Leona

by Jenny Rogneby

  “Surveillance from the robbery?” he asked, looking at my hand.

  I’d already started to shut the drawer and saw no point in stopping. I had no intention whatsoever of looking at the footage of the robbery with Claes breathing down my neck.

  “Go ahead, put it on. I want to see,” he said, stepping in.

  I slowly opened the drawer again and picked out one of the disks. On the radio news broadcast they were talking about the robbery. A psychologist was being interviewed about the possibility of children committing criminal acts.

  “My computer has been on the blink lately,” I said.

  The screen was completely dark. You couldn’t tell that it was switched on, because I had put the computer itself under the desk. I had removed the usual screensaver with the police logo long ago. Seeing the emblem float around on the screen only irritated me. I leaned down under the desk, realizing that Claes was looking at me from behind. He could look all he wanted. It wasn’t going to go beyond that. I pressed the power button, so that the computer actually turned off instead of on. Claes didn’t seem to notice the difference.

  The child psychologist on the radio was speculating that the girl had been coerced into committing the crime, and that she had likely been traumatized by the event.

  “Have you interviewed the witness who was standing closest to the girl inside the bank?” said Claes.

  Before I had time to answer my phone buzzed on the desk.

  “Excuse me, Claes,” I said.

  I heard Anette’s voice through the receiver.

  “Leona, a man who won’t give his name wants to talk with you. I’ll transfer the call.”

  I waited. There was silence on the line.

  “Hello?” I said.

  Someone was there — I could hear them breathing on the other end of the line. I pushed the phone closer to my ear to hear better.

  “I know.”

  The deep male voice said the words quietly. Almost whispering. The voice was familiar, very familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The man hung up. I looked at Claes and shook my head.

  “No one there.”

  “Are you getting the video started?” he said, looking at the black screen. “And what did you say about the witness inside the bank?”

  “The woman has been interviewed, but there was nothing new,” I said.

  “Claes, do you have a moment?” said Fredrik as he passed by in the corridor.

  “Use my computer to check the video if you can’t get yours started,” Claes said to me, going out to Fredrik.

  In the doorway he turned around.

  “And keep me informed about what’s going on in the case. The bosses higher up are pressuring me about this.”

  When Claes left I turned on the computer again. The news announcer on the radio ended the interview and started reading the weather report. I took a gulp from the water glass on the desk.

  Tried to remember why I recognized that voice.

  TWELVE

  Christer Skoog was sitting at Rival on Maria Square with an espresso. He had already decided how he would structure the interview with Dina. He knew she wanted to talk so he would be able to lean back a little. Just be sure not to interrupt her. Normally he would have chosen a table by the window, but for Dina’s sake he chose a seat toward the back. The cloudy gray sky and subdued lighting made the place seem dark. He took a candleholder with a tea light from the next table and set it on the one where he was sitting. He’d already had two espressos. Maybe he would have time for one more before she came.

  Christer hadn’t seen Dina since she had testified in another prostitution trial three years earlier. He was actually not particularly fond of people in the lower social strata. He thought they were mostly whiners who saw themselves as victims instead of doing something about their situation. Admittedly he himself came from an academic family, but his father had died when Christer was young and he had grown up with only his mom for support, and had a very tough time in school besides. Despite that he’d managed to pull himself together, caught up on what he had missed, and hadn’t asked for any help from society. It was an example for others to emulate, he thought. Dina, for example.

  Dina moved in the lowest level of society but to some degree she impressed him anyway. During the hearing in the case three years ago she had spoken clearly, in a steady voice, and hadn’t hesitated on any details, even though the defense attorney had done everything in his power to make her lose her composure. That alone made her unusual. She was well dressed, besides, and appeared conscientious. When the defense attorney had asked what kind of work she did, she had answered, “Sex worker,” without any embarrassment. She had said then that she wanted to quit but didn’t have any opportunities to get alternative work. Dina had stated clearly that she did not abuse any form of drug, neither alcohol nor narcotics. On the contrary, she drank lots of herbal tea and always asked her customers to buy her a cup before it was time, otherwise there wouldn’t be any “action,” as she had put it. Her open, humorous manner had succeeded in getting both the judge and jurors to smile. That was the first day in court.

  The second day, though, she had been completely different. Taciturn, barely answering the questions she was asked, and even retracting several of the statements she had made the day before. The prosecutor had become very worried and tried to get the court to realize that something strange had happened since the previous day. It had been so obvious that the prosecutor even asked flat out if someone or something had influenced her to change her testimony. When Dina answered no, the defense attorney had almost rubbed his hands with glee. Naturally no one was particularly surprised when the bank official was acquitted. Few were convicted of paying for sex if they were not caught in the act. The class difference between those involved did not make it any easier.

  It was now a quarter past four. Was Dina just late?

  When the accusations of paying for sex against the minister for finance, the minister for foreign affairs, and the finance commissioner became public, all three had been forced to take a break from politics. Coming back would probably be impossible for them after Christer had published Dina’s version.

  He picked up his phone. Entered Dina’s number. She answered immediately.

  “I’m sick. Can’t come.”

  He heard nothing in her voice that had changed since yesterday’s conversation to hint at any sort of illness.

  “We can meet tomorrow instead,” said Christer.

  “I’ll probably be sick then, too,” Dina said.

  How can you know that? thought Christer. If she didn’t see so many customers maybe she would be able to get herself out of the squalor instead of diving deeper.

  “I can come to your place instead, and then you won’t have to go out in the cold,” said Christer.

  “I have nothing more to say other than what I told the police before.”

  “But, what…? You were the one who wanted to meet me!”

  “There’s no point in meeting.”

  She hung up. Damn it! She had seemed so determined the day before. This made it even more important for him to speak with her. He just didn’t know how to make that happen. According to his sources she had no permanent address, but moved around among friends instead. If he could just see her he was convinced that he could get her to talk. If there was anyone who could get a legal action against these big shots, it was her.

  He couldn’t back off now. Felt uneasy just thinking about all the years of anxiety the finance minister had caused him. Christer could not tolerate the fact that a bully who became a person who bargained and paid for sex with prostitutes was one of the most powerful figures in Sweden. He couldn’t stand the fawning, well-polished smile that appeared as soon as he knew he was on camera. He had been waiting for an opportunity like this to put Nino in jail for years. It was unlikely he would ever get a better chance than this again. It had to happen now. He needed to quickly produce more information about the case. As luck would have it, he
had a trump card he’d been saving for a while.

  Now was the right moment to use it.

  THIRTEEN

  My eyes were drawn to a large, framed photograph on the wall inside the dog handler’s office. It depicted a German shepherd sitting at a firing range, wearing a police cap on its head and carrying a medal in its mouth.

  The place looked more like a changing room than an office. There were cabinets along one wall, and hangers with leashes and other equipment. Farther in was a glassed-in room with four desks. Like most other departments they’d had to move recently and were now located not far from reception. The room was empty. Evidently everyone was out on assignment.

  “He was my absolute best.”

  I turned around. Robert Granlund was standing behind me, looking up at the photo.

  “He’s been in dog heaven since last spring.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  I put my hand under my hair and lightly massaged my neck. The hours in front of the computer at the office last night had given me a tension headache. Peter’s tone had been curt when I called at midnight and said I had to work late and would have to sleep over in one of the squad’s break rooms.

  “I just about cried myself to death, you know. He was my soul mate. Better than a woman. It was love until death did us part.”

  I understood what he meant. As a child I had loved animals. Wanted a pet, but my parents wouldn’t let me have one. They said I wasn’t capable of taking care of an animal. That I was cruel to them. One time I had sneaked an injured young bird into the house by wrapping it in my cap and hiding it inside my jacket. I was punished, of course.

  “Would you like a cup?”

  Robert went over to the coffee machine that was found in every break room in the agency.

  “Thanks, I don’t have time to stay. I just wanted to hear what ideas you had about my case.”

  Robert had a worried look in his eyes.

  “Right, that. The dogs behaved extremely strangely. They mostly wandered around without picking up any trace. The first handler was on the scene just fifteen minutes after the alarm came in so the dog should have found something, either via tracks or airborne scent. Because the girl clearly was naked and bloody, the whole thing is really strange. I’m almost starting to suspect…”

  “Leona Lindberg, is that you?”

  I turned around. A young patrol officer stood in the doorway.

  “A guy was just here and left this note in reception. Said it was for you. I heard you were here.”

  She handed over a folded piece of paper with my name on it. It was torn from an ordinary lined college notebook and held together with a piece of tape.

  “He wouldn’t say who he was. Looked to be between eighteen and twenty. Short, brownish-black hair, slender, about 175 centimeters tall, black clothes.”

  I unfolded the paper. When I saw what it said I quickly got up and started running out toward reception.

  “Thanks, Robbie, I’ll be in touch later,” I called from the corridor.

  I tore open the door to reception and ran outside, my eyes scanning up and down the street. An elderly woman on the other side of the road was hauling a floral shopping bag on wheels behind her. A girl with an unruly puppy tugging on the leash was at the crosswalk farther up. Down by the park by City Hall, I saw a guy who matched the description. He cut quickly down toward the park. I ran after him, but he had a good head start. By the time I got to the park he was gone. I could no longer see him, so I stopped. Looked around. Silhouettes of people, the dark-green trees, and the lights from cars driving on the street next to the park. I was about to give up when suddenly I saw him go into an entrance far down on Scheelegatan. I ran toward the building and tore open the door. A narrow passage led up to a large darkened room with a short counter along the left side. In the room row after row of computer screens were set up. In front of every computer were young guys with headphones on. The only person standing up was the guy behind the counter. He too was staring at a flat screen. No one appeared to have just come into the place and thrown themselves down in front of a computer to blend in. I went over. Showed my badge.

  “Where’s the young guy who just came in here?”

  The guy did not raise his eyes but instead stared in concentration at his computer screen and briefly shrugged.

  “Only young guys come in here.”

  “But damn it, he just came in. Where did he go?”

  The guy looked up with tired red eyes. He was probably high. He nodded toward a narrow staircase on the other side of the room. I ran up the stairs. The staircase was covered with wall-to-wall carpet, which dampened the sound. The room one flight up looked similar to the one below. Lots of computers in long rows. Pale boyish faces with dead eyes staring into the flickering screens. From the bluish-white light from the computers it was impossible to differentiate between them. Besides, I had only seen the guy from behind. They all seemed to have dark clothing on. I gave up. It wasn’t worth turning the place upside down to find a snot-nosed teenager. If the guy wanted something from me, he would be in touch again. I went downstairs and out on the street. For the first time in a long while I felt really old. Was this how young people occupied themselves all day and night? I took the paper out of my pocket and unfolded it again.

  I know something that you want to know

  The text was handwritten; tilted and a little sprawling. A young man’s handwriting.

  What did he want?

  FOURTEEN

  When I got back to the agency, I could see from a distance that someone had set something on my keyboard. I walked into the office, unbuttoning my jacket. Another note. Handwritten in pencil on lined paper from a college notebook. The same sprawling handwriting as before.

  I know

  I looked out into the corridor. I had always known that security at the police station was poor. They were always trying to improve the systems so that unauthorized people couldn’t get in. Staff usually had reasonably good knowledge of who was moving around in the building. At least you generally kept track of your own corridor. Plus nowadays everyone was required to wear their badge or ID plainly visible outside their clothing while inside the building. People from outside had to sign for a visitor ID on entry. So who had managed to get into my office? My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone on my desk. I looked at the display. Blocked number.

  “Violent Crimes, Leona Lindberg.”

  “You got the message. Meet me at Norrtullsgatan 19 in an hour.”

  The caller hung up. It was the same familiar voice as earlier. I’d heard it before, more than once. If only I could place it.

  We didn’t have a tradition of practical jokes in our squad, but I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t something like that. There were probably a couple of officers who would think of something like this as a joke. Still, I was too curious not to go. Perhaps the person had information about the girl robbery.

  I went slowly out into the corridor. Looked around. Empty. I took a turn past the administration office to check that it was staffed. Anette was sitting in her office and looked out when I went past. So that it didn’t look as if I was snooping around I asked whether the report I was expecting from the forensics lab had arrived. Anette shook her head.

  “No mail for you at all today.”

  “Okay. By the way, Anette, I’m going out to interview a witness. It may drag on so I probably won’t be coming back at all this afternoon.”

  Anette nodded. I headed back toward my office and ran into Claes in the corridor.

  “Claes, have you seen anyone go past my office recently?”

  “I just came back from lunch,” said Claes. “What do you mean, has there been an unauthorized person in here?”

  “I’m sure it’s just someone who’s trying to play a joke. I already see a suspect.”

  I laughed and pointed at Fredrik, who had opened the glass door at the far end of the corridor. He would never do anything of the sort, but
I didn’t want to worry Claes unnecessarily. Claes smiled and went into his office.

  I looked at the note again. Someone had taken a risk to enter the police station, through the locked, alarmed doors, and leave the note for me. Or more likely, they had managed to pay a cleaning person, mail carrier, or someone else to put it in my office.

  I decided to drive early to the address, stay in the car, and see who was standing there. If it was another officer playing a joke I could drive away and act as if nothing had happened. But somehow I knew that this was not a joke.

  It was nearly one-thirty — time to go. To be on the safe side, I put on a bulletproof vest. I had my service pistol with me as always.

  Even though it was no longer lunchtime, there was still a lot of traffic. Sveavägen was packed with cars. I turned left on Odengatan up toward Odenplan, parking a short distance away on Surbrunnsgatan. I positioned myself so I had a view of the meeting place. Waited. And waited. A lot of people went past, but no one stopped.

  I had a creepy feeling.

  Something wasn’t right.

  After sitting there for more than fifteen minutes without seeing anyone I recognized, I got out of the car. Presumably the person was sitting in another car in the vicinity waiting for me to show myself. I locked the car and started walking toward Norrtullsgatan. As I approached, a man came up behind me.

  “Leona.”

  The same voice as on the phone. I turned around. A man aged about thirty-five or forty with longish, dark-blond hair was walking beside me. He was wearing a dark-green parka and jeans. I looked at him. I had no idea who he was.

  “Christer Skoog, journalist,” he said without stopping.

  It was him. One of the journalists who kept calling and terrorizing me about the girl robbery. I suddenly became irritated, almost furious. I had set aside my work to play cat and mouse with a persistent journalist who had thought of a new tactic.

  “If this is your new way of trying to get information about the girl robbery you can forget —”

  “Knock it off, Leona! You’re the one who’s going to get information. Information that I know you will be extremely interested in. We can talk in your car.”