by Jens Lapidus
But with Cecilia, things were still terrible. She wouldn’t let it go. She wanted to know, she said. She thought the pictures and films were mine. She wanted to cure me. And I knew I couldn’t tell the truth. I couldn’t turn around and say that the whole past year had been a lie. Above all, I couldn’t tell her the truth because it might be dangerous for her and the kids.
She kept asking me, though, over and over again. Wanted to delve deep into my psyche. Now, in hindsight, I can see it was a bad move on my part not to answer any of her questions, that it just made her press even harder until I started doing things that led to the catastrophe. But back then, I just gave her weak nonanswers: “They must’ve gotten onto the computer when I was looking at something else.”
I thought that would be it, but Cecilia wanted more—she wanted me to go to the police and report everything.
JS: What happened?
M: Eventually, she did it herself, called them up and reported what she’d seen on the computer. I had to go to the police station after that.
JS: They interviewed you?
M: Yeah, once.
JS: Strange, because I tried to find out when you were brought in, but I couldn’t see any record of an interview.
M: Makes sense, but I’ll get to that. What I told the police back then was closer to the truth than what I’d told Cecilia. I told them they weren’t my films, that I’d copied them onto my computer by mistake. The policeman who interviewed me wanted to see the computer, of course, but I didn’t have it. Cecilia had found it in the apartment after the fire, and she’d taken it away with her. I didn’t know where it was. The policeman moaned, said I should try to hand it in, that it was the only way they could move things forward. I knew what he meant, and I thought maybe I could delete everything to do with Sebbe’s business and let the police see the rest, those horrible films.
JS: Is that what you did, then?
M: It wasn’t so simple. Cecilia wouldn’t tell me where the damn thing was. She wanted me to go to more interviews, start having therapy and stuff like that. If she hadn’t been so stubborn and narrow-minded, things would’ve turned out very differently.
But then something happened, and that made it all ten times worse.
I thought there might be a way out after all, hoped it was just a big mistake. So I called Peder.
He sounded like he was in a boat, or maybe it was the helicopter again.
“I need to ask you something,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s a bit sensitive, but I saw some strange films on a computer out at that place in the country.”
The engine, the rotor blades or whatever it was, I could hear it humming in the background.
“What is that crap?” I asked. “Because I’ve been to the police and told them what I saw.”
After that, the noise was almost unbearable. It sounded like Peder said something, but I didn’t hear what. The phone went dead after that.
A few days later, I got a text—I remember it word for word. It said: We understand you have a computer containing some files you shouldn’t. If you hand it over to the police, we’ll rape your wife to death, and your kids will cease to exist.
I just stared at the words, tried to work out how the hell things had ended up like this. I hadn’t told Peder I had a copy. All I could think was that the police had leaked it somehow, because it couldn’t have come from Cecilia.
JS: If you’re right, that’s the reason I can’t find a record of that interview.
M: My thoughts exactly.
After that, I took the blame for everything with Cecilia. There was absolutely no way I could tell her the truth. It was like hooking a fish that’s just too big. Cecilia pulled and pulled, and no matter how hard I tried to resist it, she managed to get even more out of me. I tried to explain that I’d been surfing porn sites: “Lots of men do it, millions, I was stressed at work, plus you and I…we’re not so intimate anymore.” And I tried to tell her it had gotten worse and worse, that I’d ended up on bad sites, that I just hadn’t thought. That the whole thing was about stress and bad judgment.
It was a mess. I was describing myself as someone who couldn’t stop himself from looking at sadomasochistic home movies. But the truth was, I was very aware that she could never suspect that those films and pictures had anything to do with anyone else. Then she’d start to look into who they were and probably hand in the computer herself. And they’d been very clear what would happen if she did that.
I tried to talk to her, get her to give me the computer instead, but then she just got more and more suspicious.
One morning, I was walking down to KPMG. Cool autumn air, and I was stressed, like usual. I walked over Barnhusbron. The whole area around the central station was changing back then. That whole area of town was being developed, hotels and offices everywhere. Cecilia and I were meeting in the apartment later that day. We had an appointment with a surveyor. He was going to take us through the decontamination. We’d been back to the apartment twice to choose new colors and paper for some of the walls. We’d talked about the kitchen and realized we didn’t want anything like what we’d had before. Honestly, it was just nice that we could talk about something normally for once.
I was halfway across the bridge when a delivery van pulled up right next to me.
Two huge men got out. Instinctively, I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t have time to react.
They picked me up from the pavement and more or less threw me into the back of the van. I was fighting back. Trying to get up. One of them was leaning over me. I saw he had a needle.
“What’re you doing?”
I felt a sharp pain in my neck.
“Just stay calm and nothing’s gonna happen.”
And then it was like I couldn’t control my arms and legs anymore, like they belonged to someone else. I remember thinking about the way the smoke had stuck in my throat. But this was different. Like a deep, peaceful sleep.
I opened my eyes. And…(inaudible)…I mean, this isn’t easy to talk about, even though a few years have passed….(clears throat)
JS: It’s okay, take your time. Should we go for a walk instead?
M: …That might be best…(inaudible)
(Pause)
M: Nice to get out, anyway. Just so you know, I’m going to keep this brief. I’ve spent so much time talking to psychologists and therapists about what happened those few days, I feel like I’m talked out.
JS: Okay, that’s fine, I understand.
M: So, okay. When I opened my eyes, it was pitch-black—like I’d been buried alive. In a way, I was in a grave of sorts. I tried to sit up, but I hit my head on something. I carefully felt all around me. Rough planks. It smelled like wood.
That’s when I understood. It was like all the air left my body when it sank in, like all the energy and life just vanished. I was in a box. They’d put me in a fucking box.
I tried to keep calm. Think clearly. Breathe deeply, not hyperventilate. Then I started to shout. “Let me out! Help!”
Yeah, I was shouting like a madman. I shouted until there was no air left.
After maybe twenty minutes, a little hatch opened right by my face. The light was piercing. I squinted.
I could see a man looking down at me. I’ll never forget his face.
“Take it easy, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “Are you hungry? Need a piss?”
“Please, just let me out.”
“If you need a shit, I’ll have to tie you up first.”
“What do you want? Please, just tell me what you want.”
“I’m not the one in charge of this. But listen: you pay up, this’ll all be over soon enough.”
It’s hazy after that. I’ve made an effort not to remember, to repress those days I was shut up in a box with less room than the trunk of a Volvo. One thing I can tell you, though, that first man wasn’t the one running the interrogations—I remember his shocked face a few days later when he opened the hatch an
d saw what they’d done to me.
Yeah, there were others. They took me out of the box. I don’t know who they were. They always had masks on. At first, I was sure Sebbe’d sent them. That he hadn’t forgiven me. That he wanted even more money because I’d tried to steal from him. The man who was guarding me in the house had said they’d let me go if I paid, anyway.
But after a while, I realized they were after something else. They wanted to know where the computer was, whether I’d let anyone else know what I’d seen. They weren’t Sebbe’s men. They weren’t Kum’s. They were working for someone else.
Someone much worse.
They pulled out seven of my fingernails. They stubbed out cigarettes on my face. They shoved things inside me. They…(inaudible)…I mean…I can’t…
JS: It’s okay, you don’t have to. I’ve read your testimony. You said everything, then, right?
M: Most of it. But I never told them they wanted the computer. I never did that. I thought it was the only thing I could do to protect my family.
JS: I know, that’s understandable.
M: Anyway, after five days and five hours, the police rescued me. Cecilia told me afterward that the kidnappers called her to say they had me, that they wanted the computer.
JS: Did she give it to them?
M: Yeah, she did. And at the same time, she told the police I’d been kidnapped. I don’t know how they did it, but by handing over the computer, the police managed to work out where I was.
JS: And the computer, what happened to it?
M: I don’t know, the kidnappers got it. It doesn’t exist anymore.
JS: And only one person was ever arrested and convicted for what they did to you, right?
M: Only one person was convicted. The one who’d talked to me first. His name’s Teddy Maksumic.
39
The remand hearing was over.
The prosecutor, Annika Rölén, had requested two more weeks. Cited the same reason she’d given the whole time. She’d also introduced a new element in support of their suspicions: something really shitty. They’d finally analyzed the clothes they’d found in the woods: a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Benjamin’s DNA had been found on the T-shirt, on the collar and one arm. The match confidence level was +4, the highest possible level. And the final blow: the T-shirt was more or less drenched in blood. The dead man’s blood.
Emelie did her best. Asked whether traces of blood had been found anywhere other than the living room. If they’d found fingerprints, DNA, or any other objects. She asked whether any weapons had been found.
Annika Rölén refused to comment on most points. The only question she answered was about the murder weapon. “We haven’t found it yet, but we believe the victim was shot in the head with some kind of hollow-point bullet that exploded on impact.”
Forensics needed more time—it was a no-brainer: strong suspicions, compulsory grounds for detention. The court would never release a suspected murderer when they could give the National Forensic Centre a few more weeks. All the same: Benjamin was still more or less unconscious. The whole thing was highly unusual.
But Rölén had an answer to that, too: “Emanuelsson is doing better. He can sit up. He can move around now. He responds to certain types of verbal communication. That means the risk of his tampering with evidence has increased.”
After less than five minutes’ deliberation, the judge had ruled that Benjamin would be remanded in custody.
—
Emelie went out onto the street. Hailed a taxi. As she did so, she Googled hollow-tipped bullets. Wikipedia delivered. The idea of that type of ammunition was that the bullet opened out when it hit its target, meaning that its diameter increased. It sounded brutal. Still, the Swedish police had been using Speer Gold Dot as their service ammunition since 2003.
“Wait.”
She turned around. It was Teddy—half running toward her along Scheelegatan.
He was an idiot who set fire to barns and stole money.
An idiot who said: “I know what happened to Mats.”
40
Mats Emanuelsson had taken the ferry to Finland five times, but he hadn’t jumped when the weather was at its worst—when the chances of achieving his goal were greatest. Instead, he’d thrown himself into the sea during the trip with the best weather. Maybe he’d had trouble making up his mind.
Teddy stood in front of Emelie outside the courthouse and explained what he’d worked out. Emelie didn’t move an inch. He was glad she was listening so intently.
There was something about the way Mats jumped. Teddy had watched the film over and over again on Loke’s screen, and eventually, he’d worked it out: the natural way to jump would’ve been as close to the edge of the ship as possible—where the risk of being sucked under was greatest. But that wasn’t what Mats had done: he’d gathered himself like he was aiming for the world record in the long jump.
Teddy had asked Loke to zoom in. Something else didn’t look right. He’d tried to put his finger on exactly what. Mats had been slim, according to Boggan and Bosse—but in the video, he looked chunky, despite being lightly dressed.
Frame by frame. Rewind. Zoom. Rewind.
Then he saw it. Mats had something on under his sweatshirt. Something that stuck up at the neck. A collar. And it was thick.
Loke had zoomed in even further. There was some text on Mats’s collar: Ursuk BDS.
Teddy had seen that somewhere else. Loke glanced at him: “Little mouse, you’re thinking so hard, you keep forgetting to breathe. Sure you don’t want some fermented tea? Some oxygen maybe?”
And then it had clicked.
Teddy had seen a dry suit with the same words on it. Ursuk BDS. And he knew where: in Cecilia, Benjamin, and Lillan’s chaotic basement space.
He’d put the pieces together after that. Mats Emanuelsson had been wearing a diving suit under his normal clothes when he jumped from the ferry. He’d jumped as far from the boat as he could. The conclusion was clear. No one who wanted to kill themselves would dress like that. No one who wanted to drown jumped into the sea wearing a Breathable Diving Suit—an elite dry suit.
Emelie’s mouth was half-open when he finished.
41
It took her half an hour just to get in, like usual.
Still in section six. Jeanette Nicorescu greeted her warmly in the hallway, like usual.
“We just had a remand hearing, but he was only present via video link. How’s he doing?” Emelie asked.
“Seems okay. He even said hello to me when I went in to see him last.”
Benjamin was sitting up in bed. His eyes were open. But he didn’t seem to register she was there. Emelie could hear the faint noise of the guards out in the hallway.
“Hi, Benjamin.”
He mumbled something in response.
“How are you?”
No answer.
“We shouldn’t be too surprised they decided to keep you in remand,” she said.
He whispered something; she could only make out the odd word: “I know…”
She said: “Benjamin, Teddy and I don’t think your dad killed himself when he jumped from the ferry. We think he planned it so it looked like a suicide. Do you know anything about that?” She sat down by his bed and took his hand in hers.
Benjamin’s skin was cool. She felt him squeeze her hand faintly.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Yes,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.
“Is your dad alive?”
More mumbling. Still, Emelie thought she heard him say: “I…don’t…know. In the house.”
“What do you mean? Your dad was in the house with you?”
Another gentle squeeze: yes.
“Do you know who the dead person is?”
Benjamin shook his head. Quietly he whispered: “Maybe Dad.”
“Mats was murdered?”
“Don’t know.”
“What were you doing in the house?”
His hand was t
ense. He really seemed to be struggling to find the right words. He said something, but Emelie couldn’t make it out.
“Meet…”
She realized she needed to ask simpler questions. “You met someone in the house?”
He squeezed her hand: yes.
“You met Mats there?”
Another squeeze: yes.
“Does Cecilia know you met there?”
A moment of stillness, and then he shook his head.
“Does she know Mats didn’t kill himself?”
“No.”
“Does anyone else know?”
Silence. He was struggling to keep it together.
“Li…” He made it no further.
“Lillan?”
No answer. His eyes were closed.
“Please, Benjamin. Did Lillan know?”
The room was silent. Benjamin’s hand had fallen down to the covers.
—
“Did he say anything?” Teddy asked. He’d been waiting for her outside.
“I don’t really want to talk to you right now, actually.”
“Okay. But did you manage to get anything out of him?”
“Yeah, he actually communicated with me today, a few words at least. He knows Mats didn’t kill himself, but he also thinks it might’ve been him who got killed out in Värmdö.”
“Oh shit,” said Teddy. “Did he kill his own father?”
The thought hadn’t even crossed Emelie’s mind.
Teddy grimaced. “I don’t care, he’s gonna have to start talking to us now.”
“He’s getting better every day. I’ve got to go. I’ve got another court hearing today.”
“What is it?”
Emelie didn’t know if Teddy knew—confidentiality forbid her from saying who she was representing. Plus, she still had no desire to talk to him.
“It’s another remand hearing,” she said.
Teddy raised an eyebrow. “Aha, then I know. Linda told me. You’re helping my nephew. Can I come?”
Emelie shook her head. “Enough now.”
42
Almost four days in the cell now.
Two hours’ time: his remand hearing. They would come to collect him, put on the cuffs, drive him to the courtroom in Södertörn. His friends had talked about these hearings so many times, but Nikola was a virgin. Young offenders’ was like day care compared to this.