by Peter Mohlin
Mona leaned back in her chair before continuing.
“The person who has been arrested is Bernt Primer.”
Heimer let go of his wife’s shoulder. Who exactly was this woman? Was she even a police officer or just some crazy person who somehow got into the building? Bernt Primer had been to their house many times over the years. He’d posed for newspaper photos and talked about how important it was to solve the case. Primer in custody? This was irony beyond belief.
“Surely not the Bernt Primer?” said Sissela.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Mona.
“But he was in charge of the investigation until recently, wasn’t he?”
Her voice was fainter now. Not even Sissela Bjurwall could be unaffected by what she had just heard. Mona nodded gravely and held her arms out in a gesture of resignation, as if she wanted to apologize on behalf of the entire force.
“Are you sure?” said Sissela.
“We’ve got strong forensic evidence.”
Sissela shook her head. Heimer knew what his wife was thinking. The police had said that before. But this time she didn’t opt for confrontation. Perhaps she was too dumbstruck by the news to apply pressure to the new lead investigator. But if Sissela wasn’t up to asking the necessary questions then he’d have to do it himself.
“What does that forensic evidence consist of?” he said, clearing his throat.
He had been quiet for so long that his voice felt raspy when he spoke.
“DNA. Bernt Primer’s DNA matches the semen found near Emelie’s blood.”
“Now I’m confused,” said Heimer. “You said that about Billy Nerman too.”
“Our hypothesis is that Bernt Primer swapped his own DNA sample with Billy Nerman’s in an attempt to frame him. We’ve rerun the samples and confirmed that it’s Primer’s semen on the rocks.”
“So, he was there?”
“Yes, he was there—we’re certain of that.”
The dizziness was sudden; the room began to spin. The lights slid down the walls, creating an unpleasant halo effect. Heimer grabbed hold of the desk to stop himself from falling out of his chair. He moved his hand far too quickly for it to be perceived as a natural movement. His wife saw it—the detective too.
“Would you like some water?” asked Mona.
He shook his head.
“No thanks, I’m fine. What does he say, then?” he pushed on.
“We’ve not started to formally question him.”
“When will you do that?”
“Later today. We’re still preparing.”
“I need to see him.”
Mona looked at him in astonishment. Sissela also looked surprised, but slightly annoyed too—even if she tried to conceal it. Heimer hadn’t meant to say the last thing—it had just spilled out.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Mona. “But obviously I’ll provide updates on any developments.”
Heimer wanted to scream. Putting three hundred thousand kronor in a locker at the station seemed instantly meaningless. He needed to speak to Primer. Now! It was moments like this that he needed to exercise self-control and avoid being overcome by his emotions.
Sissela warned him with a quick glance not to continue down that well-trodden path. He still remembered putting his fist through the plasterboard wall in Primer’s office and the conversation afterward. He didn’t want to end up there again. If he was ever going to stand a chance of meeting that bastard face-to-face, he needed to appear as calm as possible.
“I think I will take that glass of water after all,” he said.
46
John turned up his collar and ran home from the parking lot through the rain that was lashing Bryggudden. As usual in the evenings, he stopped at Rederiet and asked the kitchen to fix some takeout for him to bring back to the apartment.
“Busy at work?” said the manager, who had begun to recognize his new regular.
John nodded, but was too exhausted to respond to the man’s smile. He ordered peanuts and a beer while he waited for his food. He hung his wet coat over the back of his chair and rubbed his head irritably with a napkin.
The latest session in the police station basement had been fruitless. Primer was sticking to his story that the whole thing was an unfortunate coincidence and that he had had nothing to do with Emelie Bjurwall’s death. Over the course of seven long interviews, they had listened him to describe the events on the night of the murder without being able to poke any holes in his account. Not once had he deviated from the timeline or changed any details. He’d had ten years to perfect his fictitious account and John guessed that he could probably reel it off in his sleep.
For each fruitless hour that passed, John had found it harder to remain patient. On a few occasions, he’d asked Mona to excuse him from the table and he instead followed the interview via the monitors from the adjacent room. He stood in front of the black-and-white screen and fantasized about being alone with Primer. Just the two of them, without any cameras on. John knew how to give someone a kicking without leaving even a trace on their body. Imagining it in detail was an effective way of channeling his frustration.
Mona had done better in keeping her spirits up—at least during the initial days—but that afternoon even she began to look discouraged. Especially once the news about Primer had leaked to the media. It took longer than they had expected, but now the circus was up and running and the reporters weren’t holding back. They were writing reams about the chief of police being held on remand for the crime he had previously been investigating.
Trust in the police was at rock bottom. The commissioner of county police had waited as long as possible before calling a press conference and when he finally did, he sent Mona out instead. The Walrus said just a few words before he deftly referred all questions pertaining to the case to the executive lead investigator from Stockholm.
John stayed in the musty basement and watched the live broadcast from the press conference on his phone, a kebab in his hand. Again, he was impressed by his colleague, Mona. It wasn’t the first time the woman had been grilled by journalists—that much was clear. She gave detailed answers that inspired confidence, while keeping a close eye on which details could be revealed. After thirty-five minutes she left the police station conference room and went straight back to questioning Primer in the basement.
John paid for his food at Rederiet, feeling frustrated as usual by the Swedish alcohol laws which prevented him from buying a few beers to take back to the apartment. He wolfed down the tapas dishes while half-reclining in bed. The sky above him was pitch-black and the raindrops on the skylight glistened like crystals. He followed the trails of running water until his vision became blurry and his eyelids closed.
After a brief snooze, he shuddered and came to—wide-awake. A thought had weaseled its way into his sleep. It made him glance toward the kitchen table, where the laptop was folded shut among the brushes and turpentine bottles.
John swung his feet down onto the floor and walked to the table. He opened the laptop and logged on to the encrypted email service. It had been almost a week since he got the bad news about Trevor’s tumors. He’d written a short reply the day after and since then he hadn’t dared look at his inbox. But now he couldn’t wait any longer. The results from the new tests surely had to be ready by now.
John keenly felt the absence of beer to moisten his dry mouth as the server verified his password. He swallowed and then saw the screen light up. A red 1 flashed above the inbox. Trevor had sent the email early the morning before. He moved his finger to the trackpad to click on it but was interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen.
It was a text message from Erina Kabashi.
I’m outside. Can you let me in?
John read the message again and then jumped when he heard the door buzzer. How the hell did she know where he lived? No one except Mona knew his address and he knew she would never reveal it to anyone.
> He closed the computer with the email remaining unread and went out onto the terrace. John squinted in the wet darkness. It was impossible to make out any visitor. The building was twenty-five stories high and the entrance was obscured by protruding balconies.
Immediately, images of Ganiru’s sinister executioners appeared in his mind’s eye. They must have threatened the lawyer and forced her to find the rat so they could make him pay for what he had done—once and for all. It was far-fetched—he knew that—but it still made the back of his head throb.
The buzzer went off again and he headed for the door. He picked up the handset without saying anything.
“Hello?” said a voice he recognized.
“Who is it?” he said anyway.
“It’s Erina Kabashi. Can I come in?”
John remained silent as he deliberated.
“Let me in and I’ll explain. I’m soaked through.”
He hesitated briefly before pressing the button to open the main door. Then he put on the white shirt that was still wet from running through the rain earlier and peered through the peephole. The digital numbers above the elevator told him it was moving and was currently on the seventh floor. He went out onto the landing. The familiar numbness began to spread through his feet and up his shins. He supported himself on the wall and took a few deep breaths.
When Erina stepped out of the elevator, she was wearing a strappy black pantsuit with a belt accentuating her waist. Her gray leather boots were soaked and the coat hanging over her arm was dripping water onto the floor. In her other hand she was holding a bottle of red wine.
“You only get to try the wine if you hang this up to dry,” she said with a smile, proffering the coat to him.
For a split second, his brain’s paranoid alarm systems kicked into action and John imagined there was a weapon concealed beneath the wet fabric.
“Are you alright? You’ve gone pale …”
He managed to take the coat from her, but he was still leaning against the wall. Her hand was empty.
“Nothing to worry about—just a bit tired,” he managed to say. “How did you know where I live?”
“Can we go inside?” she said.
“No, not until you tell me how you got my address.”
The words came out more harshly than he intended and he hurried to add a quick smile.
“I saw you,” she said unconcernedly, shaking her wet hair.
Her voice was low, almost hoarse, as if the rain had given her a cold.
“Saw me?”
“Yes. I live two blocks over and sometimes eat at Rederiet. I saw you come out of there with a bag the day before yesterday and then go in through this door. Then I saw the light go on in the top-floor apartment.”
Erina sounded credible and the beginnings of a panic attack in John’s body subsided. The pain in the back of his head faded and he regained most of his balance.
“Okay … ?” she said, waving the wine bottle in a gesture toward the door of the apartment.
John nodded and risked taking his hand off the wall. He moved aside so that she could go in.
“Amazing,” she said once she was inside and saw the huge space. “Do you paint?”
“I used to do it a lot back in the day—but it’s been a while. I didn’t actually know it was a studio when I rented the place.”
Erina ran her fingertips over the half-finished canvases. She seemed to be impressed by both the art and the size of the apartment. John hung the wet coat on a hanger and then accepted the wine she was holding out.
“Are we celebrating?” he asked, reading the label.
“Yes. Your brother clearing his name.”
“Half brother.”
“Yes, of course. I also want to thank you for giving me the chance to defend him.”
“You didn’t have to buy such good wine just for that.”
“Given how much attention I got for freeing the notorious Billy Nerman, I reckon it’s a pretty poor fee.”
John headed for the kitchen. He didn’t know much about his landlady, but she seemed to like her drinks given that there were plenty of wineglasses in the otherwise empty cupboard. He pushed the laptop aside and put two glasses on the table.
“What are you afraid of?” said Erina, once she was seated on one of the wooden crates and John had opened the bottle.
“What do you mean?”
“You seemed pretty jittery when I arrived.”
John avoided the question and filled their glasses.
“Skål!” he said.
They clinked glasses and the sound bounced off the walls. It sounded as though someone had dropped a coin in an empty palace ballroom.
“So, are you going to answer the question?” she said.
John sipped the wine. Erina already knew too much about him. If the plan was to find out more, he wasn’t going to let her succeed.
“Is that why you’re here? To …”
“No,” she interrupted him quickly. “It’s not.”
“Okay, so what do you want?”
“I’d like to keep that to myself for a little longer.”
She sipped her wine but didn’t drop her gaze. Was she actually flirting with him? “So, Bernt Primer … ?” Erina said. “That was unexpected. How’s the questioning going?”
John laughed.
“You really have zero scruples. Would you like me to hand over the full investigation report right now?”
“Yes, would you please?” she said, smiling at his ironic suggestion. “He doesn’t have representation, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t want any. I can see you’re interested.”
“Definitely, but unfortunately I can’t represent a new client in the same case,” she said. “By the way, has he confessed?”
“I can’t discuss that.”
“Of course he has.”
“Again—no comment,” John repeated, and he saw a spark ignite in Erina’s eyes.
“Can I guess?” she said, leaning over the table. “He’s admitted he fucked her, but nothing else. He has an explanation for the semen, but not the murder.”
John steeled himself to avoid reacting.
“Is that what you think?” he said, in a tone that attempted to highlight the fact that she was just trying it out.
“Yes, and it’s one hundred percent the right strategy. You’ll try to prove Emelie didn’t consent. Which I assume he claims. In that case he has an explanation for why the semen ended up on the rock and purely theoretically that version is just as possible as yours.”
“Even if he’s telling barefaced lies?”
“What is it about you and your obsession with the truth? I’ve told you it doesn’t matter from a legal perspective. If he gets himself a decent lawyer, he’ll go free.”
The frustration that had been tormenting John over the last few days began to creep back into his body again. It was disheartening to have his own gut instinct confirmed. At the same time, it was refreshing to hear someone talking about the probabilities in layman’s terms.
“So you don’t give a shit about whether he did it or not?”
Erina sighed.
“We’ve had this discussion before, and you know my views. The idea that he would have fucked her and then left doesn’t seem very likely. I doubt that she even had consensual sex with him.”
John sat in silence and let her train of thought go the same way his own had already done on many occasions.
“Do you know how they got in touch with each other?”
John held up his hand to stop her.
“Sorry, I’ll keep my mouth shut,” she said, raising the glass to her lips.
The raindrops on her bare shoulders and upper arms still hadn’t dried and her skin glittered under the kitchen lights.
“How’s your brother?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Haven’t you spoken to him since he got out?”
“Yes, I saw him. He seemed relieved.”
&
nbsp; “He should be grateful to you.”
“Yes, and I’m sure he is in his own way.”
“In his own way?”
“We’re very different, Billy and me. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up in different worlds.”
John topped up their glasses even though Erina had barely tasted hers. The wine was full-bodied and made his tongue tingle.
“It must be a shock for the girl’s parents,” she said after a period of silence. “Mr. and Mrs. AckWe,” he said. “Yes, it’s not easy for them.” “Have you spoken to them?” “No, not personally. But they were informed as soon as we arrested Primer. The dad was furious, apparently. He wanted to see him.”
“What? See Primer?”
“Yes,” said John, shaking his head. “But we’d probably have to scrub the blood off the walls afterward.”
“It’s a good idea.”
“What?”
“To let the dad see Primer.”
John waited for a laugh or at least a smile to cross Erina’s lips.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
John laughed and put his hands behind his neck.
“You’re out of your mind.”
“You should exploit the opportunity to get Primer off-balance. Who knows?—maybe he’ll start talking.”
“And you don’t see any risks in an encounter like that?”
“There’s risk in everything. But you’ve hit a dead end—that much is obvious. And as long as he doesn’t confess, you’re in a corner.”
“Yes, you’ve said that. But there’s …”
“Primer has been living with this crap for ten years,” she interrupted. “He’s had time to distance himself. If he’s forced to look the girl’s dad in the eye it’ll become real for him again. I once had a client who had stabbed his own half sister and was vehemently denying everything. I spent days with him trying to get him to confess. Even though it was the only chance he had of getting a reduced sentence, he refused. Four months later when he saw their mother come into court, he grabbed my arm and said he’d done it. He needed to see her. You get it? He needed to see the pain he had caused.”