘He talked about you,’ she says, louder. ‘You were the one who ended up on Gotland.’
‘So you did know each other.’
Gabriella Halvardsson takes a deep breath.
‘Not exactly.’
‘They were acquaintances,’ I say.
I turn the dial that controls the aircon on my side. I wonder how bad my condition actually is, what might happen when the morphine wears off.
‘They were acquaintances, according to her, nothing more. Their paths crossed six months ago on some investigation that had to do with the police force, I’m not quite sure how exactly, and she had been moved from her post because she refused to be influenced by the National Police Board during the investigation. They tried to bribe her, apparently. She didn’t go into detail, but presumably her response had precluded her from further participation at the very highest level. At that point, she and Levin went for dinner a few times. She respected him, because he wasn’t like the others up there.’
‘And he trusted her,’ Tove says, ‘because she wouldn’t be cowed?’
‘Something along those lines, I think.’
The laptop is resting on my knees, with one of the files open. It shines brightly and clearly in the grey-blue gloom inside the car.
‘Did she know about that?’
‘No. But when I mentioned a few examples from it, she sounded very interested.’
‘Did she know of this journalist — Sturup — then?’
‘Only that he’s one of the investigative journalists at Dagens Nyheter. She wasn’t exactly fond of him, but then I wouldn’t really expect her to have a positive view of journalists.’
‘So,’ she says, running a hand through her hair, ‘he prepares this document to give to people he thinks are going to do the right thing. Or, if something were to happen to him, to make sure that the information still reaches the right people? Is that how to look at this?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. She asked me to get back to her tomorrow.’
My phone rings, Birck’s name flashing on the display.
‘Where are you?’ he asks.
‘On my way home.’
‘When will you be there?’
‘I don’t know. We just passed Jönköping, so maybe three hours? Just before eleven?’
‘I won’t be able to be here then, I’ve just been called in. Some madman on Observatoriegatan has just stabbed three-quarters of his family to death. So you’ll have to deal with this on your own, I guess.’
‘Birck,’ I say. ‘What’s up?’
‘Speaker,’ says Tove. ‘Put it on speaker.’
I reluctantly activate the speakerphone, and Birck’s voice fills the car, sounding scratchier and sharper than it did in my ear.
>
‘Paul Goffman,’ he says.
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t sound surprised.’
‘He and Levin were friends. That’s why I’m going home. I need to talk to him.’
‘I’d be very careful about that if I were you.’
‘Eh? Why?’
‘I haven’t got time right now. But I spoke to Grimberg and looked at Marika Alderin’s visitor log. Goffman has been to see her three times in June.’
Tove raises her eyebrows.
‘Fucking hell,’ she says.
‘And,’ Birck goes on, ‘she … it, the … visit.’
‘I can’t hear you,’ I say. ‘The line’s breaking up. Repeat that last bit.’
‘She recorded his last visit.’
‘How did she manage that?’
‘It was your friend’s idea.’
‘Grim,’ I say, doubtful.
‘She had told him that a man was coming to visit her. A … who … hurt her. Sh—’
‘It’s breaking up again.’
‘A man who wanted to hurt her,’ Birck says. ‘She was allowed to have an MP3 player in her room, but she wasn’t allowed to take it out of there. This … she did though, app—tly. They took if off her after the visit, when the warden … she’d … on her and felt they had no choice but to follow the rules.’
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘I lost you there.’
‘The player ended up in a drawer where they store clients’ … and that’s where it was … I picked it up just now. Grimberg didn’t know whether she had foll— his suggestion but … had.’
‘And?’ I say.
‘I don’t know if I follow … I hear. Better if you have … yourself. I am not … the player away from here. I have a copy of the file and … on a USB stick. I could go past yours on the way to Observatoriegatan, and leave it with Sam.’
‘Sam’s in London,’ I say.
‘Well, your letterbox, then. What’s the code for the entrance?’
I give it to him.
‘One more time,’ Birck says. ‘It keeps cutting out.’
I repeat it, more slowly.
‘I take it you know what she’s in there for?’ Birck says then. ‘Marika Alderin, why she’s at St Göran’s in the first place?’
‘No.’
‘An attempted murder in the city centre, nine years ago.’
‘An attempted murder,’ I repeat. ‘So, 2005.’
‘That’s right.’
‘On Vasagatan? In May?’
‘So you did know,’ says Birck. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
The case that Levin took with him to Bruket. The case that consists of a single memo.
‘I didn’t know it was her.’
The world really is a strange place.
Tove puts her foot down.
Stockholm: every time I leave, even if it’s only for a day or two, the city changes.
I recognise the roads and the architecture, but something about the city’s form is constantly changing. Unpredictable, unreliable, the city that is and always has been my home, and perhaps I am the person I am today thanks to the people it raises.
We approach from the south, ripping through Södertälje at around ten thirty. Ragged grey clouds fly across the sky, but the summer evening is still light.
From the corner of my eye, I spot the exit for Salem. I can see the water tower through the trees, away in the distance.
I retrieve one of the morphine tablets from my pocket, pop it in my mouth, and carefully tilt my head back to swallow it. I feel around to see how many I’ve got left. Two. Fuck.
This time, Stockholm’s figure is soft and tender, the shadows more comforting than threatening. Then I realise that it could deceive me, might want to betray me, or make me feel secure when I’m actually seconds away from disaster. I can feel it now, the morphine distorting not only my experience of my own body but my awareness and perception, too.
Tove says something, but I don’t catch the words. ‘Eh?’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You look like you could break down at any moment.’
I blink as I look through the windscreen. Yes, there is something. Something’s wrong.
‘Fredrik Oskarsson, the man who was out putting his parasol away on the evening of the eighteenth. I’m wondering who it was that he saw in the forest.’
‘Probably someone who has nothing whatsoever to do with any of this.’
‘Yes. Could be.’
The phone rings again.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I met the Queen today. She’s her usual self, but she didn’t say very much.’
‘Eh?’
Sam laughs. I turn in my seat, away from Tove. This feels too private. Maybe she notices, because she turns the radio on and adjusts the volume. An empty voice reads the news headlines.
‘We’ve been to Madame Tussauds,’ Sam says.
‘Oh, right.’
‘What are you up to? How’s it going?’
‘I’m on my way home. Just passing Skärholmen now.’
‘So you … Everything’s okay?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘What had happened then?’
‘You mean with Levin?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure. But I think that whatever it was that happened, the solution isn’t down there in Bruket. It’s here in Stockholm.’
‘And the cat?’
‘He’s sitting in the back.’
‘And he’s alive?’
‘Of course he is.’
She mutters something I can’t hear. I close my eyes and imagine that Sam isn’t in London, that she’ll be there waiting for me when I get home. I think that’s my only wish right now.
‘You sound weird,’ she says then.
‘Do I?’
‘A bit sort of … strained.’
‘Might be the connection.’
‘Yes,’ she says, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me. ‘Might be. We’re coming home tomorrow, quarter-past nine. Will you meet me at the airport?’
‘Of course.’
‘I love you. Listen, Leo.’
‘Yes?’
‘Whatever it is you’re up to, do be careful.’
‘I’m not the one getting on an aeroplane for three hours tomorrow evening.’
Sam laughs.
‘You and your ludicrous fear of flying. We need to talk about that when I get home. It’s not healthy. Don’t forget to feed the cat.’
I examine my face in the wing mirror on the passenger’s side and establish that I look even worse than when we left Bruket, if that’s possible. The swellings slowly change hue: from having been a burning bright purple and pink they are now assuming the colour of red wine. The only thing that doesn’t look too bad is my lip. Åhlund’s handiwork was better than I thought. It strains when I talk, but the tape keeps the split together.
Tove stops outside my front door on Chapmansgatan.
‘I haven’t had a piss since we left Bruket,’ she says.
‘Come up then.’
When I carefully nudge Kit into his basket, he gives a little meow of resignation. He might be dehydrated; I can’t remember when he last had anything to drink.
I get out of the car, open the back door, and lift out the carry cage, and his effects in the little bag. Tove follows me up the stairs, carrying the laptop.
My phone vibrates.
are you home yet Leo?
I open the door to the flat, and put the cage down.
‘The toilet’s in there on the right,’ I mumble.
It’s lyi
ng there on the doormat, Birck’s little dark-blue USB stick. I pick it up and put it in my pocket, look again at the text message on my phone.
yes, I reply.
With the phone in my hand, I head into the kitchen, fill a bowl up with water, and put it over by the balcony door where Kit usually sits.
be careful
It stops me in my tracks.
I reply: you do know me, right?
I dig out the cat food, fill a bowl, and put it down next to the water.
Grim’s last text is just three words:
see you soon
Everything is as I left it yesterday morning. Right down to Sam’s scent hanging in the air, I convince myself. The coffee I didn’t have time to finish off is still in the pot, and the empty cigarette packet is still lying on the balcony table.
Tove comes out of the toilet and looks around at her surroundings, as if trying to understand the flat’s occupants. She puts the laptop down on the coffee table and opens it up. While she connects the USB stick and waits, Kit ambles over to the cat food and sniffs it.
‘Would you, er, like anything?’ I ask as I walk into the kitchenette. ‘I’ve got coffee, water, and …’
‘Coffee’s fine.’
I empty the pot, prepare another, and go back out to Tove.
‘Right then,’ she says. ‘Looks like the file is less than ten minutes long.’
She adjusts the volume and clicks PLAY.
MAN: Have you had … Good. Drink some water too, Marika? Water. Those tablets give you such a dry mouth. [Silence] Good. Let’s go.
[Repeated scuffing sounds. A door closes. Keys turn]
MAN: Right then. Visiting Room 2 today. He’s been to see you before, hasn’t he? It was just few days ago, wasn’t it?
[Scuffing sounds end. A door opens]
MAN: Right, Marika. I’ll just come in with you, then I’ll leave the two of you in peace.
[More scuffing. A chair being moved, then white noise and static]
MAN: Okay, there we go. I’ll be outside. You do know … You know that she’s not really with —
GOFFMAN: I know, thanks.
[A door closes with a muted click]
GOFFMAN: It’s lovely to see you again, Marika. It’s not that long since last time. Would you like anything? I have [Static] … I was only allowed to bring a bottle of water in, but I thought perhaps you’d want it.
Master, Liar, Traitor, Friend: a Leo Junker case Page 28
