Bad Blood: A Crime Novel

by Arne Dahl

  “Mr. Nilsson is waiting for you, Mr. Nyberg,” they said in unison.

  Mr. Nyberg stared at them. Was this Villa Villekulla? Was Pippi Longstocking’s horse waiting in the wings?

  He collected himself, returned the smile, and accepted what tonight’s dreams would have in store. That was apparently the duo’s mission: to supply the customer’s subconscious with a positive image; LinkCoop would be present at even the most intimate moments.

  The exquisitely beautiful duo were separated, however, as one of the receptionists led him through the sober rooms, his impressions of which were unfortunately diminished by the tempting dance of the miniskirt. In only a matter of seconds, Nyberg had been transformed from a radical champion of the working class to a drooling dirty old man—the result of some carefully planned PR work.

  The seduction of capitalism, he thought helplessly.

  Finally they reached a door, which opened the instant they reached it. The security system must have been perfect. A thoroughly elegant middle-aged woman appeared, nodded curtly to the receptionist, noticed Nyberg’s wandering eyes, and shook his hand firmly. “Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen,” she said, “Mr. Nilsson’s secretary. Please follow me.”

  Pippi Longstocking herself, Nyberg thought inappropriately, downgraded to Mr. Nilsson’s secretary. He followed Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen into a gigantic room where the only piece of furniture was a large desk. It was empty except for a well-designed computer and an equally well-designed telephone, on which she pressed a button and said: “Detective Inspector Gunnar Nyberg from the National Criminal Police is here.”

  “Send him in,” replied an authoritative, distortion-free voice from within the keypad.

  Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen gestured toward a door at the far end of the room and sat down at the computer without conferring upon him a single further look.

  Nyberg stepped into the CEO’s office, which was about twice as large as the secretary’s atrium. The whole room—it was sacrilege to call it an office—had a well-balanced, utterly showy un-showiness; a splendid, crystal-clear, pure style. An impeccably dressed man in his forties stood behind a gleaming oak desk and extended his hand. Nyberg took it. His handshake was firm, to say the least.

  “Henrik Nilsson, CEO,” said the man distinctly.

  “Nyberg,” said Nyberg.

  Henrik Nilsson pointed at a chair in front of the desk, and Nyberg took a seat.

  “I don’t believe I said either ‘detective inspector’ or ‘National Criminal Police’ when I announced myself out there,” said Nyberg.

  Henrik Nilsson smiled self-confidently. “It’s Betty’s job to have all available information.”

  “And to show it,” Nyberg said, but was ignored. He was used to it.

  “National Criminal Police,” Nilsson said. “That means that you think there’s a link between the banal break-in at our warehouse and the corpse outside it.”

  “It’s likely.”

  “And furthermore, it means that the corpse isn’t just any corpse, but a corpse of national concern. And furthermore, that LinkCoop has somehow been dragged into a national murder case, which we would prefer not to happen. In other words, we’re at your service.”

  “Thank you,” Nyberg said, instead of saying what he bit away from his tongue. “Was anything stolen?”

  “A great deal was destroyed. Nothing stolen. The door has to be replaced. Otherwise we came out relatively unscathed this time.”

  “This time?”

  “Our goods are so theft-prone that they’re hard to insure these days. We’ve had a few break-ins recently. The goods are sold to the east.”

  Nyberg thought for a moment, then said, “So the guard ought to have been on alert?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Then how did it happen that he didn’t see the crime being committed on his monitors? Even your Betty out there could see me walk from reception up here to her custom-designed computer.”

  Henrik Nilsson shook his head. “You’ll have to speak with our chief of security about that. It’s his responsibility.”

  “I will. But first I’d like some information about the company. You buy computer equipment from west and east and sell it to east and west. Is that the business concept?”

  “The best one there is today,” said Henrik Nilsson, not without pride. “As long as the trade routes between east and west are as blocked as they still are, the kind of link we provide plays a crucial role.”

  “And when the blockade is lifted?”

  Nilsson leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Nyberg. “It never will be. It’s a fluctuating branch of commerce. Old businesses collapse; new ones are always springing up. The only constant is us.”

  “What kind of computer equipment is it?”

  “Everything.”

  “Even military?”

  “Within the boundaries of the law, yes.”

  “And was it military equipment that was in the warehouse that was broken into?”

  “No, that was regular computers. Taiwanese WriteComs. I’ve compiled the information for you in this folder, a complete list of what was stored in that warehouse. As well as information about the company. You can get someone with experience to look at it, of course.”

  Nyberg ignored the sarcasm and took the elegant, burgundy leather folder. The company logo that adorned the front was toned down into a single color—gold. “Thanks,” he said. “Then there isn’t much more to ask. I just want to speak to your chief of security.”

  “Robert Mayer,” said Nilsson, who stood and extended his hand again. “He’s waiting for you. Betty will show you the way.”

  Once again Betty popped in at exactly the right second, herded Nyberg out of the monumental CEO room and into the corridor, walked past a few doors, and stopped outside the farthest one. After a few seconds of embarrassing delay, a broad man in his fifties opened the door. He could probably be considered a rather typical chief of security at a high-risk company: former police or military, sunburned, weather-beaten face, close-cropped hair, sharp eyes, handshake as firm as a rock. Since the former Mr. Sweden had had enough of firm-as-a-rock handshakes, he answered with one that was even firmer; he couldn’t help it.

  “Robert Mayer,” said Robert Mayer with slightly raised eyebrows and a slight accent. It wasn’t German, as Nyberg had expected, but Anglo-Saxon.

  “Nyberg,” said Nyberg. “Are you an Englishman?”

  The eyebrows went up a millimeter or so. “I’m originally from New Zealand, if that is of interest.” Mayer made a slight gesture, and they stepped into the first of the chief of security’s rooms: a relatively small nook where the walls were covered in monitors. They sat down at the desk.

  Nyberg decided to skip all the chitchat. “How did it happen that the guard, Benny Lundberg, didn’t see the break-in happening on his monitors?”

  Robert Mayer, behind the desk, didn’t seem to lack the ability to concentrate. “It’s simple,” he said. “All together, our storage at Frihamnen is made up of thirty-four buildings of various sizes. We have monitor coverage on only eight of them, the most important ones. Maintaining thirty-four monitors would require us to post at least two more guards, which, with around-the-clock observation, would involve at least six full-time positions, many of them with odd working hours. Along with the cost of materials and installation, the extra cost would far exceed the potential returns. The building where the break-in occurred, in other words, doesn’t have monitor coverage.”

  A straight answer, Nyberg thought, and shifted tactics. “How well do you know Benny Lundberg?”

  “I suppose I don’t really know him, exactly, but it’s hardly possible to find a more dedicated guard.”

  “Mr. Nilsson pointed out that you’ve had a number of break-ins down there recently. What happened with those?”

  “There have been eight break-ins in the last two years, which isn’t a catastrophe, but it isn’t acceptable, either. Three of them were stopped by our security guar
ds, Lundberg among them; two failed for other reasons, while three were truly devastating pro jobs. It was after the last one that we got our own guards instead of relying on security companies. Since then we’ve done well.”

  “So Lundberg has been on staff for—only one year?”

  “A bit more than a year, yes. Since we switched over. And that’s another reason everyone’s thinking it was an inside job, if that’s what you’re fumbling for: not a single successful break-in has occurred since we got our own squad of guards. The boys do an excellent job.”

  “What was stolen during the ‘successful’ break-ins?”

  “I’ve put together a file.” Mayer handed him a folder bearing LinkCoop’s gold logo, which gave Nyberg a sense of déjà vu. “It contains copies of our police and insurance reports from all eight break-ins. All the information is there. You can get someone with experience to look at it, of course.”

  Gunnar Nyberg observed the man in front of him. Robert Mayer was the perfect chief of security, a rock that a company could lean on, professional, clear-sighted, experienced, hard as nails, cold as ice. The steel-blue eyes met his, and he sensed that his body-builder handshake had not been forgotten. For a second he wondered what Mayer had actually done when he was in New Zealand.

  Then he relaxed. There was nothing more to add.

  He wondered what a chief of security earned.

  The seduction of capitalism, he thought, and bade farewell to Robert Mayer.

  15

  When Jan-Olov Hultin returned on the well-worn path from the john, he found a nervously tramping man in his forties standing outside his door. His first thought was that the Kentucky Killer had quite coolly walked into police headquarters to stick his tongs into his neck. The man’s strangely clear, green eyes calmed him, however; he looked more like a humiliated high schooler outside the principal’s office.

  Having realized this, Hultin could curse the security procedures down at reception a bit more levelheadedly.

  “Can I help you?” he asked calmly.

  The green-eyed man gave a start. His fingers fumbled along the knot of his tie as though they had a life of their own.

  “I’m looking for someone who’s working on the murder in Frihamnen,” he said uncertainly. “I don’t know if I’m in the right place.”

  “You are.” Hultin let the man into his office.

  As the man sat down on the practically unused visitors’ sofa, Hultin waited for him to speak.

  “My name is Mats Oskarsson,” he said. “From Nynäshamn. I called on the night of the murder.”

  “At three thirty-seven from a telephone booth on Stureplan,” Hultin said neutrally.

  Mats Oskarrson from Nynäshamn blinked a few times. His eyes looked like a starboard light with battery problems.

  “I don’t really know when it was, but it was from Stureplan.”

  “Get to the point,” said Hultin. “You’ve already done enough to obstruct our investigation.”

  By this point, Oskarsson had been degraded to an elementary school student. “The others didn’t think I should call at all.”

  “What others?”

  “On my bandy team. Stockholm Attorneys’ Bandy Club. We’d had a late away game up in Knivsta, and we were on our way home.”

  “Let me see if I understand,” Hultin said mildly, and little did Mats Oskarsson suspect how ominous this mildness was. “A gang of the guardians of the law were on their way home from a bandy match at three in the morning, ended up in Frihamnen, witnessed a murder, and intended to keep it from the long arm of the law. Is that correct?”

  Oskarsson stared down at the table. “It was late,” he said.

  “Late on earth,” Hultin said even more mildly.

  “I beg your pardon?” Oskarsson asked.

  “Are you an attorney?”

  “A tax attorney at Hagman, Grafström, and Krantz, yes.”

  “And you were the one driving the car?”

  “Yes. A Volkswagen van.”

  “Do you want me to try to reconstruct the chain of events?” Hultin asked rhetorically. “You played bandy, got creamed, drank it off, lost your way in Frihamnen of all places, ran into a murderer who had left a body behind, realized you were all shitfaced, and decided to hell with it all. Then you were struck by a pang of conscience, maybe after having dropped off the whole gang to avoid any digs, and called from a telephone booth at Stureplan, even though you all surely had pockets stuffed full of cell phones, but of course you wouldn’t want to leave behind any traces in the registry. Were you driving drunk?”

  “No,” said Oskarsson. His eyes were drilling green holes in the desk.

  “Yes, you were,” Hultin said, still mildly. “You called even so, and now you’re here. I’m sure you’re basically a conscientious person, unlike your attorney colleagues in the ball club, and that the only reason you could have had for calling anonymously was that you were driving drunk. But of course, that’s not something that can be proven.”

  “No,” Oskarsson said, with unintentional ambiguity.

  Time for a change of tone. Hultin bellowed, considerably less ambiguously, “Spit it all out now, the whole fucking story, and we’ll see if I can save you from being charged.”

  Mats Oskarsson sighed and spat it out with a lawyer’s precision. “It was a few minutes past two-thirty. The man was a bit taller than average, rather powerfully built, and was wearing black clothes and a black balaclava over his face. He was driving a ten- or twelve-year-old dark blue Volvo station wagon with a license plate that started with B. He had just loaded a bundle of blankets into the trunk and was about to load the other one when we interrupted him.”

  “So it was more than half an hour before you called?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. If that information had been reported immediately, there wouldn’t be a raving serial killer running loose in Stockholm today. I hope your daughters are his next victims.”

  Hultin didn’t usually go too far, even in his most agitated moments, but his firmly rooted distrust in the guardians of the constitutional state caused him to go over the limit. “A raving serial killer.” He had to smooth things over. “Do you remember anything more than the B in the license number?”

  “No,” Oskarsson mumbled.

  The man didn’t have more to say. Hultin could have given him a thorough lecture on the corrupt legal practices in the buy-and-sell world of Swedish jurisprudence; on how the Western democracies were gradually selling out the constitutional state; on how laws that were established to protect citizens were being transformed into market games and low-odds competitions between high-cost old-fox lawyers and recently graduated low-budget prosecutors; and on how a whole busload of attorneys hadn’t for one second considered setting aside their own egos in order to catch a double murderer. But Mats Oskarsson had shown at least the beginnings of moral courage, and in addition he seemed already pounded into the ground by the contents of the nonexistent lecture. He slunk toward the door. He had just opened it when he heard Hultin’s subdued “Thanks.”

  For a split second, Hultin met the man’s clear green gaze. It actually said more than a thousand words.

  Jan-Olov Hultin, now alone, stretched his legs out under the desk, emptied his consciousness, and let his eyes sweep over the walls of his office. For the first time in a long time, he was struck by the room’s anonymity. There was not a single trace of him in here. It was purely a workroom. He hadn’t even taken the pains to put up a photo of his wife. When he was at work, he was one hundred percent policeman, maybe even a little more. The rest he kept to himself. Not even after the success with the Power Murders had he let anyone in. He didn’t really know why. The intercompany soccer wasn’t a secret anymore. One night Hjelm and Chavez had popped up on the Astroturf field at Stadshagen and seen him in action. Unfortunately, the Stockholm Police Veterans team had been playing Rågsved Alliance, which had a sharp attacker named Carlos, and Hultin had clipped C
arlos’s left eyebrow with a thundering header, so the blood gushed out. Carlos’s last name was, unfortunately, Chavez. He didn’t know whether Jorge had informed his father that it was Jorge’s boss’s skull that had transported him across the street to St. Göran’s Hospital.

  His short, weak smile was interrupted by the ringing of a phone.

  “Yes,” he said into the receiver. “Yes. Yes. I understand. Yes.”

  Then he thought for a few seconds as his finger hovered over the internal telephone’s keypad. While he thought, he dialed Kerstin Holm’s number.

  “Kerstin, are you there?”

  “Yep,” came Holm’s alto, in a reproduction that didn’t do it justice.

  “Are you busy?”

  “Not particularly. I’m trying to familiarize myself with every detail of the FBI’s material. It’s a huge volume.”

  “Can you run a check on a dark blue Volvo station wagon, model years, say, eighty through ninety? The license should start with a B. We’ve gotten a better witness report on Frihamnen.”

  “Hell, that’s great! Of course.” She hung up on him before he had time to hang up on her.

  His finger hovered again. Söderstedt? Nah. Norlander, who would be back by now? No. Was Nyberg back from LinkCoop? Nah. Chavez? Not alone.

  His hesitation, he knew, was more of the democratic than the realistic sort. He dialed Hjelm’s number. “Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come see me. Bring Jorge.”

  It took thirty seconds.

  “Is the Laban Hassel story over and done with?” he asked as they stood there like schoolboys. Why was everyone always standing in front of him like schoolboys?

  “Yes,” said Chavez. “We’ve tried to find a basis for bringing charges, but we might as well admit that we don’t really want to charge him. We can only hope things go well for him and Ingela. Despite their sterility.”