Look Ĺgestam, dont treat me like youre interrogating me.
Ive been reading the transcripts of the communications you had with the mortuary before the shooting started.
Ĺgestam pretended not to hear the threat in his voice,
didnt look at the large policeman as he searched for the right sheets of paper in the bundle on his desk. He knew where they were, somewhere in the middle. He found what he had been after. He followed a few lines with his finger and read out loud.
Grens, this is you speaking, or shouting, actually. And I quote:
This is something personal! Bengt, over! Fucks sake, Bengt. Stop it! Squad, move in! All clear. Repeat, move in!
Ĺgestam looked up and spread his thin, suit-sleeved arms in a gesture.
End of quote.
The telephone on the desk between them suddenly started to ring. Both men counted the signals, seven in all, before it stopped to make space for their exchange.
Quote away. You werent there, were you? Sure enough, thats how I felt at the time. That some personal issue was at stake. I still think that, but I dont know what it was.
Lars Ĺgestam looked Grens in the eye for a while before turning to the window and scanning the view of the restless city. You couldnt get your head round it all, it was too much.
He hesitated.
The intrusive sense that something was not right had made him formulate what could be taken as an accusation against this powerful man, and he didnt want to say it out loud. But he should, he must.
He turned to face Grens again.
What youre telling me is . . . nothing. I dont know what it is, I cant put my finger on it, Ewert I think thats the first time Ive called you that, Ewert but what are you doing? I am aware that youre investigating the murder of your best friend and understand that it must be hard for you, maybe too hard. I cant help wondering if it is a good idea. Your grief . . . youre grieving, Im sure, it must hurt.
Ĺgestam took a deep breath and jumped in.
What Im trying to say is . . . do you want to be replaced?
Ewert Grens rose quickly.
You sit here behind your desk with your precious documents, you ambitious little penpusher, but youd better get this. I was investigating crimes, flesh-and-blood crimes, before your daddy got into your mummys knickers. And Ive not stopped.
Grens half turned, pointing at the door.
Now Im going off to do exactly that: investigate crimes, that is. Back down there, with the hard men and the whores. Unless there was something else you wanted?
Lars Ĺgestam shook his head and watched as the other man left.
Then he sighed. Detective Superintendent Grens seldom failed. It was well known. He simply didnt make silly mistakes. That was fact, regardless of what you thought about his social skills or ability to communicate.
He trusted Ewert Grens.
He decided to carry on trusting him.
The evening had patiently dislodged those who spent hours of their lives commuting between their suburban homes and city-centre jobs. Stockholm Central Station was quiet now, preparing for the following morning when the commuters would be back, scurrying from one platform to the next.
Sven Sundkvist sat on a seat in the main hall, pointlessly staring at the electronic Departures and Arrivals board. Half an hour earlier he had gone in search of the downstairs storage boxes. He knew of them, of course, lock-ups intended as a service for visitors, but mostly used by the homeless and criminals in need of somewhere to stash belongings, drugs, stolen goods, weapons.
He had located box 21 and then stood in front of it considering what he should do. Would it not be best if he were to forget about having checked the hostages statements? No one else would read through them again.
Then he could go home to Anita and Jonas.
Nobody would give it another thought.
Home sweet home. No more of this shit.
As he hovered, he felt the rage come back, the pains in his stomach; it was more than just a feeling now. He remembered the talk with Krantz earlier and how certain the elderly technician had been. He had recorded the find of a used videotape with a broken safety tab.
Now, it was nowhere.
Youre risking thirty-three years of service in the force. I dont understand you.
Thats why Im here, standing in front of a locker door in Stockholm Central Station. I have no idea what I will find, what it was Lydia Grajauskas wanted to tell us, only that it will be something Id rather not know.
It had taken him the best part of a quarter of an hour to persuade the woman inside the cramped left-luggage office that he really was a detective inspector with Homicide and needed her help to examine the contents of one of the boxes.
She had kept shaking her head until he got fed up with arguing and raised his voice to emphasise that it was within his rights to order her to open the locker. When he had added a reminder that it was her duty as a citizen to assist the police, she had reluctantly contacted the station security officer, who held spare keys to the boxes.
When Sven Sundkvist saw the green uniform in the main station entrance, he went to meet the man. He identified himself and they walked together to the lock-ups.
In the heavy bunch of keys, number 21 was indistinguishable.
The door opened easily and the security officer stepped aside to let Sven Sundkvist come closer. Sven peered inside the narrow dark space, divided by two shelves.
There wasnt much to see.
Two dresses in a plastic bag. A photo album with black-and-white studio photographs of relatives wearing their nicest clothes and nervous smiles. A cigar box full of Swedish paper
money in one- or five-hundred kronor notes. He counted quickly. Forty thousand kronor.
The estate of Lydia Grajauskas.
He held on to the metal door. It struck him that her life had been stored in this box, what little past she still had, as well as her stake in the future, her hope, her escape, her sense of existing somewhere other than in that flat, in a real place.
Sven Sundkvist put the things he had found into his briefcase.
Then he reached up to the top shelf and took down a video with a label on the back in Cyrillic script.
She had run after him, across the courtyard, through the hallway and out on to Högalid Street. He stopped there, barefoot and tearful. She loved him and hugged him close and carried him home in her arms, saying his name over and over again. He was Jonathan, her nephew, and what she felt for him must surely be what you feel for your own child.
Lisa Öhrström stroked his hair; she had to go soon. It was late and dark, as dark as it could be a few weeks before midsummer; darkness was gently edging into what had been daylight until now. She kissed his cheek. Sanna had already gone to bed. Ylva was there and she met her sisters eyes before closing the door behind her.
There were so few of them left. Their father was gone, and now Hilding. She had seen it coming, of course, and now there it was, the enveloping loneliness.
She decided to walk. She had been there before and knew the way, across Väster Bridge, along Norr Mälarstrand, then through side streets to the City Police building. It would take half an hour or so, not long on a summers night. She knew that he usually worked late, he had said so, and he was that sort, one of those who didnt have anything else. He would sit hunched over the investigation that had to be
completed, just as the week before there had been an investigation to complete and next week would bring another one to serve as a reason for not leaving the office.
She phoned to tell him that she was coming. He replied quickly, sounded as if he was expecting her, possibly even certain that she would come.
He met her at the main entrance and led the way along a dark, stale-smelling corridor, his uneven steps slapping and resounding against the walls. Christ, how grim it was. How strange that anyone should choose to work in surroundings like these. She looked at him from behind, broad and overweight, a bald patch on the back of his head, his limping, slightly bent body. How odd that he should seem strong, but he did; at least in this shabby place he radiated the kind of strength that gives a sense of security, the result of having made a choice. Which was what he had done, he had actually chosen to work in this place.
Ewert Grens ushered her into his office and offered her a seat in his visitors chair. She looked around and thought it a bleak room. The only things with a personality setting them apart from the dull, mass-produced office furniture were an ancient monster of a ghetto-blaster and a sofa, ugly and sagging, which she felt sure he often slept on.
Coffee?
He didnt really mean it, but knew that he should ask.
No thank you. Im not here to drink coffee.
I guessed not. Anyway.
He raised a plastic cup half full of what looked like black coffee from a machine and drank the lot.
What can I do for you?
You dont seem surprised. To see me.
Im not surprised. But I am pleased.
Lisa Öhrström realised that what had come over her, what was tugging at her mind, was tiredness. She had been so tense. Now she relaxed as much as she dared to and the recent past weighed heavily on her.
I dont want to see any more of your photographs. I dont want any more images of people I dont know and never want to know thrust in my face. Ive had enough. Ill testify. I will identify Lang as the man who came to see my brother yesterday.
Lisa Öhrström put her elbows on the desk, leaning forward with her chin on her clasped hands. So very tired. Home soon.
But theres one thing I want you to know. It wasnt only the threats that made me hold back. Quite a long time ago I decided that I would never again allow Hilding and his addiction to influence how I lived. This last year, I havent been there for him any more, but it didnt make any difference. I still couldnt escape him. Now that hes dead, he still drains me of strength, perhaps more than ever. So I might as well testify.
Ewert Grens tried to keep the smile from his face. This was it, obviously.
Anni, this is it
.
Closure.
Nobody is blaming you.
I dont need your pity.
Your choice, but thats how it is. Nobody blames you because you didnt know what to do.
Grens went over to root among his audiotapes, found what he wanted and put it into the player. Siw Malmkvist. She was sure it would be.
One thing more. Who threatened you?
Siw Malmkvist. She had just taken the hardest decision in her life and he was listening to Siw Malmkvist.
Thats not important. I will stand witness. But on one condition.
Lisa Öhrström stayed where she was, chin resting on her hands. She was leaning forward, getting closer to him.
My nephew and niece. I want them to have protection.
They already have protection.
I dont understand.
They have been under protection ever since the identity parade. I know, for instance, that you went to see them today. One of the kids ran outside without his shoes on. And they will continue to be protected, of course.
Fatigue paralysed her. She yawned without even trying to hide it.
I must get home now.
Ill get someone to drive you. In a plain car.
Please, to Högalid Street. To Jonathan and Sanna. Theyll be asleep.
I suggest that we step up the level of protection and put someone inside the flat as well. Do you agree?
Evening had really come.
Darkness. Silence, as if the whole big building were empty.
She looked at the policeman and his tape recorder; he was humming along, knew the jolly tune and the meaningless text by heart.
He sang under his breath and she felt sorry for him.
FRIDAY 7 JUNE
He had never liked the dark.
Winter darkness that lasted for an eternity had been part of his childhood in Kiruna, well to the north of the Arctic Circle, and police college in Stockholm had meant a series of night shifts, but he couldnt resign himself to the dark, couldnt get used to it. To him, the dark would never be beautiful.
He was standing in the sitting room, looking out through the window at the dense forest. The June night lay as deep under the trees as summer darkness ever can be. Sven Sundkvist had got home a little after ten oclock with the video in his briefcase. First he had gone to see the sleeping Jonas, kissed the boys forehead and stood for a while listening to his quiet breathing. Anita had been in the kitchen doing a crossword. He managed to squeeze in next to her on the chair, and after an hour or so, only three squares in three different corners were empty. Typical, just a few letters short of posting the completed crossword to the local paper in the hope of winning one of three Premium Bonds.
Afterwards they made love. She had undressed him first and then herself; she wanted him to sit on the kitchen chair and she settled in his lap, their naked bodies so close, needing each other.
He had waited until she had gone to sleep. It was after midnight when he got out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He carried his briefcase into the sitting room.
He thought it better to be alone when he watched the video.
Alone with the overwhelming feeling of unease.
What Anita and Jonas didnt know couldnt hurt them.