She turned to her male colleague, nodded to him, and he took a few paces to one side, tapped on his phone, gave a brief message, and moments later two officers in uniform were there, one with a dog on a leash.
– We’re opening these two bags, said the woman, and they were immediately taken out. One of the recent arrivals produced cutters and snipped the little padlocks open, the echo of the clicks lingering a moment in the evening light.
Sigurd looked for somewhere to park his gaze, found a cloud drifting over the rim of the forest. Could hear Jenny’s voice now, saying his name with her heavy accent, always proud when she said it, whether she was talking to him or talking about him.
– What is this? he heard the woman say.
He turned to her. She was holding transparent plastic bags in her hand. Something coloured inside.
– I don’t know, he said in a low voice. – That’s the truth, I don’t know what it is.
One of the new arrivals ripped open the bag with his cutters and let the contents spill out on to the top of Katja’s case. It looked like an assortment of socks and boxer shorts.
The woman bent forward and picked something up, held it up in front of Sigurd. A large pale blue garment with greyish-white seams. On the waistband in the same colour the words Malmö FF.
It was a pair of boxer shorts.
– Why do you keep your old underwear padlocked inside a bag?
He searched in vain for a reasonable answer. – It isn’t mine.
– Your girlfriend wears stuff like this?
– Don’t think so. Not her style.
The muscular guy gave a forced grin. The others were working on the contents of the second bag, pulled out another four or five plastic bags. Old clothes there too, tops, tights. They put the dog on it, and at the sight of the animal’s puzzled reluctance at being asked to stick its nose into a pile of soiled underwear, Sigurd felt a touch of that same relief that had flooded through him earlier in the evening. There was nothing in the world he couldn’t handle, nothing that could stop him.
They asked about the bloodstained bandage around his stomach. He explained that he’d fallen off a stepladder. In a garage they were clearing out. After he was dressed again, they showed him into a kind of waiting room. Katja was finished before him, sat in a chair playing with her phone. He slumped down in the chair next to her, brimming over with what he was going to say to her as soon as he got the chance.
They were searching the car in a nearby building. An hour passed. Katja was curled up, her head on the hard armrest, black hair dangling. But she wasn’t asleep and sat bolt upright when the woman in uniform returned, followed by the man with the bulging biceps.
– It took us a while, the woman explained. If that was meant as an apology, Sigurd thought, it was well hidden.
– That’s all right, he said, and stood up. – You’re only doing your job.
The woman kept her eyes on him. He had a sinking feeling that perhaps they’d found something after all, something behind the interior trim, or in the tank.
– Can we go now?
A second went by, two, three.
– Come here, said the customs guy with a nod to Sigurd. The glaring fluorescent lighting seemed to change colour and drain away. Sigurd took a step that was more like a stagger, held on to the door and stood there, breathing a few times, until the light came back.
The customs officer rolled across the yard, arms dangling out at the sides as though all the bodybuilding meant they no longer fitted the rest of him. The car had been driven out again and was in front of the garage. The man bent and shone his torch up into one of the front wheel cavities.
– See that there?
Sigurd sank to his knees, looked, saw nothing.
– See it? the customs officer asked again. He directed the beam at a small oval object.
– Yes.
– Did you put that there?
Sigurd felt his stomach lurch and had to fight to keep the contents down. At the last moment, he decided not to answer.
– Let me put the question another way: why are you driving round with a GPS transmitter attached to your car?
His thoughts raced through a list of possible answers.
– Is that illegal?
The customs officer straightened up. – It’s very bloody strange.
– I know.
– As bloody strange as driving round with dirty underwear locked in bags to which you don’t have keys.
Sigurd managed to collect his thoughts.
– It’s the sort of thing people do, he said, surprised at the clarity in his own voice.
This will be our final conversation.
Is that supposed to upset me?
You’re the only one who can answer that.
It appears that on at least one occasion you have changed your identity. Was that something your protector helped you with?
I can’t tell you that, but I presume you now know what you need to know about me.
In a way. I have a very specific assignment. And now you have agreed to talk to the police.
I’ve got nothing to say to them.
You’ve probably got nothing to lose by allowing yourself to be interviewed.
I have everything to lose. A person who stands alone always loses. You know what happened to Ibro Hakanovic.
Do you want to talk about him now? They’ll be asking you about this at the interview.
He was supposed to be abducted from the hospital. He was going to get an offer he would be able to live with.
So he wasn’t supposed to be killed?
He wasn’t supposed to be killed. Something went wrong.
Can you say anything more about what went wrong?
Only that it led to several other things happening that should never have happened.
If it had been your decision?
It would never have happened.
Does that mean that others were in charge of what was happening?
I can’t tell you anything about that.
Or was it chance?
What is chance? One thing leads to another. Someone makes a decision, it seems like the right thing to do. But it leads to an avalanche of events that are impossible to predict, impossible to control, for anyone.
From the expert witness’s notes, 4 August 2014
PART V
18–19 June 2014
33
Sounds from the inside. Sounds from the outside. He is not dead. Listening out through layer upon layer of sound.
He opened his eyes. Looked up at the air vent high up on the wall. The light coming through it was yellow at its core, surrounded by white. Slowly it grew weaker, browner, and he understood it was night on the outside. He returned to his listening, inward now. The sounds opened up. He sank into something that must be another room. Marita spoke to him, but he stayed silent, didn’t want to call her back. His father was there too, in his chair, his back turned. He said nothing, was still waiting for an answer, the one Arash should have given him long ago.
The door was unlocked. Opened slightly, then wide. Two uniformed men standing there.
– Come with us, said one of them.
Arash remained seated on the floor. They came in, took hold of him by the arms, pulled him to his feet. He let them do it.
– You’re to be interrogated.
The room he was taken to was greyish white. Three chairs, a table, no windows. A jigsaw puzzle on a stool in the corner, a fluffy brown monkey. As though a child had been sitting there playing.
Two other men entered. They were not in uniform. They shook his hand, said their names clearly, no way of knowing if these were their real names. They were from the NCIS, one of them added. Both looked directly at him, neither friendly nor hostile.
– You can look at me as long as you like.
Smiles that appeared and vanished again.
– That’s okay, Arash. Everything will be fine.
– For me?
– For you too.
– Is good for me the same as good for you?
– Good question.
– We’ve heard that you’re an intelligent guy.
– Is it good for you if I’m an intelligent guy?
– It’s good for us. Very good. Everything we say in here is going to be recorded. The man pointed to an object resembling a mushroom up on the ceiling.
– And filmed, added the other.
– Who’s going to see this film?
– Those of us investigating this case.
– Nobody else?
– Nobody else.
Arash wanted to go on asking them questions. If he asked questions the whole time, sooner or later he would know what he needed to know. And he could get out of this without losing anything. If there was a way out. The surest sign.
– What did you say, Arash?
– Did I say something?
– You said something about a sign.
– What did I say about a sign?
The two exchanged looks. Quick looks. He was doing all right. Silence is suddenly born into colours. So not in the order the words were written down. That was another way of reading Rumi, take it apart, line by line, put it back together in a different order. It would point another way then. That was what he should have talked to his father about. Now he would have to find out for himself.
– Your lawyer will be here in a few minutes. He’s been delayed; we’ll start without him, if that’s all right by you.
– Is that all right for you?
– It’s all right for us.
– Where is Ina Sundal?
– Who is she?
– Don’t you know the people who work here?
Again they exchanged looks.
– Was she present when you were interviewed previously?
– The question is, can she be here now? Until the lawyer arrives?
One of them stood up, left the room. Minutes passed. Then he returned with her. He was carrying a chair. It made the room more crowded but easier to be in.
– Hi, Arash.
She seemed uncertain but smiled at him anyway. Wearing jeans and a pale yellow blouse. Ina Sundal also brought other colours with her that weren’t visible. The light in the room changed after she came in.
– Are you well, Ina Sundal?
She nodded, and he understood that she was going to be present but not say anything. He laughed, because now it would be a different conversation. Possible to answer questions, not just ask them.
– We want to ask you about Ibro Hakanovic, the man who was murdered at the hospital.
– I know who Ibro Hakanovic is.
– You said previously you didn’t know him.
– I know who he is.
– Did you know him before the evening when he was admitted?
He looked at Ina Sundal. She had asked the same thing, the following night. She nodded again, faintly; no one else but him could have detected it.
– I had never seen Ibro Hakanovic before that evening.
He leaned forward, looked from one to the other of the two men. – Is Ibro Hakanovic dead?
– He is dead.
– Where is he?
– You mean his body?
– Aren’t you talking about his body?
The men smiled. Ina Sundal didn’t.
– He’s probably at some hospital or other.
– In the mortuary?
– Why is it important for you to know this?
– I want to know that he’s dead. Can you prove it to me?
They didn’t look at each other now, were careful not to. This told him that they were approaching something they thought was important. He held his breath for a few seconds. When he didn’t breathe, something happened in his thoughts, as though he knew in advance what they were going to ask him about.
– We know a great deal about what has happened over the last few days, Arash. And we know that what you have told us is for the most part true. But we still need a few pieces filling in before we have the complete picture. That’s where we need your help.
That was well said. They needed him.
– You need me. Do I need you?
One of the men nodded firmly. – We can’t rule out that you’re being threatened by someone. If so, then you need protection.
Arash glanced across at Ina Sundal again. It was what she thought too, he could see that. The light from her blouse had deepened, throwing a glint of dark gold across one cheek.
– Have you ever been to Malmö?
– Malmö is a city in the south of Sweden.
– Correct. Have you been there?
He had been in Copenhagen. Took the plane there to Oslo.
– Never.
– Do you know anyone there?
He did not. And yet he waited before answering. Had to show he was taking the questions they asked him seriously.
– Not to my knowledge.
A thought occurred to him. – Was Ibro Hakanovic from Malmö?
– Yes. Do any of your friends know Malmö?
– I don’t know.
– Of course not, Arash. That was a tough question. But to the best of your knowledge, do any of your friends have any connection at all with Malmö?
– Not to the best of my knowledge.
This was a good conversation. The questions were easy to answer. It helped when the questions had one right answer and all the others were wrong. More questions about Malmö. Let’s have them. And then about the forest. And he was ready for them too. Was he followed by one or two people? Did he hear people talking? How many shots were fired? What did the person following him look like? More difficult that one, several possible answers. He exerted himself, and Ina Sundal watched him. The black hood, which he first saw reflected in the waters of the stream, for a moment he had thought it was a woman wearing niqab. But the hood was the type people called a balaclava. And the dark clothing was a coverall. Gloves. Something odd about the way the person in black walked.
– Odd how?
He thought about this. Went back in his mind to the bracken by the boulders. The follower bending, peering into the little cave he had almost crept into.
– The person in black had a limp. Not much of one.
– Which leg?
He closed his eyes. – The left. Something else, too. The gun was held in the left hand.
Suddenly he saw himself through the eyes of his pursuer. How Arash emerges from hiding among the bracken, the light from the evening sky falling and falling between the trees. In the middle of this light, a track down a slope. Turns into a narrow path.
Ina Sundal was still looking at him. He tried to hear something she wasn’t saying. Still a long way to go, Arash. But you just might have found a way out.
34
Before Jennifer was properly inside the door, the dog was greeting her.
– Pepsi, said Roar Horvath sharply, not that it took any notice, desperately anxious as it was to get a sniff between her legs. He grabbed hold of the loose skin around its neck and tossed the dog out of the way.
– Sorry, Jenny. She’s not exactly the perfectly trained dog.
– Don’t worry.
The animal whined and peered up at her with an injured look.
– They did their level best to spoil her where she was before. Dan-Levi was a thoroughly good human being. Far too nice a person to train a dog.
The office looked out over the river and the headland. It was simply furnished: a couple of shelves with folders, beige walls, beige curtains, a colour Jennifer had never liked. Four or five empty chewing-tobacco packets were visible in the rubbish bin. He followed her gaze and with one foot shoved it under his desk, at the same time offering her the visitor’s chair with its rough cover, which was beige too; at least it harmonised with the general sterility of the room.
– Thank you for coming in at such short notice. I realise you’re very busy.
She was. Behind with her
everyday routines, behind with her research work.
– I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do yourself, she answered.
He waved dismissively. – Don’t worry about that. I’m glad to see you. A lot can be done over the net. But it can never take the place of personal contact.
She felt herself blushing, made up her mind that before she left the office this time she would make it clear, once and for all, that he had no reason at all to read anything personal into these meetings of theirs.
He pulled his office chair out on to the floor, sat down opposite her. – I’ve asked you to come for several reasons, Jenny.
– I can’t wait to hear them.
He turned, removed some photographs from a large brown envelope and placed them on the desk. She recognised them as being from the two most recent autopsies.
– You’ve indicated that there are a great many similarities here.
She nodded. – The same weapon may have been used. The cut made in the same way, probably by someone left handed, though the one that killed Marita Dahl is longer, so that the large veins on the left have been severed.
– Take a look at this.
He laid a picture on the table, looking like a bridge player who’d been sitting waiting with a high card in his hand. – A new victim.
She saw it at once. The cut across the throat slanting down to the left, almost certainly done from behind, rapidly and with the left hand.
The man in the photograph was laid out on a zinc table. He was in his fifties or sixties. The eyes stared out blankly past the photographer.
She looked at Roar Horvath. – Where was this taken?
– The pathological institute in Lund. The victim is Mujo Hakanovic, Ibro Hakanovic’s uncle. Killed yesterday in a kebab shop in the centre of Malmö. Along with a fifteen-year-old boy who worked there.
She felt a mixture of excitement and relief.
– So, gang related, she said.
– That hypothesis is strengthened. Malmö police have good contacts there. Three months ago, a man named Vuk Pashar was killed in a bar in the middle of town. He was a member of the so-called V-Falange. They’re involved in a long-standing war with the R-Falange, of which Ibro Hakanovic was a member. The killing of Vuk Pashar is believed to have been in revenge for another murder, that of Hasan Arapovic, a close friend of Hakanovic.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 25