Nina sat still, her back straight. His way of stressing her title fulfilled two functions. First, he was making it very clear that she was there as a private person: it had been sensible of her to present herself to the receptionist in that capacity. Second, he was stressing her gender: female police officers were still unusual in Spain’s macho culture. His way of dealing with the water-bottle was a less than subtle way of showing his strength. She was actually rather thirsty, but couldn’t see a bottle-opener. She’d never be able to get the cap off with her bare hands but had no intention of asking for his help.
‘A murder trial is currently under way in Stockholm District Court,’ she said, even though she assumed that Commissioner Elorza already knew a fair amount about why she was there. ‘A man named Ivar Berglund has been charged with the crime. He’s a Swedish citizen, single, a businessman with a forestry company, no previous criminal record. The evidence consists of a DNA match found under the victim’s fingernail, a match that isn’t a hundred per cent but which would probably be enough in a normal case. The problem is the nature of the crime and the defendant’s irreproachable background. The murder was unusually calculated, and there’s nothing to suggest that the defendant has a criminal nature.’
Commissioner Elorza took a sip of water, and Nina moistened her lips.
‘We’re also satisfied from an investigative perspective that the same culprit is guilty of an extremely brutal assault on a Swedish politician, a crime that was committed just a couple of days before, in the same part of Stockholm.’
‘But he hasn’t been charged with the assault?’
‘No,’ Nina said.
The old man sucked his teeth, demonstrating obvious disapproval. ‘How come?’
‘There was insufficient forensic evidence.’
‘So what leads you to the conclusion that you’re dealing with the same perpetrator?’
Nina chose her words carefully. ‘A number of reasons. The murdered man was legally responsible for a Spanish company that was owned by the assaulted politician’s wife. A child’s drawing was found at the scene of the murder that could well have been drawn by the politician’s children.’
The commissioner screwed up his eyes. ‘But that isn’t the whole truth,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely certain. Why?’
She held her hands still in her lap. ‘Both victims were subjected to established torture methods.’
The policeman leaned forward in his chair. She had his interest now.
‘Which ones?’ he asked.
She straightened her shoulders, and used Spanish terminology in so far as there was any. ‘Fakala,’ she said, ‘the soles of his feet were beaten. La Bañera, suffocation with a plastic bag. Spread-eagle, in which the victim’s hands were tied behind his back and he was then strung up by his wrists. Cheera – the victim’s legs were pulled apart until the muscles tore. The second victim was subjected to La Barra: his wrists were tied round his knees, then he was hung from a tree by his knees.’
The commissioner looked almost amused. ‘Tell me, Señorita, why have they sent you to give me this information?’
She met his gaze. ‘Because these are my conclusions,’ she said. And because I speak Spanish and we’re in a hell of a hurry.
‘You visited the scenes of these crimes?’
‘Of course.’
‘Didn’t you find it unpleasant?’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘Naturally. They were terrible crimes.’ How could she explain the shadows inside her, the ones that meant she could see in the dark? That she wasn’t afraid of a lack of light because she had been born into it? ‘Criminals are predictable,’ she said. ‘They work in the same way as everyone else. They have the same motivations and ambitions. One common denominator is that they regard themselves as powerless, and are prepared to do anything to change that. What we call evil is really only a consequence of their choice of tool, because they use violence to gain power. We have to look beyond that, and not allow their methods to stop us seeing what’s really important.’
A fleeting smile passed across the old policeman’s face. He leaned forward and twisted the cap off the other bottle, then poured the bubbling water into her glass. ‘What do you know about ETA?’ he asked.
She took a small sip. ‘Not much. A separatist group whose aim was to create an independent Basque state.’
‘Euskadi ta Askatasuna,’ the commissioner said. ‘Basque for “The Basque country and freedom”. Between 1968 and 2003, eight hundred and nineteen people were killed in various acts of terrorism that we believe were caused by ETA. Ernesto Jaka – have you ever heard of him?’
She assumed the question was rhetorical and said she hadn’t.
‘No,’ the commissioner said. ‘Why should you have? Ernesto Jaka was a Basque businessman, from Bilbao. Not too small, but not too big either. He dealt in raw materials, mostly oil. He was found tortured to death in a garbage container at a building site controlled by ETA. It was thought he had neglected to pay his revolutionary tax, another way of describing ETA’s protection racket.’
Nina clasped her hands. ‘I thought ETA mostly stuck to bombings,’ she said.
The commissioner nodded. ‘But sometimes they had a go at something different. In this particular case they had used the tools that were available on the building site, saws and hammers and drills. Well, you can imagine the injuries the victim suffered.’
Nina could, all too well. ‘Where did you find the DNA?’
‘On one of the tools, a saw blade, if I’m not mistaken. Obviously, most of what we found on the tools was the victim’s blood, but there were also traces of different DNA, and a fingerprint that we never managed to identify.’
‘The perpetrator cut his hand or finger when he was using the saw,’ Nina said.
The commissioner nodded enthusiastically. ‘That was what we concluded as well. We compared it to all known members of ETA but without any result, and that’s where we were for eighteen years, until yesterday.’
Nina thought. ‘Ernesto Jaka traded in oil,’ she said. ‘Russian?’
‘Mostly, but also Nigerian,’ the commissioner confirmed.
Nina relaxed her hands.
When the Soviet Union had collapsed, vast quantities of state assets were privatized, among them forestry and oil. During the 1990s a small number of oligarchs became some of the richest men in the world: the Yukos Oil Company and its owner, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, were perhaps the most famous examples, but there were others, not as large, not as particular, and the infighting between them was appalling. Ivar Berglund’s company had traded in a lot of Russian timber: he had the contacts, he had the opportunity.
Commissioner Elorza sighed happily. ‘Imagine,’ he said. ‘It isn’t every day we manage to reduce the number of ETA’s victims, but we can do that today. From eight hundred and nineteen to eight hundred and eighteen.’ He stood up. ‘We’ve prepared all our documentation about the case,’ he said. ‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll—’
‘There was one more thing,’ Nina said, getting slowly to her feet. ‘I was wondering if you could help me with another matter.’
Elorza stopped in the doorway, surprised.
‘It concerns our suspected perpetrator or, rather, his brother,’ Nina said. ‘The perpetrator’s twin brother died in a car crash in Alpujarras twenty years ago. I’d like to know more about what happened.’
There was a glimmer of interest in the old man’s eyes. He took a step back into the room and closed the door again. ‘That could be difficult,’ he said. ‘An ordinary accident gets buried deep in the archives, if the file still exists.’
‘Yes, it would be difficult, and I have no mandate to request it,’ Nina said. ‘But it’s extremely important that I get to see any records.’
‘And what can I do about that?’
‘ “Commissioner Axier Elorza” is a very well-known name throughout the whole of Spain,’ Nina said. ‘The sort of name that can open doors.’
; The old man smiled.
Thomas woke up with a pneumatic drill pounding inside his skull. He tried to open his eyes and was met by shiny, polished knives. Dear God, what the hell had happened?
He lay perfectly still in the merciful darkness behind his eyelids and became aware that he was breathing, so at least he wasn’t dead. Somewhere in the distance he could hear traffic. His mouth tasted like a sewer.
Where was he?
He groaned, and made a fresh attempt to look around.
A white room, stuffy, light falling in through a skylight above his head. Oh, no! Sophia’s bedroom, which had once been his too.
He twisted his head to see if anyone else was in the bed, and there she was, her tangled blonde hair on the white pillow. How had he ended up here? What exactly had happened last night? He moved his left arm and was struck by a terrible realization. What had he done with the hook?
Leaning on his elbow, he heaved himself off the mattress. The drill began to thud twice as fast and he groaned again.
Sophia lifted her head and blinked sleepily at him. ‘Good morning,’ she said groggily, smiling.
He thought he was going to be sick. ‘Good morning.’
The words cut through his brain like a laser scalpel. Sophia reached out a hand and stroked his chest. ‘Oh, it’s so lovely having you here,’ she said.
He held the stump outside the bed so she wouldn’t see it and tried to smile at her. It hurt his facial muscles. How the hell was he going to get out of this? Creeping away without her noticing was out of the question now. Where was the hook? And how was he going to put it on, and his clothes, without her seeing?
‘That was quite some party,’ he said tentatively.
She laughed quietly. ‘Yes, you were certainly in party mode. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on such a roll.’
On a roll? He’d been on a roll?
She leaned over him and he pressed the stump towards the floor, pursing his lips to avoid breathing sewage at her, but she kissed him anyway. She tasted of toothpaste. She must have snuck out to brush her teeth, then crept back into bed and pretended to be asleep: what a phoney. Her eyes were very close to his, so close that he couldn’t see them clearly. He tried to avoid breathing in her minty breath.
‘If you only knew how much I’ve been longing for this,’ she said. ‘I’m so very fond of you.’
He swallowed. ‘And I’m very fond of you,’ he said.
It was almost true, he felt, as he said it, at least in part. He didn’t have anything against her. Sophia was a bit silly and nondescript, but she was loyal and simple-minded.
She ran her hand down his left arm towards the stump. He felt panic growing in his stomach.
‘I think I need to go to the loo,’ he said, and pushed himself up with his right hand. A firework went off inside his head and he groaned again but swung his legs over the side of the bed. His right foot landed on something rubbery. Nausea welled inside him but he forced himself to look down at the floor. He had trodden on the hook, but what the hell had he done with his clothes?
‘Would you like breakfast?’ Sophia asked.
‘In a bit,’ he said, bending down to pick up the prosthesis.
‘It’s so lovely that you wanted to stay,’ Sophia said, behind his back. ‘And I really appreciate the fact that you trust me, that you let me get close to you. I know how hard it’s been for you since the accident.’
Accident?
He had been mutilated by Somali terrorists when he was on official business for the Swedish government. That wasn’t an accident, a random occurrence. Accidents were old people slipping on ice and breaking their hips, like his mum had done last winter, or people getting whiplash in their cars. What had happened to him was an act of terrorism with international consequences!
‘I know you find it difficult, but your hand really does look completely natural,’ she said. ‘No one who didn’t know what you went through would realize that it . . .’
Grabbing the hook with his right hand, he hid the stump in front of his body and stood up. His legs were a bit shaky but he stayed upright. Where was his shirt? He looked round desperately, his mouth dry. There, on the floor by the door. And his underpants – oh, thank God, they were next to his shirt.
He fled into the bathroom, dropped his clothes on the slate floor, put the hook in the washbasin and locked the door behind him. Exhausted, he slumped on to the toilet, the seat ice-cold against his naked buttocks. His heartbeat was thudding in his head in time with the drill. He found himself staring at his cock. Did they have sex last night? He had no memory of it, but one of his talents was the ability always to get it up. It was almost always an advantage, but there were exceptions. Last night was one of them. He leaned over and sniffed. They’d had sex. Bloody hell.
He sighed. Out in the hall he could hear Sophia humming, the way she did when she was in a really good mood. She was on her way to the kitchen to make breakfast. The very idea made him feel ill. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
Oh, well, he had the hook and his clothes with him, so if he could just put them on he’d probably be able to get out of there. He stood up and turned on the cold tap, filled her pink tooth-mug and drank. (When he’d lived there he’d had a pale blue one.) He met his own gaze in the mirror, red-rimmed and hollow-eyed. He looked down at the hook.
A cosmetic hand, it was called. It was supposed to look as much like a natural hand as possible, but the problem was that you could barely move it. You could use it as a brace, or hang things from it. Its outer layer consisted of a PVC glove that could be replaced, and had been chosen to match his natural skin tone. He hated it, but not as much as he hated the other hand, the one he called the Terminator. That was at home, buried at the bottom of a drawer. The Terminator consisted of metal fingers attached to straps round his back and shoulders, and it was considerably more manoeuvrable. He was supposed to use it when he was ‘pottering about at home’ (as the doctor had put it).
Back at the start he had tested a myoelectric prosthesis as well, an advanced contraption that could be controlled by electrical impulses from the stump. It ran on batteries that needed charging, it was heavy, and whirred when he moved the fingers. There wasn’t space for it in the drawer so he had handed it back.
The thought of the whirring hand made his stomach churn, and he fumbled with the toilet seat, only just managing to lift it at the last minute before the evidence of last night’s drinking came back up.
Afterwards his whole body felt sweaty. He flushed but stayed on all fours, panting.
‘Are you okay?’ Sophia asked, from outside the door.
Christ, he couldn’t even throw up in peace. ‘Fine,’ he said, amazed at how normal he sounded. ‘I’ll be out soon.’
‘Would you like scrambled egg?’
He stood up cautiously. ‘Just some coffee,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’
She didn’t answer. He could feel her silent disappointment through the bathroom door.
‘Okay,’ she said eventually, and went back to the kitchen. No humming this time.
He rinsed his mouth: he wouldn’t be able to escape a farewell kiss. He pulled his underpants over his sticky cock and picked up the hook. It wasn’t hard to attach: he could strap it straight on to his arm. The silicon on the inside smelt bad – it got very sweaty when the weather was as hot as it had been. The hook scratched and slipped.
He looked at his reflection. A man in early middle age in his shirt and underpants and hook, cloudy eyes, messy hair and uncertain future prospects. He felt like bursting into tears.
He cleared his throat, unlocked the bathroom door, went back into the bedroom and found the rest of his clothes scattered across the floor. With fumbling fingers he managed to put on his chinos, socks, shoes and jacket. He stuffed his tie into his pocket. Then he went down the hall and into the kitchen.
Sophia was wearing underpants and a T-shirt, and suddenly looked naked in comparison to his formal dress. It made
her a bit shy. ‘Coffee’s ready.’
He gazed at the dull wooden top of the island unit, the old-fashioned cupboard doors. ‘How tatty it all looks,’ he said.
Her smile grew unsteady as she handed him a mug of coffee, standing close to him. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay a little longer?’ she whispered against his neck.
He took a dutiful sip of the coffee, then kissed her gently on the lips. ‘All the plans we made for renovations. You never got any further with them?’
She took a step back from him and lowered her gaze. ‘It didn’t seem as much fun when I was on my own,’ she said.
He made an effort to conceal his derision when he looked at her: how small and pathetic she was. ‘I suppose I could stay a bit longer,’ he said.
The clouds were gathering over the ironworks. The wind tugged and tore at the tops of the birches, making them rustle like rain. Half a dozen cars were parked outside the discount outlet: cut-price clothes weren’t in demand that Thursday morning.
Annika drove up past Tattarbacken and forked right towards the Konsum supermarket. She was careful to avoid looking towards the turning to the beach at Tallsjön. She saw some girls sitting at the bus-stop swinging their feet, each of them eating an ice-cream. She had sat there just like that, with ice-cream and the same swing in her legs, but there and then was an utterly different place from here and now, thirty years later. Both she and the little industrial town had changed, but the main difference was in her perspective. Back then the works had been the world, a self-evident and integrated whole. Everything had fitted together and she was part of it. Today she saw the town as separate splinters, individual entities that just happened to have ended up in the same place, buildings and people alike, coming together for a few brief moments.
Where should she start looking?
She stopped outside the supermarket. Her mother didn’t work much, these days. Other people could stand in behind the till whenever someone was ill. Despite all the years she had spent as a temp, Barbro had never had a permanent job in the shop. For some reason that made Annika feel ashamed.
The Final Word Page 18
