At that point, Shali was based in the National Police Authority offices, working on a project aimed at expanding crime prevention in high-tech environments. Given that SGS was tied to the NPA, it was hardly surprising that Shali popped up on their radar.
Before long, she was dividing her time fifty-fifty, spending half the time at SGS and the other half with the NPA. At first she enjoyed it, she says, but before long she felt that something wasn’t right.
‘I remember the atmosphere within SGS. I didn’t like it. It was almost a bit like a sect, or whatever. Everyone there had been handpicked and everything was hush-hush and terribly important. Everyone in the unit was perfectly convinced that they’d been chosen by a higher power and that they’d be able to solve Stockholm’s crime problem in its entirety, if they were only given the resources and the room to manoeuvre. It reminded me of the stories you’d hear about the Norrmalm Squad back in the Eighties, except SGS weren’t gorillas and bouncers, more like cunning spies.’
‘And you remember Patrik Sköld?’
‘I remember him,’ says Shali. ‘He was one of the ones who stuck out a bit.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well … He was a bit more open. Had a more nuanced outlook on crime and prevention, it seemed to me. Not only that, he was a pleasure to work with. I had no problem with him, unlike how I felt about most of the others. Luckily, I wasn’t there more than 50 per cent of the time, so I was never fully indoctrinated. I think it was down to the fact that I was at NPA at the same time that I got to hear about this list.’
Yes, because in early 2010, something happened.
Almost all of the top brass were new at the time, and one of them was ambitious and righteous enough to want to get a grip on the SGS’s highly sensitive use of informants.
This board member had just begun to get an idea of the scope of what later that year would become Operation Playa, one of the largest Swedish coke busts in history. It was largely dependent on unconventional operational tactics, entrapment, and informants. Which is probably why the whole thing fucked up completely.
The board member had also read up on parts of the Peter Rätz Affair, an experience that made her fingers turn cold. As so often happened, what had been a serious crisis at HQ was reduced to a play on words — the man’s surname being reminiscent of the Swedish word for justice.
Everyone laughed, except this one board member, who pointed out that it was a matter of national security and as such deserved to be taken seriously. That was why she wanted a list.
‘I overheard her in the corridor up at the National Police Authority,’ Shali says. ‘It wasn’t long before I realised what sort of list we were talking about. People at SGS were fucking furious about it.’
The list was drawn up against their advice and handed over to the woman on the board. Shali knows that much.
‘They had no choice, you know. What happened after that, I don’t know. Within SGS, they pretended it didn’t exist. Imagine if it leaked — that there was a physical list of names in existence. Imagine if the informants and infiltrators found out.’
First of all, everyone down on the streets and out in the housing estates would shut their mouths and keep shtum for good. Second, everyone with an interest in the subject — the factions, the gangs, and presumably the informants themselves — would do whatever they could to get hold of it. It doesn’t happen very often, but this would have had consequences that ended up with people getting killed.
Information is power, in the same way that secrets mean money.
‘So it was kept very close to their chests. I heard that it was delivered by hand within HQ, passing from one person to another until it reached the woman on the board. No copies, nothing. Her name was Paulsson, by the way. Sadly she’s no longer with us — died of heart failure about a year ago. Whether that had anything to do with the list, I don’t know, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’ She gives me a weak smile.
I make a note of the woman’s name in my phone.
‘But how does a list like that end up in Angelica Reyes’ hands?’
‘Easy,’ Shali says. ‘She stole it from someone, someone who, despite the recommendations, had it on them.’
Grim asked me about a list.
I thought that maybe she kept a list of her customers. They sometimes do. That might help you.
He asked about it later, too, I remember: he wondered whether a list of her customers had turned up yet. No, I said.
And no other lists either?
Something like that. I don’t remember his exact words.
Once again, he’s tricked me.
41
The door to Grim’s hideaway is no longer particularly anonymous. Blue and white tape and the NO ENTRY sign mean it attracts a lot of attention.
You can tell that people have been here: it smells different, and the furniture’s been moved around. There’s something else, too, something that’s growing. A void left by Grim. The silence.
I wonder what I’ll do if he dies. Who’ll take care of his funeral. Whether he’d have any kind of estate. What might happen to me.
I open the drawer where the ID documents were last time I was here. They’re missing, but I haven’t heard any mention of them, which must mean that Grim kept them somewhere else. I wonder where. But perhaps he destroyed them.
In my early days on the force, I used to go with my intuition. I’ve long since stopped doing that, because people make way for stereotypes, gut feelings. At times though, intuition is all you’ve got.
My eyes focus on the jumbled elements within the room: the table, the office chair, the mattress, the fridge standing a bit away from the wall, the low ceiling, my own shoes.
Soon I’m standing in the toilet. It’s of the old-fashioned sort, one you pull a chain to flush. The floor is covered with sea-blue lino. The pipes that disappear into the wall have turned brown with age or rust, maybe both.
What if he dies?
Slowly, I slump onto the toilet seat, lean back, and close my eyes. I can see Grim there in front of me, lying weak and still in his hospital bed, with the bandages around his head. I can hear the bleeps following his pulse.
I end up sitting like that for a while, not sure how long, before eventually opening my eyes. Everything is still.
There’s a vent cover up in the ceiling. It looks untouched.
I wheel the old office chair in. The seat is loose and it spins far too much for me to be able to stand on it without risking falling off. I try to lock it, but the handle has fallen off and I can’t locate it. Eventually I think fuck it, and clamber on to the wobbly seat and start poking at the vent.
I manage to squeeze my finger and thumb between two of the grille’s thin slats and pull. It moves a bit, but not enough, stays put. They didn’t look here. I pull at it again, and the chair wobbles as I move. I grab the vent cover with both hands and try to rip it off with brute force.
I topple backwards, out of the toilet and onto the floor, followed closely by the chair, and crack my head. Somehow I’ve still got the filthy vent cover in my hands. My temples are pounding.
Once I get to my feet, I push the chair back into the toilet and gingerly poke a hand into the hole. I grasp at thin air up there, feel with my fingers across the other side of the ceiling through dirt and dust, and I’m struck by the stench of mould.
Nothing. Shit.
Hold on. What’s that?
There.
A piece of string, tied to a plastic bag. Inside, a collection of fake IDs and a piece of paper with a telephone number written on it.
I lose my balance again. Fuck.
42
I’d seen the IDs before, all bearing the name Patricia Cruz.
And there’s a list. The list. Complete: seventy-two informants, along with their handlers’ ID numbers.
I spread my f
ingers across it, a simple piece of A4 that’s been folded in two. It’s clean and white, slightly worn at the edges.
Since the list is complete, it can’t have reached Grim via Miranda Shali. But that’s the only conclusion I can manage. Was this the one he was asking about? Did he already have it then? No, he wouldn’t have asked in that case. When might he have got hold of it? It must’ve been right before he was shot. But how? By whom?
I sit on the floor as I read the informants’ names. Shali’s right that many have been uncovered or killed — Ludwig Sarac is on the list, as is Max Lasker — but a great many are still active, with current ties to the police.
That’s it. That has to be it, I think to myself. It’s the only thing that fits the pieces of the puzzle.
Angelica has the list. That’s the reason someone’s out to get her. That’s why she ends up dead.
When Grim starts investigating her death from inside St Göran’s, Patrik Sköld fears that he either has access to the list already or is in a position to track it down, which makes him a threat. I turn the paper over.
There it is, the phone number. I recognise the handwriting: Grim’s. I pull out my phone and do an internet search on the number — no results. I dial the number and put the phone to my ear, hear the ringing tone down the line.
‘Yes, Sköld here.’
‘Is that Patrik Sköld?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m Leo Junker. We are … colleagues.’
‘Right. And what is it you want?’
‘I want to meet you.’
‘What for?’
I reflect for a second.
‘Because I know you killed Angelica Reyes, but I can’t prove it.’
Not terribly discreet. What the hell else am I supposed to do?
Then he says something surprising.
‘I think we should meet.’
‘You,’ says Birck. ‘And what do you want?’
I’m standing in the doorway to his office. I contemplate saying that this is about something else, I don’t know why.
He avoids me in the corridors; most of the time his door is closed. He doesn’t answer my calls — I have to leave a message asking him to get back to me instead. On the few occasions when we meet in the break room or at meetings, we exchange terse, stiff phrases, nothing more.
‘I’ve found something, and I don’t know who else to turn to.’
He pats a pile of papers on his desk.
‘I’ve got plenty to be getting on with.’
I take a step into the room and close the door behind me.
‘Is everything alright?’ I say. ‘With us?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘You’re pissed off.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because I lied?’
‘I’ve also got a charge of concealing a suspect hanging over me, once this is done with.’ He corrects himself: ‘If this is ever done with.’
‘Sorry. What more can I say?’
Birck stares at me for some time.
‘You’re not my Grimberg,’ he says.
‘What does that mean?’
‘That I’m not about to let you control me, like he controls you.’
‘He doesn’t control me.’
‘Course he does. I’m pissed off with you, but I’m not stupid. There were two of us. I had a choice. I don’t know who I’m most annoyed with, you or myself. And I’m going to try and let go of that.’ He sighs. ‘What did you want?’
‘I’d, er, like some company.’
‘Company? For what?’
‘Meeting Angelica Reyes’ murderer.’
I sit down on the chair this side of his desk, tell him about the complete list I found at Grim’s a few hours ago, and about the short telephone call with Patrik Sköld.
How he wanted to meet me.
‘It could be a trap,’ says Birck. ‘How has Grimberg got Sköld’s number? Do they know each other?’
‘I don’t know.’
I wonder what his intentions are, what Grim got up to those last few days, what he did after our meeting with Ludwig Sarac up until the gunshot under the bridge. It’s getting weirder and weirder.
‘The list is as good a reason as any for someone to want to kill her,’ says Birck. ‘That’s probably why she was trying to escape.’
‘And she must’ve been trying to escape from someone who’s good at finding people who’ve gone to ground,’ I say. ‘People like Angelica Reyes are used to keeping out of sight. It points to us being on the right track now, with Sköld.’
‘Yeah, sure. Listen, Leo,’ says Birck.
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t lie to me again, okay?’
‘I won’t.’
‘Good.’
43
Squeezed into the city centre off Olof Palmes Gata is Apelbergsgatan, a narrow little backstreet that you’d rather avoid. This is where goods deliveries, rubbish trucks, and lorries pull up. It’s almost always blocked, and it stinks.
I’m standing with Birck as I suck the last glimmer of life from a cigarette. The bells strike ten, and Friday night descends on Stockholm. Laughter and shouting fill the main streets along with music from the clubs.
Since we don’t have any forensic evidence against the man we’re meeting here, we’ve done our utmost to prepare ourselves, but it’s hard to know what to expect.
‘Nice to have company, anyway,’ I venture, mostly for the sake of saying something.
‘Hasn’t she come home yet?’
‘No.’
‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing out here on a Friday night.’
‘Is this you being sarcastic?’
He looks at the cigarette, holds out two fingers. I give him the last drag.
‘I don’t even know anymore.’ He pulls down on the smoke. ‘Fuck that’s good.’
I went past the gallery today. She was there, I saw her. What might be the thing I like most about her, I realised, is the way she’s so at ease in the world. She seems to get it. There’s no distance between Sam and other people.
I hope she hasn’t seen me. I never stay for more than a second; I don’t want to attract her or her colleagues’ attention or suspicion. I just want to see her, know that she exists.
Birck drops the cigarette butt to the ground. I retrieve another from my inside pocket.
‘Are you nervous?’ he asks.
It could be a trap.
‘No.’
‘Can I have one?’ he says.
‘Are you nervous?’
‘Bored.’
We smoke. Sirens wailing nearby, an engine roaring.
Then it’s there, a white Audi A3, gliding down Apelbergsgatan. We notice the registration, PVV 219. No false plates now, for some reason. Is it a signal to us? I’ve got nothing to hide from you, something like that?
‘Shame we’ve got no evidence against him,’ Birck says, looking mournfully at the cigarette before letting go of it.
The car stops, with the engine ticking over. Birck looks at me, hesitant. Imagine if he blows us up. An absurd thought, perhaps, but there’s not much you can be sure of these days.
Grim got shot in the head.
Nothing happens. The man stays in the car, waits. We climb into the back seat, Birck directly behind the driver while I can see his face from where I’m sitting. I’ve got my hand on my firearm.
‘I thought you were coming alone,’ says Patrik Sköld.
‘This is a colleague of mine, Gabriel Birck.’
In the rear-view mirror, I can see his eyes scan Birck’s torso, lingering a little on his armpit, the little bulge of his handgun underneath his coat.
The car’s interior is warm and smells of leather. The dashboard lighting is soft orange, gently illumi
nating Sköld’s face behind the wheel.
He puts it into first, and we make our way down Apelbergsgatan, out towards Sveavägen.
‘How did you get my number?’ he asks.
‘I found it, written on a piece of paper.’
‘You’re talking about a piece of paper that belongs to John Grimberg.’
‘I didn’t know you knew each other.’
‘We don’t.’
I lean forward in my seat, and Sköld goes stiff for a second as he takes his hand off the gearstick. He soon relaxes, but not before he’s revealed just how tense he is.
‘I thought you’d met,’ I say. ‘You and Grimberg.’
‘Once. Last spring, at St Göran’s. Before he escaped.’ Sköld steers the Audi onto Sveavägen. ‘This bit of paper we’re talking about, with my number on …’
‘Yes?’ I say. ‘What about it?’
‘It was a list, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Do you know how he got hold of it?’
‘No.’
We roll along Sveavägen, that broad thoroughfare as straight as a jetty, on towards the heart of the city.
‘Where are we going?’ asks Birck.
‘I don’t know. But inside the car is a good place to talk.’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ says Birck.
‘Yes,’ Sköld says slowly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearstick. ‘You think that I killed Angelica Reyes.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I suppose, in a way, I did.’
The phone rang. That’s how it started, the evening of the first of November.
One of Patrik Sköld’s old contacts from his SGS days had made certain observations earlier that day, and was now getting in touch to share them with him.
During the afternoon, he had seen a man walking through Vitabergsparken on Södermalm. The man wasn’t particularly conspicuous, but there was still definitely something familiar about him.
This was a person, the contact’s instincts told him, who shouldn’t be there. He followed him, not for any great distance, but long enough for something to happen that made him realise who he was looking at.
The Thin Blue Line Page 14
