“I can understand that.” Irene forced herself to return the smile.
Ann’s steaming pizza was placed on the table, but the smell made Irene feel sick. She broke out into a cold sweat, and knew she had to get out of there. She was so tired that she felt ill.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well. I haven’t had much sleep this week, and I haven’t really eaten properly; my pizza feels like a lead weight in my stomach,” she said quickly.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to wait for me. Are you heading home now?”
Irene was a little taken aback by Ann’s question, then pulled herself together.
“Absolutely. Straight home to bed.”
“Would you like a lift?”
“No thanks. I’ve got my bicycle.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow,” Ann said, spearing a large piece of pizza on her fork. A string of melted cheese dangled between fork and plate, and Irene’s stomach contracted. She turned and hurried out of the restaurant.
She had no strength left; the thought of cycling all the way out to Jonsered seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. She decided to leave her bike at the station; she walked to the Central Station, then on to the Nils Ericson bus depot. There was a bus to Jonsered in seventeen minutes. She noticed there was no line at the Café Expresso counter, so she went over and ordered a coffee to go. That was exactly what she needed to keep her awake on the journey. Clutching the warm cardboard cup in her hand, she went into a drugstore that stayed open pretty late. It was about to close, but she explained to the very pleasant assistant that she needed tampons and panty liners. After making her purchases she put down her coffee on an empty table outside McDonald’s, feeling pretty pleased with herself. She sent a text and received her bus ticket via her cell phone. Fantastic. How on earth did we manage before cell phones came along? Smoke signals? God, I must be really tired, Irene thought, sniggering out loud at her childish musings. She looked around in some embarrassment, which was why she saw him before he spotted her.
Jorma Kinnunen, second in command with Gothia MC.
He was walking through the doors between the station and the depot. He was wearing mirrored shades, but Irene recognized him right away. He stopped and turned toward the main entrance, where there was the biggest crowd. Irene was half-hidden in one of the side passages. She hadn’t taken a single sip of her coffee, but suddenly she was wide awake. What the hell was Kinnunen doing here at this moment? Was he looking for her? Had he followed her from the pizzeria? Probably, because by now Gothia MC must have realized that Krister had disappeared. Would they really go after her to try and make her tell them where he was hiding? Answer: yes. Were there more members of the gang in the station complex? More than likely; she had to work on that assumption.
Cautiously she reached for her cup and took a few steps back into the side passage, then walked calmly toward the café as she feverishly wondered how to get out of there without Kinnunen or any of his associates seeing her. Clearly the risk was greatest around the entrances and exits, but she had to take a chance. Which door was she least likely to choose? She headed for the one leading to the Östra Nordstan mall; the police station lay in the opposite direction. It was sheer luck that she had noticed Jorma; he was one of the few members of Gothia MC who had actually met her. The others were presumably working from a description.
She had to try and change her appearance. She marched purposefully into a souvenir store and picked up a pair of sunglasses with slim, dark brown plastic frames. She didn’t bother trying them on, but took them straight to the checkout.
“I’ll take these, please; I don’t need a bag,” she said to the young assistant.
“Nine hundred ninety-nine kronor,” the girl said, continuing to chew gum and looking bored to death.
In Irene’s world, sunglasses were something that disappeared during or after every vacation, so she never paid more than a hundred kronor for a pair. Without hesitation she produced her credit card and handed it over. The girl snipped off the tag, and Irene put the glasses on and left the store without so much as a glance in the mirror.
Forcing herself not to hurry, she moved toward the exit she had chosen, her eyes constantly surveying her surroundings behind the dark lenses. Any man who looked even vaguely suspicious was carefully scrutinized. Just inside the exit leading to Drottningtorget she glimpsed the back of something that looked like a biker vest, but she kept on walking. There was a florist’s store just inside the Östra Nordstan exit; Irene slipped in and pretended to be interested in the showy flower arrangements on display. This enabled her to look out through the glass doors. Apart from a group of boozers who seemed to be in fine form, she didn’t see anything suspicious. Before the smiling assistant reached her, she was out of the store and hurrying through the tunnel to the shopping mall.
Irene felt it was safe to increase her pace now. She kept glancing at her watch, as if she were late for an appointment. The mall wasn’t crowded; most of the shops were closed, apart from the large department stores. A handful of homeless people were wandering around or sitting on a bench, passing the time until they had to face another night outdoors.
Irene went straight through and out onto Gustav Adolfs torg. She looked around to see if anyone from Gothia MC was waiting for her, but the coast appeared to be clear. A cab with its for hire sign illuminated was coming straight toward her, and without a second’s hesitation she waved it down.
The cab dropped Irene off just over half a mile from Tommy’s house. She thought it would be nice to take a walk, plus a cab pulling up outside his door would attract too much attention.
The evening was chilly, and the smell of charred meat lingered in the air. She could hear loud laughter from the backyard of one of the neighboring houses; she supposed someone had left the sausages on the barbecue for rather too long. Or maybe there was a crayfish party in full swing, with sausages for the kids. She felt a stab of longing for company, good food and wine. She missed her family; she wanted her life back.
Tommy was sitting on the terrace overlooking the garden in the darkness, a candle flickering in a lantern on the table in front of him. When Irene suddenly appeared he gave a start, and almost knocked over his glass.
He offered to heat up some soup for her, but she declined. She also refused a whisky. All she wanted to do was to fall into bed and sleep, but she knew she had to fill him in on everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours while he had been away. She updated him on the murder of Danny Mara and what the investigation had come up with so far: very little, unfortunately. Finally she told him about seeing Jorma Kinnunen at the Central Station, and how she had shaken him off.
When she was finished, Tommy sat in silence for a long time. Eventually he said, “Sending Krister and the girls away was definitely the right thing. We couldn’t possibly have protected them.”
He took his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolled through until he found the message he was searching for. Smiling broadly, he handed the phone to Irene; the display showed a number. Irene leapt to her feet and ran inside to grab the cheap pay-as-you-go phone she had bought the previous day. With trembling fingers she keyed in the number; when she heard Krister’s voice the lump in her throat prevented her from speaking for a few seconds.
“Hi, sweetheart!” He sounded bright and cheerful. She swallowed hard several times.
“Hi, yourself. How’s it going?”
“Great! It doesn’t feel as if we’re on the run at all. But listen, it might be a little tricky to reach us over the next few days; we’re going to—”
“No, don’t say anything. It’s better if I don’t know,” Irene said firmly.
“Of course, I forgot. And how are things with you?”
Irene had no intention of telling him what had been going on. “Fine; things are happening, we’re doing our best . . . I’ll try to contact you if there’s anyth
ing major, otherwise I’ll speak to you in . . . shall we say two days?”
They had agreed in advance to keep their conversations very short, but suddenly she didn’t want to hang up. Just hearing his voice made her feel better; the knowledge that her family was okay was a huge solace. At the same time, she knew it was only a temporary solution; this game of hide and seek couldn’t go on forever.
“Two days it is. Felipe and the girls send their love. And Egon, of course. We all miss you. Love you, honey.”
“I miss you too. Love you. Bye now.”
As she ended the call she was filled with conflicting emotions. On the one hand she missed them so much it was like a physical pain in her chest; on the other hand she was so glad they had managed to escape from Gothia MC and their threats. She was determined to nail those guys, one way or another, but at the moment she had no idea how to go about doing it. Perhaps tomorrow’s raid on their place at Gråbo would provide enough evidence to put the whole gang behind bars for years. If nothing else, it would weaken the organization significantly if several of their members went down for narcotics or firearms offenses. Best-case scenario: they would be able to arrest one of them for the murder of Danny Mara, but she knew that was a pipe dream. So far there was nothing at all to prove that anyone from Gothia MC was involved in his death; all the police had were the footprints left by expensive biker boots.
“Irene, did you tell anyone you were going to the Central Station? Before you left work, I mean,” Tommy said when she reappeared on the terrace.
“No. I thought I’d feel better after I’d had something to eat, and I’d be able to cycle back here, but instead all the air just went out of me. When I left the pizzeria I decided to take the bus; I didn’t even know my plans myself until then.”
He nodded slowly several times, as if a suspicion had just been confirmed.
“I’ll come in with you tomorrow. Go to bed; I’m going to sit here for a little while,” he said with a reassuring smile.
Irene was almost dizzy with tiredness. She managed to drag herself to the bathroom and brush her teeth before she fell into bed. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.
Irene woke up to the sound of her cell phone ringing. She fumbled around on the bedside table and eventually managed to grab it.
“Irene,” she mumbled, still half-asleep.
“Good morning! Breakfast is served,” Tommy’s cheerful voice informed her.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Irene checked her incoming calls list and saw that Tommy had rung her on his landline. Good. If anyone tried to check, there would be nothing odd about her boss calling her before a raid on a biker gang’s HQ.
She summoned up all her strength and willpower—not that there was much of either, she thought gloomily—and managed to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. After taking a long shower and putting on clean clothes and discreet makeup, she felt better. Her hair was still damp, but she couldn’t be bothered to use the drier; it would dry while she was having breakfast.
Tommy had laid out toast, coffee, eggs and herring.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” he said firmly.
“I need to check when there’s a bus,” Irene said.
“I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t want you anywhere near Central Station. Gothia MC have worked out that you’re in hiding somewhere, and that you were planning to catch a bus from the Nils Ericson depot,” he said, his expression deadly serious.
“But I left my bike at work,” Irene objected.
“I know. I’ll drive you into town and drop you off at Sankt Sigfrid’s Square; you can take the tram from there, which means you’ll be coming from a different direction. That ought to tax their tiny minds if they’re looking out for you,” he said with an encouraging smile.
Irene felt anything but encouraged. The thought that Gothia MC were following her and keeping an eye on her whereabouts made her feel sick. Before yesterday evening she had seen nothing to suggest that she was being watched. All of a sudden the last piece of herring in mustard sauce smelled positively rancid, and she couldn’t bring herself to eat it. She lost her appetite completely and pushed away her half-eaten egg.
She was being followed. What was it Krister had said about being “protected by the shadows”? A shadow is always with you; you can’t get rid of it. Would these shadows be with them for the rest of their lives? She knew that was an impossibility; they would never cope, either financially or mentally. On paper Gothia MC would become part-owners of Glady’s, but in reality they would make all the decisions. The gang needed the restaurant for money laundering purposes, and to give the illusion that they were running a legal business. Irene already knew of several restaurants in the same position; they had tried to resist, and had suffered violent harassment as a result. Or their owners had ended up like Soran Siljac and Jan-Erik Månsson.
The briefing began at ten o’clock. They were divided into teams and given their instructions. First of all the SWAT team would go in and secure the area, then Irene’s group would move in along with three colleagues from Narcotics, plus Frode and his handler. Frode was a springer spaniel on loan from Customs and Excise. The previous year he had won the accolade of Sniffer Dog of the Year; nothing escaped his nose, according to his proud handler. Given that drugs were the main diet of Gothia MC, there was a risk that he might mess things up completely, Irene thought with a certain degree of satisfaction.
Ann Wennberg wasn’t present, and Stefan Bratt explained that this was because he wanted as few individuals as possible within biker circles to know that Ann was investigating the criminal biker gangs. Some of them probably knew she was a cop, but they didn’t need to know her exact role. As things stood at present she was able to move pretty freely within the biker world, which of course was a huge advantage when the Organized Crimes Unit was trying to monitor their activities.
Irene, Sara Persson and Fredrik Stridh were in an unmarked car being driven by Stefan Bratt, with Tommy Persson beside him. They were following the two SWAT team SUVs, and they were all wearing bulletproof vests made of Kevlar, which were unpleasantly warm. Their colleagues on the SWAT team were also outfitted with helmets and semiautomatic weapons. Bringing up the rear was the Narcotics team with Frode in a Volvo station wagon. This was a major operation, and Irene sent up a silent prayer that it would produce a positive result.
They almost had a pile-up as the convoy was about to turn onto the narrow road leading to Gothia MC’s base. The first SUV nearly collided with a large trailer that came speeding along and swung out onto Östadsvägen without stopping. The SUV skidded as the driver slammed on the brakes, and the vehicle behind had to take evasive action. With screeching tires the SUV slid over onto the opposite side of the road; fortunately there was nothing coming, but the second SUV almost hit the trailer as it swayed alarmingly. Irene could see the driver of the trailer yelling, her mouth wide open. Her fellow passenger looked terrified, and the faces of two children were peeping between the front seats.
“Fucking idiot!” Sara yelled.
It was unlike her to express herself in such terms, but no doubt she was as shocked as everyone else in the car.
“I’m pretty sure that was Per Lindström’s wife, and I’m guessing the two kids were theirs too,” Fredrik said when he had pulled himself together.
“How did you manage to see that?” Irene asked. She had noticed only that the driver was a woman with streaked blonde hair, and that her passenger had short jet-black hair.
“It’s my job to know who’s who on the organized crime scene, and that means knowing their families and friends too,” Fredrik explained.
When they arrived at the target location in Gråbo, they were met by open gates and a banner proclaiming welcome to gothia mc! As they drove in, the officers could see children and adults wandering around among gleaming motorbikes.
“W
hat the hell . . .”
Fredrik broke off, but Irene was thinking exactly the same thing. Whatever they had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this.
As they got out of the cars, they could smell barbecue. Not again, Irene thought as she suppressed a sigh. Something told her this wasn’t going to turn out as planned. The raid hadn’t even started, and already a feeling of resignation had come over her.
Inside the high fence, which was topped with barbed wire, the place was a hive of activity. At least thirty kids and twice as many adults were moving between the highly polished bikes and a variety of food, coffee and soda vendors; there was even a little fish pond. Speakers had been placed by the open windows, facing onto the yard, and the soundtrack from Mamma Mia! came pouring out. In the middle of the yard an oil drum had been cut in half lengthways to serve as a gigantic barbecue. Frode was clearly very interested in the sizzling sausages and burgers.
Per Lindström himself was chief cook, with Jorma Kinnunen by his side, popping burgers and sausages into bread rolls. A third guy, who was no more than fifteen years old but was already sporting a Gothia MC vest, was adding plenty of ketchup and mustard before handing the finished product over to a stream of satisfied customers. The vest was probably borrowed; it was far too big for him.
Lindström gave the police convoy a dirty look, then saluted them with a long pair of barbecue tongs.
“Well, would you look at that! The boys in blue have come along to our family day!” he chortled with feigned joviality.
The temperature had risen to almost twenty degrees, and the heat from the coals had inspired him to strip above the waist. Virtually every inch of visible skin was covered in tattoos. It could have been his arm that Ritva Ekholm had seen reaching up through the Audi’s sunroof outside the entrance to the backyard at Glady’s, but though he was muscular, he was much too squat and flabby. The CCTV footage showed a man who was tall and athletic. Irene quickly glanced around at the other guys in Gothia MC vests, but as she had expected, there was no sign of Andreas Brännström. Unless he was completely stupid, he would have gone into hiding after the murder of Jan-Erik Månsson and the attack on Ritva Ekholm; he was probably in southern Europe, or even some far-flung corner of the world.
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