“Well, do you?”
“Yes, I trust you.”
“Do you think I should trust you?” Walter asked, with a searching look at Morell.
Morell forced out a laugh. “What’s going on?”
“Does the name Eilert Palmryd mean anything to you?”
Morell shrugged. “Not much.”
“Yet he’s one of the key characters in today’s story.”
“Yes, but that’s not printed in the newspaper,” Morell said. “How do you know that, by the way?”
“Didn’t you and Palmryd both graduate from the police academy at the same time?”
Morell scratched his neck uneasily. “Where are you going with this, Walter?”
“Were you in the same class as Palmryd?”
“Yes, I was in the same class as Eilert Palmryd, but he was much older than the rest of us.”
“He went up in smoke.”
“Up in smoke?”
“Yes, he went directly to SÄPO.”
“I know nothing about that.”
“Didn’t you also have a second job at the National Properties Board many years ago?”
“Yes,” Morell said. “I think I know where you’re going with this. You want to link me to Palmryd, Örebro and, perhaps, even to Martin Borg?”
Walter remained silent.
“Do you really think I’m involved in some secret organization of fanatics?” he continued.
Walter looked at Morell, still disbelievingly.
“Let me say this,” Morell said, standing up. “We’re on the same side as we were during the Olof Palme investigation. You have my word on that. I know that you want to catch these madmen, as do I. But that doesn’t mean you can step on as many toes as you please.”
“You’ve always had a weak spot for right-wing politics,” Walter said, draining his cup.
“Not as much as you fell for the left-wingers and their revolution,” Morell retorted, smiling faintly.
Walter stared at Morell for a moment.
“Let SÄPO and NBI handle it,” Morell said finally. “You and I don’t have long to go to our pensions. Some matters just have to run their course. There’s nothing you can do to change it.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Walter said. “Changing the subject, how are you getting along with the bank account in England. Have you located the homeless person?”
“No, he’s vanished.”
“I understand.”
“I really don’t think that you do,” said Morell. “See you around at the police station?”
“You can bet on it,” Walter said, shaking Morell’s hand.
After Morell had left the bakery, Walter sat for a long time. Morell hadn’t told him the whole story. Walter could read his old partner like an open book and he was definitely hiding something. It didn’t have to mean that he was part of the conspiracy which had resulted in the murder of the scientists and Borg. Perhaps he was onto something that he could not talk about. It would never be disclosed whether or not SÄPO had succeeded in finding those responsible. The outcome would be covered up, as had so much else in the past.
Jörgen Blad’s digging would only lead him to a humiliating dead end. The only one who could have shed any light on the story was Eilert Palmryd. But he had taken the secret with him to the grave.
Sitting around the table in the largest meeting room at County CID were Cederberg, Jonsson and Jonna. This was Walter’s entire team and they watched their boss silently as he played with his pen distractedly.
“According to a witness in the skyscraper, a man left the building at about the same time that Leo Brageler was shot,” Cederberg began.
“It’s not our case any more,” said Walter.
“Just wanted to tell you what I’d heard.”
“Gossip is of no use to us.”
Silence.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jonna said.
Immediately, Cederberg gave her a reproving look.
“It’s about what Leo Brageler said. That they had managed to clone a human’s inner consciousness. It was too far-fetched to be true. Then, it usually is.”
“No, it’s usually not.” Walter said, uninterested.
“Still, he did say that they had tried the procedure on a woman. Colette something.”
Walter murmured his confirmation.
“Who would be most keen to stop such a project?”
“The rest of humanity,” Cederberg said. “Who the fuck wants to meet themselves in another body?”
Jonsson chuckled and Cederberg joined him in a hearty fit of laughter.
Walter looked at the clock. “You know what, let’s go home now. Take the rest of the day off.”
Cederberg looked at the clock on the wall. “There’s still an hour left to go on the shift. But I guess it’s all right just this once.”
Jonna opened the cookbook she had been given by her mother as a Christmas present three years ago. It was barely used and she flipped through the pages for a long while, looking at pictures of different Mexican dishes. Finally, she decided on a Mexican stew with rice. Lots of vegetables and very spicy.
Perfect. The theme was not totally irrelevant, considering tonight’s guest. She wrote down the ingredients and took the bus to the Fältöversten shopping centre to buy the groceries. Her pantry and fridge were unusually bare, so it was just as well to fill them up with a shopping spree. She also managed to visit the government-controlled off-licence and bought three bottles of red wine in the two-hundred-crowns price range. Despite her excitement about the evening’s occasion, she thought about Leo Brageler. He was finally reunited with his family and hopefully they were together and at peace.
Perhaps not. Jonna was not in the least religious. God and Jesus were like cartoon characters to her and, for her, heaven and paradise were here and now. More specifically, at the queue to the taxi rank, where she was waiting.
Tor “Headcase” Hedman stared vacantly at the men on the other side of the table. At his side, he had his lawyer. He was beginning to dislike the young man. If he didn’t get his act together, Tor was going to have to put him back on the bench.
The puppy had lost his bark once the Security Service had taken over. Cops are cops. It made no difference if they were undercover cops or the usual variety. The only difference was a uniform instead of leather jacket and jeans.
“Let’s take it from the beginning, shall we?” the older SÄPO officer began.
“From the beginning?” Tor cried. “I’ve been chatting away for the last three fucking hours. My throat is so sore that I need a barrowload of fucking throat lozenges. Do I look like a fucking answering machine?”
“We need to hear the same story one last time,” the police officer said calmly.
“Go to hell,” Tor snarled.
“We’ve all the time in the world,” replied the police officer.
“Fucking poofs in suits,” Tor muttered, looking at the wall.
“What does that make me, then?” a woman’s voice said, entering the room.
Tor turned towards the voice and saw an old bag at least ten years’ older than him. “Over the hill,” he said, without moving.
“My name is Åsa Julén and I am the Chief Prosecutor at the Stockholm Prosecutor’s Office,” she introduced herself and sat down opposite Tor. “It is me you will have to cut a deal with.”
“What deal?”
Julén looked at Tor quizzically. “To shorten your life sentence,” she said, smiling dryly.
Tor did not see anything funny about a life sentence.
“Based on what evidence?” his lawyer asked cautiously.
“To start with, this,” she said, putting a blown-up photograph on the table. Both Tor and the lawyer lean
ed forwards.
“A ring?” the lawyer said.
Julén nodded.
The lawyer looked at Tor. “Do you know anything about this ring?” he asked.
Tor shook his head. “Not much.”
“We found it in the Mazda,” Julén said. “Hidden in the ashtray. It belongs to the late Omar Khayyam.”
The lawyer frowned and looked at Tor again.
“Why are you looking at me? How the fuck should I know how it got there?”
“We found fingerprints on the ring. One of them is a perfect match for yours.”
The lawyer sighed and sank back in his chair.
Tor refused to look at the damn ring, which given him nothing but trouble. He should have tossed it away a long time ago. Instead of hard cash, that damned gold nugget was now the last nail in his coffin. Omar gets his revenge and I get a life sentence, he thought. Unless he could grass his way out of this mess somehow. Maybe if he gave up the cop for a reduced sentence that he could serve in Holland. As a grass, he would be a dead man inside any Swedish prison. It was worth a try.
“What did you say the deal was?” Tor asked and looked at Julén.
Julén smiled.
Walter put his key in the door’s lock, then suddenly stopped. He stared at his nameplate, “W. Gröhn”. What was the point of coming home to his flat? To sit on the sofa eating some tasteless, microwaved, processed food and being served up lots of irrelevant news stories on the TV. This was his private life now, and it had been like this for many years. He put his keys back in his pocket and stood on the landing for some time. On the floor below, he could hear a child crying inside another flat. The crying changed to sniffling as somebody comforted her.
Walter checked his mobile phone, as if he was expecting an answer from the small plastic contraption. He knew the number was in there, but he pushed the thought from his mind in the same moment it appeared. Many years had passed. It had ended so badly. The grief had made him lose his senses and, instead of looking for help, he had pushed her away. He dismissed the notion, but it resurfaced. Was he being a coward? Did he not even dare to talk to her? He wondered what she was doing and how she was. She was strong, much stronger than him. Perhaps that was why he had pushed her away. He drew some strength from his excuses and called her number.
“Eva,” her voice answered.
Walter was silent.
“Hello?” asked the woman.
He gripped his mobile tightly. His heart skipped a beat and the air around him seemed to get thinner. “It’s me,” he managed to blurt out, barely audibly. “Don’t hang up.”
Silence.
“What do you want?” the woman answered neutrally.
Walter hesitated. He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps . . .” He lost his thread.
“Perhaps what . . .?”
His voice failed him.
“Look, I can’t take any more of your dramatics,” she said. “I’ve moved on. I have to be able to have a life even if . . .”
“I apologize,” Walter interrupted. “It was a mistake to call.”
She went quiet. “Where are you?”
“At home.”
“What’s that sound?”
“Traffic. I’m outside on the street. Didn’t feel like going inside. Don’t have a home really. I just wanted . . .”
“Wanted what . . .?”
“To talk to you.”
“I’ve got a new life now. I thought you understood that.”
“Yes, I know . . . and I wish you all the happiness in the world. But . . .”
“But you wanted to talk about Martine?” she filled in the blanks. “Isn’t that why you called me?”
Walter did not answer at first. He felt a stab of pain when she said Martine’s name. “One last time,” he said. “I’m slowly getting over . . .”
She sighed on the other end of the phone.
Silence.
“Where shall we meet?”
“Have you eaten dinner yet?”
“No, Carl and I were just about to make lasagne.”
“How about Gondolen? You can’t say no to the view at least.”
“I should say no to meeting you.”
“But you won’t.”
“No, I suppose I won’t. But if you want to meet me, I expect you to be sober.”
“I won’t disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me? You can’t disappoint me any more. You may do whatever you wish. We’ve had separate lives for many years, so if you want to meet me, it will be on my terms.”
“I’ll book a window table. Shall we say in one hour?”
With a strange sensation in his body, he ended the conversation. He didn’t know why he had done it. Perhaps to confront the thing he feared most in life. His grief.
Since he had started working with Jonna, she had become a substitute for Martine. A healing force that made his broken heart start the process of recovery. But after hearing Eva’s voice again, he began to have doubts. What if he fell back into the dark place where it had all started? Down into the darkness with no possibility of climbing back up? He had to know if he had really moved on. He had to look into Eva’s eyes without being haunted by Martine.
Walter looked at his watch. He knew Eva usually arrived at exactly the appointed time. Therefore, he was surprised to see her being shown in by the head waiter almost ten minutes early.
“Hi,” she said curtly and sat down.
Walter replied in kind without getting up. Instead, he fiddled with his wristwatch strap, despite the fact that it was sitting correctly. She watched him with attentive eyes, without saying a word. Walter gave her the menu.
“I hope Carl was not too put out,” he began.
“You seem well,” she said, ignoring the question.
“Perhaps,” he replied. ”You’ve hardly aged since I last saw you. You look younger.”
She smiled defensively. “I try to keep to a healthy diet and work out regularly. How about you?”
“Same here,” said Walter and quickly skipped to the vegetarian section.
“Stop lying. You’ve never cared about your health.”
“Do you want fish or vegetarian?” Walter pointed out a few dishes that seemed relatively healthy.
“The salmon looks nice,” she said and put her menu down.
Walter poured water into her glass. “Something to drink? Some white wine perhaps?”
“Water is fine,” she said.
“For me too,” said Walter, filling his own glass with the tepid tap water. An elderly waiter with a straight back and rounded shoulders approached and asked if they were ready to order. He smiled with his head slightly to one side, while glancing at the table next to them.
Walter gave him the menus and ordered two oven-baked salmon and a fresh carafe of tap water.
“Why did you want to see me?” Eva asked, taking a piece of bread from the small wicker basket on the table.
Walter brushed his face with his hand. “It was an impulse,” he said. “Well, actually, it has been at the back of my mind for some time.” He tapped his head. “But it took until now to muster enough courage.”
“Courage for what?”
“To dare to meet you.”
She laughed. “Am I that dangerous?”
Walter looked at her tentatively. “The grief,” he said. “I kept seeing Martine in you and it wouldn’t stop. But a while ago, something happened. Finally, I have a chance to move on. To stop thinking of Martine every minute, every second. Constantly blaming . . .”
“Is that why you wanted to meet me?” she interrupted drily.
“No, I don’t want to rehash the past or blame you for not loving her as much as I did.”
&nb
sp; “What do you want?”
“I wanted to check whether I’m really moving on or if the future is still filled with the memories . . .”
“Remember what the therapist said,” interrupted Eva again. “Let the memories be something positive. Not something painful.”
“I remember,” answered Walter. “But I need to find out if I can sit here with you and not have a relapse when I see her in you.”
Eva sighed. “Be my guest,” she said, opening her arms. “Here I am.”
Walter leaned back in his chair and lowered his eyes.
“What made you pull yourself together? Is it just time passing? Or have you found someone?”
Walter shook his head.
“What is it then?”
He was always surprised by Eva’s strength and how she had been able to move forwards, although losing Martine had left scars in her grieving subconscious, just as it had in his. She had been his rock, courageous and with the strength to help Walter out of the empty void he had found himself trapped in. He had accused her of not mourning sufficiently. He had self-medicated his grief with booze in the vain hope of never having to wake up sober again.
Finally, she’d had enough. Working through her own grief was hard enough, but having to share Walter’s demons and listen to his accusations that she didn’t love her own daughter enough had made her finally leave him. Two personal crises had hit him in the space of twelve months.
In time, she had found somebody new. A man whose feelings were as warm and comforting as Walter’s were cold and accusing.
He was happy for her sake. She deserved a good partner to share the remainder of her years with. “There’s been a lot going on at work,” he began.
“Really,” she said, taking a piece of the salmon.
“A young girl just started in my section,” he said slowly.
There was something in her eyes that Walter could not quite read.
“Her name is Jonna,” he continued. “She’s a lot like Martine. Not in appearance, but personality-wise.”
Without a word, Eva put down her knife and fork.
“In a strange way, I feel much better when I’m working with her,” he continued. “Not that she’s a replacement for Martine, but . . .” Walter lost his train of thought again.
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