It all happened in a tobacconist’s, and it was the way the man used his hands that did it.
The thing was, he’d seen those hands before: when they’d been busy counting a wedge of notes in a basement. This time they were counting much smaller denominations — the man was buying three packets of cigarettes from a kiosk on Folkungagatan — but the way he used them was exactly the same: handling the notes simply and neatly, assuredly, the way a poker player manoeuvres his cards with his hands. He pinched off two fifty notes between his ring and little fingers while the rest of his hand was busy producing three twenties. It was this detail that was so unusual.
And it wasn’t just the hands, the contact added to reassure a somewhat sceptical Patrik Sköld. The man was John Grimberg. A bit overweight, maybe, and with a different hair colour. But it was John fucking Grimberg, sure enough.
The contact had called in the hope of getting compensation of some kind. That was why he’d rung Sköld, and not — for example — the detectives within Stockholm Police who were actually in charge of investigating John Grimberg’s disappearance.
Sköld had not been overly convinced, but as he hung up, he did so with a certain sense of foreboding. It could be that his contact was making the wrong conclusions, but it was also possible that he wasn’t. That would mean they had an escaped inmate on the streets of Stockholm, one armed with dangerous information and a desire to get to the truth of the murder of Angelica Reyes.
‘How do you know he wanted to do that?’ I interrupt. ‘And what information are you referring to?’
We approach Stureplan and the dense buzz of passing traffic. He drives us out onto Birger Jarlsgatan, towards Strandvägen and the waterfront.
‘I met him, as I said, during the time he was at St Göran’s. An old SGS informant, Ludwig Sarac, had had a call from him. I’m guessing you know who Sarac is.’
‘Yes,’ says Birck.
‘Grimberg had made various attempts at enquiries into the Angelica murder, including contacting Sarac, who knew everything about everybody back then. I tried to persuade Grimberg to leave well alone. During my visit, it became apparent that he knew about the list — the one that you presumably have with you. He knew that Reyes had got hold of it and used it, he suspected this was connected to her death. I asked him what he wanted the list for, if we were even going to admit that it existed, which I never did. He said he was going to use it as a tool.’
‘A tool?’ asks Birck.
‘Yes.’
‘To do what with?’ I say.
‘To get what he wanted, to be able to exert pressure in order to improve his own situation. Or rather, to put it plainly — to get free.’
‘Did he say that to you?’ I insist.
‘“I need that list so I can start again.” That’s what he said. About eighteen months later, I’m guessing, he’d had enough of being on the run and wanted to come back, but not without a certain …’ Sköld ponders the right word. ‘Advantage.’
I look at my hands.
‘You’re lying,’ I say. ‘Trying to wriggle out of this.’
‘No.’
It doesn’t sound like the Grim I’ve met lately. He’s changed.
People don’t change. They adapt.
Someone said that to me once, in another time, another life. A darkness gathers inside my chest, heavy and deep. I have felt it before.
The darkness inside me is the feeling of betrayal.
After hearing that a resurrected John Grimberg might possibly have returned to Stockholm, Patrik Sköld got in touch with Ludwig Sarac to find out more. He knew that Sarac had been dumped by the force and spent his time stewing in an apartment near Odenplan, so one evening he paid a little home visit, as he calls it.
Sarac didn’t know where Grimberg was, and while he didn’t rule out Grimberg being back in Stockholm, he did think it was unlikely.
‘At least now you know where he is,’ Birck grunts. ‘You and the rest of Sweden.’
‘I’ve seen the headlines,’ Sköld replies. ‘I hope he makes it.’
‘Do you?’ I say, something burning inside my chest.
‘Yes?’ Sköld looks puzzled. ‘Yes, of course.’
We glide along Strandvägen. The tall, beautiful buildings stretch towards the sky. The waters of Lake Mälaren glitter. In the distance, you can make out the arching silhouette of the bridge over to Djurgården. I adjust myself in the seat. Sköld stiffens up again — his eyes flash back and forth in the rear-view.
There’s something about him. Something vulnerable and afraid.
‘This car,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen it before, with false plates.’
‘That’s my paranoia. Certain duties are best carried out under a false flag.’
‘And yet you answer with your full name when someone calls,’ I say.
‘There are very few people who know about that number.’
‘Was this the car you were using around the time of the murder of Angelica Reyes?’ Birck interjects.
‘My car has nothing to do with her murder.’
Between the seats, I can just see the police radio. The one that crackled in Miro Djukic’s, the pimp’s, ear, as he spoke to the third customer that evening, on the twelfth of October 2010. It has to be. The pieces all fit.
‘Is this your car?’
‘It is now, yes. It used to belong to SGS, a duty vehicle. If you look through the reports you’re sure to find a white Audi A3 with registration OSK 853 in a few places. The false plates are from the SGS days. We would often operate that way.’ He sniggers. ‘Elegant, eh? Guardians of the law and all that.’
Elegant. I stare out into the darkness.
‘There are two — no, three things I don’t get,’ I say. ‘First of all, how did Angelica Reyes get hold of the list of informants and what did she want with it. Second, you said that in a way you were the one that killed her.’
‘And the third?’
‘Your intentions. What it is you’re up to, what you’ve been up to since 2010.’
The resulting silence is tense, heavy. I peer over at Birck, who raises an eyebrow.
‘The thin blue line,’ Sköld says eventually.
‘The thin blue line?’ Birck leans in. ‘What about it?’
‘You might well ask.’ Sköld shifts down. We reach the lights by the bridge. ‘But that’s probably what this is all about.’
44
The phrase ‘thin blue line’ has its origins in the British police. Its use has spread from there to, among others, the American and Canadian forces, where the phrase is used officially. In many other countries, including Sweden, its use by the police is more informal. It has also become a commemorative emblem for killed or injured colleagues — people talk of how the thin blue line was breached last night. Swedish police, primarily those on patrol duties, sometimes wear the symbol as an armband or as part of the uniform’s trim.
The emblem takes the form of a flag with a black field. A bright blue horizontal line makes it look like the flag is divided into three parts: a black top, a black bottom, and a thin blue middle.
The black at the top represents civil society, the general public. Those who obey the law, who go to work or to school every day, who care about their nearest and dearest, pay their taxes, and start families, thus securing society’s continued existence.
The black at the bottom, meanwhile, symbolises the criminal underworld, where bandits, robbers, and desperate gangs from forgotten estates rule a lawless, greedy realm.
All that separates them — as society’s specially chosen protectors, stopping violence and anarchy from spreading into every corner — is the police. Standing in the middle, like a barricade. A front line. Maintaining social order, cohesion, safety, and security.
We are the thin blue line. Between order and chaos, life and death.
�
��It’s a nice idea,’ says Sköld. ‘The problem with high ideals is that they often turn to shit when put into practice. Now don’t get me wrong. Swedish Police isn’t a bad organisation — on the contrary. It’s outstanding. In spite of the strains we’re under now, we still manage to prevent and investigate crime. That’s fantastic, really. The vast majority of police are decent people, working in departments under perfectly good leadership. It’s not that. In certain parts of the organisation though, things can go wrong, even when you’re trying to get it right. That’s what it was like at SGS. In order to get on top of organised crime and protect the public, we had to use some risky methods. Informants, infiltrators, telephone tapping on the edge of what’s legal, bugging rooms — definitely on the far side of that line — and so on.’
We wait for him to continue. The white Audi is soon enveloped by the Djurgården night. I get the feeling he’s already lied, Patrik Sköld, but I can’t put my finger on when.
‘That list,’ he goes on, ‘you know that it consisted of the names of SGS’s informants.’
‘Yes,’ says Birck.
‘And you know that its compilation was ordered by NPA in the aftermath of the Rätz scandal, in conjunction with Operation Playa.’
‘By Inger Johanne Paulsson. Yes, we know. But what does Angelica Reyes have to do with any of this?’
‘The list ended up in her hands.’
‘Ended up?’ says Birck. ‘Bit vague. How?’
‘Through someone who paid for her services. Either this person leaked it to her, or she stole it. I’m inclined to believe the latter.’
Paid for her services. It sounds so formal, almost clinical, despite what it’s actually about: sex in exchange for money.
From the back seat, I’ve got a decent view of Patrik Sköld’s face, or parts of it: one ear, his cheek, the corner of one eye, his nose. He’s well groomed, a man who normally likes to take good care of his appearance. Right now, though, he looks stressed.
‘Someone at SGS paid Angelica Reyes for sex,’ Birck says, unconvinced.
‘I shouldn’t be saying this. And I can hear that you don’t believe it, but yes. That’s what happened.’
I lean back in my seat. This is no surprise. On the contrary, this is the chain of events that seems most plausible. But still, the risk.
‘And she used it.’
‘She did.’
‘How?’
‘How would you, if you were in her situation, how would you use a list like that? What’s the first thing you’d ask yourself?’
I peer out through the window. The tree-lined streets of Djurgården look like a ramshackle wall from in here. Everything’s blurred; the lights glow warmly.
‘How much is it worth.’
‘Exactly.’
‘She was extorting money from someone at SGS,’ I say. ‘The same person she was selling sex to, who either gave her the list or the chance to steal it.’
Sköld lowers his speed as we roll up behind a lorry. It’s filthy and it turns off by Skansen open-air museum.
‘Yes.’
‘And this person at SGS killed her for it,’ says Birck.
Sköld squirms in the driver’s seat.
‘Do you have any evidence whatsoever for this?’ I ask.
Sköld doesn’t respond.
‘Why should we believe you?’ Birck attempts. ‘It all sounds to me like an excellent explanation for a guilty party trying to slip the noose.’
‘Well it isn’t.’
‘So who did it, if it wasn’t you?’
‘I cannot answer that.’
‘Why not?’
Sköld scrabbles around to find the words.
‘The truth is … that I don’t know. But given that I was at SGS at the time of the murder, and given what I’ve told you, it would be a bit strange if I didn’t have an inkling. That’s not enough, though, the stakes are far too high. This is about police officers. Whatever else, it must not get out that I was the one who blew the whistle on it.’
‘It doesn’t have to,’ says Birck. ‘If you tell the truth, then it isn’t going to.’
Sköld’s eyes flash in the rear-view mirror, meeting Birck’s for a second.
‘It always does,’ he says. ‘It always gets out. Believe me.’
Before long, we’ve done a circuit of the island. Downtown Stockholm and Södermalm shine out from across the water, an aura of light surrounding them. My friend is in hospital, lying in a coma with a bullet in his head. It’s a surreal thought. What if I never get to speak to him again?
What if he’s been stringing me along the whole time?
People don’t change. They adapt. What if that’s true?
‘Let’s say we believe you,’ I say. ‘SGS has been disbanded. Why are you so concerned the fact it was you might get out?’
‘I’m forty, I’ve been a policeman for fifteen years. I’ve never been able to imagine doing anything else. This is the only thing I can do, the only thing I’m good at. Ten years ago, I had a family, I was married, my daughter came along, and I was happy. Then the marriage broke down and I started drinking a bit too much. I lost contact with my little girl — today she probably doesn’t even know whether her dad’s alive or not. That’s every bit as awful as it sounds. The only thing that kept me from sinking completely was my job. I’ve got another twenty-five years, maybe more, left in the force. Or rather,’ he corrects himself, ‘I want to have twenty-five years left. Critics, the ones who call things into question and start asking about things, are regarded as potential whistleblowers. They get muzzled, one way or another. You know all this. Only last month, a colleague reported our boss for misconduct. Soon enough, there was a rumour doing the rounds that this colleague was mentally ill. It was just plucked out of thin air, but somehow it took root. It all led to a psychiatric assessment and him losing his firearm.’
That’s a lot more humiliating than it sounds. Castration isn’t the right word, but it is the first thing that springs to mind.
Birck adjusts himself in his seat, and with some exertion manages to fold one leg over the other. The legroom inside the little Audi is less than generous. Sköld listens carefully to Birck’s movements, you can tell.
‘I was to be moved out. It was going to be done discreetly, of course, nice and calmly. I haven’t …’
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
‘What?’ I say.
‘There are eyes on me already. My record is not quite squeaky clean.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It was down in Södertälje, on an SGS operation. A raid. I was still drinking a fair bit, but I’d really pulled myself together. And I was good, that’s why I got sent there in the first place. I ended up committing a serious narcotics offence, something I had to do to save the raid, but that’s probably not what it looks like if you’re not familiar with the background. I think they’ve already noticed that I’m sort of moving around a bit. That I’m asking a few more questions than I ought to be.’
We head back to the centre. The city gleams. I follow the lights with my eyes, unsure whether I’m looking for something or not.
‘Why are you telling us this?’ I ask.
‘Because you called,’ is all Sköld says. ‘Because, at the end of the day, I don’t want you to think it was me that did it. I don’t even know who pulled the trigger.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I did not kill Angelica Reyes,’ says Sköld.
‘We’re not entirely convinced about that.’
‘But you don’t have a single piece of evidence. Or do you?’
‘So there is evidence,’ says Birck.
‘Rhetorical question.’
Birck looks at me.
‘An employee of the very unit within the force that’s home to the keenest proponents of the ideology be
hind the thin blue line goes to whores.’
Sköld laughs.
‘People become disillusioned for less, don’t they?’
‘And yet you want to stay in the force,’ says Birck.
‘I don’t know what I’d do otherwise. For me, it was a vocation. The police force we have has a lot of systemic flaws, but it’s better than nothing.’
Before long, he stops the car close to the square in Östermalm. He says there’s more, that there’s something he wants to show us, but there are certain measures we need to take first.
‘There’s still one thing I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Your motive. Visiting Grimberg at St Göran’s, looking for him now, meeting us, and so on. What is it you’re after?’
‘That’s the tricky thing about people’s motives,’ Sköld draws out his sentence, ‘isn’t it? That they change, over time. I think … I was shaken up when I heard about Reyes’ murder, then, in 2010. I mean, we all heard about it, I’m sure you did, too. Sounded messy. As I started to realise that there were probably things in the Reyes case with links back to HQ, I tried to protect ourselves, first and foremost.’
‘How did you come to realise that?’
‘I know this is frustrating, but I can’t really say just yet.’ He clears his throat. ‘That’s why I visited Grimberg at St Göran’s. I wanted to leave it alone. But then, I don’t know, it could’ve been something to do with him, or maybe it was just me getting sick of the lot of it, maybe because I’m not twenty-five anymore. The Angelica murder was messy, I knew that, but after my meeting with Grimberg I felt a mess myself. I was busy doing something that was wrong. That’s when I started to ponder where my loyalties actually lay. In fact, I’m probably still doing that now. Part of me wanted to see the whole thing blow up. I don’t know anything. The Angelica murder is a puzzle, or a maze. There are lots of pieces missing, probably always will be, so I don’t have any more than indicators and careful guesswork. And I’m far too … As I said, this job is all I’ve got. I can’t lose it, certainly not by guessing about things. And that is what’ll happen if it turns out I’ve turned my back on my force. My own section, in fact.’
The Thin Blue Line Page 15
