Instead she’d played at being Sherlock Holmes, even sending samples to the National Forensics Lab. Oscar Wallin had taken his eye off the ball, thereby exposing Stenberg to an unacceptable risk. Perhaps Wallin was getting a bit too comfortable in his role, taking things too much for granted? In which case it was high time to turn up the temperature. Stenberg waited for his dog to pee, then walked a thousand feet along the path before getting out his own cell phone.
“Wallin, Stenberg here.” He had been aiming for a suitably irritable tone but overshot the mark badly. “How are we doing with Regional Crime in Stockholm?” he went on, slightly more reasonably.
“Good morning, Minister! Well, we’re making progress. We’ve been there a week now and expect to have it under control by early January. The head of Regional Crime, Kollander, has been largely cooperative.”
“Good! And what about that handler, what was his name?” Stenberg paused on purpose so as not to seem too keen. Wallin took the bait at once.
“Do you mean David Sarac, Minister? I’m afraid he’s disappeared from view at the moment.” Stenberg noticed a slight shift in nuance in Wallin’s voice, as if he were trying to sound more composed than he really was.
“And what are you doing to find him?” Stenberg made sure his own voice remained measured.
“We’ve got his apartment under surveillance, and we’ve got people up at his office,” Wallin said. “Dreyer has instigated an internal investigation up there, and he’s also very keen to get hold of Sarac. As you know, Minister, Dreyer investigated the whole issue of how CIs are handled once before, after that unfortunate business with Eugene von Katzow, or the Duke, as he’s also known.”
Stenberg didn’t reply; he had only a vague memory of what Wallin was talking about, and it really wasn’t relevant right now.
“Bergh is claiming that Sarac was moved to the property store the week before the accident, because his competence was under question,” Wallin went on. “If you ask me, that’s a bit of retroactive tidying up. A way of them distancing themselves from Sarac and his working methods, probably ordered by Kollander or someone even higher up.”
“Okay, Wallin, listen very carefully now.” Stenberg paused. Time to raise the temperature to “grill.”
“I had lunch with the district commissioner of Stockholm the other day,” he went on. “Eva Swensk made it abundantly clear that she’s aiming for the post of National Head of Police. There are plenty of people within the party who’d like to see a woman in that position, instead of yet another man. There may even be enough of them for me to have to listen to them, in spite of my earlier reservations.”
Stenberg paused once more as he let Wallin absorb what he had said. He nodded as another dog walker passed him on the path.
“This Sarac,” Stenberg continued before Wallin had time to say anything. “I’ve got a feeling that there’s a reason why he’s disappeared. That he’s sitting on something big that could well end up staining the district commissioner’s lily-white blouse. Do you understand what I’m getting at, Wallin?”
“Absolutely, Minister, I’ll see that the matter is given top priority.” Wallin cleared his throat before going on, but Stenberg had already stopped listening. The tone of Wallin’s voice was enough to tell him the message had hit home. He found himself smiling happily.
• • •
Natalie had gone through the whole of the old wooden villa. She had spent several hours each day searching while Sarac slept off his migraine attack. She started with the building materials on the upper floor of the veranda, then worked her way down to the damp cellar, just as Rickard had told her to do. But, just as in the apartment, she hadn’t found anything of interest. Sarac’s permanent home had already been methodically searched. The furniture pulled apart, drawers pulled out of chests and kitchen units. Whoever had searched the apartment had been in a hurry, or had been in a fucking bad mood. Both, perhaps.
Out here there was no sign of anything of that sort. But she had found little traces in the dust on the shelves and windowsills. As if things had been moved and then put back, in almost the same place. Of course it could have been Sarac poking about, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that someone had got there ahead of her again. Unless it was just her own frustration trying to make excuses.
Rickard hadn’t been happy. A month had passed since they agreed on their deal, and so far she hadn’t managed to come up with anything of interest. His happy tone in their early conversations had been replaced by something considerably more uptight. He sounded stressed but also something far worse—he sounded disappointed.
Rickard had hit the nail on the head the first time they spoke. He had found her sore point, the wound that wouldn’t heal because she kept picking at it. He had offered her an opportunity that she didn’t think existed. Clearing her record and giving her the chance to rehabilitate herself in the eyes of her parents, family, friends. But, perhaps most of all, in her own eyes. She wanted to become a doctor, wanted to be someone who saved lives. Working with Sarac had actually only strengthened that ambition. For the first time since she had been forced to break off her medical training, she had a patient. If she hadn’t turned up with his medication, Sarac would have passed out sooner or later, and may even have suffered another hemorrhage.
She pulled her ChapStick out of her jeans pocket and ran it over her lips.
The fact was that she had no idea whether Rickard would keep his part of the bargain. They didn’t exactly have a written contract, and he never said anything about himself or his working methods. Despite that, she had still allowed herself to be convinced that he could be trusted. Rickard seemed to be the sort who could achieve pretty much anything. She wasn’t about to disappoint him.
• • •
Sarac managed to get out of bed halfway through Christmas Eve. His migraine had subsided, along with the nausea. His thoughts were slowly getting clearer; it was as if he were adjusting the focus on a pair of binoculars.
Natalie had put up Christmas decorations. She had found a couple of electric candelabra that she must have got from the boxes in the cellar, and had even managed to sort out a ragged little Christmas tree that, to judge by the strong smell, must have come straight from the forest outside the house.
“Good morning,” she said as he stumbled into the living room. “There’s rice pudding in the kitchen if you’d like some. Ham too. Happy Christmas, by the way.” She held out a small, flat parcel.
“Thanks.” The Christmas present made him feel stupid. Obviously he didn’t have anything for her.
“Open it.” She nodded eagerly.
He fiddled with the paper, feeling her watching him. A DVD. The cover showed five men standing in a lineup. His eyes slid away, toward the old fruit trees at the edge of the forest.
“My favorite film,” Natalie said. “I found it in the bargain bin in the Co-op, of all places. Cost about as much as three liters of milk.”
He forced himself to look away, trying to get his brain and mouth to cooperate.
“Thank you, Natalie,” he said with as much emphasis as he could muster. “I really appreciate it. I mean, not the film. Well . . . not just the film,” he mumbled.
“No problem, just doing my job.” Natalie shrugged her shoulders. “Look, I was thinking of heading off to see my family now, I just wanted to make sure you take these.”
She put a glass of water and some pills in front of him. Sarac did as he was told. He forced the pills down, suppressing the urge to gag with a serious gulp of water. Then he lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He realized all of a sudden that he felt a bit disappointed that Natalie was going away so soon. Leaving him on his own out here. But of course she had better things to do on Christmas Eve than sit in the forest on some damn island keeping him company. He would just have to deal with his sudden craving for social interaction the way everyone else who was on their own did: by watching television.
Besides, he had made up his mind about
something. As soon as he had gathered enough strength, he was going to go down to the old orchard and find out what was so special about it. He had a feeling that whatever was down there was something he ought to keep to himself.
TWENTY-FIVE
“Hello, Khalti, it’s Atif.”
“Atif,” his aunt said. “It’s good to hear from you.”
“I just wanted to hear how Mom is. I’ve been trying to call, but she’s not answering.”
“Dalia’s fine, Atif. I think there’s some problem with the phones again. The power cuts seem to knock out the exchanges.”
A few moments of silence followed.
“She has a right to know,” his aunt said in a low voice. “Even if she has trouble distinguishing times and places, she still has a right to know. Adnan was her youngest son, she talks about him all the time.”
“I know, Khalti,” he said.
“Do you want me to tell her? It might even be easier if it came from me,” his aunt said.
“No.” The sharpness in his voice surprised him. “No, thank you, Khalti,” he said, rather more gently. “I’ll tell Mom as soon as I get back.”
“And when will that be, Atif? I thought you were only going to be gone a few days. That’s why I agreed not to say anything.”
“Soon,” Atif said. He understood from his aunt’s silence that he was expected to say something more. “I’ll be home soon. There’s just something I need to take care of first.”
“What sort of something, Atif? Is it anything to do with Adnan?”
“No,” he lied. Even he could hear how false it sounded. But he couldn’t tell the truth. Couldn’t say that his only defense against his mother’s accusations was the thought of a dead man. The thought that Janus would be held to account for what he had done to her, to Cassandra and Tindra. To him.
A beep on the line warned him that he had a call waiting.
“Khalti, I’m afraid I have to go now. Someone’s trying to get hold of me.”
• • •
Atif cautiously nudged the mail slot open. The apartment was dark, just like last time, and the pile of mail was still on the hall floor. It had only taken him thirty minutes or so to get there. His new hotel was much closer to the city and the cheap car he had bought from a less-than-fastidious dealer out in Barkarby was running like clockwork. Yet he couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that he was too late.
There was a rattle from a door farther along the corridor and Mrs. Strömgren looked out.
“Isn’t he there?” she whispered.
Atif shook his head. “It’s all quiet and very dark. You’re sure it was him you saw?”
“As sure as I can be, Constable. He was wearing a short, shiny jacket with a colorful dragon across the back and sides. It’s visible a long way off, even if you can’t see well. I called you as soon as I found the note with your number.”
Atif nodded.
“Well, I’ll wait a while longer. If he doesn’t turn up this time, I’d be very grateful if you’d call again, Mrs. Strömgren.”
The woman nodded, then closed her door.
And opened it again.
“Perhaps you’d like to wait in here, Constable? I’ve got some coffee ready.”
Atif thought for a moment and realized he hadn’t eaten any breakfast. He could just as easily wait in her apartment as out in the stairs.
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”
The apartment smelled of heavy furniture and a lonely old person, pretty much like his mother’s little room in the nursing home. Otherwise it looked more or less exactly as he had expected. Walls and tables covered with ornaments, pictures, and photographs. Mrs. Strömgren as a young woman beside a man in glasses, presumably Mr. Strömgren. The same couple a few years later with a baby, then a chubby little girl and another little bundle. Then a long series of school photographs, confirmation pictures, graduations, weddings. Four lives documented neatly in chronological order. At one end of the wall was a little table with a solitary picture of Mr. Strömgren and a candle. A short pause before life went on once more.
More photographs, more lives. Grandchildren, great-grandchildren. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays. The sequence was repeated until it almost reached the end of the wall.
“Oh yes, Constable,” Mrs. Strömgren said when he’d drunk his coffee. “It occurred to me that he might have gone to collect his dogs. He’s got two horrible creatures. Sven and I had a dog before Maj-Lis was born. A cocker spaniel. A lovely little thing, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
She refilled Atif’s empty cup.
“But these are very different. I’ve met them on the stairs several times. Square heads and mean little eyes. Sometimes he even lets them run loose between the basement and his apartment. They’ve never hurt me, but the look in their eyes makes me shiver.”
Atif raised the cup to his lips, the flower-patterned porcelain so fragile that he had to hold it between his thumb and fingertip.
“Have you been down in the basement, Constable? He’s got a storeroom down there. Big sacks of dog food that smell absolutely awful. I’ve had to complain to the residents’ committee about it.”
Atif almost dropped his cup and caught it at the last moment in his left hand. A little splash of hot coffee landed on his jeans. He shook his head.
“No, I haven’t been down there. Do I need a key?”
• • •
The sound hit him the moment he opened the door to the basement. In actual fact it wasn’t noise but a faint pressure hitting his eardrums, the reverberations of something bouncing off the stone walls down there until all that was left was a lingering vibration. The smell was the next thing he noticed. A cloying, suffocating smell that must be from the dog food. But there was something else as well, something sharper.
He carried on down the steps, following the old woman’s instructions and turning right into a narrow little corridor. He could still feel the pressure in his ears. He recognized it, put his hand in his pocket, and closed his fingers around Bakshi’s switchblade. The smell was getting stronger, almost overwhelming. He thought he could detect several familiar smells: sulphur, iron, adrenaline. The metal door wasn’t properly shut; the lock seemed to have caught. He took the knife out and opened the blade. He held it facing downward so he could attack someone with it if he had to. Then he cautiously nudged the door open.
The room was big, maybe five hundred square feet, and the far wall was only just visible. Just inside the door was a wall of steel mesh, and beside it sacks of dog food stacked almost the whole way to the ceiling, obscuring the view of the rest of the room. He turned right and followed the wall of sacks. Enough light was filtering through from the fluorescent lamp in the middle of the room for him to see where he was going. In the distance he could hear a faint whimpering, followed by a metallic rattling sound. He stopped and sniffed the air again. He was sure now. It was gunpowder he could smell.
He peered around the end of the wall of sacks. There were metal cages lining the walls, like the one he was peering out from behind. They were all closed, and he could make out storage racks inside them. Most of them were full of sacks, boxes, and large plastic tubs.
In the center of the room there were four folding chairs and an old-fashioned wooden table that looked as if it had been found in a Dumpster. Its worn top was covered with drink cans and an ashtray.
The whimpering was still going on, along with the metallic clanking. Atif noticed movement in the cage in the far right corner. Then a short yelp.
He stepped cautiously into the middle of the room. The smell of powder was stronger now, catching in his nostrils. But there were other smells there too. Animal smells: rage, urine, blood.
He found an explanation when he looked inside the last metal cage. Two burly dogs, one dark, one slightly paler, growled at him. Shaking their square heads and making the chains around their necks rattle as they licked their red noses. Atif was reminded of the wild dogs in Iraq. But these were dif
ferent. Shorter legs, bigger jaws, and considerably more muscular bodies. As he got closer they curled their top lips back, revealing rows of sharp white teeth.
The man was lying on his back further inside the cage. He was suntanned. His eyes were staring up blankly, and the bomber jacket with the dragon pattern was open. In the center of the chest of his white T-shirt there were two dark patches, the same blackish-red color that was slowly creeping across the concrete floor under his body.
The dogs were walking about in the blood. The smell seemed to make them a bit high, aggressive. The lighter one barked and snapped at the other one. Then it spun around on the spot and seemed to bite at its own rear end before suddenly pissing itself. The darker dog went on growling, staring at Atif. He moved a bit closer, trying to see more detail. He jumped when the darker dog suddenly leaped at the mesh.
The other dog seemed to be venting its frustration on the dead man. It sank its teeth into the padded jacket and shook its head, spreading a cloud of stuffing into the air. The darker one turned and joined it. The two dogs tore at the corpse’s clothes, growling and snapping at each other as they ripped the fabric apart.
Atif stood there watching them. The man in the cage was obviously very, very dead, and he couldn’t think of a single good reason to venture in there. Not until one of the dogs tore open the inside pocket of the man’s jacket and a cell phone fell out onto the floor.
Damn it!
Obviously the smart option would be to get out of there at once. There was no way he wanted to be found down there with a steaming-fresh murder victim. The sound of the gunshots was still hanging in the air. He’d heard the outside door close as he was heading down the steps to the basement, so he must have missed the killer by a matter of seconds. He wondered whether anyone had called the cops.
With his criminal record he could end up locked away for months, probably years, for something like this. It was bad enough that he’d left his name and fingerprints upstairs in the old woman’s apartment. Anyone smart would have left by now and been on their way toward Arlanda.
MemoRandom: A Thriller Page 17