by Peter Mohlin
“Absolutely,” Primer said with forced enthusiasm.
Just a few days ago he’d been depicted in the newspapers as the man who had solved the AckWe case. Now he was downgraded to administrative assistant to his former subordinate and a bigwig from Stockholm—and a woman at that.
The Walrus sat down again and drank what remained of the mineral water from the bottle.
“You’re lucky that I’m retiring next year and don’t have a career to protect,” he said, pointedly addressing John. “If I did, this meeting might’ve ended differently. But now all I care about is finding the rotten egg that killed Emelie Bjurwall and my big fat gut says you’re our best chance.”
After the meeting, Mona was waiting in the corridor. She pulled John into the nearest room with a closable door, which turned out to be a small space for confidential phone calls.
“What the hell happened?” she said.
The balanced facial expression she’d maintained during the meeting was replaced by bitter anger that made her eyebrows angle down toward her nose and the skin around her eyes wrinkle.
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
She pushed him down onto the one chair there was and stood in front of him with her arms crossed.
“When you go into witness protection and you’re given a new identity, you have to cut all ties to your former life,” she said with exaggerated slowness—as if she were giving a lecture in the first week at the police academy. “But you moved to the same town as your mother and brother, and—to cross the t and dot the i in idiot—you got a job investigating a crime for which your brother was the prime suspect. How can I guarantee your safety in those circumstances? You and the FBI must both have been out of your minds to approve Karlstad. So, my question again. What the hell happened?”
“I was the star witness against some really bad dudes,” he said. “The Bureau owed me after the trial and this was where I wanted to go.”
“But why take the risk of moving back here?”
“Because I had to.”
The answer came out so quickly he was surprised. Mona sat on the floor and leaned against the wall. She’d touched a sore spot and she wanted to proceed in a more trusting tone. It would be hard if she were looking down at him.
“Why did you have to?” she said in a calmer voice.
John wasn’t going to take the bait. Mona wasn’t a friend. She was the person responsible for ensuring that witness protection was maintained in Sweden. He had no desire to discuss this with her, but he had to say something. She had, after all, just persuaded the Walrus to let him keep his job.
“I wanted to find out whether my brother was the murderer and rapist that everyone claimed he was. I owed that much to him and to myself.”
“And you didn’t think Primer’s team would manage to do that without you?” said Mona.
John examined her face. The wrinkles around her eyes had changed in character. They were finer and her eyes were less hostile. She was listening attentively to what he said, open to his side of the story.
“No, that team was a joke. They weren’t looking at the case with fresh eyes—they were just looking for evidence to tie Billy to the crime. They had absolutely no interest in alternative suspects.” John decided to stay on the offensive. “Why did you ask the commissioner to keep me on? The Bureau would’ve been satisfied if you’d kept the story quiet and I’d resigned of my own accord.”
Mona needed no time to answer.
“Self-interest,” she said. “This lousy investigation has been dumped on me and I need help. County CID has been at it for ten years and has gotten nowhere. You found the body in less than a week, and in my book that’s worth something.”
John looked at her again. The woman was honest—he had to give her that.
“How are we going to do this?” he said.
She waved her hand dismissively.
“That’ll have to wait. First we have to discuss your security. Your friends at the FBI are worried and they’re breathing down our necks. You must really have gone the extra mile for them.”
John smiled grimly.
“I don’t think it’s me they’re worried about—it’s themselves. If things go south for anyone in witness protection, it’ll have consequences. It’ll leave the Bureau’s credibility in shreds.”
“In the same way that it’ll hurt the Swedish police if your identity gets out while you’re still in the country,” Mona said. “How many people know who you are?”
John tried to think quickly. Lying unnecessarily was stupid. At the same time, he might put himself and others in trouble if he was too honest. He’d promised Ruben he’d keep him out of it. Erina Kabashi was someone else he couldn’t mention. It couldn’t emerge that he had leaked information to the lawyer.
“Just the commissioner, Primer, and you,” he replied.
Mona seemed satisfied that the list wasn’t longer.
“And your mother and brother—you’ve not had any contact with them?”
“No, I decided it was too risky,” he answered, unsure whether that lie was truly necessary.
Maybe Mona would’ve understood why he’d looked up his family. But it had happened while Billy was the prime suspect in the investigation, and it would create doubts about John’s loyalties. He was probably right to keep quiet about that too.
“Good. I want you to avoid them in the future as well. Do you think they’d recognize you if they saw you in town?”
“I don’t think so. I was only twelve when we left—and my brother was eight.”
He heard the sound of a phone vibrating in Mona’s handbag. John sent silent gratitude to whoever was calling as it interrupted the interrogation. She got up from the floor, got the phone out, and showed the screen to him.
“It’s Primer. Maybe he’s found us an office.”
“I hope there’s room for two chairs,” he said. “It’ll be a pain if we have to take turns sitting on the floor.”
Mona’s mouth twitched into something that might charitably be perceived as a smile.
34
Heimer was lying in bed listening to the jet of water hitting the tiles. Sissela had just gotten home and said she was going to take a quick shower before an evening meeting with the management team.
That meant he would be there—Hugo Aglin. The only proof Heimer had that Sissela was actually cheating on him with Hugo were the words that Volker had spat in his face in the AckWe staff canteen. Could he trust him? After all, he was a desperate man who had just been fired and had every reason to cause problems for Sissela.
Heimer hadn’t sensed anything. During the long dry spells, it wouldn’t be surprising if she’d sought out other men. Emelie had more than hinted at this to him—but he hadn’t wanted to listen. He dismissed it as yet another of his daughter’s provocations.
But Hugo.
No, he just couldn’t believe it.
He tried to think back to all the times he’d seen them together. He had seen friendship and mutual respect between them—but nothing else. No hand resting too long on a shoulder, no hug indicating anything more than a colleague’s appreciation. He didn’t doubt that his wife was capable of hiding things from him. But the unforced manner Hugo had in his company would surely be impossible to sustain if he were screwing Sissela.
Heimer looked at the translucent glass walls of the bathroom. Was it for her colleague that she was shaving her legs and applying skin lotions that cost more than a month’s wages for the employees in AckWe’s Bangladeshi factories?
He got up from the bed and went into the kitchen. Sissela’s phone was charging next to the coffee maker. He picked it up and entered the PIN: 1931—the year AckWe was founded. The display came to life and Heimer clicked on the message symbol. He scrolled until he found one from Hugo. It was serious and concise. “The F2 is in your inbox.”
Heimer had heard his wife use AckWe-speak for long enough to know that F2 meant “forecast two”—the second evaluation
of the year for how business was going compared with the original budget.
He scrolled on through the messages between Sissela and Hugo backward in time. There were hundreds of messages over the course of several years. He glanced through them quickly—Sissela might turn up at any moment and wonder what he was doing with her phone—but he found nothing to indicate that they were more than colleagues.
Heimer switched to email. He searched for Hugo’s name via the search field at the top and pulled up a seemingly infinite list of hits. The emails were harder to glance through than the text messages. All he could see in the preview were the sender, date, and subject line. If he actually wanted to know what they had written to each other, he would have to click on them.
Heimer wondered what order to tackle them in—old or new emails first? He decided to start with the most recent and work backward. After all, Volker had said “sleeping with your wife”—the present tense.
He was struck by how dull Hugo’s work seemed to be. Emails had subject lines like “cash flow analysis” and “currency hedge,” but that didn’t stop Heimer from opening every single one. Even if he had written something that gave away that they were in a relationship, he would hardly have titled the email “shag tonight?”
Heimer was about to close an email about AckWe’s new auditors when he noticed that the email had been sent to two recipients. One was [email protected] and the other was to [email protected].
The Gmail address suggested his wife had a separate email account and that Hugo had mistakenly put it in the address field as well. He searched for Gmail among the phone’s apps and found it. The familiar logo was hiding in a folder labeled Practical along with some weather apps and a step counter.
Heimer felt his fingertips moisten with sweat and the phone refused to obey his commands. He put it down on the countertop and wiped his hands on his trousers. All the time, he kept listening for Sissela. The sound of water from the bathroom was still audible.
He picked up the phone and clicked on the Gmail app and ended up going to the inbox without having to enter a password. His heart almost stopped when he saw all the emails. Hugo and his wife appeared to write to each other almost daily. Sometimes more than that.
The subject lines were reminiscent of the intense communication that Heimer imagined formed part of a healthy marriage. There were practical “I’ll be a bit late” emails, confiding “There’s something that worries me” emails, considerate “Thinking of you” emails and sometimes—but only sometimes—lustful “I want you NOW!” emails.
Heimer forced himself to open email after email. He didn’t follow any particular order—he just clicked on the ones that would hurt the most to read. It wasn’t the ones with sexual references, as he had first thought. Instead, it was a different kind of intimacy that turned the knife in his heart. Everyday things—he couldn’t think of another way to put it. Over the course of many years, Sissela and Hugo had formed a secret life together and—like all couples—they had their own jargon. It had a sense of humor and warmth that contrasted sharply with the formal atmosphere in his own marriage.
Heimer realized that Sissela’s true husband was Hugo.
He clicked on an email that was just a week old. It had been written the day after he and Sissela had been shown Emelie’s remains.
Sorry that I disappeared from the Nyla show without speaking to you. But now you know what’s happened I’m sure you understand.
Heimer and I went to the pathologist to see her. It was awful. There was almost nothing but bones left of my darling beloved Emelie. It does feel good to know that we can finally bury her. I need somewhere to go where I can be close to her when those moments hit me.
Heimer is acting strangely. I’m worried about him. He’s clearly on the verge of becoming manic again.
He wanted me to wear Emelie’s old necklace that’s been in the ground with her. How macabre is that? If it had been something else then I guess I could have accommodated it, but the necklace was just too much. I tried to say it as gently as I could—but he didn’t take it well. I could tell.
Hugo, I don’t know how this is going to play out. But I have a bad gut feeling. I’m ashamed to say it, but if it means Heimer making my life hell again, then I almost wish she’d never been found.
Heimer felt his arm shaking and it was hard to hold the phone still enough to keep reading. He forced himself to open another email. Who cared if Sissela caught him now? He was fully entitled to read every single word these people had written to each other.
We went to the police today. The head of the investigation said they’ve let Billy Nerman go. I don’t understand and the police refused to say what’s happened. One day they had concrete forensic evidence against the guy and the next he’s free and we’re told there is no further suspicion. It’s all very weird.
Heimer was an absolute disaster (obviously). He was really unpleasant and aggressive. He punched the wall, damaging it and making his knuckles bleed. The mere thought of the funeral turns my stomach. There will be TV cameras and God knows what he’ll do.
Could you talk to him? I know he values your opinion.
PS. I’ll try to call a “management team meeting” soon so that we can spend some time together. I need someone to hold me.
Heimer put the phone back down on the kitchen island. His pulse was as fast as it was after his most challenging runs, and the blood was throbbing through his temples.
He went to the window and stared across the dark water outside. He had no idea how long he stayed there. All sense of time dissolved. All he could perceive was his own breathing and the slow movement of the waves.
A hand on his shoulder made him turn around. Sissela was standing there in fresh clothes, car key in hand. Her makeup was painstakingly done but discreet. Her hair was still damp and had a faint smell of lavender.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
He tried to find a smile.
“Of course—I’m just tired.”
“You have to look after yourself,” she said, kissing his cheek.
He had to exercise all his self-discipline not to turn away from her. It was almost impressive how easily she was able to deceive him. There wasn’t a trace of guilt in her voice or movements.
“It’ll probably be a late night.”
She wiped lipstick off his cheek with her thumb and then slipped her phone into her handbag. It was no longer plugged in. He wondered if she had noticed that—or maybe her thoughts had already turned to Hugo.
35
They had requested an office, but had been given an entire floor. Primer started the workday by issuing them each a pass and telling them about the police station basement. Not only did it house the garage, but it also had extensive office space—partially subterranean. County CID had previously been located there.
Two years ago damp had been found during an inspection of the building. The risk of mold meant the basement had to be emptied until the problem was addressed. Then they’d been told that the facilities in Karlstad were being looked at: they were talking about building a new, bigger police station. While waiting for that decision, the authorities had no desire to invest in the old building. As a result, the basement remained unused.
“But now we’ve found a use for it,” Primer said, vanishing before John could ask any questions about the mold and whether it might be a health hazard.
“Look on the bright side,” Mona said in the elevator on the way down. “It’s not like anyone’s going to disturb us.”
She was in a good mood and took the basement allocation in stride. After the conversation the day before, the air between them had been cleared—for now at least. John had spent his first night in the new apartment at Bryggudden. He was looking forward to getting back to work. His suitcase had been unpacked and his shirts were back in the wardrobe.
The elevator stopped with a soft thud and they got out into something that looked like a gloomy dentist’s waiting room. Two worn-o
ut leather armchairs, a coffee table, and a plastic flower to add a pop of color. John picked up one of the magazines on the table. It was from 2016.
To the left were a couple of large doors with covered windows that prevented anyone from seeing in. John swiped his card and heard the lock release. He pushed down the door handle and stepped into what would be their new base.
Neither he nor Mona said anything for a long time. The open plan office that stretched out before them was big and divided into groups of four desks using partition walls. Some of them still had family photos tacked up next to faded newspaper clippings about old cases. There was a dark blue jacket still hanging on a chair by one of the desks closest to the doors. It was as if someone had blown a whistle and everyone had simply put everything down and headed for the door.
Mona went to the chair with the jacket on it and set it spinning. The fabric fluttered, raising a layer of dust from the desk.
“Where do you want to sit?” she said.
“Somewhere in the middle. As far away from the walls as possible.”
“Good idea,” she said, heading toward a group of four desks that were completely empty.
John searched for a light switch and before long he found an entire set of switches by the bathrooms. He pressed them all, and row by row the fluorescent lights on the ceiling came to life, casting their harsh radiance over the room.
Mona ran her hand over the cushion of the office chair before sitting down at one of the desks. John sat at the desk opposite. Then they went over together what had to be done.
Their theory of the case was that the murderer had inside knowledge of the investigation. When—for whatever reason—he had a DNA sample taken, he panicked and switched his own sample with Billy Nerman’s. Mona found a whiteboard on wheels and rolled it over. Using the only pen that hadn’t dried out, she drew a circle.
“These are all the men who gave samples during the investigation.”
She paused, then drew another circle that partly intersected with the first one.
“And these are all the men who worked in law enforcement at the time: the police, the prosecutor’s office, the law firm that defended Billy, and the national crime laboratory.”