Leona

by Jenny Rogneby

  That was not true. We no longer had any money at all, but because it was humiliating enough to even have to ask for a loan and I wanted to avoid any comments that we ought to have savings, I only asked for half. If I could borrow three hundred thousand kronor, I could probably double the money myself.

  “You’ll get the money back. We can draw up a payment plan if you want.”

  “You should have a bigger buffer, you and Peter. As a family you need that to manage unforeseen incidents like this.”

  I sucked it up. I wanted to scream that it was her fucking duty as a mother and grandmother to help out when her children and grandchildren had problems.

  “I’ve always said that you should’ve gotten a sensible education and a better-paying job, like your brothers.”

  Now I had to get away from there before I said something that meant I definitely would not get to borrow any money. I got up and headed toward the hall.

  “I have to leave. Could you please talk with Father and let me know as soon as possible?”

  “Are you in such a hurry? The coffee isn’t even ready.”

  “I have to get back to work before I pick up the kids.”

  I got in the car. Satisfied at having managed to avoid a conflict with Mother. But I regretted that I hadn’t asked for more money when I was asking anyway. For them, three hundred thousand or six hundred thousand hardly made any difference. They didn’t do anything with their money anyway. Sat on their savings, as if they could take the money with them to the afterlife. But I would have to see about solving this another way. Doubling the money myself would probably work out. I only needed to concentrate properly and play the way I knew worked. If I only made sure to stick to my own rules and not take any risks, it would be okay.

  I had it in me.

  I knew that.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Christer Skoog rang the doorbell of the apartment for the third time, at the address Leona had given him. Just like the day before yesterday when he had visited, no one was there to answer. Besides the bell not a sound was heard from the other side of the door.

  The information Leona had provided about what the prostitute had said during interrogation was extremely interesting. Christer wanted her to expand on it now. Perhaps draw the birthmark again so that he could publish it in the newspaper. Hopefully she had more to tell, too. People would be shocked, especially the minister’s wife. The prostitute would get vindication and Christer himself would get a scoop. Most importantly, the finance minister would get to feel what it’s like to have everyone against you. Christer felt sick just thinking about all the years of anxiety that the finance minister had caused him. Christer could not tolerate that a bully who had grown up to become a person who bargained and paid for sex from prostitutes had succeeded in getting a ministerial position in Sweden. Or the oily, well-polished smile he put on as soon as a camera was focused on him, either.

  Christer rang the doorbell again. Persistently pushed the button. A young, pale woman dressed only in a large T-shirt tore open the door.

  “What the hell is this? Knock it off!” she screamed.

  He couldn’t help but sympathize. When the door was opened the sharp sound of the doorbell ricocheted off the concrete walls in the stairwell. He smiled broadly in the hope that she would overlook the noise he had caused.

  “Hi, my name is Christer. I’m looking for Dina.”

  She looked him up and down as if she were searching for something in his appearance that revealed what type of man he was.

  “Wait.”

  She closed the door. He could hear her going farther into the apartment. Her steps revealed that she was not completely sober. Christer looked around on the stairwell landing. Hoped that he wouldn’t have to spend too much time there. His gaze landed on a door that was decorated on the outside with a dozen taped-up pieces of fabric with words on them. The door was ajar. Strange that he hadn’t heard when it opened, he thought. In the darkness inside the apartment stood an elderly, gray-haired woman with upswept hair. Dressed in some kind of white nightgown. She stood completely still. Squinted at him and hissed.

  “A pox on those like you. You are emissaries of the devil. Hell is where you belong.”

  Christer stared at her. When he took a step closer she slammed the door. He went over. Saw that the white pieces of fabric were decorated with embroidered Bible quotations. While he stood looking at them he heard steps from inside Dina’s door again. The same woman opened it.

  “She’s out.”

  “Did it take five minutes to figure that out?”

  The woman seemed totally uninterested in even trying to think up a lie about where Dina was. Christer came slowly closer. A taped-up piece of fabric on the old lady’s door fell onto the floor. The young woman started laughing hysterically.

  “She’s mental, that old woman. She’s taped up pieces of cloth the whole fucking night and now it’s all falling down.”

  She continued laughing. Christer tried to peek into the apartment but the darkness meant that he could only see a few jackets hanging close to the door. How would he get hold of Dina? He realized if she was in there his only chance was now, when the door was half open. He made a run, pushed it open, shoved aside the woman and stormed into the apartment.

  “Dina! I know you’re here. I just want to talk with you.”

  In the apartment he was slowed by newspapers, clothes, and shoes that were strewn everywhere. The apartment stank of smoke and booze. He opened every door along the hall. One of these rooms was the bathroom which, judging by the smell, had not been cleaned for weeks.

  “What the hell?” screamed the woman from the hall. “I’m calling the cops. Dina! Watch out, a crazy john is coming!”

  In the kitchen with a big knife in one hand and a cigarette in the other stood Dina, in a combat-ready stance, dressed only in a bra and underpants. Her hair was swept up in a ponytail high on her head.

  “I’ll cut you, you bastard,” she screamed.

  “No, no, take it easy, don’t worry. I just want to talk with you. It’s Christer, the journalist. We talked on the phone. You were going to meet me but you called and said you couldn’t come.”

  Dina remained in her position. Looked him skeptically up and down.

  “I was worried something had happened to you when suddenly you didn’t want to talk to me,” he continued, to show that he was on her side.

  She slowly lowered the knife.

  “Damn it, you scared me. Are you out of your mind?”

  Dina went over to the window. Looked frantically in all directions and then quickly pulled down the blinds.

  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “No. Can I sit down?”

  She nodded to the kitchen chair, then went over to the stove.

  “Coffee?”

  When he saw the piles of dirty dishes on the counter he hesitated. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. Christer, uncomfortable seeing her disrobed body, didn’t know where to fix his eyes.

  “Perhaps you can put the knife down now?”

  “Do you have any idea how many crazy johns I’ve met? Storming in here like that. You’re out of your mind. I could have stuck this in you.”

  She put the knife in the top drawer, rinsed out a mug, and set it down, after wiping it dry with a dirty hand towel that was hanging over the handle of the oven door. Into it she poured a brown liquid that looked more like burnt tar than coffee.

  “I know you told the police about the birthmark,” said Christer.

  She sat down. Put out her cigarette in the overfilled ashtray.

  “And?”

  “The thing is, the prosecutor seems to have disregarded the most important piece of evidence that shows you’re telling the truth. The birthmark you drew matched almost exactly with the minister’s.”

  “I know. But what can I do about it? I’ve told the police everything.”

  “I can publish your story in Aftonbladet. Then you’ll get a chance to tell eve
ryone what actually happened. People don’t know that.”

  “What’s in it for me? Only more problems. I haven’t exactly been getting more customers after this. The rumors spread quickly as hell on the street. Everyone knows I was the one who reported it. The johns are scared I’ll report them too. Besides, I’ve been threatened.”

  “By whom?”

  Dina took a sip of coffee and lit another cigarette. Didn’t answer.

  “You can get protection,” said Christer.

  “From you? Or what? You live in your own little world. No one cares about me, do you understand? In people’s eyes I’m just a whore who only has herself to blame. The police don’t give a damn about us.”

  “But if I publish this the prosecutor will be forced to reopen your case and you’ll get vindication.”

  “Vindication?” Dina snorted. “There’s no vindication for someone like me. I wanted people to understand how disgusting our politicians are, that’s all. I’d be crazy to expect anything more. Up till now I’ve been presented as a liar in the media. A celebrity-crazed gold-digger who only wants to make trouble. No, damn it, right now I’m doing all I can to go underground. It’s a matter of shutting down and moving on.”

  Christer had to try a different angle. This was the second time Dina had made a police report against men in the upper levels of society. Christer knew she had a strong sense of justice and wanted to raise awareness about the situation of sex workers. Maybe it would work.

  “But can you live that way? Not bothering to fight for what you believe? Then you’re letting those big shots win, even though they’re complete bastards.”

  “Listen, damn it, don’t talk to me about fighting for what you believe in. I’ve done it so many times, and I thought maybe I could change something. But it’s impossible to win in my position. The only one that gets shit is me. Oh, damn it, there’s no point in even talking with you. We come from different planets.”

  Christer felt he could no longer argue against her in a credible way. No matter how little he liked it, he knew she was right. She had taken a lot of beatings.

  “I understand you, Dina, but I hate that they’re free simply because of who they are. Besides, they’ve threatened you and God knows how many others. Apparently the prosecutor too, it seems.”

  Christer sighed and stood up. Put the untouched mug of coffee on the counter.

  “Thanks for the coffee. Sorry about scaring you and your friend.”

  He started heading toward the door. Halfway out in the hall he heard Dina.

  “Wait!”

  She disappeared into one of the rooms and came back with a phone. Not until she raised the volume to maximum was it possible to hear the voices. Christer could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  “Have you played this for the police?”

  “No, I didn’t know until a few days ago that it had been recorded. I have recording on quick code on my phone because I run into so many sick johns. When it starts getting nasty I hit rec. This time I must have accidentally touched the button.”

  “Who knows about this besides me?”

  “No one.”

  This was all the information Christer needed. With it he could print in the newspaper that there was a recording and if nothing happened, he could publish a transcript of it. It was evidence that might be enough to convict them. Dina’s name and picture would of course have been the icing on the cake. He looked at her. She seemed to have understood his thought and shook her head.

  “Not a chance.”

  She stood with her arms crossed. He realized it was probably impossible to convince her. But the recording would be enough.

  “Can I get a copy?”

  “You can take it. I have a new, better phone now. I got so many threats and shit from everyone possible on that one. It has loads of messages on it that I couldn’t stand to listen to.”

  “Messages from any of the ministers?”

  “Like I said, I haven’t listened to them. When you’ve heard enough times that you’re a disgusting whore who should die in the sickest ways, you can’t bear to hear that shit anymore.”

  Christer wasn’t listening. He was exhilarated at the turn the meeting had taken but at the same time a little distressed at the misery of her living conditions. He left the apartment and walked, as if intoxicated, toward his car. This information would produce headlines. It would be major. Now it was important to do everything just right. He needed a competent, credible person who could back his story. He would contact Nina Wallin, the prosecutor. With her in his corner the facts he submitted would have real impact. Finally he would be able to put away those suits.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Everyone was equally confused about why Claes had summoned us to an extra squad meeting. My colleagues looked questioningly at the whiteboard in the big conference room, as though it could tell us what was going on. Someone had heard that a new working method would be presented, which was not a popular idea. That sort of thing was presented time and again. Those who’d been around a long time had seen many changes come and go. Personally I had other things to think about, and wasn’t particularly amused at the idea of having to sit and listen to information about how some efficiency model would be introduced.

  “Yep, now it’s time again.”

  Rolf, one of the older officers, looked at me.

  “I wonder how many millions this idea is going to cost the taxpayers?”

  Rolf was right. The agency spent millions introducing new working methods. Buying expensive new computer systems, training all the personnel in the country, and then scrapping the systems when it turned out they didn’t fit the operation. Then they’d have new systems and working methods developed, and then train all the personnel in the country over again. Reorganizations, where squads were reduced, followed by ones where squads were expanded; a constantly ongoing change process that never seemed to end, nor change anything for the better.

  “Something new is always fun,” said Sam, looking at Rolf.

  He got a snort in return.

  Claes stepped into the room, followed by a middle-aged man. He had dark, mid-length hair with streaks of gray. Glasses. A normal build. I used to amuse myself by guessing the background of unknown people. This man was hard to assess. He was probably not a police officer. He looked out over the room in an analytical way. A psychologist? Maybe the idea was that we’d all get counseling, like other people with mentally stressful occupations.

  “I would like to introduce a person who will be working with us over the coming year. He is going to assist us in our investigations, primarily in the reconnaissance cases.”

  Help out with investigations? Probably not a psychologist then. I might have guessed he was a profiler, but they worked in teams, not alone. Besides which, there was only one such team in Sweden. It would be strange if Claes had managed to get that profiling team to support our squad alone. No, this must be something else.

  “His name is Sören Möller. I will turn the floor directly over to you, Sören, so you can introduce yourself and tell everyone what you’ll be doing.”

  What was this? Claes always liked to show off by giving nice-sounding introductions of visitors, thus implying that it was his doing that such capable people worked for him. This was getting stranger and stranger.

  “Hi everyone, so my name is Sören Möller.”

  My colleagues sat quietly but seemed not to have understood that there was something peculiar about him.

  “I work as a medium.”

  A medium! My jaw could have dropped to the ground. That was the last thing I would have imagined. Many strange things had come and gone in the agency over the years, but this probably took the cake.

  “My primary area of work so far has been communicating with deceased persons and their relatives, and finding missing persons.”

  I looked around. Was this a joke? Everyone was silent and staring at the man. I made eye contact with Fredrik, who seemed to be trying hard to keep fro
m laughing. Claes stood to the side, looking down at the floor.

  “When you work as a medium, you get used to many people doubting your ability.”

  Could he read minds?

  “For that reason I always keep statistics about my own work.”

  I see, an attempt to turn hocus-pocus into some kind of science. I looked at Claes, to read his facial expression. He seemed to have all his attention on his phone. He took a few quick steps out of the room with the phone against his ear. The man clicked on the remote control for the ceiling projector. An image with pictures of various people appeared on the screen behind him.

  “Where missing persons are concerned, where the results are easiest to measure, I have worked with twenty-six different cases so far. In all these cases the family has come to me when the police had not found the person and had abandoned the search.”

  He clicked to the next image.

  “With the help of my abilities, we have found twenty-four of them. Twenty were alive and staying away voluntarily, and four were unfortunately deceased and resulted in murder investigations. In those murder investigations four persons have been indicted and three convicted.”

  Impressive figures. But was that really enough to make him credible within the agency?

  “Swedish police have made use of a medium to assist with a criminal investigation only once before. I’m sure you’ve read about your former police colleague, Tore Hedin, who in the 1950s murdered ten people, including his own parents, his ex-girlfriend, and her boss. As if it were not strange enough behavior for a policeman to kill all those people, he himself also hired the medium Olof Jönsson.”

  So, the medium had a little humor and self-awareness too. I couldn’t help admiring his timing.

  “Olof Jönsson was so close to revealing Tore’s actions that Tore finally confessed to all the murders in a suicide note before he drowned himself.”

  They were known as the Hurva murders from 1953. My colleagues and I were very familiar with that incident.

  The door opened and Claes came in again. He nodded to Sören and sat down on a chair in the very front.