The plate was clearly visible; a quick check revealed that the vehicle was registered to one Melek Ekici, forty-two years old, resident in Gunnared, married with four kids. He worked at a café in Linnéstaden, and it seemed he was also part-owner. One thing was certain: he wasn’t the guy sitting in the car.
Irene had her prey in her sights now. Her brain was crystal clear, and she knew exactly what she was looking for. The car appeared again at 10:41, heading into town. It was traveling just below the speed limit. The side window wasn’t open this time, but she could see a man in the front seat. The picture wasn’t clear, but she thought it was the guy in the black T-shirt.
The dark-colored car with the sunroof was even easier to find. It was an Audi A4, far from new. She spotted it on footage from a camera on Södra vägen at 10:36 on Monday evening; it then turned off toward Engelbrektsgatan. Unfortunately there were no cameras on Lorensbergsgatan, but the time fit with Ritva Ekholm’s statement. She checked the number, which belonged to a Saab 95 in Hedemora. As she had expected, the car had false plates. Thanks to the light falling in through the sunroof, she could clearly see two people in the front seat. There was nothing to suggest that there was anyone sitting in the back.
The man on the passenger side was probably the one Ritva had described as fat. His head was turned toward the driver, and they seemed to be having an intense conversation. His thin hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his face was round and flabby, like the rest of his upper body. He was wearing a black T-shirt and a black hoodie. What interested Irene the most was the tattoo running up his neck and cheek, across the cheekbone and around the eyes. Again, it was impossible to make out what it represented, but its presence was in no doubt.
“It won’t take me long to identify you,” Irene murmured to herself.
The driver was more of a problem. He was dressed in similar clothes, but also wore a baseball cap pulled well down over his forehead. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up, revealing his forearms. As Ritva had said, the number of tattoos gave the impression that he was dark-skinned. His neck was completely covered in images. Irene couldn’t see his face, but she thought he was taller and considerably more muscular than his companion.
She felt pretty pleased with herself as she sent the pictures off to the technicians; within a few hours she should know who the four men were.
Irene was about to go for lunch when the phone on her desk rang.
“Hi, Irene. Göran here. I had a message saying that you’d arranged for a witness to come in this morning to work on a composite sketch with me: Ritva Ekholm?”
“That’s right.”
“She hasn’t turned up.”
“What?” Irene was completely at a loss; a few seconds passed before she pulled herself together. “She’s a chemistry lecturer at Chalmers. I interviewed her last night. She’s a little different . . . slightly Bohemian, with something of the classic absentminded professor about her. She probably forgot she was supposed to come in.”
She was making an effort to sound a lot less worried than she actually was.
“Okay. Call me when you’ve spoken to her.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
Irene quickly tried Ritva’s work number; a young female voice answered.
“Ritva Ekholm’s phone. Lina Johannesson here; can I help you?”
“Detective Inspector Irene Huss; I’m trying to get ahold of Ritva Ekholm.”
The young woman inhaled sharply. “She’s not here.”
“Where can I reach her?”
“The thing is . . . she didn’t come into work today. We had an important meeting this morning, and she didn’t turn up. We called her landline and her cell phone, but there’s no answer. We were just wondering whether one of us should go over to her apartment during the lunch break to see if anything’s wrong.”
Irene’s head was spinning. Ritva had said she had a very important meeting that she definitely couldn’t miss, but that was exactly what she had done. Why wasn’t she answering either of her phones? This wasn’t good. She made a quick decision.
“There’s no need. I’ll go.”
“Oh good! She lives alone; if she’s sick or something, she might not be able to get out of bed,” Lina Johannesson said.
“I’ll check it out,” Irene said and ended the call.
As Irene hurried toward the elevator she passed Sara Persson’s office.
“Sara, can you come with me? It’s urgent.”
Something in Irene’s voice made Sara leap up and grab her coat. She didn’t ask what was going on until they were in the car; Irene quickly filled her in.
Sara tried calling Ritva several times during the trip, but there was still no response. They parked in the only empty space, which happened to be a disabled bay, and Irene flipped down her police vehicle parking permit. Fortunately she still had the entry code for Ritva’s apartment block in her cell phone. The door opened with a hum, and they stepped into the cool hallway. Sara glanced around appreciatively as she followed Irene to the tiny elevator, which was more than a little cramped with two of them inside. When they reached the top floor Irene yanked open the door and raced up the stairs to Ritva’s apartment. She pressed her ear to the door; she could hear the faint sound of a string quartet. It was the same music Ritva had played the previous evening, which gave Irene a spark of hope. Her index finger was shaking as she rang the bell. They waited for quite a while, but nothing happened. After several more attempts Irene crouched down and pushed open the letter box.
“Ritva, it’s Irene Huss. Could you open the door, please?”
She stayed there for some time; she could hear the music more clearly now, but nothing else.
“Ritva, you were supposed to come into the station today; I was worried when you didn’t show up. Please open the door.”
Sara took a closer look at the locks.
“I don’t think the seven-cylinder locks have been activated; I can’t see the catches. I think it’s just the ordinary lock.”
Irene straightened up; Sara was right.
“Ta-da!” With a triumphant smile Sara produced a small leather case from her pocket. “A present from Matti,” she said.
Gently but firmly she pushed Irene aside and inserted a slender tool in the lock. After a few seconds there was a click, and she opened the door. They both stepped inside, and immediately saw the figure lying motionless on the sofa. Ritva’s face was covered in blood, and her glasses lay smashed on the brightly colored rug. Irene rushed over and knelt down beside her. The relief when she heard Ritva’s faint breathing was overwhelming.
“Call for an ambulance and backup! She’s alive!”
If the injured woman was aware that there were people in the apartment, she gave no sign of it. She didn’t move, and there were long intervals between the rattling breaths. There was a strong smell of urine and excrement, which didn’t bother Irene; she had experienced far worse. The main thing was that Ritva was alive.
The blood had come from a deep gash at her left temple. The wound was quite large, around three to four inches, with jagged edges. Not a knife, Irene thought, but definitely a sharp object. She looked around; at first glance everything appeared to be the same as the previous day, but something wasn’t right. Suddenly she realized what it was: one of the Ivan Ivarson paintings was missing.
“Ritva Ekholm has a severe concussion, and she’s unconscious. The wound has been stitched and she’s still in Intensive Care. She’s lost a considerable amount of blood. The hospital will contact us as soon as she comes around.”
Superintendent Tommy Persson’s expression was grim as he addressed his colleagues. Once again Fredrik Stridh and Ann Wennberg were present. The fate that had befallen their only witness in the case of Monday’s car bomb was worrying, and Tommy made no attempt to hide his displeasure. When Irene and Sara told him that they had been ab
le to get into Ritva’s apartment because the door had been left unlocked, his skepticism was palpable. The truth was that they had found the keys to the cylinder locks under the hat shelf, but the key to the ordinary lock was missing. The perpetrator must have taken it with him after locking his badly injured victim inside the apartment, but they had chosen to keep that detail from the rest of the team.
If it had been the weekend no one would have missed Ritva at work, and she probably wouldn’t have survived. The very thought made Irene break into a cold sweat; she somehow felt responsible for what had happened. It had never occurred to her that Ritva might be in danger. Should she have realized? No, there had been no reason for concern, because only a handful of police officers knew the identity of the witness. Which didn’t make her feel any better.
As if he had read her mind, Tommy said, “How could whoever attacked Ritva Ekholm have known her name and where she lived? And how did they get into the apartment? From what you’ve told us, Irene, she had a whole battery of locks and felt as safe as if she were in a fortress.”
“Fort Knox,” Irene automatically corrected him.
“Whatever. She locked herself in, and she felt secure, yet she was badly hurt. By whom?”
Tommy looked around the room, challenging someone to come up with a response.
Fredrik cleared his throat. “Maybe she knew her attacker, so she let him in.”
“Possibly. But it was hardly a friend, given the violence and the stolen painting. Would she have opened the door to someone she didn’t know?” Sara said.
Irene remembered the security chain; there was no way Ritva would have let a stranger in.
“How much is the painting worth?” Ann asked.
“I’m not sure. A few hundred thousand?” Irene replied.
She had spoken to the insurance company, and they had put out a call for the painting so that it couldn’t be sold on the open market.
“People have been murdered for less,” Ann said dryly.
“But why now? She’s had the paintings for years. She becomes a witness in a case involving a serious crime, and suddenly this happens. I don’t think it has anything to do with the Ivarson. And if the intruders were art thieves, surely they would have taken all four paintings,” Irene pointed out.
Ann Wennberg merely shrugged. It was a warm day, so she had taken off her jacket. Her short-sleeved blouse revealed toned arms, and a thin tattooed chain encircled one upper arm where the sleeve ended. Not exactly what you’d expect from a PA, Irene thought, but it’s neat and attractive.
“There’s no sign of a break-in, so Ritva Ekholm must have let her attacker—or attackers—into the apartment,” Tommy said.
Irene remembered something from her conversation with Ritva.
“There is another possibility,” she said.
The others waited in silence as she thought it through.
“Before I left yesterday evening, Ritva said she was going shopping. Someone could have been waiting for her, forced his way into the apartment where he beat her up then stole the painting. Although I still don’t believe this is about the painting; that’s just a red herring.”
Several of her colleagues nodded in agreement.
“I guess we’ll have to wait until she regains consciousness and see what she has to say,” Tommy said before turning to Jonny Blom. “Any news on Jan-Erik Månsson?”
“Nothing. The guy has vanished off the face of the earth. And he’s taken his car with him.”
Tommy sighed. “Well, we’ve put out a call, so I guess he’ll turn up sooner or later.”
Irene felt her stomach contract. Something had prevented Janne from leaving the country. He was probably in hiding; if he feared for his life, it could take a while before they tracked him down. The pressure on Krister would increase; only Janne could tell the truth about what had gone on when he was the owner of Glady’s. If this was just about gambling debts, then why should his successor’s car be a target? She knew this was a key point, and gradually the picture became clear in her mind. This was about the restaurant. She was sure of it. It always had been. What did Krister really know? He seemed stressed and confused, but who wouldn’t be in his situation?
“Hello! Earth calling Irene Huss!”
She gave a start as Fredrik’s voice interrupted her train of thought. She mumbled apologetically, “I was just thinking about something . . .”
“Something that might help the rest of us?” Tommy asked.
“I just need to give it a little more thought.” Irene forced a smile to convince the others that it wasn’t anything important.
“So as I said, we’ve identified two of the guys you found on the CCTV footage—one from each car, luckily,” Fredrik said.
He tapped the keyboard of his laptop and an enlarged photoshopped image was projected onto the wall: the man with the ponytail and the tattooed face, in profile. The man who had probably planted the bomb. Irene’s pulse rate increased.
“The car is an Audi A4, an older model with a sunroof. Three have been reported stolen, but none with this registration number. I’ve checked it out. The plates belong to a Volvo, so it could well be one of the stolen cars with false plates,” Fredrik went on.
“This is the passenger from the Audi: Andreas Brännström, known as ‘Dragon’ because of the tattoo. The dragon covers the whole of his back; what you can see there is its tail, curling around his neck and up his cheek. He’s twenty-nine years old and a member of Gothia MC—one of their veterans, in fact, with a rap sheet as long as your arm. The interesting thing is he came up in the investigation into the car bomb that killed Soran Siljac last year, but there was no proof of his involvement.”
“Why was he a suspect?” Sara asked.
“A witness saw Siljac arguing with two men late one night a few days before the bomb went off. They were standing next to Siljac’s car outside the restaurant. According to the witness things turned nasty toward the end, but the men walked away and Siljac got into his car and drove off.”
“Was the witness able to identify one of the men as Brännström?” Irene asked.
“No. All he could say for sure was that one of them was a big guy and had a tattoo on his face; the other was tall and looked like a body builder. I also have to point out that the witness was pretty drunk,” Fredrik added.
“And what did Brännström say?”
“Nothing. He insisted he’d never even met Siljac. The witness became more and more uncertain, and in the end he decided he might not have seen a tattoo on the man’s face after all. Which meant that any kind of case against Brännström collapsed, of course.”
Fredrik brought up a second picture: a young man with fierce dark eyes. His hair was a rich brown with big curls, the kind of hair women want to run their fingers through. He was smiling, and his long eyelashes cast a shadow on his high cheekbones. If Irene hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was advertising a new male fragrance, but this photograph had been taken following an arrest.
“The BMW at the Ringön intersection does indeed belong to Melek Ekici, but he wasn’t driving it himself on Saturday evening; he says he lent it to his eldest son, who is this guy. Unfortunately we couldn’t retrieve any decent pictures of the driver; he’s wearing a wide bandana, pulled down over his forehead, plus sunglasses in spite of the fact that it was already dark. He looks young and slim, we’re guessing eighteen to twenty years old. But the man in the passenger seat is Kazan ‘Handsome’ Ekici, age twenty-one. He’s been a member of the Gangster Lions for a few years and took the usual route via their subchapter the Pumas. He’s actually done some modeling work, and he had a minor role in a children’s TV series that was made in Hammarkullen a few years ago. But his career was interrupted by his criminal activities. He’s been in a juvenile detention center twice, once for selling narcotics and once for repeated instances of violent assau
lt. Word has it he goes crazy when he’s high,” Fredrik said.
Irene recognized Kazan’s face. He had figured on the periphery of a homicide investigation she had been involved in a few years earlier, when the leader of the Pumas had been stabbed to death at Göteborg’s central train station by the leader of another gang that was trying to move in on their territory; as usual it was all about drug dealing. Back then Kazan had been a mouthy little fifteen-year-old who had just been picked up for bootlegging. He looked good even at that age; it was easy to see why he was known as Handsome.
Tommy Persson took over. “So we can probably assume we’re dealing with the Gangster Lions as far as the murder of Patrik Karlsson is concerned. This is bad news, given that Karlsson was a member of Gothia MC; we could well be facing a new gang war. Then we have the bomb that was planted under the Huss family’s car; the suspect has been identified as our old friend Andreas Brännström, who is a faithful servant of Gothia MC. What does this new information tell us?”
“That the two cases are probably unconnected,” Sara suggested.
“What makes you say that?”
“We know that the Gangster Lions and Gothia MC are old enemies; they’ve locked horns before. But the murder of Patrik Karlsson seems so . . . personal. Gang members tend to stab or shoot each other; this business of setting someone on fire . . .” Sara fell silent, glancing over at the wall and the pictures of Karlsson’s charred body.
“On the contrary, I’d say this is typical of the Gangster Lions,” Ann said firmly. “They’re extremely dangerous and unpredictable, and often under the influence of a whole range of drugs. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they set fire to Patrik Karlsson.”
Tommy gave her his full attention. “But what about Gothia MC? Why would they blow up Krister and Irene’s car?”
Ann thought for a moment before she answered. “I have no idea. If it was them. We only have Ritva Ekholm’s assertion that Brännström went into the backyard at Glady’s, and she also gave us the time. No other witnesses have contacted us.”
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