Babylon

by Camilla Ceder

  A few weeks remained before he could go on holiday. Ulla was due to start her leave in June – although how anyone could need a holiday when they only worked part-time was beyond him. Usually, this generated more work for him – Ulla didn’t see her free time as a chance to do all the things she hadn’t got round to. Instead she would wander round the garden in her new, gaudy orange sundress, which she insisted on calling a ‘maxi’, making plans. Plans which involved him.

  ‘Bengt, we’ve been talking about adding a veranda to the garage for years now. Don’t you think it would be nice to get it done while you’re off work?’

  His idea of ‘nice’ was to spend his holiday on a sun lounger on the perfectly acceptable veranda they already had, dressed in his sun hat and Bermuda shorts, with his feet up and a strong drink in his hand.

  But there was no point believing that was ever going to happen. To make matters worse, his retirement was approaching at an alarming rate. He could hear Ulla already: ‘Now you’ve got all the time in the world to do exactly as you please. The garden’s going to look lovely! And I saw a really daring solution for our hallway the other day . . .’

  Bärneflod asked himself whether it might be more relaxing to carry on working for a couple more years, rather than retiring. At least in the office he had the chance to do the odd crossword when Tell wasn’t in one of his moods.

  No, if he was going to sweat his way down to Copenhagen, then it would have to be under orders and counted as overtime. He’d been in this game for a long time now, and he had learnt that you had to take responsibility for your own work–life balance. Otherwise, you were just asking to be exploited. If Bärneflod got the chance, he would have a chat with Gonzales. A kindly word of warning from an older colleague to a youngster.

  According to Renée, Gonzales had taken off in a tearing hurry. Running after Tell, no doubt. Bärneflod wasn’t happy about that. He didn’t like the idea that Gonzales, who was still wet behind the ears, clearly thought he was entitled to the boss’s attention. And, above all, Bärneflod didn’t like the fact that he had no idea what was happening on the other side of Öresund. The information being shared with the rest of the team was so sparse they could already have arrested the suspect, for all he knew.

  Bärneflod hadn’t called Tell, but he didn’t think that was his job. It was up to a team leader to communicate with his staff, and a lack of communication led to a vulnerable team. And as long as he heard nada from those hot-headed youngsters down in Copenhagen, he intended to work on the lines of enquiry he thought were worth pursuing. Rebecca Nykvist was one of them. In his opinion, nobody had looked carefully enough at Nykvist and her background. After all, she was the only one who had a decent motive up until now.

  He had already found out that Henrik Samuelsson owed quite a lot of people money. The puzzling document found on his computer had indeed been a list of debts. Bärneflod would do the rounds of the people on that list, starting with those who had been most generous. Axel Donner, Henrik’s fellow student and close friend, was one of them. Not that Bärneflod really believed that someone had murdered Samuelsson for a few thousand kronor, but it was possible that Donner might know why Henrik needed the money. What Henrik was mixed up in.

  Bärneflod was standing on Mariagatan. Stupidly, he hadn’t bothered to write down the address. He’d just glanced at it and thought he’d remember it, and now – gone. His memory wasn’t what it used to be. Still, no problem. Donner was an unusual name, and quite a few of the main doors seemed to be open.

  Bärneflod couldn’t understand why tenants of apartment blocks didn’t insist that decent security systems were installed. Bärneflod was very glad he’d fitted a burglar alarm a few years ago; no bastard was going to come into his house and . . .

  Ding!

  Because several houses on his street had been . . .

  Ding!

  He had to jump out of the way of two lads cycling along the pavement. They even had the nerve to ring their bells at him. By the time he had prepared a few well-chosen words, they had pulled up outside Götas Bar. Fancied a cold one, no doubt, in the middle of the day.

  Slackers.

  He was boiling. He had told Ulla that this was a winter jacket, but she had maintained it was chilly in the shade and the wind. And, as usual, he had done as he was told, and dressed too warmly. Since their son had stopped listening to her nagging – and thank God for that, he was an adult after all – Ulla’s ludicrous concern was directed at Bärneflod instead.

  ‘Not a breath of wind,’ he muttered, glaring at the jokers who were just dismounting.

  Axel Donner seemed surprised when he opened the door.

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Right . . . what’s this about?’

  ‘Same as last time. Unless any more of your close friends have been murdered?’

  Bärneflod cleared his throat pointedly when Donner didn’t answer. ‘Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  Donner stepped aside reluctantly, allowing Bärneflod into the small, sparsely furnished one-room apartment. The bookcase was well filled, and there were piles of books on the floor, on a small dining table and on two shabby chairs. The only other items in the room were a mattress and a TV.

  ‘Have you just moved in, or do you have something against furniture?’

  ‘No . . . I can see why you’d think that.’ Donner gave a slightly embarrassed laugh and took a couple of quick steps over to the window. He watched a tram heading down Älvsborgsgatan towards Jaegerdorff. Bärneflod couldn’t for the life of him understand the earlier assessment of this oddball: cooperative and a bit green.

  ‘I’ve put some stuff in storage while I think about what to do next.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to finish your education?’

  Axel Donner was still half-turned away from him. The lad seemed depressed. Bärneflod looked around. This place really was miserable. In the corner the mattress lay on the floor with no sheets, just a checked blanket.

  ‘Did you have to sell your things?’ Bärneflod asked, more kindly this time. He hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a poverty-stricken student.

  ‘I told you, I’ve put them in storage.’ There was a certain amount of anger in Donner’s voice, but when Bärneflod looked him in the eye there was no sign of irritation. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Possessions are overrated. We just consume and throw away; buy and throw away.’

  Bärneflod rolled his eyes as Axel Donner disappeared into the tiny kitchenette and started clattering around. What an arsehole. Out of curiosity – a virtue in any police officer – he peered into the closet to see if the idiot thought clothes were overrated too. Clearly he didn’t. Several shirts and sweaters were arranged neatly on hangers, with trousers folded tidily on the top shelf. On the floor he saw a surprisingly modern laptop case next to an old chest, on top of which several more piles of books were balanced. As Donner was still busy in the kitchenette, Bärneflod glanced at the books. They were in English, a language he couldn’t really understand.

  ‘Are you looking for something?’

  Bärneflod spun around. ‘No.’

  Axel Donner handed him a chipped glass containing something that looked and tasted like elderberry juice.

  Bärneflod downed it in one.

  ‘So, how can I help you?’

  ‘Money,’ said Bärneflod, almost managing to suppress a belch. ‘I understand Henrik Samuelsson owed you money.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘He needed to borrow cash, he didn’t have any. I had some, so I lent it to him.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, Henrik Samuelsson had a well-paid partner and a house. You were alone and . . . not very well off.’

  Donner shrugged.

  ‘I didn’t ask him what he needed the money for. He was my friend, he needed my help. I gave it.’

  ‘He owed money to a lot of other
people.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’

  ‘Did Henrik have a drug problem?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Come on, you were his best mate. You’d know about something like that.’

  ‘In that case, no he didn’t. Who says?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Who says I was his best mate?’

  ‘One thing I’m wondering, Axel . . . How long had you actually known Henrik? Did you get to know each other on the course, or before?’

  ‘On the course.’

  ‘In the archaeology department?’

  ‘The Department of Archaeology and Ancient Civilisations.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a toss about its proper name.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘You’re lying. But why?’

  ‘I’m not lying, I just told you . . . the proper name. But OK, if you’re asking where we met for the first time, it was . . .’ He seemed to be thinking back. ‘A few years ago now. We were both doing a course in RE. No, hang on. We’d seen each other at Nefertiti.’

  ‘And what the fuck is that?’

  ‘It’s a jazz club.’

  ‘And you got acquainted?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’

  ‘Started hanging out?’

  Donner shook his head firmly. ‘No. We didn’t hang out. But we ended up choosing some of the same modules, there was . . . RE, social anthropology and—’

  ‘When did you become friends?’

  ‘When we started archaeology, I suppose.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit odd? That you kept choosing the same courses just by chance but still you didn’t talk to each other?’

  ‘That’s not what I said. I said we didn’t hang out together.’

  Bärneflod stared unashamedly at Axel Donner, who squirmed.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘You.’ He changed tack. ‘You’re from the country, aren’t you? From somewhere up north?’

  ‘Is this an interrogation? If so, I have the right to remain silent.’

  Bärneflod let out a loud laugh.

  ‘You’re a funny bugger, make no mistake. I ask you questions about your dead friend, and you answer nice as pie. And then I start making small talk, and that’s when you kick off!’

  ‘I don’t see why I have to talk to you about where I come from.’

  Bärneflod straightened up.

  ‘Indeed you don’t. You don’t have to say a single bloody word to me. For the time being. But you are not leaving this place, not until I say: Now you can go. Until then, you are to be on hand, in case I or one of my colleagues wishes to bring you in for a more formal interview. And if that happens, my friend, you will have to answer all our questions.’

  Was the little bastard smirking? Yes, he was. He wasn’t a fan of the police, Bärneflod had clocked that straight away.

  ‘Thanks for the drink.’

  40

  Copenhagen

  Gonzales was on his way back through the city after a bewilderingly short meeting with his boss. Tell’s mood, upbeat and frazzled in equal measure, had proved infectious and Gonzales was now finding it extremely difficult to manoeuvre his car through the busy city centre streets.

  The tip-off about Karpov’s assistants had had the expected effect on Tell: he wanted to act on that lead immediately. He had given Gonzales a brief summary of his progress so far in the interview with Enrique Pedersen.

  ‘He must have made contact with Mads Torsen through his older sister. She’s well known to the police – she’s been on the game for years. The question is, should we ask the police here to trace those links and any possible intermediaries so that we can get a full picture? That would leave us free to concentrate on Iversen and Sørbækk.’

  The colour in Tell’s cheeks had risen with the heat and excitement. ‘We need to check out all known associates of Mads Torsen.’

  Gonzales agreed. ‘Karpov wanted to see you in person. I presume he wanted to explain why his assistants broke into Samuelsson’s house.’

  ‘You mean, why they seem to have hired Torsen and Pedersen to break in, you mean?’

  ‘Alexandr just said that his assistants knew that Samuelsson had valuable stolen goods at home.’

  Tell threw his arms wide. ‘I think we have to consider all the possibilities. Enrique Pedersen has confessed to the break-in, and said they were looking for specific objects, to order. He said he didn’t know who they were working for, and that everything had gone through Torsen. I didn’t have time to push him on this but, according to Karpov, Iversen and Sørbækk are most likely the masterminds.’

  ‘That’s what I understood, but Karpov was fairly cryptic.’

  ‘And he’s in London?’

  Gonzales looked at his watch. ‘He’s actually due back at Glyptoteket this afternoon. Any moment now, in fact.’

  ‘The alternative is to get Pedersen to confess to the murders. If he’s guilty, that is. Or see if he can point us in the direction of the murderer,’ said Tell. ‘They were definitely in the house on Kungsladugårdsgatan; we’ve got proof.’

  ‘But as far as we know they weren’t in the apartment on Linnégatan.’

  ‘No.’

  After a brief discussion they decided that Gonzales should drive over to Glyptoteket to catch up with Karpov’s assistants.

  The risk was that Iversen and Sørbækk might suspect something was wrong and do a runner, or jeopardise the investigation in some other way.

  ‘Don’t give much away at first, just talk to them about their professional relationship with Karpov,’ Tell decided. ‘You’ll be on your own, after all. I’ll talk to Dragsted about bringing them in for questioning later. That way we’ll save time. I’ll go back and talk to Pedersen again. Whoever finishes first joins the other. We’ll keep in touch by phone.’

  Gonzales had nodded, his facial muscles twitching and a hurricane brewing in his stomach. He’d hit the big time. Just him and Tell in a critical situation. They would solve the case and return to Gothenburg triumphant. Gonzales was delighted with his decision to drive down to Copenhagen; it had thrown him right into the middle of things, side by side with Tell.

  He could feel himself blushing at his own hubris. He was glad Tell couldn’t read his mind.

  There was no way of parking legally near Glyptoteket. Gonzales left his car on the pavement and hoped the Swedish police badge on his windscreen would act as a permit.

  Gonzales didn’t know whether Karpov’s assistants would be prepared to talk to him. In fact, he had absolutely no idea how he was going to conduct the conversation.

  Play it cool, Tell had said. Just check out the lie of the land. Did he mean Gonzales shouldn’t let them know that the police were on their trail? But how the hell was he supposed to ask them about their involvement in this antiques business without giving the game away? It was impossible, surely.

  The receptionist was unable to help him locate either Iversen or Sørbækk. However, one of the guards thought he knew where they worked, and fifteen minutes later Gonzales found himself outside the door of an underground room, in a wing of the museum closed to the public.

  ‘Michael Gonzales, Gothenburg police. I’d like to ask you a few questions with regard to a case involving valuable stolen goods.’

  He thought it was a relatively innocuous introduction.

  Knud Iversen was older than Gonzales had expected – perhaps the title ‘assistant’ had misled him – and seemed to hesitate before stepping back to let Gonzales in. He was wearing black jeans and a short-sleeved pale-blue shirt. His face was large and square with a prominent hook nose and deep-set eyes; he was tanned, with unevenly coloured, acne-scarred skin.

  The storeroom wasn’t very big, and didn’t look the way Gonzales had imagined. Broad shelves lined three of the walls from floor to ceiling and contained labelled cardboard boxes.

  Iversen closed a drawer in the bank of filing cabinets propped against the other wall,
as if he wanted to hide its contents from Gonzales. Then he stood motionless.

  ‘Sit down.’ Gonzales pointed to a chair. ‘I believe you have a colleague, Dorte Sørbækk?’

  ‘She’s off sick today.’

  ‘OK.’

  Gonzales thought for a moment.

  ‘We’re investigating an incident which took place in Gothenburg on May 7th. I can’t go into detail, but a number of clues lead to Glyptoteket and . . . other places in Copenhagen. We’ve been in touch with the Danish police.’

  ‘May 7th?’

  At that moment they heard footsteps in the corridor. With a barely perceptible shift in his posture, Knud Iversen braced himself.

  There was a hesitant knock at the door. Gonzales went to open it, but stopped and spun around when the man behind him shouted, ‘No! Wait!’

  It was over in seconds. Gonzales had no time to react before Iversen was on his feet. The door opened and Iversen shoved past Karpov, who lost his balance and fell backwards in the confusion.

  ‘What the . . .’

  Gonzales came to his senses and made an impressive leap over the professor. Something crunched beneath his right shoe.

  ‘Stop, you bastard!’

  He was halfway up the stairs when a door slammed shut in front of him. It was locked.

  ‘Open this fucking door! Give me . . .’

  Karpov was whimpering; he groped for his glasses and found them broken by his side just as Gonzales snatched the pass hanging on a cord around his neck. When the door leading to the upper level opened, after long seconds of fiddling, the staircase was deserted.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Gonzales took the stairs up to the next door in a couple of long strides. He found himself in one of the exhibition halls. Having pushed a bewildered family to one side, he reached the foyer.

  ‘Iversen!’

  Gonzales stood panting on the steps in front of Dante Alighieri’s statue, resting his hands on his knees.

  If Gonzales had intended not to give the game away, he had failed miserably. But he had extracted a confession of sorts in less than five minutes; you could hardly interpret Iversen’s behaviour in any other way.