Protected by the Shadows

by Helene Tursten

  The yard was around two thousand square feet, covered in old, cracked asphalt, with weeds sprouting through the gaps. Mysterious piles hidden beneath tarps lay here and there; it was difficult to work out what they might be, but the odd protruding piece looked like scaffolding. Maybe a building firm used the yard for storage, Irene thought. The building itself was a run-down wooden structure with a rusty corrugated metal roof, but as they walked in Irene realized it was pretty spacious.

  While they were checking the place out, Fredrik gave her a heads up on how the serious crime scene was looking in Göteborg.

  Apparently Gothia MC had suffered serious problems both during and after the major gang war of 2008–2009. The conflict had raged between a number of notorious biker clubs and two substantial gangs, one of which was the Gangster Lions, who had tried to move in. Gothia MC and the Gangster Lions had been bitter enemies for a long time when it came to drug dealing territory, which meant that both were drawn into the war. Several members had been injured or killed. Things had improved a little when Gothia MC’s internal organization started to splinter and members began to leave. The decimated group had withdrawn to a small place outside Gråbo to lick their wounds. They erected high fences all around the plot and set up CCTV cameras. Over the past few years they had kept a low profile as they tried to build up their reputation and expand membership. They were slowly beginning to regain their share of the drugs market. According to rumors, they were also active within the protection racket, which Bandidos and above all their subchapter X-team had run in the past. However, as X-team had virtually been eradicated in the Göteborg area, Gothia MC had taken over. Fredrik had also heard a whisper that their new leader, Per “The Champ” Lindström, had tentacles inside the construction business.

  When Irene asked what he knew about Per Lindström, Fredrik told her that he was a thirty-eight-year-old ex-amateur boxer with a rap sheet as long as the distance between Gothia MC’s old base and the new one outside Gråbo. He was a fearless, ruthless, habitual criminal who had done time for everything from narcotics dealing to grievous bodily harm. Irene remembered that he had been accused of homicide, or at least of having been an accessory in a homicide, but the main witness had vanished without a trace; four years on, there was still no sign of him. The other witnesses had suddenly been struck by a total loss of memory, and the prosecutor had been left with no choice but to drop the whole case.

  Irene and Fredrik were standing in what used to be the club’s main room. The small windows were thick with dirt, hardly letting in any light. The place was damp, and the smell of rat droppings mingled with the stench of gasoline and burned flesh. A large dark stain on the cement floor showed where the killers had poured gasoline over the victim and set him on fire. A hunting knife had been found next to the stain; the horn handle boasted a grinning skull, and on the razor-sharp steel blade the letter P had been engraved in a Gothic style. Both Irene and Fredrik knew this kind of knife was popular among bikers and probably belonged to the victim. The CSIs had also secured several bloodstains, suggesting that the man had been beaten up before the torching.

  A rough bar counter made of ordinary planks of wood ran along one wall; not the most sophisticated carpentry, Irene thought, but it had served its purpose. Countless bottles and glasses had left marks on the untreated surface.

  Behind the bar CSI Matti Berggren found an empty plastic container, which stank of gasoline. It looked brand new. The discovery brought a blissful smile to his lips. “Yes!” he rejoiced, carefully placing the container in a large bag. Fredrik shook his head and expressed some concerns regarding the mental health of his colleague, but Irene had no such reservations. If Matti thought the container was important, then it was. He was probably hoping to find the killer’s fingerprints. Irene had great confidence in the young technician who had replaced Svante Malm, their oracle for so many years. Matti had also been living with Irene’s colleague Sara Persson for the past six months, thus providing further evidence of his sound judgment.

  There was no other furniture in the room, apart from the bar. The place looked totally abandoned. However, the floor was littered with cigarette stubs, empty beer cans, broken glass, pizza boxes and all kinds of crap. It’s not going to be easy to find any trace of the killer or killers in this garbage dump, Irene thought wearily. Apart from the brand-new gasoline container, of course.

  “So Gothia MC is flourishing; how about the Gangster Lions?” Irene asked.

  “They’re doing even better. The Gangster Lions and their subchapter the Pumas are growing very fast, but recently there have been several run-ins with other gangs wanting to muscle in on the market. They’re all trying to mark their territory,” Fredrik said.

  An officer appeared at a small back door.

  “We’ve found something interesting,” he said.

  Irene and Fredrik followed him into a yard that was similar to the one at the front, although this was an inner courtyard, surrounded by dilapidated wooden buildings. Once again piles of what looked like construction materials were covered by tarps. The officer went over to one of these piles and folded back the tarp to reveal a spotless, gleaming Harley-Davidson. Fredrik let out a low whistle.

  “Hells Angels, I presume,” Irene said.

  “Possibly, but not necessarily; there are other biker gangs that ride Harleys.”

  “Have you managed to find out who the owner is?” Irene asked the colleague who had made the discovery.

  “It’s registered to a Patrik Karlsson, aged twenty-one. That’s all we know about him so far, but I’ve got something else to show you.” He led the way to one of the buildings surrounding the courtyard; when he pushed down the handle, the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  “Someone didn’t want anyone else to hear when they went through this door,” he said.

  They walked into a room that stank of mold. There was a good half inch of water on the floor because the rain was coming in through holes in the roof. On the opposite side was a larger doorway. The uniformed officer opened the door—once again without a sound. He pointed to the street beyond.

  “Manufakturgatan.”

  “Were these doors locked when you got here?” Irene asked.

  “No. The key was in this one; the same key fits both locks, and they’re pretty new.”

  “So someone has gone to the trouble of fixing up a smart emergency exit through the back door. Or a discreet entrance. I’m guessing that’s how our killer or killers made their escape,” Fredrik said.

  “Could it have been Gothia MC who fitted the new locks?” Irene wondered.

  “Possibly; we’ll have to ask them. And find out if they’re missing a member by the name of Patrik Karlsson,” Fredrik replied.

  It turned out to be much easier than they had expected to get ahold of Gothia MC’s leader, Per “The Champ” Lindström, since he was actually in custody in a police cell. With a broad grin, the duty officer confirmed that Lindström had been sitting there since 10:25 the previous night. At 9:55 he and his second-in-command Jorma Kinnunen had been stopped by a routine traffic patrol on Gråbovägen, just to the southwest of Olofstorp. The brand new BMW was striking as it came zooming along at around 25 mph over the speed limit, and when the cops saw who was in the car, they suddenly became even more interested in taking a closer look.

  Per Lindström was driving. The cops drew their guns and ordered the two men to get out of the car and put their hands in the air. They had reluctantly complied, with Lindström loudly protesting that they were being subjected to police harassment. When the cops patted the two men down, they discovered they were both wearing bulletproof vests, and a search of the car revealed a small semi-automatic gun that resembled a homemade Uzi, which turned out to be fully loaded. The magazine held twenty-five bullets instead of thirty-two, but the caliber was a 9 x 19mm Parabellum, just like the standard weapon. It was hidden under the front passenger sea
t. Needless to say, both men denied all knowledge of the gun; they had absolutely no idea how it came to be there. Someone must have planted it in order to frame them. They also claimed that neither of them owned the BMW, which turned out to be true; it had false plates. When a check was run on the vehicle identification number, it transpired that the car had been stolen from the Kungshöjd area of central Göteborg the previous night.

  When Lindström was asked to blow into the breathalyzer, he refused. He and Kinnunen were taken to the custody suite, where he was forced to provide a blood sample. The officers who had picked him up could smell booze, and hoped that he would be charged not only with speeding, but with driving under the influence. Needless to say, illegal possession of a firearm would also be added to the charge sheet.

  “According to the record, Patrik Karlsson is missing two fingers on his left hand as a result of an accident with a firework ten years ago. I’ve spoken to the pathologist, and they’ve confirmed that the victim is also missing two fingers. So we can be pretty sure it’s Karlsson,” Fredrik said.

  “That’s strange. So he was a member of Gothia MC, and he was murdered in their old HQ. If this is an internal matter, wouldn’t Gothia MC have made sure the killing took place as far from their territory as possible?” Irene said.

  They were waiting for 1:00 p.m., when they would be allowed to interview Per Lindström. Meanwhile Fredrik told her that Lindström and Kinnunen had met when they were in the same jail. When Kinnunen was released a few months after Lindström, the newly elected biker gang leader brought his associate into the inner circle. Kinnunen enjoyed the status of second-in-command from the start. He didn’t come from a biker gang; his background was as part of an immigrant gang involved in serious crime. His old “friends” were all locked up for narcotics offenses, and several of them would be deported when they had served their time, which meant the gang would be dispersed. If there was anyone who knew the narcotics scene inside out, it was Kinnunen, which was why he hadn’t needed to go through a subchapter to gain access to Gothia MC. He had had the perfect qualifications and the expertise that the gang and its leader required. Fredrik smiled meaningfully.

  “To be honest, the Uzi surprises me. The bosses don’t usually carry guns. It’s the subordinates’ job to protect the leaders. That’s one of the things they do in order to be accepted into the club, and to be allowed to put on the much longed-for vest,” he added pensively.

  “Speaking of which, both Lindström and Kinnunen were wearing bulletproof vests, which suggests they thought they were at risk of being shot. Could Kinnunen have been armed in order to protect Lindström?”

  “That’s not impossible. The gun was underneath the passenger seat; he probably didn’t have time to throw it out of the window when the patrol car appeared. They were driving too fast.”

  Per Lindström looked anything but happy. In fact he looked distinctly pissed off, with good reason. If he was convicted on all counts, he would be looking at a long jail sentence. Fredrik and Irene had agreed in advance that she would lead the interview; he would take over at a later stage if necessary.

  The gangster reeked of sweat and stale booze. He was wearing a T-shirt with Gothia MC’s emblem on the chest; the same emblem was tattooed on his right forearm, and more or less every inch that Irene could see of his massive body was covered in tattoos. A colorful snake wound its way around his neck, ending up by his left ear. It showed up clearly on his shaven head. The snake was a skillful piece of work, but the rest of the tattoos were of varying quality.

  The trend for inking was one of the best things that had happened as far as police were concerned, Irene thought. It didn’t take much to identify a perp with the help of tattoos; a decent photograph was enough. Besides they were pretty difficult to hide. Per Lindström would need to wear a burka if he didn’t want anyone to see his artwork.

  Irene introduced herself; Lindström’s expression barely changed. He glanced at her, then fixed his gaze on the wall behind her.

  “I have to inform you right away that I will not be asking you any questions relating to the incident yesterday evening, when you and Jorma Kinnunen were picked up. Other colleagues will be handling that interview,” Irene began.

  Something flickered in the gangster’s expression, but he remained motionless, arms folded across his chest. His bulging biceps were impressive, which of course was the point of the pose.

  “We are dealing with a far more serious matter,” Irene went on calmly.

  Lindström snorted and gave her a supercilious look, making it clear that she might as well give up on her pathetic attempts to get him to talk. Irene ignored him.

  “Homicide,” she said quietly.

  The man opposite blinked involuntarily. Irene didn’t say another word; she simply stared at the gang leader. He didn’t say anything either for a while, but eventually he turned his pale blue eyes on her.

  “I don’t know anything about fucking homicide,” he spat.

  “Okay, but right now we’re only interested in hearing what you know about a man who was killed last night. After you and Jorma had been picked up by the police, please note, so neither of you is a suspect.”

  At those words Lindström relaxed a fraction. He realized there was something behind this conversation; he just couldn’t work out what it was. His hangover probably contributed to his carelessness. Under normal circumstances he would have remained tight-lipped. Or perhaps his curiosity had been aroused.

  “Who’s been killed?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute, but first of all I’d like to know whether Gothia MC still owns the property on Kolgruvegatan?”

  “No—we’ve had a new base for a couple of years.”

  “Do you have any idea who uses the old place nowadays?”

  “Nope.”

  “Was it Gothia MC who changed the lock on the door leading to Manufakturgatan?”

  Lindström snorted again and did his best to look totally uninterested, but after a brief silence he couldn’t help himself.

  “So who’s the dead guy?”

  “A member of your gang: Patrik Karlsson.”

  The gang leader raised his eyebrows and seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Patte? Are you kidding me?”

  “Absolutely not. If Patte is Patrik Karlsson, who was a full member of Gothia MC, then he’s the homicide victim.”

  Lindström nodded. Irene could see the cogs turning as his brain tried to deal with the news of Patrik Karlsson’s death.”

  “Who shot him?” he asked.

  “He wasn’t shot.” The eyebrows were raised again, and this time he didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t interested.

  “So how the fuck did he die?”

  “He was beaten up and then set on fire while he was still alive,” Irene replied, keeping her tone neutral as she tried to suppress the memory of the nauseating stench in the air, the outline of the body burned into the asphalt.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Yes, it was a terrible sight.”

  Per Lindström sat in silence for a while, staring at a point above Irene’s head. Eventually he spoke. “This has nothing to do with us. It must have been some personal crap.”“Possibly, but it happened at Gothia MC’s former base on Kolgruvegatan. He met his killers inside the building, but staggered outside after they’d set fire to him. He burned to death in the yard.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  Once again the cogs in Lindström’s hungover brain began to turn, very slowly. Irene sensed a change in him; the account of how Karlsson had died had told him something.

  “Have you any idea who might have murdered Patrik Karlsson?” she asked.

  Lindström merely shook his head, a distant look in his eyes. Whatever had occurred to him, he had no intention of sharing it with the police.

  In subsequent interviews, Per
Lindström claimed that he and Jorma Kinnunen had been test driving the BMW. A young guy had offered him the chance to buy it, saying that he couldn’t afford such an expensive car. No, he had no reason to doubt what the guy said. No, he couldn’t remember his name. As for how the gun came to be in the car—that was a complete mystery. Presumably the owner of the BMW had hidden it under the seat. The level of alcohol in his blood was easily explained; he had misjudged the strength of a drink his wife had served him before dinner. Combined with the speeding, it would cost him his license for a few months, but nothing more.

  Kinnunen refused to speak, maintaining a sullen silence throughout all attempts to question him.

  Irene sighed as she closed down her computer after reading through the transcripts of the interviews with both men. Even if they knew or suspected the reason behind the murder of Patrik Karlsson, there was no way they would ever say a word about it to the cops.

  “So I come back from my well-earned vacation, and I walk straight into a case involving the worst criminal elements in Göteborg!” Detective Inspector Jonny Blom exclaimed, pretending to shudder in horror.

  He was sitting with the others around the table looking tanned and pretty happy because there were freshly baked cinnamon buns on offer. However, he couldn’t resist commenting on Irene’s account of the weekend’s macabre homicide on Kolgruvegatan.

  “Welcome back,” Superintendent Tommy Persson said, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast.

  “Thanks a bunch—it’s my first day, and already the mafia are in a killing mood. Makes me feel insecure—who’s our health and safety officer?” Jonny said, looking around the table.

  DI Sara Persson was sitting next to him. Ever since she joined the team there had been jokes about the fact that she and Tommy had the same surname, and Jonny liked to mention nepotism at every opportunity.