‘Like what? What is it you see so much more clearly than I do?’
‘Facts. Facts that even though they hurt are still bloody facts. Like how, these days, it takes refugees an eternity to break into the job market. That foreign-born individuals are over-represented when it comes to both assault and lethal violence, not to mention rape and robbery. That most of the organized crime networks in this country are based primarily on ethnicity. I could go on, but if I know you, you’ve already stopped listening.’
‘Oh no, I’m all ears, I’m just still waiting for a connection to Moonif Ganem and his family.’
‘To see it, all you have to do is a quick search of the criminal records and decide not to close your eyes.’ Klippan turned to his laptop. ‘Take the son, Bassel Ganem, for example. He’s been reported for assault on three separate occasions and most recently sexual assault as well. Or his older brother Nizar, who has been convicted of both a mugging and criminal possession of a gun. Granted, their father, Aimar, has never been reported or charged with anything, but on two occasions the neighbours have called the police, citing loud fighting and screaming. That’s the boy’s family. What Samira’s family looks like, I have no idea. And no, none of it is proof that we’re dealing with honour-related violence. I just don’t think we can disregard it before we’ve even looked into it.’
‘Of course we’ll look into it.’ Tuvesson wrote down honour-related next to xenophobia. ‘Klippan, can you handle that?’
‘Absolutely,’ Klippan said, avoiding Lilja’s eyes.
‘Listen.’ Tuvesson put down the marker and turned to them. ‘Given what’s happened, it’s no wonder our reactions are slightly different. But in order to work together, we have to be civil and think of our different perspectives as an asset.’
‘Absolutely. I’m sorry,’ Lilja said and turned to Klippan, who nodded.
‘And now for something completely different,’ Tuvesson continued. ‘How’s our stabbing victim doing?’
‘Ralf Hjos. Well, from what I’m told, he’s doing okay given the circumstances. No vital organs were damaged. Apparently, the wound was not too deep.’
‘And the car? Any trace of it?’
‘Not yet,’ Klippan said. ‘But I’ve put out an internal alert for both the model and the plates, so if he’s still driving around, it shouldn’t be long before we nab him.’
‘I think we should ask the public for help, too.’
‘All right,’ Klippan made a note.
‘Oh, right, I completely forgot.’ Lilja took out a police sketch of the man she had been chasing. ‘Here he is.’
‘When did you have time to have that done?’ Tuvesson looked at the sketch.
‘Just now. That’s why I was a bit late. I figured it was best to get it over with before I forgot that creepy smile.’
‘Is it Gudrun Scheele?’
‘Of course it’s Gudrun Scheele,’ Klippan said, studying the drawing.
Gudrun Scheele was a half-blind former art teacher in a wheelchair who had retired almost twenty years earlier and happened to live in the same nursing home as Klippan’s mother. He had noticed her collection of portraits on one of his visits and asked if she would consider helping the police out, and the rest was history.
As usual, she had used coal, and with the help of deft shadowing and more or less strongly marked lines managed to draw a face that leaped off the page. It was miraculous every time.
‘I was in the hospital anyway, so I just had to swing by Bergalid on my way back here,’ explained Lilja, who seemed to have calmed down. ‘And your mother says hello. She was bitter, to put it mildly. Apparently, you promised to stop by and set the channels on her TV over two weeks ago.’
Klippan shook his head. ‘I was there yesterday.’
‘What, does she have Alzheimer’s? Why haven’t you said something?’ Tuvesson exclaimed.
‘Because that’s not what’s wrong with her. What she does suffer from is selective memory lapses. Whenever it suits her.’
‘What do you reckon? Should we make this available to the public along with the car?’ Lilja asked.
‘No, let’s hold off, keep it internal for now. And see what the prosecutor has to say.’
‘Is it Stina Högsell?’
Tuvesson nodded just as her phone started ringing. ‘Speak of the devil… Hi, Stina. Give me two seconds, I’m just wrapping things up here. Klippan, you know what to do, and Irene, I suggest you start mapping the racist elements of Bjuv.’
‘Absolutely. I was going to pay a visit to the Sweden Democrats.’ Lilja downed the rest of her coffee and stood up as Tuvesson left.
‘Why the Sweden Democrats?’ Klippan said.
‘Because they’re both xenophobic and racist. And because the guy wore a jacket with their logo. Any other questions I can answer for you?’
7
Lilja turned on to Blekingegatan and thought to herself that it, and the adjacent Hallandsgatan and Smålandsgatan, must have been planned with a view to creating a whole new suburb on the edge of Bjuv. Yet another grand political vision that had, apart from a few scattered houses, amounted to nothing more than a sea of vacant lots where the grass now had free rein to grow.
Yeah, right, we don’t have the space to accommodate more immigrants, she thought and put the Ducati’s kickstand down outside the Sweden Democrats’ office, which was located in one of the detached houses.
Sievert Landertz, the party’s chairperson in Bjuv, represented everything she hated about the Sweden Democrats. A polished surface concealing an odious inside. His neat tie, which gave him the air of a dependable banker. His perfectly trimmed stubble, not to mention his deceivingly friendly smile.
Landertz was one of the so-called reformers the national leader, Jimmie Åkesson, had roped in in his attempt to normalize and build public confidence in the party. He had also purged the most rabid racists and severed the party’s ties to Nazism, by pretending they had never existed.
The strategy had unquestionably been successful. Despite one scandal after another, the Sweden Democrats were on their way to becoming the country’s third-largest party.
The door opened before her fingertip had even left the doorbell. And by Landertz himself, no less.
‘Hello. Irene Lilja from the Helsingborg police.’ She held out her ID.
‘Yes?’ Landertz inspected the ID. ‘What is this regarding?’
‘As you may have heard on the news, we’re in the middle of a murder investigation.’
‘Yes, I heard about that Syrian boy. Just terrible.’ Landertz shook his head, and she had to suppress an urge to slap him and let him know she wasn’t fooled by his dissembling. ‘But I don’t see how I can be of help.’
‘I’m sure I can explain that to you. But I think it would be better if we discussed this inside.’
‘Could it possibly wait? I’m in a bit of a rush and I’m afraid I don’t have—’
‘Should I take that as you trying to obstruct a murder investigation?’
‘No, not at all. Not at all. I’m just—’ He broke off with a sigh. ‘Could we make it quick? As I said, I don’t have—’
‘How long it takes is up to you,’ said Lilja, who was already pushing her way in.
It looked exactly as she had expected. A number of offices and a kitchen to the right, the latter with a table on which a half-eaten kebab was sitting next to a Coke Zero.
‘Why don’t we go to the kitchen,’ Landertz called to her as he locked the front door.
But Lilja had no interest in seeing the kitchen. She wanted to get into his office and therefore walked off in the opposite direction until she spotted his name on a sign next to one of the doors on her left.
‘Or we could head into the conference room on your right!’
Lilja opened the door and looked into Landertz’s office, which faced the street. The walls were white, the office furniture beige, and plastic potted plants were scattered around the room. ‘This will do fine,’ she said as
she continued to look around.
The walls were covered in posters of Jimmie Åkesson and Swedish landscape photos with blue-and-yellow flags waving against a clear blue sky; the books were neatly organized by size in the bookcase. Among them were the Law of Sweden, a few books about integration and ten or so historical titles about the First and Second World Wars.
The two Ikea armchairs by the window looked so new she had to wonder whether anyone had ever sat in them. The same was true of the tidy desk. A computer screen in the middle. A desk topper and a leather pen holder, a letter knife and a document folder, also in matching leather.
In other words, not a swastika as far as the eye could see. Not even a few doodled Nazi symbols on the underside of the desk for her to find.
Nor had she expected any, though she had to admit she was a bit disappointed. The Sweden Democrats was a party founded by Nazis, there was no question about it. But Åkesson and his friends had been so effective at rooting out the extremists, only polished populists like Landertz remained. In a way, that was almost worse. At least before, it was clear where they stood. Now, people suddenly thought they were voting for a mainstream party.
‘Okay then, what can I do for you?’ said Landertz, who had entered the room.
‘As I mentioned, it’s about the murder of Moonif Ganem.’
‘Yes, that much I’ve gathered. I hope you’re not insinuating that I or one of my colleagues had anything whatsoever to do with it.’
‘Not at all. Insinuations are not my thing. So just to be clear, no one suspects you of personally shoving him in the washing machine.’
‘Good.’ Landertz glanced at his watch. ‘You see, both I and the party feel it’s fundamentally important to recognize that all people are equal, regardless of their skin colour or ethnic background.’
‘Oh, really? Well, I guess you learn something new every day.’ Lilja emphasized that with an exaggerated smile. ‘That must mean, then, that you are as eager to see the murderer caught as I am.’
‘Of course I’m eager. I just don’t understand what I can—’
Lilja cut him off. ‘You can start by having a seat.’ She waited until he had obeyed. ‘Let me tell you where things stand. We suspect the perpetrator is one of your party members.’
‘Okay.’ Landertz checked his watch again and then folded his hands and started twiddling his thumbs. ‘I’m not sure what to say to that. I obviously hope you’re wrong.’
‘Does any particular member spring to mind, off the top of your head?’
‘No, who would that be?’
‘I don’t know. But there’s always bad eggs whose views make them stand out and who might even resort to violence to make themselves heard.’
‘I’m sure there are. But unfortunately, that’s not something I would know anything about. And I have to say it’s a bit rich that the first thing you do when the victim turns out to be of foreign extraction is to come here and cast aspersions on our members. I can tell you that our membership base consists primarily of ordinary, upstanding citizens who pay their taxes, recycle and stay home at night watching TV.’
‘Proper model citizens, in other words. Not a xenophobic racist among them.’
‘No, just people who are concerned because the country they helped build is buckling under the weight of mass immigration, which is only going to get worse. That I can promise you. This is nothing compared to what lies ahead.’
‘Since you’re apparently so pressed for time, maybe we should try to stick to the subject. Which is to say, your members. And to save even more time, I suggest you just give me access to your membership lists, so I can go through them at my leisure.’
Landertz looked uncomprehending. ‘But that’s impossible.’
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ She allowed herself another smile.
‘But you have to understand. It would be political suicide to give you details about our members.’
‘Assuming that it gets out, which is entirely up to you. Either you give it to me now, and it stays between us. Or I go to the prosecutor and come back with a warrant and a press gaggle who will see to it that there are really big headlines about how the supposed law and order party is in fact obstructing a police investigation and protecting a murderer.’
Landertz nodded and took a deep breath before meeting her gaze. ‘All right, then go talk to your prosecutor.’ The smile spreading across his face revealed that he had not only called her bluff, but that he was relishing it.
And he was right. The membership lists of political parties were among the hardest things to get access to, and in this case they didn’t have close to the evidence required.
Landertz stood up, looking at his watch. ‘As I mentioned, I’m short on time and I have to ask you to—’
‘Do you recognize this man?’ Lilja showed him the police sketch and noted an instant reaction. His eyes stared fixedly a little too long before proceeding to scan the rest of the drawing. ‘You know who this is, don’t you?’ It was only then she realized that in her wildest dreams, she hadn’t imagined he would.
‘No, sorry. I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Are you sure? Look again.’
Landertz sighed and pretended to have another look. ‘No.’ He shook his head and handed the sketch back. ‘I’m sorry, but I have no idea who that is.’
‘Something made you react, though, didn’t it?’ If he denied it again and shook his head, she could be completely certain he was lying and then she was going to make damn sure there were headlines.
She almost didn’t notice the sound when the window behind her broke. It was only when Landertz screamed and threw himself to the floor that she realized something serious had happened. When she turned around, one of the Ikea armchairs and part of the rug and curtain were on fire.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, she had time to think as she jumped over Landertz on her way out of the office. ‘Get that fire under control,’ she called as she ran towards the door.
‘No, wait! The fire extinguisher! You have to get the fire extinguisher!’
‘And where is it?’
‘In the kitchen! Hurry, before it’s too late!’
Lilja turned back to the kitchen and immediately spotted the red fire extinguisher sitting in the middle of the room, still in its packaging. She quickly unwrapped it and hurried back to the office, where Landertz was busy trying to smother the flames by stomping on the rug and beating his suit jacket against the armchair and the wall, to which the flames had spread.
‘Step aside,’ Lilja shouted and started spraying foam at the fire, which went out in seconds, leaving behind an acrid, sooty smoke.
She put the fire extinguisher down on the floor and quickly established that there was only very limited material damage. Some new glazing, a lick of paint and a new rug and armchair and it would look just like before. And yet there was no limit to how dire the consequences might be.
The flames had died, buried under foam.
The fire, on the other hand, was likely to spread.
8
For the first time in a month, Fabian went over to his record collection at the far end of the living room and let his eyes rove across the rows of CDs. He owned more than four thousand albums, and that was after weeding out a quarter when he’d left Stockholm over two years ago.
For a whole month, silence had been the only sound he could bear. It was the longest he had gone without music in his whole adult life. A month ago, a madman posing as an art collector had nearly destroyed their family. He had manipulated Sonja, becoming her muse and lover, and inserting himself into all their lives. Then he shot Matilda right here, in Fabian's own living room. Fabian couldn't bear to think about what might have happened next if he hadn't been able to get to a gun himself. And now, with those events playing on a loop in his mind, it was as though his brain was unable to take anything else in. Not even Brian Eno’s soaring escapism had worked. The smallest note had given him an instant headache.
/> But now, his spirits had finally returned. He felt like doing things again. Getting up in the morning and defying the rain with a jog through Pålsjö Forest. Cooking a nice meal and gathering the family around the dinner table.
What with Matilda’s waking up and her doctors’ assurances that she would be able to go home by the end of the week, he could finally feel firm ground under his feet again. True, she had been acting a bit strange and they were far from done discussing what had really happened to Theodor that night. But somehow, he felt sure everything would be all right. That at the end of the day, there was nothing to prevent them from becoming a proper family once more.
The only X in the equation was Sonja.
Until now, there had been no room or time for her or him. Much less for them. If there even still was a them. Not too long ago, Sonja had informed him she wanted a divorce. A concept he had kicked around himself on and off for the past few years, which she had now appropriated.
The warning signs had been there all along. Flashing red, blaring like klaxons at the end of a bad disaster film. And yet he had been caught off guard by her suddenly being ready to move on without him, declaring in the same breath that there was nothing he could do about it.
But where Sonja stood now, after her lover had revealed himself to be an impostor, he had no clue. He didn’t even really have a clear idea of what had been done to her in the hours before those horrifying events in their living room.
He did suspect the worst, based on what little he knew. For instance, her expensive art piece ‘The Hanging Box’ had, for some reason, been confiscated by the police as evidence. Then there were the bruises all over her body, which he had caught a glimpse of at one point, when he forgot to knock before entering their bedroom. And it wasn’t just the bruises. What he saw was a broken woman who seemed to have lost all faith in herself.
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