Lars tucked the prescriptions inside his jacket and went into the bathroom. Depolan in the bathroom cabinet; Ritalin, unopened; a few other bits and pieces; blister packs of Halcion and Fluscand. He reached for a jar on the top shelf and read the label: Hibernal.… He recognized the jar, it looked old. Hibernal … A memory flickered past and vanished as quickly as it had come. He put everything in his pockets. There was something on the middle shelf, behind the jar with the toothbrush, another old bottle. Lithium—a classic …
There was a knock on the door. Lars tidied up, and for some reason flushed the toilet.
A man with a beard and black shirt was standing outside. The little white square in his collar was shining up into his face.
“Lars Vinge? I’m Johan Rydén, priest.”
Lars glared.
“May I come in?”
Lars stepped aside and shut the door after the priest. Johan said in a friendly tone: “I’m sorry for your loss.”
It took Lars a moment to realize what the man meant.
“Thanks …”
“How are you feeling?”
How are you feeling? How are you feeling …?
Lars couldn’t think of anything other than the fact that he wasn’t feeling anything. But he could hardly say that, could he? He met the priest’s gaze. Something began to grow inside Lars, something he felt comfortable with: a lie.
Lars sighed. “Yes, how does it feel when a loved one passes on …? Empty, sad … tragic.”
Johan nodded slowly, as if he understood exactly what Lars meant. Lars bowed his head and went on.
“It’s an odd feeling, losing your mother.…”
Johan was nodding frantically as Lars shook his head.
“But … I don’t know,” he said quietly, pleased with his performance.
Lars looked up at Johan the priest’s face, which radiated humanity, worthiness, and trust. Fuck, he must really have practiced that in front of the mirror at home.
“No, how could we know, Lars?”
Lars looked sad.
“Your mother chose to end her own life.… You shouldn’t feel burdened by that. She was ill, she was tired, she had lived her life.”
“Poor Mom,” Lars whispered.
He searched in Johan’s eyes, saw that the priest believed him. The priest believed in Lars … and in God.
Lars left Lyckoslanten without looking back. He drove to the nearest pharmacy and picked up everything on the prescriptions, hoping the old woman behind the counter wouldn’t see on her computer that the intended recipient was dead. She didn’t. Full speed ahead for a new top-up.
He introduced himself as Alfonse. He was young, maybe twenty-five, and smiled confidently as if he thought that this whole life business was enormous fun.
“Hector,” Hector said as Alfonse shook his hand.
Alfonse looked around the office and sat down.
“Books?”
“I run a publishing company, I’m a publisher.”
Alfonse made little noises with his mouth and smiled.
“A publisher …,” he said quietly to himself.
Hector examined Alfonse and thought he could detect a family resemblance.
“You look a lot like your uncle.”
Alfonse gave Hector a theatrical look, as though the comparison offended him.
“I certainly hope not.”
They smiled at each other.
“How is Don Ignacio?”
“Splendid. He’s just bought himself a new airplane, so he’s happy as can be.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Pass on my greetings and congratulations.”
Hector adjusted his posture in the chair.
“Let’s talk about the reason for your visit, then I’d be only too happy to invite you to dinner, if you don’t have other plans?”
“Thanks, Hector, but not today. Stockholm’s full of compatriots that I have to see.”
“How long are you staying?”
“There’s a certain lady in this city that I have a terrible weakness for, I’m staying with her. This morning it struck me that it’s so nice waking up there and having breakfast with her that I shall be staying longer than planned.”
“Then I’m sure we’ll find time to have dinner.”
“More than likely. And I’m sure we can reach agreement on the purpose of my visit.”
Their eyes lingered on each other’s. Alfonse’s tone changed.
“Don Ignacio is worried,” he said in a low voice. “He’s wondering why you’ve stopped placing orders. We understand that your supplies in Paraguay must be exhausted by now, but he hasn’t heard from you or your father for a long time. We want to know that everything’s under control … we want to know what’s happening, and naturally to reassure ourselves that you are all well and not suffering any anxieties.”
Hector took out a cigarillo.
“We’ve had some problems with our supply line.”
Alfonse waited while Hector inhaled the tobacco smoke.
“It was hijacked.”
“By whom?”
“Germans …”
Alfonse looked at Hector.
“Really?”
Hector blew the smoke out.
“It’s a complicated story, we’ve just regained control but we’re going to let the route lie low for a while until things have been sorted out.”
“How long?”
“Don’t know.”
Alfonse nodded.
“Don Ignacio will be happy to hear that all is well with you, but, now that I have reassured myself that you are OK … Well, let me put it like this: Don Ignacio believes that there is an agreement. Under the terms of this agreement, we supply you with vitamins and the transport of these to Ciudad del Este. It’s a rolling process. Now for some reason it has stopped. Don Ignacio doesn’t want to go so far as to describe it as a breach of contract, but … Well, you understand.”
Hector stretched.
“I don’t see it as a firm agreement. We didn’t agree on any specific time scale.… We agreed on a price. Don Ignacio has always received his money from us, hasn’t he?”
“And he is grateful for that, very grateful.”
“And we are grateful that it is so straightforward doing business with you,” Hector said.
Alfonse was well dressed and polite. He was good-looking, he had the South American thick dark hair and sharp features, and his prominent chin and cheekbones lent him an appealing air of toughness. In all likelihood, women found him attractive. He made a laid-back impression in spite of his almost permanent smile. But behind that Hector could see madness. He could see madness in someone from a mile away. He had seen it the moment Alfonse walked through the door. He had seen it in Don Ignacio Ramirez the first time he met him a decade before. He liked that quality in others; it made him feel a sort of empathy for them, a kinship. Hector decided he liked Alfonse.
“Then we have a problem,” Alfonse said.
Hector shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know that it’s a problem, see it as a pause.”
“That word doesn’t exist in our vocabulary. Don Ignacio is counting on your money, in return for his services. If you want to take a pause, as you put it, that doesn’t affect the terms of our agreement.”
“But we have no such agreement, my dear Alfonse.”
“Don Ignacio considers that we do, and when he considers something to be the case, it usually is.…”
Hector thought for a moment.
“Can I offer you anything?”
Alfonse shook his head. “What problems do you have, are they anything we can help you with? These Germans, perhaps we could help, if they are causing problems?”
Hector considered the offer, knowing that the Colombians’ help would be costly in the long run.
“No, we can manage, it’s a small problem.”
“Tell me …”
Hector smoked his cigarillo.
“For reasons that we don’t k
now they stepped in and took over the whole operation, bribing and presumably threatening our associates. Then we went in and took everything back, but things got a little heated. The captain of the ship we have been using wants to lie low for a while.”
Alfonse weighed this up for a moment.
“In that case there are two options,” he said.
Hector waited.
“Either you pay and we replenish your stores in Paraguay and you move it onto the market before the next delivery from us.”
“Or?”
“Or else we contact your German friends. They seem to be more interested in doing business than you.”
Hector and Alfonse sized each other up. Hector sighed, smiling at the fact that he had fallen into the trap so easily.
“Let’s carry on as usual,” Hector said. “You send new supplies, I’ll send the money, just give me a bit of time.”
Alfonse made a gesture of gratitude.
“So, how are you going to spend your time with your fellow countrymen in Stockholm? Do you need any tips?” Hector asked.
“No, they’ve already booked a table, we’re going out to eat somewhere.”
He looked at his watch.
“Then we’re going dancing at a club, the name of which I can’t remember. Would you care to join us?”
“Thanks, but I shall be detained elsewhere.”
“So we’ll be able to conclude our business before I fly home?”
“Whenever suits you.”
Alfonse stared at Hector for a moment.
“You seem to be a good man, Hector Guzman.”
“As do you, Alfonse Ramirez.”
Alfonse left Hector’s office, stepped out onto the street, and turned right. Hasse Berglund let the stylish Colombian get a little way ahead before standing up, folding the newspaper he had just been looking through, and following him.
Gunilla’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t recognize the number on the screen.
“Yes?”
“Is that Gunilla Strandberg?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name’s Sara Jonsson. I’d like to meet you.”
“Do we know each other?”
“Not really. My ex-boyfriend works for you.”
“Oh?”
“Lars Vinge.”
The penny dropped. Sara Jonsson … Gunilla knew she was some sort of writer. Lars had mentioned her in his interview. Gunilla had checked her out: Sara Jonsson, freelance journalist, mainly cultural stories, seldom published anything.
“Of course, was it anything in particular?”
“Yes.”
“And what’s that, then?”
“I want to meet you for a talk.”
Gunilla considered her tone of voice. She sounded tense and nervous. And was trying to hide it behind a rather indecisive decisiveness.
“Where would you like to meet, Sara?”
“We can meet on Djurgården, by Djurgårdsbrunn.”
“OK … When?”
“In an hour.”
“So soon?”
“Yes.”
“See you then.”
Gunilla smiled as she ended the call, but the smile faded as quickly as it had come.
Erik and Gunilla parked in front of the Värdshuset restaurant. Sara Jonsson was waiting outside. She was wearing a cheap, washed-out blouse from some mass-market clothing chain, dark sunglasses, and a skirt that stopped at her knees. She had forgotten to shave her legs and her unbrushed hair was pulled into an untidy knot on her head.
Sara’s hand was cold and clammy when they shook hands. Her anxiety was clearly visible—her sunglasses only provided partial protection.
“Well, Sara, shall we go in and sit down?” Gunilla asked.
“No. I’d rather we walked.”
“Why not, it’s lovely weather.”
They started to walk toward the little bridge over the canal.
“How long have you and Lars lived together?”
“We’re not living together anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Sara was off somewhere else. Gunilla and Erik could see it, and they exchanged a quick glance.
“I don’t know where to start,” she said once they had crossed the footbridge.
Gunilla waited patiently.
“Lars has changed.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter, but because of that I started looking for answers.”
Sara was still nervous.
“He still works for you, doesn’t he?”
Gunilla nodded.
“Then you know he’s been away a lot, working nights, sleeping during the day.… We lost touch with each other.”
“And you’d like me to alter his roster …?”
Sara shook her head.
“This isn’t about that, like I said, we’re not living together now.…”
There was a note of hurt in her voice.
“Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Sara stopped and turned to look at Gunilla, taking off her sunglasses. Gunilla looked at her eye.
“What happened?”
“What do you think?”
Gunilla inspected her black eye.
“Lars?”
Sara didn’t answer, put the sunglasses back on, and kept on walking.
“I started looking through his things, his private things. Trying to find an explanation for why he’d changed.”
Gunilla listened.
“The more I looked, the more I realized that he was doing something outside … how can I put it? Outside his actual authority.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ve got an idea of what’s going on.”
“Oh, so what’s going on?”
Sara was walking with her eyes on the ground, then looked up.
“I’m a journalist.”
“Yes, I know.”
“As a journalist I have a responsibility to report abuses of power.”
Gunilla raised one eyebrow.
“Goodness, that sounds very noble.”
Sara took a deep breath.
“I know what you’re doing. You’re bugging people, threatening them, stalking them.”
“Now, I’m not altogether sure I know what you mean,” Gunilla said.
“I mean Sophie, I mean Hector.”
Sara had no idea how everything fit together. She only had the names, she only had the hazy information that she’d gotten from listening to the computer files. An awareness that some sort of bugging was going on, as well as a bit of information about Gunilla’s previous cases that she’d gotten from police records—but she knew no more than that. But she wasn’t about to let Gunilla know that. This was her scoop, this was going to lift her out of the relentless dullness of the culture pages to something better. She was going to be an investigative reporter, a person on the side of justice, exposing abuses of power to ordinary citizens. She felt more at home there, it was more her, it was more Sara Jonsson.
Gunilla managed to conceal her surprise.
“I can tell you that we’re investigating a number of different cases, some of which are at a highly confidential stage of investigation, and any attempt to leak information would be a criminal offense. If you want information, you’ll get it, but in the fullness of time, not when it could jeopardize our investigations and the officers working on them.”
Sara pulled out her next trump card.
“Albert. The witnesses, the police. Rape. He’s fifteen years old!”
Gunilla was staring at her. Sara examined her face for any sign of a reaction. Had she guessed right? Maybe.
“What did you say?”
“You heard what I said.” Erik tried to rescue the situation.
“We’re in the middle of a case. We’re working under the strictest confidentiality. Certain aspects of this investigation are highly sensitive. Whatever you’ve seen or heard, you
need to keep it to yourself until we give you the all-clear to publish anything,” he said.
Sara kept calm. She had a feeling that she’d hit the right spot, and looked intently into Gunilla’s eyes.
“Bugging, illegal surveillance, Sophie … Where exactly are you going with this?”
Gunilla was staring at Sara with something like sorrow in her eyes.
“Well?” Sara’s nerves had settled, and she pulled out her ace. “Patricia Nordström, does that name mean anything to you?”
Gunilla tried to maintain an unconcerned expression but ended up with a smile that lacked any joy, stiff and unnatural.
“Patricia Nordström disappeared five years ago,” Sara went on. “She disappeared while you were working with her. There’s nothing in the records to suggest that her disappearance had anything to do with that gangster Zdenko, the one they called the King of the Racetrack, she disappeared while you were working with her. Does that apply to Sophie now? Is she going to disappear too?”
Sara was gambling everything. She really had no idea what she was talking about, she just knew that there was something rotten in all this, and she’d probably known it ever since Lars started working on the case. Moving from beat cop to National Crime overnight, that was unlikely. And he changed from Lars into someone completely different, which was just as unlikely.…
Gunilla didn’t seem to be able to look away from Sara. Then she turned and walked away. Even Erik was surprised, and could do nothing but follow her.
Gunilla was upset when they pulled out of the garage to drive back in toward the city.
“Stupid, stupid girl,” she said to herself.
Erik was silent behind the wheel.
“Why now?” she went on.
Erik knew she wasn’t expecting any answers from him.
“Doesn’t she understand?”
Gunilla was staring straight ahead.
“Is this the same old story again?” she went on.
They passed the Kaknäs Tower.
“How could she have found all this out?”
Gunilla sighed, and fell deep into thought.
“Damn,” she whispered to herself.
“Patricia Nordström? How did she find out about her?” Erik asked.
Gunilla folded the sun visor down.
The Andalucian Friend: A Novel Page 29