Västmannagatan 79.
The secret intelligence report. The actual events.
He reached over for a thin file at the back of the desk, leafed through it. The same incident. But not the truth. The incomplete information that he and Sven and Hermansson and Ågestam had had access to, which therefore had resulted in the investigation being downgraded.
He continued to search the documents on the computer. He went back exactly one year. Three hundred two secret intelligence reports recounting how an informant's work to uncover one crime had given rise to another. He recognized several of them. Other investigations that had collapsed despite the fact that the knowledge was already in-house.
He hadn't slept the night before, he wouldn't sleep tonight; the anger that could not be released filled him instead, forcing out tiredness. There was no room.
I was a useful idiot.
I carried out legitimate murder.
1 have carried the guilt all my adult life and I deserved it, but no bastard is going to force me to carry it for anyone else.
I don't know Hoffmann. I'm not interested in him.
But this, this god awful guilt that I have no intention of taking on, I know that.
He pulled the telephone over, remembered the number that he often dialed at this time of night. The voice was weak, as always when someone has just woken up.
"Hello?"
"Anita?"
"Who…"
"It's Ewen."
An exasperated sigh from a dark bedroom upstairs in a terraced house somewhere in Gustaysberg.
"Sven's not here. He's spending the night on an plane, on the way to the USA. Because you sent him there a couple of hours ago."
"I know."
"So don't call here again tonight."
"I know."
"Goodnight, Ewert."
"I always phone Sven. So you'll have to take it. You see… I'm so damn angry.”
Her slow breathing, he could hear it.
"Ewert?"
"Yes?"
"Phone someone else. Someone who gets paid for it. I have to sleep."
She hung up. He stared at the unfamiliar laptop sitting on his desk that stared back at him, at his concealed rage.
Sven was on an plane somewhere over the Atlantic.
Hermansson. It didn't feel right to call her, a young woman and an old man in the middle of the night.
Grens lifted the plastic pocket on the blotter, ran his finger down the long list. He found what he was looking for and punched in the number of the one person he had absolutely no desire to talk to.
Eight rings.
He put the phone down, waited for exactly one minute, then called again.
Someone answered immediately. Someone snatched the phone from its cradle.
"Is that you, Grens?"
"So you were awake?"
"I am now. What the hell do you want?"
Ewert Grens loathed him. Inflexible, hierarchical. Qualities he despised, but actually ones he needed now
"Ågestam?"
"Yes?"
"I need your help."
Lars Ågestam yawned, stretched, collapsed in a heap.
"Go to bed, Grens."
"Your help. Now."
"Simple answer. The same one you get every time you wake me and my family up at this time. Call the duty officer."
He hung up. Ewert Grens didn't wait this time, rang back straight away. "Grens! Don't you… bloody dare, you-"
"Hundreds of cases. In the last year alone. Witnesses and evidence and interviews that… that disappeared."
Lars Ågestam cleared his throat.
"What are you talking about?"
"We have to meet."
Someone said something in the background. Sounded like Ågestam's wife. Grens tried to remember what she looked like. They had met, he remembered that but not her face, one of the kind that lack definition. "Grens, are you drunk?"
"Hundreds. You've been involved in several yourself."
"Of course. We can meet. Tomorrow."
"Now, Ågestam! I don't have much time. Monday morning. By then… then it's too late. And what I need to tell you… it's as much for your sake. don't you understand how bizarre it feels to say that? To you?"
The female voice in the background again. Grens could hear it, but not what it said. Ågestam whispered when he spoke again.
"I'm listening."
"It's not something I can say over the phone."
"But I'm listening!"
"We have to meet. You'll understand why."
The public prosecutor sighed.
"Come here then."
"To you?"
"To my house."
He had passed Åkeshov metro station and drove into an area of detached houses from the forties, the educated middle class. It was going to be a beautiful day, you could tell from the sun growing in the distance. He stopped the car in front of a garden with large apple trees at the end of a sleeping street. He had been here once before, about five years ago. The newly appointed prosecutor had received a number of threats during the trial of a young father accused of murder and Grens had not taken it very seriously until the yellow house had black paint, you're dead, you bastard, sprayed from the kitchen to the sitting room.
Two big cups on the table.
A pot of freshly brewed tea between them.
"Black, isn't it?"
"Black."
Grens drank the whole cup and Ågestam filled it again.
"Nearly as good as the stuff from the machine in the corridor." "It's quarter past four in the morning. What do you want?"
The briefcase was already on the table. Grens opened it and pulled out three files.
"Do you recognize these?"
Lars Ågestam nodded.
"Yes."
"Three investigations that we've worked on together over the past year."
Ewert Grens pointed to them, one at a time.
"Serious drug offense, parking lot in Regeringsgatan. Tried and acquitted.
Firearms offense, pathway under Liljeholm bridge. Tried and acquitted.
Attempted kidnapping, Magnus Ladulåsgatan. Tried and acquitted."
"Can you keep your voice down? My wife. My children. They're asleep." Ågestam waved his hand at the ceiling, the floor above.
"Have you got children? You didn't the last time."
"Well, I do now."
Grens lowered his voice.
"Do you remember them?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You know why. I didn't get approval. Lack of evidence."
Grens put the files to one side, replaced them with a laptop that had until recently been on a high ranking officer's desk behind a locked door. He searched through the documents, as before, turned the screen toward the prosecutor.
"I want you to read."
Lars Ågestam picked up the teacup, lifted it to his mouth and there it remained. He couldn't get it any farther, his fingers frozen.
"What is this?"
He looked at Ewert Grens.
"Grens? What is this?"
"What is it? The same addresses. The same times. But a different truth." "I don't understand."
"This one? Serious drug offense, parking lot, Regeringsgatan. But what actually happened. Described in a secret intelligence report written by a policeman who wasn't part of the investigation."
Ewert Grens looked on the computer again.
"Two more. Read."
His neck was red. Hand through his hair.
"And this one?"
"This one? Firearms offense, pathway under Liljeholm bridge. And this one? Attempted kidnapping, Magnus Ladulåsgatan. Also what actually happened. Also described in a secret intelligence report written by police who weren't part of the investigation."
The prosecutor stood up.
"Grens, I-"
'And this is just three of three hundred and two cases from last year. They're all there. The truth we were never told. Crimes that
were swept under the carpet so that other crimes could be solved. An official investigation, the sort that you and I deal with. And another that exists only here, in secret intelligence reports for police management."
Ewert Grens looked at the man in a robe in front of him.
"Lars, you were involved in twenty-three of them. Cases where you prosecuted and were unsuccessful. You closed them because you didn't have all the information that was included in the real report, the secret one, the one that would have nailed the snitch."
Lars Ågestam didn't stir.
He said Lars.
It feels… weird, uninvited. It's only my name. But when Grens says it… it's almost uncomfortable.
He has never used my first name before.
I don't want him to do it ever again.
"The snitch?"
"The snitch. The informant. The covert human intelligence source. A criminal who commits crimes that we then overlook because he's helping us to deal with other crimes."
Ågestam had been holding the cup in front of his mouth throughout the whole conversation. He put it down now.
"Whose laptop?"
"You don't want to know."
"Whose?"
"The county police commissioner."
Lars Ågestam got up from the table, disappeared out of the kitchen and up the stairs with hurried steps.
Ewert Grens watched him.
I've got more.
Västmannagatan 79.
You'll get that as well. When we wrap all this up. In the next twenty-four hours.
Hurried steps down again. The prosecutor had a printer in his arms, linked it up to the laptop-they listened to three hundred two paper copies forming a pile, one at a time.
"You'll give it back?"
"Yes."
"Do you need help?"
"No."
"Sure?"
"The door's unlocked."
The sun had taken over the kitchen, the light which had a short while ago been aided by bright bulbs was now strong enough to stand alone and he didn't notice when Ågestam switched off the lights.
It was half past four, but the day had dawned.
"Lars:"
She was young and her hair was tangled. She had on a white robe and white slippers and she was very tired.
"I'm sorry. Did we wake you?"
"Why aren't you asleep?"
"This is Ewert Grens and-"
"I know who it is."
"I'll be up in a while. We just need to finish up here."
She sighed, she didn't weigh much, but her steps were heavier than even Grens's as she went back upstairs to the bedroom.
"Sorry, Ågestam."
"She'll go back to sleep."
"She's still upset, isn't she?"
"She believes you made an error of judgment. I do too."
"I apologized. Christ alive, it was five years ago now!"
"Grens?"
"Yes?"
"You're shouting again. Don't wake the children."
Lars Ågestam emptied both cups into the sink, the stuff that was viscous and bitter and stuck to the bottom of the cup.
"I don't need anymore tea."
He picked up the pile of three hundred two newly printed pages. "Doesn't matter what time it is. This… I'm not tired anymore, Grens, I'm… angry. If i need anything it's to calm down."
He opened one of the cupboards. On the top shelf, a bottle of Seagram's and suitably sized glasses.
"What do you think, Grens?"
Ågestam filled two glasses to the halfway mark.
"It's half past four in the morning."
"That's the way it goes, sometimes."
Another person.
Ewert Grens gave a weak smile as Ågestam downed half of it.
If he had had to guess, he would have guessed teetotaller ten out of ten times. Grens had a sip himself after a while. It was milder in taste than he had imagined, perfect for a kitchen, with pajamas and a robe.
"The truth we were never told, Ågestam."
He put a hand on the pile of papers.
"I'm not sitting here because I enjoy watching you wake up. And not for your tea, either, not even the whisky. I came here because I'm certain that we can resolve this together."
Lars Ågestam flicked through the secret intelligence reports that he had not known existed until now.
His neck was still red.
He still kept running his hands back and forth through his hair. "Three hundred and two."
He paused every now and then, read something, then continued leafing through, arbitrarily choosing which document to read next.
"Two versions. One official. And one for police management."
He waved at the pile in front of him and poured another glass of whisky.
"Do you realize, Grens? I could prosecute them all. I could prosecute every single police officer who has anything to do with this. For forging documents. For fake certificates. For provoking crimes. There's enough here to merit a separate police unit at Aspsås."
He downed the glass and laughed.
"And all these trials? What do you think, Grens? All these pleadings and interviews and judgments without the knowledge that the heads of the police authority were already party to!"
He threw the pile down on the table. Some pages fell on the floor; he stood up and stamped on them.
"You've just woken the children."
They hadn't heard her coming-she stood in the doorway, in the white robe but without the slippers.
"Lars, you've got to calm down."
"I can't."
"You're frightening them."
Ågestam kissed her on both cheeks. He was already on his way to the children's room.
"Grens?"
He turned on the bottom step of the stairs.
"I'm going to spend the whole day on this."
"Monday morning. Or two tapes will be missing."
"I'll get back to you by this evening at the latest."
"Monday morning. Then the wrong people will be finding out how damn close I am."
"By tonight at the latest. That's the best I can do. Is that okay?" "That's okay."
The prosecutor paused, laughed again.
"Grens, imagine! A separate police unit. A separate police unit at Aspsås!"
* * *
The coffee tasted different.
He had poured out the first cup after a couple of mouthfuls. A fresh one from the machine in the corridor had tasted the same. He was holding the third in his hand when he realized why.
It was like a film on his palate.
He had started the day with two whiskies in Ågestam's kitchen. He didn't normally do that. He didn't generally drink much spirits, it was years since he'd stopped drinking on his own.
Ewert Grens sat at his desk and felt strangely empty.
The First early birds had already come and passed his open door, but hadn't annoyed him, not even those who had tried to stop and say good morning.
He had released his anger.
He had driven from Ågestam, a few newspaper delivery boys, the odd cyclist, that was all-a city that was at its weariest just before five.
There had been plenty of room for guilt. The guilt that others had tried to lay on him. He had raged against it, tried to silence it when it sat beside him, chased it into the back seat. It had continued to nag him, forcing him to drive faster. He had been on his way to Göransson to offload it, then managed to control himself-he would confront them, but not yet, soon. He would meet the people who were truly responsible very soon. He had parked in Bergsgatan by the entrance to the police headquarters but had not gone directly to his office, he had taken the elevator up to Kronoberg remand and then on up to the roof and eight long, narrow cages. One hour of fresh air every day and twenty meters to move in, then jail. He had ordered the wardens on duty to call in two prisoners who, in ill-fitting prison clothes and separate cages, were standing looking out over the city and freedom, and then to leave their p
osts and go down two floors for an early morning coffee. Grens had waited until he was completely alone and then gone out into one of the small yards. He had looked at the sky through the criss-cross of bars and he had screamed, high above the sleeping buildings in the Stockholm dawn. For fifteen minutes he had held the stolen laptop with another reality in his hands and screamed louder than ever before, he had released his fury and it raced over the rooftops and evaporated somewhere above Vasastan, leaving him extremely hoarse, tired, almost spent.
The coffee still tasted odd. He put it to one side and sat down on the corduroy sofa, lay down after a while, closed his eyes while he searched for a face in the window of a prison workshop.
I don't get it.
Someone who chooses a life where each day is a potential death sentence. For the excitement? For some kind of romantic spy nonsense? For personal morals?
I'm not convinced. That sort of thing just sounds good.
For the money?
Ten thousand crappy kronor a month paid from reward money in order to avoid formal payrolls and to protect your identity?
Hardly.
Grens straightened the fabric on the arm of the sofa that was slightly too high; it was chafing his neck and made it difficult to relax.
I just don't get it.
You could commit whatever goddamn crime you wanted, you were outside the law, but only for as long as you were useful, until you became someone who could be spared.
You were an outlaw.
You knew it. You knew that's how it worked.
You had everything that I don't have, you had a wife, children, a home, you had something to lose.
And still you chose it.
I don't get it.
His neck was stiff. The slightly too-high sofa arm.
He had fallen asleep.
The face in the window of a prison workshop had disappeared, sleep had taken over; the kind that came after rage that was soft and had rocked him gently for nearly seven hours. He might have woken up once, he wasn't sure, but it felt like that, like the telephone had rung, like Sven had said that he was sitting in an airport outside New York waiting for the next flight to Jacksonville, that the sound file was interesting and that he had prepared himself on the plane, for a meeting with Wilson.
It was a long time since Ewert Grens had slept so well.
Three Seconds Page 40