Читать книгу: «The Silenced», страница 5
Two
Superintendent Pärson’s office was twice the size of Julia’s. But it felt smaller. Possibly because of the physical bulk of the room’s occupant, or the stacks of documents covering practically every available surface. Or simply because of the distinct smell of sweat that seemed to force out all the oxygen.
“That isn’t David Sarac.” Pärson tapped the photofit picture with the yellow nail of his index finger.
“How can you be so—”
Pärson interrupted Julia by holding up one fleshy hand.
“To begin with, unlike certain other people in this room, I’ve been a police officer long enough to know that photofit pictures can never be trusted. I must have seen hundreds over the years, and when we eventually get our hands on the culprits, they never match.”
“But this one’s different,” Amante said. “This isn’t based upon witness statements but X-rays and measurements of the skull—”
“Which you bribed your way to get ahold of out at the Forensic Medicine Unit,” Pärson interrupted again. “I must say, that part of your little presentation is of particular interest to me. That’s a fair number of notations in your record already, Amante. Misconduct and two cases of bribery. Not bad for your first week.”
Pärson grinned and leaned back.
“Don’t worry. You meant well, and besides, I’ve got an arrangement with your stepfather. But keep your nose clean from now on, is that understood? There are limits to the amount of protection I can give you.”
Amante moved his head in a way that could be interpreted as a half nod.
“But Amante is actually right: this is nothing like an ordinary photofit.” Julia didn’t manage to say more before Pärson held his paw up once again.
“The second and possibly more significant reason why our photofit phantom can’t be David Sarac is that I happen to know exactly where Sarac is.”
Julia sat with her mouth half-open. “Okay,” she managed to say. She exchanged a quick glance with Amante.
“Sarac has been in a home for patients suffering from PTSD since he left the hospital last winter,” Pärson said. “He’s barely capable of walking and talking on his own, and then only for short periods. That’s why you haven’t seen any interviews with our heroic detective. He’s incapable of going anywhere without suffering panic attacks, pissing and shitting himself.”
“And we’re completely sure about that?” Julia said.
“Yep. Secure psychiatric care. Sarac won’t be out of the nuthouse for years, if ever. So he couldn’t have been at Källstavik in February, which means he wasn’t murdered, chopped up, and dumped under the ice. Besides, I’ve had time to check the DNA match that made the Security Police get such a hard-on about taking over the case. A sixty-five percent match is crap. That means there’s only a slightly greater probability that the victim was at Skarpö than that he wasn’t. Both I and the head of Regional Crime are more than happy to hand that sort of speculation and guesswork to our spook friends.”
Julia bit her top lip. She had been expecting Pärson to fall off his chair with shock when he heard their revelation. Instead he was sitting there on the other side of the desk, grinning at them in an unpleasantly supercilious way. As if they were two crazies in tinfoil hats.
She looked at the photofit again, then at Amante. He avoided her gaze. Could they really be that wrong? But the grinning skull in her head didn’t agree. The dead man was David Sarac, no matter what Pärson claimed. She just couldn’t prove it at the moment.
“Listen, Gabrielsson.” Pärson sounded more friendly now, almost paternal. “You’re a good police officer—one of the very best, I’d say. I’ll be retiring in a couple of years, selling my apartment and moving to Thailand to drink myself to death with garish cocktails. If you play your cards right, this lovely desk can be yours. But if the head of Regional Crime gets the slightest whiff of this business with the skull, well, you’re smart enough to work out the rest for yourself. Kollander’s paranoid about his reputation, especially now that he’s expecting the national police chief to reward him for his efforts. He’d get rid of you quicker than you can say ass-kisser.”
Pärson tilted his head slightly.
“I know you, Gabrielsson, I know what this is about. If it would make you happier, I can give the case a new code. Make it look like it was being investigated by one of the alcoholics in the end corridor until the Security Police took over. That way your solving rate won’t get messed up.”
She didn’t respond.
“Good, that’s all sorted, then. Now, make sure you get that fucking head back to the Forensic Medicine Unit as quickly and discreetly as you can. Send our intrepid bribemaster general in while you wait in the car.” Pärson grinned at his joke. “As soon as the skull’s back, start the weekend early and go home. On Monday I promise you’ll have a nice new murder to get your teeth into. And with that, I think we can put this whole episode behind us. What do you say, Gabrielsson?”
* * *
The bodyguard—Stenberg thought his name might be Becker—opened the car door. The man was looking away the whole time, focused on their surroundings. Stenberg got out of the car and stretched gently. He shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed out across the water, toward the Vasa Museum and Gröna Lund amusement park. A couple of young women in short summer dresses and high heels walked past on the pavement. One of them smiled at him and he couldn’t help smiling back. And why not? It was Friday afternoon, the working day was over, the sun was shining, and Stockholm was looking at its most beautiful.
Inside the restaurant Karolina was waiting at their table.
“Hello, darling,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her. She tilted her head to one side and let him kiss her on the cheek instead of the lips.
“I’ve already ordered. Veal for both of us. Salad rather than potato gratin.” She looked up and noted his expression. “You’ve let your belt out a notch, and the camera added a few more kilos yesterday.”
She nodded gently toward his stomach and revealed a row of perfectly white pearly teeth between lips red with the lipstick she had just stopped him from spoiling. Karolina was his rock, the only person he could trust unconditionally. She was strong in every sense of the word.
He sat down, spread the large linen napkin over his lap, and took a sip of water.
“How has your day been?” he asked.
“Fine. The phone keeps ringing. Two different charities are trying to recruit me, and I’m inundated with lunch invitations. If it carries on like this, I’m soon going to need an assistant.” Karolina winked at him.
“I could put someone onto that if you like.”
“It’s too soon. An assistant would make it look like we’re taking developments for granted.”
The waiter appeared with their starters. The thick carpet and subdued conversation of the other guests almost drowned the sound of him approaching.
“You’re right,” Stenberg said once the waiter had left them. “I’m just worried about you.”
Karolina patted his hand. “I’ll manage. Now eat; the veal is supposed to be wonderful.”
Stenberg returned her smile, then glanced up briefly as two familiar men walked in through the doors facing Strandvägen and stopped at the maître d’s little podium. One was Oscar Wallin, the other John Thorning. The men were laughing, as if one of them had just said something amusing. They were behaving like old friends and Stenberg felt his good mood sink.
“How lovely to see you,” John Thorning said with a surprised smile.
“Yes, what a surprise.” Karolina repeated the trick with her cheek so that Thorning could kiss her on both sides. “It’s been ages. How are you and Margareta?”
John Thorning replied something that Stenberg didn’t hear. He was fully occupied trying not to glare angrily at Wallin.
“I didn’t know that you and John knew each other,” he said.
“Oh, we’ve had a few dealings. John suggested we get a bite to eat together, and as luck would have it he had a gap in his schedule today.” Wallin nodded toward Thorning.
“Yes, I wanted to thank Wallin personally for his efforts last winter. That supplementary investigation into”—Thorning made a slight gesture with his hand—“Sophie’s tragic passing. You told me that Wallin helped to iron out the question marks that had been troubling me. So I thought that the least I could do was to offer a bite to eat in return.” John Thorning patted Wallin’s shoulder. “And it’s a good idea anyway, having an early dinner on a Friday. It makes the weekend feel longer, don’t you think? And the boat to Sandhamn leaves from just outside here, so I’ll be sure of getting home okay.”
Stenberg forced a smile. This meeting was obviously no coincidence. Wallin must have checked his diary with Jeanette. He would have to talk to her about that.
“We won’t disturb you any longer, Jesper,” John Thorning said. “You and Karolina need a little time to yourselves, and Oscar and I have a lot to talk about. I’m very interested in how things are going with your plans. We should meet again. Soon. I’ll ask my secretary to call Jeanette.”
They shook hands, and with an effort of will Stenberg managed to squeeze out another smile.
“John’s looking brighter,” Karolina said as they sat back down. “He seems to have put that sorry business with Sophie behind him.”
Something in her voice made Stenberg start. An undertone, a trace so insignificant that he wasn’t even sure that he’d really heard it. He stared at his wife, but she looked exactly the same as usual. She smiled at him. Bright red lipstick, white teeth. For a millisecond he got it into his head that Sophie was sitting on the chair opposite him. Looking at him with her shattered eyes. He shuddered and blinked hard a couple of times to make the image disappear.
“Aren’t you feeling well, Jesper?” his wife asked.
* * *
Julia sat with her lower arms resting on the wheel as she fiddled with her cell phone. Both side windows were wound down to keep the summer heat from turning the car into an oven. Even so, she could feel her blouse sticking to her lower back, and she started the engine and air-conditioning the moment she saw Amante emerge from the Forensic Medicine Unit.
She’d had time to make four calls while he was in there, all with similarly disappointing results. No one could tell her where David Sarac was being treated. Or, to be more accurate, where he had been treated before someone murdered, dismembered, and dumped him in Lake Mälaren. Because she was still convinced that they were right and Pärson was wrong.
“All sorted out?” she said.
“Yes.” Amante sat heavily in the passenger seat and closed the door. “My good friend in there promised to put the head in an empty compartment in cold storage. One of his colleagues will find it within the next few days and call the Security Police. A regrettable mistake, blah, blah, blah …”
“And how much did that cost you, then?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Julia didn’t answer. She just took the hand brake off and let the car roll slowly out of the parking lot. Suppressed an urge to put her foot down and force Amante to grab for the handle above the door.
“Are you planning on telling me what Pärson meant earlier?” Amante said after several minutes’ silence.
“Which bit?” she muttered.
“What he said about your solving rate.”
She glanced at Amante, but nothing in his tone of voice or expression suggested that he was teasing her. The best idea would obviously be to keep quiet. Follow Pärson’s advice, get shot of this mess, and put the whole case behind her.
“I’ve got the best clearance rate when it comes to murder investigations,” she found herself saying instead. She heard the note of pride in her own voice.
“In Violent Crime?”
She shook her head. “In the whole country, actually. Almost all the cases I’ve investigated have ended up solved.”
He turned toward her and she could sense his skepticism.
“We’re talking solved from a police perspective,” she added. “Not necessarily guilty verdicts. In two of the cases the perpetrators are dead. And in two more they’ve fled abroad and can’t be brought to justice because of that. And in one … in one the perpetrator was released on appeal, unfortunately.”
She bit her top lip gently. Thought about saying that the appeal was successful because of an unusually sloppy prosecutor, but decided against it.
“Either way, I’ve concluded all my investigations. Answered all the questions and worked out what happened, who did what and why.”
“I get it. So Pärson’s going to shuffle a few papers to keep this from affecting your statistics.”
“Something like that,” she mumbled.
“Great,” Amante said in a tone that suggested he meant the exact opposite. Silence fell inside the car as he studied her.
Julia pulled up at a red light. She went on staring straight ahead to avoid meeting his gaze. Even so, he seemed to have read her mind.
“You still think Sarac is our victim, don’t you?”
She realized she was biting her lip again and made a mental note to stop doing that.
“I haven’t seen any evidence to prove that he isn’t. The fact that Pärson says Sarac is locked up is one thing, but I know him well enough to assume he hasn’t called to check. If he even knows where to start. I’ve made a few calls myself, but no one seems to know where Sarac is.”
She turned to look at Amante.
“What about you? What do you think?”
“I was actually thinking of asking if you had any plans for the weekend.” He smiled that cryptic little smile again, and for a moment she thought he was going to ask her out.
“Why?” she said, more abruptly than she intended.
“Well, if you’re free, I wondered if you fancy a little trip up north.”
“Where to?”
“Pick me up at one o’clock tomorrow and you’ll find out.”
The car behind them blew its horn and Julia realized the lights had turned green.
Three
A monotonous four-hour drive—that was what Julia’s Saturday afternoon had consisted of so far. Back roads, fir forests, and wildlife fences.
This wasn’t how she had imagined the weekend. She had been planning to work out, finish the book she never seemed to get to the end of, go to the movies, or do one of the other things that got her through weekends when she wasn’t working. Instead she was sitting behind the wheel, glancing at Amante as he watched the GPS bubble on the screen of his smartphone.
“Turn right here.” Amante pointed toward an anonymous-looking side road. “One kilometer of country road, then we’re there.”
“Okay.”
She wondered how he’d found out the address of the nursing home; she’d even asked him about it when she picked him up outside his apartment. But, as usual, all she got in response was that tentative little smile.
About half an hour earlier they had stopped at a gas station to look at the map and see what Amante’s smartphone could tell them about their destination. The satellite picture showed what looked like a manor house with two wings. Surrounding the main building was a large park that stretched all the way down to a small lake. If you zoomed in really close, you could just make out the walls and fences surrounding the entire property. But as they approached the facility, none of that was visible apart from a section of wall, a security lodge, and a large metal gate. All you could see from the gate was tall, well-established trees in the park beyond.
Julia drove slowly into the visitors’ parking lot and turned the engine off.
According to Google, the home had originally been built as a sanatorium. Over the years it had been an adult education college and an old people’s home. According to one five-year-old article, it had been sold and turned into a nursing home, but that was about it. It wasn’t even possible to find a phone number for the main switchboard, so, whatever they were doing there, they were keen to avoid publicity—which seemed fairly logical if they were treating patients with PTSD. The female security guard behind the glass hatch was similarly welcoming.
“Sorry.” The speaker fixed in the reinforced glass gave the guard’s voice a metallic clang. “All visits need to be authorized in advance. Those are the rules.”
Amante raised his ID higher, pressing it against the glass.
“Like I said, we’re police officers, and we’re conducting an investigation. It’s extremely important that we see David Sarac.”
“If it’s that important, then you should have spoken to the senior consultant and got him to arrange a visit. Anyway, you’re not a police officer; it says you’re a civilian investigator on your ID.”
Amante took a sharp breath, but Julia put her hand on his shoulder before he could say anything else. Arguing with a guard was never a good idea. She recognized the type all too well. Low-level employees who were given a tiny bit of power and made the absolute most of it. She stepped forward and held her own ID up against the glass just as Amante had done.
“I’m a police officer,” she said. “And, like my partner just said, it’s very important that we see one of the patients here. His name is David Sarac.”
The guard leaned closer to the glass. Read her name on her ID. “Look here, Detective Inspector … Gabrielsson. You see those signs?”
She pointed to a yellow rectangle with black lettering hanging above her head. Then at another one a short distance away on the heavy metal gate.
“This is a secure site. That means no unauthorized access. Under any circumstances. And seeing as neither you nor your colleague appear on the list of names, that means you aren’t authorized, whether you’re police officers or not. Those are the rules. People have lost their job for less.”
“What sort of nursing home gets classified as a fucking secure site?”
Amante’s sudden outburst took Julia by surprise. She squeezed his arm and got him to shut up. The guard glared at him.
“We look after soldiers here: people who have been in wars. According to the Security Police, that makes it a potential target.”
Amante opened his mouth to reply, but Julia squeezed his arm again, harder this time. What was wrong with him?
“Rules are rules,” she said to the guard. “Obviously we appreciate that you’re just doing your job. You’ll have to excuse my colleague: the case we’re investigating is pretty serious. A lot of pressure.”
She looked over toward the metal gate. The sign on it was bright yellow, but it was already bleached by the sun. And the barbed wire on top of the wall didn’t look new.
“We’ll call the senior consultant and come back tomorrow.” She bustled Amante a couple of steps toward the car before she turned round again. “By the way, how long has the home been classified as a secure site?”
“Since sometime last winter,” the metallic voice replied.
“Do you remember which month?”
The guard glared at Julia, then at Amante.
“Early March. Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Just curious. Thanks for your help.” She nodded to Amante to get in the car. She didn’t say anything until the doors were closed. But he beat her to it.
“Coming here was a long shot—I said that before we set off—but maybe if we wait until it gets dark—”
“And do what?” Julia interrupted. “Climb over the wall? Break in through a door? Smash a few windows at random?” She shook her head. “We have no idea what the inside of the building is like. And if our suspicions are right and Sarac is our dead body, then we’re looking for someone who isn’t even in there.”
Amante looked suddenly sullen. “Sorry I dragged you up here for nothing. We could have waited till Monday, I could have asked my contact to get hold of the senior consultant’s number. I got carried away …”
Julia held up a finger to get him to stop talking. The metal gate was slowly swinging open. A car drove out, followed by another one. Then a motorcycle. The vehicles stopped and a man in uniform emerged from the security lodge to check the backseats and trunks. He even insisted on looking behind the motorcyclist’s visor and seeing some ID before he allowed them to leave.
The vehicles passed their parked car. Two men in the first car, a lone woman in the second one. It wasn’t possible to determine the gender of the motorcyclist. All three vehicles turned left at the junction a short distance away.
“They’re very conscientious with their exit checks,” Julia muttered. She looked at the time. Quarter past five. Probably a change of shift. Suddenly she had an idea. She turned the key in the ignition and roared off, following the three other vehicles.
They caught up with the motorcycle just before the small village that consisted of little more than a cluster of bungalows and a gas station. The motorcycle turned off at the gas station and pulled up at its little hot dog stand. Without saying anything to Amante, Julia got out of the car. She walked toward the stand, but when she was almost there she pulled out her phone and pretended to take a call. The biker, a man in his fifties, had taken his helmet off and was chatting to the attractive woman in the stand—she was maybe half his age—before she put together his order. The smell of fast food reminded Julia that it had been a while since she had eaten anything.
She waited until the man had gotten his food, put his helmet back on, and driven off before walking up to the window.
“Hello,” she said.
The woman behind the counter returned the greeting.
“Regulars, eh?” Julia said, nodding toward the disappearing motorbike. “I’ve just come from the nursing home. It was the staff who told me to come here.”
She smiled, trying to come across as friendly and unthreatening as she read the menu.
“Well …” The young woman hesitated over her reply, but Julia’s smile seemed to convince her. “You could say that. Some of them stop off here practically every night.”
“Best place for an evening burger, the girl in the gatehouse said. You probably know her: fair hair, keeps herself in shape. Maybe a little grumpy?”
“Mia. Yes, she can be a bit sullen.” The young woman gave a wry smile and Julia reflected it back to her.
“Mia—that was it. Smart too. You seem to know what’s going on as well. Who works where and so on.”
“This is a pretty small place: everyone knows everyone else. The doctors live in town, but most of the other staff up there come from around here.”
“You don’t happen to know if anyone’s left recently?” Julia said. “Someone who maybe lost their job last winter, something like that?”
Another long shot, based on something Security Mia had said. People have lost their job for less. But Julia could tell from the evasive look in the young woman’s eyes that she’d guessed right.
She leaned over the counter and held out her police ID. She saw the woman’s eyes open wide.
“It’s vital that we talk to that person, right away.”
* * *
The man looking out from the gap in the door was wearing underpants, a T-shirt, and a grubby dressing gown, even though it was late afternoon. His eyes were red and a cloying, burned smell that Julia recognized all too well drifted out across the crooked front steps. She cautiously took hold of the door handle from the outside.
“Eskil Svensson?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Food delivery from Isa in the kiosk.” She held up the plastic bag and let it dangle from her forefinger. The smell from it made her stomach rumble.
The man in the robe seemed just as hungry as she was. He reached out one hand for the bag without letting go of the door with the other.
At that moment Julia tugged the door toward her, which made the man lose his balance and tumble out onto the porch, where he landed at their feet. Before he had time to react, she put one knee against the back of his neck and twisted his arm behind his back. Then she winked at Amante.
“Police,” he said, sounding rather breathless. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
