She had checked out the company while negotiations were ongoing, and she had even written an anonymous letter to the National Police Board pointing out the inadvisability of going with I-tech due to the link with the Zionist state. Obviously it hadn’t cut any ice with those making the decision; her anonymous letters never did. I-tech got the job, and she had to admit it was an excellent system. It was stable, the search variables and filter functions were extremely efficient. Which was hardly surprising; after all, they were surrounded by enemies, so they had to deliver top quality. Unlike here in Sweden, where hardly anyone delivered anything other than political correctness and weakness. She assumed the Jews had to be that way, stuck in between Muslims and other terrorists.
She carried on ploughing through the files, just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. She even spent some time on the error list to see if it might help, and that was where she found the final clue that she needed.
It was known as Error 237.
The explanation was long, with the heading ‘Soft write error with backup-exec.’ She read on, and right at the bottom of the lengthy, incomprehensible text, full of technical terms and abbreviations, it said: ‘Please contact NPB computer support.’ Seek and ye shall find, she thought. It had taken time, but at least now she had a possible opening. It seemed likely that the tape backup was in the building. The amendment to the file on the two Afghan men had been carried out four days ago, which meant there was a possibility that the original unaltered file was still around.
But how long were the backups saved? She knew the tapes were reused; it would be impossible to keep them all, they just didn’t have the storage capacity down there. But she guessed they would retain them for at least a month, so there was a strong chance that the original was still somewhere among all those ones and zeros.
Whether she could gain access to it was another matter, of course. She didn’t have the authorisation or the technical expertise, so she needed help – and she thought she knew exactly where to find it.
* * *
He looked surprised when she knocked on his door. Morgan Hansson was wearing a white shirt stretched taut over his belly, and horn-rimmed glasses; he had medium-length curly hair and a beard. A big beard. The beard was the first thing you noticed; half his face seemed to consist of an overgrown shrubbery. The second thing you noticed was the brown sandals he always wore. He looked like a caricature of the computer geek he was. His office was a tip; there were papers everywhere, and the shelves were crammed with broken monitors and system units piled on top of one another. The small amount of space that remained was cluttered with grey leads, printers, hard drives and other discarded equipment. Anything faulty that was related to computers seemed to have drifted ashore in his office. Morgan quickly dropped the cables he was holding; his hand was warm and damp as he greeted her. It could only be sweat.
‘Hi, do you need some help?’ he asked.
Anitha looked around at the chaos and felt uncomfortable. She had no idea how to explain her problem to him.
‘No, I was just taking a walk.’
‘Down here?’
‘Yes, I just needed to clear my mind, you know? Get away from the boss.’
Morgan laughed conspiratorially. She smiled at him and realised that he almost seemed embarrassed by her visit as he removed a pile of boxes from the chair opposite his desk.
‘Please, have a seat.’
Anitha shook her head.
‘No thanks – I was just wondering if you’d like to join me for lunch?’
The idea of stealing him away for a little while had just occurred to her. For quite some time now Anitha had suspected that Morgan fancied her; he was always the one who called her back when she contacted the IT department to complain, and he always gave her a nod when they met in the corridor. It looked as if she was right. Morgan blushed and he couldn’t quite look her in the eye. He was quite sweet, in a way. Much too fat and hairy, but sweet, like a furry pet.
‘If you’ve got time, of course,’ she said, still smiling.
He seemed genuinely surprised at the question.
‘Absolutely.’
Morgan grabbed his beige jacket, which was far too short. She wondered if it was the only one he owned. She’d never seen him in anything other than that pale, inappropriately sporty, Ralph Lauren-inspired jacket with the brown leather lapels. It didn’t suit him at all. It might have worked on a golfer or an accountant who was trying to look youthful, but it did nothing for a man who resembled a troll.
‘In the canteen, or in town?’
‘Let’s go into town,’ Anitha said quickly.
Best to get away; besides, someone might see them together in the staff canteen. She didn’t want that.
* * *
They set off along Kungsholmsgatan. At least it had stopped raining; the sun was trying to fight its way through the clouds. Morgan stopped, looking slightly lost.
‘Where shall we go?’
Anitha quickly ran through the places she knew; she wanted to avoid anything too close to Police HQ.
‘There’s an Italian on Sankt Göransgatan that’s pretty good, if that’s OK with you?’
‘Sounds great. I usually eat in the canteen.’
Or at McDonald’s, by the look of you, she thought.
‘Well, in that case a change will do you good,’ she said as she patted his arm and headed for Kronoberg Park. He nodded and they strolled up the steep hill that led into the park. It was a fine autumn day, even though the grass was still wet. They met several women with buggies. The further they got from the police station, the lighter their steps became. It was as if they felt a sense of liberation from the walls of the colossus behind them, and the conversation flowed more freely than Anitha had expected. She tried to keep the focus on him, which wasn’t difficult at all. She asked questions, and he answered. To her surprise she discovered that he was actually quite nice.
When they reached Fridhemsplan she suggested they should take a longer walk, perhaps go down to the pavilion by Lake Mälaren on Norr Mälarstrand. It was still open, and she hadn’t been there in years. Morgan had never been, but would be very happy to try it. Anitha could probably have suggested McDonald’s out in Västberga and he would have trotted along beside her.
As they turned down towards the water, Anitha wondered if it was time to broach the real reason for her invitation to lunch. Should she wait until they were sitting down, until they were having coffee, until they were walking back? She was afraid it would become more difficult to raise the matter in a natural way the longer she left it. At the same time, she needed him to feel that she was asking for his help because they were enjoying themselves, and because she trusted him. It was tricky. Best to wait until coffee, perhaps.
She had fallen silent and must have looked worried, because Morgan stopped and gazed searchingly at her.
‘Has something happened? You seem a bit upset.’
She glanced up and decided that he had given her the opening she needed. If he thought she looked upset, she just had to continue along that path.
‘I’ve got a confession.’
Her voice was serious, direct. Completely different from the way she had been speaking until now. She was very happy with the tone.
‘What?’
‘I’ve really messed up. You might as well know – it’s to do with the IT system. At work.’
He went pale and immediately looked worried. It was as if a rain cloud had suddenly appeared above his head and disgorged its contents.
‘What’s happened?’
Anitha turned away and gazed at the lake. His reaction was a little too strong. If he was worried before she’d even told him what she had allegedly done, what was he going to be like when it came to the crunch? However, it was too late to stop now.
‘Let’s eat first. I didn’t invite you to lunch so that you could solve my problems.’ She tried to sound brave, while at the same time sending out a signal that she needed someone
. Him. ‘Then at least you’ll have something in your stomach before you come to the conclusion that I’m a complete idiot,’ she went on, looking down at the ground.
‘I don’t think you’re an idiot.’
‘You don’t know what I’ve done.’
‘So tell me.’
A deep breath, an embarrassed flicker of the eyes. She had to convey weakness now.
‘I was supposed to be helping a colleague find something in the system, but I pressed the wrong button. It just disappeared, and now I can’t find it.’
Morgan laughed and relaxed. He couldn’t see the problem. Obviously. She hadn’t got to it yet.
‘That’s nothing, you just have to retrieve it. I’ll help you after lunch.’
She nodded, trying to find the right amount of pressure for the question she had to ask next. She walked away, hoping that a little solitary anxiety would prove most effective at this point.
‘That’s not all . . .’
He followed her and stood directly behind her.
‘Go on.’
Anitha didn’t turn around. She allowed her head to droop, stared at a cigarette stub on the ground. To think that people still smoked. She just couldn’t understand it. Hitler never smoked. He hated smokers. She could see why.
‘It was a classified file.’
She kept her eyes fixed on the flattened yellow filter, the dirty paper disintegrating in the dampness and the sunshine. Her tactic seemed to be working; he hadn’t run away yet. She decided to turn and engage with him at the last possible moment; she felt as if he was getting closer with every second, both physically and emotionally.
‘Calm down, I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘If you don’t have authorisation you can’t delete anything on a permanent basis; it must be there somewhere.’
His voice was softer, she could tell that he really wanted to help her. He gently touched her shoulder. Perhaps it was time to turn around and reel him in. She decided to give it a little longer; she would get only one chance, and she wanted to make it even more critical, a matter of life and death. He had to feel that she was placing her life in his hands, then he couldn’t possibly say no. She whispered to the cigarette stub: ‘I’m going to lose my job.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
She felt the grip on her shoulder tighten. A hand that said: I’m here for you. She turned, despair written all over her face. She cursed the fact that she couldn’t cry on demand; that would have helped enormously.
‘Yes, I am. I logged in as the boss. I shouldn’t even have been carrying out the search. They’re going to fire me.’
The colour drained from his face as the full import of what she had said hit home. She could hear the sounds of the city and the rustle of the leaves above them as a soft breeze passed through the trees. A car horn far away. Morgan took a step back. Anitha could feel things slipping out of control. She adopted the most pleading expression she could muster; she had to make this into a moral dilemma where she was a good person, not someone who wanted to snoop because she’d found out something from Investigation Today.
‘I just wanted to help a colleague in Solna. Eva Gransäter – do you know her?’
Fortunately Morgan shook his head and Anitha went on, congratulating herself on having remembered the name of the investigating officer.
‘I was supposed to be helping her find the right person to contact in Säpo, but then I pressed the wrong button and the whole thing just disappeared.’
He seemed to be thinking things over, wondering whether to walk away or stay and listen.
Perhaps she had been too quick after all. They should have had a decent lunch first, bonded a little more, perhaps got together a few times over the next week or so. But it was easy to be wise after the event. She looked away again, ignoring the cigarette stub now. This was serious. Only one more chance left. He had to choose her.
‘I’m sorry, I never meant to drag you into my mess. Let’s not talk about it any more. I understand. I really am sorry.’
She began to walk away from him. She had to give him an escape route, the chance to say no by not following her. Just when she thought she had lost, he finally spoke. It was a very ordinary word, nowhere near as dramatic as she would have liked, deep down, but it was enough.
‘Wait.’
He had made his choice.
Vanja was fifteen minutes late by the time she pushed open the door of Roppongi and walked in. She didn’t really feel like sushi; she was still slightly hung-over and her body was craving grease, but Peter had suggested this place and she hadn’t had the energy to come up with an alternative.
She had drunk too much wine last night. In Sebastian Bergman’s apartment. That was something she had never expected to do, but then she had never expected her father to be sitting in a cell suspected of shady financial dealings either. It had been a very strange day. The world turned upside down. Her father had let her down, and she had seen a completely different side of Sebastian. The combination of wine and his concern had enabled her to push aside thoughts of Valdemar for a little while, but after a quick breakfast with Sebastian this morning, they had inexorably come rushing back.
She had to find out more.
Find out everything there was to know.
Vanja had gone through everyone she knew well enough to ask for help, preferably in the Economic Crimes Authority. Was there anyone? Yes, Peter Gornack. Fellow student back in the day, ex-boyfriend, but no hard feelings if Vanja remembered rightly. He had definitely been working in the unit a few years ago; was he still there? She called the exchange and was put through to him.
He wasn’t an idiot; he realised what she wanted. They hadn’t seen each other for years, and now she was wondering if he’d like to meet up for lunch, just when his department was investigating her father, but he had said yes. He was waiting for her when she got there, at a table by one of the huge windows looking out onto Hantverkargatan. The spot suited Vanja perfectly; the tables in the main dining area were too close together, and she didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation.
Peter stood up to greet her, and seemed unsure whether to give her a hug or not. ‘Hi, it’s been a while!’ She made it easy by hugging him instead.
‘It certainly has,’ she said, taking off her jacket and sliding onto the barstool next to his.
‘How are you?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘I can understand that . . .’
They fell silent and Vanja glanced through the menu. The dish of the day was tori katsu with chilli mayonnaise. She didn’t know if it was the after-effects of the alcohol or the previous day’s episode in the toilets, but suddenly the chilli mayo made the tori katsu the obvious choice. She also ordered a mineral water when the waitress came, while Peter went for a large sushi.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Vanja said once their order had been taken.
‘No problem, but we can’t talk about the investigations into your father,’ Peter said, his expression grave.
‘I heard there was a previous investigation that didn’t go anywhere,’ Vanja went on as if she hadn’t heard a word he said. ‘Why has it been picked up again? What’s changed?’
Peter sighed. Somewhere deep down he had known when he agreed to meet her that it would be all about his work. He had only himself to blame, and there were some things he could tell her without compromising his position. He just had to choose his words with care.
‘Supplementary information has come to light with regard to the previous investigation,’ he said, taking a sip of the low-alcohol beer he had ordered while he was waiting for her.
‘What kind of supplementary information?’
Perhaps he had been expecting her to sugar the pill a little, start with an update on what they had been doing over the years, how things were going at work for both of them, revisit a few old memories; apparently that wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t really surprised. The Vanja he had known had never given up until she h
ad found out everything she possibly could – and she was impatient.
‘Surely you can tell me that,’ she persisted. ‘If he’s charged and the case goes to court, I’ll be able to read the preliminary investigation anyway.’
Peter sighed again. He watched Vanja as the waitress arrived with her bottle of water and a glass. There was something in what she said, of course. He was pretty sure that Valdemar would be charged, and that he would end up in court. One step at a time, he decided. Think before you speak. Everything would be fine.
‘A woman came in and handed over a bag full of material about your father,’ he said slowly. ‘The original case notes, plus new information about his involvement in the Daktea affair, among other things,’ he went on.
‘How had she got hold of the original case notes?’ Vanja demanded as she poured her water.
‘We don’t know.’ Peter shrugged to emphasise the point. ‘According to this woman, it was something to do with Trolle Hermansson.’
Vanja gave such a start that water splashed onto the table.
‘Do you know who he is?’ Peter asked when he saw her reaction.
‘He’s an ex-cop.’
‘Apparently he’s dead.’
‘I know. I found his body in the boot of a car.’
Vanja got up and fetched a handful of serviettes from the counter. This didn’t make sense. Trolle Hermansson, an ex-cop she had never met and never even heard of, had turned up in her life on two occasions over the course of just a few months. What was his connection to Valdemar?
‘Was this Hermansson involved in the initial investigation?’ she asked as she wiped the table.
‘Not as far as I know, but according to the woman who came in, he was responsible for the new material.’
The Man Who Wasn't There Page 28