Pärson shot Julia a quick glance that made her squirm.
“What did you want to say?” Amante said. “And why did you want to talk to me in particular?”
Kassab shook his head.
“Not so fast, Vaseline. You have to answer a question first.” Kassab leaned forward slightly. “What’s your first name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You know what my name is.” Kassab gestured with his hand, making the cuffs rattle.
Amante looked at him for a few seconds.
“Omar,” he said.
Kassab nodded with a look of satisfaction. “Okay, Omar. I’ll tell you how Gilsén died, and why. But first . . .”
He held his hands up and tugged at the chain. Julia saw Amante hesitate.
“Come on, we’re inside the prison on top of Police Headquarters. Six floors up, and there must be at least ten cops in the nearest rooms.” Kassab tugged at the chain again. “Please, take them off.”
“I don’t have a key.”
“No? I thought all cops had one on their key ring.”
“I don’t like handcuffs,” Amante muttered. His tone of voice made Julia glance at the others. She wondered if they had noticed anything, but none of them seemed to react.
“Okay, we’ll have to ask someone else.” Kassab held his hands up and stared into one of the cameras. Waited.
In the observation room Pärson looked at Kollander.
“Do as he asks,” Kollander said to the pockmarked officer. The man left the room and appeared shortly afterward on the screens.
“Here.” He handed a key to Amante before closing the door behind him.
“Big Brother is watching us,” Kassab said as Amante fiddled clumsily with the lock of the cuffs. His fingers slipped on the metal and for a moment Julia considered going in to help him. But before she could make up her mind, Amante managed to get it open.
Kassab rubbed his wrists. The red marks from the cuffs were clearly visible on the screens. Pulled far too tight, Julia thought. Must have hurt badly after a while. For some reason she guessed that the gym-pumped prison officer she had met the other day was responsible.
Inside the interview room Amante put the cuffs on the table, sat back down, and opened the folder.
“Joachim Gilsén,” he said. “Tell me. Why did he die?”
Kassab straightened his back. Julia found herself doing the same.
“Gilsén ran a Ponzi scheme where he swindled rich pensioners. Abu Hamsa helped by running the transactions through his currency exchange business. In the background were a number of serious criminals who stood for the initial costs and cashed in the excess.”
“We know that already.” Amante looked down at the folder. “But the prosecutor evidently didn’t think he had enough evidence to bring charges against anyone apart from Gilsén.”
Kassab nodded. “But what you and the prosecutor don’t know is that Gilsén and Hamsa secretly skimmed off a share before passing on the profits. When Gilsén was arrested, Hamsa tried to conceal that—and seems to have succeeded, at least to start with. But someone must have talked.”
“And that was why he was murdered?”
“The type of people Gilsén and Hamsa were working with don’t like being taken for fools. It makes them look weak. And in that business weakness isn’t allowed. So Hamsa and Gilsén had to pay for their betrayal, and preferably as publicly as possible.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be protecting Gilsén?”
It was Kassab’s turn to shrug. “My job died with Abu Hamsa.”
“But Gilsén appears to have killed himself. H-Hanged himself using a pair of trousers, it says here,” Amante said, tapping at the folder Julia had given him. She noticed his Adam’s apple bob in an involuntary gulp.
Kassab shook his head.
“Smoke screen. The autopsy will prove otherwise. Gilsén talked before he died. I’m sure of that.”
“Talked about what?”
“The money. He was forced to reveal the details of the account where he and Abu Hamsa siphoned off their cut.”
“How do you know that such an account exists?”
“Gilsén told me. About fifteen million, he estimated.”
“Why didn’t Abu Hamsa empty the account himself? And have Gilsén killed to remove the risk to himself?”
Very good question, Julia thought. Amante was doing better in there than she had expected.
“Because Gilsén had gotten himself some insurance. The only person who could get at the money was him, and if he died in mysterious circumstances, the police would receive a hard drive containing enough information to convict Abu Hamsa. Say what you like about Gilsén, but the little shit was smart.”
“But not smart enough?”
Kassab grimaced. “When Hamsa disappeared, the rules of the game changed. Gilsén’s insurance became worthless and he was left unprotected.”
“So you’re suggesting someone crept into Gilsén’s cell unnoticed, forced him to reveal the details of the account, and then hanged him with his own trousers. All in one of the most heavily supervised facilities in the country.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you exactly what happened.”
A short silence followed, both in the interview room and the room where Julia was sitting. The only sound was Pärson’s heavy breathing.
“You don’t believe me,” Kassab said. “Not entirely, anyway.”
Amante didn’t answer.
“Check the recordings from the cameras out at the prison. I bet the ones in our section stopped working just after ten p.m. and didn’t start working until the following morning. The locks on the cell doors stopped working too. Check the computer records. I bet they’ll blame a fault in the network, an overloaded system, something like that.”
Julia noticed Kollander and Pärson exchanging a glance again.
“And if that’s the case?” Amante said.
“Come on, Vaseline. A man is found dead the same night that the cameras are switched off and the cell doors are unlocked. And you’re still not convinced it was murder?”
“Who?” Amante said.
Kassab threw his hands out and gave a wry smile.
“Who killed Gilsén?” Amante repeated.
“You’re going to have to work that out for yourselves.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve set this whole thing up and now you’re not going to say who the murderer is?”
But Kassab went on smiling.
“If you want something in exchange—a more comfortable cell, better food, a computer with free porn—well, congratulations, now’s your chance.” Amante gestured toward the cameras. “Just say what you want. I’m sure Big Brother can sort it out.”
Julia saw Kollander pick up a pen. But inside the interview room Kassab slowly shook his head.
“I’ve told you that Gilsén was murdered and why. The rest is up to you. I’m not a snitch, I’m not after any special privileges, and this conversation is over now.”
Kassab leaned back and seemed to concentrate on one patch of wall.
Amante sat silent for a while, apparently at a loss as to what to do. He looked beseechingly up at the cameras as if expecting someone else to take over. Kollander and Pärson leaned their heads together. They spoke so quietly that Julia could hear only fragments of what they said.
“Send someone else in . . . Put pressure on him.”
“Waste of time . . . never said a word throughout the whole of the preliminary investigation . . . not a snitch.”
The two men’s whispered conversation continued. Inside the interview room Kassab stood up.
“Well, then.” He turned around and put his hands behind his back. It took a moment for Amante to understand. He got to his feet, walked over to Kassab, and star
ted to fumble as he put the cuffs on. The two men were standing close together and Julia raised her head anxiously. But Kassab stood nice and still.
Julia could see his lips moving slightly but couldn’t hear what he was saying. Pärson and Kollander were too busy with their own conversation to notice anything.
Kassab made a slight gesture with his head, seeming to want Amante to move even closer. Amante hesitated for a moment. His fingers slipped on the cuffs again. He had had trouble taking them off a short while before, and it was clear that he was even less eager to be the person who put them back on.
Kassab turned his head a little. He pushed back toward Amante and said something else, but the needle on the sound meter barely moved. Amante appeared to be listening with fascination, and he leaned forward slightly. The men’s bodies touched. Kassab was still whispering. Julia stared at the screen, trying to make out what was being said.
All of a sudden Kassab straightened up.
“You know, Vaseline, life’s like a fucking card game,” he said, loud enough for Pärson and Kollander to interrupt their conversation and look up. “And wogs like you and me are nearly always left with a handful of crap cards.”
Kassab turned toward the camera, his eyes were almost entirely black. He seemed to be staring straight out of the screen. Julia found herself holding her breath. And she probably wasn’t the only person in the room to do so.
“But sometimes you get a joker,” Kassab said slowly. “A card that can mean absolutely anything, as long as you play it at exactly the right moment.”
Twelve
“Well, that was a nice little outing you organized for us all, Kassab.” Blom grinned at Atif from the opposite seat. “Didn’t the cops like what you had to say? Is that why you’re coming back home with us? Rumors about you being a snitch are already spreading around the unit, so I’d watch my back if I was you. It would be a shame if there was another death.”
Atif didn’t answer, just looked out of the rear window instead. The police van was no more than seven or eight meters behind their minibus, in spite of the speed. Presumably the cop driving it didn’t want to risk a worked-up rush-hour driver pulling in between them.
He turned to look forward, ignoring the moronic grins of Blom and his colleagues. Between the shoulders of the two men in the front seats he could see a road sign for Vårby, and the silhouette of the brewery a few hundred meters farther ahead beside the motorway. He stretched his neck and felt the sinews creak.
“We’ll soon be back, but you’ll be too late for food,” said the guard sitting beside Blom. “You spent too long in the toilet. Having a loose stomach has cost you your supper.”
The man was sitting so close that their knees were almost touching. The smell of the garlic pizza he had evidently eaten for lunch had long since taken over the air in the minibus.
Atif looked at the cuffs around his ankles and flexed his feet a little. He felt the driver ease up on the accelerator ahead of the long bend.
“By the way,” the garlic guard said. “You’ve got some sort of crap on your face. Didn’t want to mention it before in case you were sensitive about it. But you’re all shiny around your eyes. Some sort of skin cream, or what? Did you touch up your makeup before we came?”
Atif looked up and met the man’s gaze. Felt the minibus enter the long S-bend of the Vårby bridge. A flash of water below them.
“It’s Vaseline,” he said, and stretched.
• • •
Julia had been in Staffan Kollander’s office a few times before and it hadn’t taken long to detect the rhythm of a vain, pedantic man. Although, to be honest, one look at the shiny desk was enough: it was at least two sizes too big for the room.
Amante and Pärson were both sitting opposite Kollander when she slipped in and took up position just inside the door. Neither Pärson nor Kollander objected, presumably because they were fully occupied with Amante.
“So Kassab didn’t say anything else of interest?” Kollander said.
Amante pulled a face that Julia had learned meant no.
“Kassab complained a bit about me putting the cuffs on too tightly, so I loosened them a touch. Then I asked if that was okay, and he said yes. That was pretty much it.”
“That’s what I assumed,” Julia said, without really knowing why.
Kollander looked up. Only now did he seem to notice that she was in the room. He arched his hands in a different power posture and drummed his fingertips slowly together.
“And Kassab gave no clue as to who murdered Gilsén?” he repeated unnecessarily.
“We’ve watched the recording four times,” Pärson muttered. “Kassab says he doesn’t want to inform on anyone. Gilsén was murdered because he and Abu Hamsa swindled some other guys out of their money. So there is a link between the two murders, just as we suspected.”
“That doesn’t help us if we don’t know who ordered the killings,” Kollander growled. “And to find that out, we need to know who the murderer inside the prison is. Assuming that there is a murderer, of course.”
“Hasn’t Forensics come up with anything?” Julia said as neutrally as she could.
“We’re still waiting for a preliminary statement from the Forensic Medicine Unit,” Pärson said. “Right now we have no evidence that Gilsén was actually murdered. Kassab could just as well be making it all up—saw a chance to escape the tedium for a few hours. All that crap about playing cards . . .”
“What about the other inmates in the unit? And the cameras being switched off? The unlocked doors?”
“We’re in the process of looking into that.”
There was a knock on the door. The pockmarked policeman who had helped Amante earlier walked in.
“This fax has just arrived from the Forensic Medicine Unit.” He put some sheets of paper down on the desk and Kollander quickly pushed them over toward Pärson.
“The preliminary investigation of Gilsén’s body suggests that he could have been unconscious before he ended up in the noose,” Pärson said after glancing at the first page.
“Could have been unconscious?” Kollander said. “So they don’t know for sure? In other words, we still don’t know if it was murder. Is that how we interpret it?”
“Wait a minute.” Pärson turned the page. “The pathologist evidently found a foreign object in Gilsén’s throat. It looks like he was trying to swallow it, unless someone forced it into his mouth.”
“What sort of foreign object?” Kollander said.
Pärson continued reading.
“The key,” the pockmarked policeman whispered to Amante. “My key for the cuffs—can I have it back?”
“Sure.” Amante felt his trouser pockets without taking his eyes off Pärson.
“What sort of object?” Kollander repeated, more impatiently this time. “What was in Gilsén’s throat?”
“A folded-up playing card.” Pärson frowned.
“I don’t understand,” Kollander said.
“Gilsén had a playing card in his throat,” Pärson repeated. “Apparently it was a . . .”
“Joker,” Amante said slowly. He stood up, turned his pockets inside out, and gave Julia a sorrowful glance.
“A card that can mean absolutely anything, as long as you play it at exactly the right moment,” she muttered as her stomach clenched tight.
The four men in the room stared at her.
“Call the escort vehicle,” Pärson snapped at the policeman. “Right away!”
• • •
Atif’s fist hit Blom full force on the bridge of his nose. The cartilage shattered beneath his knuckles and a thin spray of blood shot up toward the roof of the minibus. Garlic Guard gaped in surprise and didn’t seem to know what to do, but Atif ignored him and threw himself at the senior officer. He had carefully slipped the cuffs behind him onto the seat after unlock
ing them with the key he took from the Vaseline cop, but his feet were still cuffed, making it hard to keep his balance. He felt around the senior officer’s waist and grabbed the pepper spray from his belt.
Blom gurgled and made an attempt to stop him, but his heavy limbs didn’t seem to want to obey him.
Atif managed to free the can and aimed a hefty dose of pepper spray straight in the face of Garlic Guard. Then toward the driver’s seat. The orange mist hit the front seats, the windshield, and the guard in the passenger seat, who had unfastened his seat belt and was on his way into the back of the minibus. Atif went on spraying, hitting the back of the driver’s neck and ears, and didn’t stop before the passenger-seat guard threw himself at Atif’s chest and they both fell to the floor of the van.
One of his feet gave way and his eyes and nose were stinging. The minibus was filled with a burned-tasting orange fog. Atif heard voices howling with pain, one of them right by his ear. He rammed one knee up as far as the shackles would allow, and struck something soft. He hit the man in the ear with the bottom of the can of spray. Once, twice. The canister cracked and flew across the floor, still dispersing its contents into the minibus.
The vehicle lurched and the passenger-seat guard rolled off Atif. Atif got to his knees, trying to breathe as shallowly as he could. He wiped his face with one arm, rubbing off some of the layer of Vaseline. His vision cleared slightly. He felt someone grab at his leg and heard the driver shout something unintelligible, then there was a jolt as the minibus hit the central barrier and abruptly changed direction. He just managed to throw himself on the floor again as the driver put his foot on the brake and he flew through the bus, tumbling over prone bodies and thudding into the back of the driver’s seat.
All the air went out of him; his lungs were burning. Something warm and sticky was trickling down his neck and he tried to get up, but his foot wouldn’t do as he wanted. The pain was a four, maybe even a five. A hand grabbed hold of his shirt and he glimpsed a shape through his tears and tried to aim a punch at it. He missed completely.
The vehicle lurched again, harder this time. The driver let out a panicked scream. Other voices joined in, merging into a single howl.
Ultimatum Page 13
