Fabian and Lilja had done their utmost not to leave any traces, and there had been nothing to indicate the perpetrator was at Dawn’s manor house. But they couldn’t be certain. They couldn’t take anything for granted. He might already know how close they were to capturing him; maybe he was somewhere nearby right now, keeping an eye on the bank. And them.
For that reason, they could not allow any police vehicles or uniformed officers to be seen in the area. They couldn’t release an armed task force into the neighbouring buildings. They had to do all their preparations in the shadows.
The whole task force had to change clothes and split up into pairs. Those who were posted inside the bank were posing as janitors. Their automatic weapons were hidden in their cleaning carts, and everyone’s wired earpieces were switched out for personal headphones.
The two rear entrances to the bank, on either end of the city block, were patrolled in shifts by “park workers,” “trash-pickers,” and “strolling tourists” with maps in hand and cameras against their bellies. Each had been assigned a role they felt more or less comfortable playing.
Cliff was a window-washer in coveralls, and Lilja was at one of the teller booths, wearing a suit. In honour of the day, she had dyed her hair dark and taken out all her ear piercings. Tuvesson had taken over one of the desks with a view of the door to the meeting room where the banker would sit down with the perpetrator.
Fabian had rented the car he was currently sleeping in. He had also changed into ripped jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. And since he was supposed to enter the bank as a customer and would probably only be a few metres away from the perpetrator, he had also agreed to glue on a fake beard that looked so realistic he almost believed he had grown it himself.
Molander, however, was not in costume; he was installed in one of the offices above Killbergs bookstore on the other side of Stortorget. From his window he had a view of the bank’s front as well as large portions of the square, all the way from the statue of Magnus Stenbock to Fahlmans Konditori.
If the perpetrator should slip through their net, they would be able to block off Drottninggatan in both directions within five minutes, not to mention Hälsovägen and the stairs up to Kärnan tower. They had been given the go-ahead to stop all train and ferry traffic, and if that wasn’t enough, they could deploy an outer ring of roadblocks that included the northbound E4 and the southbound E6. They even had a helicopter, borrowed from Malmö, on standby.
They could not have been more prepared. All the perpetrator had to do was show up and forge a signature on the bill of sale. They would take care of the rest.
But the moment Fabian woke up from his nap, he realized that nothing would go as planned. It wasn’t even quarter past one, and it wasn’t his cell phone alarm that had woken him, but Molander’s voice in his earpiece.
“All units: the target is on his way in. Repeat: the target is crossing Stortorget and heading straight for Fabian’s car.”
43
As in the previous videos, the images were shaky and grainy, and played to a soundtrack of classical music. Dunja guessed it was another Mozart symphony. The attackers — this time there were three in addition to the one holding the camera — were all wearing dark hoodies, white sneakers, and stockings with yellow smileys covering their faces.
That was where the similarities with the older videos ended. What was replaying before Dunja and Magnus’s eyes was in a completely different ballpark. It was what she had expected, and yet she was so shocked it was becoming difficult to breathe.
The same went for Magnus, who should have been in Helsingør writing up his report on the shoplifting old lady. To Dunja’s surprise, he had insisted that they were a team and it was his responsibility to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid. So he had come all the way to Copenhagen with her, where they met Mikael Rønning at the cultural centre in Islands Brygge.
The director of the centre let them borrow one of the conference rooms; according to Mikael, the man was not only a regular at Cosy Bar but still insisted on going bareback under the bridge in Ørstedsparken. She could tell that Magnus had no idea what Mikael was talking about, and after considering it for a moment she decided it was probably best to keep him out of the loop.
The point of the conference room, which was only a stone’s throw from the police station on the other side of the canal, was to minimize the risk of running into Kim Sleizner. He had already done enough damage, and couldn’t be allowed to find out what they were up to. So they met in secret and watched the video on Mikael’s laptop.
At first it looked like a harmless cell-phone video, the type anyone with a smartphone might make. Jens Lemke, the victim, was sitting among piles of filthy blankets and sleeping bags. He appeared to have recently emptied a syringe into his arm and loosened the tourniquet. He held a whiskey bottle in his left hand and his eyes seemed to go blank as the heroin spread through his body. Within seconds, he had sunk into a shapeless pile, unaware of the three young men with stockings over their heads.
And then, Dunja witnessed the practised coldness as they turned him onto his back and, with great care, arranged his head so it was facing up, placed his arms by his sides, pulled his legs out straight, and tied the laces of his well-worn boots together.
And, finally, the unthinkable brutality.
With the first jump, the video switched to slow motion. The attacker jumped from about a metre up, coming down so hard that, if it weren’t for the classical music, they surely would have heard the ribs breaking. Jens Lemke appeared to wake from his stupor, but he had no time to comprehend what was happening before the next attacker landed on his chest, which clearly sank in a few centimetres.
He coughed a few times and blood emerged from his mouth. The heroin must have dulled his pain, but they could tell he was screaming as he twisted his body in an attempt to get away. His injuries were already too serious.
Meanwhile, the three smiley men took turns jumping on him again and again until their sneakers were no longer white and Lemke had stopped moving.
Dunja didn’t know what to say once the image faded to black and the last strains of music ended. There were no words to describe how she felt. She wanted to go home, pull the covers over her head, and stay there until the world outside felt better.
“This is exactly what you were warning us about at the meeting this morning.” Magnus said, looking like he’d lost all faith in humanity.
Dunja nodded mutely.
“Well, shit,” he went on, shaking his head. “The only positive thing is that Sveistrup and the others will have to take you seriously after they see this. You might not get to lead the investigation, but at least you’ll be able to say that you contributed, and helped it in the right direction. That’s something, anyway.”
“Sure,” Dunja said, nodding. “If I were going to show it to them.”
“What do you mean? Of course you —”
“They won’t be seeing this until I’m all done; until I put these bastards away.”
“You’re not saying —”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” She looked at Magnus. “It’s up to you if you want to help. I’ll understand if you’d rather go around in your uniform, keeping order at Netto.”
“Dunja, it’s not that, it’s —”
“Please, can you just listen?” To her own surprise, she leaned over and took his hands in her own. “Just like you’ve been saying all along, none of this is part of our job description. So if you want to take it easy and toe the line, that’s fine. I get it. And, Magnus, I really mean that.”
“Dunja —”
“Hold on, I’m not done. No matter what you do, I have to finish this. I can’t just sit on the sidelines and watch Ussing and Jensen screw up this investigation. These maniacs are going around crushing people to death. I hope you can understand.”
Magnus stood up, his expressi
on unreadable, and turned his back on her. He walked over to the window, where he gazed out at the quay and the few people who were braving the drizzle. Dunja waited, though what she really wanted to do was shout at him that she didn’t give a shit what he thought. If he wanted to thwart her and tattle to the boss, he could go right ahead. It wouldn’t change a thing.
But that wasn’t true. If Sveistrup found out what she was up to, it wouldn’t be long before she had Sleizner on her back. And, as always, he would do anything to trip her up. Even if it meant the investigation crumbled and the perpetrators went free.
But it was too late now. All she could do was wait and see what would happen.
After a minute or two, Magnus reached into his pocket, took out his phone, and woke it up. Dunja exchanged glances with Mikael and found that he looked just as nervous.
“Hi, Grete, Magnus Rawn here,” he said, his eyes on a cargo ship passing by outside. “Listen, unfortunately I’m not feeling very well…I don’t know, but I have a fever and my whole body aches and I’ll probably be in bed all week…Okay, thanks…sounds good. Bye.” Magnus hung up and turned to the other two. “So what do you say? Should we get to work?”
44
Fabian adjusted the rear-view mirror and hoped that the man heading straight for him wouldn’t notice the movement. Molander was right. It was definitely the suspect. He was wearing pointy boots, black jeans with a studded belt, sunglasses, and a burgundy velvet jacket, and he had Chris Dawn’s characteristic hard-rock hairstyle. Had he figured them out? Was that why he was headed for Fabian’s car?
Fabian patted his handgun in its shoulder holster to make sure it was there, but he couldn’t take it out. Not yet. And it was too late to start the car and drive off. That would be way too obvious; it would only draw more attention to him. Plus he would lose the parking spot and have to circle the square for an eternity before finding a new one.
The man reached the right side of Fabian’s car, and with no idea whether it was a good idea or bad, Fabian turned toward his seatbelt and pulled it out as if he had just gotten in the car. To his great relief, the man kept walking, taking no notice of him, and crossed the street.
“The target just passed me and is continuing toward the bank,” he said into his headset.
“I don’t get it. Wasn’t the meeting at two? It’s only quarter past one,” came Cliff’s voice, just as he came out of the front entrance of the bank in his coveralls, a bucket in hand and a ladder over his shoulder.
“Maybe he moved it up?” Molander said. “Astrid, you’re inside. Did you hear anything about that?”
“Not a word.”
“Okay, all units stand by. The target appears to be entering the bank.”
But just as the perpetrator passed between the two cone-shaped trees outside the entrance, he took a sharp right, passing Cliff, who had just begun to wet down a window, and vanished around the corner.
“He’s not going in, he’s heading for Norra Strandgatan,” said Molander.
“Team One here, we see him,” came a voice.
“What is he doing? Tell us,” said Fabian, who could no longer see the man.
“Still walking. No, hold on, he’s stopping outside the side entrance and…turning around…and now he’s walking again.”
“He’s inspecting the building,” Molander said. “My guess is he’ll walk around the whole block.”
Right, Fabian thought. That has to be what he’s up to. “How do things look at the back of the block, by Kolmätaregränden? Do we have a unit there?”
“Negative,” Molander said. “It’s more than sixty metres from the bank. We put all our focus on the three entrances.”
In other words, he would be out of sight for a brief time. “Norra Strandgatan, can you still see him?”
“Yes, he’s still walking…but now he’s stopped again and he’s looking around.”
“Where is he, exactly?”
“At the end of the block.”
“And what direction is he facing?”
“Northeast, up along Kolmätaregränden, toward Kullagatan. Should I follow him?”
Fabian was about to say yes, but Tuvesson beat him to it.
“No. Everyone, hold your positions as planned. Keep in mind we have forty-two minutes before the meeting is supposed to start.”
Tuvesson was right, of course. There was a looming risk that they would expose themselves, and then he would be gone forever. But even though Fabian knew they couldn’t apprehend him yet, he couldn’t let go of the thought that they had a good chance — and might, this very second, be letting it slip away. “How’s it going? Can you see him? Shouldn’t he be around the other side by now? Team Two, are you there?”
“Yes, but the target isn’t. Not yet.”
The radio silence was wearing on his patience. A glance at the clock revealed that it was twenty-two minutes past one. Twenty-three.
Still nothing, aside from a vacuum that sucked the air from the car and made it harder and harder to breathe. Fabian couldn’t just sit there waiting; it was impossible. Just as Molander had suggested, the perpetrator had inspected the area. But there was nothing to say he hadn’t discovered one of them and was now fleeing the scene.
Fabian opened the door, stepped out of the car, and took a few deep breaths.
“Fabian, what are you doing?” Molander’s voice came through the headset.
He turned around and peered up at the window where Molander was standing. But the light was reflecting off it, and all he could see was the sky and portions of Handelsbanken’s facade from across the street. “I’m going to walk around the block,” he said, closing the car door.
“No you’re not. You stay there and wait in the car, like we planned,” Tuvesson said.
Fabian didn’t think twice; he turned off his headset and crossed the street. He couldn’t just sit there waiting for the opportunity they’d been given to disappear.
Instead of following the perpetrator’s path, Fabian went in the opposite direction, up Stallgatan, to the left of the bank. There, the “park workers” were trimming the trees that lined the alley. All three watched as he passed, even the guy up in the cherry picker, and Fabian could almost hear Tuvesson screaming in their headsets.
He continued down the alley that was squeezed between City Hall on one side and Handelsbanken on the other, and happened to think of Clock — the hamburger joint that had been here when he was little but had since been replaced by a café. What had happened to it? The whole hamburger chain had just gone up in smoke. When he reached Kolmätaregränden on the other side of the block, it occurred to him that this was exactly what the perpetrator had done, too.
In front of their many watchful eyes, he had just gone up in smoke.
45
“Elvin here. I can’t talk now, but you can. Go ahead.”
Fabian had left four messages asking Elvin to call back as soon as he got the chance.
“Hi, Hugo, it’s Fabian again,” he said after the beep, while trying to cross the busy Hälsovägen without getting run over. “You should probably give us a call so we know you’re alive before we put out an APB and start organizing a search party.” He meant it as a joke, but he couldn’t hide the fact that the joke stemmed from the vague worry he had been feeling since the weekend.
The sun-faded felt board at the entrance had informed him that H. Elvin lived on the fourth floor. Once upstairs, Fabian pressed the little white plastic button, which was yellow-brown underneath, likely thanks to a lighter in the hands of some bored youth. He heard the buzzer through the door — no electronic chimes here. But Elvin didn’t seem to hear it. He wasn’t answering the door, anyway.
A few hours ago, they’d been convinced that the perpetrator had vanished forever. That he had somehow realized they were on his trail.
Fabian had circled the block and twice sear
ched the nearby streets, before going back to his rental car where he waited for the clock to strike two. The suspect did not show up, but the team held their positions anyway. First for two hours, then for one more, at which point Tuvesson had finally called off the operation.
Fabian was prepared to accept all the blame. He believed it was his visit to the manor house that had blown their cover. But before he could say so, the banker received a call from the perpetrator, who said there had been unforeseen circumstances and asked if there was any chance they could meet at five the next day instead.
Fabian pressed down on the handle of Elvin’s door. It was unlocked, and Fabian chose to ignore the chorus of voices telling him he couldn’t just walk into his colleague’s apartment uninvited.
This was his first visit — Elvin wasn’t the type to have colleagues over for dinner — but the apartment looked more or less as Fabian had expected. Brown rugs on mottled grey linoleum. Beige-weave wallpaper behind old photographs of Elvin’s childhood home in Simrishamn. In the living room, there was a String shelf full of knick-knacks, and a velvet sofa in front of a bulky TV. Blue decorative plates hung on the wall. In the middle of the room sat a coffee table with dark green tiles and a lace runner. Everything reeked of days gone by.
But the decor wasn’t the only thing that caught his attention.
Fabian knew that Elvin was currently single, and assumed that he had been all his life. As far as he knew, there had never been a woman or children in the picture. But this wasn’t the home of an asocial, single man. A woman had put her mark on this place. Maybe she hadn’t been around recently, but Elvin had left everything alone, untouched. Fabian looked, but he couldn’t find any pictures of her.
He went into the small kitchen, where a sweet, cloying odour led him to a garbage bag full of food scraps. That was out of character for tidy, orderly Elvin.
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