Babylon

by Camilla Ceder

  ‘A Dane who wanted something valued?’ Gonzales said. ‘Give me a break . . . are we supposed to start looking at everybody who’s interested in antiques now? Because if so, the whole of the archaeology department has to be under suspicion . . .’

  ‘The whole of the archaeology department is under suspicion, Gonzales, since it’s our primary link between the victims,’ Tell pointed out.

  ‘Well yes, but there could be hundreds of other links. Henrik Samuelsson and Ann-Marie Karpov were having a relationship. They might have had mutual friends. And their relationship seems to have aroused interest, people were talking about it. What about her ex-husband? He has an obvious motive if anyone does. And no alibi whatsoever, as I understand it.’

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ said Beckman. ‘This Danish guy was knocked out. The owner of Holmström’s Antiques, the person who rang in, found the man’s driving licence in his jacket pocket, but when they tried to put him in the recovery position while they were waiting for the ambulance, he came round and went crazy. He punched the antiques dealer and took off.’

  ‘He did a runner?’

  ‘He did a runner.’

  ‘But we’ve got ID? And what about the attacker?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately the witness who ran into the shop gave a description that could fit any number of people; she was afraid to get too close. But we might be able to use her later for identification, if we bring someone in.’

  ‘But there must be several witnesses if this happened in town in the middle of the day,’ Karlberg chipped in.

  ‘Let’s go back to the guy who actually was identified,’ said Beckman. ‘We managed to do a little bit of research on him straight away. Mads Torsen, well known to the Copenhagen police.’

  ‘A junkie,’ Tell took over. ‘He’s been in and out of prison for the past ten years. He was a higher class of conman in the nineties, but he ended up on heroin and has mostly stuck to burglaries ever since. He went down for robbery the last time, but came out nine months ago.’

  ‘Going back to where Tell started,’ Beckman went on. ‘This morning I went to the antiques shop to show them the photo, and discovered that the clay figure is almost certainly the one the Danish guy had taken in. It’s really old, apparently, and was stolen from some museum in Iraq.’

  ‘How could they be sure it was the same one?’ asked Karlberg.

  ‘It was marked in some way.’

  Karlberg looked thoughtful. He tapped his biro pensively on the table.

  ‘OK. So we suddenly have three parallel cases. The murders in Linnégatan, the break-in at Rebecca Nykvist’s house and an attack on a Danish junkie?’

  He thought for a moment, then went on: ‘I’m thinking this guy is a well-known burglar. He’s high, he gets confused and tries to get something valued that he’s been hanging on to since his last job . . .’

  ‘You’re still not getting it – think about where he went,’ Tell interrupted. ‘Remember, the figure matches the photo Beckman found in Henrik Samuelsson’s bedside cabinet. Look at the background: this figure had been in Henrik’s home. We’re talking about a unique object here. And don’t forget: the Danish guy could have gone to any pawn shop, but he goes to Holmström’s Antiques.’

  ‘And a guy like that knows about that kind of thing?’

  ‘He knew the object was old and valuable. He wanted to find out how valuable. And he probably wanted to get rid of it.’

  ‘And how valuable is it?’

  ‘It’s valuable in many different respects. It’s an artefact, after all.’

  Beckman leant back in her chair with an amused expression as Gonzales put his hand up.

  Tell sighed. ‘Yes, Gonzales? We’re not still at school, you know.’

  ‘Thanks. This Mads Torsen. Where is he now?’

  ‘If I knew that I would have told you. We’re looking for him; both Gothenburg and Copenhagen are working on it’

  ‘But it gets even odder,’ Beckman continued. ‘We were alerted to the incident at Holmström’s Antiques by one Tom Svensén, a tutor in the archaeology department. He reacted when I showed him the photograph. He knew the figure, because he and Evert Holmström are part of some kind of body involved in the protection of cultural treasures.’

  ‘And Svensén did well to work it out,’ said Tell. ‘But what’s our next move, apart from trying to identify the lad who beat up Mads Torsen – can you keep an eye on that, Beckman? What do the rest of you think? He’s been in Gothenburg, so we need to start looking for clues. We also need to look for the figure – where’s that gone? Where’s Mads Torsen been? – we’re checking all known addresses. There was a receipt in his wallet from a tobacconist’s in Angered. Speak to the drugs squad and see if they know anything about what’s been going on in the dodgy parts of Angered. We’ll start with that. To be on the safe side we’ll check rooms as well – cheap hotel rooms, hostels. Hospitals too, since he’d been beaten up. I’ll contact the Danish police to see if I can get a bit more information, and I’ll send the picture of the figure to Alexandr Karpov. According to Svensén, he’s one of the few experts on this particular type of artefact. We’ll see what he has to say.’

  ‘Sorry if I’m being a bit slow here,’ Bärneflod said. ‘But . . . are you thinking that Mads Torsen, this junkie, is the one who murdered Henrik and Ann-Marie and broke into Rebecca’s house?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that we have a number of leads that need to be followed up.’

  Gonzales stuck his index finger in the air once more. Tell waved it away.

  ‘Yes, we are going to check the fingerprints from Linnégatan and Kungsladugården against Danish records.’

  Gonzales stood up. ‘Are we done, guv? Only I’ve got someone waiting for me downstairs.’

  Tell nodded and gathered up his papers. ‘Yes, I reckon we’re done.’

  Gonzales patted Beckman and Tell affectionately on the shoulder as he passed.

  ‘I get the whole connection thing. It’s as clear as day.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tell. ‘You just keep on working.’

  28

  Gothenburg

  They were sitting in the kitchen, curled up on Hanna’s day bed by the window, the city spread out before them: the hill and Masthugget Church in the foreground, the roofs below, the harbour, the outline of cranes, all set against a darkening late spring sky. Seja hadn’t intended to stay so long. She had a morning shift at the care home and would have to set her alarm for six-thirty when she got home.

  The thought of the car parked not far away was comforting; she wouldn’t have to worry about catching the last bus out to Stenared. She was grateful; she was starting to feel tired, her limbs and thoughts slow and heavy.

  ‘I saw Sally the other day at one of those family events at the House of Music,’ Hanna said. ‘You know the kind of thing, drum your way to Africa, the kids get to borrow instruments and the parents pretend to let it all hang out and dance . . . Remember Sally, from Year Nine?’

  ‘I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, she was telling me about her house in Långedrag and her husband who runs a building company; these days, when I see faces from the past I always feel so . . . immature. Like the eternal teenager, with my little apartment in Masthugget and no plan and no . . . savings. The idea that I could speculate in stocks and shares feels absurd.’

  ‘Why are you thinking about savings?’

  Hanna gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Well, I don’t have any. Everyone tells me I ought to have at least one savings account. Give myself a safety net.’

  ‘I don’t have any savings either. Then again, I haven’t really got much in the way of an income, or of outgoings. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve started to live outside society since I moved to Stenared. As if the pressure to be part of it all has eased.’

  ‘And what do you do instead? Instead of being part of it all?’

  ‘Kick back!’ Seja laughed and took a sip of her tea, whic
h was getting cold. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’ve missed out on something too. Those years when everybody else was becoming so responsible. I was studying drama and women’s history and hanging out in the pub while others were getting ahead with their careers and saving up to buy a place of their own. At least you’re a mum. I haven’t got round to that either.’

  ‘I should think that’s the least of your problems. I mean, you have a man and everything.’

  Seja hoped her expression didn’t reveal what she was thinking, and quickly returned to the topic of conversation that had occupied most of the evening.

  ‘So doesn’t Markus want to know more about his dad?’

  ‘No. Yes. Sort of. The thing is, I try to remember that I need to look at it from Markus’ point of view – Peter hasn’t been around for five years. For the whole of Markus’s life he’s been absent, uninterested. And now, all of a sudden, he pops up like a jack-in-the-box, wanting joint custody and insisting that Markus should spend half his time with him, talking about rights and . . . Oh, just thinking about it drives me crazy!’

  Hanna pretended to tear at her hair. ‘Markus doesn’t even know him, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Was Peter around even at the beginning?’

  Hanna let her hands drop to her lap again. ‘No. We weren’t together, we only did it once and I got pregnant. I rang and told him a few weeks later. He just said it was my choice, but that he had neither the time nor the inclination to be a father. He’s spent a fair amount of time abroad since then.’

  ‘But now he’s come home?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  The bedroom floor creaked as small bare feet moved across the parquet.

  Seja leant on the window ledge, resting her chin on her hand. Outside, the silhouettes of the city were fading. She couldn’t help thinking about what Hanna had said – that she had a man. Sometimes she still caught herself blushing at the thought of Christian, at the idea that they belonged together, in spite of the fact that they had been together for over a year now. It was as though she expected to be punished as soon as she took things for granted.

  Across the hallway, Hanna slowly closed the bedroom door, pulling a face as it squeaked.

  ‘Did he go back to sleep?’

  ‘Mm. He’s got a temperature. I hope it’s not his ears again, I don’t fancy spending tomorrow in a waiting room.’

  ‘Speaking of tomorrow, I’d better go. My shift starts at half past seven.’

  ‘Are you still at the care home?’

  ‘Yes. It’s OK. I get time to read, especially when I’m on nights. And I need the money.’

  Hanna opened the window and lit a cigarette. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘What question?’

  ‘About you and Christian. About kids and . . . your plans.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was a question.’ Seja smiled. The fact that they had revived their friendship as adults after a ten-year pause was largely due to Hanna’s insatiable curiosity. Seja had contacted Hanna – her former best friend – eighteen months previously, when it became clear that she had witnessed, as a teenager, events linked to one of Christian’s more famous cases.

  She hadn’t expected Hanna to get so involved. Together they had opened a window on the past and picked up their friendship where it had broken off, without diminishing the significance of the years that had elapsed in between. Seja would probably never really know where the darkness in Hanna came from; perhaps it had been there all along. That was the way it was: you only ever knew what other people wanted you to know.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Copenhagen.

  ‘This is as good as it gets,’ Christian had said as she lay in his arms after making love in their hotel room. And she knew perfectly well that he was talking about the moment: the good food, their stroll, the conversation, the closeness. And yet she had felt a pang. It was a perverse, crazy reaction, but she wished he hadn’t said it. This is as good as it gets. As if he didn’t want anything more from her. From them. As if he didn’t want their relationship to develop.

  ‘Earth to Seja.’ Hanna rapped on the table.

  ‘I was just thinking about what you said, about kids. But I didn’t get anywhere.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know if you want to have kids with Christian?’

  ‘No, but then at the same time I don’t know how it would feel if I did know. What the difference would be. I mean, I know how I feel about him. I know I want to be with him.’

  Seja stared into the cloud of cigarette smoke.

  ‘And what about him – what does he want?’

  ‘That’s the problem – it’s so bloody difficult to know! Sometimes I get the impression he’s afraid because he thinks . . . I want more than he does. That I want the whole package, but I’m playing a strategic game and biding my time – which is true in a way. But it’s as though he’s lumping me in with all the other women he’s known and assuming he knows what I want without asking.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound great.’

  ‘No, but . . . I don’t know what I mean. Sometimes it’s just so hard to talk. It’s as if he’s not there. He shuts down as soon as he thinks it might get difficult, and he acts . . .’

  She scratched furiously at a bite on her ankle; the skin grew flaky and red. ‘Like I said. He acts as though he already knows what I’m thinking, what I’m going to do, and he forgets to listen. Anyway, I really must go.’ Seja got to her feet. ‘Come over soon with Markus.’

  Hanna followed her into the hallway with the cardigan Seja had left behind on the sofa.

  ‘OK, or I can come out during the day when Markus is at preschool. It’s nice to meet up without him sometimes. Although it might be the day after tomorrow, I’ve got to go to the advice bureau.’

  ‘Advice bureau?’

  ‘For single parents in custody disputes, that kind of thing. But after that . . . Oh no. I’m going to the doctor on Friday.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll get out to Stenared one of these days.’

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘I just need to extend my sick leave, particularly with all this stuff that’s going on with Peter.’

  Seja nodded and refrained from commenting on the fact that Hanna had been off sick ever since they had got back in touch, except for a very brief period. Sometimes it was because she was in pain somewhere or other, sometimes she thought she was susceptible to stress. Sometimes Hanna insisted on her right to concentrate on being a parent, particularly as she was bringing up Markus alone. Seja was aware that new regulations had made it more difficult to avoid work, so it was lucky she had such a good doctor. And the more time that passed, the more convincing Hanna’s argument that she was unfit to work became.

  Seja really wanted to understand. But she had grown up believing that no one was above paying their own way. She might have hated that attitude, but it was ingrained in her, and it kept her on the straight and narrow, made her determined to be a useful member of society, to grit her teeth and battle on just like everyone else. The fact that Hanna chose to play the martyr to avoid getting to grips with her life was hard to accept.

  I know nothing, Seja reminded herself, and it was a relief to let go of her irritation. I don’t actually know what Hanna’s reasons are, and we have no right to sit in judgement unless we do.

  Hanna passed her the cardigan. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  By the time the door closed, Hanna had disappeared into the apartment.

  She’s funny about goodbyes, Seja thought as she walked down the stairs, even casual ones. As if every small goodbye reminds her of a big one.

  The darkness had seemed more intense looking out from the inside. In fact, only a grey-blue shadow fell on the empty street.

  It was only when she turned off the main road that the car crept into the sort of blackness that never exists in the city. It was some time now since her fear of the dark went away.

  She parked by the mailboxes. The slam of the car door echoed desolately in the s
ilence. She was used to that too, and the thick trunks of the fir trees on either side of the gravel track; she knew there was life beyond them, other people. The Melkerssons. She had trained herself to think that way during those first trembling months alone in the cottage: there is nothing evil here. There is only good in this place.

  It might sound stupid, but it had worked.

  The warmth of the moss was evaporating in the cooling night air, which was noticeable as a faint dampness on her hands. Where the forest opened up, the night sky was visible high above the trees; there was no moon, just a summer twilight. She could make out both the cottage and the stable.

  It took Lukas a while to register the sound of the grass rustling beneath her trainers; Seja had almost reached the door by the time he whinnied.

  She unlocked the cottage, reached in and switched on the outside lights before going out to give him his evening feed.

  29

  Gothenburg

  Behind Linnéplatsen a group of early risers had laid out colourful mats to practise some martial art. It was going to be another warm day. The first rays of sun filtered through the leaves. The patrol car cruised among dog-walkers and joggers; there was no rush. The woman who rang in had explained that she was a trained nurse and that the man was dead. He was also hidden from public view.

  ‘I should think he’s been dead a while.’

  When she was asked about the location, she wasn’t quite as clear. ‘Opposite the pond, the little pond, and that play area . . .’

  ‘Plikta?’

  ‘That might be the name of it. There’s a kind of hill . . . he’s lying on a stone bench.’

  They parked at the bottom of Pliktabacken. In the play area a mother was robotically pushing her child on a swing; she looked as if she had her eyes closed, or perhaps she was squinting in the sun.

  ‘I’ve spent a fair amount of time here,’ said Markus Ekvall, whose sons had now reached school age. He pointed to the sandpit, which was usually teeming with children and their parents, but not at this early hour. His colleague nodded without interest; he didn’t have children. Instead his attention was fixed on a person halfway up the slope, which was used as a sledge run in the winter. She raised a hand and pulled her thin trench coat more tightly around her body.