‘I can’t imagine why,’ she said. ‘How may I help?’ The computer came back empty. Any info on Frys was well above her pay grade.
‘Does the name Jonas Anglemark mean anything to you?’ He waited for her to fill in the silence. Of course it meant something to her. The country’s first openly gay cabinet minister, and a one-time rising star of the political right, and still a political force to be reckoned with at seventy-seven, you would have needed to be living under a rock for decades not to recognize the missing politician’s name. That and the fact that his face had been plastered all over Dagens Nyheter and Svenska Dagbladet for a week and filled every single slot on the twenty-four-hour news cycle, even with nothing new to report. It was impossible to get away from him. People didn’t just disappear. Not high-profile people. There was an air of dreaded expectancy about it all. The country’s memory was long. Anglemark’s disappearance was only a hop and a skip removed from the fates of Anna Lindh, stabbed to death in a department store, and Olaf Palme, murdered on his way home from the cinema. No one was saying it, but everyone was thinking it: not again.
Anglemark’s disappearance had already been flagged up on Eurocrime’s intranet, which lead to the obvious conclusion that it wasn’t some mentally unstable opportunist like Mijailović, Lindh’s killer, or some drug-addicted petty criminal like Christer Pettersson, who fourteen years after his death remained the best suspect in the unsolved Palme assassination. It was organized, and international. That escalated it to another level.
She didn’t say anything, knowing the other man would eventually fill the silence.
‘The Prime Minister has asked if you would personally take over the investigation.’
‘I’m not sure I am in a position to do that.’
‘As I said, he speaks very highly of you, and assures me that your discretion can be relied on. Sadly, the same cannot be said for certain elements within SAPO.’
The Security Service had five main jurisdictions: counter-espionage, counter-terrorism, counter-subversion, protective security and dignitary protection. This was their remit, not hers, no matter what the Prime Minister might want. There were protocols in place for a reason. And with a hundred and thirty officers assigned to protection, they had the manpower that Frankie didn’t. And they most certainly weren’t cursed with loose lips. The entire service was formed around the old promise En Svensk Tiger, which had a double meaning as tiger not only meant the strength of the animal, but because of the verb form also meant A Swede Keeps Silent. The inference that someone within SAPO threatened the integrity of the investigation was unnerving to say the least. So for now at least she chose to ignore it.
The obvious first question was: why her?
She shouldn’t have even been on his radar, never mind the whole thing about speaking highly of her. That made zero sense. Frankie didn’t like it when there was no logical explanation for something. She much preferred an empirical world. Nothing was random. Chance and coincidence just meant you’d not paid attention to the inciting factors that got the ball rolling. That she could accept. People were essentially blind, even with social media bullying them to open their eyes and see the truth. Those bullies were just different liars in different cities pretending to be people they weren’t.
What she didn’t hear in his voice was any intimation of impropriety or a personal relationship with the PM, but the direct request from on high came loaded with so many presuppositions Frys had to be wondering the same thing, surely?
She’d only met the Prime Minister once to her knowledge, and that was hardly an eventful meeting, a few words of encouragement from him, a nod from her, and he’d moved on down the line. It wasn’t the kind of meeting that left any sort of meaningful impression on anyone, let alone the most powerful man in the country.
She’d come across a piece of information that, in the wrong hands, could have been used as leverage against him, and in the days before that brief exchange had made sure he both knew it was in the ether and that she had no intention of using it for her own gain. That had been before he was elected, back in 2012. She’d still expected the secret to resurface. Things like that didn’t stay buried for ever. But six years on there was no sign that anyone had put two and two together. So, was that what this was? A delayed reward? A high-profile case as thanks for her not ending his career when she’d had the chance?
‘SAPO are better placed to find Anglemark,’ she assured him.
‘He’s already been found,’ Frys interrupted. ‘Or rather most of him has.’
‘When? Where?’ Two key questions reduced by economy of phrase to two words. The how and why would come.
‘His corpse was fished out of the Riddarfjärden an hour ago.’ The Knight’s Firth was the main lake that turned the city into the Venice of the North, emptying out into the Baltic. It encompassed all the landmarks of the city, including the main island that housed the parliament building. ‘A taxi driver saw something in the water.’
That still didn’t explain why the Prime Minister had thought of her; but she could hazard a guess, at least, given that the rainbow flag flew from more flagpoles along that stretch of the islands than the blue and gold did.
‘Significant or random?’
‘As I said, Miss Varg, the Prime Minister wants someone who will operate with discretion.’ Which translated to damage control. Anglemark was an openly gay politician, the first. As an old man now he didn’t feel the need to hide who he was. He had been a trailblazer. Even in a country as enlightened as Sweden there had to be a first, and thirty years ago when he came out, it was front-page news. Now, with the rise of the Sverige Demokraterna there were still plenty of bigots who hated him for who he was, and the murder of a high-profile politician because of his sexual proclivities was a scandal no matter how you carved it up, even if it wasn’t the slice of orange in the mouth and plastic bag over the head of auto-asphyxiation that was often used to discredit men like Anglemark.
Frankie said nothing.
That the PM was intimately familiar with people who cruised those streets remained unspoken.
‘I can have everything sent over,’ Frys said. ‘SAPO have agreed to hand the case over to you.’
Now that surprised her.
‘They have?’ There was no legitimate reason they’d simply cede control of such a high-profile case, unless, she reasoned, they already knew something that would lay it squarely at her door, even with pressure from the PM’s office. The murder of a sitting MP was a crime against the nation. She still remembered the outpouring of grief back in 2003 with the streets around Hamngatan closed off for mourners and the hundreds of thousands of red roses and grave candles piled up outside the door of Nordiska Kompaniet. ‘Why me?’
‘We have reason to believe that this case crosses international boundaries,’ Frys told her.
‘What reason?’
‘A note was found with his possessions. We believe it was related to his disappearance. I’d rather not give any more details over an unsecure line, Miss Varg. I have made arrangements for a copy of the note to be sent to you along with everything else we have on the disappearance.’
‘You’re assuming I’m not going to refuse you?’
‘I know you won’t,’ Frys said matter-of-factly.
Frankie breathed in deeply. ‘If we’re going to work together it’s Frankie,’ she said. ‘I’ll need to advise Control that I’m taking the case.’
‘I took the liberty,’ Frys said. Which explained why Anglemark’s disappearance had already been flagged in the system.
‘I’ll take a look at the file, but no promises.’
That seemed to be enough for the man. ‘The post-mortem is scheduled for tomorrow morning.’
‘Not really my idea of fun,’ she said.
‘Given his tongue has been cut out, I think it might prove useful to observe.’
With one statement a torrent of questions filled her head, but Frankie held a silent phone to her ear. The other man had k
illed the connection, no goodbyes.
The murder of the first openly gay cabinet member promised to be much more interesting than the tax-fraud operation she’d been contemplating. And who was she to argue with the Prime Minister?
FIVE
It wasn’t unusual for Henri Blanc to find himself at his desk long before the Monsignor left his private apartment. Blanc’s work ethic was second to none. Every aspect of his life was devoted to making the Reverend Monsignor’s life as comfortable as possible. He had a gift for organization and efficiency, more often than not appearing to have discovered a missing hour in every working day that allowed everything he did to appear effortless.
He had his morning rituals, with much of every morning dedicated to the same tasks.
The Monsignor had failed to return to chambers after leaving for lunch yesterday, though that in itself was nothing to be concerned over. There were no appointments in the diary, and it was always going to be a daunting proposition finding his feet in this new role. Blanc could rationalize it a thousand different ways, but none of them made the plastic container and the tongue it contained go away.
His first duty of the day was to ensure that yesterday’s delivery was still in the small wine cooler he kept in his office. It was, so he turned his attention to the day’s correspondence.
He was not a superstitious man, but a devout and practical one. Yet when the grandfather clock in the corner chimed ten times he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and knew deep down in his bones something was wrong.
It was unlikely that the Monsignor had overslept, and assuming he had attended morning mass in the cathedral he should still have reached his chambers more than half an hour ago, even with people pressing the flesh and wishing him well in his new position.
Blanc tried to call through to the Monsignor’s apartment, but there was no reply. That did little to settle his unease.
Thirty minutes later, Monsignor Tournard had still not appeared and Blanc was convinced he was in trouble. He looked again at the tongue in the cooler and wondered what had possessed him not to report it the day before. The threat it represented was obvious, and the Monsignor’s insistence the police not be involved only made it more so. But before he took matters into his own hands, Blanc needed to be sure Tournard was not merely sleeping under the influence of some heavy sedatives or suffering from illness. Or worse. His predecessor had, after all, died in that very bed less than three weeks ago. It was an inevitability in some regards, but one did not like to imagine death would come so soon given that Tournard himself was still a relatively young man for the position. Blanc put the thought from his mind, retrieved the spare set of keys from his desk drawer, and bustled through the labyrinthine corridors toward the Monsignor’s quarters.
He knew every twist and turn of the ancient building well enough to walk them blind. Every passageway possessed its own unique echoes and silences, shaped by the thickness of the walls and the various stained- and plain-glass panels that offered a glimpse of the godless world outside. The walkway between the chambers and the Monsignor’s quarters was lined with marble busts of his predecessors going all the way back to the fourteenth century. The wisdom and piety in those carved white eyes was both humbling and calming, suggesting that as it had been, so it would be, regardless of the passing of time. This world he found himself in was eternal.
Blanc paused at the door, the key in hand, and knocked twice, sharply, waiting for a response from within. When none came he took a deep breath and opened the door.
‘Monsignor?’ he called out tentatively as he stepped inside.
There was no reply.
There was nothing that immediately struck him as out of place, and no sign that housekeeping had made their daily visit yet. He moved toward the bedroom, calling out again. There was a simple elegance to the apartment’s decor, but that did not mean it was lacking. The vast canvas of an Italian master dominated one of the feature walls, seeming to draw the light out of the day. There were plush divans and ornate gilt statuettes and figurines, but more in keeping with the man himself there was a comfortable leather armchair and an Anglepoise reading lamp beside it. There was an open copy of the complete plays of Marlowe on the small mahogany table, well-thumbed and well loved.
The white double doors to the bedroom were closed.
He knocked again before opening the doors.
The bed hadn’t been slept in.
He didn’t have a choice; he couldn’t wilfully ignore the Monsignor’s absence or the tongue in the cooler any more. He needed to report.
He made the call from the Monsignor’s quarters, dialling through to the switchboard. There was only one person to contact in times like these. ‘This is Blanc, put me through to Donatti.’ Ernesto Donatti served as a Vatican envoy, a title that covered a multitude of sins. If anyone would know what to do, it was Donatti.
Within a minute of making the call, the voice on the other end of the line took control of the situation, calmly instructing Blanc, ‘Do nothing until I get there.’
‘And the tongue?’ Blanc asked.
‘Leave it. Do not under any circumstances mention it to anyone else, do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Blanc assured him, his head nodding faster than he could form the word, even though there was no one to see him do it.
‘I will be with you this afternoon.’
‘Should I see to it that chambers are made available?’
‘That won’t be necessary. If the Monsignor returns though please call my offices. If there is no one to take the call it redirects to my cellular phone. And I cannot stress this enough, Henri, not a word to anyone. Discretion is imperative. As far as the world is concerned it is business as usual. Should the Monsignor make contact, or anyone who claims to know his whereabouts, I would be grateful if you refrained from mentioning my involvement. Do not dispose of the tongue.’
‘I will remain in chambers until your arrival and should anyone ask I shall merely inform them that the Reverend Monsignor is indisposed.’
A problem shared had just become a problem doubled.
SIX
Jacques Tournard woke in a makeshift cell.
The only light came through a dirty glass transom window above the locked door. It allowed enough of the dim glow to leak into the cramped room to banish the deepest of the shadows.
His head burned, the blood vessels stretched to the point of bursting.
There were gaps in his memory.
He remembered leaving his chambers and the hurried walk to the cafe to confront the mystery gift-giver. He arrived first and ordered an espresso. He didn’t drink it. He waited, the hustle and bustle of Parisian life all around him. Mothers, babies in pushchairs, shoppers with straining bags branded like mobile advertising hoardings, and those wizened old men with their stubby Gauloises dangling from their lips as they contemplated the philosophies on the pages before them. He hadn’t recognized the stranger who joined him at his table, but the man obviously knew who he was, as he negotiated the crowded room to join him without needing to scan the faces of the drinkers. Tournard was well enough known in his own circles to be recognized by some, but he was hardly movie-star familiar.
He remembered too, sipping at the bitter espresso waiting for the man to come to the point, after all they weren’t old friends looking to reminisce. One of them had sent a tongue and a threat to the other. As much as he wanted to know about the tongue, there were more pressing matters at hand: Remember Bonn.
He had told the man up front he had no interest in raking over the past. What was done was done. It had not shaped him then and he would not allow it to shape him now. The man had seemed content if not pleased to let sleeping dogs lie, and when he began to feel unwell graciously offered to help him into a town car to return him to chambers. That hand on his shoulder as he lowered himself into the back seat was the last thing Tournard could remember.
He should have exercised greater caution. He had wrongly assumed
the stranger was a journalist who believed he had stumbled upon some deep dark secret in the Monsignor’s past. Remember Bonn. He had been wrong. The stranger had somehow drugged his espresso, and bundled him into the waiting car, and now he was here. And he was in trouble.
Tournard fell to his knees beside the bed, his instinct to pray.
The floor was hard on his knees. He had no idea what might lie ahead, but he felt the need for communion.
The door opened before he could clear his thoughts.
He eased himself up with the aid of the bed, but the sudden wave of nausea that accompanied the movement was enough to prove the drug was still working away in his system. He felt a moment of confusion and had no choice but to drop onto the bed rather than risk falling back to the floor.
‘You know why you’re here,’ the stranger said, looking down at him. There was no pity in his eyes. He should know him. It made no sense that he did not.
‘There is a price to pay for my soul to be cleansed,’ he said, offering no denials or claims of innocence. He knew there was no point. ‘But what gives you the right to claim it? What is your part in all this?’
‘My role here is merely that of father confessor. I offer you the opportunity to show your contrition, to test your faith, and should you prove worthy, to confess your sins. No more than that.’
‘I am not a guinea pig,’ he said, but there was no fire in his belly. A younger man would have demanded his release, even knowing what he had done, or failed to do, yet that ceased to matter as his mind drowned beneath long-suppressed memories.
‘You understand that the penitent man must confirm his faith if he is to be granted forgiveness, no?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It is not enough to be sorry. Without faith anything you say is no more than hollow testimony, empty words. What is the value of such a promise? I will tell you. It is worthless, Jacques. And yet we live in a world where empty promises are traded like gold every single day, and it has ever been thus.’
The Memory Man Page 3