The Bucket List

by Peter Mohlin

  It was his wife’s doing.

  It was no coincidence that Hugo sat down at their table and that Sissela left shortly afterward. Her colleague was supposed to do what she had failed to do herself—get him under control.

  He couldn’t really blame her. After all, he’d smashed up a plasterboard wall at the police station. But still. It felt humiliating to be treated like a child being made to see reason. The fact that it was Hugo who’d been given this assignment made it even worse. He was the only one of Sissela’s colleagues who seemed to respect Heimer on his own merits—not because he was married to the boss.

  Heimer wanted to storm out of the canteen. But causing another scene—and in such a public place—wouldn’t go down well with Sissela. So, he took a deep breath and made an effort to control his voice.

  “I see she’s asked you to talk to me,” he said.

  Hugo looked unhappy. He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses that had slipped down his nose slightly.

  “Sorry, I’m not quite with you …”

  Heimer continued staring at him. The director of finance fiddled with the cutlery. He was no poker player. If Heimer exploited the silence for his own ends, the truth would soon come tumbling out.

  “She means no harm,” Hugo said at last. “Sissela’s worried about you …”

  Heimer remained silent and looked at the man’s mouth. A red tinge was spreading surprisingly quickly from his throat and cheeks up to his ears and brow. Hugo Aglin was blushing. The director of finance, who looked after billions of kronor, looked like a schoolboy caught cheating on a test.

  “I was there when it happened, and I remember how you were in the years after. Sissela says you were sometimes still in bed when she got home from work. It hit her hard too. She doesn’t want you to end up in the same place—nor do I, for that matter.”

  There was a sincerity in his voice. As if Hugo really did care about him and wasn’t just acting as Sissela’s errand boy.

  “I lost my wife many years ago, as you know,” he added. “It’s not the same as what you’ve gone through, but eventually I got so sick of the anger and grief that I just decided to start living again. It wasn’t easy but it worked.”

  Hugo dared to meet Heimer’s gaze again.

  “So don’t let your life fall apart again. If not for Sissela’s sake, then for your own and Emelie’s.”

  Heimer nodded slowly. There was nothing he could do except play along. Hugo probably had the best intentions, but he would never understand.

  “Thanks for sharing,” Heimer said. “I really appreciate it. But you don’t need to worry. I’ve grieved for my daughter and come out the other side. Nothing that’s happening now changes that.”

  Hugo looked relieved and for a brief moment Heimer was afraid he’d get up and try to embrace him.

  “If you want, Sissela never needs to know that you saw through our little arrangement,” said Hugo. “I’m guessing you need some peace and quiet at home.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  Hugo Aglin’s phone buzzed.

  “I need to take this,” he said, looking slightly guilty for interrupting the moment.

  Hugo left the table and hurried up the stairs toward the offices. On the way up he almost collided with someone coming in the opposite direction—a man whose face was so grim that Heimer didn’t recognize it at first. Not until the man had made it almost all the way to the front door did Heimer see that it was Volker, head of the German office. Sissela must’ve wielded the axe and notified him that his services were no longer required.

  The German stopped mid-stride and looked toward the tables in the canteen. Most people were staring down at their plates, reluctant to meet the gaze of someone with eyes that bleak. Then he caught sight of Heimer and seemed to hesitate about whether to continue into the parking area or to approach the man whose wife had just fired him. He opted for the latter. The sound of the soles on his leather shoes on the stone floor was amplified by his deliberately heavy paces. The man walked like a German general refusing to admit defeat.

  Heimer wiped his mouth with a napkin and prepared for the worst. When Volker reached the table, he leaned on it with his hands and looked at him. He spoke quietly in Swedish with a German accent.

  “That man you just had lunch with. Hugo Aglin. He’s sleeping with your wife. And the whole damn company knows about it.”

  Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the rust-brown corporate headquarters.

  33

  John attached the visitor’s badge to his jacket and sat down at one of the tables to wait. It was strange to be back at the police station and forced to sign the register. He vaguely recognized some of the faces of those using the staff entrance behind the information desk. Most were heading out and John knew why. It was lunchtime, and if there was anything that got police officers moving, it was the prospect of food.

  There was something that felt fated about the fact that Primer had called him this morning. If John had followed through on his plan to leave the country last night, his work phone would’ve been in a ditch somewhere next to the E18 highway by now. And John would be on the autobahn, halfway to the German capital.

  But it hadn’t ended up like that. Instead, he was in reception at the police station going over his strategy ahead of the meeting he’d been summoned to.

  If Primer wanted to initiate an internal investigation, John would play along and not protest any more than he had to. Then he’d have no choice but to leave the country as soon as possible and vanish on the continent.

  But if things went the way he expected—that he would be asked to resign and discreetly leave the police force—then he’d take the risk of staying in Karlstad a little longer. His visit to Billy had moved him deeply. Regardless of whether he was on the police force or not, he intended to find out who murdered Emelie Bjurwall and ruined the lives of his brother and niece. He’d made up his mind by the time Primer had ended the call.

  An initial step in reconciling himself with the thought of remaining in Karlstad had been to start looking for an apartment that morning. There were several listed for sublet on the website he checked. He created an email account in Fredrik Adamsson’s name and sent around ten inquiries.

  The first reply arrived just a few minutes later from a woman who had moved to Marseille. She was going to stay there indefinitely and wanted to rent out her one-bedroom apartment right away.

  The advertisement hadn’t included photos, and the rent was absurdly high. But after the incident with his mother at breakfast, he didn’t want to stay on at the hotel. The woman offered to let him view the apartment immediately. There were no keys—she emailed him the address and a temporary code to unlock the door.

  The building was in the Bryggudden neighborhood, just a stone’s throw from the pub where he had written his first email to Trevor. The dark brick building was right by the water and soared into the sky as if it belonged in a bigger city. Värmland’s Empire State Building, John had thought to himself as he took the elevator up to the twenty-first floor.

  His jaw had dropped when he opened the door.

  The apartment was no apartment.

  It was one single room.

  A large area of more than two-hundred-square meters with gigantic floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views in all four directions. As soon as he stepped across the threshold, he’d noticed the faint smell of turpentine. It was coming from one of the balled-up rags lying on the floor next to an easel with a half-finished oil painting on it. It was as if the artist had gotten bored mid-brush-stroke and taken the first flight to France.

  A carelessly made-up double bed with bloodred sheets was positioned in the middle of the room under one of the skylights. The rest of the furniture could be counted on the fingers of one hand: a dark brown Chesterfield sofa, cracking at the seams, a kitchen table made from raw pine, and three old fruit crates to sit on.

  John thought of his mother. As a child, he’d heard her dreaming of
the day she would get her own studio. When she’d finally have time for painting and not have to be disturbed by her husband or her rowdy boys. She’d had sorrow in her voice when she spoke about it, as if she’d known that she would probably have drunk herself to death in that studio if she’d ever gotten the chance.

  He had emailed the landlady to say he was interested. But he couldn’t confirm he wanted the apartment for sure until later that day. Everything depended on what Primer did.

  John looked at the time. There were still twelve minutes until the appointment. The door behind the reception desk opened and two men emerged from the staff area. Ulf Törner headed into the parking area without saying anything, but Ruben Jonsson came up to him for a chat.

  “How’s your brother?” he said, once he’d checked that no one could overhear them.

  John couldn’t tell whether the question was meant seriously or whether he simply wanted to remind him that he’d uncovered the truth.

  “I don’t know, but I’m guessing better than he’s been for a long time.”

  “I understand. And how about you?”

  “I’m not really sure,” said John. “It depends on what happens in this meeting with Primer.”

  “Oh, Jesus—are you meeting him now?” said Ruben, sitting down at the table.

  “Yes. Have you heard what he’s going to do?”

  His colleague shook his head.

  “He hasn’t said anything about anything. It’s been chaos here since your brother was released. We don’t even know why Billy was ruled out as a suspect. Just that the forensic evidence no longer held up—whatever that means. Maybe you know?”

  Now it was John’s turn to shake his head.

  “I’m completely out of the loop.”

  “And Erina Kabashi hasn’t said anything?”

  The question was posed innocently, almost in passing.

  “Billy’s lawyer? She doesn’t even know who I am.”

  “No?” Ruben said thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you. That woman is remarkably well-informed. I still don’t know how she managed to turn up at the police station so soon after the arrest.”

  John knew better than to continue the conversation in the direction Ruben was heading. If he wanted to know something, he’d have to ask a direct question rather than drop hints.

  “How’s Ulf?” John said, changing the subject.

  “Oh, you know, busy with everything except police work. He’s still pissed off with you about the coffee mugs.”

  “Does he know?”

  “That you chucked them in the trash? Absolutely—everyone in the building knows. The caretaker found them. You’ve got us split into two camps: a few who like the rebel, and the rest who think you’re an all-around asshole.”

  John looked sternly at him.

  “I meant whether he knows why I’m not at work.”

  “Like I said, Primer is keeping everyone in the dark and I’ve no reason to talk more than necessary. Ulf doesn’t know why you were taken off the case—and it’s bothering him almost as much as your protest against the kitchen chore schedule.”

  The conversation ended abruptly when the woman at the reception desk came up to them. She escorted John to a conference room on the management corridor on the second floor. “Just come in,” called an unfamiliar voice after she knocked on the door.

  John realized the rumbling baritone belonged to the commissioner of county police. The man looked like a bloated walrus standing next to Primer, whose usually imposing body shrank into insignificance. The third person in the room was somewhat trimmer and it was her presence that made John hopeful.

  Mona Ejdewik.

  The fact that his contact from the National Criminal Police unit was there meant that the issue of an internal investigation had gone beyond Värmland to higher powers—just as he’d expected.

  The Walrus asked him to sit at the table and waited until the receptionist closed the door.

  “First and foremost, I want to make it clear that what we say has to stay within these walls. Any problems with that?”

  John shook his head. That was the thing he wanted—to keep the number of people who knew who he actually was to a minimum.

  “In that case, I’d like to start with your incredibly poor judgment,” he said. “You investigated a serious crime without informing your boss that the prime suspect was a close relative. It’s against the law—and it’s something that makes me damned angry.”

  The man paused to take a sip of mineral water from the glass on the table in front of him. His belly was straining against his white uniform shirt and small beads of sweat were visible on his forehead.

  “I understand …” John began, but he stopped when the commissioner held up a hand.

  “I’m not finished yet,” he said sharply, wiping his face with his shirt sleeve. “You deserve to lose your job and face a corruption charge—that’s my honest view and I want you to know it.”

  He let the words linger for long enough for them to be followed by a but. However, John had no intention of saying anything aloud. He’d already interrupted the Walrus once and had no intention of doing so a second time.

  “But …” said the commissioner, taking another sip of mineral water.

  John clenched his fist in his pocket. Maybe everything was going to be okay.

  “… there are arguments for taking another view. Mona Ejdewik has reminded us that there’s a threat against you. Precisely what that consists of is only known to you and your protectors at the FBI. However, she’s convinced me that we must try to keep your identity secret. If nothing else, the Americans would be furious if we sold you out—and we can’t have that, can we?”

  John threw a grateful look at Mona. Until now, she hadn’t said anything during the meeting—but it seemed she’d been involved during the preparation. He guessed that Brodwick had put a lot of pressure on her bosses from across the Atlantic.

  “The question remains of what we should do with you,” the commissioner continued. “I can’t sack you for gross misconduct without launching an internal investigation. And that would inevitably lead to charges, which would mean your identity would be disclosed. So as far as I’m concerned, it would be easiest if you resigned of your own accord. Are you willing to do so?”

  “Yes, I am,” John said without hesitation.

  “Good, because you’ll have to do that if you break the rules again.”

  John tried to take in what he had just heard. Again? Was it wishful thinking, or had he just been given a second chance? He looked at Mona but received no help in interpreting the situation. Her face was as expressionless as when he’d entered the room.

  “We’ve decided to let you keep your job,” said Primer, in an attempt to sound as if he’d been involved in the decision, when it was clear to everyone around the table that he hadn’t been.

  “I assume I should thank you at this point,” he said.

  The commissioner looked him in the eye.

  “No, this is the point where you fall to the floor, kiss our boots, and promise never to cause us any trouble again. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  He couldn’t help liking the Walrus. Underneath, he was refreshingly un-Swedish.

  “What exactly do you want me to work on?” he said.

  “You’re going to work together with Mona to find out who killed Emelie Bjurwall.”

  John couldn’t hide his surprise. This conversation kept getting stranger. He’d been expecting to lose his job—not to be put back on the investigation he’d originally been thrown off.

  “I can see you wondering whether we’ve all lost our minds,” said the commissioner. “I can understand that. When Mona first suggested it, I thought it was the stupidest thing I’d heard in my forty-year career—and that’s putting it mildly.”

  John wanted to ask what had made him change his mind, but by now he’d grown accustomed to the commissioner’s dramatic pauses. This man delivere
d more cliffhangers than a series on HBO.

  “None of us knows what you worked on in the States,” he said. “But I’m guessing you were involved in investigations on a completely different level to what we do in this place. Those are skills we could use.”

  John looked at Primer and tried to determine what he thought about the turn the meeting had taken. It wasn’t a wild guess to suspect he felt left out, in between his boss and the woman from Stockholm.

  “Who else is going to work on the investigation?” John asked in an attempt to understand how the previous team fit into the picture.

  “Initially, no one. It’ll just be you two.”

  The commissioner pushed his chair back and got up. The parquet flooring creaked under his feet as he laboriously moved around the table to stand at the end.

  “It’s at this point the conversation becomes extra sensitive, and I need to remind you of its confidentiality. Information has emerged in this investigation that is extremely troubling to us institutionally,” he said.

  John realized they’d reached the point of the meeting where he had to use his acting talents. They couldn’t find out that he already knew what happened to Billy’s DNA samples. When the Walrus wrapped up his account, John did his best to look surprised.

  “So you mean the perp is with the police?” he said.

  “Not necessarily. But at the very least he must’ve had some insight into the investigation and access to the DNA samples. That’s why we’ve brought Mona in to head up the investigation. She’s an outsider, just like you, and we don’t want to risk the esprit de corps mucking things up for us.”

  “The investigation will still be led by county CID, but with me on loan,” Mona clarified, in the same formal voice she had used at their first meeting in the hotel.

  The commissioner waddled back toward his chair, but on the way, he stopped behind Primer and put his big hands on his shoulders.

  “Bernt will help arrange what you need to get started, won’t you?”