Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  “Good morning,” she greeted them and sat down at the table.

  Both detectives responded, somewhat surprised. Jonsson was just about to say something when Walter entered and slammed the door behind him loudly.

  “Everyone is on time,” he began, satisfied. He sat on the opposite side of the meeting table. “So what’s new? Other than Miss de Brugge joining us for the next year.”

  “The usual,” Cederberg began, looking at Jonna for confirmation that Walter’s last statement was not just another of his bad jokes.

  Jonna showed no reaction; instead, she flipped to the first page of her notepad and prepared to take notes.

  Walter was the only one who was not taking notes. Instead, he folded his hands over his stomach and rocked gently on his chair. “We do actually have a bit of news,” Walter said, and leaned over the table. “The National Bureau of Investigation has received a request from our German colleagues at the BKA in Wiesbaden concerning Leo Brageler.”

  Everyone looked puzzled.

  “It seems that four scientists at Dysencomp AG in Frankfurt have been murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Jonna said, surprised. “The company that Leo Brageler worked for was a Dysencomp subcontractor.”

  “Correct.” Walter said. “The Germans want to know how our investigation is progressing. They believe there is a connection to the murders because Brageler is still at large and wanted by Interpol.”

  “They think Brageler is the murderer?” Jonsson queried.

  “He’s a potential suspect,” Walter said, not sounding overly impressed by the powers of deduction of the Germans.

  “What is the motive behind their case?” Jonna pondered.

  “That’s what they think we can help establish,” Walter said and popped a cough drop into his mouth.

  “What does SÄPO say?” Jonsson asked.

  “It’s not on their agenda yet,” Walter said. “It may never get that far. But they will eventually get wind of this. Not from me, of course. The NBI is handling the communications with the Germans, so there is a risk that they will want to take over the investigation. For the time being, they haven’t yet planted a flag.”

  “It’s a bloody mess,” Cederberg groaned.

  “Yes, but let’s forget about SÄPO and our German colleagues for a while,” Walter said, standing up. He rubbed his lower back. “I want to focus entirely on Tor Hedman instead.”

  “Headcase?” Cederberg asked sceptically, putting down his pen. “But isn’t Brageler . . .”

  Walter raised his hand, anticipating the question. “I want Headcase,” he said. “Partly because he was Jerry Salminen’s right hand, and partly because he’s a suspect for the assault and kidnapping of Jörgen Blad. He’s also implicated in that shoot-out on Odengatan. Last but not least, he seems to be working with someone within the police force, if one is to believe Blad’s observations from when he was abducted.”

  “Yes, we know that as well,” Cederberg interrupted, “but what does that have to do with Leo Brageler?”

  Jonsson and Cederberg looked at each other.

  “According to SÄPO, it was a short guy of non-European nationality that escaped from Gnesta, not Headcase,” Jonsson pointed out.

  “A midget jungle bunny,” Cederberg clarified with a grin.

  “Why would Hedman suddenly disappear?” Walter asked. “He has nothing to be afraid of. There are no witnesses to back up Jörgen Blad’s statement that it was Hedman and Salminen who were responsible for his beating. Nothing that would stand up in court, anyway. Although we found DNA from Tor Hedman and Jerry Salminen in Jörgen’s flat, the prosecutor can’t tie them to the specific incident with that evidence alone. Hedman has no worries on that score, which he probably knows. We can forget about the footprint he left in the mud out at Ekerö island. He’s probably not aware of it since we almost missed it ourselves.”

  “A footprint?” Jonna asked.

  “Yes, a size-48 footprint was found in the mud where the so-called policeman had left Jörgen to die,” Walter answered. “Headcase has a shoe size 47 to 48, which is not very common, and bearing in mind his eagerness to get hold of Jörgen Blad, we have good grounds to assume that he was also present at the Ekerö island incident. In other words, there will be conclusive physical evidence that can tie Hedman to an attempted murder charge if he is wearing those Bigfoot shoes when we catch him.”

  “This is old news for us,” Jonsson remarked.

  “For you, yes. But not for her,” Walter said, looking at Jonna.

  Cederberg was beginning to get impatient. “What’s the Hedman–Brageler connection then?” he asked, looking at Walter.

  Jonna raised her eyes and pointedly stroked her hair back behind an ear. “The most logical connection is that Omar had information concerning Drug-X, if one is to believe the SÄPO explanation for their involvement at Gnesta. Since Hedman’s partner was found dead on the same premises as Omar, Tor Hedman is probably the missing person we are looking for. Does that make sense?”

  Walter chuckled to himself. It was going to be an interesting year with Jonna stalking the corridors.

  “It’s a bit of a long shot,” Jonsson said, thinking out loud.

  “Not at all,” Walter replied. “Jonna is right.”

  “How are we going to get hold of Hedman?” Cederberg queried, sceptically. “He’s gone with the wind.”

  “There is actually one person we have not talked to yet,” Walter said. “The thought struck me last night when I remembered the dead prostitute case from last year.”

  “What was her name?” Jonsson asked.

  “Wasn’t Hedman hanging around a tart a few years back?” Walter said, trying to remember her name. “He was her regular punter as well, for a while.”

  “It was that Marie Ankers,” Cederberg said.

  “Exactly, that was the name.”

  “Not the smartest blonde we’ve interviewed,” Cederberg laughed.

  “True, but it may still be worth making a house call,” Walter said. “Search the surveillance and criminal records databases for her last known address.”

  Cederberg and Jonsson stood up and left the room.

  “There was one more thing,” Jonna said.

  “Really, what could that be?” Walter turned in the doorway. She hesitated.

  “Do you remember the security guard on the cruise ferry Cinderella?” she asked, twisting her pen. “The one who saw Leo Brageler?”

  “No, I don’t recall him. What about him?”

  “We should bring him in,” Jonna suggested. “He may have seen something else of significance.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, we won’t know that until we interview him,” Jonna answered.

  Walter looked at Jonna for a moment and tried to figure out in which direction her mental cogs were spinning on this issue. A few moments ago, she had already shown proof of her solid aptitude for deduction. He could not see any reason for this request. But even a diamond can have flaws, even if they are uncommon. “OK, Jonsson can take that job if it’s necessary,” he finally said, “but no more than one hour’s questioning and the bloke will have to come here.”

  “I can take care of it,” Jonna quickly suggested. “I’m sure Jonsson is busy with lots of other things.”

  “As you will be, soon,” Walter informed her and left the room.

  Jonna did not know how to interpret Walter’s answer. She decided to make an appointment with Alexander Westfeldt anyway. Jonsson would definitely not have any objections to missing a witness interview.

  Chapter 3

  A heavy, throbbing pain pulsed through his body. He probably had internal bleeding. Yet, it was nothing compared to the wounds inflicted on Anna and Cecilia. The pain merged with his anger over the meaningles
s waste. How many times had he prayed for a reason without getting an answer? The grief had torn him up inside and it hurt him more than the physical wounds on his body. He wished he could die and leave the agony behind him.

  He cursed his mistake in returning to Lantz. They had seen him. Despite his precautions, they had followed him to the flat which he had rented under an assumed name. He did not know who they were, or what they wanted. He had closed his mind to these monsters, turned his consciousness in upon himself and his memories of Anna and Cecilia. Perhaps he should look for an answer here instead? Not that it would change anything, but he wanted to understand. How had they managed to find him when the police had failed? The more he dwelt on these thoughts, the stronger grew his need to get answers.

  Leo sat up carefully and leaned against the stone wall. Suddenly, a thin ray of light cut through the gap in the door and he heard footsteps on the stairs. They were here again.

  Ricki paid the fare and got out of the taxi. Tor had cost her yet another 260 crowns, including the tip. But the idea that she very soon would have thirty grand in her hand made that cost negligible. Tor’s idea to run from the taxi was not possible with her high heels. Besides, she wanted to do right by the taxi driver. Like herself, he provided a personal service with shitty working hours and bitching customers all day long. Doing the dirty to a co-worker in a similar business was just not the right thing to do. Tor was already on his way towards the small, discreet pawn shop and Ricki had to run to catch up.

  The modest premises could be accessed only by using a narrow lane that led between two houses at the top of Gjutargatan. In the basement was an entrance and a door, over which the sign “Valuables bought/sold” hung. The business was owned by Pekka “the Hut” Hyttinen, a jewellery fence notorious in Stockholm. Ricki caught up on tip-toe and arrived at the basement shop at the same time as Tor.

  “Headcase,” the Hut greeted him with a broad smile, squeezing through the gap in the shop counter.

  Tor nodded in response to his welcome. “What will you give me for this?” he asked, snapping his fingers at Ricki to show the ring.

  Ricki took out the signet ring and handed it over to the Hut, whose fat fingers quickly grasped the object. He studied the ring for a short while and then looked at Ricki.

  “Is this yours?”

  Ricki shook her head. “No, but I want cash for it,” she answered, and glared sternly at Tor.

  The Hut turned towards Tor. “Where did you get this?”

  “Why are you asking?” Tor looked suspiciously at the Hut. He never asked where stolen goods came from, and the Hut had hardly turned honest overnight.

  “It’s a very unusual piece,” the Hut answered and looked at the doorway as if he was expecting someone to walk through it.

  “How much do I get for it?” Tor asked. “Jerry said that it was worth at least eighty grand.”

  “Eighty grand! Are you stoned?”

  Tor was anything but stoned. He just needed cash. Quickly.

  “Even if this piece is tasty, it’s not possible to sell the ring as it is,” the Hut explained. “I’ll have to melt down the gold and sell the stone separately.”

  “How much?” Tor was getting impatient and couldn’t give a damn if the Hut needed to melt down the ring. It was not Tor’s problem; he wanted eighty grand, there and then.

  Hyttinen put on a metal headband with a jeweller’s loupe attached and held the ring in front of his eye. His pupil appeared at least five times its normal size behind the eyepiece. His gigantic eye flicked from side to side. After a while, he shook his huge head.

  “What’s it worth?” Ricki asked, impatiently.

  “Not interested,” he said, curtly.

  Tor shuffled his feet. “What the fuck are you saying?”

  “It’s too big a risk. Where did you get hold of it?”

  “None of your fucking business,” Tor snarled and shifted his feet.

  The Hut put his loupe back in its box and pushed the ring back across the counter. “This signet ring belonged to a Muslim,” he said. “There are Arabic letters on the inside.”

  “So?” Tor said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s going to be melted down. You said so yourself.”

  The Hut turned away and took out some polishing rags. “I heard that Jerry kicked the bucket,” he said.

  Tor did not understand. The Hut was not his usual self; he seemed nervous and jittery. He would have to come up with a story quickly to get the Finn to buy the ring. “Yes, he went on a solo gig and got clobbered,” Tor blurted out.

  “It seems that he copped a bullet at Omar’s in Gnesta,” the Hut continued, as he brushed metal filings from his workbench.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Tor replied, irritated by the Hut’s questions.

  “Omar also cashed in his chips,” the Hut said and turned around. He stared at the ring.

  Ricki could no longer keep quiet. “Look, are you buying it, or not?” she snapped and picked the ring up from the counter. “You can have it for thirty grand. That’s what this fucking loser owes me.”

  “Forget that!” Tor yelled. The bitch was not going to drop the price like it was fucking fool’s gold.

  “What’s your final offer?” Ricki held the ring in front of the Hut’s large face.

  Hyttinen’s small, peppercorn eyes narrowed. “I think that is Omar’s ring.”

  “I don’t give a fuck whose ring it is,” Ricki said, in a hard voice. “Am I getting thirty grand, or not?”

  The Hut shook his head. “Get rid of it before something happens to you,” he said, and walked to the door. “That ring is nothing but trouble.”

  “Get rid of the ring?” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in disgust. “What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do here?”

  “Get out now!” The Hut waved at Tor and Ricki to leave.

  Tor stood like a statue. He had been counting on eighty thousand, give or take ten grand. Now the Hut didn’t even want to buy the ring for thirty. Instead, he was blabbering about Omar’s death. Tor would be leaving the Hut’s fucking basement without a penny.

  Ricki told the Hut and Tor to go to hell and then walked out onto Gjutargatan and headed towards the underground station.

  Tor quickly caught up with her.

  “How the fuck was I supposed to know he was going to say that?” he defended himself.

  “Get lost,” Ricki snapped.

  “Get lost where?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “Give me the ring,” Tor said, and stretched out his hand.

  “Forget that,” Ricki laughed, scornfully. “And you can also forget about crashing at my place any longer.”

  “Give me the ring!” Tor roared.

  Ricki said nothing and increased her pace instead.

  It was too much for Tor. He grabbed the collar of Ricki’s fur coat so that she lost her balance and fell.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Give me the ring!”

  Ricki got to her feet. “Are you stupid? I’m gonna . . .”

  Without thinking, Tor slugged her on the jaw with his left fist. Ricki fell to the ground. He got quickly on top of her and searched her pockets for the ring. He also found nine hundred crowns in notes. This was money he needed, now that he had blown it with Ricki. Tor looked up and saw some people on the other side of the street looking at them. One of the men yelled and started running towards Tor.

  Tor turned and ran back the same way that he and Ricki had come. The man who had shouted stopped by the lifeless Ricki. Tor ran to the right at Igeldammsgatan and down to Kungsholms Strand, where he waved down a taxi. He threw himself into the rear seat, gasping for breath.

  “How much to take me to Dalarö?” he gasped.

  T
he taxi driver looked at Tor in the rearview mirror. “Whatever the taxi meter says,” he replied, dryly.

  “Fixed price, five hundred, no receipt,” Tor suggested and started to finger the notes he had taken from Ricki.

  “No,” the driver said, firmly. “I don’t drive illegally.”

  Tor swore silently to himself. The fuzz were surely on their way and he had to get away from Kungsholmen. He looked back, checking that no one had followed him. Sometimes, a wannabe fucking superhero might try to prove that they had chest hair.

  “Take me to T-Centralen,” Tor ordered. He would try to find a more co-operative taxi driver there.

  After three failed attempts at T-Centralen station, he got lucky. The taxi driver was a Latino, which was just what he wanted. The Latinos were easy to make deals with, although their cakeholes chattered non-stop like machine guns.

  “Where in Dalarö?” the driver asked. His name was Julio, according to the ID on the dashboard. He had a thick Spanish accent and straight, coal-black hair.

  “I’ll give you directions,” Tor tersely replied.

  The plan he devised was simple and it was a plan that Jerry would have liked. He would get himself a shooter using the ring. He would sell Omar’s signet ring to the weekend warrior in exchange for some Colt Combat Commanders, or at the very least a bunch of Beretta Px4s. He could sell some of the guns. If the bloke gave him a hard time like the Hut, Tor would lean on him a little.

  His scheming was interrupted by the pain in his hand as it made itself known again. The stitches had fallen out after a few weeks and the skin did not look too bad. But he knew that sooner or later he would have to go back to the hospital for another operation. The doctor had explained that much when Tor discharged himself from the hospital. Now that he was on the wanted list, he would be arrested if he went back.

  The man in the front seat was called the Mentor and was responsible for the organization’s international operations. Although Martin had known him for many years, he did not know his real name. He had carried out some unsuccessful investigations into the Mentor, but they led to a dead end every time. Martin was convinced that the Mentor, despite being retired, still had contacts within the Security Service – that he belonged to the organization’s innermost circle. Their driver was much younger and used the name Benny Eng. He also used cheap aftershave and was the strong, silent type. Martin had managed to find out that Benny worked with SÄPO’s Dignitary Protection Unit, but he did not know his real name. Security Service agents always used cover names.