The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4)

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘OK, but in that case we want answers, not some corporate bullshit,’ Vanja said firmly. ‘We don’t appreciate being fobbed off with that buffoon we met just now.’

  ‘No bullshit, I promise. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to like what I say. As a general rule, people don’t really want the truth.’

  ‘Do you know the area around Storbråten in Torsby?’ Vanja asked.

  Cole smiled. ‘Yes. It’s one of the richest veins in northern Värmland. It’s worth billions.’

  ‘Is that why you asked your lawyer to call Maria Carlsten and offer to buy her land?’

  ‘You mean Rickard Häger at Lex Legali.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. It’s Lex Legali’s job to keep abreast of any possible change of ownership in the areas in which we have an interest. That’s how we work.’

  ‘And you don’t think it’s unethical to contact a grieving woman just days after her sister’s entire family has been wiped out?’ Sebastian said accusingly.

  Cole gazed steadily at him.

  ‘Possibly. But do you know how many times those conversations lead to a sale? Most of the people we speak to feel as if they’ve won the lottery. They are more than happy to accept our offer – it’s a lot of money. But if fru Carlsten was upset, then I apologise. Although I don’t actually need to apologise to you, do I? You don’t own the land.’

  ‘Do you have to be completely amoral to work here? Is it part of the job description?’ Sebastian wondered. Cole smiled at him.

  ‘You want to talk about morals? Do you know what percentage of Sweden’s welfare budget comes out of the mountains? An enormous amount, let me tell you. That’s what built this country, but people don’t want to see it. They want to live in a modern society with everything on tap, and in an unspoilt nature reserve at the same time. It’s a nice idea. Sounds good on a chat-show sofa. But I have no intention of apologising for mining rock and making something out of it.’ Cole turned to Vanja. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Yes. There are other landowners who stood to gain a great deal if the Carlstens sold, is that correct?’

  ‘Absolutely. The Carlstens were the only ones who said no.’

  ‘Have any of them been in touch? Kept asking, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Behaved suspiciously, in other words?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cole seemed to be searching his memory.

  ‘The only person who’s come back to us several times wondering if we want to buy his land is the man who owns the area immediately south of the Carlsten property.’

  ‘Thomas Nordgren?’ Vanja said quickly. Cole nodded.

  ‘That’s right. He’s seemed particularly keen over the past couple of years.’

  ‘Have you promised him anything? Done any kind of deal?’ Vanja asked with interest.

  ‘We’ve always given the same answer – we want to buy all the land, or none of it.’

  Vanja didn’t respond; Thomas Nordgren was now an even more likely suspect.

  ‘Do you think it’s him?’ Cole asked, correctly interpreting her silence.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But people are capable of doing all kinds of things for money – that’s something I’ve learned. So are we, but we don’t commit murder. We don’t need to. The land is too valuable. We’ll get it one day anyway.’

  Billy and Jennifer were sitting in an otherwise empty office on the second floor of the police station in Kiruna, a large square brick building that had nothing else going for it. It could have been council offices, a school, a prison, a former mental hospital, an office block, a storage depot, anything; it was utterly characterless and boring. When Billy drove into the car park and saw it, he sincerely hoped the police station wasn’t one of those buildings that was going to be carefully taken down and rebuilt in the new city centre; it ought to be razed to the ground. His colleagues deserved better. The only point in its favour was that it was bigger than he had expected.

  They had explained why they were there to the duty officer on the desk downstairs: they wanted to speak to someone who was responsible for the investigation into Matti Pejok’s disappearance, or who had some insight into the case. It had taken a series of phone calls, redirections and yet more calls, but eventually they had been shown into this office and asked to wait.

  So now they were waiting.

  They had been waiting for quite some time.

  Billy was just about to go back downstairs to ask if they’d been forgotten when the door opened and a woman aged about fifty and weighing something in the region of 150 kilos walked in carrying a thick folder. She was in uniform, with coal-black shoulder-length hair, distinctive dark eyes, her mouth a slash of bright red lipstick. A woman who wanted to be noticed, or at least had nothing against it. She introduced herself as Renate Stålnacke and sat down opposite them.

  ‘We’re interested in Matti Pejok’s disappearance,’ Billy said.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Pejok brothers,’ Renate said with a sigh, making it clear that she had heard enough about those two to last the rest of her life. Billy began to understand why when she spent the next twenty minutes going through all her dealings with them before and after FilboCorp started operating in Kurravaara. ‘May I ask why Riksmord is interested in them?’ she concluded her lecture, glancing from Billy to Jennifer and back again.

  ‘FilboCorp has come up in another case, and we think Matti Pejok’s disappearance could be relevant,’ Billy answered honestly.

  ‘Has someone else gone missing?’

  ‘No, a family has been murdered,’ Jennifer explained, continuing with the policy of openness.

  ‘And you think the company is involved.’

  ‘We’re investigating every possible avenue,’ Billy said. ‘The mining company is one of them.’

  ‘I don’t know why everyone wants to portray them as the bad guys,’ Renate said, leaning forward. ‘I think we should increase production. We need the metal, there’s no disagreement on that point, and surely it’s better if we’re mining rather than letting kids do the work somewhere in South America, dumping the waste anywhere they like? At least we have rules and regulations to protect the environment, and decent working conditions.’

  Neither Billy nor Jennifer felt like getting into a discussion on the pros and cons of the mining industry, so Billy quickly got back to the main point of their visit.

  ‘Do you have a copy of the contract Matti Pejok signed?’

  Renate opened the folder and eventually produced a document which she placed on the table in front of her guests, who leaned forward at the same time to study it.

  ‘His brother says that’s not Matti’s signature,’ Billy said, pointing to the bottom of the last page.

  ‘I’m aware of that – we looked into the matter.’ Renate took two more documents out of the folder and put them down on the table: a car-rental contract, and a copy of Matti’s passport. Both signed.

  ‘They’re not exactly the same,’ Jennifer said when she had glanced at all three in turn several times.

  ‘Is your signature always exactly the same?’ Renate’s sceptical look made Jennifer realise she had heard it all before.

  ‘More or less,’ she replied confidently.

  ‘Anyway, we didn’t think the difference was significant enough to warrant the suspicion that a crime had been committed.’

  ‘Did you consider that he might have signed because he was being tortured?’ Even Billy was taken aback. He knew Jennifer pretty well by this stage, and he was well aware that she wished police work consisted entirely of days packed with action and excitement. She wanted to hunt down the bad guys, the smarter and more cunning the better. She wanted to pit her strength against the proponents of evil. The reality of life in Sigtuna was about as far as she could possibly get from her dream of the profession she had chosen, a dream Billy thought she had probably picked up from American movies, to be honest.


  Even though he knew all this, he was still surprised by Jennifer’s little ray of hope that Matti might have been tortured to make him sign the contract.

  ‘That would explain why the writing on the contract is a bit shaky,’ Jennifer went on, clearly interpreting Billy’s expression as encouraging.

  ‘It could also be because he found the decision very difficult to make. Or that the document was on top of something that wasn’t completely flat,’ Renate said, gathering up the papers and putting them back in the folder.

  ‘The Pejok brothers have been responsible for more hours of overtime by this police force than the rest of the residents of Kiruna put together, and I have to admit there have been times when I’ve been so sick of them that I’ve considered simply burying anything to do with them, but we investigated Matti’s disappearance thoroughly, several times, and there is nothing to indicate that any crime has been committed.’ Renate sat back, almost out of breath after her harangue. Billy and Jennifer exchanged a quick glance. Renate Stålnacke seemed more than competent, and from what they had heard and seen, there was nothing that really gave them cause to doubt her conclusion.

  ‘Could I have a copy of the case notes?’ Billy asked.

  ‘There’s a digital copy waiting for you in reception.’

  ‘Did you follow the money?’ Billy wondered as he got to his feet.

  ‘The money went into an account in Matti Pejok’s name. It was all there – it remained untouched for several months. We checked from time to time.’

  ‘Have you checked today?’

  Renate’s expression told him all he needed to know.

  She hadn’t.

  ★ ★ ★

  Another office. Another wait.

  This time they were at the bank along the street from the police station. Billy had called Torkel on the way to update him – not that there was a great deal to report. Per Pejok was still convinced that his brother’s disappearance was suspicious; the local police didn’t agree. Billy hadn’t had time to go through their case notes yet, but it looked as if they had put in the hours and done a good job. However, he had an idea he wanted to follow up, and was intending to contact Malin Åkerblad.

  Torkel had interrupted him at that point.

  Malin Åkerblad was no longer in charge of the preliminary investigation, in fact Torkel was in the process of trying to get her arrested. Billy would have to speak to her successor, Emilio Torres, instead. Just a minute. Before Billy had the chance to process what he had just been told, a voice with a slight accent came on the line. Emilio Torres introduced himself and asked how he could help.

  Billy explained.

  Emilio promised to do his best.

  Five minutes later Billy and Jennifer arrived at Sparkbanken Nord. They introduced themselves, explained why they were there, and asked for the fax number. They were then shown into the little office where they were now waiting. The odd person walked past on Lars Janssonsgata outside the window, but it would be an exaggeration to say the town was buzzing this afternoon. At least in the area where Billy and Jennifer were.

  The door opened and the man who came in was grinning as if he had won the biggest prize of his entire life. He introduced himself as Anton Beringer, manager of the Kiruna branch, in an accent that revealed he wasn’t born and bred in the area. His cheerful disposition even extended to his enthusiastic handshake.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You should have received a fax from the prosecutor’s office in Karlstad,’ Billy began, and Anton nodded.

  ‘Yes – you want access to one of our client’s accounts.’

  ‘There’s a chance that he might no longer be a client, but if that’s the case I’d like to know where the money has gone.’

  ‘Absolutely, no problem. What’s the client’s name?’ Anton’s fingers were already hovering over his computer keyboard.

  Billy gave him the name, personal ID number and account number from the contract between Matti Pejok and FilboCorp. Anton quickly entered the details, then pressed Enter with a flourish.

  ‘Yes, he’s still a client, and the account is active.’ Anton scrolled down the page. ‘Wow, that’s a lot of money,’ he said, turning the screen so that Billy and Jennifer could see while he clarified what they were looking at.

  ‘Not much is actually happening. A huge sum was paid in a little over five years ago – here.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘Then there were a few minor transactions, but nothing for just over a year.’

  ‘That’s when he was reported missing,’ Jennifer noted when she saw the date of the last transaction on the screen.

  ‘There has been a monthly transfer of twenty-five thousand kronor for the past four years,’ Anton said; this time he was pointing to a row of figures. An account number.

  ‘Can you give me the details of that account?’ Billy said, making notes.

  ‘I should think so,’ Anton said cheerfully as he turned back the screen and started tapping away on the keyboard.

  ‘He disappears, doesn’t touch the money for twelve months, then starts making regular withdrawals,’ Billy summarised to himself.

  ‘Twenty-five thousand a month is three hundred thousand a year, ‘Jennifer said. ‘At that rate the money would last him something like fifty years.’

  ‘You mean like a monthly salary?’

  ‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Twenty-five thousand would go quite a long way …’

  ‘The account is with Scotiabank in Costa Rica,’ Anton announced, his smile growing even broader, if that were possible.

  ‘Twenty-five thousand would go even further over there,’ Jennifer commented.

  Google and a couple of telephone calls had produced results. It had been easier than expected. Apparently Riksmord and the National Police Board regularly worked with a criminal psychologist by the name of Sebastian Bergman. There wasn’t much about him online, but he did have a Wikipedia entry. Sebastian Jacob Bergman had trained at the University of Stockholm and in the USA. He specialised in serial killers, and was one of Sweden’s leading profilers. There was also a picture; it was a few years old, but he recognised the tall man with the slightly unruly hair from the mine and the hospital.

  There were five Sebastian Bergmans in Stockholm, but only one with the middle name Jacob. Sebastian Jacob Bergman lived at Grev Magnigatan 18, so that was the place to go.

  It was difficult to find a parking space, and he had to drive around for a while before he found a spot that would give him a decent view of the apartment block. It was a substantial yellow-stone building with broad white window frames and an imposing main door in the centre. It looked pretty exclusive. He tipped his seat back and made himself comfortable. He wished he had bought more supplies than half a litre of Coca-Cola, but now he was here he didn’t want to get out of the car. Not until he had worked out the next stage in his plan.

  So far it was simple. Wait until Sebastian Bergman left the apartment, then follow him. With a bit of luck, Bergman would lead him to the girl. There were a number of weaknesses in the plan, but at the moment that was the best he had. He glanced up at the block once again.

  Life wasn’t fair, he thought.

  Not in any way; he had learned that lately.

  Those who worried and were cautious suffered.

  Children who didn’t really deserve it simply had to die.

  Life wasn’t fair, but you do what you have to do.

  That was the way things were.

  He had crossed a line with the first shots, and there was no going back. Everything that was happening now was merely the repercussions of those first shots, nothing more. There was only one witness left. Soon this would be over. For a while, at least.

  He looked at his watch. Took a swig of the sugary drink and screwed the top back on. He ought to ration it; he would probably have to sit here for quite some time. Only five minutes had passed since he parked; time was passing incredibly slowly. He realised he had to do someth
ing. Perhaps he should get out of the car after all, walk over to the door. He had no idea which floor Sebastian lived on. Not that he needed to know, but it was something to do. He might be able to get into the foyer and read the list of residents. It was always good to have an overview.

  To be on the safe side, he put the black bag on the floor on the passenger side, pushing it as far forward as possible so that it would be difficult to spot from outside. It might seem silly, but he couldn’t risk a passer-by catching sight of the bag, smashing the window and stealing it. Nothing must go wrong.

  He was about to open the door when he saw a movement at a window on the third floor. A little face looking out. It reminded him of the grainy picture in Expressen, the apartment block in Farsta.

  But this time it was in colour, and it was right in front of him.

  He didn’t need to find out which floor Sebastian Bergman lived on.

  It was the third floor, and the girl was with him.

  Vanja had reported back to Torkel on the meeting at FilboCorp, and he had informed her that he had started questioning Malin Åkerblad, but had got nowhere so far. He had just put out a nationwide call for Thomas Nordgren, and was hoping to hear something soon. They promised to keep in touch as soon as anything turned up.

  It was a lovely spring day, and Stockholm was busy with people strolling around, enjoying the sunshine. Vanja and Sebastian walked along Kungsgatan towards Stureplan. He still seemed irritable and out of sorts; she found it quite sweet that he couldn’t let go of the meeting with Adrian Cole.

  She felt that having Nicole staying with him was having a profound effect on him; the girl seemed to make him sensitive in a way that Vanja didn’t recognise. She quite liked it; he was actually capable of caring about other people. It made him human, and she liked him when he was human. Those were his finest moments.

  ‘Come back and have dinner with me. Us, I mean,’ he suggested. ‘We’re not meeting Stefan Andrén until later.’