Master, Liar, Traitor, Friend: a Leo Junker case

by Christoffer Carlsson (Translated by Michael Gallagher)

  ‘Bondesson asked if he could call back later, that he had a visitor and the caller was ringing at a very bad time, but it must still have been urgent because after all that they still spoke for some time. And Bondesson mentioned a name,’ the councillor added, quietly, before slowly allowing the name to fall from his lips.

  Charles made a note of that, too.

  ‘I recognise it,’ he said.

  ‘He’s been managing director at ASEA for the last few years.’

  ‘How do you know it was him?’

  ‘It must have been him, or at least it is certainly reasonable to assume that it was. Bondesson has been working closely with him to seal a new contract between ASEA and West Germany. They couldn’t agree on a price last time around, you might remember?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ said Charles.

  ‘Lichter also heard The Firm and those bastards in Berlin. Then the call ended. When Lichter came out of the shower, the first thing that happened was that Bondesson screamed at him. If Lichter ever breathed a word of what he’d heard to anyone, he wouldn’t see the sunrise the next day.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Charles.

  The man adjusted his position in the seat next to him, then felt around for the wheel that adjusts the seat back. Having found it, he reclined the seat a few notches, put his head against the headrest, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Of course, I asked whether he had done so, whether he’d said anything to anyone. He hadn’t. But he was pretty fearless, Lichter, although he wasn’t stupid. Rather than spouting off, he did a little research. I have no idea of the details, but someone in his position has unexpected contacts, as you might imagine, often rather powerful ones. He told me that The Firm almost certainly referred to the Stasi, and the man he had sold sex to, Bondesson, was one of their agents.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Charles, again.

  ‘I know.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That was all. A few days later, Lichter was reported missing.’

  Charles looked out over the city that spread out beneath them, its many houses with their small windows. He could see the roof of his workplace. Being on leave seemed odd.

  He reviewed his notes, trying to tie them together, trying to see a story.

  ‘You mentioned that you could see no reason for Lichter to lie. I can see several.’

  The man opened his eyes.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Boasting, seeming important, for example. As though he knew things.’

  The politician shakes his head.

  ‘He wasn’t that sort of person.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Ted never drew attention to himself. That was one of the things I liked about him. He was who he was. But yes, he could have been lying.’

  Charles looked at him, then at his notes again.

  ‘Thank you for this. It might not lead anywhere, but I will check these details.’

  ‘Things like this usually lead all the way to the end,’ the councillor said as he opened the car door. ‘The question is whether we really want to find out what’s waiting there.’

  JUNE 2014

  The air inside the meeting room is still. Davidsson gasps, grimaces, and sneezes so powerfully that his face shifts from pallid pink to red. Åhlund smirks in front of me.

  ‘That tear in your lip,’ he says. ‘I think that needs stitches.’

  ‘Can’t we tape it?’

  ‘We can try.’

  ‘And something for my ribs.’ I swallow another little gulp of blood. ‘Preferably morphine.’

  Åhlund hesitates before he returns to the first-aid kit.

  ‘So, we have a suspect,’ Tove says, looking at Davidsson. ‘Can you tell us anything about the circumstances?’

  ‘Well, I told you that I was going to talk to my friend Dan, who knows everything about everyone. One nosy bastard, but otherwise a good bloke. He’s been a big help before, and had it not been for his occasional habit of driving a car despite not having a driving licence, he would probably have been more of a blessing than a curse around here. Anyway.’ He stands by the whiteboard, where Levin’s name and ID number are visible alongside the photograph of the unknown man in the car. ‘What we knew yesterday was that the victim is from Stockholm, but that he lived here for a little over nine years, from 1971 to 1980. At that time, he lives on Alvavägen with Eva Alderin, who soon becomes Eva Levin, and they have a daughter together, in spring 1972.’

  He draws a horizontal line, originating from Levin’s name, then writes Eva Levin (Alderin). From the middle of the line, he draws another, vertical, and writes Marika Levin.

  ‘What my friend Dan tells me is that there’s a fourth person in the picture. We just don’t know how exactly.’ Above the Levin family, Davidsson draws a diagonal line, and writes the name Daniel Bredström. ‘Who, then, is Daniel Bredström? A little biography might be in order, for our recently arrived colleague.’

  ‘Much appreciated,’ I say.

  Åhlund finds a pill bottle, reads the label before shaking out one of the pills. It’s small, oval, like an ordinary painkiller.

  ‘These are really prescription only,’ he says. ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘Just give it here.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what’s in it?’

  I shake my head. My neck is killing me. I put the pill in my mouth. It’s slippery, and glides down easily.

  ‘Daniel Bredström, born October 1950, which makes him sixty-three. Raised here in Bruket. After military service, he got a metalwork apprenticeship with Erkensjö’s, which used to be over by the junkyard. After two years, they take him on, and he works there until 1975, when he starts his own business. The company repairs and repaints cars, and goes straight onto the scrapheap in 1980 when we notice that his bookkeeping isn’t up to scratch, that he’s had occasional dealings with the shady characters of the day, and that he’s been handling stolen goods. In early 1981, he’s convicted for the fencing and gets a huge tax bill, declares himself bankrupt. He starts drinking, and gets done for assault in 1982 after a scuffle down at Brukets Bar, and he’s then sentenced to a year’s imprisonment. It’s all downhill from there. He goes into rehab a few times, but it seems to be mainly for the sake of appearances, and to make sure he keeps his benefits. Over the years, he’s been cautioned for possession, of both drugs and illegally acquired firearms — including a musket and a revolver — buying sex, two further assault charges, one aggravated, carrying an offensive weapon, and assaulting a police officer.’

  Davidsson clears his throat. Åhlund dabs my lip with surgical spirit, making my eyes water. It feels like it’s burning. Tove pulls a notebook from her bag, starts writing in it.

  ‘By now, Bredström is probably too old to cause too much trouble and is living a relatively law-abiding life. He’s been medically retired for a few years now. The booze has remained his best friend, and there’s not much left of his liver. He lives up in the woods down one of the gravel tracks by Vårmyntan, is only ever seen at the alcohol store — and once that’s gone, we’ll probably never see him round here again.’

  Åhlund is carefully taping my split lip. I don’t know if it’s going to help, but straightaway everything feels pretty good, until I realise that it’s actually just the morphine beginning to take effect.

  ‘At the end of May, Levin shows up in Bruket again, after thirty-four years,’ Davidsson goes on. ‘And when it comes to our victim, there are a number of troubling indicators that would seem to point to Bredström.’

  Davidsson writes a 1 alongside Bredström’s name on the whiteboard.

  ‘First of all, and this is Dan’s own witness statement, Levin ended up behind Bredström in the queue at the alcohol store three days ago, on Wednesday the eighteenth. The day he died.’ Davidsson explains. ‘With less than twelve hours left to live, Levin is buying a half-bottle of scotch, whi
le Bredström is getting himself a crate of beer. Levin, presumably, is treating himself to a little midsummer tipple, while Bredström is probably just buying his daily dose. Dan knows this, since he was also standing in the same queue, behind Levin.’ Davidsson takes a deep breath, and looks like he could do with a glass of water. ‘Neither Levin nor Bredström notice who they’re standing next to, until Bredström puts down the little next customer bar on the till belt. That’s when the men notice each other, and, according to Dan, their exchange was not a long one, and what was said was anything but warm.’

  He writes 18/6 alongside the 1, and adds, L&B meet.

  ‘Then comes Dan’s turn to pay, so he doesn’t know what happened for the subsequent minute or so. But when he comes out of the shop, he sees Levin and Bredström standing on the corner by Aspgren’s service store. They’re talking to each other — or rather, Bredström is talking at Levin. Agitated and intense, that was how Dan described it. Bredström even went as far as poking Levin in the chest with his finger. Bredström then turns on his heels and walks off, quickly. Levin goes into Aspgren’s and Dan cycles home.’

  Davidsson studies his own notes and adds a word.

  1 18/6 L&B meet. Threat?

  Åhlund has finished on my lip, and he closes the green bag.

  ‘Those pills you had in there,’ I say. ‘Can I have the bottle?’

  ‘No, but you can have a few.’ He shakes five of them out. ‘You ought to see a doctor,’ he continues, before standing up and turning to Davidsson. ‘You want me to stay?’

  ‘No, go down to the cells and check out the drunks. Most of them should have sobered up by now.’

  I put the pills in my jacket pocket, and notice the blood on my Prince T-shirt. I need to change tops.

  Åhlund leaves the room. Davidsson sneezes again.

  ‘Okay,’ Davidsson continues, his voice thick. ‘That was the first thing.’ He adds a 2 underneath the 1. ‘Secondly.’ He places the photo of the man in the car next to the number. ‘The car. Its most recent known keeper is Bredström.’

  ‘What?’ I say, causing strain across my lip. ‘This is a man living on benefits, spending his money on crates of beer, yet he can afford a car like that?’

  ‘We suspect that it is stolen, and that he’s been keeping it in his garage in order to sell it later. The fact that it has false plates would point to that. Anyway,’ he says, ‘Bredström leads a relatively law-abiding life. His nearest neighbour lives a couple of hundred metres further down the same gravel track, and he’s seen Bredström with the car on at least two occasions. I spoke to the neighbour, Ylva Larsson, myself, and she didn’t hesitate at all when shown the photograph. “You can tell there,” she said,’ Davidsson says, tapping the photo. ‘“If you squint, you can even see that it’s him.” Which brings me onto my third point.’

  He adds a 3 underneath the 2 and pauses for a second before writing appearance.

  I glance over at Tove and wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking: that Davidsson is avoiding the word description because he’s not sure how to spell it.

  ‘If we assume that the person in the picture is our suspect, he and Bredström certainly look alike.’

  ‘But that picture,’ Tove says. ‘It’s extremely blurred. It’s impossible to make out any features in it.’

  ‘By a process of elimination, it is possible to get somewhere at least. The man in the picture certainly doesn’t have dark hair, and neither does Bredström. Even if his age is difficult to establish, he doesn’t look particularly young, and Bredström is sixty-three.’ Davidsson throws his hands up. ‘And the man in the picture is sitting in a car that Bredström had access to, according to Ylva Larsson.’

  ‘I’m guessing that Ylva Larsson didn’t notice the car’s registration, though?’

  ‘She didn’t. So we can’t be completely sure that it is the same vehicle, not least because this car,’ he nods towards the picture on the whiteboard, ‘has false plates. What we do know is that we haven’t yet found the car in the picture.’

  ‘It’s not at Bredström’s, then?’ I say.

  ‘Not right now. The garage is empty.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’ve been there. I went to see him.’

  ‘You didn’t mention that,’ says Tove, surprised.

  ‘I asked him where it was, and, of course, at first he had no idea what I meant, what car I was talking about, or anything else. He’d never owned a car like that. But in the end, he crumbled.’ Davidsson half smirks. ‘He claimed to have owned the car, but that someone had stolen it. Presumably, he had parked it somewhere after the murder, set light to it, and got rid of it that way — what do I know? There was also a yellow sack truck in the garage. Naturally, we need the proper paperwork in order to examine it more closely, and it probably won’t be significant, given how common they are, but make a note of it. There might have been a trolley like it at Levin’s place.’

  ‘No computer, though, or phone, or printer?’ Tove asks.

  ‘Not in the garage. Either they’re somewhere else in the house or he’s already sold them. Who knows what he’s had time to do since the eighteenth of June? That ties in with my fourth point.’ Davidsson now adds a 4 under the 3, writes Alibi. ‘Bredström hasn’t got an alibi for the time Levin was shot. He claims to have been down to the alcohol store and then afterwards to have just been sitting at home watching telly and drinking beer for the rest of the day as well as the evening, which no one can corroborate. He didn’t call anyone, meet anyone — nothing. Not only that,’ Davidsson says as he writes a 5, ‘he probably has access to firearms. Finally, he has a history of blacking out when he gets seriously angry, and when he does, he seems to not really know what’s going on. His most recent conviction for assault is only a couple of years old. Safe to say that he has a violent nature and that he doesn’t really know when to stop.’

  Davidsson now adds the 6 and writes violent nature, before pressing the top onto the pen and putting it on the table, then studying the board and admiring his handiwork.

  ‘So,’ Tove says. ‘You’ve already spoken to him.’

  ‘I let him think that the stolen car itself was the main focus of our inquiries, and that I just wanted to kill two birds with one stone by establishing his whereabouts on the evening of the eighteenth.’ He turns to me. ‘We often work like that here. We start by checking in with the usual suspects. So it’s not the first time he’s had a visit like that from us. I’ve put Brandén on surveillance duties — he’s in an unmarked car on the gravel track between Bredström’s place and Ylva Larsson’s, so he’s not going anywhere unnoticed.’

  ‘Had he heard about Levin’s death?’ Tove asks.

  ‘He had. He didn’t exactly seem to be in mourning either.’

  I study the names on the board: Levin, Eva, Daniel Bredström. There’s some unnamed connection between them, something more. The names are nothing more than waymarkers in a missing story.

  ‘Could it be that Eva and this Daniel —’ Tove says, but is interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Without waiting for a response, Åhlund opens the door and pokes his head in.

  ‘This car,’ he says. ‘What was the registration?’

  ‘FOR 528,’ says Tove.

  ‘We just had a call.’ Åhlund looks down at the note in his hand. ‘It’s been found in the woods behind the graveyard.’

  Davidsson smiles broadly.

  ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘Torched,’ Åhlund adds, unsure whether that detail has any bearing on the matter.

  Last year, Gabriel Birck had spent Midsummer’s day pleasantly hung-over in bed, with only Last Exit to Brooklyn for company. It’s a book whose characters’ life stories are far from cheerful, yet they still pale in comparison to the life that Marika Alderin has lived.

  She is forty-two years old and
was taken into care on numerous occasions before finally being sentenced to secure psychiatric treatment, following a failed murder attempt in central Stockholm some nine years ago.

  Sitting at his computer in his office, Birck alternates between gulping down juice to get his vitamins and coffee to combat his tiredness, as he clicks through the various open registers.

  She was born Marika Levin, but in 1990 she became Marika Alderin, according to the tax authority’s records. She took her mother’s name. In several of the registers, that is the name you have to start from in order to find what you’re looking for, and even then you find only splinters of a life: an address here, a tax return there — no more.

  He leaves his office, heads for St Göran’s.

  ‘I don’t know if you remember what psychiatric care was like in the Eighties,’ Plit says, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Birck in one of the rooms at St Göran’s, reading Marika’s notes. ‘I was barely born myself.’

  ‘They dished out pills all over the place, thinking that was the solution to all young people’s problems, and that it didn’t have any unforeseen consequences.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Plit says. ‘This part of the record is always just an outline, and for people like her it always will be. There are unexplained gaps in her life that won’t ever be filled.’

  In spring 1985, Marika Levin started taking anti-anxiety medication to treat panic attacks. From a very young age, the journal continues, she has been a psychiatrically unstable child. Her father is now of the opinion that the situation has become untenable.

  In 1990, after five years of anti-anxiety tablets, she changed her name whilst also having developed a regular drug habit, which soon lead to her being put in custody under young-offender legislation. Afterwards, she was released again and seems to flit between various towns in central Sweden: Norrköping, Uppsala, Enköping, Sala, Västerås.

  In the year 2000, at the age of twenty-eight, Marika Alderin walked into the social-services office in Nyköping and told them how she had started hearing voices. She says that amongst other things, she hears her mother’s voice. Mother has been dead for twenty years (LEVIN, EVA).