The Thin Blue Line

by Christoffer Carlsson

  Grim doesn’t respond. Ludwig is left lying there, panting. Birck lets go of Grim and takes a couple of steps towards Ludwig.

  ‘This is the man we’re interested in. If you tell us everything you know about him, then we’ll see what we can do in terms of compensation.’

  Ludwig’s eyes dart around manically.

  ‘Straight up?’

  ‘Straight up.’

  Ludwig sits himself up in the lotus position, massages his neck.

  ‘He worked for SGS. His name’s Patrik Sköld.’

  ‘SGS?’ Birck releases his grip on the firearm’s handle. ‘You mean the Specialist Gang Squad?’

  ‘He was never my handler, but I know he was an operative there.’ Ludwig is slowly writhing where he sits and grimacing. ‘That’ll be how he knows where I live. I’ve heard he’s with SEPO, but I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know that much about him, to be perfectly honest.’

  ‘You just said you know exactly who he is,’ says Grim.

  Ludwig smiles apologetically.

  ‘Tell us what he wanted when he came to see you on Västmannagatan,’ I say.

  Ludwig looks at Grim and says, ‘It was true, what I told you.’

  ‘You said you didn’t know him.’

  ‘Sköld told me he knew those who wanted me dead, and threatened to give away my location if I told anyone. I would’ve been well and truly fucked if I had.’ Ludwig’s voice sounds tortured, almost pleading. ‘That’s the truth.’

  ‘Why did you contact me in the first place?’ Grim goes on.

  ‘Because I wanted to warn you.’

  ‘Tell us again,’ Birck interrupts. ‘What happened when Sköld came round. What he asked you, your replies. This is important.’

  Ludwig explains that he was just flumping around at home — that’s the phrase he uses, and it’s one that draws a wince from Birck — on the evening of the second of November, when the doorbell rang. It was about eleven, and standing on the doorstep was Patrik Sköld, former operative with SGS, wanting to know John Grimberg’s whereabouts.

  The visit was a short one, and once the visitor seemed satisfied with Ludwig’s answers — he really didn’t know where John Grimberg was — Sköld nodded, stood up, and left.

  ‘Honestly, that’s it. Nothing else happened. We didn’t say anything else.’

  ‘He must’ve known you were back,’ I say to Grim. ‘How could he have known that?’

  ‘Did he say anything about that?’ Birck asks, staring at Ludwig, who shakes his head.

  ‘Those bastards from SGS were well drilled. They never said a word unnecessarily, back then. They sucked information out of people, but they never let slip anything about themselves. Sköld was the same then.’

  We carry on interrogating him: about Patrik Sköld’s appearance, whether Ludwig knows who the Audi belongs to, the car’s real registration, whether Sköld mentioned any other names besides Grim. Ludwig says he knows nothing, and is becoming increasingly nervous, licking his top lip regularly, grinding his teeth, wringing his hands.

  ‘Angelica Reyes,’ I say.

  Ludwig raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘A whore among many out on the streets. One of Djukic’s girls. Someone did her in a few years ago.’ He turns to Grim. ‘You asked about her on the phone.’

  ‘Did you say that to Sköld?’

  ‘What? Did I fuck.’

  ‘Don’t lie now, Ludwig,’ says Grim.

  Ludwig sighs deeply.

  ‘Alright. Okay. It might’ve come up.’

  ‘It might’ve come up?’

  ‘When you called me from St Göran’s, I told Sköld about that afterwards. I was dependent on him — him and his colleagues were the ones who could guarantee my safety as an informer, so I didn’t dare keep anything from him. He asked me what you wanted, I think, and I told him that you’d asked about her.’

  ‘What did he have to say about that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ says Ludwig. ‘I swear. If he had, I’d remember, because I’d have contacted you if that’d been the case.’ Ludwig buries his face in his hands. ‘I’m off my fucking head, to be perfectly honest.’

  ‘Was anyone after Angelica Reyes?’ I ask.

  Ludwig takes his hands from his face.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Had she fallen out with anyone, seen something, heard something, did she know something that made her a threat?’

  Ludwig laughs, unsure if maybe that were a joke he just didn’t know how to react to, before realising that we were in fact quite serious.

  ‘No,’ he says then. ‘Not as far as I know. Why, is that what you believe happened?’

  ‘We believe nothing,’ Birck mutters.

  When Ludwig leaves, he does so with his tail between his legs, mumbling an apology to Grim, who stares long and hard at him before turning away.

  Patrik Sköld. SGS. There’s an invisible link between him and Angelica. There’s a link to inside HQ. Shit. My thoughts turn to Miro Djukic, the pimp who heard a police radio crackling in the background as he spoke to the evening’s third customer, late on the twelfth of October 2010.

  ‘SGS, eh?’ Grim says enquiringly.

  ‘This is all starting to get a bit …’ Birck searches for the right word. ‘… unpleasant.’

  30

  SGS. The division was established at the beginning of 2008 in response to public pressure on the police force. In 2011, it was wound up. Shortly afterwards, two police researchers, Oskarsson and Banér, conducted an external review of the whole thing.

  Somehow that wad of paper landed on my desk — I can’t remember how — and that’s why I’ve heard of it. Combatting Criminal Gangs: Review of Project SGS, to give the report its full name, was fifty pages long and part of the Linnaeus University Studies in Policing series. On page three, its authors explained the scope of the review, including a statement that’s rather telling in terms of the project as a whole:

  ‘During the review, various types of information were requested. Requirements were forwarded to those who had been responsible for SGS, but it emerged that, for the most part, they were unable to meet them. Questions such as what activities officers had actually engaged in, examples of the archetypal gang leaders that the project was designed to deal with, the project’s primary goals at various points in time, and supporting paperwork all fell into that category. The task of conducting the review has been further complicated by a lack of cooperation and occasional evasiveness.’

  Anyone with a pair of eyes would soon see what that really meant. Oskarsson and Banér didn’t have the foggiest about what had gone on at SGS or how it worked, because they weren’t allowed to find out anything about it. No one was.

  The only thing that was relatively clear was that, whatever it was they’d done, it had worked.

  You would have to look elsewhere to find concrete facts. In old case files, mothballed surveillance, SGS’ own intelligence database, and successful prosecutions — you could find the odd piece of information.

  The original idea for SGS was said to have come from a senior official in the National Police Authority, Carl Hallingström. SGS worked on intelligence-gathering, infiltration, and intervention. Their target was organised crime. They recruited informants such as Ludwig Sarac and Max Lasker, they tailed and bugged people, and they planted weapons and evidence on premises ahead of raids and other operations. They called such tactics ‘pre-emptive measures’. They made legends out of officers with a talent for acting, officers they would later offer up as bait as they attempted to infiltrate various syndicates and chapters. SGS adjusted and corrected the records, concealing the true facts and disseminating falsehoods to try to make their version plausible even to a trained eye. They succeeded surprisingly often.

  Their the
atre of operations was basically west of the city, following the metro’s Red Line south — towards Skärholmen, Fittja, Alby — and the Blue Line north — Rinkeby, Husby, Akalla. In 2006 and 2007, gang violence was spiralling out of control, so they said, verging on chaos. Everyone was fighting over the same weapons, the same drugs, the same patch. They were motivated by power and pride. All of the old rules had ceased to apply.

  Then along came SGS, and they were soon awash with success. Shootings were down, clashes were fewer, and rage subsided as the factions became more cautious.

  With the project’s victories came plaudits from above, which in turn meant money, and power.

  And Patrik Sköld was there.

  According to the first search I do of the duty roster on the morning of Tuesday the seventeenth of November, he worked at SGS from the start, March 2008, until December 2010. After that, he took a year’s sabbatical, and when he did return in 2012, it was to Drug Squad in Huddinge. And that’s where he remains to this day, three years later.

  In the accompanying picture, a serious man is staring straight down the lens. Patrik Sköld, born in 1975. Black, curly hair; an oblong face with a day or two’s stubble. His features are distinct, his close-set eyes pinch the bridge of his nose, and his lips are thin but curvy, as though constantly curled with disdain.

  It’s him. It’s the man from Västmannagatan.

  I go down to the street to smoke a ciggie. Passers-by huddle against the morning’s chill winds. I wonder what the fuck to do next, who to talk to. A Policeman killed Angelica Reyes. Shit.

  To drive straight to Huddinge, walk into Patrik Sköld’s office waving the images from Västmannagatan, and demand an explanation isn’t a great idea, I do know that much. It might sometimes work for small-time tax dodgers or insurance fraudsters, the type who are terrified of cops because they have a job, wife, and kids to lose if they don’t cooperate.

  Otherwise it’s pointless. Real crooks laugh out loud, while police officers, security guards, and the like just snigger. In police terms, it really is clutching at straws, and they know it. Then it’s finished.

  I go back in. I meet Morovi in the lift. She’s carrying two thick binders and a cup of coffee. I open my mouth to ask her whether she’s heard of Patrik Sköld, but she gets in first:

  ‘You know that rumour from SEPO, that says something’s about to happen in Sweden?’

  ‘The terror threat, you mean?’

  ‘They even have a picture of the man they’re looking for. What they do not have is pictures of the ten or so men they suspect are his accomplices. I spoke to SEPO last night.’

  ‘So they’re looking for a group?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In Stockholm?’

  ‘It’s likely to be carried out here, but in all probability these bastards will be lying low somewhere else until then.’ She bites her lip. ‘They could’ve arrived among the refugees. That’s what’s most alarming.’

  The refugees. They arrive in Sweden, and before they make it to the overburdened Migration Agency, a lot of them — poof — go up in smoke. Disappear. The border checks won’t change that in the slightest.

  The lift stops. Morovi’s going up another floor. She looks genuinely worried, standing there, pressed against the wall as if by some invisible force.

  ‘Keep your eyes open today,’ she says. ‘And be careful.’

  Ten people. Jesus.

  ‘We’ll never find them,’ is the last thing she says as the doors close.

  31

  The TV’s still showing extra broadcasts from Paris in the aftermath of Friday’s attacks. Part of the terror cell is believed to be hiding out in Brussels. The radio, meanwhile, is reporting on the police checks at the border with Denmark, the pressure on the Migration Agency, Paris again, Brussels — and Sweden. According to the news bulletin, SEPO have declared that the threat level as of today, the seventeenth of November, remains at three on a five-point scale. It is considered high, but unchanged.

  Sitting back in my room, I pull out my phone, call Miranda Shali, and listen to the ringing tone. I’m then diverted to Forensics’ voicemail.

  I don’t leave a message.

  Patrik Sköld. Who the fuck is he? Repeated searches wouldn’t look good if they do a random spot check.

  My phone rings. At first I hope its Shali, but it isn’t.

  ‘Listen,’ Birck says in a gravelly voice, ‘something occurred to me.’

  ‘Where are you?’ I ask. ‘Sounds like you’ve just woken up?’

  ‘A November cold. I’m on my way, but I’ve got to go to a meeting with the prosecutor about the robbery on Sturegatan. Morovi put me on it. But then it struck me — have you checked Sköld’s duty roster?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Birck says. ‘I did it yesterday. Strange that the guy goes on sabbatical just two months after Reyes’ death. Isn’t it?’

  ‘That had occurred to me.’

  ‘It should be possible to run the DNA from the crime scene against our elimination database. He’s got to be on it.’

  ‘That had occurred to me, too.’

  ‘Oh right,’ he says, irritated. ‘And what conclusion did you reach?’

  ‘That we don’t have permission, and that obtaining permission would take a very long time, given the level of evidence against Sköld. We’ve got nothing. We need more, if we’re going to do it. And even if we do get permission, against all the odds, the results will take even longer still to come back. That’s about it.’

  ‘So we wait.’

  ‘For now, yes.’

  ‘Good. Speak soon. But,’ he adds, ‘one more thing. What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The entire city has been occupied by colleagues of ours.’

  ‘SEPO think that a group of ten terrorists are planning an attack in Sweden.’

  I can hear him breathing into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Was that ten?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Birck says, and sneezes.

  Drearily, the grey day goes on. I get a call from the archive, asking me to clear out the room we continue to occupy despite not having been there for several days.

  I’m on the hunt for a five-year-old truth, I think to myself as I organise the crates. The rest of Sweden is hunting terrorists. It’s enough to make you doubt your priorities. I flip through some of the documents again, sporadically searching for Patrik Sköld as if the name were about to appear on my command. It does not.

  On my way back, I pick up the phone and call Sam.

  ‘When do you finish?’ I ask.

  ‘In a couple of hours. Why?’

  I’m calling to ask her to go home, because the fear is starting to take over. They’re almost never true. But what if …

  ‘Are you planning to go straight home?’

  She laughs at that.

  ‘What’s up, Leo?’

  ‘I wanted to hear your voice. Have you got errands to do on your way home?’

  ‘Something’s up, isn’t it? Has something happened?’

  ‘Don’t get the metro or the bus tonight. Walk home instead. I’ll explain later.’

  This is what makes fear so dangerous. It restricts your freedom to act, makes you paranoid. That’s the whole point: to plant seeds of insecurity inside you.

  At quarter-past nine, SEPO issue a warrant for the arrest of a man suspected of preparing to commit acts of terrorism within Sweden. The news flashes onto the intranet. In his absence. That means he’s still at large. He could be anywhere. Could strike at any time. Panic reigns.

  The next day, the eighteenth of November, SEPO call an afternoon press conference. Journalists’ questions pelt the podium like hailstones. One of them concerns whether or not the man is acting alone. The SEPO spokesman dodges.

&
nbsp; ‘Do you have a description of the suspect?’ someone asks. ‘Do you have a picture?’

  ‘This is the information we have decided to make public at this stage,’ comes the official reply.

  For the first time in history, the threat level in Sweden is raised from three to four. Everyone on duty is ordered to remain; no one is allowed to go home. Strategically important locations are under heavy surveillance. The intelligence SEPO’s acting on suggests that the terrorists will attack ‘soft’ targets, such as shopping centres, music venues, transport hubs.

  Birck and I, having sat in front of the television with our coffees watching the whole spectacle unfold, turn to each other. We’ve made no progress during the day; he’s had to sit with the Sturegatan robbery, while I’ve been a witness in an assault case at Stockholm District Court.

  A few minutes later, our computers bleep in unison as a picture arrives via the intranet. Alongside the image is a short text from SEPO, informing the reader that the photo has been distributed to all personnel.

  The picture itself is blurred and grainy. It’s a slightly wonky profile view, depicting the man suspected of plotting a terrorist attack in Sweden. It shows a young person, certainly no older than thirty, with a dark beard and a grey or possibly blue-green beanie perched high on his head. He’s smiling broadly with his eyes shut — perhaps the photo was taken just as his friend delivered a killer punch line. His teeth look healthy and well cared for.

  ‘Good job you cleared out the archive room yesterday,’ says Birck. ‘I think we can forget about Angelica Reyes.’

  The storm swells to a hurricane.

  32

  On the morning of the nineteenth of November, two events occur that are both expected — which may or may not have been SEPO’s intention; no one knows.

  The first is that a picture of the suspect takes up the entire front page of the leading tabloid Expressen.

  The other is that his name is leaked.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Morovi says as she walks down the corridor towards us, clutching the newspaper.