‘We need to find out what stage cancer we’re looking at,’ Omid explained, making sure she understood everything he was saying. ‘We can operate, and in the best-case scenario it won’t have spread beyond the kidneys.’
Vanja didn’t need to ask about the worst-case scenario. The key word was ‘spread’. Her father’s body could be riddled with cancer; if so, he wouldn’t be able to cope with that. Neither would she. But there was another word that bothered her: kidneys. Plural.
‘Are both kidneys affected?’ she asked, even though she thought she knew the answer. Omid’s nod confirmed her fears.
‘That’s what the scan indicates, which means we can’t operate until we have a donor.’
‘I’ll donate,’ Vanja said immediately.
‘I understand that’s your first instinct, but this is a serious procedure for both the donor and the recipient,’ Omid said, shaking his head. ‘You need to think it over.’
‘No, I don’t. I want to donate a kidney.’
Omid looked at the young woman sitting in front of him. He had a feeling it wouldn’t matter what he said; she had already made up her mind.
‘I’ll make you an appointment with the donor team,’ he said after a moment.
‘Lennart Stridh killed in car smash.’
The headline filled the screen of his iPad. It was big news. One of Sweden’s best known investigative journalists had driven off the road into the bay at Bråviken, hit his head on the windscreen and drowned. ‘Seatbelt could have saved him’ read the caption under a picture of the car being lifted out of the water, the Swedish Television logo clearly visible on the side. That wasn’t true. From the moment Lennart decided to call Charles Cederkvist, nothing could have saved him.
Charles quickly checked out the other evening paper. Same headline, but with the additional snippet that the police hadn’t ruled out drink driving. Excellent. He carried on looking through online reports; there was no suggestion that foul play was suspected.
One door slammed shut, or at least partly closed. Had Lennart told anyone where he was going, who he was due to meet? If not, would they wonder what he was doing at Bråviken? Then there was Lennart’s mobile. He had rung Charles; if someone decided to trace his final hours and found the call, they would see a name that already featured in another case.
Charles put down his iPad, started the car and drove on towards Stockholm. There were too many ifs and buts. He felt like a man standing next to a huge dam where small fissures were starting to appear. He was covering them as best he could, but there was every indication that the dam would soon burst, and everything would come gushing out. Charles wanted to be far away by then.
His phone rang. He glanced at the display: a name he hadn’t seen for a very long time. He briefly considered letting it ring, but he needed all the information he could get in order to stay one step ahead for as long as possible.
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s Joseph,’ said the heavily accented, rasping voice on the other end of the line.
‘I know. What do you want?’
‘A boy came here. Hamid’s son.’
Charles remained silent, which Joseph took to mean that he didn’t remember who Hamid was.
‘One of the men we gave to the Americans,’ he clarified.
Charles could see them in his mind’s eye. Lying on the floor, their hands and feet bound. At that point he hadn’t known their names; they had already been picked up when he entered the frame. His job was merely to observe – to be the Swedish presence when American agents were operating on Swedish territory, to report back, maybe even to learn something.
‘What did he want?’
‘He was looking for me.’
Charles closed his eyes for a second. Another breach in the dam. He had to seal it as quickly as possible, before it got any bigger.
‘Arrange a meeting, pick him up and call me as soon as you’ve got him.’
He ended the call before the man with the rasping voice had time to respond. He put his foot down and continued his journey north. Two things to do now: get hold of another car, and make sure he didn’t have to fix this on his own.
Epic fail. Total disaster. Everything was in the process of blowing up in front of him. He had thought what he had done was against the rules, possibly illegal, but presumably not dangerous; it had turned out to be anything but.
It was fatal.
There was no other way of interpreting the front page of Aftonbladet’s online edition. A journalist had died. Lennart Stridh.
The article said it was an accident, but Anitha’s ashen face said something different. When she stammered that less than twenty-four hours ago she had given Stridh the name Morgan had found in the computer system, he understood. It was impossible to see the whole picture, it was too complicated, but there were too many coincidences. He couldn’t explain it away as a mere quirk of fate, however hard he tried.
It was all connected.
He had to lean on Anitha’s desk for support. He had blood on his hands. A man had probably been murdered because of information he had helped to track down.
All he had wanted was for Anitha to spend time with him. His intentions had been good. He had been looking for love, someone to share his everyday life with. Nothing else.
This was where it had led. To computer hacking and death.
He had known that what he was doing was wrong, but it was just a name. Nothing more.
Then he had exploited what he knew; that was his biggest sin. It had been stupid and unkind. You couldn’t force someone to love you. That wasn’t how it worked. But he had hoped that if Anitha spent some time with him, she would change her mind, see the positive aspects of his character. Perhaps she might even learn to like him, just a little bit; that would have been enough for him.
Now he was being punished. It might seem entirely disproportionate, but it was the only possible interpretation.
We reap what we sow.
With interest.
He had to make this right, even if it meant she would never speak to him again. She had said it would be a disaster for both of them if anyone found out what they had done. No doubt she was right, but he couldn’t keep quiet. Mistakes didn’t go away just because you buried them and moved on, particularly if someone had died. That was where he drew the line. If he was a good person, it was time for him to prove it.
Tell the truth.
But who to?
Morgan had no idea. Firstly, the knowledge he had was clearly dangerous, and secondly, there was the risk that no one would believe him. He didn’t even know where to start.
He ought to speak to someone who knew him, someone who knew he wouldn’t exaggerate or make things up – someone who could pass on the information without dragging his name into it. A police officer.
In spite of the fact that he had worked at Police HQ for such a long time, he didn’t know very many officers. His colleagues were mainly civilian employees, and they wouldn’t be able to help him. The only person he could think of was a guy with Riksmord who shared his interest in computers. They used to chat about hard drives and networks occasionally, and he was always very pleasant. Seemed conscientious. And surely Riksmord would be able to keep the name of an informant quiet? Perhaps he could ask him what to do. Billy Rosén would know.
He didn’t tell Anitha what he was planning to do; there was no point. Morgan realised this was the end of their relationship, or whatever he should call the situation into which he had forced her, but there was nothing he could do about that. The important thing now was to save himself.
Riksmord was on the third floor.
The taste in his mouth was back, but this time it wasn’t love; it was fear.
He asked to speak to Billy in private.
* * *
Jennifer was sitting in the back of a car that had just left the car park beneath Police HQ at Kungsholmen and turned left; it struck her how fast things happened sometimes.
Jus
t over half an hour ago, Billy had had a visit from a bearded, overweight man in an extremely unbecoming pale beige jacket. Billy had introduced him as Morgan Hansson, a colleague from the IT department. Morgan had barely managed to say hello before asking to speak to Billy in private.
Five minutes later she saw Billy running to Torkel’s office, and shortly after that they were all gathered in the Room. Everyone except Vanja. No one knew where she was; she wasn’t answering her mobile, but at the moment Sebastian seemed to be the only one who was concerned. The others were completely focused on Billy, who was writing on the whiteboard while explaining that Morgan had done a colleague a favour, searched through the backup tapes and found a name that had been removed from a report. He had passed this name on to his colleague, who in turn had passed it on to Lennart Stridh from Investigation Today.
‘He’s dead, did you know that?’ Jennifer had said, slightly unsure of where this was going and whether or not they were up to date. ‘He died in a car accident just a few hours ago.’
Everyone nodded. They knew. Billy went on:
‘The report was about two men who went missing after they were refused asylum in the autumn of 2003: Hamid Khan and Said Balkhi. The Solna police were ordered to stop looking for them. Säpo took over the case, and the officer responsible was Adam Cederkvist.’
Silence. What they had just heard seemed so impossible that Ursula felt compelled to ask: ‘Do you mean our Adam Cederkvist?’
Billy nodded.
‘But how does that fit in with the family being murdered up in Jämtland?’ Jennifer wondered.
‘I’ve no idea, but Lennart Stridh was given the name yesterday, and today he’s dead.’
‘Why was Investigation Today interested?’ Torkel asked.
‘Morgan didn’t know.’
‘Who’s the colleague he was helping?’
Less than five minutes later Anitha Lund was sitting in front of them, indignantly protesting that she knew her rights, and that she had absolutely no intention of saying anything. One minute and one quiet conversation with Torkel later, she changed her mind.
All she knew was that Hamid Khan’s wife Shibeka had contacted Lennart. Anitha had been curious when she saw that the reference to the contact at Säpo had been removed from the original report.
‘When was the name removed?’
She gave them the date – only a few days after the bodies had been found in the mountain grave. She also gave them the piece of paper Lennart had given her, and Shibeka Kahn’s address, and now Billy was driving onto the roundabout at the end of Rålambshovsleden.
They would be in Rinkeby in less than fifteen minutes.
Mehran had got off at Fridhemsplan to change trains. He didn’t feel like going straight home, so instead he went to the Västermalm shopping mall right next to the underground station. He wandered aimlessly around looking in the shop windows. He knew he really ought to go home and tell Shibeka what had happened, but he wanted to find out more before he did that. His mother needed to know the truth so that she could stop going round in circles, obsessing about Hamid’s disappearance.
She needed a conclusion. A proper conclusion.
So did he. He went back out onto Fleminggatan; it was very crowded. He stood in the middle of all those people, hurrying about their business. Looked over at the tall yellow building on the hill a short distance away. Down at the bottom of the hill was the passageway where Said’s shop had been. If only he had gone there in the first place, he would have found out about all this a long time ago. But he knew why he hadn’t done it; there were places where he’d been with his father that he had chosen not to revisit. The shop was one of those places. So was the football pitch halfway to Tensta where Hamid had taught him to ride a bike. The play area outside Melika’s apartment block.
He had always thought they would remind him too much of his father. He didn’t want to feel that sense of loss; he wanted to lock it away, leave it alone. At least that was what Mehran had believed, but in fact it wasn’t true. He needed the places, the memories. They didn’t hurt; they could tell him things.
Because it turned out that some of his memories were inaccurate. People he had thought were friends were actually anything but. The shop where he had been given sweets had led to all this darkness. Melika wasn’t always angry, she was just frightened.
But one thing was still the same.
He missed his father, both as a child and now as an adult. There was no doubt about that.
Life was very strange. Everyone he knew wanted to get so much out of it: possessions, success, respect. He was the same, but what he really wanted was a context. Things he could understand. Memories that didn’t change. Friends he could trust. Parents who were still around. It sounded so simple, but he was coming to understand more and more that those things were hard to find.
His mobile rang, interrupting his train of thought.
He didn’t recognise the number on the display, but he did recognise the voice.
‘Mehran?’ it rasped.
It took him a second to answer. Two. Maybe three.
‘Yes.’
The man didn’t wait; his voice was in Mehran’s ear, demanding a response.
‘It’s Joseph. I heard you were looking for me.’
Mehran didn’t say anything. He stood there watching the cars go by. The voice sounded so sure of itself that he glanced around to see if Joseph was standing somewhere nearby. There was no sign of him, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
‘I haven’t seen you for a long time, Mehran. How have you been?’
‘How did you get my number?’
‘It was easy. I know a lot of people who can help me with all kinds of things.’
The threat wasn’t even veiled. He wanted to show Mehran who could find whom. Mehran decided to stick up for himself; Joseph didn’t scare him.
‘I want to see you,’ he said as calmly as he could.
‘And why is that?’
‘I want to speak to you. I think you want to speak to me too.’
The voice at the other end was silent for a moment.
‘In that case you can come to me,’ it said eventually.
‘Fine. Tell me where you are.’
Sebastian followed Jennifer and Billy up the stairs in the apartment block on Stavbygränd. It was almost symbolic: the hungry youngsters rushing ahead, with intellect bringing up the rear. There wasn’t really much point in his being here, but it was better to come along than to stay back at HQ worrying about Vanja. Besides, the case seemed to have taken an interesting turn. If Adam Cederkvist had been responsible for the case of the two missing Afghan men, and that had somehow led to him and his family ending up in a mountain grave, then the case was not only intriguing from a conspiracy point of view, it was also unique. Adam’s brother Charles had tried to conceal Adam’s identity from them, which suggested that he was involved. They might even be looking at fratricide. Very interesting indeed, if it was true. He was hoping to meet Charles in order to study all the repressions, rationalisations and projections he would probably employ.
Jennifer and Billy rang Shibeka Khan’s doorbell. Sebastian hung back; the narrow stairwell seemed very crowded. The skinny thirteen-year-old boy who opened the door must have felt the same; he stared at them with huge eyes.
‘Hi – we’re looking for Shibeka Khan,’ Billy said in a friendly tone.
‘Police,’ Jennifer added quickly, showing her ID. She loved saying that, Sebastian thought. It was obvious that she regarded herself as a police officer above all else. That was presumably why Torkel had chosen her, because her energy and commitment made up for her lack of experience.
‘Has something happened?’ the boy asked anxiously.
‘We need to speak to your mum – is she home?’ Sebastian asked, trying to sound less like a cop show. They were talking to a child, for pity’s sake!
The boy nodded and went back inside. They heard him calling to someone in a different l
anguage. Jennifer turned to Billy.
‘I assume they’re a Muslim family; it could be that she’s only prepared to talk to me.’
‘OK.’
A woman of about thirty-five came to the door. She was beautiful, with dark intelligent eyes and well-defined features, stylishly framed by the black shawl covering her hair. Sebastian smiled when he saw her. It just happened. He realised he had never slept with a woman who wore the veil. No doubt it was very difficult to achieve, but then again he’d never tried.
‘Shibeka Khan?’ Jennifer asked. The woman nodded.
‘Yes.’
‘We’re from the police; may we come in?’ Sebastian said politely, moving in front of Jennifer, who looked surprised to say the least. He ignored her.
‘Has something happened to Mehran?’ Shibeka asked, looking suddenly anxious.
‘No. Who’s Mehran?’
‘My son. My eldest son.’
‘Nothing has happened to him; we’re here because we believe you’ve been speaking to Lennart Stridh from Investigation Today—’ Jennifer began, but Sebastian interrupted her in his warmest, most sympathetic voice.
‘I don’t know if it’s appropriate for me to ask, given that I’m a man . . .’ He placed particular emphasis on the word ‘man’. ‘But this won’t take long.’
‘It’s fine,’ Shibeka said, stepping aside to let them in.
The hallway was neat and tidy, and there was a wonderful aroma from the kitchen – saffron and some other spice. Shibeka took her son’s hand, still looking worried.
Sebastian gave them both a reassuring smile.
‘That’s a fine young man you have there.’
Shibeka didn’t reply, and before Sebastian could say anything else, Jennifer the police officer took over.
‘I believe your husband, Hamid, went missing nine years ago?’
Shibeka nodded.
‘Lennart was the only person who would listen to me. You’ve done nothing.’
Sebastian got there before Jennifer jumped in, probably to say something about Lennart; there was no reason why Shibeka should be told he was dead. Not before they were sure there was a connection.
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