Right before midnight, the rest of the night shift went downstairs to eat. Annika stayed behind, monitoring the phones and the news-agency bulletins, relieved not to be going with them. Once the gang had gone, she hesitated a moment, choosing between vegging out or checking a few items. Then she sat down at Jansson’s desk – he was always on-line – and did a Yahoo search about the Paradise Foundation. The computer churned and deliberated, but came up with zip. The keyword ‘Paradise’ got a few hits: an advertising agency, a minister from Vetlanda, Sweden’s Bible belt, with his own website, a Leonardo DiCaprio movie. Nothing about an organization that helped women and children at risk.
She returned to her desk and checked the news-agency bulletins. No breaking news. Using the speed dial, she called the ‘morgue’ on the third floor; they had a folder about foundations, provided by the Swedish IRS and titled ‘Tax Liability’. She ordered it, but by the time the attendant had managed to drag himself downstairs and get it she couldn’t face reading it. She took a short walk around the place and rubbed her eyes, weary, sluggish, uninterested. Sat down at her desk again and wished that the shift was over so she wouldn’t have to be there. Even though she knew she would end up counting the hours until she was able to come back to work and not have to be at home. Pressure started to constrict her chest and a sense of futility crept up on her.
‘Hey, Sjölander,’ she shouted. ‘Want me to write something? A sidebar on the history of the Yugo Mafia?’
He was on the phone, but flashed her a thumbs-up.
Annika closed her eyes, swallowed, went back to Jansson’s desk and got on-line with the Data Archives, typing in ‘Yugo’ and ‘Mafia’.
According to the press excerpts, criminal Yugoslav groups had been established in many parts of Sweden for decades, in cities as well as in the country. Their main focus was smuggling and selling drugs, often using restaurants as a front, but in later years their operations had changed. After the Swedish government raised the taxes on tobacco products dramatically, not once, but twice, a few years back, many of these smugglers had switched from drugs to cigarettes. A carton of cigarettes could be had for thirty to fifty kronor in Eastern Europe, where brands like Prince and Blend were manufactured under licence. After they’d been obtained they were brought into Sweden either directly or via Estonia.
Annika sat silently for a moment and read the material that came up, then went over to Sjölander. He had stopped talking and was thrashing away at his computer keyboard with his index fingers.
‘Are we going to establish that there’s a Yugo connection in these homicides?’ she wondered.
Sjölander sighed heavily. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s a question of semantics. It is a gang-land killing, some kind of Mafia showdown.’
‘Maybe we’d better not settle on any particular country for the time being,’ Annika said. ‘There are lots of criminal groups that have been in business here for years. How about a brief review of different gangs and their favourite criminal pursuits?’
Sjölander flexed his index fingers. ‘All right.’
Annika went back to her desk and called her source. He picked up after one ring.
‘Working late,’ Annika pointed out.
‘They let you out of the deep freeze?’ the detective wondered.
‘Nope,’ Annika said. ‘I’m still eating dirt. Have time for some quick questions?’
The man groaned.
‘I’ve got these two boys,’ he said, ‘with their brains blown out.’
‘Oh my,’ Annika said. ‘That sounds painful. Are you sure they’re Yugoslav?’
‘Go to hell,’ ‘Q’ said.
‘All right. Some general questions about different ethnic gangs. Tell me, what do . . . the South Americans do?’
‘I don’t have time for this.’
Annika adopted a meek approach: ‘Just throw me a bone,’ she wheedled.
The detective laughed. ‘Cocaine,’ he said. ‘From Colombia. Last year, the volumes seized increased by more than one hundred per cent.’
‘The Baltic States?’ Annika asked, furiously taking notes.
‘To a certain extent, cigarettes. A lot of stolen cars. We believe that Sweden is on its way to becoming a transit country for the stolen-car trade. Cars stolen in Italy and Spain are transported through Europe directly to Sweden and are then taken into the Baltic States and Russia on the ferries.’
‘Okay, any more groups? You’re more familiar with them.’
‘The Turks have been into heroin, but in later years their operations have been taken over by the ethnic Albanian groups in Kosovo. The Russians launder money – so far they’ve invested half a billion in real estate in this country. The Yugoslavs excel at smuggling cigarettes and liquor. Some gambling and protection rackets too. At times they use restaurants as a front. Satisfied?’
‘Keep going,’ Annika replied.
‘The biker gangs run the protection and muscle rackets. They’re all Swedes or Scandinavians. The porn industry is also run by Swedes, but you know that already . . .’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ Annika said dryly.
‘Financial crime is mainly the province of Swedish men. They often work together in different constellations: corporate raiding, tax fraud, stuff like that. A lot of these guys use muscle. We’ve got a few Gambian rings that move heroin.’
‘All right, that ought to fill a sidebar.’
‘Always glad to lend a helping hand,’ Q replied tartly and hung up.
Annika smiled. He was such a sweetheart.
‘So, what’s up?’ asked Jansson, plastic coffee cup in hand.
‘Work,’ Annika replied. She finished the sidebar, added her byline and sent her article to the server.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said, but Jansson didn’t react. Once again, a sense of futility made her chest constrict like a belt tightening a notch.
The woman coughed, a muffled and hollow sound. Her head was exploding with pain, the wound on her forehead throbbing. Shivering slightly, she figured that she was running a temperature, and suspected that she had a bacterial infection of the airways or lungs. She’d taken the first dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics around lunch-time. The glowing red digits on the clock told her that it was time for the next dose.
Shivering, she staggered out of bed, grabbed her first-aid kit and rummaged through the contents. The antibiotics were under the compresses and she also took an analgesic to bring down the fever. The pills were old, a remnant from her days in Sarajevo, and they’d expired years ago. There was nothing to be done about it, it wasn’t like she had a choice.
She crawled back into bed – might as well try to sleep it off.
Only sleep evaded her. Her failure gnawed at her. Scenes were replayed in her mind, her imagination unleashed images, people dying, her temperature was going up. Then, finally, there he was, the little boy, his arms outstretched imploringly, always in slow motion, running, screaming, death in his eyes.
Upset and coughing, she got up and downed a half-litre of water. She had to shake this off before they found her. She didn’t have time to be sick.
Then she tried to clear her head. Compared to what might have happened, a cold was nothing. The sea closing in over her head, icy and harsh, dark and painful. She had suppressed the waves of panic threatening to engulf her and had forced her body into action, swimming under the surface as far away from the dock as possible, coming up for air, plunging under the surface again. The waves had tossed her the last few metres towards the dock on the other side of the harbour, her shoulder banging against the concrete as she turned to see him looking out over the water, a black silhouette standing out against the warehouses in the golden light.
She had pulled herself up on to a quay of the oil dock. Stretched out between two yellow bollards, she had passed out for a while, fear and adrenalin keeping numbness at bay. Finding shelter from the wind, she had checked the contents of her bag. After a few attempts, her cellphone had worked and she’d ordered a taxi to come and pick her up at the Loudden oil terminal. The stupid driver had thought she was too wet and didn’t want to let her in the cab, but she’d persisted and he had dropped her off at this shabby hotel.
She closed her eyes and rubbed them.
The cab driver presented a problem. He would definitely remember her, and probably would tell tales if he was offered enough money.
She really should leave. Pack her things and leave tonight.
Suddenly she felt a sense of urgency. She got up, slightly more steady on her feet now that the medication had started to kick in and bring down her temperature, and pulled on her rumpled clothes. The pockets of her coat were still a bit damp.
Just as she put the first-aid kit back in her bag, there was a knock on the door. Her heart leapt to the base of her throat, causing her to pant softly.
‘Aida?’ The voice was deep and silky, muffled through the door. A cat toying with a mouse.
‘I know you’re in there, Aida.’
She grabbed her bag and dashed into the bathroom, locked the door, perched on the rim of the bathtub and pushed the tiny window open. A chilly breeze blew in. She tossed the bag out through the window, then tore off her coat and pushed it through the opening. At that moment she registered the sound of breaking glass in the motel room.
‘Aida!’
She gathered strength and hurtled herself out the window, stretching out her hands to break her fall and turning a somersault as she landed. The blows on the bathroom door ricocheted through the open window, the sound of splintering wood filling the air. She pulled on her coat, grabbed her bag and started to run towards the expressway.
MONDAY 29 OCTOBER
A
nnika got off at the end of the 41 bus line. Exhaled and watched the bus disappear behind a low-rise administration building. Everything was quiet, no people were out and about. The day was fading, spent before it had emerged. She didn’t miss it.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and took a few steps, studying her surroundings. A strange atmosphere prevailed around these buildings and warehouses. This was where Sweden ended. A sign indicated the location of Tallinn, Klaipeda, Riga, St Petersburg, the new economies, the young democracies.
Capitalism
, Annika mused.
Personal accountability, free enterprise. Is that the answer?
She turned her face into the wind, squinting. Everything was grey. The sea. The docks, the buildings, the cranes. Cold, lingering squalls. She closed her eyes, letting the wind whip her.
I have everything I ever wanted
, she thought.
This is how I want to live my life. It was my decision. No one else is to blame.
Annika looked directly into the wind, which caused tears to well up in her eyes. The main office of the Stockholm Harbour Authority was right in front of her, a beautiful old brick building with nooks, terraces, and a multilevel sheet-metal roof. Behind the building, a row of gigantic grain silos pointed skywards like erect penises. The Estonia ferry terminal was located on the left, then came the waterfront. To the right, there was a dock with cranes and warehouses on either side.
She turned up the collar of her jacket, tightened her scarf and slowly headed for the office. A ferry destined for Tallinn was in, looming behind the buildings. The Baltic States’ window to the west.
As she turned the corner of the office building, the area cordoned off by the police came into view. The blue and white tape fluttered in the breeze over by the silos, forlorn there in the cold. No police officers were in sight. She stopped and studied the tongue of land ahead of her. This had to be the very heart of the harbour. The area was a few hundred metres in length and it was bordered by enormous warehouses on either side. At the far end, beyond the cordoned-off zone, she could glimpse a parking lot for trailers. The only people around, over by the trailers were a few workers in bright yellow vests.
Slowly Annika approached the crime scene, glancing up at the towering silos. Even though her feet were firmly on the ground, their loftiness made her feel giddy. The tips of the silos blended almost seamlessly into the sky, grey on grey. She followed them with her gaze until she felt the leathery crime scene tape brush against her thigh.
There was a narrow strip between the silos that daylight couldn’t reach. This was where life had drained out of the victims. She blinked a few times to get used to the darkness and could just make out the dark stains left by their blood. The bodies had been found at the start of the passage, not hidden in the shadows.
She turned her back on death and took a look around. Rows of huge floodlights were lined up along the docks. The entire harbour area would be bathed in light, apart from the spaces between the silos.
If you were going to shoot a person, why leave him in the floodlights? Why not drag him into the shadows? I guess that would depend on if you were in a hurry or not
, she figured.
She lowered her gaze, stamped her feet and blew on her hands, splattering slush around her. What a God-awful winter. Beyond the cordoned-off area she noticed the warehouse where SVT, the Swedish public-service television network, stored their props and sets.
Is this where it is?
she thought.
Annika went past the crime scene. Icy Baltic winds made the drizzle frigid, leaving her shivering with cold. She looped her scarf one more time around her neck and continued down to the waterfront, following a chain link fence that constituted the border with the Baltic States. A truck that had seen better days stood spewing exhaust fumes on the other side, so she pulled her scarf up over her nose. The fence ended with a large gate right next to the parking lot for trailers. Three Customs officers were inspecting the next-to-last truck of the day, the last being the environmental hazard behind her.
‘Can I help you?’ The man, dressed in the uniform of a Customs officer under his yellow vest, was florid from the cold. His eyes had a bright and cheerful expression. Annika smiled.
‘I was just curious. I work for a paper and I read about the murders back there,’ she said, pointing over her shoulder.