‘So there is something there.’
‘Yes.’ He stops at a red light on Ringvägen. ‘Yes, there’s something there.’ The lights change, we move off. We’re getting close.
This doesn’t feel right. We are about to cross a line.
It’d been such a lonely time, and then, suddenly, Grim reappeared. He slung me back into the maze. Now he’s gone for good. And that makes everything else blurred, uncertain.
‘What do we do if … I mean, if this does work, what the fuck do we do then?’
‘Well …’ Birck slows down. ‘I doubt it’s going to be that straightforward. But yes, then we will have got him, I suppose. Is this the place?’
‘Next junction.’
‘I hope he’s home.’
73
More than five long years have passed since the murder. Five years, but the same city, the same tarmac. Suddenly I am at one with it, the city, the street — it comes as a surprise to me, but the sensation is clear. I have become part of it, or perhaps it has finally sunk into me. Perhaps it’s yet another sign.
He lives on Timotejgatan, a flat little piece of tarmac lined with pale three-storey buildings. We park up a little way away, a spot that gives us a view of the entrance, but where the car won’t be easily identified. Up in Jon Wester’s window, white curtains frame a sad-looking pot plant and an Advent candle. It’s on.
Birck adjusts his uniform. Both his and mine are borrowed.
‘Christ, it’s been a while since I wore this get up. It’s so bloody impractical.’
‘You’ve got too comfortable. Concentrate now. Make the call.’
We don’t have much time to play with. It needs to happen tonight, preferably this evening, before our new restrictions start to apply and the straps are tightened around us. We need to lure him out.
Birck takes a deep breath and then puts the phone to his ear, waits for the call to be answered.
The number he’s calling is a company phone, the only number we’ve been able to get hold of. It maybe one and the same as his private number, but that’s unlikely. Perhaps there’s a phone ringing in a desk drawer somewhere, in some office. Perhaps we’ve hit a wall already, in which case …
‘Hello?’ says Birck. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
Sound leaks from Birck’s phone. Inside the quiet car, you can just about hear the words of the other voice:
Who are you looking for?
‘Jon Wester.’
And who’s asking?
‘My name is Jonas Almqvist and I’m … I need your help, I work as a security guard for G4S. My round tonight includes the cash service depot in Åkersberga. I’m covering for the regular guard here, so I’m a bit unsure of how it’s usually done here.’
What’s this about?
Birck clears his throat.
‘I’m in my van right now, pretty sure that I’m sat looking at a cash depot with no active alarm.’
Eh?
‘I know that the alarm is supposed to be activated,’ he goes on, ‘but I’m pretty sure it isn’t, I’ve been in touch with the control room. They couldn’t see anything either. I’m the last one here and I can’t activate the alarm. Plus I have to keep moving. The next chance I’ll have to come past is in two hours’ time. It’s an empty depot, but still, it doesn’t look too fucking great.’
No, it certainly does not.
‘I don’t suppose you could come down here, could you? Because … You’re the one who’s responsible for security here, aren’t you? I mean, the way it’s set up and everything.
No, I’m not … Well, I was responsible for the planning and implementation.
‘Exactly. The control room gave me your number. I’m sure it wouldn’t take you very long to sort out. I would really appreciate it, I mean otherwise I’m going to have to tell my boss tomorrow that I followed my instructions — and called you — but that you …’
Alright, alright. [sigh, crackling on the line] Åkersberga. I’ll set off in a few minutes, should be with you in half an hour or so.
‘Great. I’ll try and hang around. I’ll let the others know to cover the rest of my round for the moment. But the sooner you can get here the better, because …’
I’m on my way.
Birck hangs up and puts his phone away. I look at him.
‘Jonas Almqvist?’
‘It was the first thing that popped into my head. I’m reading The Queen’s Tiara at the moment.’
We look up at his window. The light goes off. Seconds later, the front door opens and he emerges. He looks annoyed, and who could blame him?
‘We’ll have to do it soon,’ Birck says. ‘Before he makes any calls and realises that he’s been duped.’
‘Are you sure you want to?’
Birck looks hesitant.
‘Yes, although it is crossing a line.’ He looks at Wester, who is closing the driver’s door of a low, dark-coloured Mercedes. The rear lights shine through the night as he turns the key in the ignition. ‘That’s if there ever was a line.’
74
It’s dangerous to get too close — just as risky as falling too far behind. We mustn’t give ourselves away, but we mustn’t lose him either.
Wester’s Mercedes takes the expected route, through Södermalm and out onto the northbound motorway towards Täby and Åkersberga. We are three or four vehicles behind throughout. Birck is driving, and I’m keeping tabs on the Mercedes. Neither of us wants to talk. Darkness fills the car.
At one point, the police radio crackles. Birck turns it off.
‘A patrol car could’ve done this for us,’ I say.
‘Would you be happy handing this over to them?’ Birck coughs. ‘They would never have pulled it off.’
The question now is whether we will pull it off.
‘There’s a risk that it could turn,’ he goes on, ‘rather physical.’
I look down at my legs, my own chest. Dressed in uniform, my body seems unfamiliar, as though it belongs to someone else.
It’s approaching midnight. The motorway sweeps over the city and into Solna. We drive past Karolinska, and I avoid looking at the buildings towering above the road.
It starts as we pass Haga Park, the frozen silhouettes of its trees in tight, tight rows. Birck put his foot down and tucks in behind Wester’s Mercedes. You can almost see his eyes darting up towards the rear-view mirror, clocking the liveried car behind. His shoulders probably hunch slightly.
Birck turns on the blue lights. They bounce off the Mercedes’ black paint. Sirens wail. Birck indicates right, exhortingly: Slow down, stop at the roadside.
Wester ignores the signals. He increases his speed.
‘Oh, shit,’ Birck hisses, repeating the signal, sirens and lights on once more.
Nothing happens. Wait: the Mercedes’ indicators flash, and he starts to slow down, glides over to the right, and comes to a halt on the verge. Birck sighs loudly. He’s been holding his breath.
We proceed past the Mercedes and pull in in front, stopping a car’s length ahead and stepping out into the cold December night without looking at each other. The damp finds its way inside the uniform and makes you shiver. I realise that I’m longing for the first snow of winter. It hasn’t arrived yet.
Birck has the breathalyser, a standard Dräger model, in one hand and the standard-issue flashlight in the other. Wester is studying us through the windscreen. He’s kept it dark in there: all you can see is a pale face against dark clothing, a pair of darker holes — his eyes behind his glasses. Birck approaches the driver’s door and leans towards it.
‘Lights on in there.’
Wester does as he says. As the light comes on, I look at him, his eyes. Everything looks different up close, even people. Wester looks older, friendlier somehow. More open.
With one finger, Birck points
down towards the tarmac. Wester undoes his seatbelt and opens the window, which slides down with a buzz. Behind us, the cars are sweeping past along the motorway, at short intervals. Headlights clip my peripheral vision.
‘Good evening,’ says Birck. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Do you have some ID?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see it?’
Birck puts the torch in his mouth and extends his free hand. Wester drops a driving licence into his fingers. Birck studies it with a mute stare before returning it.
‘Both me and my colleague feel that your car was weaving about a bit too much. When did you last drink alcohol?’
Wester stares at him. Birck raises an eyebrow. I’m surprised at his calmness.
‘Weaving, you say. Okay.’
‘When did you last have a drink?’
‘I am sober.’
‘Can you answer the question?’
‘The day before yesterday. I had a beer with my dinner.’
Birck shows him the Dräger.
‘Do you know how one of these works?’
Wester rolls his eyes.
‘What are you on about? My car wasn’t weaving.’
‘You know you’re being a bit aggressive now?’ Birck says, taking a step towards Wester as he checks the device’s settings.
‘Let me blow then, so I can get going.’
Birck holds out the breathalyser. Wester closes his lips around the mouthpiece and blows. The Dräger emits a beep, which is soon drowned out by the noise of a passing heavy goods vehicle. The wind is cold and hard as ice, it bites at your face.
The display shows NEG.
Negative.
‘Hmm,’ says Birck, then puts it away. ‘This thing only reacts to alcohol, not narcotics. We would like you to come and sit in our car, so that we can have a little chat. Bring your driving licence.’
Wester doesn’t reply. Instead, he just stares at me.
‘Shouldn’t your colleague stay in the car?’
‘Do we really need to make things difficult?’ says Birck.
‘I’m not leaving my car.’
‘Do you want some help?’
That’s not a question. He puts one hand on his truncheon. I take a step forward.
‘I have been breathalysed. It was negative. You’ve done your job. If you don’t let me leave now, I will be reporting you.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘That is not any of your business.’
‘My colleague and I maintain that your car was weaving alarmingly. As we were passing the park it was shocking — another half a metre, and you would’ve ended up in the ditch. We would like to take a blood test, down at the station. Solna’s not far, we can do it there.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ Wester squints in my direction. ‘I think maybe I recognise you. Have we met … ?’
‘We’re the ones asking the questions here,’ Birck interrupts, adjusting his beret as he does so. It looks weird. ‘I asked you whether we need to make things difficult, or are you going to come with us?’
Wester smiles weakly.
‘I am going nowhere until you tell me what this is really all about.’
Birck closes his grip around the driver’s door handle and opens it abruptly.
‘Get out.’
‘No.’
Wester makes an attempt to pull the door shut, a sudden movement that makes Birck grab hold of his arm. Wester struggles to break free, but Birck’s grip is too firm and he can’t. He flails with his free hand instead, striking Birck in the face.
Birck drags him out of the car, down onto the cold tarmac. Wester grunts something indecipherable and squirms as he does so, but Birck forces him to lie face down, with his hands pinned up behind his back.
‘Resisting arrest. Assaulting a police officer.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Wester hisses, his face dotted with gravel. ‘What the fucking hell do you think you’re playing at? I’m an ex-cop, do you think I don’t know what you’re up to …’
‘Swab him, would you please,’ Birck interrupts. ‘Might as well.’
That’s the signal. I pull the little kit from my inside pocket.
‘Swab me? In your fucking dreams — I’m going …’
A heavy groan is expelled through Wester’s mouth as Birck pushes a knee into his back, forcing the air from his lungs.
I’ve broken through barriers before. In my line of work, I’ve pushed the limits further than you ought to, in fact — how many times have I breached them, even just with Grim?
I don’t feel the slightest sympathy for Wester, but I do, perhaps, for the idea of the presumption of innocence. For someone who has yet to, beyond a reasonable doubt, be shown to be the murderer. He did it, but we can’t prove that. We still don’t have the right to act like this.
I thought that I had changed. That I had, at least partly, become someone else.
For a second, I’m somewhere else entirely, alongside the man who was once my best friend. He’s lying in a hospital bed, and I’m asking him, coldly, why he tried to trick me.
Because I never learn.
I stare down at Wester, then crouch in front of his panting face. Thin, white clouds escape his mouth in snappy puffs.
I see my hands working, watch them manage to prise open Wester’s jaw and ram a cotton bud into his mouth. Wester lies perfectly still, until he bites down hard, like a dog. The cotton bud breaks off between his teeth.
I wrench it out.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Birck hisses. ‘We’ve got a couple of hundred of those in the car, don’t you know that? We’ve got as long as it takes. If you don’t have anything to hide, why are you resisting? Get another one.’
My hands retrieve the next kit from my pocket and repeat the whole procedure. As I prise open Wester’s jaw again, he groans with exertion. Maybe he’s giving up, realising how futile resistance is. I swab the little tool once, twice, three, four times, keep going for almost a minute before I return it to its protective case.
‘Thanks for that,’ says Birck, as I lean over Wester and cuff him. ‘Let’s go for a drive, the three of us.’ He hauls Wester to his feet. ‘And perhaps introduce ourselves. My name is Gabriel Birck.’
Wester looks at me quizzically.
‘Leo Junker,’ I say, and take off my beret. ‘Violent Crime Unit.’
‘What the hell is this about?’
‘Angelica Reyes,’ says Birck, making something happen in Wester’s eyes.
They sparkle, for a split-second, with fear.
75
I take out the kit and inspect it. By the light inside the car I can see the top of the little stick glistening with saliva.
DNA.
We’ve put Wester in the back seat. He’s yet to say anything beyond grunting that he’s been the victim of an assault.
‘You claimed to be traffic cops,’ Wester says. ‘That’s not allowed.’
‘We’ve been working on the murder of Angelica Reyes for a while now,’ Birck says, easing us back out onto the motorway.
We leave his Mercedes behind, waiting for a recovery truck. A taxi overtakes with its top sign glowing through the darkness.
Wester squirms. It isn’t possible to sit comfortably in a car seat with your hands behind your back.
‘What happened between the two of you?’ I ask.
‘I won’t be saying a word to you two. I know what you’re trying to do. Drop it, before I report you to the Ombudsman.’
‘And what are you going to report us for?’ says Birck. ‘We’re just talking.’
‘We mean it,’ I say. ‘We want you to tell us what happened.’
‘You are a fucking disgrace to the force. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘Are you sure about that? You may remember that DNA was recovered from the crime scene.’
‘Are you trying to threaten me?’
‘Absolutely not,’ says Birck. ‘But you know how this works. Everything will be so much easier if you talk.’
Wester doesn’t talk, though. As we park up outside the remand centre in Solna and take care of practicalities, he maintains his silence. The only thing he says to us before we’re separated as a guard leads him away is:
‘When you wake up in the morning, you’ll have an official complaint against you.’
‘When you wake up in the morning, you’ll be remanded on suspicion of murder,’ Birck replies.
76
Doing this is not allowed. It’s about the principle, our room to manoeuvre. You need warrants for this kind of thing. Only in bad crime novels will you find police officers who can do exactly as they please with no reprimands or consequences of any sort.
It’s not impossible to add illegally obtained evidence to a case file. Fingerprints, for example, are straightforward. You just need to get hold of them, and have a contact in Forensics who’s happy to do a professional comparison and analysis. That’s enough. DNA is different. DNA is basically impossible, because the test has to go to the National Forensics Centre. To even get something sent off there, every step of the process must be done exactly by the book — labelled, recorded, and documented. You need to attach prosecutor’s decisions and all kinds of shit, or it won’t happen. Illegally obtained DNA is pretty much unusable.
That is, unless, you can obtain it under false pretences, like a routine traffic stop that leads to violent resistance. Everything is then entered into the system, where a DNA-matching check is conducted. The problem is that NFC’s analysis will take some time, perhaps weeks.
‘In the meantime …’ I said, in the car on the way to Wester’s earlier on. ‘Well, I don’t fucking know.’
‘Yeah,’ said Birck. ‘But. Do you remember about a month ago, at the beginning of all this, when I had lunch with a friend who works at National Board of Forensic Medicine? His speciality is DNA. I’ll ask him to compare the samples under the counter. If I show the prosecutor the results, they’ll be able to draw out the process against Wester. In which case, he’ll stay on remand until the results come back from NFC and then … BOOM. Assuming you think it’s worth it, that is?’
The Thin Blue Line Page 25
