Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  “Cops,” Stridh greeted them impassively.

  “What was Tor Hedman doing here?” Walter asked, pushing past Stridh in the doorway. Jonna followed him, despite the fact that she was once again breaking the law.

  “Tor . . . who?”

  “Don’t act more stupid than you already are,” Walter said in a harsh voice. “The landlady of the tourist lodge is in intensive care with serious head injuries after being mugged. Guess who the mugger was?”

  Walter sat at the kitchen table. Stridh’s gaze moved suspiciously between Walter and Jonna. “How am I supposed to know who did it?”

  “If I tell you what time it happened, then you might find it easier to remember which one of your clients was visiting.”

  “Nobody’s been here,” the old man insisted. He stuck a pipe in the corner of his mouth and sat down on a kitchen stool.

  “Not even Hedman?” asked Walter.

  “No.”

  “Did he try to sell you a ring?” asked Jonna.

  “A ring?”

  “Yes” said Jonna and could see the old man’s pupils dilating. Now she was sure he was lying.

  “Let me tell you something,” Walter said and moved closer to Stridh. “I don’t believe you are telling me the truth. And do you know what else I believe?

  The old man shook his head indifferently.

  “I think that Hedman tried to sell you a ring that had once belonged to the late Omar. You know, the Gnesta fixer.”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  “Oh, I think you do,” said Walter. “We just want to know if you sold Hedman any weapons and where we can find him. I don’t give a rat’s arse about anything else that happened here.”

  The old man gazed silently at Walter for a while. Then he lit his pipe and moved to a rocking chair. He spat out a piece of tobacco and gently rocked the chair.

  Walter was getting impatient. “Well?”

  “There was no deal,” Stridh finally spoke up. “He did offer me an ugly signet ring, but I turned him down.”

  “Do you know where he was heading?” Jonna asked.

  “It was of no interest to me,” Stridh said and took a deep puff of his pipe. Jonna had to take a few steps backwards to avoid being enveloped in the smoke.

  “Was he alone?” asked Walter.

  “Yes, as far as I could tell. He arrived in a taxi. How is Hélène?”

  “She’ll survive,” said Walter. “She’ll be in hospital for a while though. Hedman gave her a nasty concussion.”

  “Damned fool,” muttered Stridh. “The likes of him shouldn’t be walking around free.”

  “You’re right. What a fucked-up world it is,” Walter agreed. “If only people would abide by the law.”

  Jonna turned over and looked at the alarm clock for the tenth time. Now, it was twenty past eleven. Her first sleep cycle had been spent wide awake and now she could only wait until the next one came.

  The day ahead was already busy. The first meeting was with the National Bureau of Investigation, as the National Crime Squad was now called, and some German colleagues from the BKA, or Federal Office of Criminal Investigation. After that, Lilja had arranged a meeting with Martin Borg at SÄPO, and finally there was the interview with Alexander Westfeldt.

  The last meeting was the reason she was tossing and turning in her bed. She didn’t know what to expect from this pointless interview. After all, it was just a simple interview with a witness, nothing more.

  Two hours passed before she succeeded in falling asleep.

  Tor Hedman sat in the all-night Café Mammaia on the corner of Götgatan and Åsögatan, with a large cup of coffee in front of him on the table. He had called the psycho cop but, much to his surprise, he had hung up after saying that he didn’t know anyone called Tor. A few hours later, the cop had regained his memory and called Tor back. This time his voice reminded Tor of a hungover drunk. The voice explained that he was using a voice changer for security reasons.

  At first Tor hesitated, but after being recounted details of their previous encounters, he decided that he was talking to the right cop. During a brief conversation, they agreed to meet the next evening at a winter storage facility for caravans outside Sigtuna Stadium. It was a suitably isolated place where they could meet without being disturbed, and it also gave Tor a place to spend the night. Breaking into one of the hundreds of caravans parked there would be easy. Some caravan owners even had heaters, which would make it possible to stay for a few nights even without a blanket.

  “Refill?” asked a weary waitress, holding a coffee pot. She had dark purple bags under her eyes and looked as if she wanted to quit her job.

  Tor was jerked back to reality. “Fill it up to the top,” he said, holding up his mug. The woman topped up the mug and then disappeared behind the counter.

  Tor had one problem left to solve; he had to get to Sigtuna. He had barely three hundred crowns left from Ricki’s money, which would not be enough for a taxi. Using public transport was out of the question.

  He looked over at the clock over the cash register and realized that it was a new day. He would have given anything for a little undisturbed sleep. All he needed was one mattress and two hours’ shuteye.

  He turned and noticed that he was now alone. The security guard from Securitas sitting behind him had left the café without Tor noticing. Even the waitress was gone. Probably in the room behind the curtain. His eyes wandered over to the snacks in the chiller display and he wondered if he should buy a sandwich.

  Then his eyes wandered from the sandwiches to the cash register. Tor guessed that it would contain roughly two thousand crowns, which was what he would need for the taxi to Sigtuna. He stood up and went to the entrance door. The street outside was deserted. Unless there was a night worker who needed a coffee fix planning to drop in, he had plenty of time.

  Tor turned and walked silently towards the counter. Behind the curtain, he glimpsed the waitress. She sat with her back to the café and was busy doing something on a computer. Tor walked around the counter and to the cash register. The key sat conveniently in the lock, so all he had to do was to press the correct button. There were countless types of cash registers and they all used different buttons to open the till drawer. If the wrong button was pressed, the till would set off a loud buzzer.

  He read the row of buttons. After a while, he decided to press the button marked “Cash”. No buzzer sounded. Nor did the till drawer open. The display then queried if it was a cash payment.

  Cash payment? Tor thought. That was exactly what he wanted. He was just about to press the “yes” button when the woman behind the curtain coughed.

  Tor tensed and leaned forwards cautiously. She was still sitting with her back to the curtain and her index fingers tapped frenziedly on the computer keyboard. Tor pressed the “yes” button and the till drawer slid out with a dull thud.

  Suddenly, the tapping stopped and he heard the chair scraping behind the curtain. Tor quickly grabbed the notes and raced out of the café. He took a left down Götgatan, running as fast as he could. Several times, he almost slipped and fell in the mushy snow. After a few blocks, he saw a parked taxi with its light on the roof lit.

  Tor tore open the passenger door and ordered the half-awake driver to drive to Sigtuna Stadium. The taxi driver quickly rubbed the sleep from his eyes and started the car. Then he made an illegal U-turn and drove back in the same direction that Tor had just come from.

  As they passed the café, he could see the waitress standing in the middle of the café with a mobile phone to her ear. She was probably talking to the police. Good luck with that! By the time they arrived at the crime scene, Tor would be halfway to Sigtuna.

  He pushed his good hand into his trouser pocket and felt a sizeable wad of notes. There had to be at least three thousand in diff
erent notes, he guessed. First, the van keys, and now this. His luck had finally turned.

  Tor asked the taxi driver to stop at the all-night petrol station in Solna. He needed some tools. Breaking into a locked caravan required only a screwdriver, pliers and a hammer. To be on the safe side, he also bought two Mora hunting knives.

  The cash would have been sufficient for a cheap hotel. Even a better class of hotel. But checking into a hotel also meant showing an ID and the cops had direct access to hotel booking systems.

  Tor paid the taxi driver and gave him a big tip to avoid any awkward questions. He lied about knowing the owner of the caravan site and that he was picking up his parked car from inside the gates. The taxi driver was not in the least interested in Tor’s explanation. He was only interested in his tip of two hundred crowns and in getting back to the city.

  As soon as the taxi lights had disappeared into the darkness, Tor began to climb the fence of the caravan site. It was difficult to get a good grip on the steel mesh with his right hand, which was now hurting considerably. After two attempts, he was forced to give up. Instead, he followed the fence along the road in order to see if there was any gap. Twenty metres on, the two-metre-tall barrier veered into a field that ended in a wood. A birch tree with branches near the ground was growing next to the fence. Tor sized up the branches and decided they were strong enough to carry his ninety kilos. With some difficulty, he climbed up the tree and then jumped down on the other side of the fence. He lost his balance upon landing and instinctively braced himself with both hands.

  Pain shot through his body like a knife as his right hand was crushed between his chest and the ground. He started to scream, but stifled the sound between his gritted teeth.

  The damp from the ground soaked into his clothes and he quickly started to freeze. He stood up on shaky legs and hurried towards some caravans that were parked nearby. From one of them, he could see an electric cable connected to an power outlet. The windows were not frosted, which indicated that it was heated. Tor jammed the screwdriver into the door lock and banged it in with the hammer a few times. He twisted the screwdriver with the pliers until the lock broke with a metallic click.

  The caravan locks were easy. Locks on modern cars however were much more difficult.

  He opened the door and was met by a welcoming warmth. It was a standard caravan. At one end, there was the mandatory double bed and at the other end, a padded bench around a small table.

  He removed his wet clothes so he stood naked on the floor. He hung his clothes over the small heater element and started to search the caravan. In one of the cupboards, he found an old blanket that smelt like a wet dog. He wrapped himself in the blanket and laid down on the double bed. His body shook with the cold. Yet, his eyelids grew heavier and the pain in his hand eventually subsided.

  Just as he was starting to fall asleep, he heard a scraping sound. He tensed and sat up in the bed, wide awake. Every muscle was stiff. He looked for his Mora knives, but realized that he had left his bag of tools outside the caravan.

  Mjasník now knew what Detective Inspector Walter Gröhn looked like. It had been just after nine-thirty in the evening when a taxi stopped outside the entrance to the detective inspector’s block of flats and dropped off an older man, together with a young woman. The two had talked for a few minutes before separating. The man went into the entrance lobby and the woman disappeared on foot, heading west.

  After a while, the lights went on in one of the rooms in Walter Gröhn’s flat.

  Mjasník decided to follow the woman. Investigating the detective’s social relationships could be useful, but there was nothing to be learned while he was at home by himself.

  The woman had barely gone a hundred metres and was walking with brisk strides along a street called Odengatan. The entire time, he kept her at a safe distance without letting her get out of sight. A skilled stalker could avoid discovery even if the target had training in surveillance techniques.

  Finally, they arrived at Kaptensgatan. The woman crossed the street and disappeared into a doorway. After a while, the lights went on in a flat on the second floor.

  He just needed now to find out the woman’s name and her relationship to the detective. He went up to the entrance and found answers to both questions in the name plate on the intercom buzzer.

  It was three in the morning when Martin Borg was woken up by his mobile phone. The Mentor explained that everything was ready. Both Hedman and Osmanaj had accepted their respective offers. The time and place were already set.

  Martin rolled over in bed, now satisfied that his most pressing problem would soon be taken care of. Later today, he would start going through the telephone numbers on Omar’s hard drive in search of the truth serum.

  Shortly afterwards, Martin’s mobile phone rang yet again. This time the old man demanded an immediate meeting. Less than an hour later, Martin was sitting in a car behind the famous copper tents in Haga Park.

  “Today, the BKA is having a meeting with the NBI and that Gröhn fellow about Leo Brageler,” the Mentor began.

  “The BKA?” Martin repeated, surprised. “Brageler and the production of Drug-X are my responsibility, so there’s no reason . . . ”

  The old man interrupted Martin. “Four scientists at Dysencomp in Germany have been murdered and the Germans think that Brageler is involved in some way.”

  Martin looked at the old man in the shadows of the car, in disbelief.

  “There’s something going on that we don’t know about,” he continued. “The four individuals at Dysencomp have not been assassinated without cause. There are others looking for Brageler.”

  “Gröhn has asked for a meeting today,” Martin said. “I suppose it concerns . . . ”

  “The NBI is hosting the meeting. You must find a reason to be part of the meeting. First thing today, you must talk to Kokk.”

  Martin had never seen the Mentor so tense. He understood that they must play their cards wisely. More than ever, Martin needed that truth serum.

  Jonna had just fallen asleep when Walter called her mobile phone. “Are you sleeping?” he asked.

  “Not any more,” concluded Jonna, not totally sure if she was awake.

  “Barely an hour ago, a person fitting Hedman’s description illegally emptied a cash register,” said Walter. “I can be outside the entrance to your building in ten minutes. Alternatively, you can go back to sleep and we can meet tomorrow.”

  “See you in ten minutes,” Jonna said, and hung up.

  What she had agreed to, she was not sure. But five minutes later, she had dressed and quickly brushed her teeth. She pulled a brush through her hair a few times before locking her front door and running down the stairs.

  Walter was already waiting outside with the engine running.

  “Just got out of bed?” he greeted her, giving Jonna a cursory inspection as she hastily sat in the car.

  “Why would you think that?” she retorted, fastening her seat belt.

  Walter felt a little guilty. “I know that you’re not on call, but I figured you’d want to tag along.”

  “What’s going on?” Jonna inquired, rubbing her eyes.

  “A manhunt.”

  “Which man are we hunting?”

  “Are there that many wanted suspects?” Walter asked, putting the unmarked patrol car into gear.

  “Let’s see, there’s Leo Brageler, Tor Hedman,” Jonna suggested. “Not to forget the fake journalist, if Jörgen Blad’s story is to be believed.”

  “You do have a point,” Walter conceded, turning onto Strandvägen. “This time, we’re setting the dogs on a suspect resembling Hedman. He just robbed an all-night café.”

  “The evidence points to Hedman?”

  “Yes, the description from the waitress is quite detailed and it can only be him.”

&nb
sp; “Where did he go after the robbery?”

  “According to a witness who was parking a car, a tall man ran past his car at high speed. The witness thought he saw him jump into a taxi farther down Götgatan.”

  “Have the taxi booking offices been contacted?”

  “Of course,” answered Walter, mildly amused by the fact that Jonna was debriefing him. “So far we have nothing. The taxi driver may have turned off the meter, or it could be an unlicensed taxi. If that’s the case, it will be difficult to track him. It would require a small army of detectives to round up every illegal taxicab in Stockholm. Even if we get hold of the driver, it’s by no means certain that the address at which he dropped Hedman will be of any use.”

  “No, he can’t be stupid enough to take a taxi to his real destination so that we could catch him by simply asking the taxi driver for the address.”

  Walter smiled at Jonna. “Remember that we are talking about Hedman and he is missing a few chromosomes.”

  “So, what do we do now?” Jonna asked, stifling a yawn. Going back to bed did not seem like such a bad idea.

  “We’ll find the taxi driver by talking to the touts on and around Götgatan,” Walter said, popping yet another cough drop into his mouth. “First, let’s go to the café where Tor grabbed all the cash.”

  Ten minutes later, Walter was double-parked outside Café Mammaia. Two uniformed officers met them at the door; Walter flashed his police badge in good time so that they did not waste any time on introductions. A waitress was standing behind the counter. Walter and Jonna sat down facing her and introduced themselves.

  “Some coffee?” the waitress asked.

  Walter and Jonna both nodded.

  The waitress poured out the coffee. She showed no signs of shock; instead, she seemed angry. She slammed the coffee pot back on the coffee machine.

  “You were surfing the internet while the cash register was emptied?” Walter began, taking a big gulp of coffee.

  “Yes, I was online,” the waitress replied.