Olsson sank into a heap, sobbing. “I can’t do this.”
It was as if he had used up all his power. Lindell just sat and observed him. His hands were pressed together between his knees. The stale air was starting to get to her. She stood up without making a sound. A large photograph of Sven-Erik Cederén in a graduation cap was prominently displayed on the bookshelf.
She wanted to put her hand on Olsson’s shoulder, say some comforting words, but she couldn’t manage it. It was possible that his son was a murderer, so Lindell couldn’t assuage the father’s pain, and perhaps she didn’t really want to. There was something about his person that made her feel not so much distaste as dislike.
She closed the door behind her and knew that there were countless questions she should have asked, that she should have spoken with the woman who was behind one of the closed doors. Perhaps she was sitting silently in the kitchen? Lindell tried to imagine her: large, heavy, thinning hair with a grown-out perm, full of sorrow mixed with helplessness and perhaps anger. Mostly a wordless grief. “Feeling poorly,” her husband had said. Lindell tasted the word. “Poorly.”
Once she was out in the fresh air, she called Sammy Nilsson, who could relate that the review of MedForsk’s business documentation was taking considerable time. The connection to the daughter company in Spain was not completely clear. The two companies pursued many of their activities independently, but the majority of the laboratory work took place in Spain. Most of the documents were in English, but many were in Spanish. A translator had been called in. Sven-Erik Cederén was the one who managed the communications in Málaga since he knew the language.
Beatrice had checked on the insurance. Both Josefin and Emily were insured through Skandia, with Sven-Erik as the beneficiary. The amount was in the millions.
“How are their private finances?”
“Good,” Sammy Nilsson said. “There are shares for about half a million, mostly in pharmaceuticals, loans for nine hundred thousand, bank resources for half a million, and as much again in interest-bearing securities.”
“Not bad,” Lindell said and thought of her own meager assets. “No acute situation, in other words.”
“No, and no significant financial events recently. Just the usual amount of activity—regular deposits and no large withdrawals. We’re working on Sven-Erik’s credit cards right now. Sixten is looking into that.”
“Anything from the house?”
“Nada. No other personal materials.”
Lindell heard voices in the background on the other end. A telephone rang and one of her colleagues laughed. Riis mocking someone, most likely, she thought.
“Having fun?”
“Berglund is making a fool of himself. He just won ten thousand on a lottery ticket he found in his car.”
“Found?”
“He had forgotten about it,” Sammy said. “What about you?”
Lindell talked through her visits.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Overseas,” Sammy said.
“Maybe Spain?”
“I’m betting on the Dominican Republic. We’re trying to sort out that house business. The translator is helping us with the papers.”
“Sounds good, Sammy. Give my regards to Berglund.”
She hung up and looked back at the airless multifamily building where Sven-Erik’s parents moldered. She was almost certain that Axel Olsson—possibly also his sickly wife—were observing her from a window.
What substance might there be in his talk of Josefin and her desire for a lavish lifestyle? Lindell did not believe him. Her wardrobe was large but not notably expensive. Beyond all the dust, her home had been relatively normal.
It was obvious that the parents had not seen eye to eye. Perhaps it was the differences in their backgrounds. Josefin’s father had apparently been a higher-up in the Swedish Social Insurance Agency. She didn’t know what profession Axel Olsson had practiced, but she assumed it was something blue collar. He had muttered something about the other’s airs of superiority, that he had been made to feel inferior, but having met Josefin’s father, Lindell had trouble imagining him being patronizing. It all probably stemmed from some old disagreement. They had not continued to see each other socially, that was all.
* * *
Ottosson, Wende, and Beatrice were sitting in the lunchroom with a man she did not recognize. She guessed it was the interpreter, and this was immediately confirmed.
When he introduced himself as Eduardo Cruz, she felt herself transported back a couple of years to the time when she was investigating the murder of the young Peruvian refugee Enrico, whose brother had had the same accent.
Beatrice, who was always observant, noticed her reaction and began to describe the results of her and Wende’s mapping of the Cederén family’s personal finances.
Lindell, who had already been briefed on most of this by Sammy, listened distractedly. From Enrico and Ricard, her thoughts went to Edvard. He had called.
“What do you think?” Ottosson asked and looked warmly at her.
“I didn’t really catch all that. I have to get a snack,” she said and got up.
She returned with a cup of coffee and a chocolate-covered biscuit and Beatrice made a comment about blood sugar.
“We’ve finally managed to get in touch with the Dominican Republic,” Wende said. “We had problems getting our fax to go through.”
“What’s the time difference?” Ottosson asked.
“Six,” the translator said.
“Eduardo has translated the reply, and it appears that Cederén bought land in the northwestern part of the country, not far from Haiti.”
“Land?”
“Yes, no building, just land, more precisely two hectares. He paid eighty-five thousand dollars.”
“He hired a firm by the name of West Indies Real Estate in Sosúa,” Beatrice said.
Lindell did not want to start speculating about what this might mean while the translator was present. Instead she asked if the fax had yielded any additional information.
“Sven-Erik Cederén has been there in person on several occasions, most recently the fifth of June. That was when the deal was transacted and Cederén transferred money from the MedForsk account to the Banco Nacional. Eighty-five thousand dollars.”
“How much is that?”
“About eight hundred and fifty thousand kronor,” Wende said.
Ottosson stroked his beard.
“So now MedForsk owns twenty thousand square meters of Caribbean land,” he said. “Why?”
“Handelsbanken has confirmed the payment,” Beatrice said.
“Thanks so much for your help,” Lindell said to the translator. “It’s likely we’ll be in touch again.”
She stretched out her hand.
“Where are you from?”
“Chile,” Eduardo Cruz said, and stood up.
* * *
Lindell gazed after him.
“He reminds me of Ricardo,” she said, and this was the first time she had brought up his name to her colleagues.
His death, how he had thrown himself out of a window when the police arrived. This had been a taboo subject in her presence. No one had wanted to open this wound. They sat quietly around the table until Wende broke the silence.
“Jack Mortensen had no knowledge of this affair. Or so he claims. He was under the impression that Cederén had been in Spain.”
“That’s what everyone at MedForsk believed,” Lindell said.
“What a mess,” Beatrice said.
“Is this the heart of it?” Lindell asked of no one in particular.
“The Caribbean,” Wende said.
“Maybe he was planning to move there with his lover,” Lindell said.
“Who is that?”
Lindell leaned back in her chair.
“We’ll have to check all flights again, track his flights, review passenger lists. She may be there somewhere. If they really were planning to flee to these warm
er climes, I’m sure she must have accompanied him on an earlier trip.”
“But why pay with funds from a company account?” Ottosson objected. “He should have fudged it.”
“He’s a man,” Beatrice said. “He thinks he’s invincible, that he can do whatever he likes and he’ll pull it off.”
Lindell shook her head.
“Do we have anyone here who knows Spanish?” she asked Ottosson.
“Riis, maybe,” he said, and chuckled. “He’s got a place in Spain.”
“Should we send Riis to the Dominican Republic?” Beatrice said excitedly.
“I’ll go there with the Chilean,” Lindell said.
* * *
Once she was back in her office, Lindell sat with her notepad, doodling and sorting the information she had received. In front of her on the table were several folders with information about MedForsk and the Cederén family’s personal finances, as well as transcripts of the interviews.
It was already a considerable amount, but she knew that this collection would grow even more before the investigation was concluded. She was impressed by her unit’s effectiveness, despite all the turbulence in the building. She knew she was working in a good group.
And at the bottom of the pile was a memo from the police chief: “Questions about the necessary restructuring of community policing.” She read this heading several times before she tossed the whole thing in her bottom drawer. It would take a while before she would be able to get to it. Most likely there would be a new memo within a short period of time that either fully or in part completely reversed the earlier conclusions and suggestions.
The last time she had seen the chief he had been in uniform, on his way to some reception. He loved his uniform. If only he would spend as much time on the Uppsala division’s actual problems as he did with his uniform.
He called, she thought, and as so often happened, her mind wandered to Edvard. There were now longer stretches of time between these thoughts, which she saw as a sign of health, but he was still there. If she called him back, she would be lost, she knew that. All it would take was hearing his voice. “No, you silly goose, you’re not a lovesick teenager.”
“Your hands,” she said aloud and smiled.
She removed the wrapper from a piece of chocolate that she had brought back with her and decided not to call. He could stay on that island with his beautiful hands and his heavy thoughts.
It struck her that MedForsk’s Jack Mortensen would have to be interviewed again, and she searched around for the number to the company.
Mortensen was out on an errand, Sofi Rönn—who answered the phone—announced. He wouldn’t be returning to the office. Lindell was given his cell phone number.
“One more thing, since I have you on the line. What do you know about the Dominican Republic?”
“Nothing really,” Rönn said. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering,” Lindell said, and then decided to tell her about the fax from West Indies Real Estate.
“That’s news to me,” Rönn said. “Why would he buy any land there?”
“You haven’t heard anything about the company planning to build a new facility in that location?”
“No, not a word, and I think I would have heard something if anything was in the works.”
Lindell thought so too, because Sofi Rönn appeared to know almost everything about MedForsk and its employees.
“Please keep this information to yourself,” Lindell said.
“Of course. It’ll stay between the two of us,” Rönn said, and they ended the call, both convinced they would have a great deal more to do with the other in the near future.
Lindell dialed Mortensen’s cell phone number but was greeted by a recording. Lindell introduced herself and asked him to call her as soon as possible.
* * *
There was a gentle knock on the door. Ola, Lindell thought immediately. And so it was.
“It took a bit of digging, but I’ve finally uncovered information about Cederén’s credit cards,” he said and laid a dozen printouts in front of Lindell.
“Three different cards: a company card—a Visa—one MasterCard, and one Hydro card.”
Haver sat down.
“I’ve tried to filter out what I believe to be unimportant. Those transactions are marked in green, most of which is personal business. We have business charges, including flights, and those are blue. Then we have meals—white—and the rest are red.”
Lindell glanced at the top page and observed what he had just told her: colorful dots by every line.
“I’ve mapped his gas purchases on a map and have listed the foreign transactions separately,” Haver went on.
He grabbed the pile of paper and started to spread the pages across Lindell’s desk. Lindell peered at the map.
“Most of the gas was bought at Hydro by the western edge of town?”
“Yes, if he followed the 55 home, it would be the nearest gas station. But he has also stopped at the station by the E4, on Råbyvägen and along Öregrundsvägen.”
“And restaurants?”
“This is what I was thinking: If he had a lover, they would probably have gone out to eat a couple of times. I’ve marked all the charges where I believe it’s a bill for two people.”
Lindell smiled. “You like this, don’t you?”
Haver looked up. “There are twenty restaurant visits for two at eight different establishments the past two months.”
He stopped and waited for Lindell’s reaction.
“Let’s visit all those places with a photo of Cederén. We might get lucky,” she said finally. “Can you keep working with the lists? I think we’ve got something here.”
“Who can I take with me?”
“Talk to Ottosson. He’ll have to figure that out. You can give the foreign transactions to Beatrice and Wende. They’re working with Spain and the Caribbean connection.”
Haver closed his folder. “You can keep the lists,” he said. “I’ve made copies.”
“Hey,” Lindell said as Haver opened the door. “Nice work.”
He nodded and closed the door softly behind him.
* * *
Ann got up and went over to the window. She burped unexpectedly and her mouth filled with the taste of cabbage rolls. She didn’t like the current situation. What if he had managed to make his way out of the country?
She stayed by the window for a quarter of an hour. Her body felt heavy and she had a faint headache. Edvard.
She remembered his first visit in her old office. His careful questions, his worry, his concern about who the dead boy was that he had found, how he had looked at her and taken her hand as they parted. Already then, after only ten minutes, there was something in his eyes that she could never forget. It was something in his gaze, a kind of hunger, an undercurrent of daring mixed with insecurity. A boy’s eyes, but a man’s gaze.
She knew where he was but didn’t go to find him. She knew his number by heart but didn’t call him. Was this a form of masochism? She had left him and chosen loneliness, work, and perhaps the hope that she would find someone else. But as yet she had not found anyone to replace Edvard.
She knew now what it was that had impelled her to leave the island. It wasn’t the practical problems—him on Gräsö, with some unspoken loyalty to his aged landlady; her in Uppsala, with her work. No, it was his inability to steer his own life. He simply allowed things to happen. To all outward appearances, he had casually dropped his two sons and no longer had anything to do with them. He had laid his life aside and merely existed in a state of absentmindedness and passivity.
Even though she knew—and she found this even more infuriating—that this life pained him. How many times had she told him to break out of his isolation, to resume his contact with Jens and Jerker. To become active somewhere, where his frustration over the state of things could find expression and meaning.
At first she had thought that it was her presence that made h
im hesitate, that he was ashamed of his sons or that he didn’t want to confront them with her. After all, they had first met her as a detective in a murder investigation. They had been suspects, but had been freed of suspicion. And yet their involvement had indirectly led to Eduardo’s death. Even more crucial to take ahold of these boys.
But she wasn’t the sticking point. That much she had figured out. Edvard was simply not up to the task of living, and she did not want to be pulled into this silence and repressed suffering. She wanted to live completely and fully. Her job was depressing enough as it was without having to deal with heaviness the moment she came home.
“But,” and she cursed herself, “here he is. Why did he have to call and record his damned message?”
“And look at you,” she told herself, her brow against the windowpane, “here you are moping around.
“But without Edvard. Without his eyes, hands, and lost love. You pour two glasses of red wine into yourself almost every night. Go out with the girls and get drunk, falling into bed with a man that you hardly remember what he looks like the next day. What kind of life is that?”
Her inner monologue was interrupted by the sound of the phone, and it occurred to her that she had been allowed a full fifteen minutes of peace with her thoughts.
She lifted the receiver. It was Jack Mortensen.
Seven
Ola Haver immediately set his plan in action. He managed to tear two officers away from Patrol and four from Surveillance.
They came together for a meeting after only an hour, the lists of restaurants in front of them. Haver was pleased to be able to leave the station, and it was clear that the others felt the same way.
“I can never afford to go out to eat,” said Malm, who was from Patrol. “So I guess this is the only way I can do it.”
“There are eight places in all,” Haver began. “Svensson’s Orient at the Saluhallen; a Greek restaurant across from V-Dala; Trattoria Commedia, the Italian joint around the corner; the Wermlands Cellar; two Chinese joints on Kungsgatan; Fowl and Fish in Tunabackar; and Kung Krål by the Old Square. I suggest we each take one. There are seven of us. I’ll take both of the Chinese restaurants. They’re practically next door to each other.”
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