When she stepped out on to the street, two uniformed colleagues were waiting for her in their patrol car, and a quarter of an hour later they pulled up outside von Comer’s house, just a few hundred metres from the gates of Drottningholm Palace. Five minutes to six, with time to spare, but Nadja Högberg and her two assistants from Forensics were already there. An unmarked car, discreetly parked on the other side of the road, waiting for Annika to deal with the preliminaries.
Sadly, they weren’t the only ones, Annika thought. She had already spotted the first photographer, who was crouching in the driveway three houses further along the street.
‘Okay,’ she said, getting out of the car. ‘Make sure you keep the vultures back so we can get on with our work in peace. Call in another patrol, just to make sure.’
Then she opened the garden gate, walked straight up to the front door and rang the bell. It was four minutes earlier than planned but, as she had already counted at least two photographers and one presumed journalist, because she didn’t have a camera, that was the least of her worries.
The occupant of the house took his time. Only after five minutes of ringing did von Comer open the door. He was impeccably dressed in a dressing-gown and red silk pyjamas, to judge by the trousers. His hair was neatly combed, and he had a sardonic smile on his lips, and everything he said and did went wrong right from the start. Even though he really ought to have noticed the police car parked in front of his gate.
‘What do you want?’ von Comer asked, looking at her with raised eyebrows and eyes that were far too wary for his own credibility.
‘My name is Annika Carlsson and I work at the Crime Division of the Solna Police,’ Annika said, holding up her ID. ‘I’d like to speak to you. Can we go inside to talk?’
‘In that case, Constable, can I suggest that you phone and make an appointment, so that you don’t go round waking people up in the middle of the night?’
‘Can we go inside to talk?’ Annika repeated, smiling and nodding amiably.
‘No, certainly not, that isn’t remotely convenient,’ von Comer said and, when he made to close the door, he left her with no choice.
First, she put her foot in the way, then took a firm grip of his left arm, pushing him ahead of her into his own hall, and that’s when things began to get seriously out of hand.
‘What the hell are you doing, woman?’ von Comer shouted, and slapped her hard across the face with his free right hand.
‘Let’s all calm down now, shall we?’ Annika Carlsson said, even though she could taste the blood running from her nose into her mouth. Then she kicked his legs out from under him, laying him out on his front on his own hall carpet, pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed him.
‘What the hell are you doing? What sort of Nazi behaviour is this?’ von Comer shrieked.
‘My job,’ Annika said. ‘I’m doing my job, and all you need to do is shut up.’
99
On Tuesday morning Lisa Mattei had planned to arrive at work at around nine o’clock. It was her turn to drop their daughter off at preschool, and as a mum with a permanently guilty conscience, this was important to her. Some time together, a morning story, girls’ breakfast with just Elin and her mum. Then the walk to preschool. The sort of walk where you have plenty of time to pat sufficiently friendly dogs, look at everything and talk about whatever popped into the head of a little girl who was only three years old.
That was the plan for Tuesday, that was top of her agenda, and nothing else really mattered. At least it didn’t in the morning, before she returned to her normal life and the often all too tangible fact that she was head of the Security Police.
Half past six, she thought when she was woken by her phone. Before she even answered she knew what the call was about. No suicide bomber on the underground during morning rush hour, no hijacking out at Arlanda, not even a new and immediate threat against the prime minister. Bäckström. Lisa Mattei groaned.
The call was from the duty officer of the Security Police, who wanted to inform her about one of the three cases that had been at the top of his watch list for the past few days, with instructions to call her, among others, if anything happened. One of their plain-clothes officers out at Drottningholm had contacted him fifteen minutes earlier to say that the police were conducting some sort of operation in and around von Comer’s residence, close to Drottningholm Palace.
‘I’m listening,’ Mattei sighed. Definitely that little fat bastard, Bäckström, she thought.
A complete circus, according to the duty officer. Half a dozen journalists and photographers from the largest evening paper, judging by the logos on their vehicles. And several more hanging around outside the gates of the palace.
‘I’ve spoken to our colleagues in Solna,’ the duty officer explained. ‘Evidently, they’ve taken von Comer in for questioning. Under arrest, apparently. And they’re conducting a search of his home.’
‘Under arrest? What for?’ Mattei asked. For the murder of that lawyer, Eriksson, she thought, groaning silently to herself.
‘For attempted fraud, or aggravated fraud,’ the duty officer said, sounding as if he was leafing through his papers. ‘It seems a bit odd, actually, considering that the decision was taken by Senior Prosecutor Lamm. Because she’s in charge of the preliminary investigation into the murder of that lawyer.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t we have an agreement with Solna for them to give us plenty of warning if they’re planning anything of this sort?’
‘Yes,’ the duty officer said. ‘It looks like they managed to forget that this time.’
Time together and a morning story, with certain impediments. An hour later Dan Andersson called her to say that he was now out at Drottningholm Palace, and that he had also spoken to their colleagues in Solna. A suspect had been arrested and the suspect’s home was being searched. If he wanted to know more than that, he would have to speak to the head of the preliminary investigation, Senior Prosecutor Lisa Lamm.
‘Have they brought in anyone apart from von Comer?’ Mattei asked.
‘No,’ Dan Andersson said. ‘Apparently, they took him in an hour ago. In handcuffs, with a jacket over his head.’
‘Why the hell would they do that?’ Sounds like the sort of thing you see in cop shows on television, Mattei thought.
‘It seems he took a swing at Anchor Carlsson, our colleague – Annika Carlsson, from Serious Crime out in Solna, you know, the one with all the muscles—’
‘I know. Is there anything else that—’
‘Can I suggest that we deal with that later?’ Dan Andersson said.
‘No,’ Lisa Mattei said, shaking her head even though she was speaking to him over the phone. ‘We’ll deal with it now.’
‘The king’s press secretary has called. The hunt is evidently on. The media are quite literally hanging from the palace door-handles, if you know what I mean. And there must be at least twenty of them outside von Comer’s house. TV4 and Swedish Television are there. The question they’re all asking is—’
‘Thanks, I get it.’ Lisa Mattei had already worked it out. ‘See you in my office in an hour.’ What do I do now? she thought as she ended the call. I’ll call Anna. Anna, as in Anna Holt, who was one of her best friends, godmother to her only child, and – fortunately enough – head of the Western District Police.
100
Eight hours of refreshing sleep, a proper breakfast and at least half an hour for personal hygiene and external appearance. You mustn’t let things slip when you’re going out into the field, Evert Bäckström thought as he left his home on Kungsholmen just before nine o’clock in the morning to take the waiting taxi to the police station in Solna, to have an open and honest conversation with the king’s best friend.
While he was on his way in the taxi, the first voice of the choir of praise contacted him. His tame reporter, calling him on his private mobile. A happy man, a very happy man, Bäckström thought.
‘Bäckström, Bäck
ström,’ the reporter groaned. ‘I don’t know what to say. This could be absolutely huge.’
‘Later,’ Bäckström said abruptly. ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’ What the fuck was he expecting?.
After that, everything went smoothly. Like a knife through butter. The first person he met when he stepped into the office was his colleague Carlsson. As cheerful and positive as usual, Bäckström thought, when he noted at once how furious she was.
‘Let me guess,’ Bäckström said. ‘When you told him you worked for the police his face went white and he asked if something awful had happened to his wife and children?’
‘No,’ Annika said, shaking her head. ‘He wanted to know what we were doing there and, when I was reluctant to say, he tried to close the door in my face.’
‘Oh dear. What an unpleasant man,’ Bäckström grunted.
‘Then he slapped me in the face,’ she went on, pointing her finger at the swelling under her left eye.
‘Excellent. So he gave you a slap? This is getting better and better. The best start we could have had.’
‘If you want any more details, I suggest you look in one of the evening rags,’ Annika said. ‘Because, for some reason, the place was crawling with reporters when we got there.’
‘What the hell are you saying?’ Bäckström said in surprise. ‘This building leaks like a sieve. It’s an absolute disgrace, if you ask me.’
‘Sure,’ Annika said. ‘What I’m wondering now is if you still want me to sit in on the interview?’
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t you?’
‘The first thing he did when we got here was report me for assault. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘Of course you should be there.’
‘Forget it,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘I’ve already spoken to Lisa Lamm, and the pair of us are in complete agreement.’
It’s a mutiny, Bäckström thought. Nonetheless, there was something in her eyes that told him that now wasn’t the time to discuss the matter. Another day, perhaps, but not today, even though the sun was shining from a clear blue sky, down on Solna police station and all the officers who worked there.
101
According to the transcript of the interview which would eventually form part of the preliminary investigation into Baron Hans Ulrik von Comer, the first interview with him commenced at 9.15 in Solna police station. Lead interviewer was Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström, assisted by Detective Inspector Johan Ek. Also present during the interview was Senior Prosecutor Lisa Lamm.
So far, so accurate, although, as far as the time was concerned, it was a slight modification of the truth, because the parties involved devoted the first ten minutes to an open and honest conversation. Perhaps it was actually more of a monologue, seeing as Bäckström made do with the occasional grunt and Ek didn’t say a word the whole time. Lisa Lamm merely explained that the reason why von Comer was sitting where he was was that he was being held on suspicion of attempted fraud or aggravated fraud, and that Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström would shortly go into the matter in more detail.
The baron, on the other hand, was furious, on the brink of being beside himself with rage. He yelled about the abuse of power, about the Swedish police state and its thugs forcing their way into his home in the middle of the night and, when he finally paused for breath, it was only to tell them that he refused to say a single word before he was allowed to talk to his lawyer in private.
‘Of course,’ Lisa Lamm said. ‘Did you have someone in mind who you’d like me to contact?’
‘Peter Danielsson,’ von Comer said. ‘He works for the law firm of Eriksson and Partners.’
‘I’m afraid that might be a problem,’ Lisa Lamm said.
‘What do you mean, a problem?’ von Comer snorted. ‘Surely I have the right to a lawyer?’
‘In this particular instance, I’m afraid he can’t be regarded as impartial,’ Lisa Lamm said. ‘We can return to the reasons why in the interview.’
‘I suppose we’ll just have to find someone else,’ Bäckström suggested in a gentle tone of voice, with a pious expression on his face. ‘I have a suggestion, if you’d care to hear it, Baron?’
‘What might that be?’
‘While you’re thinking about your choice of lawyer, I could explain why we’re so keen to talk to you.’
‘Yes, I can hardly contain myself.’
‘There are three things that are troubling me and my colleagues,’ Bäckström said with a sigh.
‘Three things? What three things?’
‘The first is that Eriksson, the lawyer, assaulted you in the car park outside Drottningholm Palace on the evening of Sunday, 19 May. Just fourteen days later he was murdered.’
‘That’s utterly preposterous,’ von Comer protested. ‘Some young woman telephoned several weeks ago, claiming to be a police officer, and I told her exactly what had happened. That my wife and I were with good friends of ours down in Södermanland. The idea that I was assaulted is a complete fantasy.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Bäckström said. ‘The problem is that there’s a fair bit of evidence that contradicts what you’ve just said. But, at the same time, unfortunately, that’s the least of our problems.’
‘Complete fantasy,’ von Comer repeated, shaking his head. ‘What else do you want, then?’
‘To discuss the reason why Eriksson attacked you. Because he had discovered that you had tricked him out of one million kronor in association with the sale of a painting.’
‘What sort of nonsense is this? Who’s tried to make you believe all this?’
‘My problem is that there’s a good deal of evidence suggesting that this too could be true,’ Bäckström said. ‘But, once again, this is of less significance compared to the third problem.’
‘Given the fact that I can’t believe what I’ve heard so far, I may as well hear that too. This is all quite absurd.’
‘What really bothers me is that you seem to socialize with two of the very worst criminals that we have in this country. Two members of the Hells Angels, Fredrik Åkerström and Angel García Gomez. And the reason why we’re so interested in them right now is that the prosecutor has issued warrants for their arrest on suspicion of having murdered the lawyer Thomas Eriksson.’
‘Now hold on a moment,’ von Comer said, raising both hands in an almost beseeching gesture. ‘They were the ones who came to see me, at my home, entirely without warning. I’d never seen them before. Never in all my life.’
‘Exactly,’ Bäckström agreed. ‘I hear what you’re saying, sir, and, because I learned at a very young age that not everything is as it seems, I thought you might care to tell me what was really going on.’ Who’d have thought he’d fall for that one? he thought.
‘I can hardly wait,’ von Comer said, looking at Bäckström. ‘I can hardly wait.’
‘Excellent,’ Bäckström said, then pressed the button on the tape recorder. ‘Interview with Baron Hans Ulrik von Comer. Lead interviewer is Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström …’
He’s quite remarkable, Lisa Lamm thought.
‘I thought we might start by discussing that last point,’ Evert Bäckström said thirty seconds later, as soon as he had finished the formalities, cleared his throat discreetly and put a throat sweet in his mouth. ‘How did you come to meet Åkerström and García Gomez at your home?’
‘Now just a minute—’
‘I’m sorry, you really must excuse me,’ Bäckström said, holding out the bag of throat pastilles towards the subject of the interview. ‘I forgot to ask if—’
‘No, thank you,’ von Comer said. ‘I might seem a little confused, but—’
‘I’m happy to listen,’ Bäckström said, making an almost inviting gesture as he put the bag down on the table between them.
‘Well, this is what happened,’ von Comer went on. ‘Regarding the two men you mentioned, Superintendent …’
I’m all ears, Bäckström thought, giving a
nod of encouragement. Even if your nose is already as long as a broomstick.
Utterly remarkable, Lisa Lamm thought. And he reminds me of someone I saw on television when I was a child. That detective who was always scratching his head and sounded like he was just thinking out loud.
102
So as not to frighten the life out of their suspect, Annika Carlsson had taken a seat in the observation room, in the same corridor as the interview room. On a television screen fixed to the wall she could listen to what was being said and watch the person saying it. Without him having the faintest idea. Baron von Comer was evidently something of an audience magnet. All the chairs in the room were already occupied when Annika walked in.
‘Haven’t you got more important things to be getting on with?’ the Anchor asked, glowering at Jenny Rogersson, who had adopted the traditional forward-leaning position, pad and pen in her lap.
‘Orders from the boss,’ Jenny smiled. ‘He wanted me to brief him afterwards about von Comer’s body language. That’s why—’
‘Get another chair,’ Anchor Carlsson interrupted, glaring at her. Bloody bimbo.
‘No problem,’ Jenny chirruped, then got up and went out into the corridor. Bloody bull-dyke.
That man defies all description, Annika Carlsson thought a quarter of an hour later as Bäckström played the amenable and absent-minded police officer who kept making his subject say the wrong thing. There isn’t a single word of truth in that man. He’s as fake as a three-kronor coin, Annika was thinking when she received a text message from her ultimate boss, Anna Holt, asking to see her at once. It’s a good thing I’ve already warmed up, she thought. She had a good idea of what Holt wanted to talk about.
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