by Jens Lapidus
Stig Erhardsson cleared his throat and turned to the lawyer. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I think I’ll take this meeting myself.”
Erhardsson wasn’t dressed like a managing director. Jeans and an unbuttoned shirt. Not even a jacket. No expression on his face.
Emelie said: “What’s your connection to Mats Emanuelsson?”
Stig Erhardsson replied quietly: “Why do you ask?”
Emelie didn’t know what kind of man was sitting in front of her. “It doesn’t matter. All I’m interested in is what you know about Mats Emanuelsson’s life, whether you knew him or not.”
“And why should I talk to you about this?”
Emelie articulated every single syllable when she replied: “Because you put codes into a safe-deposit box his son has access to.”
Stig leaned forward over the table. She couldn’t work out how what she’d said had affected him.
“Mats is dead,” he said.
“I know, but were you in touch? It would help his family if you talked to me.”
Stig closed his mouth, maybe weighing what Emelie had said. She noticed his hands and nails were very well-groomed.
“I knew Mats. We did some business together. I liked him a lot. What’s happened to Benjamin?”
“Did you read about the Värmdö murder in the papers?”
“Jesus, Benjamin’s suspected of that?”
Emelie placed the codes she’d found in the safe-deposit box on the table, alongside the money she’d withdrawn from the currency exchange.
“Yes. And I managed to get hold of this through him. So, my question to you is: What’s this all about?”
He studied her for a moment. It seemed like the dark patches of sweat beneath his arms had grown.
“I’m only going to say this once,” he eventually said. “And I’ll never testify or admit to anything. That money is for Benjamin and his sister. I’ve been trying to help the family financially. They’ve had enough problems.”
“And Mats?”
“What do you mean?”
“How was he, when he was alive?”
Another long silence from Stig. The sweat patches under his arms were the size of dinner plates now.
“Like I said, Mats was a good business partner. But he’s dead now, and that’s all I have to say.”
—
Stockholm district court. In half an hour, Benjamin’s remand hearing would be under way. Emelie wanted to get there in good time. He would be taking part via video link, but she wanted to physically be in the courtroom this time, able to look the judge in the eye.
She’d told her secretary she had a meeting in town. Maybe this was her new life: criminal defense lawyer. Another request had come in yesterday. Teddy’s nephew, Nikola.
It almost hadn’t felt strange to say yes—even if, in a way, it was more idiotic than taking on Benjamin’s case. Defending Nikola would be public, and it was hardly some premium case, as some people would put it. But all the same, she was starting to feel more and more at home in criminal law.
She still couldn’t get over the fact that Teddy had set the barn on fire, or that he’d blackmailed McLoud for money. But she wouldn’t let that affect his nephew, she knew that. She’d met the kid once before, maybe that was why she’d taken the case. Plus, the risk the papers would pick it up was minimal—it wasn’t some kind of serious crime they were talking about. And if she was lucky, Leijon would never find out.
The tall oak doors into the courthouse were heavy.
Once inside, she got into the line for security. She wasn’t sure whether she actually needed to wait—she was a lawyer, after all—but it would be too embarrassing to push her way to the front only to be turned back.
The entrance hall was impressive. High stone arches, marble floors, sculptures. An atmosphere of gravitas, history. Lady Justice’s halls—the law had been administered here for a hundred years.
Emelie walked into the internal courtyard. Glassy new offices had been built in the old parts of the building, and fifty feet in the air, there was a huge glass ceiling that turned the courtyard into another giant room. She bought a cup of coffee and went over to the information screens.
The number of cases was overwhelming. She tried to work her way through them.
11:00: Prosecution Authority—Reza Ali, attempted murder, Room 12.
11:00: Prosecution Authority—Maria Kymminen, theft, etc., Room 3.
11:00: Prosecution Authority—Abdi Muhammad, assault and battery, etc., Room 28.
11:00: Prosecution Authority—Jon Svensson, rape, Room 27.
Nothing. She moved on to the next screen. Eventually she managed to find the room where Benjamin’s remand hearing would be taking place.
She thought back to what Stig Erhardsson had told her—that he’d been supporting the family financially. Maybe that was how they’d managed to keep going while Mats was alive: Stig’s support had kept their heads above water.
—
She’d been to see Dr. Gunnarsson again yesterday.
“I’ll prescribe it this time, but we really need to do a thorough check of your overall health.” He’d looked serious.
“Yeah, okay, sure.” Emelie had tried to look like she really agreed: big eyes, faint smile, quick little nods. But really: she couldn’t do without the Stesolid now—she’d never cope. Inheritance from her father. Her genes.
She’d transferred the tablets into an empty Läkerol candy box. Swallowed one with a gulp of coffee. She was alone outside the courtroom. Rölén, the prosecutor, might come in through another entrance.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Behind her was a middle-aged man. He had thin hair and round glasses. A beard and a taut mouth.
“Hi, are you the lawyer, Jansson?”
“Yes, who are you?”
“An old friend of Benjamin Emanuelsson. I’d like you to give him this letter.” The man held out a brown envelope.
Emelie studied it for a few seconds. He didn’t want to tell her his name. He wanted her to give something to Benjamin, though she had no idea what it was. It was impossible. She couldn’t bring in letters, phones, or any other information without the prosecutor having approved it first.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. He’s being held under restrictions. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes. But maybe you can make an exception?”
“I can’t give him the letter without sending it to the prosecutor to read and approve.”
The man put the envelope back into his bag.
“No,” he said. “I’ll have to leave it, then.”
38
The taxi pulled up in the turning circle by the main entrance. There were people everywhere. One of Stockholm’s biggest hospitals: pensioners, families with small children, tired, broken people—some of whom didn’t really need to be there but had nowhere else to go. A cross-section of Sweden: a boiled-down version of the country. Almost.
“The upper classes have their own hospitals these days,” Tagg said. “ ’Cause of the insurance, you know? But I don’t bother. D’you?”
“Yeah, actually. Through the office.” Teddy suddenly pointed. “There they are.”
Another car had pulled up behind them. He’d thought they’d given up, partly because of what he’d done to Anthony Ewing, partly because he wasn’t living at home. But the moment he stepped out of the hotel, he’d had that fishy feeling, the sense that someone was paying too much attention to him. Swedish Premium Security—he was sure of it, their methods were the same. One person shadowing him at a time. That was when he’d called Tagg, who’d come over to meet him. They took a taxi instead. Teddy had seen the same car behind them several times now. How the hell had they managed to find him again?
He didn’t want them to know he’d come to see Sara, even less for them to know where she was. Maybe he should turn around.
He decided to go inside anyway. Tagg at his heels. Moving guy look: he swayed from side to side, shoulders and arms
slightly forward. “We’re not causin’ any unnecessary problems, are we?”
“Honestly, man, it’s not unnecessary today.”
The automatic doors swung open and shut continuously. There was a line at the information desk. Strong institutional feeling from the chairs and tables in the café. The color schemes on the walls were about as easy to understand as Chinese.
—
The hallway smelled of food. Tagg drummed his fingers against his leg. Rocked his head like he was moving to some inaudible inner rhythm. They were somewhere behind them—Teddy had a tingling feeling at the back of his neck.
“You okay? You don’t have to help me.”
Tagg twiddled his thumbs. “Shit, man, I’m back in the Life. I like it, y’know?”
Teddy’s thoughts drifted to something else: fucked-up irony. The shady estate agent had phoned him with some sweet news: “Got a great one-bedroom with a kitchenette in Tumba.”
“Price?”
“It’s top floor, great views. Otherwise, pretty crappy. Rent’s three thousand five hundred. You can have it for two hundred.”
Teddy: a pretty rich man. McLoud had sent him the first million; the rest would be following soon. His nephew could have a place of his own—but now the little idiot had gone and gotten himself locked up.
He opened the door to the oncology ward. As far from ward 57 as you could get in this place.
Tagg was going to wait outside. He sat down on a bench. “I’ll let you know if I see anything.” He grinned. “Just call me Jason Bourne.”
Teddy went in. Huge devices on wheels. Clusters of doctors and nurses chatting away in Birkenstocks and green hospital scrubs. Patients sitting about, waiting for the most important conversation of their lives.
Teddy’s phone beeped. He’s here. Same guy from the car on his way down the hallway.
He replied, Stay there. I’ll sort it.
A man, probably a doctor, was standing at a computer behind a pane of glass. Teddy knocked on the window.
The doctor pushed his glasses up his nose. “How can I help?”
“Could you show me where the fire escape is?”
“Ehh, why?”
“I’m here to repair something.”
“No one told me anything about that.” The guy had an irritating voice. He sounded like a teenager. Faroush Hooshmand, it said on his name badge.
“Well, it’s true.”
“Okay, just wait a second and I’ll check the computer, see if you’re registered.”
Another text from Tagg. Teddy looked down at his phone. He’s outside now. On way in to you.
There was no time. Teddy opened the door, went into the reception room where the doctor was working. Grabbed his neck—the man wasn’t exactly a bodybuilder: Teddy could almost reach all the way around.
He squeezed.
“Just show me where the fire escape is, no bullshit. I don’t have time.”
—
Ten minutes later. Ward 57. Sara was sitting at the first table in the dining room. Hospital clothes, plasters covering injection points on her hands, slippers on her feet.
“Hi,” she said. A dull tone to her voice.
Teddy sat down. The doctor had shown him the way to the fire escape without saying another word. He’d gone up one floor, knocked on the door, and been let in by a confused nurse. Ten seconds later, he got another message from Tagg: He’s inside the ward now. Teddy didn’t have time to reply—not that it made a difference. He half ran to Sara’s ward. The Swedish Premium Security guy could go to hell.
“You still don’t have to see me if you don’t want to,” Teddy said.
“I do.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay.”
“How’s Edward?”
“He’s fine.”
“Is he with his dad?”
“Yeah, they’re staying in a hotel somewhere. The police are helping out.”
“It was me they wanted. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I know.” She sighed. “It’s so long since we talked about Emanuelsson, but still…”
Teddy took her hand. Her skin was as white as milk. “Did you see the license plate, or anyone in the car? I was on my stomach on the floor when they got close.”
Sara pulled her hand back. “Just fuzzy images. It wasn’t very light. The police asked me that, too. I don’t know the license plate number, but it was a man, Swedish-looking. One thing did stand out, there’s one thing I remember. The bottom half of his face looked weird.”
“Weird how?”
“I can’t really put it any other way, just that his skin didn’t look smooth somehow.”
There was a box on the floor next to Sara. She nodded toward it.
“That’s everything. I got my partner to go home and bring it up from the basement—that’s the first and last time I’m going to involve him in this. I can’t lift it myself, sorry.”
Teddy bent down and picked up the box. “What’s in here?”
“Everything. Division of property documents from Mats and Cecilia’s divorce, death certificates, the film from the CCTV camera when he jumped, the preliminary inquiry report from when you were convicted of kidnapping him, the so-called slops from the police, the extra material from their investigation, plus a bunch of my own notes. Look after it—it’s been hidden in a sleeping bag cover in my basement for more than four years now.”
“There’s one more thing I’ve been wondering, Sara.” Teddy could hear the sorrow in his voice. “What exactly happened when you stopped coming to see me?”
She looked down at the table. “Does it really matter? The odds of things working out in the long run weren’t all that great, if we’re realistic about it.”
“It matters to me.”
Her voice sounded even flatter when she replied. “A man called me up and said if I kept dating you and asking around about Mats Emanuelsson, they’d rape me to death within a few hours, and that I should keep an eye on the time. They’d get to you, too, he said. I didn’t know what to think, but the next day I got a parcel, and my watch was inside it. They’d been in my apartment while I was sleeping and taken it, so…the message was pretty clear.”
“Okay, I understand.”
“I didn’t dare go on, Teddy. You need to be careful now. They don’t mess around.”
Teddy got up with the box under his arm. “I’m done being careful. I’ve got another strategy now.”
He headed straight for Loke Odensson’s office. A data security firm, right in the middle of town. Or like Loke always said: “You get to choose a side in life. I’ve gone over to the dark side now. Satan pays well, contributes to my pension, and I’m not gonna get my feet crushed because of my big mouth.”
Loke stuck the USB into his computer and quickly brought up the contents on-screen: the film from the ferry to Finland. It probably would’ve taken Teddy an hour just to work out which hole to plug the memory stick into.
“Nice of you to come visit like this, sweetie pie,” said Loke. “You want coffee? Red Bull? Or my new favorite—kombucha?”
“What the hell’s kombucha?”
“Fermented tea, it’s got shitloads of vitamins, healthy bacteria, antioxidants, stuff like that. Think it’d do you some good, too, man.”
“Just help me with this. I don’t have time for any healthy bacteria.”
For CCTV footage, the image was sharp, even when Loke pulled it up onto one of his big screens.
The deck of a boat: green floor, white walls, and railings. Sky and sea in the background, you couldn’t see where one stopped and the next one began, everything was just gray. Teddy recognized the man who came out on deck: Mats Emanuelsson. He was only wearing jeans and a sweater, though it looked cold. He stood for a moment, looking out to sea, then climbed up onto the railing, gathered himself, and jumped.
“What the hell is this?” Loke asked.
“Can you show me the whole thing again? In slow motion?”
Loke did something on the computer. “We can watch it frame by frame.”
They rewound the clip. Teddy watched the sequence again. Mats was lightly dressed. Mats climbed up onto the railing. Mats gathered himself. Jumped. As far out as he could.
Again.
He really had jumped a long way.
And there was something about the jump. Teddy just couldn’t say what.
Stockholm County Police Authority
Interview with informant “Marina,” 19 December 2010
Leader: Joakim Sundén
Location: Flemingsberg Centrum
MEMORANDUM 5 (PART 2)
Transcript of dialogue (continuation)
M: They discharged me from the hospital. Cecilia wouldn’t let me stay in the same room as her and the kids. Every time she looked at me, her eyes would narrow.
After a few weeks, I started back at KPMG, but only part-time. This was autumn 2006. The renovation—or decontamination, that’s what we called it—of the apartment was moving slowly. I wanted to get back home as soon as possible. Hotels are like those ferries to Finland—we used to go on them a lot when I was a kid. Everything seems fun and exciting at first, but after a few hours it all seems uniform and depressing.
The fire itself didn’t bother me all that much anymore. In a way, I understood Sebbe. I’d screwed him over, for the second time. In Sebbe’s world, the world I’d been working in part-time, there aren’t any insurance policies, you can’t just report things to the police. All you can do is take things into your own hands. Manage your environment in a firm, clear way. I don’t think he’d wanted to kill me or even hurt me, for that matter. How could he know I’d go running back to our place? He just wanted to send a message. And it had come through loud and clear.
He’d done it neatly, too. The fire investigators didn’t find anything suggesting it was deliberate. They talked about appliances and bad installations. I just nodded along and added to their suspicions, told them: “We’ve had trouble with the dishwasher short-circuiting everything a few times before. I’m sure that must be what started it.”