‘Yes, it all seems to be going well,’ Bäckström agreed, nodding at today’s copy of the country’s leading evening paper on the table in front of him. ‘How are you getting on with that interview with the queen, by the way? Is she going to do it?’
‘We’re working on it, but right now we haven’t got room for her in the paper. As soon as I get back to the newsroom I’m going to have to pull a few things to make sure we’ve got room for the twenty million Eriksson got off Afsan. That’ll be the lead story tomorrow.’
‘Good to hear,’ Bäckström said, raising his first vodka of the day. ‘I think it’s important that the public are kept informed. Important for democracy, I mean. That ordinary, decent people find out what people like Eriksson get up to.’
‘Gold, Bäckström, pure gold,’ his lunch partner sighed.
116
After his meeting with Honkamäki, Toivonen had returned to the police station in Solna, where he almost immediately sank into gloomy thoughts instead of finally getting to grips with the growing piles of paper on his desk. On the one hand: his friend Honkamäki and his secret friends, given that they had evidently managed to plant an infiltrator very close to them, knew full well where both Åkare and García Gomez were and what they were doing. On the other: he and all his officers, who had spent almost a week running themselves ragged to find Åkare and García Gomez, because they didn’t have a clue about what their colleagues knew. This, even though they all shared the fact that they worked for the same Swedish police organization.
Toivonen remained seated behind his desk for far too long, mostly sighing and shaking his head, but, because he couldn’t do anything about the situation in which he found himself, he decided to walk home to his row-house out in Spånga. It was almost ten kilometres away, rather more than an hour at a reasonable pace, but that didn’t bother him at all. Moving his legs was a good way to make sense of the thoughts moving around inside his head.
On his way home he stopped for a bite to eat at a little Italian restaurant. His wife had gone to see her parents up in Norrland and, as cooking was one of his least favourite things, it was just as well to get food out of the way. He also took the chance to console himself with his second beer of the day.
As soon as he walked through the door, he turned the sauna on, then sat and watched the news on television, in the company of another beer. His wife called and they talked for a while, saying all the things you were expected to say when you were still married after twenty years.
‘I’ll be home tomorrow,’ his wife said. ‘Look after yourself, and don’t drink too much beer while I’m gone.’
Commissioner Toivonen promised to do as she said; he was missing her, big hug, drive carefully.
Then he sat in the sauna for an hour or so, celebrating his Finnish roots. He drank another cold beer and tried to think of something other than the woman he was married to.
Just after ten o’clock he returned to the television to watch the day’s V75 horseracing on one of the sports channels, and barely had time to settle on the sofa before the doorbell rang. Honkamäki, Toivonen thought. They had a special signal for when they visited each other’s homes.
Honkamäki was dressed for fieldwork – overalls, boots, bulletproof vest, and out in the road was one of the rapid response unit’s unmarked minibuses, which presumably contained several more officers dressed like him behind the tinted glass.
‘Do you want a beer?’ Toivonen said, waving the can of beer he was holding in his hand.
‘No,’ Honkamäki said, shaking his head. ‘As the lads and I were passing, I thought I’d let you have that registration number we spoke about.’
‘I suppose I can let you have five minutes,’ Toivonen said, shrugging his shoulders. They went into the living room and sat down in front of the television. Toivonen turned down the sound but left the picture, as he had an accumulator that was going nicely, even though it was already time for the fifth race.
On Sunday, 2 June, Fredrik Åkare had gone round to see his latest woman for a bit of the usual, and then they spent several hours lying in her bed until his phone rang and he answered with the customary grunt people like him always used.
While he was still muttering monosyllabically into the phone, he got out of bed and started to put his clothes on. As it was almost midnight and he had promised they would have breakfast together the next morning, his lady-friend realized this had to be something that was both unplanned and impossible to ignore.
‘She asked, naturally,’ Honkamäki said. ‘Åkare said he and Angel had some urgent business to attend to.
‘She pretended to be upset, of course, and Åkare told her they had to go and talk some sense into a cunt of a lawyer who had behaved very badly towards one of his old friends earlier that evening.’
‘That’s what she said?’
‘Yes, and she’s not prone to messing things up, so we can assume it’s accurate.’
‘Have I got this right? García Gomez calls to tell him about Eriksson, who has evidently behaved badly towards one of Åkare’s old friends?’
‘Affirmative,’ Honkamäki said. ‘Which in turn can only mean that neither Åkare nor García Gomez, nor Åkare’s old friend, had any idea that Eriksson had given up the ghost several hours earlier.’
‘This person who calls García Gomez to complain about Eriksson,’ Toivonen said. ‘You haven’t got any idea who that could have been?’
‘Negative,’ Honkamäki said. ‘If it’s any consolation, we haven’t actually tried to find out. We’ve got other things on our plate – considerably more important things, if I can put it like that. You know how it is with people like Åkare – so many balls in the air at the same time – and we realized at once that this wasn’t the ball we were interested in.’
‘I get it,’ Toivonen said with a nod. ‘The registration number?’
‘As soon as Åkare gets his trousers on, it’s a quick kiss goodbye, and out in the street there’s a silver Merc waiting. García Gomez gets out of the car and talks to Åkare, but obviously she didn’t hear what they were saying, and then Åkare gets in behind the wheel and they drive off. It’s the first time this car has showed up since we’ve had them under surveillance, in case you’re wondering. And the only time. When Åkare came back around three in the morning, he arrived in a taxi.’
‘The Merc?’ Toivonen prompted.
‘Of course,’ Honkamäki said. ‘It’s one of those personalized plates, which is pretty stupid, given the circumstances, Åkare driving round showing off in a car like that. The number-plate is evidently the name of the company that owns the car, GENCO – Genco Ltd, in other words. The company’s been in existence for several years now; seems to be based in Malmö. Nothing funny about it, if you were wondering. Seems to pay its taxes and all that.’
‘What business are they in, then?’
‘Anything and everything, including car rental, which is probably the simplest and most innocent explanation. That they just rented it. Shouldn’t be too hard to find out.’
‘It’ll sort itself out, I’m sure,’ Toivonen said. I’ll ask Nadja, he thought.
Then Toivonen walked his old friend to the door, nodded in the direction of the minibus and didn’t even have to ask the question to get an answer.
‘We’re on standby,’ Honkamäki explained. ‘We’ve received information that Åkare and his friends are about to move, so the lads and I are hovering.’
‘Well, promise to look after yourself,’ Toivonen said, tapping on the bulletproof vest Honkamäki was wearing under his overalls.
‘If you’re tempted, Commissioner, you could always pull some trousers on and come along,’ Honkamäki suggested with a wry smile. ‘We’ve got a spare seat in the van, and you could always borrow the rest of it.’
‘Another time,’ Toivonen said. ‘I’ve got an accumulator I need to keep an eye on.’
He didn’t win the V75, but he got six right, so – considering that the equivalent of a month�
��s wages had just unexpectedly landed in his lap – Toivonen ended up sitting in front of the television with another couple of beers to celebrate. He even considered phoning his wife to tell her, even though it was already after midnight and in spite of the fact that he’d managed to get through six beers along the way.
He was woken at five o’clock in the morning by his mobile phone. It was Honkamäki, as he’d already worked out before he answered.
‘Has something happened?’ Toivonen asked, even though he already knew that the answer to his question could only be a yes.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Honkamäki said.
‘Something bad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me,’ Toivonen said.
117
Ara had also been watching television with Omar and, despite the fact that he was going to have to get up at half past four the following morning, he ended up sitting there far too long. Omar was more sensible. In the middle of the film he let out a loud yawn, rolled his shoulders and smiled apologetically.
‘I’ve got to go to bed,’ Omar said. ‘I always have trouble getting up in the morning.’
‘I’ll set the alarm,’ Ara said. The film was good, it was still light outside, and one hour more or less didn’t make much difference to someone like him, who had spent hundreds of nights in recent years driving a taxi. Anyway, it was a good film and he wanted to see the end.
‘Give me a hug, my friend,’ Omar said, smiling at him. ‘Last night in Sweden.’
‘Last night in Sweden,’ Ara repeated, giving him the hug they had come up with when they were at school together and realized that even a real man could hug another man. Another real man, Ara thought.
It was past midnight before he made it to the little bathroom on the ground floor to brush his teeth. It was dark outside now, which would make it easier to sleep as soon as he was tucked under the covers.
It was pitch-black as he made his way out into the hall, and it had evidently started to rain, because he could hear it dripping on the roof of the veranda.
Tomorrow you’ll be able to relax at last, he thought, and at that moment someone put their arm round his neck and squeezed until he started to lose consciousness. The man pushed him up against the wall, changed his grip, grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back.
‘You and I need to talk, Ara,’ Angel García Gomez said. He flicked his right hand and was suddenly holding a knife to Ara’s throat. It took no more than that for Ara to feel completely empty inside, completely empty and completely mute, unable to get a single word out, even though García Gomez was speaking quietly, his voice almost friendly. So Ara simply nodded, trying not to move his neck, because he could feel the blade of the knife against his throat.
‘There’s one thing bothering me,’ García Gomez said. ‘I understand that you talk far too much. I thought I might give you the chance to persuade me that you’re going to keep quiet.’
Ara merely nodded again. He was unable to get the slightest little sound out.
‘I’m listening,’ García Gomez said, at the same moment that someone must have let off a flash of light in the darkness surrounding them. A flash of light and a deafening crash that made Ara’s ears pop. García Gomez jerked his head, let go of Ara’s neck, dropped the knife and fell backwards on to the white hall rug. He lay there on his back, his arms and legs jerking as blood streamed from his head and mouth.
‘Fuck!’ Ara yelled. ‘Fuck! What’s happening?’
‘It’s okay,’ Omar said. He stepped out of the darkness, where he must have been standing the whole time, even though Ara hadn’t heard a sound from him.
‘It’s okay,’ Omar repeated, smiling exactly as he always did.
‘Look at me instead, don’t look at him, I’ll sort this. There’s nothing to worry about,’ he went on, taking Ara gently by the arm.
‘He’s fucking dead!’ Ara yelled, stepping to one side, as he’d already trodden in the pool of blood that was spreading so fast he could see it growing. The whole of the white rug was now completely red and, apparently, blood had a smell as well.
‘I’ll sort it,’ Omar said. Then he took Ara by the arm, a bit harder this time, and looked him straight in the eye.
‘Listen to me, now. Listen to Omar, your best mate. I’m going to sort all this. All you have to think about is your trip. In six hours’ time you’ll be sitting on the plane. Everything else will be history.’
What the fuck’s he saying? Ara thought.
‘What the fuck are you saying? What fucking trip? After that?!’ Ara yelled, pointing at the man lying on the floor. At last, at last I can speak.
Omar merely smiled at him, the same warm smile, almost disarmingly this time, as if he were trying to talk sense into a stubborn child.
‘You’re going to have a good trip, Ara,’ Omar said. ‘Have a good trip, mate,’ he repeated. He patted him on the arm, smiled the same warm smile, then raised his pistol and shot his best friend from school straight through the head.
VI
The investigation into the murder of Thomas Eriksson the lawyer takes an unexpected turn
118
Bäckström began the Thursday meeting of the investigative team by turning to Annika Carlsson and asking if anything had happened. She was, after all, the person who was expected to handle the simpler practical matters so that he was able to concentrate undisturbed on the weightier and more intellectually demanding work. According to Annika, nothing in particular had happened. Still no trace of Åkare and García Gomez, or their witness. Things were no better with the four members of the Brotherhood of the Ibrahims, for whom their prosecutor had issued arrest warrants the day before.
‘All seven of them seem to have gone to ground,’ Annika Carlsson declared.
‘Yes, well, where else would they go?’ Bäckström agreed.
‘What about the car, then?’ he went on, nodding towards Nadja.
Not much better. There were still a few dozen vehicles they hadn’t got round to checking, but, considering all the hundreds they had already discounted, things weren’t really looking very hopeful.
In the absence of anything better to get their teeth into, they then moved on to discussing the possibility that they might have got everything wrong and were actually back at square one again. Alm, at least, wanted to raise that possibility, and several of the other members of the investigating team had nodded in agreement and even suggested alternative solutions. Unhappy clients, opponents, old girlfriends, the usual nutters, even the victim’s neighbours.
‘We mustn’t forget Eriksson’s neighbours,’ Stigson said. ‘I can’t remember taking part in any previous door-to-door inquiries where the neighbours had so much shit to say about the victim as they did this time.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘The problem is, how do you link the neighbours to the car, the removal boxes and that pair we haven’t yet been able to identify? The one who shat himself on Eriksson’s sofa and the one who left his snotty handkerchief at the crime scene.’
‘One possible explanation could be that all that doesn’t actually have anything to do with the murder itself,’ Stigson persisted. ‘That we’re simply barking up the wrong tree entirely, so to speak.’
‘What sort of bollocks is that?’ Bäckström said, shaking his head. ‘The simple reason why Eriksson’s neighbours had so much shit to say about him is that he was a wanker of quite unprecedented proportions and, on top of that, happened to own a dog that was lethally dangerous. How hard is that to understand?’
‘I agree with you, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘In my eyes, this is about three things. Firstly, Eriksson and his dodgy affairs. Secondly, the fact that Åkare, García Gomez and von Comer are caught up in them. Up to their necks, if you ask me. And, thirdly, it’s about getting hold of the two others who were sitting there talking to Eriksson when this mess kicked off, sometime around half past nine that evening. There’s a connection between s
ofa-man and handkerchief-man and the other three, and if we can just find that we’re home and dry.’
‘Good to hear that,’ Bäckström said, glancing at his watch. ‘Well, as a small reward for the insights that you’ve just volunteered, you can have fifteen minutes to stretch your legs. Before we all finally find out about the latest flashes of genius in the field of forensic medical science.’
119
Within Solna police station the forensic medical officer responsible for the post-mortem examination of lawyer Thomas Eriksson was mostly known by his surname. Dr Lidberg was short and skinny, with thinning hair, and in the conduct of his work he was a careful and conscientious man who preferred not to leave anything to chance. He was also an excellent communicator and was able to explain what he had found to police officers and other laymen in perfectly plain Swedish.
That day he had also brought with him some very prestigious backup, a female colleague who was a professor, head of the forensic medicine unit in Linköping and a globally renowned authority on injuries caused with blunt objects and other instances of physical force, such as kicks and punches. She was middle-aged, short and rectangular, with ruddy cheeks.
After the obligatory throat-clearing and leafing through his papers, Lidberg had begun by lamenting the fact that the forensic medical report had taken so long to compile. He would be returning to the reasons for this shortly, and had asked his secretary to email the report to the investigating team as soon as he had finished his oral presentation. Both he and his esteemed colleague preferred to do things in that order for simple, pedagogical reasons. In this particular case – regarding the violence to which Eriksson had been subjected – there were also very strong reasons for doing it this way. From a forensic medical perspective, Eriksson presented a quite remarkable case.
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