How had he ended up here? How had he let things get to the point where the only thing he could do was acquiesce, no matter what Molander demanded?
‘And then what?’ he said. ‘After we arrest him. Then what happens?’
‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask.’ Molander paused and nodded, as though he needed to choose his words carefully. ‘You hinted at it yourself just now.’ He crossed his arms and sighed. ‘I can’t go on like this forever. I know that, too.’
Fabian was about to speak, but Molander raised his hand pre-emptively.
‘I know what you’re thinking. That I’ve lost my mind and have to be considered a raving lunatic. But it’s not like that. Not at all, actually. I’m fully aware what I’ve done is wrong and heinous in every way. That it goes against every sound value and all the things I once believed in.’
‘And yet you’ve carried on.’
‘Yes.’ Molander nodded. ‘Like an alcoholic who wants to quit but can’t resist temptation. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the moment I stuck that knife into Einar, I opened myself up to something stronger and more addictive than anything else. And the best and probably only way to get clean is, in fact, to come clean and face my punishment, whatever that might be. I’m fully prepared for a life sentence.’
‘So why not turn yourself in and let us have the evidence?’
Molander nodded. ‘I could, sure. And seen from your perspective, there’s obviously no downside. The thing is, though, I don’t want to. Like I said before, I’ve invested too much in this case to jump ship on the final stretch.’ He squatted down and leaned in against Fabian’s legs. ‘I don’t know if you’ve realized, but this is the case of a lifetime. It trumps everything else, and when we tell the media how these cases are connected, all hell’s going to break loose. I promise you, books will be written about this. Dissertations. Films. There’s no telling how big this will be.’
‘Okay, I guess that matters if you’re the kind of person who wants to go on morning shows and be famous. But the only thing I—’
‘Fabian, what I’m trying to tell you is that we’re experiencing something that’s never going to happen again. If you think I’m sick for saying that, okay, fine, maybe I am. But just so you know, you’re the same.’ He jabbed a finger into Fabian’s chest and then his own. ‘You and me, even though you hate me with a burning hatred right now, we’re birds of a feather. When I look at you, I see someone as manic as myself. You have that tunnel vision I recognize from when I’m about to blinker everything but the investigation I’m working on. Imagine if you were the one who had to walk away now, just when everything’s coming together…’ Molander shook his head. ‘You can’t, can you? So all I ask is that we finish what we started. No more, no less.’
‘So we’re supposed to just keep working like nothing’s happened?’
‘More or less, yes. Though we should be able to focus much better now that we’ve cleared the air and know where we stand.’ He shot Fabian a smile and stood up. ‘Why else would I be doing all of this?’ He spread his hands. ‘If I just wanted to kill you so I could walk away scot-free, all I’d have to do is flick that switch over there. And the reason I don’t want to do that isn’t that I’d miss you, or feel guilty. Maybe I should, but unfortunately, I don’t. No, the only reason is that I’m convinced you’re needed to close this case. No offence to Klippan, Lilja and Tuvesson, but without you, we’re not going to solve this.’
‘And how am I supposed to trust you? How can I be sure you’ll uphold your end of the bargain and turn yourself in once this is over?’
‘The simple answer is that you can’t. On the other hand, what choice do you have?’
PART IV
27–28 June 2012
A FEW HOURS after the failed grenade attack on the Austro-Hungarian Crown Prince Franz Ferdinand on 28 June 1914, the route his driver was to use to take the Archduke and his wife from the Governor’s residence was altered. But in the heat of the moment, the driver accidentally turned down the wrong street.
At the same time, Gavrilo Princip, one of several Bosnian-Serb nationalists out to get Ferdinand, had decided to have lunch at Moritz Schiller’s café when the car carrying the Archduke turned in and got stuck in traffic right in front of him.
Were the two fatal shots that followed the result of pure chance? And if so, should the subsequent events be considered happenstance as well? That is to say, the outbreak of the First World War, which in turn shaped Adolf Hitler and thus would come to affect every aspect of twentieth-century European history.
Was it all just coincidence?
If you believe Charles Darwin, we, too, are the product of chance on the molecular level. We have evolved and developed through random mutations and natural selection. The question one has to ask oneself is whether everything, all the way back to the origin of the universe, is one big fluke.
36
BEATA SANDSTRÖM WAS standing on the bridge, scanning the sea with the binoculars her husband had given her before this, her first journey as captain of the MS Vinterland. In front of her, Anholt island appeared like a few swift pencil strokes against the horizon, and behind her Sweden was dissolving into a light blue haze.
She shouldn’t be alone on the bridge; it was against regulations on a freighter this size. But the behaviour of her first mate, Piter Grynhoff, had been so infuriating she’d finally seen no other way but to order him back to his cabin half an hour before the end of his shift.
She checked her watch and realized she had another fifteen minutes before it was time for her second mate to join her. And him, she liked. Jan-Ove Bengtsson was Grynhoff’s polar opposite and thankfully refrained from the territorial pissing so many men seemed compelled to engage in just because she was a woman whose orders they had to obey.
Maybe she should call up one of the sailors to keep Bengtsson company so she could get a few hours of rest. But she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anyway. Exhausted as she was after the stress of the past few hours, she was still too wound up.
Maybe it was no wonder. This was, after all, her first journey as captain, and though she’d encountered both conflicts and problems, she’d successfully steered the ship through one of the world’s most difficult and heavily trafficked sounds without a major incident.
Granted, they were over two hours behind schedule, which was decidedly more than could be considered passable, and even though they were now doing eighteen knots, they weren’t going to be able to make up more than about thirty minutes before it was time to dock in Fredrikshamn.
Two hours. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing, but in her world it was if not a full-blown disaster, then at least a minor one. Like in the air freight business, the big costs were associated with loading and unloading. The exorbitant port fees, the crane rental and the unloading space for the containers. Not to mention the labour costs. That was where the millions were spent, and in less than twenty minutes from now, they were going to start pouring straight into the harbour as all the hired men sat around idle, waiting for the ship to arrive.
But she would get through this. In fact, she could already feel herself starting to put it behind her and find her way back to equanimity. As though this journey through the sound had given her more experience than all her other journeys put together.
The anxiety had come on the moment they’d sighted the old lighthouse in Falsterbo, and right on cue she felt the first stirrings of both acid reflux and stomach cramps, which had made her question her competence. She, who had finally achieved her dream of being the senior officer on a 500-foot, 10,000-ton freight ship travelling through a heavily trafficked sound. Suddenly, she’d lost all faith in herself and wished she could have been anywhere but there.
When the 121-foot-tall ship passed under the 180-foot span of the Öresund Bridge, sweat had been dripping from her forehead from tension that would not subside until several hours later.
Grynhoff had sensed her anxiety, of course. I promise
. We’re not going to hit the bridge, he’d told her with a smile so condescending she’d felt an urge to keelhaul him. But she’d let the attack pass without comment, knowing the journey through the narrow sound would likely involve situations where she’d need him.
Like passing through the shallowest part of Flintrännan soon thereafter. It was no deeper than 27.5 feet on an average day and considering that the ship when fully loaded had a draught of 22.3 feet, the 5.2-foot margin was on the small side. And with the water level being unusually low, she’d been seriously concerned they were going to run aground and need to be towed.
But everything had gone to plan, and later on, as they passed through the bottleneck between Helsingborg and Helsingør, she’d allowed herself a quick visit to the captain’s cabin to wash her armpits, put on fresh deodorant and change her shirt. The sound finally opened out into Kattegat. She would be able to keep the timetable and put her captain’s hat back on without apologizing.
But she hadn’t even had time to do that when the pitch of the monotonous rumbling of the engines had suddenly changed as their speed was halved. She’d immediately called Grynhoff and demanded an explanation. But none had been forthcoming. Instead, he’d asked her to present herself on the bridge. Present herself. Those had been his exact words. As though he were in charge and not her.
By the time she’d made it back up to the bridge, their speed had already decreased by one knot and she had immediately ordered Grynhoff to restore the engine speed. But he had refused, informing her of an all-ships urgency message from the coastguard asking all vessels to slow down.
In hindsight, it had clearly been an attempt to cause a delay. Things had come off too well and it had been up to him to trip her up. But at the time, she’d believed him. Even when he claimed it was something about a suspected murderer being on the loose after attacking a family with a sword in the middle of Öresund, she’d assumed he was telling the truth and ordered the crew to keep a lookout.
But obviously, no one had spotted a lunatic in a rubber dinghy, and when she’d finally called off the search, Grynhoff had objected so vociferously she’d felt compelled to send him below decks. By then, they’d been moving so slowly it had taken them over an hour just to get back up to cruising speed.
Bengtsson would be up in five minutes, and an hour or so after that they would reduce their speed once more and start preparing to dock. She had decided to call in a sailor to assist him. Not so she could sleep, but to give her time to write a detailed report about the events. Hopefully, if put the right way, it would head off some of the criticism.
She went over to the communication panel, picked up the internal phone receiver and was dialling sailor Axel Johnsson’s cabin when a shadow seemed to flit by in the reflection from one of the windscreens. She instinctively turned around, and froze.
How had he got in without the slightest sound? How had he got on board? True, Grynhoff had reduced their speed considerably, but at no point had they come close to stopping.
She hadn’t believed he existed, much less seen him. And yet she knew exactly who he was. That tight, dark wetsuit. That was all she needed. The swim goggles dangling around his neck. The hood that was pulled up, hiding everything but his face. Those eyes, those hypnotic eyes, boring into hers. She knew.
‘Yes, this is Johnsson,’ a drowsy voice said.
‘He’s here,’ she shouted when she finally got hold of herself again and turned back towards the internal phone. ‘Up here, on the bridge! He’s—’
That’s as far as she got before the shadow in the corner of her eye lunged. The sound of his breathing in her ear and his arm like a vice around her waist. She hadn’t even heard him move through the room. The only sound he’d made had been strangely metallic, which was explained when he pressed the cold blade against her throat.
‘Captain Sandström, is that you?’ said Axel Johnsson. ‘Hello?’
‘You dialled the wrong number,’ the shadow whispered in her ear.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine, everything’s under control,’ the man continued, and she felt the edge of the blade, about to cut into her skin.
‘Hello? Beata, talk to me. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ she finally managed to squeeze out. ‘I dialled the wrong number. Sorry. I meant to call Bengtsson, he’s supposed to be up in a few minutes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I just wanted to hurry him along, because I’m on my own here at the moment. But everything’s under control. You go back to sleep,’ she said, and hung up.
‘There we are. Good girl. You do know how to behave.’
‘How did you get on board?’ she hissed. ‘Did someone help you?’ She had to know. ‘Did someone on the ship help you?’
‘That’s a long story and time is much too short.’
The pain across her throat reminded her the blade was millimetres away from cutting her throat. And yet, for some reason, she wasn’t afraid. Maybe because the whole thing felt so implausible. ‘Who are you?’ she said, noting that her shock was turning into anger. ‘And what do you want?’
‘Too many questions that will never be answered. Better to listen and obey.’
She nodded and felt the pressure of the blade ease slightly.
‘There we are. If we can keep things like this, you’re going to get away with nothing but a scar across your throat. Think of it as a small reminder of how luck was on your side this time.’
The sword vanished from her throat and with it, some of the pain. But she could feel the blood, feel it trickling from the cut down her collar and into her bra.
‘And if I don’t obey?’
‘You will. For example, right now, you’re going to call that Bengtsson bloke and ask him to stay in bed.’
‘There has to be two of us on the bridge. He’s never going to agree.’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. And besides, there are two of us on the bridge.’
She picked up the receiver and started to dial while contemplating trying to catch him off guard with a sudden shove. Granted, it had been years since she stopped doing martial arts, but if she could shift her weight onto her right foot, she should be able to do it. He wouldn’t be prepared at all and with a powerful backward kick to follow up, he’d be off balance.
‘Yes, this is Bengtsson. I’m on my way up. I just have to—’
‘Jan-Ove, never mind,’ she broke in. ‘That’s why I’m calling. I have the first mate here with me, so you stay in bed.’
‘Grynhoff? I don’t understand. Why is he there? Didn’t he just—’
‘Piter and I have a few things to discuss, okay?’
‘I suppose that’s putting it mildly. Just so you know, you have my full support. He’s the one who should apologize, not you.’
‘Thanks, Janne. I’ll talk to you in a bit,’ she said, and was just about end the call when she heard the metallic sound again. And as though that were the signal her subconscious had been waiting for, she pushed back with all her might. ‘Janne, he’s here!’ she bellowed and followed up with a kick, as planned. ‘The guy with the sword is here!’ She could hear him falling over. ‘Call everyone to the bridge!’ High on adrenaline, she turned around and hurled herself at him in one smooth motion.
When she realized the sword was pointed up, it was already too late.
Pain shot through her body like an explosion of welding flames as the steel slid through her and came out the other side.
Somehow, she was more surprised than shocked. Everything was so unexpected. She didn’t even understand her own reaction. It was as though she’d left her body. As though none of this was happening for real.
At least she was still alive. The pain made that abundantly clear. The blood may have dyed large sections of her shirt red, but she was breathing.
‘Hello, Jan-Ove Bengtsson,’ she heard the man say into the phone. ‘Now, you listen to me.’
As though
she preferred bleeding to death slowly to having it be over quickly.
‘Who I am is not important. Quite the opposite.’
And why was she thinking about that now? During her last moments.
‘The only thing you are going to do, Jan-Ove, is stay in your little cabin, just like everyone else on this ship.’
She’d never believed in the supernatural, or an afterlife. Once it was over, it was over for real. It didn’t matter how much she’d looked forward to the rest of her life. She might only have seconds before everything went dark. She should be thinking of her beloved husband and the children they’d talked so much about but not had the time to actually make.
‘The only thing I can say is that if I get the feeling you’re trying to sneak up here, your captain won’t survive. So for her sake, stay away.’ He hung up and turned to Beata, who was lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood, penetrated by the sword just above her left hip. ‘Now, that was a tad unnecessary, don’t you think?’ He squatted down in front of her, grabbed the sword by the hilt and pulled it out.
Then he wiped the blade clean on her trousers, stood up and slid the sword into its sheath, which was strapped across his back.
She could still see everything he was doing. Follow every movement, though things were becoming increasingly diffuse. She could barely feel the pain any more, and she almost enjoyed lying there, feeling the responsibility drain away.
Then he was back in her field of vision. She hadn’t even realized he’d gone. Her shirt. Why was he pulling at it? Rape? Was that what this was about? Maybe after she died. There were people like that. Necrophiliacs, they were called, yes. But still. No… It was too… What was he doing now? The first aid kit. She didn’t understand. Why was he taking out the scissors? Couldn’t he just leave her alone? Whatever it was he was after, he’d won already.
She saw the scissors catch the light. Saw him cutting. But it didn’t hurt. She could barely feel it. Maybe this is what fading away was like. You went numb first. Like a final kindness at the end.
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