Ekman, Rystrom, and Rapp headed up the steps into the farmhouse. The constable who’d driven them stayed outside and recorded who entered the crime scene and the time, while the police from the bus cordoned off the house and barn with crime scene tape and stood guard.
The five forensics technicians had begun photographing everything and dusting for fingerprints.
Roffe Bohlander, the pathologist, was kneeling beside Gotz’s body, sprawled across Skarin’s.
“Which bullet killed him?” asked Rapp, looking at the riddled corpse.
“I’d say it was this one,” Bohlander said, putting a gloved finger on a hole near Gotz’s heart. “I’ll be able to tell you exactly after I get him on the table.”
“Do you think he died Tuesday?” Ekman said.
“It’s hard to say right now,” he replied, looking at Skarin’s body, “but it could well have been.”
Rystrom was peering down at Skarin’s corpse. His head and wounded neck were visible. “It looks like another garrote killing,” he said to Ekman.
Ekman leaned over to see. “You’re right. It’s significant that they were killed, apparently one right after the other, using two very different methods.”
“So you think there were two killers?” asked Rystrom.
“It looks that way.”
“There’s another one upstairs,” said the forensics team leader.
The three policemen and the pathologist went up the stairs and into the bedroom where the woman’s corpse lay across the bed.
“It’s the same garrote MO,” observed Rapp.
“What it looks like,” said Ekman, “is that she was killed first, otherwise she would have heard the shots and either run downstairs or tried to hide.”
“Or maybe Skarin was killed, then the woman, and last, a second killer shot Gotz,” suggested Rystrom.
“That’s a possibility,” replied Ekman, looking thoughtful. “I suppose there’s no way you can tell us which it was, Roffe?”
“Not if everything happened rapidly. If there was a time lag, maybe. But from the look of things it all went down very quickly.”
The three men left Bohlander bending over the woman’s body. After looking around upstairs, they went back down to check out the rest of the farmhouse.
“Let’s head over to the barn,” said Ekman when they were satisfied there was nothing more to see at the house.
The ground floor of the barn contained a small living room with a TV, a Spartan bedroom and bathroom, and a tiny kitchen.
Five bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms had been built on the barn’s upper level.
They went upstairs and walked from one room to the next, looking at the outside bolts on the doors and the barred windows.
“They’re prison cells,” said Rapp.
“Yes,” Rystrom said. “This must be where they kept the women.”
“Those goddamn lousy bastards. May they burn in hell,” Rapp said in a shaky voice, picturing Mia there. He turned away so they wouldn’t see his anguish.
“If there’s any justice in this world or the next, my friend, that’s where they are now,” said Ekman quietly, and put his hand on Rapp’s shoulder.
In the car on the way back to Weltenborg, Ekman turned and said to Rapp and Rystrom, “From what I saw of the material on Skarin’s computer, he had one more confederate, a man named Thore Ostlund, the spice company manager.”
It had become clear to him from the information they’d found just how the spice company drug operation and women trafficking were interwoven.
“Do you think Ostlund was one of the killers?” asked Rystrom. They’d all agreed that two killers were the most plausible explanation for what they’d seen.
“He must have been at the meeting. Either he was a killer, or the only person who managed to escape.”
“But if there was another killer, who was he?” asked Rapp.
“That’s something we’ll have to figure out. In any case we need to get our hands on Ostlund as quickly as possible,” Ekman replied.
Taking out his phone, he called Holm asking him to get Ostlund’s driver’s license photo and car registration, put out an APB, and alert the border police.
“And Enar, warn them that he’s dangerous and may be armed.”
Turning to Rystrom, who’d been listening to his phone conversation, he said, “Garth, can you get a Stockholm prosecutor to issue arrest and search warrants for Ostlund and his apartment?”
Ekman’s concerns about Kallenberg’s possible involvement in his partner’s crimes had solidified. He no longer trusted Weltenborg’s prosecutor to authorize the necessary warrants.
“And then,” he went on, “could you get some of your people to search Ostlund’s apartment? He’s not likely to be there, but they may find something that could give us an idea of where he’s gone.”
Rystrom said, “Consider it done,” and took out his phone.
But Thore Ostlund had anticipated what the police would do, and he had a two-day lead.
72
BAD NEWS
Thursday, February 16, 3:50 p.m. As he walked down Biblioteksgatan past the fine nineteenth-century stone library, Ekman debated how he’d break the news about Skarin. He’d have to tell Kallenberg not only that the man he obviously loved was dead, brutally murdered, but that he was a criminal of the worst kind, who’d preyed mercilessly on women and the weak.
But maybe Kallenberg already knew. Ekman would be watching him closely to see how really shocked he was.
Ekman hadn’t resolved what he’d say as he turned into Fridhemsplan and saw the setting sun burnishing the copper roof of the ornate old courthouse across the square.
“You said on the phone that you had news, Walter. I hope it’s good, but I’m afraid of what you’re going to tell me,” Kallenberg said, in an anxious voice, his face drawn with worry.
“Arvid, I wish that I had good news for you, but as you’ve already guessed, I don’t.”
“Let’s sit down. I don’t think I can take this standing.”
When they were seated, Kallenberg said, his voice quivering, hoping against hope, “Was there a bad auto accident and Ivar’s been seriously hurt?”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that: Ivar’s been killed.”
“In the accident?”
“He was murdered.”
“My God, my God, I can’t believe this,” Kallenberg said, and put his face in his hands. Ekman was silent until Kallenberg raised a face wet with tears, and said, “Tell me everything. I have to know.”
As gently as he could, Ekman described what they’d found on Skarin’s computer and how it had led them to the scene at the farmhouse.
“I’m having a hard time grasping all this, Walther. If it weren’t you telling me, I couldn’t believe it. All I can say is that the man you’ve told me about is the exact opposite of the man I’ve known.”
“Sometimes people have two contrasting sides. I’m sure the Ivar you knew was real too.”
Kallenberg had recovered somewhat and straightened in his chair.
“It’s kind of you to say that, but now I’m not so sure.” His grief was turning to anger visible in his tight expression.
“The man you’ve told me about was a criminal psychopath, charming on the outside, and utterly cold on the inside. A person like that doesn’t change.” Kallenberg paused. “He used me.”
“How was that?” asked Ekman, but he already knew the answer.
“He picked me out, pretended to love me, showered me with attention, gifts, and a house. He wanted my influence to protect himself, and when push came to shove, he’d have tried to blackmail me into becoming his accomplice.”
Kallenberg was silent for a moment. “I’ve been a fool, ‘a fool for love.’” He laughed harshly. “Isn’t there a play with that title?”
“Did you discuss the cases I’m working on?”
“Oh, yes. He said it was important to share everything with each other. Of course he never told me what he was r
eally doing. He suggested that I shouldn’t approve surveillance of that spice company, that it would be an unwarranted infringement of their civil liberty.”
Kallenberg paused and looked directly at Ekman. “Walther, I’m sorry. There can be no adequate apology.”
He was quiet for a long moment as he thought. “I can’t effectively serve as a public prosecutor anymore. I have to resign, effective immediately. And I can’t go on living in a house bought with human suffering. I’m going to sell it and donate the money to a fund for trafficking victims.”
“Arvid, a resignation is pretty drastic. I have every confidence in your integrity.”
“That’s good of you to say, but most others won’t agree. There really isn’t any alternative. Ivar brought on his own destruction, and now he’s destroyed me too,” he said, tears rolling down his cheek. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.
Ekman had no doubt Kallenberg was completely sincere. His earlier doubts about the prosecutor had vanished. Although he didn’t say anything, his face showed his concern for this tormented man.
After a minute, Kallenberg pulled himself together. “Well, enough of the histrionics. The prosecutor-general will have my resignation ‘for personal reasons’ on his desk tomorrow morning.” He stood up, and a remnant of his urbane persona reappeared.
“Walther, thank you for telling me all this in such a kind way. And thank you for putting up with my loss of self-control. It’s been a privilege working with you. Try not to think of me too harshly.”
Ekman stood facing him and grasped Kallenberg’s hand. “Arvid, I would never think of you that way. You’ve been another of Skarin’s victims. Give yourself time to get over all this, to forgive yourself. Good-bye, and the best of luck to you. Call me if I can ever be of help,” he said, and turning, walked out of the office.
He doubted he would ever see Arvid Kallenberg again.
73
MASSACRE
Friday, February 17, 6:40 a.m. Yesterday had been physically and emotionally draining for Ekman. After his meeting with Kallenberg, he’d just wanted to go home, have a drink or two, and rest. But instead he’d dragged himself back to the office and spent an hour drafting a report he sent to Norlander and Malmer. Then he gave in to those urges, although there was a mountain of work remaining.
I’ll deal with the guilt tomorrow, he’d thought, as he pulled into his driveway.
Over dinner, he’d told Ingbritt everything that had happened. She was horrified by his brief description of the triple murder scene.
After he’d related his meeting with Kallenberg, she was quiet, and then said, “That poor man. My heart goes out to him. First, his lover is killed, and then he discovers he’s been deceived and his career is ruined. It’s too awful. But you were kind to him, Walther, and that must have helped.”
“I hope being sympathetic made things a little easier for him. It must have been the roughest day of his life.”
“What will happen now, Walther?”
“We’ll get a new prosecutor, one I hope to God I’ll be able to work with.”
“And what will happen with your case?”
“A lot of the questions we had have been answered. The trafficking ring Skarin was running has been stopped, and his drug network will be rolled up. Now our most important tasks are to find this Ostlund, and search for one, or possibly two killers, and convict some rapists. That’s all,” he said with a sardonic smile.
“So you’ll be busy for quite a while.”
“Yes, very, unfortunately. What are you thinking about?”
“I’ve been hoping for a nice long visit with Carla and Johan before more time goes by.”
“Look, Ingbritt, this case could drag on for who knows how long, although I’d love to wrap it up in the next few weeks. Why don’t you go see them on your own?”
“Would you mind?”
“No, of course not. I’ll just wish I were with you, but you go ahead. Give her a call and arrange something. She’ll be delighted, and so will Johan.”
“All right. I’ll talk with her tomorrow.”
“Okay, that’s settled then.”
Instead of going to his study after dinner to read, he’d gone to bed early and immediately fallen into a deep sleep.
The next morning, as he always did, he retrieved the morning Sydsvenska Nyheter from the front stoop, and standing in the front hall, took it out of its protective plastic wrap.
The bold print, front-page headline jumped out at him: Farmhouse Massacre. The story carried Bruno Haeggman’s byline.
Goddamnit, he thought, another leak. With so many police and technicians at the crime scene it was probably unavoidable.
Going into the kitchen, he held up the paper so Ingbritt could see it as she stood at the range stirring a pot of oatmeal.
“Look at this. He’s done it again!” he exclaimed, and slapped the paper.
She turned, and said in a mild voice, “Walther, you know I can’t see that without my reading glasses. What does it say?”
Ekman adjusted his own glasses and quickly ran through the story of how three more people had been horrifically murdered and their bodies left to rot in a remote, abandoned farmhouse. The police, led (the story implied) by the perpetually bumbling Chief Superintendent Ekman, were again totally baffled.
“What Haeggman says is that people are being murdered left and right, and I don’t know my head from my ass.” His face had turned an apoplectic red.
Ingbritt came over and took the paper from him.
“Walther, you’re upsetting yourself. Please don’t let Haeggman do this to you.”
He took a deep breath trying to calm down. “You’re right. I’m not going to give the bastard the satisfaction of me dropping dead from a heart attack. I can just imagine the obit he’d take great pleasure in writing.”
Ekman expected that a summons from Norlander would soon be waiting for him at the office. He wasn’t looking forward to that or what the rest of the day held in store.
His fears were confirmed a half hour later when he got a call from TV8 asking for his reactions to Haeggman’s story. He restrained himself with difficulty from using the first expletive that came to mind, and said in a calm voice, “Please understand, this is an ongoing investigation. I can’t comment at this time.” The reporter wasn’t pleased, and tried to press him for details.
Ekman hung up the phone with a soul-satisfying thunk.
74
A NEW LEADER
Friday, February 17, 5 p.m. Karim sat facing the old man and Askari Harrak. They’d all read Haeggman’s story, which was on the Internet.
Joumari had been praising Karim effusively.
“You’ve done well, extraordinarily well, Karim, Allahu akbar. Don’t you agree, Askari?”
“He did what he was told to do,” replied Harrak.
“Yes, and returned without anyone knowing he did it and trying to stop him. It was cleverly done. You can feel proud of what you’ve accomplished for our family, Karim.”
Karim bowed his head silently. He’d never heard such praise from the old man for anyone.
Harrak was becoming visibly annoyed. He changed the focus of the conversation.
“Eliminating these people who killed Ahmed tells our enemies how far we’ll go to protect our honor. They’ve now been warned not to try anything.”
“That’s true. And we owe this to Karim.”
“I disagree. We owe this to my insistence, Uncle, that we avenge Ahmed’s death.”
“Do not presume to correct me,” said Joumari, raising his voice. “You will remember your place.”
“I’m tired of ‘remembering my place,’ as you put it. And I’m not alone. Most of the family agree with me. They want fresh leadership.”
“I can’t believe you have the gall to say that to my face,” the old man said, getting to his feet. “This family’s success is my doing, not yours, or the other fools.”
“You shouldn’t call me a foo
l. It’s you who have grown foolish, old man. Your time is past,” said Harrak, standing.
Joumari’s normally tan complexion had reddened and he raised his cane as he moved toward Harrak.
The younger man grabbed it and pulled it away from him. Joumari screamed, “How dare you?” and suddenly fell to the floor clutching his chest.
He lay there at Harrak’s feet gasping for breath. A harsh, rattling sound came from his throat.
Karim had watched their exchange in silence. Now he bent down to loosen the old man’s collar, as Harrak said, “That’s useless. He’s dead.”
Karim put a finger on Joumari’s throat. “I’m not so sure. I think there’s a faint pulse. We need to call an ambulance.”
“I said it’s useless. He’s gone, or very soon will be.”
Karim straightened and looked at him.
“The family has already chosen me to succeed the old man. You work for me now. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” Karim replied. “I will serve you, insh’Allah, as I served your uncle.”
But Karim was extremely unhappy with this sudden turn of events. His hope of becoming the old man’s successor had abruptly vanished.
75
DISCOVERIES
Friday, February 17, 8 a.m. When Ekman came into the conference room, he saw that Tyri Carlin had joined them and was sitting next to Alenius.
Ekman got up from his place at the head of the table, and as the others’ conversations died down, he looked at Carlin and without a word, began to applaud. Rystrom got to his feet and began to clap too, and soon everyone was standing and applauding loudly.
Carlin, a pretty brunette in her early thirties, sat blushing. “Please, please,” she protested, “I only did my job.” The clapping gradually subsided and people resumed their seats.
“And what a great job you did,” said Ekman. “We just wanted to show you how much you’re appreciated. Your expertise has helped us uncover three new murders and may resolve three other deaths.”
“Thank you, everyone,” she said, looking around the table.
“Now,” said Ekman, “let’s see what we’ve learned from Tyri’s efforts. Annborg, you’ve been sorting through the drug-related material, what have you found?”
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