“I thought that one learned in time to divorce police work from one’s private life,” Jonna said.
Walter laughed. “Possibly, if you have a normal, well-adjusted personality. Which I don’t.”
Jonna was not sure where Walter was going with this. It felt as if she was on a TV quiz show with multiple-choice questions.
“You may be investigated,” said Walter, changing the subject yet again. He threw a document onto the table in front of Jonna.
She picked it up and examined the contents. Actually, she was not at all surprised; she had been waiting for this. The only thing that surprised her was how quickly it had happened.
Gunnar Tillenius looked
confused. He could have sworn that this rock was his landmark. Yet there was no sign of any markings on the ground. The wet snow on the ground would soon wash away what he had written. If he ever found it.
The police officer looked at Gunnar with concern. “We’ve searched around all the big rocks by the side of the road and haven’t found any traces in the mud.”
“I’m sure that it was this rock,” Gunnar said and pointed at a one-metre high boulder by the side of the road.
“But there’s no mud to write in here,” the police officer replied. “Just grass.”
Gunnar was having difficulty concentrating. He could not shake off the image of the burning body. The grotesque, gaping grin and the black eye sockets were etched on his retina. The policeman had to repeat his question.
“What colour was the van?” the police officer asked, for the third time.
“Blue, or maybe red,” said Gunnar.
“Blue or red? That’s quite a difference,” the policeman said.
“Perhaps it was dark green.”
“Perhaps it was white?” the police officer suggested.
“I don’t think so,” Gunnar said.
“And the saloon car?”
“Could be any colour.”
“Did you notice the make of the car or the van?”
Gunnar looked at both police officers for a moment.
“No,” he said. “I don’t possess a car and have never been interested in cars. Certainly not different makes of cars. Except for Ford, of course.”
The police exchanged glances.
“Do you think I am making the story up?” Gunnar raised his voice.
“Of course not,” one of the police officers said. “We understand it is difficult to remember . . .”
“For someone of my age?” Gunnar finished the sentence.
The officer shook his head. “After someone has experienced something as disturbing as this,” he said, lowering his notepad. “We have a victim-support team attached to the police, which helps people who have witnessed traumatic events to get therapy and process their experiences.”
“That can wait,” Gunnar grunted. “We have to find that rock.”
“You can’t remember a single number or letter from the number plate?” asked the officer one last time.
Gunnar shook his head. As he lifted his eyes, they settled on a rock a little farther into the forest. Behind it was a small fir tree, which he was sure he had gone past. What if he was mistaken and the place was farther from the road? He racked his memory and then hurried towards the other rock.
He was right. He walked around it and saw his inscription in the clay. The ground was getting wet and he had difficulty reading it.
“Over here!” he shouted to one of the uniformed police. “Can you read what it says?”
A woman police officer ran over to him. She bent down.
“Yes, I can read it,” she said and took out her notepad. Gunnar felt a large weight fall from his pounding chest.
Leo did not
know how long he had been in the vehicle. He lay in darkness, but was not alone. Something was next to him. He knew what it was – it was Death. This was a special feeling and he had experienced it several times. It was tangible and it enveloped him. He had worked with it in Project Nirvana and it had become a part of his life. Finally, it had taken him in a direction he could never have anticipated.
Now he was to blame for another person’s death. Alice McDaniel. They had assured him that she would not be hurt. He had looked into the old man’s eyes and they did not lie.
It couldn’t be her. Leo dismissed the thought.
For a while, he had believed rescue was at hand. There were loud voices outside the vehicle and he had thought he heard a struggle. He had hoped it was the police. But then everything went quiet. Then it came. Death.
Perhaps his kidnappers had disagreed about something. Whether they were going to get rid of him now or continue as planned. He realized that this day would be his last. If he was to make it out alive, it was up to him now. Not because the thought of death scared him; that would come as a welcome liberation. But he had to live a little longer. He had something to finish.
He could not give back what he had taken from so many. Similarly, he could not bring back Cecilia and Anna. In one second, or perhaps just a tenth of a second, their lives had changed forever. One extra-long hug or no hug at all; that would have saved their lives. If Anna had just driven a little faster, or a little slower, they would never have met the car on the bend. All of those factors. Had their fate already been sealed and predetermined? Was that the meaning of life? As a scientist, he did not pay any heed to superstition or “higher powers”. He believed in fact, the result of logic. Yet he couldn’t figure out how a split second could take the life of two people. Something so abstract and fleeting as a mere second of time.
He gained nothing from reliving the past. He would make amends. He would offer all he knew about Project Nirvana. But not to these maniacs, he would outsmart them. He would help others pick up where Himmelmann left off. Perhaps Leo’s teacher had been right. Perhaps they would eventually succeed. The world would then see and be in awe, even if the knowledge and responsibility would be a heavy burden. However mankind must know the truth and then decide what to do with the knowledge. The responsibility was no longer his alone.
Suddenly, the vehicle started to move. Leo was jerked back into the darkness. It was almost time.
Chapter 22
Walter was on
his way out of his office when David Lilja appeared in the doorway. “SÄPO have the registration number from one of the vehicles in Södertälje,” he said. “The van that the witness saw belongs to one Hans Flyght.”
“Excellent news,” said Walter. “Is he in custody?”
“No, he lives in Luleå. Unfortunately, his van also was in Luleå at the time of the incident.”
Walter massaged his tired eyes. “Duplicate number plates,” he sighed.
“Yes,” Lilja said.
“No news from SKL about the corpse in the car or from the NBI about the bank account?”
“The bank account belongs to a homeless person whose last known address is in Manchester, England. They’re attempting to locate the person in question, but it will be difficult. He’s not been seen for eleven months.”
“The motion-detection cameras outside the building didn’t give us anything either,” Walter added. “As expected, there were lots of pre-paid SIM card numbers found there, but it hasn’t helped, not even after we triangulated the locations.”
“At least SÄPO have finally admitted that the building was an old safe house,” Lilja said. “Not in use, but it was one of their own assets. The question is: how did Borg find a building that SÄPO themselves hardly knew existed?”
“There are others within SÄPO who, like Borg, belong to the same anti-Islamic organization,” Walter said.
“Anti-Islamists?”
Walter told him about the theory he was developing. Lilja studied Walter.
“It’s actually quite feasible,” he said finally. “Have you told SÄPO?”
“I don’t need to,” Walter said. “They already know. They’ve known about it all along.”
Lilja nodded. “For once, I’m inclined to agree with you,” he said.
Walter sat down in his chair. “We’re making no progress on any of our leads,” Walter began. “With regard to . . .”
Walter was interrupted by his mobile phone. He studied the display and saw it was Thomas Kokk. After a brief conversation with him, he hung up, looking concerned. He glanced at Lilja, but said nothing.
“What is it?” asked Lilja at last.
“The corpse in the car was Martin Borg.”
Only thirty minutes
before the reading room closed, Jörgen Blad was eagerly flipping through Örebro City Council’s archives. A kind registrar had helped him find some yellowing, obsolete documents, as well as served him two cups of coffee.
The whole time, Jörgen had had a feeling that there was something fishy. When he had found any file related to the area, important details were missing. There was a survey for the road and documents from the public electricity company. Plans for the telephone lines had not been registered and other mandatory documents, such as planning permission for the house, were missing. The closest he came to proof that electricity had been supplied to the house was an invoice, addressed to an official at the National Properties Board. There was no address, just the words “Not applicable”.
For some reason, the official’s personal identity number was written on the invoice. Given the date, he was either deceased or a vegetable in an old-aged care home.
Eilert Palmryd had been a civil servant at the National Properties Board, which implied that the building was government property. But why would his personal identity number be on the electricity bill to a state authority? The discrepancies increased as he searched through the old file binders. The property was on government-owned land, so it was not under the jurisdiction of the City Council – he would be unable to get any more from the City Council archives. Jörgen rang Tina, one of the newspaper’s top researchers, on his mobile phone. She had an inquiring mind, as sharp as a shark’s bite, and he needed that now.
“Check out an Eilert Palmryd straightaway,” Jörgen began. “He worked at the National Properties Board, but he’s probably dead.”
“So why do a background check?” asked Tina, chewing something.
“He was registered as the primary contact on an electricity bill for a property outside Örebro. There’s no paperwork on the house and the council say they can’t help me because the property is owned by the government.”
“I don’t have time,” Tina said. “In two days, I’m . . .”
“Listen to me,” Jörgen snapped. “I need to find out why there’s so much secrecy about this property. I’m in the middle of a huge story. If you help me, I’ll let you be part of it.”
Silence.
“What type of story?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Are you in or out?”
“You’ll have to tell me the story first.”
“It involves a scandal inside the police force. I don’t know more than that,” Jörgen said.
“Sounds like a helluva scoop,” sighed Tina sarcastically.
“OK, I can always ask someone else to help,” Jörgen replied.
Tina paused again. The only audible sound was her jaw chewing away. “I’ll want full credit if this turns into a story,” she said, after a moment’s thought.
“Goes without saying,” Jörgen said, remembering that he had already promised Miguel the same deal.
Jörgen gave Tina the information he had on Eilert Palmryd and left the Örebro City Council archive. He tried to call Jonna a few times, but did not get an answer. Then he tried calling and withholding his number, but she still didn’t answer. For a moment, Jörgen considered calling Walter, but immediately rejected the idea. He knew that he would get the silent treatment or – if he was lucky – one or two insults. Instead, he called Sebastian, who wondered if Jörgen was interested in sharing his company over the dinner table. They had not done much of that this week and Jörgen immediately felt a twinge of guilt. He vowed to make it up to Sebastian and suggested a late dinner at a restaurant. Sebastian swallowed the bribe and Jörgen avoided a potential lover’s tiff.
As he approached Bålsta, Tina rang him. Jörgen quickly took her call since he knew she would call only if she had some news.
“Listen to this,” she began.
“I’m all ears,” Jörgen replied impatiently.
“As you guessed, Eilert Palmryd is deceased. He died three years ago. I got hold of his son, who was not very chatty.”
“That’s a pity.”
“I did, however, run Palmryd through another government database.”
“Which one?” Jörgen asked curiously. “It’s after office hours and he’s been dead for three years. Even the public offices . . .”
“Remember where my brother works?”
Jörgen thought for a bit. “At the Social Services data centre, if I remember correctly,” he replied.
“Do you want to hear what we found, or not?”
“Yes, of course. Go ahead.”
“Eilert Palmryd was not an employee of the National Properties Board.”
“No? Then who did he work for?”
“His pension was paid by the Fortifications Authority.”
“The Fortifications Authority?”
“Yes, that’s the authority which maintains and operates the military and police properties. Any building with strategic or military significance is administered by it.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Do you want to hear the rest?”
“Yes, go on.”
“The Fortifications Authority was formed in 1994, which was after he became a pensioner. So he must have been employed by the Fortifications Agency, which was its predecessor.”
“All right,” Jörgen said, “so that means that the house belongs to either the police or the military?”
“Probably,” agreed Tina.
“Why would he write down his name and personal ID? On other documents in the archives, the governmental body was listed as the owner.”
“Well,” Tina said, “the National Properties Board usually has an official assigned to each property that they own and, in accordance with the council bylaws, property owners must be registered, with their name and personal identity number.”
“Not so smart to use names if you want to conceal the real ownership,” Jörgen said.
“No, perhaps not. But it’s only remarkable if there is a reason to suspect that Palmryd didn’t work for the National Properties Board. Who would bother searching other databases to verify Palmryd’s employer?”