The Sword of Justice

by Leif G. W. Persson

  Two years later she didn’t bother to ask for permission. With the help of ‘new native contacts’, she had made her way across the border into Finland, to be met by ‘new foreign contacts’, and the following morning, in the autumn of 1993, she woke up in a house somewhere in Sweden.

  Nadja had never been so well looked after in her whole life, and she had spent most of the first six weeks talking to her hosts. It was a conversation where they asked questions and she answered, and where there was a specific amount of time allocated to unforced dialogue. A year later she had learned to speak fluent Swedish, been granted Swedish citizenship, had her own home in Stockholm, as well as a job and an employer who had explained with a smile that she could be prosecuted if she told anyone who she worked for.

  Two years later they had gone their separate ways, on good terms. In spite of the relatively short length of her employment, Nadja had been given a generous severance package and a new job. She had spent the past fifteen years working for various departments of the Stockholm Police. For the past four years she had worked for Evert Bäckström as a civilian analyst in the department for serious crime in the Western District. She had also long been Bäckström’s most trusted colleague, the only person in the world he trusted unconditionally, even if he’d rather bite his own tongue off than admit it.

  Mr Högberg, on the other hand, was history. She had met him online, but divorced him after just a year, seeing as he had almost immediately shown himself to be far too Russian for Nadja’s taste. She was content to keep the surname he had given her, and the future belonged to her and her new homeland. But on her terms, and she had taken Bäckström to her heart because of his many weaknesses. Possibly her own weakness too, although she’d rather bite her own tongue off than admit it, even to herself.

  Now yet another murder investigation had arisen to frame her life, and her role in it had long since been determined. It was Nadja who was responsible for background detective work, and at the top of her agenda was the task of mapping the victim’s life, finding out as soon as possible, and preferably immediately, what he had spent the last twenty-four hours of his life doing before he met his nemesis.

  First, she had allocated different aspects of this work to her four colleagues. Then she herself had got to grips with the victim’s computer and the information it contained. Just to be on the safe side, she had also checked that the contents of the hard drive matched the memory stick that Bäckström had given her. Then she’d put the stick in Bäckström’s cupboard, to which only the two of them had keys. Just in case, she thought, because there had been previous cases when the prosecutor had had a change of heart when things started to get messy.

  The first discovery she made was that the computer, in spite of the sticker on it, didn’t belong to the law firm Eriksson and Partners but a company that went by the unenlightening name of Ålsten Management Ltd, which turned out to be a capital investment company owned by Thomas Eriksson. Its own capital amounted to approximately seven million kronor, and its annual turnover, primarily from trading in shares, to about ten million. Its only serious asset was the house at Ålstensgatan 127, which was owned by the company and rented out to Thomas Eriksson as a domestic residence and office, for an amount that matched the figure accepted by the tax office the last time they had tried to raise it.

  A market value of twenty-five million, with a mortgage of fifteen million, and capital of seven million in the company that owned the house, a monthly rent of thirty thousand. Nothing remarkable so far, Nadja thought, and moved on to scan through the contents of the hard drive.

  A small proportion of it seemed to be various files of a mixed and not immediately obvious character, and Nadja, true to her nature, was determined to work out exactly what they meant. But almost all the rest was considerably more straightforward, at least in terms of its basic nature.

  Men, Nadja thought, sighing and shaking her head. The only consolation was probably that what she had just found would at least please her boss, Evert Bäckström. Then she had switched off their murder victim’s computer and turned on her own in order to get to grips with the next item on her long list of things that she and her colleagues needed to know about the life Thomas Eriksson had lived.

  30

  On Friday, 31 May, two days before the murder of lawyer Thomas Eriksson, Jenny Rogersson had done as her boss Evert Bäckström had told her and concluded the investigation into the supposed assault twelve days earlier of Hans Ulrik von Comer, the courtier in the car park outside Drottningholm Palace.

  Then she had put the entire file in a courier’s envelope – including Bäckström’s concluding statement, her own investigation into the matter, the original of the anonymous letter and the blood-stained auction catalogue – to be sent to the main police headquarters on Kungsholmen and the personal protection department of the Security Police. All of it marked ‘for information’, in accordance with the regulations currently governing the Western District Police, and on the morning of Monday, 3 June the thick envelope was lying on the desk of Detective Superintendent Dan Andersson, in the pile of new post.

  Dan Andersson was forty-five years old, married to a woman three years younger, who was a civilian employee of the Stockholm regional crime division. They had three children together, all boys of school age, and the whole Andersson family lived in a villa out on the islands of Lake Mälaren, some twenty kilometres outside Stockholm. The vast majority of their neighbours worked in either the police force, education, the emergency services or the health service, and thus far in this description, in bald sociological terms, Dan Andersson was a typical middle-aged police officer, working in so-called middle management in Stockholm.

  In his professional capacity, that which his bosses cared about and appreciated and his colleagues observed with rather more mixed feelings, he was known for being loyal, conscientious, taciturn and both industrious and able. But, above all, taciturn.

  Dan Andersson had been a police officer for almost twenty-five years, always in Stockholm, and for the past eight years he had been head of the unit within the Security Police’s personal protection department that dealt with potential threats. The department which was tasked with protecting the royal family, the government and all other similarly elevated individuals who had a comparable distance to fall, and who, depending on various circumstances, might require at least temporarily the services of the personal protection department. The department was usually referred to in police headquarters as ‘the bodyguards’, even though most of the people working there weren’t expected to shoot first or, in the worst case, block any bullet intended for their charge with their own body.

  On Monday, 3 June, Dan Andersson had stepped inside his office after lunch and a morning full of meetings. When he noticed the thick envelope which the Western District Police had sent over for information, his first thought was to let his secretary deal with it, and not even bother to work out how urgent the case was.

  Because he was the man he was, however, he did the exact opposite. With a wry smile, he noted his colleague Bäckström’s concluding statement, read the anonymous letter, sighed once, leafed through the auction catalogue without even considering putting on a pair of plastic gloves, and concluded by reading Detective Sergeant Jenny Rogersson’s investigation into the matter. As he was doing that, he sighed more than once.

  Jenny Rogersson, Dan Andersson thought. Likely to be one of that nightmare Jan Rogersson’s equally stupid offspring, who had insisted on joining the police, just like Daddy, and this particular one appeared to be working for Evert Bäckström. Daughter of the same Jan Rogersson at National Crime who, regardless of who in the force you asked, was said to be Evert Bäckström’s only friend in an organization that currently consisted of twenty thousand officers. That was something of a coincidence, Dan Andersson thought, then sighed one last time before starting to fill his briefcase with the various papers he needed for his next meeting.

  The weeks leading up to Sweden’s N
ational Day were always busy for Superintendent Dan Andersson and his closest colleagues. On 6 June almost all of their highest ranked charges would be engaged in various public appearances, and the day itself was also critical to the conceptual and practical values that governed their work. It was an excellent opportunity to reinforce perceptions of Sweden and those who lived there. A day of great symbolic value, regardless of what those perceptions might be.

  ‘Just say if there’s anything I can do to help,’ his secretary said as he walked out through the doorway of his office.

  ‘Our colleagues in Solna have sent over an envelope containing a number of observations about some aristocrat, a von Comer, who’s supposed to have been beaten up outside Drottningholm Palace a fortnight ago. He seems to have some sort of vague connection to the court, so I suppose we should run the usual checks on him. The envelope’s in the pile on my desk,’ Dan Andersson said, then nodded and smiled.

  ‘I’ll sort it out at once,’ his secretary said.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s any great rush,’ Dan Andersson replied. ‘It’s probably just nonsense,’ he added.

  Just one week later he would be wondering if he ought to have said something else entirely, and what the consequences of that would have been on what had already happened.

  31

  Lisa Lamm had opened their meeting at the law firm Eriksson and Partners in exactly the way she had told Annika Carlsson she would.

  She had started with friendly introductions and expressions of sympathy for the personal loss they had suffered. Then she had moved to persuasion and explaining the practical problems that an event of this sort unfortunately also gave rise to. Problems that she hoped they might be able to solve together, in the shortest possible time and without any unnecessary disruption to the rest of the business.

  Five minutes later everything had gone precisely as she had feared. First, there had been an increasingly animated discussion of various judicial difficulties, which had developed into an undisguised slanging match. On a practical level, there had been four specific issues and, just for once, everyone at Eriksson and Partners disagreed fundamentally with the prosecutor on absolutely every point.

  Four issues. The computer and mobile phone that had been found in Eriksson’s home were both the property of the company, and therefore couldn’t be subjected to the procedures that the prosecutor evidently intended to implement. The same thing applied to the search of Eriksson’s own office which the prosecutor had authorized. Not to mention the remainder of the company’s premises, if the prosecutor were to get it into her head to expand the scope of her and the police’s investigations.

  ‘It can’t be that hard to understand,’ her immaculately tailored opponent declared. ‘There are no grounds whatsoever either for seizures or search warrants in this case. That much is obvious in the Penal Code. Chapters twenty-seven and twenty-eight – particularly chapter twenty-eight, paragraph one, as there’s no trace of the specific justifications in the current situation. We’re talking about a law firm, after all, not some bog-standard drug-den. In case you weren’t sure, Prosecutor,’ he added with a sardonic smile as he gently adjusted his neat parting with his left hand.

  The man who had leapt in as soon as Lisa Lamm had stopped talking was a lawyer, Peter Danielsson, ten years younger than Thomas Eriksson, his first partner, formerly his number two in the office, and nowadays – to judge by his body language, choice of words and the nods of agreement from his colleagues – the man who had already taken his place.

  Lisa Lamm had encountered him before. They had met in court on several occasions over the past two years. And she was also well aware that he was working hard to acquire the same sort of reputation as his erstwhile boss, and in that respect he seemed to have succeeded, considering the type of person he usually represented.

  ‘Well, to take things in order, I certainly don’t share that interpretation,’ Lisa Lamm said.

  ‘Just as I and my colleagues feared,’ Danielsson said.

  ‘If you’ll just let me finish,’ Lisa Lamm interrupted, leafing through her papers and suddenly looking exactly like the clever little girl her Supreme Court judge father had tried to turn her into.

  ‘As far as the computer that was found at the crime scene is concerned, it’s very simple,’ Lisa Lamm declared. ‘It’s Eriksson’s private property. In spite of the sticker attached to it. He was using it just before he was murdered and, as far as the contents are concerned, I don’t believe it has anything at all to do with your activities here in this office. I’m under the impression that its contents are of a highly personal nature, if you were wondering.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more specific?’

  ‘No,’ Lisa Lamm said, shaking her head. ‘I couldn’t, and nor do I want to be. As far as the mobile is concerned, the same thing applies there. Even though the contract is registered to the company. Any conversations he may have had on it are of considerable relevance to our investigation.’

  ‘But you’re refusing to tell us what you’re basing that conclusion on?’

  ‘You can always appeal against my decisions,’ Lisa Lamm said, shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘That process is already underway,’ the lawyer said, making a move to stand up.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Lisa Lamm said. ‘My decisions stand, as far as Eriksson’s computer and mobile are concerned. I’m prepared to hold back on the search of his office until the court has had its say but, obviously, it will be sealed for the time being, and I assume you’ll be lodging any objections you may have to that decision as soon as possible.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about that,’ the lawyer said bitterly, and stood up.

  ‘Regarding the possible extension of the search warrant to cover the rest of the office, I’ll get in touch if that becomes necessary. Is there anything you’d like to add, Annika?’ Lisa Lamm said, looking at Annika Carlsson, who hadn’t said a word all the way through.

  ‘Yes,’ Annika Carlsson said, looking around the table. ‘Obviously, we’re going to have to question everyone who works here.’

  Her short, concluding nod left no doubt as to her intentions, and she had already worked out where to push hardest. Nine of the fifteen people currently employed in the law firm were in the room. Another was off sick, and the remaining five were either in court or working away from the office.

  One of the people in the room seemed to be considerably more upset than the others. She also happened to be the youngest and most beautiful of them. You’re the one he was fucking, Annika Carlsson thought.

  32

  After his conversation with Jenny, at first Bäckström thought he might go for a stroll among his colleagues and see how things were going but, because his lunch and the fact that he had had to get up in the middle of the night were starting to make themselves felt, he wanted to get home to his Hästens bed, and on the way there it was about time he paid another visit to the crime scene and saw that he got something done.

  He took out the briefcase he had inherited from his old boss in the crime division in Stockholm, Superintendent Fylking, who had been something of a legend in the force. Feared, loved and renowned among his colleagues as the force’s very own Superintendent Pisshead. It was a sturdy affair in brown leather and, according to one classic police story, Pisshead himself had used it to liberate twelve litres of vodka after a raid on an illegal drinking den in Gamla stan. Roomy and very handy to have if you happened to encounter anything useful. Then he had put his laptop and some assorted papers concerning the new investigation inside it, in case any of his inquisitive colleagues wondered why he was dragging it about with him.

  On his way out from the office he had stopped in the doorway of the room where most of his colleagues were sitting, talking on the phone, reading their files or fiddling with their computers, clapped his hands to get their attention, and asked a question of all of them. Had anything happened that demanded his immediate attention? Going by the headshakes and mutter
ing, the answer was no.

  ‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘Well, make sure that changes. I’m heading back to our crime scene to have another look round in peace and quiet. See you first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘In that case you can have a lift with me, boss,’ Felicia Pettersson said. She was heading out to relieve Stigson and lead the evening shift going door to door.

  33

  A Sunday evening at the start of June, unremarkable weather, not much to do, and even before midnight Ara Dosti was thinking of giving up on his nightshift and heading home to Kista to get some sleep instead. That was before he suddenly got a customer who wanted to go to Nyköping, one hundred kilometres south of Stockholm and, by the time he got back, it was already half past one.

  One last circuit of the bars down in the city centre, Ara decided, and, as he drove past Stureplan, a customer had waved him down in the street and asked to be driven to his home on Alviksvägen, out in Bromma. A good customer, drunk in that Swedish way, like so many of the blokes here, but he didn’t start babbling or even asking the usual questions about how he liked his new homeland and where he came from.

  What was he supposed to say to that? He’d been born in a refugee camp in Småland, had spent his whole life in Sweden and had never set foot in his parents’ original homeland, Iran. But there was none of that this time. Instead the bloke was just a decent customer who had given a generous tip at ten minutes past two at night, at Alviksvägen in Bromma, according to the print-out from his meter.

  Ara Dosti had done a U-turn outside the building where he had dropped the customer off and, when he reached the junction with Ålstensgatan, ready to turn left and take the shortest route home to the bed that was waiting for him in his flat out in Kista, things almost came to a sticky end, because he recognized the big house down by the water and suddenly found himself thinking of something else entirely.