by Andy Maslen
‘She’s what?’
‘Dead.’
‘Oh, fuck me, Stel, you’re serious, aren’t ye?’
‘As a funeral. I’ve just left her at the mortuary. Thought you’d need a heads-up. Get out in front of it.’
‘Aye, well, thanks for that. Was it a legitimate shooting?’
‘I think so. I mean, from Oskar’s point of view. She had a gun on me and he shouted for her to drop it and she just turned with it still in her hand.’
‘What about your case?’
‘Closed. It was the husband of one of the people Brömly wrote to. I’ll explain it when I see you.’
‘Well done. Look, I know you won’t think you can after what’s happened, but try to get some sleep,’ Callie said. ‘How long are you going to be in Sweden for?’
‘I don’t know. A few days more?’
‘Right. Listen to me carefully. I need to let a few people here know about Roisin. You, say nothing. Come to see me the moment you get back. I don’t care what time it is. Understand?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
This time Callie didn’t bat away the use of her title.
Stella cracked a couple of miniatures of vodka from the minibar and poured them into a glass. She took it out onto the narrow balcony and sat watching the stars brighten in the sky.
The first slug of neat vodka made her eyes water and suddenly she was crying, a weltering flow of salty tears she didn’t fight.
Was it for Roisin? For the Swedes Sigge Svensson had murdered? Or those tens of thousands of people who’d had their chances of parenthood cut out of them by a government intent on preserving the Swedish bloodline?
Stella didn’t know. She just let them come, and she wept until they stopped and the stars were bright above her head and the vodka, and two more, were gone.
Finally, she undressed, climbed into bed and slept until nine the next morning.
Oskar met her at the station. He looked shattered. Purplish circles under his eyes, unkempt hair and a greyish cast to his skin that turned his already unlovely features into a death mask.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘I feel like shit. I killed a cop, for fuck’s sake! A British cop. How could I have been so stupid?’
Stella reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.
‘It wasn’t your fault. You shouted a warning. I heard you. And she had her gun up.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it all night. I haven’t been to bed.’
‘There’ll be an investigation,’ Stella said.
‘Yes. I would really appreciate it if you could stay long enough to talk to them.’
‘Of course. I know it feels bad, Oskar, but you did nothing wrong. Not really. Try to find a way to live with it. She could have dropped her weapon like you ordered. She didn’t.’
‘That sounds quite harsh, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘It’s not meant to. I didn’t get much sleep either. We’re both tired, OK? Tell me, did they find Ove?’
He nodded. ‘Old fool was sleeping it off in a neighbour’s boathouse under a tarpaulin. He’s back home now. I’ve put an officer with him for the moment.’
‘Good. He’s going to need some careful handling. I’m sorry to ask you this after what we just said, but when do you think I’ll be able to repatriate my colleague’s body?’
‘Probably no more than a week. They will do an autopsy here to determine cause of death. Formally, I mean. Then that should be that.’
‘Right. Let’s try and just leave that for now. There’s still our case to wrap up. When are you interviewing Svensson?’
‘Today. You’ll join me?’
Stella nodded. ‘Try and keep me away.’
Stella waited for Oskar to finish recording the statutory introduction to the interview. She looked at Svensson, who sat erect on the other side of the table, accompanied by his solicitor, a blonde-haired man with piercing blue eyes.
Svensson stared back at her, his face unreadable. A large bruise marked his right cheek and he had cut his lip at some point. She couldn’t remember whether she’d done it while arresting him. His right wrist was strapped. He still had on his white trousers and sandals but his torso was covered by a navy-blue sweatshirt with SPA stencilled on the front and back in large white capitals.
‘The terror attack. That was you, wasn’t it, Sigge?’ she began.
He nodded. ‘I had it planned for a while. In case you got too close. I intended to kill you then take Ove across the lake in our boat. I have friends on the other side who would have helped us escape.’
‘Why did you kill Tomas Brömly?’ she asked.
He surprised her by answering readily.
‘For Ove. Brömly would have exposed him to the mob,’ he answered in flawless English. ‘Our life together would have been destroyed.’
‘How did you find out about Inger? And Annika?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. Ove likes his akvavit. You’ve probably noticed he drinks more than is good for him. Things tend to spill out when he’s had one too many,’ he said. ‘Once I knew about Brömly’s letter, I had to start keeping a careful watch on Ove. For his own good.’
‘Was the tongue a warning to the others?’
‘Yes. But I realised it was too indirect. They could have misinterpreted it. Plus when you didn’t make it public, I knew I had to be more,’ he paused, then smiled, faintly, ‘systematic.’
‘Did Ove know?’
He shook his head. ‘Of course not! He was worried. I didn’t want to add to his anxiety.’
‘Do you admit to murdering the others? Inger and Erik Hedlund? And Annika Ivarsson?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you intended to murder Kerstin Dahl, too?’
‘I did.’
‘But if you’d killed Kerstin, how would Ove ever sleep peacefully again? He’d think the killer was coming for him last.’
Svensson shrugged. ‘I thought once the months went by and he was fine, he’d forget about it. I could just tell him it must all have been a coincidence.’
So he had done it for love. Nothing to do with his politics or views on the purity of the Swedish nation. That put a thought in her mind. Is that how they’d met?
‘Did you meet because of your shared interest in eugenics?’
Svensson actually laughed. A loud sound in the hard-surfaced cube that made his solicitor jump.
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you? No. Actually we met at a Midsommar party ten years ago. I guess you would say it was love at first sight.’
Stella sat back, shaking her head. She looked at Oskar, who took over the interview, switching to Swedish. After a few more minutes, Stella excused herself and left him to it.
When he emerged, it was to tell her Svensson would be held in custody pending an initial hearing. He’d indicated he would plead guilty to the four murders in return for the judge considering a more lenient sentence.
Later that day, Oskar gave Stella some good news. The CSIs had found a microscopic trace of blood on one of the laces of Sigge’s running shoes. The blood contained Tomas Brömly’s DNA. The hair discovered in Brömly’s flat was matched to Sigge.
Confessions could always be retracted at trial, or challenged as having been produced under duress. Forensic evidence was harder to talk away.
She stayed in Sweden for another week, working with Oskar and the prosecutor’s office to tie up the investigation.
The Special Investigations Division of the Swedish Police Authority launched its own investigation into the fatal shooting of DI Griffin by Detektivinspektor Norgrim. Security footage from the house revealed Roisin aiming her gun at Oskar as he issued a warning to put down her weapon.
Together with Stella’s testimony it was enough to convince them that Oskar had acted within the law and with appropriate respect for the rules governing police use of lethal force.
Stella arrived at SPA headquarters on her last morning to find a Post-It note on her desk asking her to visit an N.
Olsson on the fifth floor.
Frowning, she made her way up and, after asking someone for directions, knocked on a plain wooden door with the officer’s name on the outside on an aluminium plate above a long job title and department name.
‘Come!’ a male voice barked from the inside.
Interesting. Using English before he knew who was knocking. She opened the door. The thin man behind the desk did not rise to greet her. No smile either. In fact, he looked downright hostile. His mouth was a grim line, close-set eyes boring into hers.
‘Sit,’ he said. ‘Please.’
Stella took an instant dislike to him. She decided to take the initiative. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’
‘Of course. It’s about Roisin Griffin. Well, not so much about her as the reason she came to Sweden.’
Stella caught herself in the act of folding her arms and avoided completing the gesture by scratching her left elbow then returning her hands to her lap.
‘What’s your interest?’
He leaned forward. ‘I hear your Swedish has improved greatly since arriving in Stockholm. Could you translate the words on my office nameplate, I wonder?’
Stella hadn’t bothered to try. But now she realised in which department she was sitting. In the office of which head of department.
‘Human Resources?’ she asked. ‘I saw a few admin types sitting around.’
The dig struck its target. He frowned and his thin lips twitched with irritation.
‘Amusing. British humour, I suppose. Well, Avdelningen för särskilda utredningar translates as Special Investigations Division. We have just concluded our investigation of Detectivinspektor Norgrim for the fatal shooting of DI Griffin.’
‘I heard. Given she pointed a pistol at him and appeared to be about to open fire, you found he had acted legally.’
‘Indeed we did. Roisin told me why she was here, DCI Cole. It was to arrest you for murder.’
Stella frowned. ‘Is that what she told you? Because when we met, she said she had come to kill me.’
There! That wrong-footed him. And since Roisin had threatened to shoot her at one point in their brief conversation, Stella carried off the lie convincingly.
‘I don’t believe you.’
Stella leaned forward and fixed Olsson with a stare. ‘That’s your privilege. Was there anything else? Only I have to fly back to England with her body.’
He met her gaze and she detected the intensity of the true believer behind his eyes.
‘I hate corrupt police officers,’ he said. ‘I have devoted my life to exposing them and delivering justice.’
Stella stood and leaned over his desk, hands flat on its bare surface.
‘So have I.’
She left without a backward glance and went to find Oskar.
‘What did Olsson want?’ he asked.
‘He just wished me a safe journey home. Said he was sorry I’d lost a colleague.’
Oskar’s face fell. ‘Shit! I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Stella.’
She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘I already told you, it wasn’t your fault. Let it go. I’ll look after her from now.’
Oskar drove her to the airport. Before leaving her, he shook hands.
‘I want to say it was a pleasure and very educational to work with you, Stella,’ he said, in oddly formal English. ‘If you come back to Sweden, I would like to see you again. You could meet Hedda and Gustav. We could show you around.’
‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
He nodded, smiled, and left her to check in.
As she walked up the jetway from the plane to Heathrow’s arrivals terminal, Stella’s mobile woke up and started buzzing. She pulled it out and looked down.
We should talk. Call me?
With a lightness in her step that had been missing for the whole time she’d been in Sweden, she made her way to the taxi rank. She checked her watch. It was 10.00 p.m. She gave the driver Callie’s home address and texted her boss to let her know she was on her way.
43
London
Sitting in Callie’s comfortably furnished sitting room, a glass of brandy in her hand, it took Stella an hour to relate the incidents leading to both the solving of the case and Roisin’s death.
When she reached the part where Roisin had materialised in Ove Mattsson’s garden, Callie repeatedly asked her to go back and clarify dozens of details. Exactly who said what to whom? Who was positioned where when Oskar fired the fatal shot? And, most crucially of all, how the internal investigation had turned out.
After Stella finished recounting the events of that weird, sunlit night, Callie blew out her cheeks.
‘I think we can keep a lid on this. Roisin will get the full Met funeral with honours,’ she said. ‘And you were in handcuffs at the time, so none of this blows back on you.’
‘Did you tell the ambassador we caught Brömly’s killer?’
‘Aye, and he said to pass on his thanks to you. I got the feeling there might be an invitation to the next embassy cocktail party for you and Jamie.’
Stella looked down at her lap, then back at Callie, who picked up on her expression immediately.
‘Everything OK in that department, Stel?’
Stella was about to tell Callie that she’d confessed to Jamie when something stayed her tongue. If word got around in whatever murky circles Callie had been forced to move in that Jamie knew about PPM, she’d be putting him in danger.
‘Yeah,’ she said brightly. ‘I was just thinking I didn’t really have any little black dresses suitable for a diplomatic shindig.’
Callie smiled. ‘I’m sure we can give you a day off to have a wee wander down South Moulton Street.’
Stella smiled back. ‘I think the Kilburn High Road might be more my level, but thanks.’
‘We both know that’s not true, Stel. Listen, I’m glad to have you back.’
Stella looked Callie in the eye. ‘With Roisin gone, does that mean Gordon Wade and whoever he reports to are going to back off? Leave me alone?’
Callie pursed her lips. ‘I bloody well hope so. With Roisin out of the picture and the case transferred from the FBI to us, I’ll make sure whatever she found out gets buried where not even our best cadaver dogs could find it.’
Once Stella had left, Callie went to find her husband. John was watching a YouTube video in their home office on how to fix a leaking lavatory. Typical.
‘I have to pop into the office, darling,’ she said with a smile. ‘Something’s come up. Needs yours truly’s signature. Won’t be too long. Don’t wait up.’
He paused the video, turned in his seat and smiled up at her. ‘Don’t you have underlings to do that sort of thing for you these days?’
She kissed the top of his head. ‘I do. But this one calls for the overling.’
She reached Paddington Green thirty minutes later. She used a local minicab firm, not Bash, and gave her name to the controller as Jean Brodie. She paid in cash.
Beneath Roisin’s desk Callie found a cardboard carton full of the FBI’s evidence, including two handguns. Its exterior bore an address label with FAO Detective Griffin printed on it below the FBI seal.
Inside the desk, shoved right to the back, she found a folder containing photos of scratches in what looked like a car bonnet. A small chrome stud in a sealed plastic evidence bag. And a flash drive.
Callie plugged the little rectangle into a spare USB slot on the PC. It contained photos of the two handguns, one of Stella’s Prada bike boots in closeup, minus a stud, plus a CCTV montage in which Stella, sporting a cheeky little blonde crop, could clearly be seen at the wheel.
She pulled out the drive and pocketed it, and placed the folder on top of the cardboard carton.
Twenty minutes later, after she’d searched the rest of Roisin’s desk with her fingertips, Callie went to the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee. She brought the steaming mug back to Roisin’s desk, tipped the PC’s tower unit onto its front, and emp
tied the coffee carefully into the fan grille.
At first nothing happened and Callie began to wonder how she could disable the PC. The liquid must have reached a live wire. A tremendous blue spark flashed inside the casing and it started to smoke. Panicking, Callie looked around for a fire extinguisher.
No flames materialised, and the smoke died away. She breathed a sigh of relief. The computer smelled of burnt plastic and ozone. She hoped she’d done enough to fry the hard drive.
Feeling a twinge of guilt that IT, when eventually the fault was discovered, would blame either a clumsy detective or a cleaner, Callie left with the box and the folder. She arrived home at 2.05 a.m. John was deeply asleep and snoring loudly. For once, she was grateful.
She burnt what could be burnt in the sitting room fireplace and dumped the rest in the dustbin. In her office, she spent five minutes gift-wrapping the boxes containing the handguns and added stick-on bows for good measure.
At 4.00 a.m., she left the house and drove west. The chances of being stopped were remote, but she hoped the birthday wrapping paper would deflect any well-meaning enquiries from Traffic about what she had in her bag.
Fifteen minutes later, she parked on the west side of Chiswick bridge. Bag over her shoulder, she walked back to the centre and dropped the ‘presents’ and the boot-stud into the deep water.
While Callie was destroying evidence that could have convicted Stella of murder, Stella was changing into her running gear. She’d woken early again, her overstressed brain unable to quieten since Oskar had shot Roisin.
She was wracked with guilt over a colleague’s death. Yet she knew that if it hadn’t been for Oskar shouting at Roisin when he did, she’d have been brought back to the UK to face formal charges of murder. Then a trial at best, or a sudden death at the hands of a hired killer at worst.
Sliding her phone and a credit card into the zip pocket in the back of her running vest, she left the flat, locking the front door behind her. After her run, she intended to take the rest of the day off.