Box 21 (23 page)

 

Lisa couldn’t hold back any more. Her stomach was in pieces and she leaned over the table and threw up again. She sensed that the man who was threatening her had come closer.

 

‘Lisa, Lisa. You’re not well, are you? As I had to wait to speak to you, first downstairs, what with the cops crawling all over the place, and then again outside your office, I made a few phone calls to pass the time. Get that, Lisa? A few quick calls to the right people, that’s all it takes, and then you’re king of the castle, eh? Know everything you need to know.’

 

His face came closer still.

 

‘You can’t answer. Maybe you should listen instead. Your name is Lisa Öhrström. You are thirty-five years old and have been a doctor for seven. You have worked in this place for the last two years.’

 

Lisa sat very still. If she didn’t move, didn’t speak, it might be over soon.

 

‘You are unmarried. No children. Still, never mind, you have these photos pinned to your noticeboard.’

 

He showed her the photographs. In one of them it was
summer and a six-year-old boy was lying on a wooden jetty next to his older sister. The sun was shining and they both looked a little too red. The other picture was of a Christmas tree and the same children, surrounded by wrapping paper and ribbon, their faces winter-pale but full of anticipation.

 

Lisa closed her eyes again.

 

She saw Sanna, she saw Jonathan. They were all she had. She was so proud of them both, felt like another mother to them. There were times when they stayed at her place more than at home with Ylva. They would soon be grown up. In this horrible world. She prayed that they would never have to deal with someone close to them being an addict. Prayed that neither of them would ever be haunted by the sick behaviour patterns driven by addiction. Prayed that they would never have to feel the terrible fear that gripped her now.

 

She kept her eyes closed and would keep them closed until all this was over.

 

What you don’t see doesn’t exist.

 

 

 

 

 

‘Ewert?’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘What’s going on?’

 

‘I don’t know.’

 

Ewert had no idea. He still couldn’t feel anything. She had given them half an hour. Why not twenty minutes? What about that? Or ten? Why not just one minute? What did it matter, when they had no choice?

 

‘Ewert?’

 

‘Yes?’

 

Bengt Nordwall was holding on tightly to the edge of the trolley. He found it difficult to speak, even to stand up straight. Why ask? Why am I pushing this? he thought. I’m saying things I don’t want to say, which means that I’ll have to do things I don’t want to do. I don’t need this. Some bloody awful terror is tearing me apart. I don’t want to think about it. Not the commotion in the stairwell, not her lashed back. Not the
Stena Baltica
. None of that.

 

‘Ewert, you know that I have to. We have no choice.’

 

Ewert knew it was true.

 

He knew it wasn’t true.

 

The minutes were ticking away. Find a solution, only there isn’t one.

 

He wanted to leave the room, but had to stay.

 

He had completed the Lang negotiations with Ĺgestam and looked around for Edvardson, who was still sitting in another room, keeping his boss up to speed with the situation. He tried to contact Sven, who was down in the basement corridors, waiting for the mortuary door to open again.

 

He needed them there. Hermansson was a good police officer, but he didn’t know her in the same way he knew the other two. As for Bengt, well, it was all about him, so he was the last person he ought to discuss the situation with.

 

‘She wants you with her. She will free the others in exchange for you.’

 

Ewert went over to his colleague, his old friend. He waited.

 

‘Are you listening? I don’t understand. Do you?’

 

Bengt still had the earphones on. He had put the receiver down a while ago, but their conversation was still going round in his head: he heard what she said and he heard what he said and the dialogue got nowhere, the same sentences, over and over again.

 

He had understood. He would never admit it.

 

‘I don’t understand either. But if you want me to, I’ll go in.’

 

Ewert went over to the phone that was their link to the mortuary. He listened to the monotonous tone in the receiver, shouted at it, incoherent phrases about whores and wired-up bodies on the floor and detonators and clocks ticking away time to think.

 

The colour in his face didn’t fade even when he had put the receiver down and circled the trolley a couple of times.

 

‘It would be a breach of duty to order you to go down there. You know that.’

 

‘Yes, I know.’

 

‘And so?’

 

Nordwall hesitated. I can’t, he thought. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

 

‘It’s your decision, Ewert.’

 

Ewert carried on pacing, completing one circle after another.

 

‘Hermansson?’

 

He looked at her.

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘What do you think?’

 

She looked at her watch. Three minutes to go.

 

‘You can’t use the Flying Squad. Half the hospital has been evacuated because we know she has explosives, which she has in fact already used once and threatens to use again. You can’t persuade her to do what you want, you’ve tried that, but she’s determined. There’s no time to look for other ways to get in there.’

 

The time, again. She continued:

 

‘She picked a closed room, a perfect one. For as long as she is in there with her gun aimed at the hostages, we simply get nowhere. What do the rules say? Sure, it would be seriously unprofessional to send someone down there on her terms. Is there any alternative? Not really. We have sent police officers in before, in exchange for hostages. There are three people down there who may live for a little longer.’

 

Just over two minutes to go. Ewert started on another circle. He had listened to what Hermansson had said and realised that he should have asked her opinion much earlier on. Later, when he had time, he would make a point of telling her so. He threw a quick glance at Bengt, who was still sitting there with the earphones on; Bengt, who had two small children and a lovely wife and a garden outside his house . . .

 

The radio went live.

 

Sven’s voice.

 

‘A gunshot. From in there. No question about it. Just one shot.’

 

Bengt heard this, but couldn’t take any more. He took the earphones off. The tearing feeling in his chest wouldn’t let up, intensified.

 

Ewert got hold of the earphones and shouted into the mike.

 

‘Christ almighty! What’s up? We’ve got two minutes to go. At least!’

 

Sven seemed to move about. The radio crackled.

 

‘Ewert.’

 

‘Speak.’

 

‘The mortuary door is open. One of the hostages is in the corridor. He or she is pulling at the arm of a body on the floor, dragging it out, same as before. It’s hard to make out the details from where I am, but I’m pretty sure the body is . . . lifeless.’

 

 

 

 

 

Bengt Nordwall was waiting in one of the dark basement corridors, the one furthest from the lift that led straight to the mortuary door. He was freezing. It was the middle of summer but the floor was cold against his bare feet, the air-conditioning too chilly for naked skin. He had undressed: plain underpants, a small microphone, and an earpiece mounted to his ear.

 

He had no illusions about what was awaiting him in the mortuary. He knew who she was, that it was a matter of life and death. For him. For the others. He was responsible for the fact that several people’s lives were in danger.

 

He turned round, as he had twice already, to check that the three armed policemen were right behind him.

 

‘Ewert. Over.’

 

He kept his voice low, trying to maintain contact for as long as possible.

 

‘Receiving, over.’

 

There was nothing to hold on to.

 

He wasn’t sure that he would be able to stand upright for much longer.

 

He thought of Lena, somewhere in their shared home,
curled up with a book in her hand. He missed her. He wanted to sit beside her.

 

‘Just one thing, Ewert.’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘Lena. I want you to tell her. If anything happens.’

 

He waited. No reply. He cleared his throat.

 

‘OK. I’m ready.’

 

‘Good.’

 

‘Ewert, I’ll go in there whenever you say.’

 

‘Now.’

 

‘Now. Is that right?’

 

‘Yes. Walk to the door and stop there. Hands above your head.’

 

‘Right. I’m walking.’

 

‘Bengt?’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘Good luck.’

 

He walked noiselessly, bare feet on the concrete floor. So cold. The place was so cold. Standing in front of the mortuary door he was freezing. The Flying Squad guys were some ten or fifteen metres behind him. He waited, though not for long; he counted the seconds and less than half a minute had passed when a middle-aged man with grey hair came out. The man, who wore a white coat with a name tag saying Dr G. Ejder, stepped past Bengt without looking at him. A string of plastic explosive lay between his shoulders. Ejder held up a mirror, angling it so that whoever was standing just inside the door, breathing audibly but out of sight, could see that the new arrival was alone and undressed.

 

‘Ejder?’

 

Bengt whispered, but the doctor’s eyes didn’t focus on him. Ejder lowered his hand, waved a little with the mirror. They were to go inside.

 

Bengt didn’t move at once. Just one more moment.

 

Eyes closed.

 

Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. He shut out the fear. From now on his task was to observe. He was responsible for all their lives.

 

Ejder wanted to go in and seemed impatient. They stepped over the body on the floor. As they left the corridor Bengt pressed his shaking finger gently to the electronic gear in his ear, making sure it was still there.

 

He was freezing. He was sweating.

 

‘Ewert.’

 

‘Receiving, over.’

 

‘The hostage in the corridor is dead. No visible blood, so I can’t make out where she shot him. But the smell is odd, strong. Harsh.’

 

He saw her the moment he stepped inside. It was her. He recognised her. The
Stena Baltica
. The other day he hadn’t really been able to see her face, only the lashed back and the stretcher blanket covering most of her. Now he was certain.

 

He tried to smile, but it felt like cramp in his lips.

 

She was standing near the middle of the room, holding a gun to the head of a young man in a white coat.

 

She was small, frail, her face swollen and scratched, one of her arms in plaster. She supported her weight heavily on one leg; the other must be painful, a damaged hip or knee.

 

She pointed at him. Spoke. ‘Bengt Nordwall.’

 

Her voice sounded as calm and collected as ever.

 

‘Turn around, Bengt Nordwall. Hands up all the time.’

 

He turned, observing the explosives covering every door frame.

 

One turn, then he faced her again. She nodded.

 

‘Good. Tell these people they can leave. Go through the door one by one.’

 

Ewert sat down on the floor of his temporary operations office and listened to the voices from the mortuary. John Edvardson was back at his side to translate the Russian.
Hermansson had also got hold of a pair of earphones and sat at her trolley making notes of the absurd exchanges, attempting to alleviate the stress by giving her hands something to do.

 

Bengt was in there. He had done what Grajauskas had asked and told the hostages they could leave. Now he was the only one left.

 

Suddenly he spoke again in Swedish, his voice strained but managing to stay calm. Ewert recognised the tone well, knew how close he was to cracking up.

 

‘Ewert, it is all one fucking big con. She hasn’t shot anyone. All the hostages are still here. All four of them are alive. They’ve just walked out. She has got about three hundred grams of Semtex round the doors, but she can’t detonate it.’

 

Her voice now, sounding agitated. ‘Speak Russian!’

 

Ewert heard what Bengt had said. Heard it, but didn’t understand. He looked at the others and saw his own bafflement reflected in their faces. There must have been more people in there from the start, more than five. One of them had been kneecapped, one blown to bits and one more had been dragged outside the door a few minutes ago. But there were still four people who left, walked out of there alive.

 

There was Bengt’s voice again, still speaking Swedish. He seemed to be standing still, facing her.

 

‘All she’s got is a handgun. A nine-millimetre Pistolet Makarova. Russian army officer’s sidearm. The explosive. She can’t detonate it without a generator or a battery. I can see a battery, but it isn’t connected to any cables.’

 

‘Speak Russian! Or you’ll die!’

 

Ewert sat there, listening to John’s translation.

 

She told Bengt to stay still in front of her. No talking.

 

She spat on the floor in front of him, then demanded that he take off his underpants.

 

When he hesitated, she took aim at his head and threatened him until he obeyed.

 

Grens got up quickly. She had tricked them somehow and Bengt was defenceless. He looked at John, who nodded.

 

He radioed the men, issued instructions for an immediate break-in and gave permission for the marksmen to use live rounds.

 

‘You are naked.’

 

‘That’s how you wanted it.’

 

‘How does that feel? What is it like to be here, in a mortuary, standing naked in front of a woman with a gun?’

 

‘I have done what you asked me to do.’

 

‘You feel humiliated, don’t you?’