‘That’s where the walker fell down. She grabbed a hand and a forearm on the way; they’re in a box outside.’
Ursula nodded. She took off the lens cap on her camera and it immediately misted up, just as she had known it would do. She passed it to Billy and pulled on her Latex gloves before crouching down opposite Jan-Erik. Sebastian and the others remained where they were, standing in a line. This was Ursula’s department. Her show. They were merely spectators.
‘Six skeletons in relatively good condition. They have been neatly arranged side by side, not thrown down.’
She spoke clearly, although she was talking to herself as much as to the team and Jan-Erik.
‘Is that significant?’ Jennifer wondered quietly, unsure if it was OK to talk. Ursula gave Sebastian a quick glance as if to say he could respond.
‘Could be. It might mean that the killer has a certain level of respect for the victims, or that he or she prefers a highly structured approach and isn’t particularly affected by emotions.’
‘How did you dig them out?’ Ursula asked Jan-Erik.
‘We used a small digger.’
‘Were they damaged? By the machine?’
‘No, well, yes, it might possibly have nudged the odd one . . .’
Ursula leaned forward and picked up a thigh bone without speaking. It was greyish-brown and looked almost mouldy, with earth and mud clinging to it. In among the dark matter there was a gash where pale bone shone through, almost white. The digger had done more than nudge the odd one. Admittedly it wasn’t difficult to see what damage had been caused recently, but if the operator had been more careful, they wouldn’t have to waste time and energy. Ursula replaced the bone, while silently taking back all the positive thoughts she had had about the Jämtland police so far.
They were a bunch of bungling idiots.
She reached for the camera. Jan-Erik straightened up and turned to Torkel.
‘At first we thought they could be old. Really old,’ he said, just to make himself clear. ‘Lots of people have died out here on the mountain. More than three thousand Caroleans froze to death up here in the winter of 1718-19. We still find their remains sometimes. Not often, it’s been a while, but it does happen.’
‘Surely it must have been obvious that these weren’t three hundred years old,’ Ursula said as she photographed the contents of the grave from every possible angle. ‘They’ve all got bullet holes in their heads.’
‘We couldn’t assume they were bullet holes.’
Ursula lowered the camera.
‘What else could they be?’
‘Some kind of weapon with a rounded end that was used for stabbing . . .’
‘You find six bodies with two round holes in the skull, and the first thing you think of is an ancient weapon rather than a bullet?’
‘The Caroleans aren’t ancient.’
Ursula decided to ignore that remark, and went back to photographing the remains.
‘Did many of Charles XII’s soldiers wear Gore-Tex?’ She nodded towards the two skeletons with greyish-yellow scraps of clothing covering part of their bodies.
‘We dug those two up last. They were the furthest from the edge of the slope.’ Jan-Erik’s voice was suffused with suppressed rage; it was obvious that he was running out of patience. Sebastian watched with interest. Ursula had set herself against the homegrown ‘experts’ before, but this was harsh, even for her. Torkel always insisted that they shouldn’t upset the local force; that was one of the reasons why they were so successful. Ursula knew that perfectly well, and she was still biting the head off this poor bugger.
Torkel cleared his throat. ‘Let Billy carry on with the photographs and tell us what we’re looking at. We need to get back.’
Ursula stopped and looked at Torkel, who took a step forward. He met her gaze calmly. He had spoken quietly and politely, as if he were asking a favour, but the slight nod in her direction left no doubt that it was an order. Sebastian couldn’t help but be impressed. A typical Torkel solution. He had stopped a negative exchange, Jan-Erik would think that Torkel had taken his side, but by referring to a non-existent shortage of time and Ursula’s expertise, he did so without raising his voice or embarrassing her. She passed Billy the camera without demur.
‘First impressions: four adults, two children. Looking at the pelvic areas I would guess that two of the adults were women.’
‘So how long have they been here?’
‘Hard to say. Damp, porous mud, with water washing through the ground on a regular basis . . . More than five years, anyway.’ She stood up and walked around the grave. ‘Two of them seem to have been buried with their clothes on; no sign of clothes on the other two adults or the children.’
‘Could their clothes have rotted away?’ Vanja wondered. ‘If they were made of a different kind of fabric that decomposed more quickly?’
‘It’s possible, but there’s no sign of anything. No buttons, no zips, nothing.’
‘Do you think those four have been here longer than the other two?’
‘It doesn’t look that way. They’re all on the same level. Same bone discolouration. Same placement of the bodies. I think we can assume they were all buried at the same time.’
‘So why undress four of them and not the other two?’
Ursula didn’t answer. She crouched down again and gently turned over two of the skulls that were lying slightly to one side.
‘The four without clothes have no teeth either,’ she said. ‘That can’t be explained by the suggestion that they might have been here longer.’
‘What makes teeth disappear?’ Jennifer wanted to know.
‘In a grave? Nothing. Someone removed them before the bodies were buried.’
‘Someone who didn’t want them to be identified?’ Jennifer felt a shiver run down her spine. She had joined the police for the action and excitement. That was all there was to it. Admittedly there was a certain satisfaction in routine work, but this was what she had dreamt of. Tracking down the perpetrator, finding the evidence, securing an arrest. She had to stop herself from grinning; it wasn’t appropriate. The atmosphere in the damp tent was heavy and subdued.
‘That’s one hypothesis,’ Ursula said with a nod.
Sebastian hadn’t said much so far. He had to get out of here. It was too oppressive; he couldn’t breathe. Even the rain was preferable. He went outside and found it had almost cleared up. There was a chill wind blowing from the north. He fastened his jacket and took a few deep breaths.
Six dead. Two children. More or less executed. Riksmord hadn’t often worked on murdered children during his time with them, but it had happened, and it always took its toll, more than other cases. Sebastian sighed. It wasn’t everyone who could shoot a child. That alone meant they were dealing with a very particular kind of perpetrator, but then to remove their teeth . . .
The six people in that grave weren’t the first he had killed.
Nor the last.
Sebastian was sure of that.
Lennart was pacing around the open-plan office that formed the heart of Investigation Today. The programme had been based there for over ten years, and the team now comprised more than twenty people. There wasn’t much room; they were crammed into a space on the second floor of the concrete-grey headquarters of Swedish Television. Their nearest neighbour was the culture section, which consisted of fewer people in a bigger area; several even had the luxury of their own office. Lennart had been in the same position until two years ago, when Sture Liljedahl became his boss and immediately had all the internal walls removed, leaving an open space where ‘creativity and spontaneity would be able to flow freely’. He claimed he wanted to increase collaboration and the exchange of ideas within the team, but Lennart knew it was really about cramming as many employees as possible into the smallest space. These days they all sat in a big room with the tables facing one another. Lennart hated it. He wanted to be able to speak on the phone and work on his writing without being distur
bed all the time. When he complained, Sture had informed him that he was too conservative and needed to develop his social skills. Personally, Lennart thought that wanting to be able to get on with his work in peace and quiet was perfectly normal. What was even more infuriating was that Sture still had his own office: two smaller rooms had been knocked together and refurbished. He had installed a thick glass wall and a new conference table so that he could chair meetings in private and keep an eye on the team without having to hear them. Concepts like collaboration, the exchange of ideas and social skills were clearly not meant for everyone. But then he was the boss, which meant that different rules applied.
At the moment Sture was in there chatting to his protégé Linda Andersson, a hardworking thirty-year-old who had worked for Expressen in the past. They had been talking for ages, and Lennart couldn’t understand how a meeting could possibly take this long. Eager to share Shibeka’s story Lennart had asked to speak to Sture as soon as he got back from Sergels torg. He had told Sture he had important information, and wondered if Sture had time to see him.
Yes he did.
In a while.
Not right now.
First of all he had a lunch meeting, then he was seeing the director, then he was going to watch the programme that was due to go out next Wednesday.
After that he would be happy to see Lennart.
After that Linda had turned up. Waylaid Sture as soon as he got back to the office, and they were still talking.
Lennart suddenly felt desperate for a cigarette, and popped a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth. Artificial fruit flavour, 2mg nicotine. He had given up smoking over two years ago, but still he often felt that instant desire, particularly if he was stressed or bored. At the moment he was both. The initial energy after seeing Shibeka had been replaced by restlessness. He could see them laughing behind the glass wall. He would never understand Sture. When Lennart didn’t need him, he was on him like a hawk, but as soon as he really did need to see him, it was always the same.
In a while.
Not right now.
He sat down wearily at his desk, picked up his tepid cup of coffee and took a sip. It didn’t taste too good. Perhaps he should check his inbox, at least that would give him something to do. At that moment Sture’s door opened; they seemed to have finished at last. Linda picked up her own coffee cup and Sture’s, and gathered her papers. Sture stood in the doorway and waved regally in Lennart’s direction. The king was prepared to grant him an audience. Lennart nodded to him, shuffled a few pieces of paper around in order to look busy, then got up and walked slowly towards him. He didn’t want to seem too eager, didn’t want Sture to think he’d been on pins and needles, just waiting. No, he was a busy person too. Very busy.
He spat out his gum on the way. Unfortunately he missed the bin and had to bend down and pick it up. Sture watched him every step of the way; it occurred to Lennart that his entry into Sture’s kingdom could have been a little more impressive.
* * *
It started well. Sture Liljedahl sat opposite him and listened with interest. In fact, he didn’t interrupt once. Lennart couldn’t help feeling proud. He was on the trail of something really good here. When he had finished, Sture leaned forward with a keen expression.
‘How common is it for matters relating to asylum seekers to be marked classified?’
‘The police officer I spoke to had never seen it before. Not in routine cases, he said.’
‘So we have two Afghan men who disappeared in August 2003,’ Sture summarised. ‘The police claim they deliberately went missing because their application had been refused, but at least one of the men had no reason to disappear. What was his name again?’
‘Said Balkhi. He had been granted a residence permit in 2001, and his wife was pregnant.’
Sture went over to the huge whiteboard behind him; it was the first thing he had installed, after the glass wall, and he loved to make notes on it. With a red pen. Lennart assumed it made him think he was in control: his notes up on his board for all to see. He jotted down the name ‘Said’.
‘So what do we know about Said?’
‘Next to nothing. According to Shibeka, he was Hamid’s cousin; he was the joint owner of a shop, along with two of his wife’s cousins. I thought I might speak to her next.’
‘No criminal record?’
‘Not that I can find.’
Sture nodded. ‘OK. Then there’s Shileka . . . was that her name?’
‘Shibeka. She’s my contact; she’s the only one I’ve met.’
‘But she seems reliable?’
‘Absolutely. Her written and spoken Swedish is very good. I can’t imagine why she would lie. She’s been trying to find out what’s happened to Hamid ever since 2003.’
‘And she thinks something isn’t right. Why?’
‘She insists that Hamid would never have taken off without saying something to her, and then there’s this guy who turned up twelve days after they disappeared and started asking questions about Hamid.’
‘She thinks he was a police officer?’
‘Or someone from the authorities.’
‘But he wasn’t in uniform?’
Lennart shook his head. ‘He asked about Hamid’s family, his friends, all kinds of stuff.’
‘Can’t she give a better description?’
‘No. A Swedish man in his forties. She thinks all Swedes look more or less the same.’
Lennart glanced at his notes before he went on.
‘The police officers Shibeka has spoken to say they didn’t send anyone to see her that week, and the Solna police confirmed that yesterday.’
Sture looked sceptical.
‘Maybe Hamid was mixed up in something his wife didn’t know about? Some criminal activity? Some kind of . . . network? There are endless possibilities.’
‘You’re right, but there’s something about that period at the beginning of the 2000s. You remember the rendition case in 2002?’
Sture gave him a poisonous look. He wasn’t likely to forget their rival channel’s major scoop, the one that won them a prestigious award.
‘This could be something similar,’ Lennart said. ‘In 2002 two terrorism suspects were deported to Egypt with no warning, at the request of the CIA. Both the Swedish Security Police and the Foreign Office were involved.’
Sture brightened up. This was an interesting line of enquiry. Not the most likely, perhaps, but not impossible.
‘So you mean they’ve covered something up and hidden it behind a refusal to grant asylum?’
‘A classified refusal to grant asylum,’ Lennart corrected him.
‘This Joseph, what do we know about him?’
Lennart shook his head. ‘Nothing. Shibeka remembers his name; apparently Hamid mentioned him just before he disappeared, but that’s all she knows.’
Sture wrote ‘Joseph?’ on the board, then sat down and gazed pensively at Lennart.
‘We haven’t really got enough. Focus on the police report; that’s the most concrete thing we have. Find out why it’s classified.’
Lennart nodded and smiled, which was something he didn’t do very often during a meeting with Sture.
‘That’s exactly what I was planning to do.’
He must have looked too pleased, because Sture leaned forward and narrowed his eyes.
‘I want you to work with Linda on this.’
Lennart’s smile disappeared in a second. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid: meddling.
‘But hasn’t she got her hands full at the moment?’ he ventured. ‘Anders has already helped me out a little bit; can’t I ask him if I get stuck?’
‘Lennart, we need to find out if this is worth pursuing or not. I’m giving you the necessary resources, and Linda is good,’ Sture said firmly.
‘I know, but I’d like to run with this on my own for a bit longer. You know that’s how I prefer to work . . .’
Sture nodded, but he wasn’t about to give up. That wasn
’t his style.
‘May I suggest a compromise? You tell Linda what you’ve got so far, and she will help out with research, but you’re the one out in the field. You’re running the show. OK?’
Lennart stared at him. I’m not running the show, he thought. You are. But what could he say? Sture was the boss, while Lennart could soon be replaced.
‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, plastering on another smile.
It was dark by the time they got back to the hotel.
All except Ursula, who had stayed behind to carry out a forensic examination of the scene, and to direct the removal of the bodies. Torkel had offered to stay with her, but she had declined on the basis that there wasn’t much he could do. Which was perfectly true, though there was one thing he could help her with, thanks to his political clout within the organisation. Bodies found in Jämtland were supposed to be sent to the forensics lab in Umeå; however, Ursula wanted Torkel to see if he could get them sent down to Stockholm instead.
Easier said than done, apparently. The whole thing had turned into something of a war on two fronts. The lab in Umeå perceived the request as a slur on their expertise, while their colleagues in Stockholm made it perfectly clear that they weren’t exactly short of work, and that they definitely didn’t need six more bodies. If Torkel did manage to facilitate the transfer, he needn’t expect the case to be given top priority. His superiors also questioned the point of the relocation. After at least a dozen calls, Torkel realised the cost was going to outweigh the benefits. Umeå it was, and Ursula would just have to live with it. He would tell her when she got back. Hopefully when they were alone. In his room. Or hers.
As they crossed the bridge they could see the warm, inviting glow from the octagonal section of the hotel where the restaurant was located. Mats and Klara met them in reception, wanting to know when they would like dinner. They agreed to spend half an hour in their rooms before they met up in the restaurant.
The Man Who Wasn't There Page 8