Ultimatum

by Anders de la Motte

  “Make me your confidant. Use me as a sounding board; try all your new ideas out on me before you get going.”

  Stenberg nodded slowly. He could see Sophie naked in front of him. The way she put his hands around her neck and told him to squeeze just as she was coming. And not let go until she was finished, no matter if she begged and pleaded.

  “And if I choose to turn down your kind offer?”

  Thorning started slightly. His smile changed from confident of victory to vaguely impressed.

  “Well, Jesper, let us speak bluntly for a moment. I was the one who discovered you, who turned you from a promising young lawyer into the country’s minister of justice. Your father-­in-law prepared the way, I’ll admit that, but it was my support and my network of contacts that made the difference. The prime minister wasn’t sure; he was leaning toward Carina LeMoine. But I persuaded him, got him to realize that you were the best option.”

  John Thorning tapped his forefinger gently on the table.

  “Turning your back on me would be very unwise. The opinion polls aren’t good, and at a time like this the party can’t afford to lose old allies. Regardless of what the prime minister might have promised you, he’ll have to think again if he and the party begin to suspect that my support for you is wavering. And there wouldn’t be much you or your father-in-law could do about that.”

  Thorning took a small pill bottle out of his inside pocket, shook out one tablet, and put it in his mouth. He quickly swallowed it with a sip of water, then raised his glass in a toast.

  “To favors, and favors returned, Jesper. That’s how politics works.”

  Stenberg smiled coolly. He was fighting an urge to smash the Perrier bottle in John Thorning’s self-satisfied face.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking.” Thorning’s voice had softened slightly. “We meet regularly, once a week, to discuss things. You tell me your plans and I contribute my opinions and experiences to help you reach the best possible solution. We could meet in your office. After all, you are the minister of justice.”

  • • •

  Julia pressed the phone harder against her ear to counteract the poor reception. All the antennae in the area seemed to cancel each other out and form a dead zone in that particular part of the grounds around Police Headquarters. But she didn’t have time to find a better place for the call. She moved slightly and stepped between two parked police cars.

  “So Kassab murdered Gilsén so he could run off with the money?” Wallin’s satisfaction was suddenly much clearer.

  “Yes, that’s what it looks like,” Julia said. She was still shaken by the previous day’s events and had hardly slept during the few hours she’d been home before coming back to work. Kassab had fooled them—fooled the lot of them, but perhaps Amante most of all.

  “This is absolutely priceless.” Wallin sounded as if he was about to burst into laughter. “A convicted cop killer commits another murder inside one of the country’s most strictly guarded facilities and then escapes using a key he stole from a colleague from Regional Crime. A civilian employee who, against all regulations, was permitted to question him alone. And now four prison officers are in the hospital. Do we know what happened to Kassab?”

  “The divers have been down to the minibus this morning and confirmed that it’s empty, so we definitely know he got out,” Julia said. “A tracker dog found traces of blood on one bank late yesterday evening, but the trail went cold when they reached a built-up area. We’ve issued a national alert and Kollander has ordered surveillance on Kassab’s sister-in-law, Cassandra Nygren. He’s evidently very attached to his niece, so we’re assuming that he’ll try to contact them.”

  “Assuming? Right now Staffan Kollander is on his knees praying that Kassab is stupid enough to contact his family instead of fleeing the country. If the media find out that the head of Regional Crime was manipulated by a cop killer, Kollander’s next job will be a one-man investigation into the thickness of police authority writing paper.”

  Julia didn’t respond. Wallin’s schadenfreude was making her feel uncomfortable. The fact that a convicted murderer was on the run, and had also killed again, was definitely nothing to be happy about.

  “What about golden boy, then? Amante. What’s happening to him?”

  “Suspended until further notice on Kollander’s direct orders.” Julia grimaced at her own reflection in a car window. The rings under her eyes were clearly visible. She was exhausted; all she wanted was sleep. But she’d promised to keep Wallin informed. Best to get that out of the way before she went home to bed.

  “I should think so too,” Wallin said. “That idiot should never be allowed anywhere near a police investigation again, no matter who his stepfather is. Civilians should never be allowed to do real police work. Things always go to hell.”

  “But Amante acquitted himself pretty well in the case of the dismembered body.” Julia realized that she was now in defense mode. Sure, Amante had been fooled. But he should never have been put in that situation. She should have been in the room, should have insisted on it. Not let Pärson and Kollander overrule her.

  “Come on, Julia. You worked together for three or four days at most before the Security Police took over the case. How much did Amante manage to contribute in that time?”

  “He managed to identify the victim,” she said before she had time to think about it.

  “Did he? You haven’t mentioned that. When did this happen?”

  “A few days ago. But seeing as it was only as a result of a photofit, we wanted to get confirmation first.”

  She bit her lip. She knew what question was coming next.

  “So, who is he, then?”

  Julia took a deep breath. The grinning skull in her mind’s eye. The words ready in her mouth. Time to unleash the shitstorm.

  “David Sarac,” she said.

  The phone went quiet for a few seconds.

  “How long have you suspected that?” Any amusement in his voice was gone now.

  “Like I said, only a few days.”

  “And you chose not to tell me until now?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t had time. And, anyway, we weren’t entirely sure.”

  This last bit was a white lie, but she needed to reinforce her position with something more than the I-haven’t-had-time defense. She could have called him as early as Saturday evening. But she wanted to have more to tell him, wanted to identify the mysterious Frank so she’d be delivering not only an identified victim to Wallin but also a potential perpetrator.

  “We spoke to Pärson on Friday but he dismissed the whole thing,” she went on. “He was adamant that Sarac was locked away in a nursing home, so there didn’t seem much point calling you.”

  “But if I know you at all, you wouldn’t have let yourself be persuaded by Superintendent Pärson’s assurances.”

  “No. We checked out the nursing home over the weekend. Sarac escaped at the end of February, at roughly the same time that our dead body ended up in the water. One of the caregivers helped him escape. According to the caregiver, a man named Frank organized the whole thing and paid for Sarac’s escape. We didn’t get any further than that, and, to be honest, I was going to call and tell you on Monday, but then we had the Abu Hamsa murder, followed by Kassab’s escape . . .”

  Silence on the line again. Then a crackling sound as Wallin moved the phone closer to his mouth. His voice sounded almost confidential all of a sudden.

  “David Sarac left Sweden on February twenty-fifth. The national police chief and a couple of close confidants are the only people who know that. According to the senior consultant at the nursing home, Sarac was in a poor state and showed no interest in the world around him. But on the morning of February twenty-fifth he was suddenly gone. All we know is that he traveled home to Stockholm to pick up his passport. And the last trace we have is in Frankfurt, where
he caught a flight to Belgrade the same evening. Once he was outside the EU’s jurisdiction, there wasn’t much we could do to find him. We couldn’t issue an international warrant, seeing as Sarac isn’t suspected of a crime. So it was decided to hush it up for the foreseeable future.”

  “Wow,” Julia said, in the absence of anything better. She was trying to take in what Wallin had said, make this new information fit what she already knew. If they had hushed up the fact that Sarac was gone, that meant Pärson was telling the truth, that he genuinely believed Sarac was at the nursing home. The news that had escaped was much too juicy a tidbit for the fat bastard not to have leaked to the press.

  “Yes, that’s one way of putting it,” Wallin said. “Have you got anything more than a photofit to prove that the victim ­really is Sarac? Fingerprints or a definite DNA match?”

  “No, the DNA from the victim is a match for some found on Skarpö but not a specific individual. And the percentage of the match is lower than usual because of the condition of the body. But the photofit Amante managed to get is based on an X-ray of the skull, so it’s pretty reliable. I’m sure it’s Sarac. The dates match as well. The body is supposed to have been in the water since the end of February, beginning of March. Sarac must have come back from Belgrade pretty quickly.”

  Another silence on the line, and for a couple of seconds Julia wondered if they’d been disconnected. Then Wallin spoke again.

  “If what you say is true, and the victim really is Sarac, then all hell’s going to break loose. We need to tread very carefully, Julia. There’s a lot at stake here. My suggestion is that you keep digging. We need to be one hundred percent certain before I can take this any further. Naturally, you can’t say anything to Pärson. This has to stay between us. Have you talked to anyone else?”

  “We’ve questioned two possible witnesses from Skarpö. Atif Kassab, who we visited on Sunday.”

  “Okay, that explains why Kassab specifically asked to speak to Amante. Who was the other witness?”

  “Sarac’s personal assistant, Natalie Aden.”

  • • •

  Oscar Wallin put his phone down slowly. He sat at his desk for a long time as he tried to digest what Julia Gabrielsson had just told him.

  David Sarac was dead. He had been a good police officer. But his stroke and the car crash had changed him, turning him into a babbling wreck rather than the hero he had been made out to be. Everyone had been astonished when he actually managed to escape. Now Sarac had been murdered. And for the time being only Wallin, Julia Gabrielsson, and that nightmare, Amante, knew about it. The question was: How could he exploit the information to improve his own situation? That would take a good deal of thought. But in the meantime he had another matter to deal with. Natalie Aden needed to learn to follow the rules.

  He picked up his cell phone and scrolled through until he found the right contact. But just as he was about to press the button and make the call, he hesitated. He thought he could smell burning. He went over to the window, which was open slightly. Down on the pavement a council employee was killing weeds with a steam-powered weeder. He was heading toward a large green dandelion that was poking up between the paving stones. Wallin stood there with his phone in his hand and waited until the flame had made the plant boil to death in its own fluids before he made the call.

  Fifteen

  The drive leading up to the villa was blocked by Karolina’s and Karl-Erik’s cars, so the driver let Stenberg out on the street. It was almost seven o’clock in the evening and all he really wanted was to soak in the bath, pour himself a stiff whiskey, settle down in front of the television, and try to shake off his discussion with John Thorning. And suppress the images of Sophie that seeing her father had conjured up. But instead he was going to have to face his domestic inquisition.

  His bodyguard, Becker, walked all the way to the front door with him. Nisse Boman stood smoking beside Karl-Erik’s big, dark Volvo. The wiry little man was holding his cigarette inside his cupped hand so it was barely visible, and tucked it behind his back when Stenberg and Becker walked past, as if what he was doing wasn’t really allowed or at the very least something he’d rather not be seen doing. Stenberg had seen the soldiers who guarded the trials at The Hague smoke the same way.

  He gave Boman a curt nod and received the same in return. Boman didn’t attempt any small talk, and he had chosen to stay outside even though Karolina was bound to have tried to persuade him to go in. In turn, Stenberg had long since given up any attempt to get the other man to accept him. Over the years they’d developed a sort of gentleman’s agreement that made their encounters more or less bearable.

  Stenberg said good-bye to Becker, closed the front door, and stopped in the hall. He took a couple of deep breaths before venturing into the kitchen.

  In spite of the summer heat, Karolina had lit the fire. On the other hand, it wasn’t an ordinary wood fire but twenty tiny, decorative gas flames that—together with the heavy, New England–­style cupboard doors and the limestone worktops from Gotland—had cost more than Stenberg cared to remember.

  Karolina and Karl-Erik were sitting at the big kitchen table. Karl-Erik was at its head, Karolina to his right. They had their heads close together. Another secret meeting, clearly. When Stenberg entered the room, Karolina stood up and walked over to him.

  “How was your meeting with John?”

  He kissed his wife on the cheek, put his briefcase down, and shrugged his jacket off before replying.

  “Fine.”

  “ ‘Fine’? That’s a nice, detailed description.” His father-in-law had loosened his tie, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he had one of Stenberg’s whiskey glasses in his hand. “Sit down, Jesper.”

  Karl-Erik gestured toward a free chair, and Stenberg stood still for a moment. He was being offered a seat at his own table, by a man who was drinking his whiskey. Marvelous.

  Karolina appeared at his side with another glass, put it in his hand, and nodded gently at him to do as he was told. He hesitated for a few more seconds, long enough for one of her eyebrows to rise. Don’t be childish, now, Jesper.

  Reluctantly, he pulled out the chair and sat down.

  “So, tell us, how did you get on with John?” Karl-Erik said.

  “He seemed quite bright. Like he used to be, I’d say.”

  Stenberg drank a sip of the amber-colored liquid. Sophie had thrown a whiskey glass at him, he suddenly remembered. It almost hit him in the face. He closed his eyes tight, trying to suppress the flare-up of memories.

  “Yes, I’ve heard the same thing. One of my colleagues happened to see him in court the other day. He mangled the opposition, apparently.”

  Happened to see. That suggested a degree of coincidence that had almost certainly not been the case. Karl-Erik liked to stay informed. He didn’t like surprises or secrets unless he was instrumental to them. He always wanted to know. For a few moments Sophie was back inside Stenberg’s head.

  “So, what did John have to say, then?”

  Stenberg took another sip from his glass. Then he put it down on the table, rather harder than he intended. The noise made his wife raise her chin.

  “He raised the subject of Eva Swensk’s appointment. John doesn’t think she was a good choice, even if he understands the thinking behind it. According to him, I ought to focus on the ministry of justice. Not aim . . . higher. At least, not at the moment.”

  Karl-Erik nodded slowly. Karolina fetched the crystal carafe and refilled their glasses.

  “Anything else?”

  You mean: Did he suggest he was likely to cause problems? Stenberg thought.

  “He stressed that the Bar Association is an influential body. And that he would be following developments carefully.”

  “In other words, he wants a seat at the table. Or, to be more accurate, he’s demanding one,” Karolina said drily.

&nbs
p; Stenberg was about to reply but closed his mouth when he noticed that Karolina was looking at her father rather than him. Karl-Erik leaned back in his chair.

  “Loyalty is a good thing, Jesper. John did a lot to help you.”

  Yes, he did point that out, Stenberg thought. Just like you did just now. And he was ill-mannered enough to say so openly.

  “But times have changed,” his father-in-law went on, gently swirling his whiskey. “I’ll take a few soundings. See if we can come up with something that will keep John occupied elsewhere.”

  Karolina got in before Stenberg.

  “Don’t you think he’d see through that, Daddy? John Thorning’s hardly a novice, after all.”

  “Everything has a price, my dear. You just need to find out what it is. And John is a vain man. I’m sure he wouldn’t turn down a fine title. An ambassador’s post, something of that sort.”

  Stenberg emptied his glass. From the corner of his eye he saw Karolina and her father exchange a glance. It lasted only a moment or so, but he still realized instantaneously what it meant. This was something they’d already discussed without him and without actually reaching agreement. Even so, they weren’t asking him what he thought. Didn’t want him to cast the deciding vote.

  “Do we know anything more?” Stenberg asked in an attempt to change the subject. “About the prime minister’s plans? When he’s thinking of making it all public?”

  His father-in-law shook his head. “The prime minister isn’t usually especially forthcoming. Not even with his closest confidants. But the pressure is building for him to do something about the poor poll ratings. You’re the solution to the ­problem—we agree on that. But for some reason he seems to want to wait before taking the formal decision. And while he waits, the opposition is gaining more ground.”

  “Who’s our principal opponent?” Karolina said. “Who’s their candidate for the Ministry of Justice?”

  The same question Stenberg had been about to ask, but she was a fraction of a second ahead of him.