Protected by the Shadows

by Helene Tursten

  Two painkillers and nine hours’ sleep did the trick. Irene woke up to sunlight spilling into the apartment, the dust shimmering in the sunbeams like fine snowfall. It was pretty, but it meant she needed to do some cleaning. But that could wait; right now she just wanted to enjoy the moment. For the first time in weeks she felt properly rested, but when she tried to get out of bed, reality made its presence felt. She was as stiff as a rusty suit of armor. Every fiber in her body protested at the slightest movement. She staggered to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, which didn’t make her feel any better. The dressings were still in place, but the left side of her face was now covered in a huge bruise. Jeez! Her first instinct was to hide away from the world for the next two weeks, but one glance at the headlines covering virtually the whole front page of the morning paper changed her mind. several dead in bomb attack—has gang war reached its climax?

  As she quickly skimmed the article she realized the reporter didn’t know much more than had been on the Internet the previous day. A number of people, all known to the police, had been inside a former restaurant in the Gårda area of the city when a huge bomb exploded. The relatives had not yet been informed, and therefore the identities of the dead could not be published. The reporter linked the incident to the bomb placed under the Huss family’s car, and the one planted outside the prosecutor’s house in Örgryte.

  Irene also found a separate story about a courageous police officer who had saved a little boy cycling along the street just before the bomb went off. The officer’s gender and rank were not mentioned, but there was a picture of Hampus, who had just turned nine, and the shiny new bicycle he had been given for his birthday. His father had been interviewed and revealed that the family had recently moved into one of the newly built apartment blocks next to the area that was due for redevelopment. They had been a little worried about letting Hampus cycle along that particular side street, but as it was closed to traffic, they thought it was safe. He had set off at high speed and disappeared around the corner. Even though they could no longer see him, they thought it would be fine because the only vehicle they could see was a parked scooter with a teenager sending a text message. Hampus was supposed to cycle to the end of the street, then turn back. Suddenly they heard a deafening explosion. When his father reached the scene, he was surprised to find the place crawling with police officers amid all the dust and debris. A number of them were heavily armed, like “the SWAT team in an episode of Beck on TV,” as he put it. Two ambulances arrived almost immediately, and before he had the chance to make himself known, he saw his son being led into one of them. Eventually he managed to explain who he was, and one of the officers arranged for a police car to take him and his wife to the hospital. When they got there they were told that Hampus had sustained virtually no physical injuries. “Although we don’t yet know if there will be any long-term emotional trauma,” the article ended.

  There was nothing about the condition of the police officer who had saved the boy. Though the physical damage was impossible to ignore, she was well enough to go to work. But she decided to treat herself to a cab on the station’s dollar.

  The cab driver was a plump woman around the same age as Irene. She made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was having a good look at Irene’s face in the rearview mirror. Irene gave her destination, and the woman nodded as if her passenger had confirmed something she already suspected. When Irene had paid and was about to get out, the driver turned and said:

  “You make sure you report him, honey. Don’t believe a word that asshole says. He’ll do it again, no doubt about it. You stick to your guns!”

  She swung the car around in order to head back down Skånegatan, and gave Irene an encouraging smile and a wave. If it didn’t hurt my cheek so much I’d laugh, Irene thought.

  Her colleagues were surprised to see her, but patted her gently on the back and congratulated her on her heroic contribution the previous day. No one was insensitive enough to mention her appearance. Apart from Jonny Blom, of course.

  “I’m not sure that particular combination of eye shadow all over your face does anything for you, Irene.”

  “Watch out or you’ll be wearing the same look,” she said grimly. He had worked with her long enough to know not to push it.

  Tommy Persson and Stefan Bratt positioned themselves on either side of the whiteboard. The hum of conversation died down, and Stefan began.

  “The last twenty-four hours have been quite something. Things didn’t exactly turn out as planned . . . to say the least. We’re going to start with an up-to-date report on the casualties. Over to you, Tommy.”

  “Nine people were killed instantly in yesterday’s explosion. Alexander Svensson was Gothia MC’s driver; he was sitting in the car outside the restaurant, and like the other driver he had wound down the side windows. He was hit by debris and sustained serious head injuries. His condition remains critical. So the tally is nine dead, one badly injured.”

  Tommy clicked on his laptop and a picture of charred remains, which could have been just about anything, appeared on the wall.

  “In order to keep the food for lunch hot or cold as required, it was supplied in metal containers which were delivered in Styrofoam boxes. Dessert was some kind of ice cream. The last thing we heard was Andy Mara telling the person who was trying to open the container to get a good grip on the lid because it seemed to be stuck. You could say the dessert was literally an ice cream bombe . . . Fendi Göks was sitting outside on his scooter. We don’t yet know whether he detonated the bomb with his cell phone, or whether it went off when the lid was removed; forensics tend toward the latter. This is what’s left of the guests.”

  He brought up a series of images showing burned corpses and body parts; the pictures seemed unreal, as if they had been taken after a suicide bombing in Iraq or Pakistan rather than in Sweden.

  “In order to clarify how this all hangs together, Stefan and I have listed the events of the past few weeks.”

  Tommy brought up a PowerPoint slide with the heading gothia mc, followed by a series of key points:

  1) Double murder of Enrico Gonzales and David Angelo in the marina on Getterön outside Varberg, 1 May

  2) Theft of cocaine, 56 packages each weighing 8 ounces = 28 pounds of pure cocaine (Patrik Karlsson took 8 of these packages)

  3) Extortion and murder (car bomb) of restaurant owner Soran Siljac

  4) Extortion and murder of former restaurant owner Jan-Erik Månsson

  5) Extortion and attempted murder (car bomb) of restaurant owner Krister Huss

  6) Threats, assault and theft of a valuable painting—witness Ritva Ekholm

  7) Murder of Kazan Ekici

  8) Attempted abduction of Irene Huss

  Stefan Bratt took over once more.

  “Narcotics have been working with our colleagues in Denmark and Halland, and have come up with a credible scenario on the double homicide. The cocaine that had already been cut was probably intended for sale to Gothia MC, while Gonzales and Angelo were planning to ship the pure stuff over to Denmark for further processing. They’ve been having problems in Copenhagen all summer, with two gangs at war, each blaming the other for having stolen a large amount of cocaine. Something tells me that missing cocaine is here in Göteborg.”

  He switched to a picture of the empty storage compartment on board the yacht before continuing.

  “So Gonzales and Angelo were murdered by members of Gothia MC, including Patrik Karlsson. Since they were dealing with such a large amount of coke, fifty-six packages, Patrik somehow managed to nab eight packages for himself. We know from questioning his sister, DI Ann Wennberg, that he was in financial trouble. He owed money to the gang for drugs; his only chance was to make money fast so he could pay them off.”

  Stefan paused to refill his glass with mineral water from the bottle on the table. He took a few sips, then continued.

&n
bsp; “Given the commotion following the double homicide, Patrik decided to keep a low profile over the summer. At the beginning of August he got in touch with Fendi Göks. Fendi and his pal Kazan Ekici convinced him that they were members of the Latin Kings, and wanted to buy as much coke as he could lay his hands on. The temptation was too great. Instead of selling the coke in small amounts, he tried to sell the whole lot at once. Maybe he was running out of time as far as his debts were concerned.”

  Stefan clicked on a new slide; this time the heading was the third gang.

  1) Murder of Patrik Karlsson

  2) Theft of pure cocaine, 8 packages each weighing 8 ounces = 4 pounds (from Patrik K)

  3) Murder of Danny Mara

  4) Bomb at Pravda, 9 dead (possibly 10)

  He looked at Irene with a smile and a nod.

  “It was Irene’s conversation with Kazan Ekici just before he was killed which made us suspect that some members of the Gangster Lions were planning to branch out on their own. Since the Göteborg police are more than familiar with Danny Mara and the way he works, we know he would never have tolerated such a thing.”

  Stefan cleared his throat and drank a little more water.

  “The problem for this breakaway group was that they had no start-up capital, which is why the tip-off about the large amount of cocaine in Patrik Karlsson’s possession seemed like a godsend. When Kazan and Fendi went over to Kolgruvegatan to seal the deal, they had no intention of paying him; they had no money. They had always intended to kill him.”

  Irene cast an involuntary glance at the image of Patrik Karlsson’s charred body on the board. No living creature should have to die in such an appalling way.

  “Excuse me, but our friends Fendi and Kazan don’t exactly come across as the sharpest knives in the drawer. How the hell did they manage to pull all this off?” Jonny Blom asked, waving a hand at the screen.

  He’s got a point, Irene thought. Everyone looked attentively at Stefan, waiting for the answer. He nodded to Jonny.

  “You’re absolutely right. Neither Kazan nor Fendi were the leaders of this new gang. Ali and Omid Reza were tired of working as Danny Mara’s bodyguards; they wanted a slice of the action for themselves, particularly as Ali had started playing around with Danny’s beautiful wife, Elif. We know this from interviewing Fendi Göks, who was picked up immediately after the explosion. He had plenty to say, but has refused to answer any questions relating to the murders of Patrik Karlsson and Danny Mara. We know what happened to Patrik because Kazan confessed. As far as Danny is concerned, we can only speculate.”

  Sara Persson spoke up: “Is there really no proof at all? Just circumstantial evidence?”

  “There is one thing that suggests we’re probably right: a pair of Red Devil biker boots, size 45. They were found when Omid Reza’s house was searched a few hours ago. We’ve sent them to forensics to check if there are any traces of earth from the field or the parking lot of the conference center where Danny was shot. Fingers crossed . . . No one saw Omid at the time of the murder; he claims he was doing a security check inside the wall, and was at the far end of the grounds. However, we believe he was in or around the summerhouse. He knew that Danny would come out sooner or later to take a leak by the bushes, and of course that was exactly what Danny did. Omid shot Danny when he got close enough to the spot where Omid was hiding. We can assume he was wearing gloves; he immediately threw away the gun, pulled off the gloves, then mingled with the other guests who were milling around on the lawn,” Stefan replied.

  “But we found traces of someone hanging around outside the gate . . . and what about the chain that had been cut?” Fredrik Stridh objected.

  “Red herrings. Ali and Omid had set it all up earlier in the day—although they hadn’t actually severed the chain. It was important that various people could testify that the chain and padlock were intact during the evening. Omid probably cut it when he got rid of the gun. Smart move,” Stefan said with a wry smile.

  “So where are the bolt cutters he used?” Sara wanted to know.

  “I’ve no idea, but presumably the brothers had prepared a hiding place where he could stow them along with the gloves. We’re going to go over the summerhouse and the surrounding area with a fine-tooth comb again, but of course he could have disposed of everything by now.”

  “And yesterday’s bomb?” asked a colleague from the Organized Crimes Unit.

  “Yesterday’s bomb . . . well, that gave the third gang the perfect opportunity to dominate the narcotics market in a single stroke. With the Gangster Lions and Gothia MC out of the picture, there would be a vacuum which the new gang could fill right away. They had four pounds of cocaine, after all; they could start selling immediately.”

  “Plus with the top tier of both gangs gone, they had reduced the risk of revenge attacks,” Tommy added.

  Irene thought the two superintendents’ analysis of the situation was probably as close to the truth as it was possible to get at the moment. She raised her hand, and Stefan nodded to her.

  “Who else have you brought in, apart from Fendi Göks?”

  “The Reza brothers. We questioned Casim, the young waiter, but we let him go; he has nothing to do with the third gang.”

  “Have they said anything?”

  Tommy took over.

  “As Stefan mentioned earlier, Fendi’s talked quite a bit; neither of the brothers has said a word. We have previous experience of those two tough guys, and I’m afraid they’re unlikely to crack. We’re just hoping that Fendi will decide it’s in his best interests to tell us the rest.”

  “How did he explain his presence outside Pravda?” Irene asked.

  “He claims he knew about the meeting and was curious. He wanted to take some pictures with the camera on his phone.”

  There was a loud knock on the door, and it was immediately flung wide open. Lena Hellström sailed in with a triumphant smile on her vermilion lips. She nodded to everyone and no one before she announced, “We’ve found the cocaine! All of it!”

  “Where?” Stefan Bratt asked.

  “In a trailer owned by Per Lindström’s mother. She lives in a small house out in Utby, with a brand new trailer parked in the large garden. She went crazy when we turned up with a search warrant, and insisted it was her trailer. However, when we found the cocaine she changed her story and admitted that Per had bought the trailer and asked if he could register it in her name and leave it at her place. Then she denied all knowledge of how a painting by Ivan Ivarson came to be hanging in her living room. According to her she came home one day, and there it was.”

  Lena Hellström couldn’t help laughing.

  Irene’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Discreetly she took it out and saw to her delight that Krister was calling. She slipped out of the room; her colleagues looked at her in surprise, but no one said anything. Irene was desperate to answer before voice mail kicked in. Her heart was pounding and her whole body was trembling, but as soon as she heard Krister’s voice, she felt a great sense of calm.

  “Hi, sweetheart! We’ve just gotten back to civilization. Your text came through a little while ago. Is the danger really over?” he said cheerfully.

  She could only manage a feeble response: “It is. Yes.”

  “How come? Have you locked up everyone from Gothia MC?”

  “It’s . . . it’s a long story. Check out the Göteborgs Posten website. There’s also an article about a little boy and a cop. I’m the cop.”

  There was a longish silence before Krister spoke again.

  “Okay. Even if we share the driving and don’t take any breaks, we can’t get back to Göteborg before Sunday.”

  “Wow. Where the hell are you?”

  “We’re in a place called Kebnats. We sailed here from Saltoluokta this morning; we’ve been walking in the mountains. It’s glorious. We’ve seen the most amazing
things, so many different animals, and the scenery is fantastic. But it hasn’t been easy; sleeping in a tent on the mountainside when it’s pouring with rain isn’t much fun. We didn’t dare stay in the mountain stations, because you have to give your name. Maybe we were being a little paranoid, but on the other hand we’ve certainly had plenty of fresh air. I feel really good. We must do this next year, just the two of us!”

  Krister paused for breath. “So how are things with you?”

  Irene could see her reflection in the window of the conference room where her colleagues were sitting. The white dressing glowed on her multi-colored face; it was a dramatic look to say the least. But right now she didn’t have the energy to go through everything that had happened, so keeping her tone as light as possible, she simply said:

  “Oh you know, same as usual.”

  18.

  When Sunday finally arrived, Irene made an effort to produce a really good dinner, which meant ordering in food from a local restaurant. She couldn’t help shuddering as she took the large Styrofoam box from the delivery guy.

  “Just put everything back in the box when you’re done; it would be great if you could rinse out the individual containers. Do you want me to pick it up, or will you drop it back?” he asked.

  “We’ll bring it back,” Irene assured him.

  She could see he was fascinated by her face, which by now was black and blue. He did his best to hide it, but she could tell from his expression that he understood why she didn’t want to go out in public. To be honest, that wasn’t why she had decided to order in. She didn’t want to be stuck in the kitchen cooking, she wanted to spend time with her family. It felt like forever since they had left. They had been in Lapland, according to Krister, which was as far north as it was possible to go in Sweden. Hiding out in the wilds of nature was a smart idea if you were trying to avoid biker gangs. Outdoor life and physical activity weren’t at the top of their agenda.