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4
The floating man
Paragraph 21 of Swedish Police Law permits a police officer to gain entry to a house, room or other location if there is reason to believe that someone may have died, is unconscious or otherwise incapable of calling for help.
The reason why Police Constable John Bengtsson on this Saturday afternoon in June has been instructed to investigate the top flat at Grevgatan 2 is that the director general of the Inspectorate for Strategic Products, Carl Palmcrona, has been absent from work without any explanation and missed a scheduled meeting with the Foreign Minister.
It’s far from the first time that John Bengtsson has had to break into someone’s home to see if anyone is dead or injured. Mostly it’s been because relatives have suspected suicide. Silent, frightened parents forced to wait in the stairwell while he goes in to check the rooms. Sometimes he finds young men with barely discernible pulses after a heroin overdose, and occasionally he has discovered a crime scene, women who have been beaten to death lying in the glow from the television in the living room.
John Bengtsson is carrying his house-breaking tools and an electric pick gun as he walks in through the imposing front entrance. He takes the lift up to the fifth floor and rings the doorbell. He waits a while, then puts his heavy bag down on the floor and inspects the lock. Suddenly he hears a shuffling sound in the stairwell, from the floor below. It sounds like someone is trying to creep silently down the stairs. Police Constable John Bengtsson listens for a while, then reaches out and tries the handle: the door isn’t locked, and glides open softly on its four hinges.
‘Is anyone home?’ he calls.
John Bengtsson waits a few seconds, then pulls his bag into the hall and closes the door, wipes his shoes on the doormat and walks further into the large entrance hall.
Gentle music can be heard in a neighbouring room. He goes over, knocks and walks in. It’s a spacious reception room, sparsely furnished with three Carl Malmsten sofas, a low glass table and a small painting of a ship in a storm on the wall. An ice-blue glow is coming from a flat, transparent music centre. Melancholic, almost tentative violin music is playing from the speakers.
John Bengtsson walks over to the double door and opens them, and finds himself looking into a sitting room with tall, art-nouveau windows. The summer light outside is refracted through the tiny panes of glass in the top sections of the windows.
A man is floating in the centre of the white room.
It looks supernatural.
John Bengtsson stands and stares at the dead man. It feels like an eternity before he spots the washing-line fixed to the lamp-hook.
The well-dressed man is perfectly still, as if he had been frozen in the middle of a big jump, with his ankles stretched and the toes of his shoes pointing down at the floor.
He’s hanging – but there’s something else, something that doesn’t make sense, something wrong.
John Bengtsson mustn’t enter the room. The scene needs to be left intact. His heart is beating fast, he can feel the heavy rhythm of his pulse, and swallows hard, but he can’t tear his eyes from the man floating in the middle of the empty room.
A name has started to echo inside John Bengtsson’s head, almost as a whisper: Joona. I need to speak to Joona Linna.
There’s no furniture in the room, just a hanged man, who in all likelihood is Carl Palmcrona, the director general of the Inspectorate for Strategic Products.
The cord has been fastened to the middle of the ceiling, from the lamp-hook in the middle of the ceiling-rose.
There was nothing for him to climb on, John Bengtsson thinks.
The height of the ceiling is at least three and a half metres.
John Bengtsson tries to calm down, gather his thoughts and register everything he can see. The hanged man’s face is pale, like damp sugar, and he can see no more than a few spots of blood in his staring eyes. The man is wearing a thin overcoat on top of his pale grey suit, and a pair of low-heeled shoes. A black briefcase and a mobile phone are lying on the parquet floor a little way from the pool of urine that has formed immediately beneath the body.
The hanged man suddenly trembles.
John Bengtsson holds his breath.
There’s a heavy thud from the ceiling, hammer-blows from the attic – someone is walking across the floor above. Another thud, and Palmcrona’s body trembles again. Then comes the sound of a drill, which stops abruptly. A man shouts something. He needs more cable, the extension lead, he calls.
John Bengtsson notices his pulse settle down as he walks back through the sitting room. In the hall the front door is standing open. He stops, certain that he closed it properly, but perhaps he was mistaken. He leaves the flat and before he reports back to the station he takes out his mobile phone and calls Joona Linna of the National Crime Unit.
5
National Homicide Commission
It’s the first week of June. In Stockholm people have been waking up too early in the morning for weeks. The sun rises at half past three, and it’s light almost all night through. It’s been unusually warm for the time of year. The cherry trees were in blossom at the same time as the lilac. Heavy clusters of flowers spread their scent all the way from Kronoberg Park to the entrance to the National Police Committee.
The National Crime Unit is Sweden’s only operative police department tasked with combatting serious crime on both a national and international level.
The head of the National Crime Unit, Carlos Eliasson, is standing at his low window on the eighth floor looking out at the steep slopes of Kronoberg Park. He’s holding a phone, and dials Joona Linna’s number, but once again his call goes straight to voicemail. He ends the call, puts the phone down on his desk and looks at his watch.
Petter Näslund comes into Carlos’s office and clears his throat quietly, then stops and leans against a poster saying ‘We watch, scrutinise and irritate.’
From the next room they can hear a weary telephone conversation about European arrest warrants and the exchange of information in the Schengen Zone.
‘Pollock and his team will be here soon,’ Petter says.
‘I know how to tell the time,’ Carlos replies gently.
‘The sandwiches are ready, anyway,’ Petter says.
Carlos suppresses a smile and asks:
‘Have you heard that they’re recruiting?’
Petter’s cheeks go red and he lowers his eyes, then composes himself and looks up again.
‘I’d … Can you think of anyone who’d be better suited to the National Homicide Commission?’ he asks.
The National Homicide Commission consists of six experts who assist with murder cases throughout Sweden. The commission provides systematic support within a framework designed for serious crimes.
The workload of the permanent members of the National Homicide Commission is extreme. They’re in such high demand that they very rarely have time to meet at Police Headquarters.
When Petter Näslund has left the room Carlos sits down behind his desk and looks over at the aquarium and his paradise fish. Just as he is reaching for the tub of fish-food his phone rings.
‘Yes?’ he says.
‘They’re on their way up,’ says Magnus in reception.
‘Thanks.’
Carlos makes one last attempt to get hold of Joona Linna before getting up from his chair, glancing at himself in the mirror and leaving the room. As he emerges into the corridor the lift pings and the door slides open without a sound. At the sight of the members of the National Homicide Commission an image flits quickly through his mind, a memory from a Rolling Stones concert he went to with a couple of colleagues a few years ago. As they walked out on stage, the group reminded him of laidback businessmen. Just like the members of the National Homicide Commission, they were all wearing dark suits and ties.
First is Nathan Pollock, with his grey hair in a ponytail, followed by Erik Eriksson with his diamond-studded glasses, which is why the rest of the team call him Elton. Behind him comes Niklas Dent, alongside P. G. Bondesson, and bringing up the rear is the forensic expert Tommy Kofoed, hunch-backed and staring morosely at the floor.
Carlos shows them into the conference room. Their operational boss, Benny Rubin, is already seated at the round table with a cup of black coffee, waiting for them. Tommy Kofoed takes an apple from the fruit-bowl and starts to eat it noisily. Nathan Pollock looks at him with a smile and shakes his head, and he stops mid-bite and looks back quizzically.
‘Welcome,’ Carlos says. ‘I’m pleased you were all able to come, because we have a number of important issues to discuss on today’s agenda.’
‘Isn’t Joona Linna supposed to be here?’ Tommy Kofoed asks.
‘Yes,’ Carlos replies hesitantly.
‘That guy tends to do as he likes,’ Pollock adds quietly.
‘Joona managed to clear up the Tumba murders a year or so back,’ Tommy Kofoed says. ‘I keep thinking about it, the way he was so certain … he knew in which order the murders had taken place.’
‘Against all obvious logic,’ Elton smiles.
‘There’s not much about forensic science that I don’t know,’ Tommy Kofoed goes on. ‘But Joona just went in and looked at the footprints in the blood, I don’t understand how …’
‘He saw the whole picture,’ Nathan Pollock says. ‘The degree of violence, effort, agitation, and how listless the footprints in the row-house seemed in comparison to the changing room.’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Tommy Kofoed mumbles.
Carlos clears his throat and looks down at the informal agenda.
‘The marine police have contacted us this morning,’ he says. ‘Apparently a fisherman has found a dead woman.’
‘In his net?’
‘No, he saw a large motor cruiser drifting off Dalarö, rowed out and went on board, and found her sitting on the bed in the front cabin.’
‘That’s hardly anything for the commission,’ Petter Näslund says with a smile.
‘Was she murdered?’ Nathan Pollock asks.
‘Probably suicide,’ Petter replies quickly.
‘Nothing urgent,’ Carlos says, helping himself to a slice of cake. ‘I just thought I’d mention it.’
‘Anything else?’ Tommy Kofoed says cheerfully.
‘We’ve received a request from the police in West Götaland,’ Carlos says. ‘There’s a summary on the table.’
‘I won’t be able to take it,’ Pollock says.
‘I know you’ve all got your hands full,’ Carlos says, slowly brushing some crumbs from the table. ‘Perhaps we should start at the other end and talk about recruitment to the National Homicide Commission.’
Benny Rubin looks around intently, then explains that the high-ups are aware of the heavy workload, and have therefore agreed as a first step to authorise the expansion of the commission by one permanent post.
‘Thoughts, anyone?’ Carlos says.
‘Wouldn’t it be helpful if Joona Linna was here for this discussion?’ Tommy Kofoed asks, leaning across the table and looking through the wrapped sandwiches.
‘It’s not certain he’s going to make it,’ Carlos says.
‘Maybe we could break for coffee first,’ Erik Eriksson says, adjusting his sparkling glasses.
Tommy Kofoed removes the wrapper from a salmon sandwich, pulls out the sprig of dill, squeezes some lemon juice and unwraps the cutlery from the napkin they were rolled up in.
Suddenly the door to the big conference room opens and Joona Linna walks in with his blond hair on end.
‘Syö tilli, pojat,’ he says in Finnish with a grin.
‘Exactly,’ Nathan Pollock chuckles. ‘Eat your dill, boys.’
Nathan and Joona smile as their eyes meet. Tommy Kofoed’s cheeks turn red and he shakes his head with a smile.
‘Tilli,’ Nathan Pollock repeats, and bursts out laughing as Joona walks over and puts the sprig of dill back on Tommy Kofoed’s sandwich.
‘Perhaps we can continue the meeting?’ Petter says.
Joona shakes Nathan Pollock’s hand, then walks over to a spare chair, hangs his dark jacket on the back of it and sits down.
‘Sorry,’ Joona says quietly.
‘Good to have you here,’ Carlos says.
‘Thanks.’
‘We were just about to discuss the issue of recruitment,’ Carlos explains.
He pinches his bottom lip and Petter Näslund begins to squirm on his chair.
‘I think … I think I’ll let Nathan speak first,’ Carlos goes on.
‘By all means,’ Nathan Pollock says. ‘I’m not just speaking for myself, here … Look, we all agree on this, we’re hoping you might want to join us, Joona.’
The room falls silent. Niklas Dent and Erik Eriksson nod. Petter Näslund is sharply silhouetted in the light from the window.
‘We’d like that very much,’ Tommy Kofoed says.
‘I appreciate the offer,’ Joona says, running his fingers through his thick hair. ‘You’re a very smart team, you’ve proved that, and I respect your work …’
They smile.
‘But as for me … I can’t work to a specific framework,’ he explains.
‘We appreciate that,’ Kofoed says quickly. ‘It’s a little rigid, but it can actually be helpful, because of course it’s been proven that …’
He tails off.
‘Well, we just wanted to extend the invitation,’ Nathan Pollock says.
‘I don’t think it would suit me,’ Joona replies.
They look down, someone nods, and Joona apologises when his phone rings. He gets up from the table and leaves the room. A minute or so later he comes back in and takes his jacket from the chair.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’d have liked to stay for the meeting, but …’
‘Has something serious happened?’ Carlos asks.
‘That call was from John Bengtsson, one of our uniforms,’ Joona says. ‘He’s just found Carl Palmcrona.’
‘Found?’ Carlos says.
‘Hanged,’ Joona replies.
His symmetrical face becomes serious and his eyes shimmer like grey glass.
‘Who’s Palmcrona?’ Nathan Pollock asks. ‘I can’t place the name.’
‘Director general of the Inspectorate for Strategic Products,’ Tommy Kofoed answers quickly. ‘He takes the decisions about Swedish arms exports.’
‘Isn’t the identity of anyone working for the ISP confidential?’ Carlos asks.
‘It is,’ Kofoed replies.
‘So presumably the Security Police will be dealing with this?’
‘I’ve already promised John Bengtsson that I’d take a look,’ Joona replies. ‘Apparently there was something that didn’t make sense.’
‘What?’ Carlos asks.
‘It was … No, I should probably take a look with my own eyes first.’
‘Sounds exciting,’ Tommy Kofoed says. ‘Can I tag along?’
‘If you like,’ Joona replies.
‘I’ll come too, then,’ Pollock says quickly.
Carlos tries to say something about the meeting, but realises that it’s pointless. The three men leave the sun-drenched room and walk out into the cool corridor.
6
How death came
Twenty minutes later Detective Superintendent Joona Linna parks his black Volvo on Strandvägen. A silver-grey Lincoln Town Car pulls up behind him. Joona gets out of the car and waits for his two colleagues from the National Homicide Commission. They walk round the corner together and in through the door of Grevgatan 2.
In the creaking old lift up to the top floor Tommy Kofoed asks in his usual cheery voice what Joona has been told so far.
‘The ISP reported that Carl Palmcrona had gone missing,’ Joona says. ‘He doesn’t have any family and none of his colleagues know him privately. But when he didn’t show up for work one of our patrols was asked to take a look. John Bengtsson went to the flat and found Palmcrona hanged, and called me. He said he suspected criminal activity and wanted me to come over at once.’
Nathan Pollock’s craggy face frowns.
‘What made him suspect criminal activity?’
The lift stops and Joona opens the grille. John Bengtsson is standing outside the door to Palmcrona’s apartment. He tucks his notepad in his pocket and Joona shakes his hand.
‘This is Tommy Kofoed and Nathan Pollock from the National Homicide Commission,’ Joona says.
They shake hands briefly.
‘The door was unlocked when I arrived,’ John says. ‘I could hear music, and found Palmcrona hanging in one of the big reception rooms. Over the years I’ve cut down a fair number of men, but this time, I mean … it can hardly be suicide, given Palmcrona’s standing in society, so …’
‘It’s good that you called,’ Joona says.
‘Have you examined the body?’ Tommy Kofoed says gloomily.
‘I haven’t even set foot inside the room,’ John replies.
‘Very good,’ Kofoed mutters, and starts to lay down protective mats with John Bengtsson.
Shortly afterwards Joona and Nathan Pollock are able to enter the hall. John Bengtsson is waiting beside a blue sofa. He points towards the double doors leading to a brightly lit room. Joona walks over on the mats and pushes the doors wide open.
Warm sunlight is streaming in through the row of high windows. Carl Palmcrona is hanging in the middle of the spacious room. He’s wearing a light suit, a summer overcoat and lightweight low-heeled shoes. There are flies crawling across his face, around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, laying tiny yellow eggs and buzzing around the pool of urine and smart briefcase on the floor. The thin washing-line has cut deep into Palmcrona’s neck, the groove is dark red and blood has seeped out and run beneath his shirt.
‘Execution,’ Tommy Kofoed declares, pulling on a pair of protective gloves.
Every trace of moroseness suddenly vanishes from his face and voice. With a smile he gets down on his knees and starts to take photographs of the hanging body.
‘I’d say we’re going to find injuries to his cervical spine,’ Pollock says, pointing.
Joona looks up at the ceiling, then down at the floor.
‘He’s been put on show,’ Kofoed says eagerly as he photographs the dead man. ‘I mean, the murderer isn’t exactly trying to hide the crime. He wants to say something, wants to send a message.’
‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking,’ John Bengtsson says keenly. ‘The room’s empty, there’s no chair, no stepladder to climb on.’
‘So what’s the message?’ Tommy Kofoed goes on, lowering the camera and squinting at the body. ‘Hanging is often associated with treachery, Judas Iscariot and …’
‘Just hold on a moment,’ Joona interrupts gently.
He gestures vaguely towards the floor.
‘What is it?’ Pollock asks.
‘I think it was suicide,’ Joona says.
‘Typical suicide,’ Tommy Kofoed says, and laughs a little too loudly. ‘He flapped his wings and flew up …’
‘The briefcase,’ Joona goes on. ‘If he stood the briefcase on its end he could have reached.’
‘But not the ceiling,’ Pollock points out.
‘He could have fastened the rope earlier.’
‘Yes, but I think you’re wrong.’
Joona shrugs his shoulders and mutters:
‘Together with the music and the knots, then …’
‘Can we take a look at the briefcase, then?’ Pollock asks tersely.
‘I just need to secure the evidence first,’ Kofoed says.
They look on in silence as Tommy Kofoed’s hunched, short frame crawls across the floor unrolling black plastic film covered with a thin layer of gelatine on the floor. Then he carefully presses it down using a rubber roller.
‘Can you take out a couple of bio-packs and a wrapper?’ he asks, pointing at his bag.
‘Cardboard?’ Pollock wonders.
‘Yes, please,’ Kofoed replies, catching the bio-packs that Pollock throws him.
He secures the biological evidence from the floor, then beckons Nathan Pollock into the room.
‘You’ll find shoeprints on the far edge of the briefcase,’ Joona says. ‘It fell backwards and the body swung diagonally.’
Nathan Pollock says nothing, just goes over to the leather briefcase and kneels down. His silver ponytail falls forward over his shoulder as he leans down to lift the case onto one end. Clear, pale grey shoeprints are visible on the black leather.
‘What did I tell you?’ Joona asks.
‘Damn,’ Tommy Kofoed says, impressed, the whole of his tired face smiling at Joona.
‘Suicide,’ Pollock mutters.
‘From a purely technical perspective, anyway,’ Joona says.
They stand and look at the hanged body.
‘So what have we actually got here?’ Kofoed asks, still smiling. ‘A man who makes the decisions about the supply of armaments has committed suicide.’
‘Nothing for us,’ Pollock sighs.
Tommy Kofoed takes his gloves off and gestures towards the hanging man.
‘Joona? What did you mean about the music and the knots?’ he asks.
‘It’s a double sheet bend,’ Joona says, pointing to the knot around the lamp-hook. ‘Which I assumed was linked to Palmcrona’s long career in the navy.’
‘And the music?’
Joona stops and looks thoughtfully at him.
‘What do you make of the music?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. It’s a sonata, for the violin,’ Kofoed says. ‘Early nineteenth-century or …’
He falls silent when the doorbell rings. The four men look at each other. Joona starts to walk towards the hall and the others follow him, but stop in the sitting room, out of sight of the front door.
Joona carries on across the hall, contemplates using the peep-hole and decides not to. He can feel the air blowing through the keyhole as he reaches out and pushes the handle down. The heavy door glides open. The landing is dark. The timed lamps have gone out and the light from the red-brown glass in the stairwell is weak. Joona suddenly hears slow breathing, very close to him. Laboured, almost heavy breathing from someone he can’t see. Joona’s hand goes to his pistol as he looks cautiously behind the open door. In the thin strip of light between the hinges he sees a tall woman with large hands. She looks like she’s in her mid-sixties. She’s standing perfectly still. There’s a large, skin-coloured plaster on her cheek. Her grey hair is cut short in a girlish bob. She looks Joona straight in the eye without a trace of a smile.
‘Have you taken him down?’ she asks.
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