Lars scratched his scalp hard, thinking, then leaned across the bed and got the black notebook and started to read … started to read carefully. Five years before: Handelsbanken Uppsala, three million kronor, it said in pencil, then a bunch of strange words and reflections. He kept reading, Christer Ekström and a bunch of figures, up in the multimillion class. Strange reflections there, too. Lars went on: Zdenko, it said, the King of the Racetrack—every police officer knew who Zdenko was, he died in Malmö five years before, shot out at a racecourse. Lars kept going, more names, more amounts.
Something was trying to get out of Lars, up, out, into the light, to be born; it was a thought, an idea, an idea that he hadn’t even come close to. It started to work its way up from the depths of his unconscious, the thought that was the answer, the answer he had been seeking since he had written the first words on the wall back home in his office, it seemed obvious when it came to him. He put his feet down on the floor, took two steps across to the desk.
He surfed quickly, logging onto the internal police server and typing in search terms from the first piece he had read, then found them in the text that appeared on the screen: Handelsbanken … Uppsala Robbery … Two men convicted … Third suspect found dead one year later … Eight million kronor still missing … Investigating officer: Erik Strandberg.
He typed Christer Ekström in the search box. He read that the financier Christer Ekström had narrowly escaped prosecution due to lack of evidence. Head of preliminary investigation: Gunilla Strandberg.
Lars typed in Zdenko and found masses of information on the police server. He identified a preliminary investigation stretching over several years, with Gunilla Strandberg as the officer in charge. Lars read: Zdenko was murdered by an unknown man at Jägersro in Malmö.… Zdenko’s money in Sweden has not been located.
He leaned back, staring at something that his eyes didn’t register. If his mind hadn’t been so tired, his body suffering such abstinence, and his heart so dark, he would have burst out laughing. But there wasn’t even a glimpse of humor left in the world for Lars Vinge.
26
When they landed in Málaga and made their way through passport control he walked a few steps ahead of her. They emerged into the heat and headed toward a multistory garage.
Their footsteps echoed metallically under the low concrete roof of the garage as they walked toward a small car parked by itself among the pillars. Hector took a set of car keys out of his briefcase and gave them to her.
“Would you mind driving?” he said.
She got in the driver’s seat, adjusted the position of the seat, started the engine, put her arm on his seat, turned around, and reversed from the parking spot. Her eyes, which had gotten used to the gloom in the garage during the short time they were in there, were dazzled when she got back out into daylight. She followed the signs, found the exit ramp, and pulled out onto the highway.
They let themselves be carried forward, let the new world show itself to them. She could feel herself relaxing, turned toward him, and was just about to say something when a sudden ear-shattering noise hit the car. He was quicker than she to realize what it was.
“Faster!” he shouted.
As if in a haze she accelerated, driving like a maniac, cruising between the cars. More shots were fired, she ducked, glass rained down on her, she saw the motorbike, the car drove into the barrier—chaos.
Hector kicked out his window, leaned out, and fired. How many shots she had no idea, but after repeated thunderous noises the weapon just clicked. She got the impression that he was venting his shock rather than seriously thinking the shots would hit their target. He dropped the magazine on the floor and pulled another one from the open glove compartment, swearing quietly to himself as he loaded the pistol.
There was a rattling sound close to them and a shower of bullets, the rear window exploded in an inferno of glass. She screamed, and in the corner of her eye she saw him move oddly.
“Hector?”
He shook his head.
“I’m OK,” he said, and aimed the gun through the broken back window, fired four shots, and the motorbike pulled back again.
Sophie kept on driving, angry horns blasting as she swept past other cars at high speed. She peered off into the distance ahead of them and thought she could see a traffic jam building up. Their options were shrinking.
“What should I do?” she shouted.
Had she already shouted that? She couldn’t remember. He didn’t answer, just kept staring backward. The line up ahead was getting clearer. Hector made a third call on his cell, searching for the motorbike the whole time. Finally he got an answer.
“Aron. Listen, I can’t get hold of Dad or Leszek. We’re being shot at on the way from the airport, we’re driving toward Marbella, Sophie and I, in the car.”
Hector listened as Aron asked questions.
“I don’t know. Two men on a motorbike … Listen to me. Tell Ernst that the power of attorney goes to Sophie.…”
Hector listened, got annoyed.
“It’s my decision! Power of attorney goes to Sophie Brinkmann, and you are hereby a witness to that. Get hold of Dad or Leszek. Warn them!”
Hector ended the call. She looked at him; he waved away the question that she hadn’t asked, coughed, and turned around. The motorbike was coming at them again; he emptied his pistol once more, the rider braked, the same story each time. He grunted something to himself that she didn’t understand, and inserted a new magazine.
“Slow down, draw them in, then put your foot on the brake when I say so.” His voice was hoarse, he was dripping with sweat.
Their pursuer was unshakable, zigzagging between the cars behind them, lying low on the curves. Hector aimed, fired two shots, and was countered by a hail of bullets at the same instant; Sophie screamed, they both ducked instinctively. Hector stuck his head up and the gunman behind the driver aimed again and fired. The shot whistled past them.
“Now!”
She slammed her foot on the brake, the car’s tires shrieked, Sophie and Hector fought against being thrown forward.
For a short moment the world stopped, their thoughts hung there weightless inside the car, their fears got a brief respite, their eyes met … and then they were sucked back to reality: the sound of the submachine gun rattling, the sound of the bullets hitting the car, the sound of the motorbike, the sound of the world around them. Everything merged into the same audio picture. Hector threw his arm up and aimed at the driver, who swerved quickly and assuredly, overtaking them on the inside.
“Drive!” he shouted.
Now the situation was suddenly reversed, Hector and Sophie were chasing the motorbike. The gunman kept looking back, Hector leaned out of his broken window, fired two shots, the motorbike kept going toward the traffic jam. He was holding the pistol in his right hand, letting it rest against his palm, then aimed and fired three more shots, one after the other.… Missed again. The line was getting closer, Hector emptied the magazine again.… Nothing happened.
The motorbike was about to slip in among the cars. He put the last magazine into the gun, took half a breath, aimed, held his breath, and fired repeatedly, emptying the magazine.… As if by some miracle one or more of the bullets found their target, the motorbike suddenly lurched sharply to one side, tipped over and up onto its front wheel, throwing the driver and gunman off as it spun around. The driver slammed into the barrier in the median, back first. The gunman was thrown over it, onto the opposite lane of traffic; a truck tried to brake and swerve but failed, and bounced over the man.
They were yelling as if their football team had just scored. It was absurd, but it was the same feeling, the same sense of release.…
Sophie veered off up an exit ramp at the last moment, her hands were shaking and her breathing was shallow. She wanted to throw up.
He was working intently. Neat piles on the bed, reports, transcribed surveillance recordings, all the material transferred onto various forms of memory d
evices. Masses of photographs of Sophie, Hasse, Anders, all of them. Bank papers from Liechtenstein, together with Gunilla’s cases, her notes. Anyone who read them would understand what was going on.
He was sitting at his computer, transferring the surveillance files from Brahegatan to a USB stick, gathering everything he had.
Lars looked over at the bed, he had done a good job, he felt satisfied. He hadn’t had that feeling for a long time. His internal reward system was shrieking for attention. The minibar was first prize. He drank a beer. It was cold, slipped down his throat in a matter of seconds. He waited awhile, then worked his way back through the whole fridge, stupid little bottles of spirits, a half bottle of red wine, a half bottle of white, Champagne. Party time. It all went down.
Lars glared out across Nybroviken, the minibar was empty, he was drunk. But the intoxication soon began to fade, and it wasn’t giving him what he needed. Alcohol was overrated. One leg started twitching nervously, he was grinding his teeth, trying to keep his hands still. Lars walked around the room, scratching at his scalp; this room was making him itch so badly, he wanted to get away from there, wanted to get out.
With the sports bag in his hand he walked quickly along Strandvägen, staying close to the buildings, then turned right into Sibyllegatan and made his way up to Brahegatan and the rental car. He put the equipment in the back, checked that it was getting a signal from the microphone up in the office, then locked the car and headed back the same way. But instead of turning left onto Strandvägen and going back to the hotel, he walked quickly along Nybrokajen, up Stallgatan, past the Grand Hotel, and across to Skeppsbron. He was heading toward Södermalm with a sense of purpose.
It was dark inside the apartment, it smelled musty, there was still a faint smell of paint. He went straight into the office, unlocked the drawer, dug out what he wanted, pulled down his trousers, and did what he was good at—shoving in a few suppositories and pulling up his trousers. He didn’t bother to fasten them, and sat down on the office chair, spinning around slowly … at the same rate that well-being began to caress his senses. But the pleasure was short-lived, and merely flickered past. He repeated the procedure, squatting down, another one, then took something else, rifling through the drawer, gulping down whatever he could find. Fear, angst, resentment, and melancholy all lit up, then vanished just as quickly. Everything became soft again, no corners or edges for his warped feelings to catch themselves on.
Lars got down from the chair and lay on the floor, but he didn’t fall asleep—he just switched off for a while.
It was as they were approaching Marbella that she noticed how pale he was, almost white, with the sweat on his face like a lacquered film. His breathing was labored and shallow, she put her hand on his forehead—cold and clammy.
“Hector?”
He nodded without looking at her. She let her hand slip down over his neck and throat, he was soaking.
“What is it, Hector?”
“Nothing, just drive.”
She looked down at his body and asked him to lean forward.
He hesitated, then leaned forward cautiously some five inches or so. She saw blood all over his back, the seat, and dripping onto the floor.
“Dear God!” she said. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”
He coughed.
“No hospital. Drive me home, there’s a doctor there.”
“No, you have to get to a hospital, you need an operation.”
Now he roared: “No! No hospital!”
She tried to stay calm.
“Just listen to me, you’ve lost a lot of blood, you need proper care … otherwise you’ll die.”
He looked at her, trying to stay just as calm.
“I won’t die.… There’s a doctor at Dad’s, he’ll look after me, if I go to the hospital I’ll end up in prison … and die there. So there’s nothing to discuss. You drive, I’ll tell you the way.”
She drove fast through Marbella and passed out the other side, heading upward for a while before turning back down toward the sea again. Hector had given her directions to start with, then he began to nod off. He explained where to go, where to turn off, described the whole route to her, then he got groggy and slowly started to fade. She realized what that could mean.
“Hector!” she shouted. He waved his hand to show that he could hear her.
“You mustn’t fall asleep! Do you hear me?”
She kept looking between Hector and the road ahead. Sophie drove fast. One hand on the wheel, the other on his shoulder, shaking him.
“Do you hear me?”
He nodded weakly, then drifted off again.
A car was coming toward them on a bend and she swerved quickly, and the car’s horn disappeared in a Doppler effect behind them. She shook Hector, talking loudly, trying to get him to listen to her. He couldn’t keep it up, and sank into unconsciousness. She shouted at him, she slapped him, he was out of reach. Sophie tried to memorize the directions he had just told her.
Dusk was starting to fall as she drove up a long road that wound its way to a house between neatly trimmed grass lawns. The garden was bigger than she could imagine, it was like an endless park. The vast sea spread out to her left as she pushed the car to its limits.
There were three vehicles outside the house, an ambulance and two private cars, the door to the villa was wide open, she sounded the horn, ran in, shouting.
A man came rushing down the stairs with blood on his arms and clothes, but he still looked strangely composed.
“Hector’s been shot, he’s lying in the car,” she said loudly and breathlessly.
The man turned on the stairs and hurried up again, called something in Spanish, then came back with another man, just as bloody, just as composed. The men ran to the ambulance, pulled out a stretcher, hurried over to the shot-up car, lifted Hector out, and pushed him inside the house; Sophie followed as they carried him up the stairs.
The first thing she saw when she got upstairs was that the windows of the dining room had been shot out, there was broken glass all over the floor. Leszek was lying on a dining table, two men were operating on him. A dead body was lying on the floor under a sheet, and at the far end of the room an unknown bearded man in a checked shirt and jeans was sitting dead against the wall with a pistol in his hand. He had a bullet hole in his neck, and blood all over the wall behind him. She tried to make sense of it.
One of the men tore off Hector’s clothes; the other looked through a big bag, searching for blood plasma, reading the different blood groups. They worked quickly and calmly. The man standing next to Hector was a doctor.
“I’m a nurse,” she told him.
He looked at her, then around the room, and pointed at Leszek. She went over. Leszek had been sedated, he had a large flesh wound in his shoulder. It was bloody, dirty, and messy; everything at that moment was about saving lives. None of the focus on hygiene and other luxuries that she was used to. One man was standing beside Leszek, pulling out fragments of a bullet with a pair of tweezers, the man beside him was checking the drip and keeping the wound clear. Leszek’s doctor had heard what she had said, and pointed toward a bathroom. Sophie went over, washed her hands carefully, not looking at her reflection in the mirror.
They worked furiously, the broken windows filled the room with salty sea air, she stood between Leszek and Hector and responded as the doctors and nurses called for her help. She made sure they all had what they needed.
“Hector’s lost a huge amount of blood,” the doctor said. “We’re replenishing it as best we can; he’s got two bullets in his back, it’s hard to say anything about his condition.”
Sophie sewed Leszek back together, bandaged his shoulder, then her work was done, there was nothing more she could do for anyone. She went to wash her hands again, and didn’t look at her reflection in the mirror this time, either.
Outside in the room everything was silent. Hector’s doctor was operating, his assistants working alongside him.
; Sophie summoned her strength and went over to the person under the white sheet; she knew who it was, she knew that his son wasn’t yet aware that his father was dead. She lifted the sheet carefully and saw Adalberto, looking almost peaceful. She lifted it a bit more, coagulated blood across his chest. She lowered the sheet again.
“What happened?” She addressed the question to Leszek’s doctor, who was smoking a cigarette toward the other end of the room. He shrugged.
“We arrived … Adalberto was dead. Him too.” The doctor pointed at the bearded man who was sitting against the wall, a bloodstain had followed him down.
“Leszek was wounded but conscious. I don’t know what happened, it doesn’t matter. The devil’s been here, that’s enough.” He took a drag and the cigarette flared.
“Who are you all?” she asked.
He blew out the smoke.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Hector’s.”
For some reason he didn’t want to look her in the eye.
“We’re doctors and nurses, freelancing today, employed yesterday. We’ve had an agreement with Adalberto Guzman for a few years … a retainer agreement, in case anything like this should ever happen.”
They were interrupted by a sound from the floor below, by the stairs—everyone in the room exchanged glances, scared glances. Who should take charge here? Steps on the stairs, the men in the room tried to hide. Slow, hesitant steps approaching. Sophie hurried over to the bearded man, bent his fingers open, took the revolver from his cold, stiff hand, and aimed it toward the stairs. The steps were getting closer, she aimed, trying to breathe, she was going to fire. A head appeared, her aim was steady and followed the head, which gradually acquired a body, the slender body of a woman.
The Andalucian Friend: A Novel Page 41