‘Then,’ he says, ‘about three years later, as you know, I ended up in St Göran’s after … Well.’
‘We don’t need to talk about that.’
There wasn’t all that much to do at St Göran’s, which might be the reason that he spent so much time thinking. His thoughts turned, as they sometimes do, to the past, and as hard as he tried to steer them away from it, they always returned to the same events, on the twelfth of October 2010.
We all have mysteries in our lives.
This was one of his. It gnawed away at him.
‘In hindsight, I can’t really explain my motivation,’ he says. ‘I made a few calls anyway. I had a few contacts who I hoped might remember her and who might’ve known things that they couldn’t reveal at the time, when the case was still warm. That’s often the way in that world, people do know things but they don’t say anything because they’re afraid of getting dragged in. None of those conversations led anywhere, though. Or maybe they did, I don’t know, because what happened next might have had something to do with them … I had …’
Grim weighs the words in his mouth.
‘Yes?’ I say.
‘A visit.’
At the end of May, last year, a man came to St Göran’s. He was in his forties, well-dressed in jeans and a shirt, with dark hair, pale-green eyes, and an angular face. The visit lasted just over fifteen minutes, and the man never gave his name or said what he did. Afterwards, when Grim asked the charge nurse who his visitor had been, the logbook revealed a Lukas Bengtsson, Stockholm Police.
Therein lies a problem.
Grim lets go a smile as he says it:
‘There was no Lukas Bengtsson with Stockholm Police.’
16
‘This Lukas Bengtsson, if that was his name, said that he wanted to know how much I knew. Or why I was interested in Angelica. That’s how he referred to her, first name only. I suspected that he’d known her or something. But he told me to keep away from it. Otherwise I risked ending up in trouble.’
Grim’s answer to that was, just as one might expect from him, to snigger and shrug his shoulders. Who’d be able to get at him in St Göran’s? It was almost harder to get into the place than to get out.
The man had raised his hands.
‘It was easy enough for me,’ he said.
‘Is that a threat?’
‘You can take it however you like.’
Which set Grim to wondering just what was so dangerous about Angelica Reyes’ death.
‘At this point, this is May last year, she’d been dead for over three and a half years. Old murders go cold quickly, and not just as far as the police are concerned. The Angelica investigation was stone dead. I don’t know who he was, never seen the man before, and how he’d got word of my conversations about Angelica I have no idea. Anyway, I ignored him. At least to begin with. But when you’re sitting in St Göran’s, it’s easy to start getting paranoid. I barely dared to leave my room. And not long afterwards,’ he added, ‘I split. I took my chance, and it wasn’t because I didn’t feel safe, not exactly. I wanted to get out. I was seriously fucking paranoid, right, but I was desperate for freedom, too.’
I sense that he’s troubled, suddenly, can’t quite put my finger on it.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘I have done so many things that were wrong. I’ve done … I’ve hurt people. But I’ve come back. I’ve wanted to come back. Maybe, for once, I’ve got a chance to do something right.’
‘Right?’ I say. ‘You have a punishment left to serve. The right thing to do would be to walk into the nearest police station and hand yourself in.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘I could make you do that,’ I say.
‘No. You couldn’t. What’s up with you?’
‘I don’t know whether I trust you or not. You might be lying about all this. You might not even have been on John Ericssonsgatan at the time of the murder. Why should I believe that someone was out to get Reyes?’
‘For the same reason that you’ve already started looking at the investigation. Because you do, you do believe me. And,’ he adds, more serious now, ‘why would I lie about this? I have nothing to gain from doing that.’
I stare at him for ages. Is there something else there?
‘I’ve got to go home. I need to sleep. And think.’
‘I can imagine,’ he says, crestfallen. ‘See you soon?’
‘That’s up to you, isn’t it? Again. I really don’t have much of a say in this relationship.’
‘You chose to look at the investigation.’
I know. I did. I regret it. But I don’t say so.
‘By the way,’ says Grim, ‘you haven’t come across a list of some kind? In the records, I mean.’
‘A list? No, what would be on it?’
‘I thought that maybe she kept a list of her customers. They sometimes do. That might help you.’
‘You think a punter threatened her, scared her so badly that she wanted to cut loose like that?’
That’s what it is. That’s what’s gnawing away at me. The idea that someone like Reyes would let herself be influenced by a simple punter. I don’t think so.
‘I don’t know,’ says Grim. ‘Maybe it depends on who the punter was.’
17
Wednesday comes, bringing cold and rain. When I get to Violent Crime Unit, I get a coffee from the buzzing drinks machine and head for Morovi’s office. I acknowledge my colleagues with a quick glance and the briefest of greetings. That’s the curse a secret brings — simply carrying it will change you.
Morovi adjusts a light-blue scarf around her neck and runs a hand through her hair as she looks at herself in the little mirror on the wall.
Concealing a suspect. Concealing a suspect, it is wrong.
‘Good morning,’ she says, with her back to me. ‘Grab a seat.’
Once she’s happy with her reflection, she sits down behind the desk herself.
‘So then?’ she says, once Birck has also arrived. Unlike me, he seems to have managed both a good night’s sleep and a shower. ‘Angelica Reyes,’ she continues, reaching for her notebook. ‘How’s it going?’
Birck scratches his cheek thoughtfully.
‘My take on it is that Levin’s people were on the right track from the start. They didn’t have enough luck.’
‘A punter then.’ Morovi turns to me. ‘Is that your take on this, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘The way I see it,’ Birck goes on, ‘is that we have two possible ways forward, and maybe just the one, really. The first is to try and work out who makes that first call to the police, and the second is to identify the man seen by a witness, Jonna Danielsson, leaving John Ericssonsgatan 16 shortly after the murder. There is a name in the investigation that might be legit, but that didn’t lead anywhere. Karl Hamberg.’
‘There are also a few people we’d like to talk to,’ I say.
‘Who are they?’
‘The ones who worked on the case, for a start,’ Birck says. ‘At least the ones it’s still possible to talk to.’
Because Levin’s dead, I think to myself and feel a stinging pain in my stomach. We could’ve done with him. Besides Levin, the investigation’s core group consisted of six people, four men and two women. Two of those six, Hans Aronsson and Renita Björkman, are still around and on active duty, while the rest have either left Stockholm or retired from the force.
Morovi makes a note on her pad.
‘Start with Aronsson and Björkman.’
‘After them, we’d like to get hold of Reyes’ pimp,’ says Birck. ‘He was interviewed during the investigation, but they never got anywhere with him.’
‘I’d like to talk to the witness,’ I say. ‘Jonna Danielsson. She was Angelica Reyes’ best friend.’
&nb
sp; ‘Today is Wednesday,’ says Morovi. ‘You’ve got two days. If you’re going to ask me for more time at that point, which I expect you to, then I’m going to want to see some concrete results.’
We leave her office, and Birck gives me a quizzical look, but I keep quiet, don’t know what to say.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks later, when we’re outside on the street.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You seem strange.’
‘There’s something I have to tell you.’
‘Okay?’
‘I …’
The phone in Birck’s hand rings loudly and suddenly.
‘Shit, I have to take this.’
‘That’s okay,’ I manage.
18
I see her in Norsborg.
It’s rare for me to be at one with the city; there’s usually a distance between it and me. Moving alongside, not together with, a stranger. That’s how it feels. But in the housing estates, that distance evaporates. I like being here, always have, maybe because I come from one myself. I like the air, the smells, the people.
In Norsborg though, I’m fucking lost.
I haven’t been here for ages and I don’t know which way I should be heading, don’t even know whether Jonna Danielsson actually lives in the area or whether it’s just a registered address.
I light a cigarette. Spot a riot van. Four uniformed officers heading towards a jerky man loitering on a corner with his hands in his pockets. An old joke pops into my head, Norsborg’s county bird is a fucking police helicop—
That’s when I spot her.
She’s walking towards the metro and she gives the police a quick, unfazed glance, nothing more. She’s got a bag on one shoulder, and is wearing an unbuttoned coat and brown boots. She’s preoccupied by the phone in her hand.
When I say her name, she stops.
‘You,’ she says. ‘What do you want?’
‘You remember me.’
She looks at her phone again, adjusts her shoulder bag.
‘I’m in a hurry. What do you want?’
‘To talk.’
‘I’m on my way to a lecture.’ She looks over at the turnstiles leading to the metro. ‘I’m late.’
‘We can talk on the way.’
‘About what?’
‘Angelica.’
Something flashes through her eyes before quickly disappearing again.
‘When was it we met?’ I say, sitting down on the train. ‘I know we have, but I can’t narrow it down.’
‘We first met during the investigation into Angelica’s murder. Then in 2011, and most recently in 2012. In that shithole on Tegnérsgatan. And of course you remember.’
‘Do I?’
‘You’re testing my memory. There’s nothing wrong with it, let me tell you.’
Jonna crosses her legs and pushes her hands into the pockets of her coat.
‘Where are you studying?’
‘The School of Social Work. To be a social worker.’
‘Full-time?’
‘I’ve stopped working, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t done it for years.’
The train strains forward and leaves the station. I lean over, smell the scent of her perfume, or hairspray, or maybe both.
‘I want to ask you about Angelica.’
‘You said. Why?’
‘We’re going to hand the case over in two months’ time. I’m having a last crack at getting somewhere with it.’
‘And what am I going to say about Angelica that you don’t already know?’
‘I was thinking you could tell me about her. You were her closest friend, right?’
The train jolts as we glide into Hallunda, the neighbouring estate where Jonna’s dead friend spent so much of her childhood and her life. The rain starts falling, lashing against the window.
‘Angelica was … full of life. Somehow. Always happy. Always … Yeah, full of life.’
Jonna has clean, white teeth. They might not be her own, could be dentures.
‘Why do we say that about the dead?’ she says.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’d never say that about the living, only the dead. And they’re not full of life. The dead are … dead.’
They met on New Year’s Eve. In the final hours before 2008 turned into 2009, Jonna and a male friend went to an underground club on Lilla Nygatan in Gamla Stan. They had no gear, had been sitting around at his place earlier that evening and were both completely fucking desperate, but neither of them had anything, and everyone who might’ve been able to sort them out was busy elsewhere. New Year’s Eve is the worst possible date you can choose to try and score.
One of the guy’s friends got in touch about nine to say that he was going to a club, and asked whether they’d like to tag along. He wasn’t overly keen, but Jonna managed to persuade him, mainly because she didn’t want to just stay in all evening. The guy was being overly tactile and he’d been trying it on all day. Besides, it was fucking New Year’s Eve.
The place was an old basement, with several rooms and low ceilings, all in brick. There were loads of people, lots of whom she recognised, but most of them she’d never seen before. The guy lost her between the door and the bar. The barman was just charging a customer’s card, fiddling with his card terminal. Jonna ordered a cocktail. The clubber next to her said:
‘Good choice.’
They’d ordered the same cocktail: that’s how she met Angelica Reyes.
‘Weird, stuff like that, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I say, casting my mind back to me and Grim in Salem all those years ago, the day we found each other by the water tower.
‘Are you here on your own?’ Angelica asked.
‘That’s the idea,’ Jonna replied, explaining how she was trying to avoid her male friend.
‘I get that,’ she said. ‘I completely get that.’
‘She was there with some friends, and I stayed with them for the rest of the evening, dancing and everything. Angelica was … She was just so open. Easy to talk to, simple to be around.’ Jonna lowers her voice. ‘It was a good way to avoid thinking about the fact that what I really wanted above all else was to do a line. Angelica didn’t seem too interested in that, she seemed a bit too straight-laced. She could party, but she still had this air of being sensible sort of thing? So I just bit my lip and tried to enjoy myself.’
Late in the night, or perhaps early in the morning, something unexpected happened. As the tiredness was setting in, Angelica dragged Jonna into a toilet cubicle and retrieved a little wrap from inside her bra, and chopped up two lines.
Jonna shakes her head at the thought.
‘Both me and her were deep in the shit even then, 2009, if you know what I mean. I was crashing on people’s sofas and in their beds, I’d been working on the street for a few months. Angelica was in the same boat. You could never tell with us, though. You know, with some people you can see that they’re in a state and living in shit. It was never like that with us.’
That may be true, maybe not. That’s what they all say. No one wants to admit it; everyone’s trying to avoid the stigma.
‘So anyway, I had nowhere to live,’ Jonna continues, ‘and when I mentioned that to Angelica she said straightaway, no hesitation, “No worries, you can stay with me, I’ve just got a flat.” That’s what she was like. So when she moved in to John Ericssonsgatan, I followed. We lived together during the spring and summer of 2009, until I managed to get a place of my own. I don’t know whether … I mean,’ she changes her mind, ‘I don’t think we were good for each other, me and Angelica.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We were both bloody good at making a scene. We were drawn to parties, charlie, nice clothes, and nasty men. When we did it together, it ended up being too muc
h of everything, even if we didn’t notice at the time. You know, Jesus, by the end Angelica was seeing three clients a day, I was doing two. And I was jealous. Fucked up, right? She was earning more money for our pimp, which meant that he treated her better.’ She shakes her head. ‘Tragic. That world is such a fucking sad place. I don’t know what else to say. Angelica, she … Well, she was a happy, open person. Always optimistic about stuff. She used to meet her parents as often as she could. They knew that she was using, I think, but not how she was getting the money together for it. She liked going to the cinema, we used to go a lot when we could afford it, and she liked second-hand shops. That’s where most of our clothes came from. We’d start out in the posh boutiques in Sturegallerian or along Biblioteksgatan, where we’d choose the clothes we liked, then trawl the second-hand shops for lookalikes.’
In my pocket, my phone vibrates with a new text from Birck: spoken to Aronsson. boring bloke, nothing new. trying to get hold of Björkman. how’s it going?
‘Was Angelica seeing anyone? Did she have a boyfriend when she died?’
‘She did not.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘She wasn’t interested, she said. She had a few ex-boyfriends here and there, but she was tired of the lot of them. She wanted to be free for a while.’
That’s the same story the investigation revealed: no known threats. The most recent ex-boyfriend was a small-time pusher and addict with a criminal record the length of a roller blind. Aside from that, he was as meek as a lamb, and also had a robust alibi for the night in question. He died from an overdose in spring 2011. Friends and acquaintances said that he never stopped loving Angelica, and that her death had left him crushed.
Jonna turns her head, glances around the carriage. As we stop in the various estates, more people climb aboard; only a handful get off. The architecture is pretty much the same, but each station brings a new smell, a different feel. It’s only from a distance that these places look identical.
The Thin Blue Line Page 6