Free Falling, As If in a Dream

by Free Falling, As If in a Dream (retail) (epub)

  The seafood and suntan were going better than the assignment. Escorted by Hans and Hans, they visited countless addresses in Palma and the surrounding smaller towns and villages, where they might possibly find Hedberg or perhaps someone who could give information about where he was.

  The first address they visited was the one that Hedberg had provided to the Swedish authorities the last time he emitted a sign of life. Over seven years before, when he applied for a new passport. The address he provided proved to be a simple boarding establishment on Calle Asunción, in old Palma. The man in reception only shook his head when their Spanish assistants started asking him about Hedberg.

  Bars, hotels, brothels, leasing firms, brokers and agents for all conceivable services. The usual squealers, informants, petty crooks, and the occasional ordinary person who might possibly have run into Hedberg. All simply shook their heads.

  Only after five days, on Friday afternoon the fifth of October, did they finally get a tip that was worth the name.

  92

  As soon as Holt lifted off from Arlanda, Lewin suddenly had a lot of help from an unexpected direction. When he arrived on Monday morning he found a copy of his own list of fifteen points. It was lying on top of a considerable pile of papers. Plus a brief greeting from his colleague Rogersson: “From the Boss. Rogge.” From the date he realized that the papers had been on his desk for over twenty-four hours, while in his usual solitude he had survived yet another empty weekend. I might just as well have been at work, he thought.

  After another hour his colleague Falk knocked on his door and handed over a list of the transactions that had been made on Birgitta Hedberg’s credit card during the past year. An ordinary Visa card that she used even more seldom than her home phone. One line was underlined in red. In early March, seven months earlier and a month after she had renewed her passport, she had booked a trip to Spain and paid with the card. A week with hotel and half-board. But not to Mallorca, to the Spanish Sun Coast. Either Hedberg has moved or else he simply chose to meet her there, thought Lewin.

  The thought that she might have gone there on her own initiative did not even occur to him. Birgitta Hedberg is not the type to waste a week of her life swimming, sunbathing, or socializing with people she doesn’t know. She wouldn’t do it even just to relax, thought Jan Lewin. He realized that as soon as he saw the expression in her eyes on her passport photo.

  “Thanks,” said Jan Lewin.

  “No problem,” Falk replied, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s more coming in a while.”

  “Before you go,” said Lewin. “Just so we don’t duplicate our efforts unnecessarily.”

  “I’m listening,” said Falk, without sitting down.

  “I’ll make sure our colleagues down there get the information about her trip,” said Lewin. “Ask that they check whether Hedberg possibly flew from Palma at the same time. What else might I do that you aren’t already doing or have already arranged for me?” said Lewin, nodding amiably to soften what otherwise might be perceived as criticism.

  “I think you can forget about that,” said Falk. “We’ve already checked it, with the help of our colleagues at Europol. No Hedberg on the relevant plane from and to Palma, which doesn’t necessarily mean a thing because we’re talking about Spanish domestic flights and their procedures. What his sis was doing on vacation I also think you can forget about, simply because that will take too much time. Think about her cell phone instead,” said Falk. “If you have any good ideas about how we can get the number.”

  “If she even has one,” said Lewin, sounding as if he was thinking out loud. Although of course she does, he thought. He understood that from the expression in her eyes.

  “She does,” said Falk. “I’ve seen it myself. Most recently this morning.”

  “Do tell,” said Lewin. Now we’re moving, he thought.

  “You probably have it in your e-mail,” said Falk, looking at the clock for some reason. “Our colleague Wiklander is supposed to be sending you a memo.”

  Now things are really moving, thought Lewin.

  Wiklander was the top boss of the National Bureau’s intelligence department, the so-called CIS squad. For more than twenty years he had been Johansson’s confidant, and most of all he was known for his discretion. Wiklander gathered information about the sort of things that were of interest to the police. About high and low, and the higher the better. From everyone who had anything to offer, and if there was anyone who wanted something in return, it was crucial to show that you had very good reasons. Otherwise it was Wiklander and his staff of analysts who decided how the knowledge they were sitting on would benefit their colleagues, regardless of whether they had asked for it or not. Wiklander was a man according to Johansson’s taste. A person he could sit and talk with quite openly about the most sensitive matters, because he always knew that the conversation had never taken place, if the wrong person were to ask.

  Lewin had apparently passed through the eye of the needle. At least where finding out the number to Kjell Göran Hedberg’s sister’s cell phone was concerned. It’s always something, thought Lewin, printing out the e-mail from Wiklander, because he preferred to read something he could hold in his hand and make notes on.

  The external surveillance of Birgitta Hedberg had already started on Friday the week before, carried out by a group from the bureau’s own detective squad under the command of Rogersson, even though he really worked in homicide. By Saturday morning they had already found a suitable “nest.” It was a small apartment across the street from Birgitta Hedberg’s residence and offered a full view into her bedroom, dining room, and kitchen. An ideal nest that was being sublet by an aspiring female police officer in her last semester at the police academy, who was completely unacquainted with Birgitta Hedberg, and obviously had no idea why they were interested in her unknown neighbor. She was burning with enthusiasm at the chance to help her future colleagues. At the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, besides.

  By Saturday afternoon she had signed the usual confidentiality agreements and for the time being was being lodged at a hotel in the vicinity and got a decent gratuity for the inconvenience. Then Rogersson fixed his eyes on her and told her sternly not only to keep her mouth shut but also to stay away. Not only from her apartment, but from the whole area.

  While Rogersson took care of the aspiring police officer and the judicial and social details, his detectives settled into her apartment and got their equipment in place.

  “External surveillance from premises as per description above was initiated at 14:00 hours, Saturday September 29,” Wiklander noted in the first point of his surveillance memo, and by Saturday evening things had already started happening.

  After having a simple dinner at six-thirty, Birgitta Hedberg disappeared into her living room to watch TV. Not because she could be seen—her living room was on the “wrong” side of the building—but rather because her TV could be heard by means of the microphone aimed at her kitchen window right across the street. However that might be, considering that parliament was still struggling with the issue of whether to approve the use of so-called concealed monitoring by the police.

  Regardless of which, first she watched the news on TV4. Then she returned to the kitchen. Made coffee, took a bag of cookies from the pantry, and after ten minutes—when the coffee was ready—took both coffee and cookies with her and disappeared in the direction of her living room. Then surfed between various channels for over fifteen minutes before she finally started watching a Swedish movie on TV2 that started at eight o’clock.

  When that was over she changed channels and watched the late news on TV4. Then she turned off the TV in the middle of the sign-off from the news program. At exactly thirty-seven minutes past ten she again became visible in her kitchen. Now in a white terry-cloth bathrobe, hair let down, without makeup, teeth brushed and ready for a night’s rest. The sensitive microphone even captured the sound of tooth brushing and a medicine cabinet being closed, open
ed, and closed again. Of the water she ran in the sink, and three minutes later the flushing of the toilet.

  On the other hand, the details of what she’d been doing on the toilet were unclear because any natural human sounds, the use of toilet paper and the like, were drowned out by the sound from the faucet in the sink that was still running. Then that too fell silent, and less than a minute later, thirty-seven minutes past ten that is, Birgitta Hedberg came back into the kitchen. With the coffee mug in her right hand and the bag of cookies in her left. After putting the cookies back in the pantry, she rinsed the coffee mug under running water, placed it in the dishwasher, sat at the kitchen table, and started working the crossword puzzle in that day’s Svenska Dagbladet. After writing and erasing for over half an hour, she put down the pen, sighed with a bad-tempered expression, folded up the newspaper, got up, and disappeared in the direction of the hall.

  “Excruciatingly exciting,” observed Inspector Joakim Eriksson with the bureau’s detective squad as he stood behind the camera under cover of darkness in their little nest.

  “It hardly gets better than this,” agreed his female colleague, Inspector Linda Martinez.

  At the same moment Birgitta Hedberg came back into the kitchen with a red cell phone in her right hand.

  “There it is,” Eriksson observed as his motor camera with telephoto lens whirred into action and took the obligatory still pictures at a velocity of ten pictures per second.

  Birgitta Hedberg then turned off the light in the kitchen, went straight to her bedroom, turned on the lamp on her nightstand beside the bed, placed the red phone by the bed lamp, turned off the ceiling light, went over to the window, and pulled down the shade. Ten minutes later she also turned off the bed lamp. The room behind the shade was in darkness. That didn’t matter, because Martinez had already redirected the microphone toward her bedroom window.

  From the audio recording it appeared that she had already fallen asleep within fifteen minutes. That she snored a few times during the night, audibly relieved the pressure in her bowels shortly after three o’clock, and woke up three hours later. When she pulled up the shade at six-fifteen in the morning she had already put on her bathrobe, and when she took the cell phone from the nightstand to put it in her pocket, officer Falk was already there and could see it with his own eyes.

  During Sunday the same cell phone had been observed on another three occasions, and according to the memo that Lewin was reading, by Monday morning the team was already clear about her peculiar cell phone procedures. She did not seem to use it for her own calls. Nor did anyone call her. At the same time she made sure that it was always nearby. When she left her residence on Sunday to do a few errands on two occasions, she had it with her in her handbag. When she was at home it was in her pocket or near her. Apparently she made sure it was always charged. It was an ordinary, standard model Nokia supplied with a simple red plastic case. One of the most common cell phones in Sweden, but less common in Spain, and so far so good. What remained was to find out the cell phone number, so as to find her brother. If Jan Lewin was interested in tactical discussions in connection with this cell phone surveillance, he was welcome in Johansson’s office at ten o’clock.

  Two minutes ago, thought Jan Lewin. Getting up he straightened his tie, put on his jacket, and turned off his computer.

  In Johansson’s office the atmosphere was high-pitched. Johansson, Wiklander, Rogersson, Falk, Martinez, and Eriksson were there, and even before Lewin opened the door he was met by happy laughter from the other side.

  “Sit yourself down, Jan,” said Johansson before Lewin could apologize for his late arrival. “Have some coffee,” he said, pointing to the tray on the table. “But be careful with the cookies. Linda just told us about the risks of eating too many cookies. Especially before going to bed. Increases audible intestinal activity in an unpleasant manner.”

  Linda Martinez, thought Lewin, nodding at her. Same age as Lisa Mattei, just as street smart as Lisa Mattei was wise. As an investigator in the field, there were few like her. Which perhaps was lucky, considering everything he’d heard about her escapades, thought Jan Lewin, sitting down.

  “Okay,” said Johansson. “The Hedberg woman has a cell phone. Almost everything suggests she has it for only one reason. To keep in contact with her dear brother. How do we get the number? Preferably immediately. Give me some bright-eyed suggestions.”

  “If we only want to get hold of her number, I can arrange that during the day,” said Linda Martinez.

  “How?” asked Johansson.

  “By stealing it,” said Martinez, shrugging her shoulders. “As soon as she goes out I can lift her cell, and in the worst case I’ll have to grab her handbag too. But considering what I think you really want I would definitely advise against that. But, sure.” Martinez threw out her hands in an expressive gesture to show her goodwill.

  “There is a completely legal possibility too,” Lewin objected with a cautious throat clearing.

  “What’s that?” said Johansson, who suddenly looked rather suspicious.

  “That the prosecutor lets us bring her in and confiscate her cell phone.” Like all normal police do, a hundred times out of a hundred, he thought.

  “No way, José,” said Johansson, shaking his head. “If we let Linda steal it straight up and down, and considering how she looks these days she could pass for an addict who just snatched one more bag, then the Hedberg woman is probably going to call her brother anyway and tell him she’s lost her cell. By means of some other phone that we aren’t aware of either.

  “It’s the same thing with your solution, Lewin,” he continued. “As soon as she gets the chance she’s going to warn him. Then we’re definitely cooked, considering that we’ve brought her in. Besides, we can’t rule out that they have some established security procedure we don’t know about. That she calls at regular intervals to confirm that everything is calm.”

  Although of course there are no differences otherwise. Purely legally and such, and never in Johansson’s world, thought Jan Lewin.

  The latter—some kind of security procedure—Wiklander had already thought about. For that reason at that very moment his co-workers were installing a special mobile monitoring device aimed at her residence. If her cell phone emitted a sign of life the monitoring device was ready. Likewise if Hedberg made contact with her. At the same time the problem was apparent. They were short on time. Assume they only communicated once a week. Or even worse. Once a month. Or never, if there was no particular reason to do so.

  They could also forget about pinging cell phone towers. Because they didn’t have her number, that was practically hopeless. Monitoring calls from cell phones in the vicinity of her residence made to recipients on Mallorca—if that was even where Hedberg was—wasn’t a meaningful way to search for the number either. The apartment on Andersvägen was wall-to-wall with the north approach to Stockholm and denser cell phone traffic than in that area could hardly be found in the whole country.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Johansson interrupted. “What do we do?”

  “If we can just call from her cell phone to one of our special cell surveillance numbers, we can get her number directly. Then we can start searching for what numbers she has called. Our computers are going to have a hard time of it, considering the extent of traffic. If we can get a certain day or a certain time too that would be a great help.”

  “So you say,” said Johansson.

  “In that case I propose the fifteenth of August of this year,” said Lewin.

  “Why then?” asked Falk.

  “It’s his birthday,” said Lewin. “I think she’s the type who’s meticulous about calling her older brother and only relative on his birthday. Even if he might prefer that she didn’t.”

  “I think so too,” Johansson agreed. Every thinking colleague must understand that, he thought, glaring at Falk.

  “If we ping from the relevant cell towers for the fifteenth of August this year we’ll be
sitting with tens of thousands of calls,” said Wiklander. “Considering all calls made from cars en route to and from Arlanda, thousands of them are going to be calls abroad. It’s going to take months to follow them up. We’ve got to have her number. Otherwise it won’t work. If we just have the number, we’ll manage it in a few hours tops. Assuming she’s called, of course.”

  Birgitta Hedberg was a disability pension recipient and as such she had the right to home services. And she’d had run-ins with those same home services since the first day. The current controversy was over a promised major cleaning that had not yet happened. The primary reason was that the majority of those who worked with home services would have rather quit than set foot in Birgitta Hedberg’s apartment.

  Wiklander tugged on a few of the usual threads. Almost immediately he found a colleague at the Solna police who had a wife who worked as a supervisor with the municipal home services. Discretion a matter of honor. Already by Tuesday afternoon the colleague’s wife had called Ms. Hedberg and reported that they could initiate the promised major cleaning as soon as the following morning.

  High time, according to Birgitta Hedberg, and she could receive the long-promised help herself as early as eight o’clock the following morning. Then she hung up without a word of thanks.

  Hope the old bag gets life, thought the Solna colleague’s wife, because her dear husband’s involvement in this particular home services matter gave her some hope on that score.

  “Well, well then,” said Birgitta Hedberg for some reason when on Wednesday morning she opened the door to her apartment and scrutinized Linda Martinez. The same Martinez who nonetheless did her best to play the role of submissive immigrant in the service of Swedish Cleanliness.

  For the next two days Linda Martinez scurried around like a white tornado in Birgitta Hedberg’s three-room apartment. Swept and scrubbed so that even Cinderella in the classic Disney film looked like a real shirker in comparison. On the third day she was then granted all the favor that someone like Birgitta Hedberg could offer someone like her. First she was allowed to go along with her to do the shopping and carry all the bags. Then she stood outside the bank and waited while her new matron did errands that didn’t concern someone like her. Finally they went to a nearby bakery where Birgitta Hedberg bought two Napoleon pastries. Once back in the apartment Martinez first had to help with lunch. Then set out the coffee. Two cups this time, and a pastry for each.