Knock Knock

by Anders Roslund

  “Before you step in.”

  He unlocked, but didn’t open it completely, hesitated with his hand on the handle.

  “Mariana, you dropped in unexpectedly a few days ago—so you know a little more about what we’ll be talking about in there. Sven, you’ve also been here once before, but that was a long time ago and not particularly pleasant, I think we can both agree. And for you, Lucas and Amelia, this will be your first opportunity and the fact that this is happening during your training period is as odd for me as it is for you. But everything about this investigation has been odd.”

  He looked at them, one by one.

  “Because this is it—whether you’ve known me for many years or just a few weeks, the following rules apply: when you cross this threshold and enter my hall, you’re entering into silence. Into an alternative police world. Are you okay with that?”

  They nodded. All of them. And at about the same time.

  “Good. Then you’re welcome inside. Continue straight as far as you can, then turn right into the kitchen.”

  While Grens grabbed some extra chairs from the living room, his four guests stood in front of a whiteboard with documents pinned to it and arrows pointing in various directions. It certainly looked like a police investigation. And the longer they looked at it, the more it turned into a police investigation.

  “You guys have made some progress since the last time I was here.”

  Mariana Hermansson was close to the board, reading the reports, examining the pictures.

  Sven Sundkvist showed up at her side.

  “Ewert . . . what is all this? Investigation results and forensic analyses that I’ve never seen. And when Mariana says you guys have come a long way—she sure as hell isn’t referring to you and me.”

  The detective superintendent asked them to sit down, put the coffee-maker on, and brought out five cups and a fresh roll of Marie biscuits. He poured a cup for each of them, then turned to the two cadets.

  “You heard Hermansson’s voice? She tried to hide it, but she didn’t manage at all. And you heard Sven? He almost never swears. What you hear from both of them is annoyance. Since I know them well it’s quite obvious to me. And do you know why they’re annoyed? Because they’ve never been through this before. Even though they’ve worked in the homicide unit for twenty and ten years respectively. And as for me—I’ve worked there twice as long as either of them, and I’ve never been through this. So what I’m doing now, what I’ve been doing, is in no way based on experience, it’s just how I think this will work out best. And therefore, Lucas and Amelia, I think it’s time for them to stop being annoyed and instead focus on solving a crime. What do you say, sounds reasonable, right?”

  He didn’t look at either Sven or Mariana. He didn’t need to. They could stay annoyed at him for shutting them out. They understood why. Their boss had considered both of them suspects.

  “But here’s the thing, Lucas and Amelia, I haven’t had any other option, but to work from here. And now that I’ve invited you all in because I need your help, you too have no alternative. The kitchen table you’re sitting at is as close to the police station this investigation will get.”

  He tapped his finger on a red cross in the middle of the whiteboard, which had four green lines leading out from it to four pictures of hit men involved in the arms trade. Three dead, on their backs, and one sitting in a jail cell for his third and final day.

  “I trust no one, and you trust no one. Because what we’re looking for in our little side investigation is—a police leaker. One of your colleagues thinks it’s more fun and profitable to work with whoever’s face should be sitting there on that red cross. It’s because of a police leak that we have three murders on our hands. And it’s because of a police leaker . . .”

  The detective superintendent opened the biscuits and offered them to the group, but found no takers. So he grabbed a couple for himself.

  “. . . that Zaravic was locked up on such vague grounds. Because I too have someone in place—a man who needs to be left to his own devices while he works his way closer to that face we don’t yet know.”

  “In place?”

  Sven was really annoyed. At having been suspected of betrayal, confused for a quisling. In his world, which was based on loyalty, nothing was worse. He knew that trust took a long time to build, and could be destroyed in an instant.

  “Ewert—in place? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’m sure you’ve all started to figure this out. You saw what was written on the mailbox, which somehow managed to survive the blast. The Koslow Hoffmann family lives here. Our very best infiltrator. Piet Hoffmann has traveled to northern Albania and a city called Shkodër on my behalf. We believe that the top man of this arms smuggling operation is based there—and that he will connect us to the man who’s shooting people in Sweden.”

  “The top man? Who?”

  “We don’t really know yet. I thought at first that it might be someone I’d arrested before who was connected with the dead like Zaravic—but he’s been executed too, in the same way. We now have a new name that Hoffmann was able to track down with local help. But whether that’s the top man, or just someone who’s working close to him, we don’t really know yet.”

  Grens looked for the first time directly at Mariana and Sven. They were sitting here because he invited them in. Needed them. He’d counted on the cadets’ reactions, they’d responded almost solemnly, proud to be part of something so real, and ready for anything. But for this to succeed, he was dependent on his closest colleagues. What he was going to have them do, he couldn’t really say yet. That depended on Hoffmann. But he must, as their supervisor, know that they too—even though he’d insulted them with his lack of confidence—were prepared to invest themselves totally in an investigation that wasn’t even close to officially sanctioned.

  He watched them. Until they finally nodded.

  They were with him.

  “Thank you. Then it’s like this. I can . . .”

  Grens glanced around for his phone, there was a small clock on it.

  “What are you looking for, Ewert?”

  “My phone.”

  His guests started to help him search. But found nothing more than their own cell phones.

  “Okay, Sven, can you check yours? What time is it?”

  Sven Sundkvist turned over the phone that lay in front of him.

  “Quarter past ten.”

  “Thank you. So here’s how it is: I can keep Dusko Zaravic locked up for twelve more hours. That’s how long we have to prevent a fourth murder—either Zaravic’s or Hoffmann’s.”

  “Hoffmann?”

  “I can’t tell you more, not yet. But the whole Hoffmann family is in danger.”

  “But if you won’t explain, how are we going to . . .”

  “Twelve hours, Sven. That’s how long we have to find the police leak. Piet Hoffmann from where he’s located, and us from here. Okay?”

  12:03 PM

  (9 hours and 59 minutes remaining)

  The house that Piet Hoffmann had broken into lay opposite the white two-story house, and according to Latifi it too was built for one of the Communist Party’s political commissars. Today, it was owned just like the two-story house, by a member of the nouveau riche, but it had neither armed guards nor a forest of antennas on its roof. After a couple of hours watching the house from his car, he was certain the owners weren’t at home, and he could break a window on the backside and move freely inside as he followed the path on the drawings that led down the stairs to the basement and then to the boiler room at its far end, which was warm, narrow, and whose air smelled like old oil, but he didn’t notice. He focused on the brick wall behind the big furnace, trying to read it, running his hand over it, letting his fingers wander across each seam. That wall—according to the secret documents that his new Albanian cop fr
iend had dug up—was the key. He checked the right half, from floor to ceiling, and he was approaching the middle of the brick wall when his phone rang. A phone that only four people had the number to. Zofia—who knew not to call for the next few hours. Grens—who had agreed to wait until Hoffmann contacted him. Latifi—who was going to call only when the two-story house was empty, which could take a while. And Andy—who sat in a studio apartment with its blinds drawn watching images of people who needed protection, and who was only supposed to call about one of the families he was guarding—the one that had seven cameras pointed toward them, who were hidden in a ground-floor apartment in Gamla Sickla.

  Hoffmann’s family.

  “One of the kids just disappeared.”

  “What?”

  “Camera 6, on the apartment’s front door. One of the kids, the older boy I think, went out into the stairwell. And didn’t come back.”

  “Andy—went where?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t go out the front door. And he’s not visible in the stairwell.”

  “My boy.”

  Hoffmann had whispered that, and it was difficult to make out over a long-distance line.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said we have to take care of it.”

  “What do you want me to do? Drive over there? If so, no one will be guarding the others. Or should I call Carlos, who’s probably asleep before tonight? Boss, this is what I warned you about, a protective target that’s so far away from the others, I . . .”

  “You sit tight. I’m glad you called me. I got this.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The floor had opened up, and he had stared down into a hole. A secret exit. Hugo had just managed to put it back down and closed the closet door, when Mom and Rasmus and Luiza came out of the bathroom after the diaper change. Then he had waited. And waited. Until the right moment, when Mom was busy with the others.

  Now.

  She didn’t see when he turned the lock and snuck out into the stairwell.

  She didn’t see when he continued on toward the basement.

  That’s where he had to go.

  To find out what was down there.

  Their escape route.

  * * *

  • • •

  Zofia?”

  “We weren’t supposed to . . .”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the kitchen. Lunchtime. I’m making . . . what is it, Piet?”

  “Hugo? Do you see him?”

  “He’s playing video games.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “He was just on the sofa. And I hear the sound.”

  “Go there.”

  “Wait.”

  “Are you there?”

  “Soon.”

  “Zofia, I . . .”

  “Piet?”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s not there.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It really smelled like basement. And it was creepily dark with just his cell phone flashlight to light the way. But he was close. There. Behind the thick door with round metal wheels he had to turn to open. If he got in there he would be standing right under the apartment and the closet. Hugo pulled and dragged at the sluggish wheels on the heavy door. Until it glided up. And he could step into a space he thought was called an air raid shelter. They didn’t have one at home—well, they didn’t have anything at home anymore, because it didn’t exist—but he’d been in shelters before, at Willy and Jari’s, classmates of his who lived in one of the high-rises in Farsta. It was even darker in here. Pitch black. No windows. He pointed his flashlight to the ceiling. Searching with the light beam. Until he discovered a bit where the white paint seemed a little whiter. If he pushed over the big metal rack that stood in one corner—he had no clue what it was for—he could climb up and reach the ceiling. And when he knocked on the surface with the slightly different shade, the sound was just like when he knocked on the hole in the closet—empty, echoing.

  * * *

  • • •

  Zofia? Listen to me. Hugo isn’t on the sofa. He left the apartment. And you have to follow him! Even though you weren’t supposed to leave. None of you should!”

  “How do you know that? How do you know he left?”

  “I just know it. Hurry.”

  “Are you watching us?”

  “Not me.”

  “Are you having us watched?”

  “Hurry, Zofia!”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “He can’t be seen!”

  “I’m soon . . . Piet, the front door. You’re right.”

  “What?”

  “It’s unlocked.”

  “He hasn’t gone far, so if you . . .”

  “Hugo? Where . . . where did you come from?”

  “What exactly is happening, Zofia?”

  “Just when I was about to run out into the stairwell, he was standing here.”

  “Ask him where he’s been!”

  “Hugo, you can’t leave. You know that.”

  “Where has he been!”

  “Where have you been?”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he wanted air. But changed his mind.”

  “Air?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Lock the door. And have a serious talk with him. You promise me, Zofia?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Piet Hoffmann had tried to call Andy three times to tell him that everything was fine, the boy was back. No answer. That wasn’t like his most reliable guard. Didn’t he hear the phone—was he on his way anyway? In that case, he’d soon realize that the family he was guarding was actually Hoffmann’s own. It shouldn’t matter that Andy knew. But it felt wrong now, after he chose not to tell him, even lied to him.

  His hand, fingers, searching every inch of the brick wall. There wasn’t much wall space left, and he still hadn’t found what he was looking for, and it was at that point that the heat and stink of the boiler room started to penetrate his consciousness.

  The brick at the bottom left.

  The seam between the bricks was a little rougher there, his fingertip’s journey not as smooth and even.

  He pressed the stone, very hard. And the whole wall started to move. From that seam, an awkward door slid up.

  Houses built for high-ranking politicians, linked with secret tunnels.

  That was what Latifi’s papers had shown. Tunnels created for escape, or unofficial meetings, or maybe it was just the dictatorship’s way of reinforcing the feeling of inaccessibility. A solution reminiscent of the one he’d used in a house that—according to Zofia—no longer existed, brick walls were forgiving because seams were rarely symmetrical and therefore tricked the eye that didn’t know where to look.

  He turned on his flashlight and stepped into the tunnel. He pushed the same brick to shut the hidden door behind him. Seventy-five meters, a little hunched over, with everything he needed on his back. Then, according to the drawings, the next brick wall would be waiting for him.

  12:52 PM

  (9 hours and 10 minutes remaining)

  The sun reflected off the waxed floor of the Kronoberg jail as Ewert Grens exited it. Dusko Zaravic was still sitting in the fourth cell on the left, and just as unwilling to talk as the first time—he’d stared at the floor while the detective superintendent questioned him about his role in the Swedish weapons trade, mumbling no comment to all the questions about his relationship to Albania, and told the detective to go to hell when the conversation turned to his three dead colleagues. They were both professionals, and they knew how it worked. Grens needed something concrete that would constitute evidence or suspicion enough to extend the arrest warrant, Zaravic knew the less he talked,
the less likely they’d be able to keep him.

  Elevator down, a new corridor, elevator up.

  Erik Wilson was waiting as promised at his desk, and also as promised, he hadn’t changed his mind.

  “I’m not contacting the prosecutor. I’m not negotiating the arrest. I did that last time, Ewert, after your subtle threat, but not again.”

  “In that case, the bastard will be released tonight.”

  “You got your chance. But you haven’t shown me anything to hold him.”

  “If he’s released—you know what that means. The papers stolen from your safe, Wilson. You know what’s in them, about Hoffmann, what he used to do for us, for you, and you know what will happen if Zaravic finds out.”

  “We can’t just lock up someone who’s not suspected of committing a crime.”

  Grens looked at his boss. There was nothing else to say right now. Wilson was technically right—and Grens wasn’t showing all of his cards.

  “And Ewert, I understand why this is so important for Piet Hoffmann. But why is it important to you? We both know what Hoffmann is good at and that you’re helping him—so what’s he doing for you that I should know about?”

  That was a question the detective superintendent wasn’t ready to answer. Not as long as someone was leaking information from this unit. He stood up to leave, but Wilson stopped him.

  “By the way, Ewert, this is yours, right?”

  There were two cell phones on Wilson’s desk. One of them was extremely similar to Grens’s own.

  “I was looking for you earlier. The explosion, Hoffmann’s house, I wanted to know more and . . . when I called you, a phone started ringing outside in the corridor. Your phone, Ewert. It was on the copier. Guess you must have taken off in a hurry this morning?”

  The phone he and his small team had searched for in vain at their meeting on Svea Road.

  “On the copier?”

  “Yes. Please keep it with you now. This goddamn investigation . . . I want to be able to reach you at any time, Ewert. Put it in your pocket and leave it there.”