Ultimatum

by Anders de la Motte

  “Understood,” she said.

  • • •

  The man in the smoke shop didn’t seem to recognize Natalie at first, possibly because she was wearing a long, light-colored raincoat instead of the dark, waist-length jacket she had been wearing just a few hours before. But then their eyes met and he put two and two together. His eyes darted to the cell phone a little way down the counter.

  “Hello again,” she said. “Do you remember me, the girl with the passports?”

  “Er, hi. Did you forget something?” The man pulled his phone toward him. He was trying to act casual but wasn’t really succeeding. He and the man in the cap had called off the search for the day. He clearly hadn’t counted on her turning up in the shop again.

  “No, it’s about something else. Something I wanted to show you. Come with me.”

  She stepped behind one of the low shelving units containing sweets and porn magazines. And glanced up at the little spherical camera in the ceiling.

  The man behind the counter glared at her. He was holding his phone in his hand and didn’t seem altogether sure what to do.

  “Come on, hurry up,” she said. “It’s important!”

  He walked around the counter and stopped a meter or so away from her.

  “Closer,” she said.

  The man took a step forward. Then another one. Natalie opened her coat. She saw his eyes open wide when he caught sight of her tattered clothes.

  “Let me explain,” she said, the way she’d practiced in front of the mirror in her apartment. “You’re going to give me the passports, right now, without calling or texting anyone. If you try anything stupid, or say you haven’t got the passports, I’m going to start screaming and pulling these shelves down. I’ve got a friend standing outside, and when she hears me screaming she’s going to call the police and tell them you’re trying to rape me. I’d guess the cops would be here within five minutes, and they’ll find me here in a state of shock with my clothes in tatters.”

  She nodded toward the pants, blouse, and bra she’d carefully prepared at home on her kitchen table.

  “Obviously my friend will back me up, and the recordings from your cameras will support us. That would certainly be enough to get you taken into custody. I’d imagine the cops would take the opportunity to conduct a thorough search of both the shop and your home.”

  She flashed her most beautiful smile at him. She could almost hear the thoughts going around in his head.

  “Look . . .” he said. “You c-can’t . . .”

  Natalie turned to the camera with a look of horror on her face. Then she threw herself at the man and they collided. She pulled down a row of porn magazines in the process.

  “No, no, stop it!” she yelled.

  The man just gawked. She threw herself at a shelf, making it sway.

  “Let go of me!” she cried. Louder this time. “Let me go, for fuck’s sake!”

  The man held his hands up. “Stop it!” A bead of sweat was slowly trickling down his forehead. Then another one.

  Natalie tackled another shelf, pulling down a load of chocolate bars and cookies.

  “Stop it, you’re hurting me! I don’t want to! Get the fuck off me!”

  The door opened and an elderly woman stopped in the doorway. She stared at Natalie, then at the shopkeeper. Natalie winked at him and took a deep breath, getting ready to let out another scream.

  The man’s face was white, and his eyes darted between Natalie and the old woman.

  “For fuck’s sake, stop it,” he hissed. “You can have the passports. Just stop it!”

  • • •

  Julia Gabrielsson was sitting in one of the visitors’ chairs in Wallin’s office. Her clothes were still damp in the places where the car’s seat warmer and air conditioner hadn’t managed to dry them during the drive back into the city. She’d considered stopping at home to change but realized she wouldn’t meet Wallin’s deadline if she did. And pissing him off even more after he’d helped her wouldn’t be a good idea.

  Amante hadn’t said much during the journey. He mostly stared ahead blankly and barely showed any sign of life until she told him about the marks in the cement floor. Being apprehended and cuffed had evidently triggered something inside him, something he had trouble dealing with. Julia felt embarrassed to admit it, but it was actually a relief to be able to drop Amante off outside the apartment. And now here she was, making damp stains on Wallin’s leather armchair.

  “So, to sum up,” Wallin said slowly, “your theory is based upon the assumption that a security consultant named Hunter gave Sarac information about the minister’s involvement in Sophie Thorning’s suicide. Then, when Sarac tried to contact the minister, he was murdered in the boathouse out at Källstavik, a boathouse that is used by the minister of justice’s extended family. Am I right so far?”

  Julia nodded. She wanted to say something else, but Wallin went on before she managed to remember what it was.

  “But all you’ve got by way of evidence, rather than guesswork, theories, and half-truths, are a few grooves in a cement floor?”

  Julia shook her head.

  “We’ve got the message from Sarac, and the pictures.”

  Wallin smiled sardonically. “Yes, you do. But if I’ve understood correctly, it isn’t possible to determine who the message was sent to, much less who might have read it. And as far as those pictures are concerned . . .”

  He gestured toward his screen, where Sophie Thorning’s dead body was in full view.

  “They’re certainly unpleasant, but can we be sure they ­aren’t fakes based on pictures from the original investigation? It wouldn’t be that hard for someone who’s good at Photoshop to change the make of the car, the surface it’s standing on, and the license plate.”

  “The body’s in a different position,” Julia said quickly. “One arm is at a completely different angle. And her legs aren’t in the same position.”

  Wallin shrugged his shoulders. “Same thing there. Probably not that difficult for a talented designer to do in Photoshop.”

  Julia opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself. So far Wallin had been cautiously supportive. He had bought her theories even though she lacked firm evidence. But his attitude seemed to have changed. Was he trying to protect himself and distance himself from her in case rumors of their antics out at the boathouse spread up the chain of command? Or were there other reasons behind his sudden coolness?

  “Well, I still think the pictures look genuine,” she said. “Two cars, two falls. That would explain the extensive injuries described in the autopsy report. Impact injuries sustained immediately before and after death are difficult to distinguish from one another. Unless you know exactly what you’re looking for.”

  Wallin pulled a face that was difficult to interpret.

  “Anyway,” Julia went on, “who’d be interested in Photoshopping those pictures? No one’s likely to have confronted Stenberg with fake pictures, are they?”

  Wallin leaned back in his chair. His expression softened somewhat.

  “That’s an ass-backwards argument, Julia. You’re assuming that the minister of justice was confronted with something, possibly even blackmailed by Sarac, and for that reason the pictures have to be genuine. But set that aside for a moment. Suppose instead that the memory card containing those pictures was left in that office specifically to connect Sarac’s death with Stenberg.”

  Julia shuffled slightly on the chair, making the leather squeak beneath her wet pants as she tried to work out what Wallin was trying to get at.

  “You think this might be some sort of conspiracy? That someone’s trying to frame Stenberg? Isn’t that a bit far-fetched? I appreciate that you work for the minister of justice and feel obliged to defend him . . .”

  Wallin held one hand up. “I don’t think anything right now. All I can concl
ude after hearing your story is that it is a series of suppositions held together by some highly dubious evidence. Some of which you aren’t even in possession of.”

  “So what are your thoughts?” Julia still wasn’t entirely sure of the turn their conversation had taken.

  Wallin gestured toward his computer again.

  “These pictures, for instance. Who found the memory card in Hunter’s hideout?”

  “I did.”

  “The first time you were there?”

  “No, the second time.”

  “Had anyone else been there in between those visits?”

  She hesitated before replying. “As far as I know, no one but Amante. He searched the room while I was at work.”

  “I see. And who found out about that room in the first place? Who got hold of the keys? The phone number of the man you believed was Hunter?”

  “Amante,” she said. She suddenly realized what Wallin was getting at. “You mean Amante planned the whole thing? ­Hunter’s identity, his hideout, the laptop, those pictures? That none of this is real, and Hunter was really some sort of actor? Why would Amante do that?”

  “Amante appeared out of nowhere. As luck would have it, the morning after the remains of the body were found. And I already know it was his stepfather who arranged that.”

  “Yes, but Amante got the job because he needed help. He had a breakdown. Lampedusa, the divorce—he told me about all that himself . . .”

  She noticed Wallin’s skeptical expression before she had even finished the sentence.

  “Besides, you were the one who told me about his suicide attempt and the fire,” she added. She could hear the doubt that had crept into her voice. She didn’t like it.

  “You could be right,” Wallin said without sounding convinced. “Maybe I’m too susceptible to conspiracy theories. Maybe Amante showing up was a complete coincidence, like you say. But, either way, all the evidence or suspicions pointing at Minister of Justice Stenberg have passed through Amante’s hands. You can’t deny that.”

  Julia didn’t answer.

  “The boathouse and your little excursion to Källstavik—that was his idea as well, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded reluctantly. Wallin said nothing for a few seconds as he drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk.

  “I can think of an alternative theory,” he said thoughtfully. “One that we at least need to consider before we move on: Amante shows up at Violent Crime for the reasons you’ve outlined. He ends up in the middle of the investigation into a dismembered body found near Källstavik. Because of the connection to the party, the media begin to take an interest in the case. Amante explains the details to his stepfather, a man who looks likely to replace Stenberg as minister of justice if the opposition wins this autumn’s election. An idea begins to grow. What if the dismembered body could somehow be linked to the government or, better still, to the party’s rising star?”

  Wallin paused, as if to assure himself that Julia was following his reasoning.

  “Linking Stenberg to Sophie Thorning’s suicide wouldn’t seem too far-fetched, considering that they worked together and had known each other for a long time. All it would take would be enough plausible details for the newspapers to bite. The story has everything, after all: sex, suicide, blackmail, a dismembered body. Not to mention a government minister. And the chase would be on. Even if it later turned out that the story didn’t stand up to scrutiny, it would certainly be enough to cause the party, and Stenberg, very serious problems just in time for the election. No smoke without fire and all that.”

  “Wait a minute . . .” Julia began, but Wallin held his hand up before she could go on.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Amante got himself suspended for his mistake with Kassab, and everything seems to have ground to a halt. But instead of dropping the whole thing, they go ahead with the plan. Because by now someone else has been drawn into it. Someone with considerably more credibility than Amante. A talented homicide detective with an excellent track record. An almost perfect messenger for the story they want to plant, wouldn’t you agree?”

  This time Wallin waited for her to reply. But her brain seemed to have seized up and she couldn’t think of anything sensible to say.

  “What do you say about that theory, Julia? Is it really any worse, or any less plausible, than the one you outlined a little while ago? Remember, I did warn you about trusting him.”

  Julia swallowed a couple of times. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Could Amante have been manipulating her? Pulling her strings and making her do what he wanted? Amante’s behavior had certainly become increasingly odd during the course of the investigation, as if he was under great pressure. She had believed that was because of the case and his shock at being exposed once again to dead bodies. But she could easily be wrong. If Wallin’s theory was right, then she would have to reevaluate absolutely everything. Every lead, every word Amante had uttered. She tried to fast-forward through the previous three weeks to find a pivotal moment. A litmus test that could differentiate between truth and lie.

  “There is one way to find out the truth,” she said slowly. “If your theory is right, then the saw marks I found in the boathouse floor a couple of hours ago are also fake, made by Amante or someone he knows, to reinforce the connection to Stenberg. The entire boathouse looked extremely clean. But the cement on the floor is porous, and a body being cut up there would have left loads of DNA evidence. If we conducted a proper forensic examination, I’m pretty sure we’d find at least something in those grooves. Even if the body is gone, a DNA trace could be compared with the sample on file at the National Forensic Centre. If it’s a match, then the case is solved. Our theory holds. Sarac was dismembered in the boathouse at Källstavik, and the blackmail letter and pictures are probably genuine.”

  “And if not?” Wallin said. “If there’s no trace of DNA in the boathouse?”

  Then I’m nothing more than a puppet, a puppet dancing when someone else pulls the strings, Julia thought. As well as a pretty shitty judge of character.

  Forty-One

  Oscar Wallin sat down on one of the armchairs in front of the head of Regional Crime’s oversized desk. He noted that, unlike on previous visits, he hadn’t been offered coffee or anything else to drink. Kollander hadn’t even shaken his hand, just nodded to him to have a seat.

  “So, how are you getting on?” Wallin said. “Have you found Atif Kassab yet?”

  Staffan Kollander leaned back in his chair. The wall behind him was covered with the framed badges of different foreign police forces, all hung with impressive, millimeter-perfect precision that must have taken hours to get right.

  “Does that question come from you or the minister of justice?”

  Wallin shrugged. “Does it make any difference?”

  “A couple of months ago I’d have said no. Whereas now . . .”

  Kollander let the sentence die as he brushed an invisible speck of dust from one of his cuffs, but Wallin was more than capable of finishing it. The head of Regional Crime saw him as a loser, and no one wanted to swim too close to a drowning man.

  “It’s probably best not to draw any hasty conclusions,” he said, trying to make it sound as though the comment amused him.

  He reminded himself of why he was there. Kassab had been hiding in that Scout cabin for several days now and might move on any time. Disappear off the map. And after careful consideration he had decided it was time to tip Kollander off about where the escapee and his family were hiding and who was protecting them. Maybe he could build up some new alliances by helping the cretinous Kollander sort things out. But he had other things to worry about. More important than an escaped convict. A possibility of restitution.

  “Like I said on the phone, I was thinking of offering my help in the Kassab case. Some people are saying that your career depends on whether or not you manage to ca
tch him.” Wallin attempted a disarming smile but could tell he hadn’t quite succeeded. That last sentence was unnecessary.

  There was a knock on the door and Pärson walked in. The fat man nodded to Kollander before sinking into the other armchair. He didn’t even grace Wallin with as much as a glance.

  “Good to see you, Pärson,” Kollander said. “Deputy Police Commissioner Wallin here says he can help us with the Kassab case.” His voice was neutral, but even so, there was something in Kollander’s tone that Wallin didn’t care for. Pärson was hardly likely to show up in his boss’s office without being summoned, so the two of them had evidently already spoken.

  “Really? How?” Pärson grunted. “We’ve got twenty detectives on the case, there’s a national alert, and Kassab is the subject of an international warrant. National Crime is helping, and we’ve got the Rapid Response Unit on standby in case they’re required.”

  He shifted his heavy frame and glared at Wallin.

  “Anyway, haven’t you already got your hands full? Rumor has it that the only investigations you’ll be dealing with in the future concern the force’s postal expenses.” The corners of Pärson’s mouth twitched. “A great shame, for such a well-liked officer as yourself.”

  Wallin breathed in slowly through his nose. Once again he tried to remind himself of why he was there. To build alliances, think strategically. Free up his time for other things.

  He saw Pärson wink at Kollander. Only a few months ago they’d have rolled out the red carpet. They’d have given him anything he wanted, scared of what he could do to their careers. Now they were having fun at his expense and not even trying to hide the fact. A seriously overweight gossip of a commissioner and a bone-dry pedant of a desk jockey, both of a lower rank than him, saw fit to make fun of him.

  Was this the sort of alliance he had imagined? The sort of cooperation he wanted to build his future on?

  Wallin stood up abruptly.

  “Well, never mind, then. Thank you, gentlemen, for taking the time to see me,” he said as amiably as he could.