– Some way or other the Iranian is connected to this, Jenny. What are the odds of him being at two separate crime scenes over the last forty-eight hours by sheer chance? Alone with two victims at about the time they were killed, same method, possibly same weapon.
– What would his motive be?
Roar Horvath glanced over at her. – The guy is damaged, he’s suffering from some serious psychiatric disorder after being tortured. We can’t really say with any certainty what’s going on in his head. If we start looking for rational motives, there’s no guarantee we’ll find any.
– Maybe not.
– We’ve also considered the possibility that the madness is an act. But we’ve had an interesting statement from a witness. A woman out walking with her three children yesterday morning, on their way to the family cabin in the forest, about five or six kilometres from the place where we found Marita Dahl. Just as they arrive, they get a helluva of fright when a man comes charging out. Naked apparently, and roaring. Waving his arms about. On the point of attacking them. She says he was like a wild animal, but judging by his appearance, it was our Iranian.
Jennifer thought about this.
– Well he did say he ran naked into the forest, and that fits with the cuts on his body. But in that case his clothes ought to have been at the scene. I didn’t see any. Only the woman’s.
– You’ve always been a good observer, Jenny. None of the clothes were his.
– So he went back and fetched them?
– Seems a reasonable supposition.
– Or the man with the knife, if he exists, took them.
– Possibly. But then we have to ask why he should bother to take the Iranian’s clothes and leave the victim’s behind.
– Maybe because he was determined to find Arash before we did.
They turned on to the main road.
– You ask for a motive, Jenny. I’m saying he might have experienced a panic attack before both killings, become psychotic, felt threatened, who knows what. Or we can start looking in a completely different direction.
She waited for him to go on. Roar Horvath drummed on the steering wheel and seemed to be weighing something up, perhaps wondering how much he was able to tell her.
– Ibro Hakanovic lived in Malmö. We’ve spoken to our colleagues down there. The guy was part of a criminal network of for the most part Albanians and Bosnians. Narcotics, gambling, possibly people-trafficking. He also had his own sideline as a debt-collector.
– So the murder was gang related?
– It’s not impossible. Or someone in debt may have decided that they didn’t want to pay him after all.
She thought for a few moments. – Are there any reasons at all for believing that Arash might be involved in stuff like that?
– That remains to be seen. We’re keeping our options open. All the footage from the cameras is being examined second by second. Any person who entered the hospital that evening will be studied as though they were on a catwalk.
She had to smile.
– But we have no images from the entrance where the break-in was, she objected.
– The Iranian might have known that several of the cameras weren’t working. Isn’t that the kind of thing porters know?
– Could be.
– We’ve asked around at the hospital. A lot of people knew about it, it’s something that’s been discussed at meetings, complaints that nothing’s been done, that the security isn’t good enough.
He turned into the road where she lived, looked round.
– Funny that we’ve both ended up here, you and I. In Romerike, I mean.
He said this as though it was fated. A hidden force that wanted them to meet again.
– Drop me off here, no need to drive all the way up.
He dismissed her suggestion with a wave of the hand. – I’ll drive you to your door. See you safely inside.
He stopped in front of her entrance, sat there looking up at the block.
– So this is where you live.
– For the time being.
– Finished with family life?
She hesitated. No matter what she answered, it would be wrong.
– You’ve got two sons, he went on, – but they’ve been kicked out of the nest a long time ago presumably?
A vague sense of discomfort that he should have remembered them.
– Yes, she said.
– Yes, he repeated, and if she didn’t hurry up and get out of the car, other things would be said. About what happened between them, about what didn’t happen. Why he had so suddenly stopped contacting her. Back then he had a boss who wouldn’t stand for that kind of thing, who exerted an intolerable control over the workplace. Roar had put up with it, he was the adaptable type. She had not grieved for even a single day over the fact that he had dumped her. She could feel his eyes on her, suddenly felt sorry for him, couldn’t bring herself to leave. Then the dog was there again, sticking her nose up, sticking her whole head between them and making noises, as though she were jealous.
– You’ve got quite a few things to think about, said Jennifer as she opened the door.
He watched her. How about a coffee? his gaze asked. How about if I came up with you? It was as though she could see in that gaze everything that had changed in her life, everything that had passed on, burned out. Everything she no longer felt capable of missing. Maybe this is how it’s going to be, she thought suddenly. First signs of death.
– I’ll call you, she said.
He nodded, still looking at her. The dog did the same, the two sets of eyes not so very different. They probably got on pretty well together.
– The autopsy report, she added, to make sure there was no misunderstanding.
30
After waiting half an hour, Sigurd had had enough. He’d sent three texts that hadn’t been answered. He slammed the car door shut behind him, crossed the road, rounded the corner.
Aladdin’s Grill was empty. He stepped over to the bar. Steam was billowing from a coffee machine. A burnt chicken on top of a microwave.
– Hello.
The boy emerged through the curtain to what was perhaps a kitchen.
– Katja, said Sigurd.
– You what?
– The girl, the one I was here with just now.
The boy shook his head. – Not here.
– She must be.
He shrugged his shoulders, stood there looking at Sigurd’s T-shirt. – Are you an Australian?
Sigurd glanced down at the motif on the chest of the shirt, Ayers Rock with a crescent moon above it.
– Yes, that’s where I come from.
A door at the back of the place opened. Katja appeared, seemingly from a back yard.
– Couldn’t you wait? she said irritably, and turned to the boy. – Tell Tariq it’s cool.
She headed for the entrance.
– Where have you been? Sigurd asked once they were outside on the pavement.
She ignored him. Carried on walking down the street.
– Do you mind giving me some clue about what’s going on?
– What’s going on?
At the corner of the street he stopped her, his irritation on the verge of turning into something else.
– I got hold of Uncle Mujo, she said, pulling herself free. – He’s going to meet me.
– Your uncle?
She blew out her breath impatiently. – Ibro’s uncle. You can come along.
– Thanks a lot.
She continued heading towards the car, not looking at him.
– Meeting him has always been a dream of mine, he added as he unlocked the car doors.
The time was approaching eleven when she indicated that he should pull into a building site down by the docks. They waited there for ten minutes. Her phone rang. She took the call. Listened for a few seconds.
– That’s right. Norwegian licence plates.
She turned to Sigurd. – Flash your headlights twice.
>
He did so.
– Drive back out on to the road.
As he was pulling out of the building site, she asked him to stop. A few seconds later he saw a shadow in his wing mirror. Both back doors were opened and two figures jumped in.
– Drive, said one of them.
Sigurd did as he was told, glanced in the rear-view mirror: two men, one middle aged, one young. – Hi, Mujo, he said with a mirthless grin.
– Do I know you? The voice was hoarse and quite light. He had a baseball cap pulled down over his face, Chicago Bulls.
– Don’t think so.
– Tell the Norwegian to keep his mouth shut.
Katja elbowed Sigurd in the ribs. – He’s my driver, she told the two in the back.
A grunt from behind. Sigurd accelerated and turned the corner by the half-demolished building, continued across a bridge at the end of the road.
– I don’t understand it, said Katja. – No one knew what Ibro was planning to do. Only me.
A long silence. In the mirror, Sigurd looked more closely at Mujo: grey moustache, longish grey hair below the cap, eyes irritable under the peak. The young man had short black hair and letters tattooed down the side of his neck. He sat looking out the window.
– Ibro rang Friday night, said Uncle Mujo. – He was in hospital.
Katja turned to him. – He called me too.
Sigurd remembered he still had her phone in his bag. Now wasn’t the time to return it and dish up some story about how he’d found it.
– That’s where it happened, at the hospital. He was admitted, unconscious.
– What the hell, exclaimed Uncle Mujo. – He could have talked to me.
Katja explained.
– This doesn’t add up, growled Uncle Mujo. – They would have finished him off on the spot, they shouldn’t have needed to follow him to the hospital.
Sigurd kept his eyes looking straight ahead.
– It was something else, said Katja. – What happened first. Ibro got into a fight with someone. It wasn’t them.
– But they knew he was at the hospital.
– They must have seen the ambulance arrive.
– But who called the ambulance?
Katja glanced at Sigurd. Suddenly he had the idea that he had been lured into a trap. One word from her and he was at the mercy of the two in the back. He didn’t doubt for a moment that they were carrying weapons.
– They followed it, got inside the hospital and …
Katja’s voice cracked; she turned away.
Uncle Mujo leaned forward and touched her shoulder. – Difficult times, he said, and his voice had lost something of that rough, hard edge. – Bad times, he added in English.
Katja turned towards him again. – What did he say to you?
Uncle Mujo pulled the peak of his cap lower over his forehead. – That he’d hidden a murder weapon. He said you know where it is, Katja. In a house.
– The house in Norway?
– He didn’t say, but he talked about you. That if anything happened to him we should look after you.
Silence descended again. Katja’s irregular breathing. She was crying soundlessly. It was Uncle Mujo who did what Sigurd couldn’t: put a hand to her cheek, brushed away her tears. She leaned towards him, moving her head from side to side as though eating from the comforting hand.
– Where are we going? Sigurd asked.
No one answered. He slowed as the traffic lights in front of them changed to amber, then changed his mind and accelerated. Almost collided with a bus.
– Take it easy, for fuck’s sake! Just keep driving, stay in the centre.
Uncle Mujo’s arm still around her shoulders.
– Did you say he was unconscious when he was taken to this hospital? Are you sure about that?
Katja sat up straight, and again Sigurd felt the touch of her glance. Like a signal that at any moment she might decide to tell them what had happened. Maybe that was why she had taken him there. To hand him over to the gang for revenge.
– They think I have the gun, she said. – And now they’ll be coming after me, people who were once Ibro’s best friends.
Uncle Mujo leaned back in his seat. – I’ve spoken to someone.
– Who?
He nodded his head. – Someone in the know.
– What did they say?
– They deny it was them who did it. Say they didn’t know Ibro wanted out.
– They’re trying to get us confused.
– Exactly. And then they made a suggestion.
– What was that?
He leaned forward again. – Get rid of the Norwegian.
She put her hand on Sigurd’s arm.
– What is it now?
– Pull in. Get out and wait. Sting’ll drive.
She pointed to the younger man in the back, who still hadn’t said a word.
Sigurd stared at her, furious.
– Do as I say.
Somewhere in her voice he heard a threat. He pulled up on to the kerb, opened the door. The young man got out, walked round the car, looked at him with a grin and sat in the driver’s seat. An almost irresistible urge to drag him out of there, smash him in the face. – Sting, he murmured sarcastically. Could you get a more ridiculous poseur’s name?
Katja opened the window. – Just a few minutes. Don’t go too far away.
He stood by the half-demolished building, staring in through what was left of its facade. He had never hated anyone before; it confused him. He paced up and down the block for a while, down towards the building site, back towards the docks. When did I become like this? he groaned to himself.
When the car eventually reappeared, he saw that she was alone. He swung the door open and motioned for her to move over into the passenger seat.
– You don’t have a driving licence, he said.
– Oops, guess I forgot.
– What am I doing here? he growled.
– You’re helping me.
She reached out, put her hand over his. He removed it.
– Are you sulking?
– No, I am pissed off.
She looked as though she was enjoying herself. – You’re jealous.
He turned the cooling system on full, breathed himself calm.
– Finished doing what you had to do? he asked finally.
– Almost. She leaned over towards him. – It’ll all work out, Sigurd. We’ll go back home tomorrow. And we’ll be done with this.
She put her arm around him, her mouth to his neck. Sigurd breathed out hard through clenched teeth.
– Drive down there, she indicated. – There’s something I want to show you.
– You’re angry with me all the time, she continued as he accelerated out into the four-lane highway.
– Maybe.
– But you’re still helping me. Do you realise how much you mean to me?
They drove for a couple of minutes. A construction loomed from their right side, a gigantic concrete block that looked like a prison, impregnable, escape proof.
– Rosengård, she said. – It starts here. Everything starts here.
He’d heard of Rosengård. Riots, burning car tyres, young people throwing stones, with guns in their jacket pockets, police that didn’t dare to intervene.
– Turn off here.
He moved into the right-hand lane, then up on to the flyover.
In between the blocks, four or five boys were playing football in the drizzle. None of them looked Swedish. Young people stared at them from a bus shelter.
– Ibro grew up here.
– I guessed.
– He came here alone. Just turned thirteen. He watched as they dragged his father out and shot him in front of their house in the village. His mother and sister were sent to a camp, never came back. Ibro was the only one who got out. He never understood why. Then he ends up here, with relatives. Ten or twelve people sharing a three-room apartment.
– That doesn’t necessarily mean y
ou have to become a gangster, Sigurd grunted.
She blew out air in a short blast, perhaps in response to his comment.
– The worst thing about those flats is not that they’re small. It’s the cockroaches. The children can’t sleep, because they crawl across their faces all night. They get asthma from the damp and the mould growing on the walls.
Sigurd shrugged his shoulders. – The parents should be able to do something about that.
– What can the parents do? The authorities leave the running of the place in private hands, and why should they waste money on maintenance? The refuse companies don’t pick up the rubbish. Once car tyres and a lot of other stuff were burning for a whole day, but the fire brigade never came. All the apartments were filled with smoke. In the end the council had to do something. They daren’t risk an all-out war. Now the worst of the slums have been moved somewhere else.
She nodded in the other direction. – Seved, Lindängen. Best way is just move the dirt around.
Sigurd leaned back in his seat. – Okay, I understand that the gangs recruit kids from round here. But everyone has a choice.
She shook her head. – If you stand alone in a place like this, you have no chance. You’ll be mowed down, blown away. Kaput.
He continued to argue with her, saying that things were like that even where he came from. You had to form alliances with those who could protect you. Before you were strong enough to break away and stand alone. That was the road he’d taken himself. The road he was still on.
– I told you I was adopted, she said suddenly. – Since then you’ve asked me about it several times.
He had done. Now he no longer needed to know.
– I lived here for the first four years of my life. A gigantic black hole. I can’t remember a thing from any of it.
Probably just as well, he caught himself thinking.
– Maybe I was lucky, maybe not. I grew up a few hundred metres away from here. Might as well have been another planet.
– How did you meet Ibro? he asked.
She thought about it.
– There was a group of us girls who weren’t interested in swotting or working out. And we couldn’t stand staying at home in the evenings. Couldn’t stand being at home at all.
She fell silent for a moment; he could have taken the chance to change the subject.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 22