Watching You

by Arne Dahl

  ‘The worst thing,’ Molly Blom said, ‘is that I can’t tell if it’s mine or William’s.’

  They sat there together on the floor of the boathouse listening to the rustling of the hedgehogs. Time passed in peculiar phases. The trees rustled non-stop. There was someone trying to get through from another time.

  ‘The light,’ Berger said. ‘Why did it feel like the building was lit up?’

  ‘It didn’t matter in the end,’ Blom said.

  ‘I’m just wondering why.’

  ‘Probably fluorescent paint. Probably old. Probably painted by William himself twenty-two years ago.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He captured this abandoned boathouse. He made it his own. He wanted to find it easily at night. There was already decent fluorescent paint back then.’

  ‘That would last until now?’

  There was a sudden burst of rustling from the hedgehogs in the corner. Berger started, breathed out, shrugged off his bulletproof vest and stood up. He went over to a cobweb-covered light switch and pressed it. A lamp lit up over by the jetty door.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Berger said. ‘Electricity.’

  Blom raised her head with a look from a completely different decade and said: ‘Presumably one of the warring companies is paying without realising.’

  Then she tugged off her own bulletproof vest. ‘We need to get going as soon as possible.’

  Berger nodded, then kept nodding for a few moments. ‘Do we have to?’

  Blom paused and stared at him.

  ‘We’ve got nowhere to go tonight,’ Berger said. ‘And time’s passing. Maybe we should try to get something done. Do some thinking.’

  ‘You mean I should stay in the building where I was tortured? And where you betrayed me so cruelly?’

  ‘That is probably what I mean.’

  It took several hours to create some sort of order. They worked through dawn, clearing, tidying, hanging, organising, fixing, until it was actually light enough for them to switch the lights off. At that point they carried in a huge package draped in a stiffened military-green tarpaulin. They leaned the package against the two pillars and, exhausted, folded back the rain-drenched tarpaulin. Slowly a wonderful photograph of a gang of mountaineers climbing a snow-covered mountain was revealed. They hammered a couple of nails in the pillars and hung the picture up. Then they unfolded the sides and doubled the width of the frame. It was covered with Post-it notes and other papers which, against all the odds, had remained dry.

  Blom went over to one of the carpentry benches and sat down on a now tolerably clean chair. The carpentry bench now held nothing but protein drinks. Then she started to unpack things from her suitcases, laying out cables and connecting her computer to numerous different devices.

  Berger said: ‘Are those Security Service cases?’

  ‘Survival equipment for undercover jobs,’ Blom said. ‘They’re always in the van.’

  ‘And are you sure they’re not wired? Are they really untraceable?’

  ‘Seeing as I removed the SIM card from your mobile, we ought to be OK,’ she said. ‘This is my untraceable equipment, including a perfectly acceptable 4G connection.’

  ‘But we still won’t be able to access databases and internal networks?’

  ‘We will. The idea with this equipment is that I should be able to do precisely that from obscure locations, with total anonymity. One of the few advantages of working undercover.’

  Berger nodded and assessed the interior of the boathouse. It was still filthy, and definitely ascetic, but it might actually work.

  ‘The basics, then?’ he said. ‘Running water, places to sleep, toilet, fridge, cooker, food?’

  ‘Running water?’ Blom said. ‘When we’ve got a lake right outside the door?’

  ‘That’s the sea. Salt water.’

  ‘OK, so we’ll have to pick up some bottles of water. And some sort of mini-fridge and a microwave. Sleeping bags and food. We’ll sort it later this morning. Don’t get hung up on details.’

  ‘Money doesn’t feel like a detail,’ Berger said. ‘Our bank cards are screwed.’

  Molly Blom leaned down towards the suitcase again. She fished up a thick bundle of five-hundred-krona notes.

  ‘Undercover cash,’ she said. ‘Have a protein drink. Stop whining, start working.’

  27

  Wednesday 28 October, 12.14

  Berger looked down at her legs from the van’s passenger seat.

  ‘Army trousers?’ he said. ‘Are we doing national service?’

  She pulled a face and concentrated on driving.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you buy them.’

  ‘You shop like a woman,’ Blom said. ‘I shop like a man. It took forever for you to choose underpants.’

  ‘It’s a sensitive piece of clothing,’ Berger said.

  The rain was tipping down on Norrortsleden. They were passing beneath the E18, north of Ullnasjön, heading out to the sticks.

  ‘Do you think changing the number plates will be enough?’ Berger asked.

  ‘I know there are rumours about some experimental method of reverse-tracking GPS,’ Blom said, ‘but I doubt they’d resort to that in this situation. We aren’t exactly a direct threat to Sweden’s democratic system, its citizens’ freedoms and rights or national security.’

  ‘No?’ Berger said. ‘What a disappointment.’

  They were silent for a while. Then he changed the subject.

  ‘What do you think happened when William vanished after school? He went up in smoke, disappeared off the face of the earth.’

  ‘I think our shared hypothesis is correct,’ Blom said. ‘He must have had help.’

  ‘He was completely helpless right from the start, all the way through primary school,’ Berger said. ‘He and his mum kept moving round the suburbs of Stockholm because of the bullying. You haven’t got kids, Molly, you can’t begin to imagine the pain of seeing your child bullied everywhere they go. Being turned into a nomad because of cruelty. Knowing that in every new place you arrive, the same hell would be repeated.’

  ‘What do you remember about his mother?’ Blom asked.

  ‘Not much,’ Berger said. ‘She was pretty twitchy.’

  ‘Twitchy?’ Blom said.

  ‘Nervous, always doing something, couldn’t sit still. Smelled funny.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘Are you my psychologist?’

  ‘Focus now. Funny, how? Disgusting?’

  ‘No, not at all. More like nice. Sweet, perhaps.’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  Berger paused. Then nodded slowly.

  ‘I hadn’t really been exposed to that back then. But that’s probably what it was.’

  ‘She died in rehab in Kista twelve years ago.’

  Berger nodded again.

  ‘There’s a horrible logic to that,’ he said.

  ‘Do you remember what she looked like?’ Blom asked. ‘I’ve only seen a passport photograph. Blonde?’

  ‘No,’ Berger said. ‘Mind you, that really blond hair is usually a childhood thing. Nordic childhood, anyway. Then you end up with brown hair. I was blond when I was little. I bet you were too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Blom exclaimed. ‘I’m blonde now!’

  ‘Yeah, except for a couple of millimetres of roots.’

  Blom wrenched the van to the left. The tyres shrieked, saving her the trouble. Åkersberga, which had appeared like a mirage, vanished again as they headed on into the countryside.

  ‘And no sign of a father?’ she said. ‘You don’t remember anything?’

  ‘You’ve spent a couple of years on this,’ Berger said. ‘I’ve had a few hours, and I haven’t got any further. William never wanted to talk about his dad.’

  ‘From William’s birth, Stina Larsson was registered as a single parent. No dad at all. No siblings.’

  ‘Should we assume that the father was blond?’ Berger said. ‘Now I come to think of it, his
mum was more of a classic brunette.’

  In the distance the harsh red walls of Österåker Prison rose up, concertinaed like some crazy giant’s accordion.

  ‘You still don’t feel like telling me what we’re doing here?’ Berger said.

  ‘It’s a gamble,’ Blom said, giving him a sideways glance.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Surveillance cameras. We’d better stop here.’

  ‘So I’m going to sit with the engine running just out of range and wait?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Blom said, and pulled up. ‘A getaway van.’

  The interview room in Österåker Prison was as bland every other interview room: table, security cameras, chairs, nothing else. The prisoner on the other side of the table was bland as well, in his grey prison tracksuit. He was in his early forties, and if it weren’t for the evidence time had left on his face, he would have been completely transparent.

  ‘I assume there’s similar evidence on the rest of your body?’ Molly Blom said.

  ‘The usual paedophile treatment,’ the prisoner said, touching his latest black eye.

  ‘Only you, Axel Jansson, aren’t just a paedophile, you’re a murderer as well.’

  ‘And you, Eva Lindkvist, are a cop asking seriously stale fucking questions. You’d be a really shit cop if you hadn’t read the verdict.’

  ‘Where you strategically confessed to all counts of sexual assault against children and consistently denied murder. To escape a murder conviction. Child-killers get extra special treatment in here, I bet.’

  ‘I’m not a violent person.’

  ‘Of course not, Axel. Sunisa Phetwiset was a Thai sex-slave, only just fifteen, owned by the Albanian mafia. No violence involved there.’

  ‘That wasn’t even paedophilia,’ Axel Jansson said. ‘She was legal.’

  ‘In the other confirmed cases the girls were eight, eleven, four and twelve. Four?’

  ‘It was a moment of weakness. But never violence.’

  ‘Of course not, Axel. Tell me about the night with Sunisa Phetwiset.’

  ‘You must have read the whole fucking file. The interviews are in there. What I said then hasn’t changed at all.’

  ‘The young Thai girl was delivered to your home by the Albanians. You had sex. She left your flat at quarter past eleven that evening.’

  ‘And she got a tip!’

  ‘The problem is the blood found in your flat, the stairwell, and in the boot of your car. The problem is the fragments of skin and blood found under your fingernails. All containing Sunisa Phetwiset’s DNA.’

  ‘There was no body,’ Axel Jansson said angrily. ‘They dragged every stretch of water imaginable. No body, no murder.’

  ‘You know it’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Eva Lindkvist? And who the fuck are you really?’

  ‘Calm down, Axel. I’m following up on a completely different case; it’s got nothing to do with you. You’re not risking anything by talking to me.’

  ‘Every time I talk to a cop I’m risking my life.’

  Molly Blom paused, then leaned across the table and whispered: ‘So you still haven’t realised that I’m the best and most undeserved chance you’ve ever had in the whole of your pathetic life?’

  Axel Jansson actually jerked back. Eventually he asked: ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That there might be a different murderer. What did you leave out when you were questioned?’

  ‘Nothing. It really happened like I said. We fucked, I paid, she left. Nothing else. A different murderer?’

  ‘And the blood in the flat and under your nails?’

  ‘Under my nails isn’t that odd. I was a bit rougher than I admitted.’

  ‘And the flat?’

  ‘No idea. It was just scratch marks on her buttocks. But there were several decilitres of blood found throughout the flat.’

  ‘I’m really not doing myself any favours sitting here whispering with you, Axel. They’ll soon come in and intervene. I need more. How did the blood get into your flat? Were you there the whole time until the police arrived?’

  ‘No, because they didn’t show up until a couple of days later.’

  Blom leaned back and felt a wave of nausea ripple through her body. She inhaled deeply and stood up. Even though she tried not to turn round, she saw the whole of Axel Jansson’s body shrink as he prepared for the next round of paedophile-bashing.

  Molly Blom was led back through metal detectors and heavy gates until she regained her freedom. She stared up at the grey, metallic Roslagen sky and let the heavy raindrops hit her face. She stood like that for a while. As if the rain could wash the shit from her face.

  Against her will she found herself thinking about Axel Jansson, and about the deep misfortune of having been born with such a warped inclination. Then she thought about the possibility of helping to shorten his sentence. She thought about four-year-old girls and felt that she probably needed to think it all through one more time. Then she reached the van. It was facing the other direction, ready to escape. Berger was sitting in the driver’s seat with the engine running.

  She got into the passenger seat. ‘I think we’ve got another victim.’

  Berger set the van moving and said. ‘If we’re going to do this, we can’t have any more secrets.’

  Blom found herself nodding. ‘A fifteen-year-old victim of trafficking, a Sunisa Phetwiset, was murdered during the period between Julia Almström and Jonna Eriksson, on 9 October last year. Axel Jansson, a paedophile, was convicted of her murder. But I don’t think he’s guilty of that particular offence. Her body was never found. Someone set him up to hide the real murderer’s identity. I think it was William.’

  ‘And you found that out this morning?’

  ‘I was looking for victims between Julia and Jonna. I haven’t focused on it properly before now, hadn’t considered the possibility that he might conceal an act of murder with another murder. Now we need to fill the gap between Jonna and Ellen. The missing victim. Head towards the city. What did you get up to this morning?’

  ‘I found an aunt,’ Berger muttered. He pulled onto the E18. ‘Do you feel like telling me about when you were strapped to the clock? I need to know how it works.’

  Something slid across Blom’s face, slipping over her smooth forehead.

  ‘It had a ticking clock face,’ she said. ‘I could see time passing. And got terrified every half an hour.’

  ‘What would happen then?’

  ‘I was stretched a bit more, like on a rack. But he seemed to be able to adjust it however he wanted.’

  As they drove past Arninge, Berger asked: ‘Did you get the feeling that you were meant to die?’

  ‘You ask such lovely questions.’

  They sat in silence for a while. He glanced at her. She looked gloomy and withdrawn.

  ‘How did you escape?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘I managed to get my left hand out of the handcuff. Then I freed my right hand and my feet.’

  ‘You were standing upright while chains pulled your legs and arms?’

  ‘No,’ Blom said, closing her eyes. ‘Not my legs. Just my arms. I was standing with my legs tied together and lashed to the floor. Your arms get pulled apart, and start to bleed when the skin breaks. I stood there for eight hours, and I think my skin would have split if I’d been there for another hour. Ellen Savinger has been missing for three weeks. What could he have done to her in all that time?’

  ‘Somehow he lets his victims rest,’ Berger said. ‘So they can sit down and reach the floor with their nails. There are marks from fingernails and toenails in Märsta.’

  ‘In the floor?’

  ‘Yes,’ Berger said. ‘In the cement floor.’

  Blom grimaced and stared out through the side window.

  They sat in silence until they reached Västerbroplan. The rain had more or less stopped by then. Berger followed Blom’s directions and parked. A man was standing beside
the parking space, waiting. He was in his early forties, and the bags under his eyes were both darker and larger than the rest of his features.

  ‘Bertil Brandt,’ he said, holding his hand out to them.

  ‘Eva Lindkvist,’ Molly Blom said.

  She looked expectantly at Berger, who said: ‘Charles Lindbergh.’

  He regretted that for a long time.

  They walked out across Västerbron. Didn’t say much. Up at the crown of the bridge they stopped and looked out across Stockholm in the harsh grey light.

  ‘It’s probably going to start raining again soon,’ Brandt said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Blom said.

  They stood like that for a while. An unsettling gloom lay over the city.

  ‘It was raining that night,’ Berger said eventually.

  ‘You know that, Bertil?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I know all about that night.’

  ‘There aren’t many people who’ve cut through that fence …’

  Bertil Brandt smiled weakly. It was a hardened smile. He would survive, but he’d never be himself again.

  ‘Three years ago they erected the fence. But only on this side, the eastern side, towards the city. And the funny thing is, I understand why they did that.’

  ‘Can you explain it?’ Blom said.

  ‘You come up here, with tunnel vision, intoxicated with suicidal euphoria. There’s a certain romance to the eastern side of the bridge – leaving all that crap in your life behind and jumping towards beauty, with the whole of Stockholm at your feet. And if there’s a two-metre-high fence here, the romance diminishes. Then you have to climb over barriers and cross what’s still a very busy road, even at night, to get to the west side. And all the romance disappears, taking with it your tunnel vision. Reality catches up with your dreams, you feel stupid, see yourself in a more honest light. The whole glorious project looks pathetic, feeble. Only the ones who are really determined go through with it.’

  ‘But now there’s a fence on the western side as well.’

  ‘And it’s helped. People still climb over, but far fewer. And, like you said, very few people cut through the fence.’

  ‘But Emma did,’ Molly Blom said. ‘She had a sturdy set of bolt cutters with her, left behind on the bridge with her fingerprints all over them.’