“Victor Amante, no question. His career in the EU makes him the obvious candidate. Even if Victor did earlier declare that he’d prefer to stay in Brussels . . .”
“But not anymore,” Stenberg said, finally getting a word in.
“No, it looks like he and his team have started to make preparations back at home. Building alliances within the judicial establishment. His stepson has recently been smuggled into Regional Crime here in Stockholm. Right under Staffan Kollander’s nose.”
“You think Victor Amante is using his stepson to get information about Kollander and Swensk?”
Karolina was one step ahead again. Stenberg tried not to let it bother him.
Karl-Erik shrugged his shoulder. “Amante junior was the last person to question Atif Kassab before he escaped. Which is pretty remarkable, seeing as he isn’t a police officer, and has received no training in interview techniques. This isn’t official, but Kassab stole a handcuff key from Amante’s pocket and used it during his escape. Unless Kassab is recaptured soon, this business is likely to cost the head of Regional Crime any hope of landing the top job that the national police chief has planned for him. Not a fatal blow, perhaps, but certainly a black mark against Eva Swensk. Kollander is one of her most trusted allies, but she won’t have any option but to park him on the sidelines somewhere.”
“Could Victor Amante have planned this?”
Stenberg realized how revealing his question was the moment he said it. Damn, he should have known all this. This was his area of responsibility, his fiefdom. Wallin usually kept abreast of this sort of thing for him. But, just as he had suspected, Wallin’s loyalty could no longer be trusted.
“Obviously I can’t know for sure. But it’s certainly a very unfortunate coincidence.”
Karl-Erik didn’t sound the slightest bit patronizing. But when Stenberg looked at Karolina, she gave him a smile that confirmed his suspicions. It was her Don’t-worry-darling-you’re-doing-fine smile, and it meant the exact opposite.
Sixteen
Atif was dreaming about a tiger. An animal he had once seen in the run-down zoo in Baghdad. A scrawny old male with a scabby coat that one of the zookeepers was trying to get to perform stupid tricks. Jumping up onto small stools, sitting on its hind legs, and waving its front paws at the audience. The tiger obeyed—it seemed almost tame—and the keeper became overconfident. He made the tiger open its jaws while he stuck his head in its mouth. Presumably he had done the trick hundreds of times before and it had always gone well.
A week later the tiger bit the zookeeper’s head off. According to the newspaper, it took five pistol shots to get the tiger to let go of the body, and another three to kill it.
In Atif’s dream the tiger is lying in front of him in a forest clearing. The animal is breathing heavily in the heat. Its chest is rising and falling, its mouth half-open, revealing the fleshy tongue behind the row of teeth. There are dark, rust-red stains around its gray nose.
The animal stares at him, holding his gaze. Sweat is running down Atif’s back, soaking his T-shirt. On the ground in front of the tiger is a bloody rag. A pair of Prison Service sweatpants tied to form a noose.
The tiger goes on staring at him. Its eyes are dark and glossy. The smell of blood and something he can’t quite identify is overwhelming him. Made worse by the heat. He realizes that it’s fear. Atif’s fear.
“Amu! Amu!”
Tindra is calling for him. He hears the girl come running through the woods. Straight toward him. Straight toward the tiger.
He wants to shout at her to stop, turn around and run away as fast as she can. But all he can get out is a weak gurgling sound. It sounds like a purr.
The tiger pricks up its ears, then gets to its feet with surprising agility. The beast goes on looking at him for a few more seconds. Then it turns and leaps into the bushes. Straight toward Tindra. Atif’s paralysis lifts and he races off, rushing after the tiger, into the darkness.
• • •
The shrill scream woke him. Made him sit up on the sofa. The sound continued even though he was awake, and transformed into the squealing brakes of a bus outside the window. The sheet beneath him was wet and for a moment he thought it was blood. Then he realized he was freezing and sweating at the same time. Nausea hit him like a punch in the gut and he staggered to the toilet as quickly as his injured foot would let him. Drooping over the edge of the bath, he emptied his stomach of beer and seawater.
Outside in the street another bus braked to a halt. Unless it was a little girl screaming inside his head. Running from a beast that was getting closer and closer.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. An electronic thermometer was inserted into his ear. He heard it peep as it registered his temperature. Not that it was really necessary. They both knew what had happened. Why he was still in her apartment.
“Thirty-nine point two,” Natalie said. “Up even more from yesterday. The wound’s infected and you need penicillin pretty urgently unless you want blood poisoning. I can get some, but it’ll cost you. It’s prescription only.”
He wanted to say no. He’d already stayed a night longer than he had planned. Thirty-six hours had passed since his escape, and by now he ought to be well on his way to getting Cassandra and Tindra out. But he had to face facts. In this state he couldn’t even make it down the stairs, let alone plan any sort of rescue.
“Three thousand more,” he muttered. “Five,” he said when Natalie didn’t reply at once. “And the same again if I can stay another night.
Natalie shrugged.
“Sure, Richie Rich. I’ll be back at five. Take an acetaminophen and drink lots of water in the meantime. Don’t pick at the wound, and don’t throw up on the sofa. Okay?”
“Sure,” Atif said. “No problem,” he added after what felt like just a couple of seconds. But she had long since gone.
• • •
Six rows of chairs. Fifteen police officers, Julia and Pärson included. All with cups of coffee and their eyes focused on the movie screen. The head of Regional Crime was standing in front of them.
“Good afternoon, everyone. We’ll start with a brief run-through of the situation.” Kollander adjusted his stance, moving his highly polished shoes as if he was having trouble standing still. “What shall we take first? The perpetrator?”
He looked at Pärson, who was spread out across two chairs in the front row. The smell of his nylon shirt was for once less pervasive, but Julia was sitting several rows behind him.
“We have no forensic evidence at all apart from the bullet. And that seems to have been homemade. You’ve all seen the photographs from the crime scene. The bullet mushroomed like none I’ve ever seen before.”
Most of the officers in the room nodded. The evening tabloids had already made the most of the pictures.
“The perpetrator is long gone, probably back in the Caucasian republic of his choice,” Pärson went on. “We’re checking the passenger lists of all the airlines, but our chances of finding a match are basically zero.”
“I see.” Kollander rocked on his feet again. “What about a motive, then?”
“Well, if we’re to believe Kassab . . .” Pärson paused for a couple of seconds, giving Kollander time to squirm uncomfortably. “. . . the motive was revenge. Abu Hamsa and Joachim Gilsén were stealing money from other criminals, and now they’re both dead.”
“And who’s taken over Abu Hamsa’s businesses? That ought to give us a few suspects.”
Pärson turned and looked back across the seats. “Gabrielsson, can you tell us more about that? Seeing as you’re responsible for the in-house part of the investigation.”
“Sure.”
Julia leafed through the notepad in her lap. Pärson had upgraded her slightly since their last conversation. But there was still no sign that she was back in favor. On the other hand, at least he didn’t seem to
have told Kollander about her and Amante’s freelancing. Not yet, anyway.
“I’ve spoken to the Intelligence Unit and called a number of my own sources. They all say the same thing. The exchange bureaus and restaurants are all carrying on as normal. No new faces anywhere. Abu Hamsa’s eldest daughter, Susanna, is still running the bureaus, and her fiancé has been seen at their other premises.”
“Eldar Jafarov,” Pärson added. “He was at the crime scene. A combination of driver, bodyguard, and right-hand man to Abu Hamsa.”
“Thank you, I know,” Kollander said drily.
But Pärson seemed unconcerned. “So whoever it was who killed Abu Hamsa, they haven’t yet made any moves to take over his businesses. Is that a fair summary of the situation, Gabrielsson?”
Julia nodded. “That’s right. But both Susanna and Jafarov are surrounded by bodyguards, so they’re obviously worried. Their villa out in Älvsjö looks more like a fortress these days.”
“I see,” Kollander said. “And Atif Kassab? What’s happening there?”
“We’ve deployed all available resources,” Pärson said. “Comprehensive surveillance of his sister-in-law and niece, and we’re checking every address he’s been linked to in the past. His passport has been blocked and we’ve issued a warrant via Interpol. We’re conducting extensive internal searches to try to find other connections that might be worth investigating. But my guess is that he’s already left. That he’s stolen or bought a car and is on his way down toward Iraq through Europe. He got the details of the secret account out of Gilsén, then strangled the little bastard. So he’s not short of money: he has enough to be able to live like a king down there.”
Several of the officers in the room nodded, particularly Pärson’s gang of supporters from the far corridor. Julia opened her mouth to protest. She stopped herself, but not quickly enough.
“You were going to say something, Gabrielsson,” Kollander said. Pärson turned around again and glared at her.
“It’s just . . .” she said. “Well, I don’t think Kassab’s gone yet.”
“And why not?”
She could feel the other officers looking at her. “Kassab had practically no personal belongings in his cell. Just a few books and a photograph of his niece.”
“And?” said one of the older detectives behind her, sending a waft of mint toward the back of her neck.
“Whoever killed Abu Hamsa and tried to kill Gilsén wasn’t only out for revenge. They also wanted to get hold of the money that had been stolen from them. About fifteen million, according to Kassab.”
She decided the best strategy was to try to get Pärson on her side.
“It’s just like you said, boss. If what Kassab said when he was being questioned is true, then he’s the one sitting on the money now. Several million, and there are plenty of people with a claim to it. Dangerous people. Kassab knows that. He knows that if he leaves the country, his sister-in-law and niece will be fair prey. That’s why I think he’s still here. He’s trying to come up with a way to get his family out.”
Kollander looked at her, then his face contorted into a grimace of agreement.
“I think you’re right, Gabrielsson. Kassab is probably still in the Stockholm area somewhere. The only question is who finds him first. Us, or the people who want the money.”
A low murmur spread through the room, and as far as Julia could tell, most of them agreed with her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Pärson looking at her. She didn’t like the expression on his face.
• • •
As a result of this information, Southern Homes Ltd is issuing you with a formal warning. Further complaints of this nature may constitute legitimate grounds for cancellation of your rental agreement in accordance with the Rental Housing Act, chapter . . .
Natalie lowered her smartphone and swore so loudly that the old lady in front of her on the bus jumped.
Oscar Wallin. Even if the e-mail came from her housing association, it was obvious that he was behind it. Information from the police authority regarding suspected criminal activity. Thank you very much!
She should have phoned him the other day, and probably would have done if Atif hadn’t turned up and given her something else to think about. How the hell could Wallin have found out that she’d talked to the Buddy Holly cop? Was he still watching her?
She glanced around nervously, first checking out the other passengers on the bus, then the cars in the evening rush-hour traffic behind them, but failed to see anything to confirm that particular suspicion. Then common sense caught up with her. If she was being watched, the Rapid Response Unit would have kicked her door in long before now. But according to the papers the hunt for Atif was still going on, so far without any result. So Wallin must have gotten the information about Buddy Holly’s visit some other way, and not through direct surveillance. Maybe he had flagged her name in some computer system, unless someone had simply talked. Or else he was just bluffing.
She read the e-mail again. The sender’s address looked as though it belonged to her housing association, and it said that a copy had been sent by regular mail. The warning was probably genuine. Wallin had stitched her up. She held her breath for a few moments, tried to control her anger and think.
She could live with a written warning from the landlord. This was Sweden, after all, and it took more than a nudge from the police to evict someone. Her former boyfriend was a full-time dealer these days, and he still had his apartment in Bagarmossen even though he operated from home. So this was just a warning shot, but—bearing in mind the identity of the man sleeping on her sofa—it was probably a good idea to call Wallin before things got out of hand and he really did get someone to watch her.
She got off the bus at her usual stop, a couple of hundred meters from home, and pulled up his number.
The number you have called has not been recognized. Okay. Maybe that wasn’t so strange. She knew Wallin used to use a pay-as-you-go cell phone to call her, and guessed he had several of them, so he probably ditched them at regular intervals just to be on the safe side.
She tried the main police switchboard. “No, we haven’t got an Oscar Wallin here,” the prissy receptionist replied. “Try the Ministry of Justice.”
He picked up on the first ring, which surprised her. Almost as if he was sitting there, waiting for the phone to ring.
“It’s Natalie. I got your warning. Just wanted to let you know that there was no need for it. I’m sticking to the terms of our agreement.”
A few seconds of silence.
“Really?”
“Yes.” His patronizing tone annoyed her. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He was the one who’d made himself difficult to reach. He was messing with her.
“I tried calling you right after that Amante guy came to see me at work, but your old number doesn’t work,” she lied. “So this whole thing with the damn housing association was uncalled-for. What if I’d lost my apartment?”
“What exactly did you tell Amante?”
He didn’t seem remotely troubled by how angry she was, which just made things worse.
“Nothing but what I said when I was questioned last winter. He showed me a picture of a man called Frank and asked if I recognized him.”
“And?”
“I didn’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have said anything. After all I’ve done for you, you could have made the effort to call me before you decided to start fucking up my life. You ought to trust me, for God’s sake!”
The line crackled and his voice got closer. As if he was holding the phone right next to his mouth.
“Now listen very carefully, Natalie. My dad once had a dog. A golden retriever called Balto. He got it to guard the house. But the stupid dog didn’t understand its job. Didn’t bother to bark if anyone it didn’t recognize appeared. One night an intruder set fire to the garden shed, bu
t Balto didn’t make a sound. Dad had him put down the following day.”
A few seconds’ silence.
“You can play at being a normal person all you like,” Wallin went on. “But we both know who you are. You’re a con artist, someone who tricks people out of their money. You’re pretty good at it, but I’m better, and I’m the police officer who found you out. I own your secrets, which in turn means that I own you. And the moment you stop being useful to me, guess what happens?”
Natalie didn’t answer. Her pulse was thudding in her temples, and a bitter taste arose in the back of her throat.
“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me where we stand.”
“Er . . .” She cleared her throat, hoping he’d let the matter drop. Laugh and hang up.
“Tell me, Natalie.”
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
“You . . . own me.”
“Good. Never call me on this number again, is that understood? If I want you, I’ll be in touch. I know where you are. Was there anything else you wanted to say?”
She wanted nothing more than to end the call. But she had to ask, otherwise this whole humiliation was pointless.
“David Sarac,” she said.
“What about him?” Wallin’s voice was perfectly neutral.
“Is he okay?”
“That depends on how you look at it. He’s in a nursing home up in the north. It’ll be a while before he gets out of there.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“As sure as anyone can be.”
The call ended before Natalie had time to say anything else. She stared at her phone for a few seconds. Wallin was hard enough to read when you were face-to-face with him, so over the phone it was almost impossible. But the nagging anxiety growing in her gut convinced her that he was lying.
Seventeen
Amante opened the door just a couple of seconds after Julia knocked. Almost as if he had been standing in the hall, waiting for her. The security chain was on, and it took a little while before he managed to undo it and open the door fully.
Ultimatum Page 16
