Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (22 page)

Gren pauses before he continues. “Lena, listen to me.”

“I have to–”

“Shut up and listen.”

Pure surprise makes Lena go quiet. Never before has she heard her commander on the verge of losing his temper. He was choosing the worst of moments to scold her. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he might order her back to the office.

“I’m listening,” Lena says.

“I had a call from a paramedics manager about your visit inside an ambulance. He said you tried to interrogate a man who was on the brink of death. And someone here just mentioned your name in connection with a destroyed booth in the bathroom.”

“The door was jammed.”

“I appreciate that you’re doing all you can to find John,” Gren says, “but I can only do so much before you’ll be taken off this case, or worse. More important people than me are watching. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

“When this is over, you and I will have a talk, and you will go on a brief leave. As I said, the Piket group might already be there, but do not proceed without them. Don’t enter, don’t call, don’t do anything. That’s an order.”

“Anything else?”

He pauses again. “Be safe,” Gren says, and hangs up.

Agnes glances at Lena. “What did he say?”

“Nothing helpful. Drive faster.”

They shoot under first one overpass, then another, and accelerate down a broad street lined with theatres, bars and cinemas. In the distance, at the end of the street, is a mushroom-shaped sculpture, high as two men and ringed by pay phones. The other police cars are just behind Lena and Agnes. Cars in front veer left and right as they try to move out of the way. The sirens roar between the walls.

Agnes’s eyes are concentrated on the street ahead. “Almost there,” she says.

*

John stands in front of Tom’s office.

The building is a wide six-storey block with spacious, century-old apartments converted to a maze of offices and conference rooms. Tall windows in the ochre façade reflect the grey-white sky. Most windows are dark, though a few are brightly lit by halogen spotlights inside.

John leans against the wall across the street and speaks into his mobile phone. His bag is slung over his shoulder, the remaining glue spray can is held tight in his right armpit, and the gun is tucked down the back of his trousers. He keeps his injured hand in his pocket; it can attract attention, and the hand is too swollen to hide inside a glove. If left untreated, he suspects the cuts will make the hand useless, but he will not need it much longer.

His hands, his feet, and his heart protest against what he has put them through over the past day; however they have served their purpose. His organs have taken him and his tools here. This is where his mission will end. What he did to Niklas is not enough, but ending Tom will settle the debt.

He does not long for violence; his only goal is to restore the balance. The needle on the scales burns red in his mind. Justice for a crime committed. Pain for hurt inflicted. A life for a life lost.

Unless, of course, Tom’s death reveals yet another part of the chain. If that were to happen, John will go on, link by link.

A group of women and men in suits and designer jackets leaves the building through its glass-and-steel entrance. They pause to zip up jackets and tighten wool scarves, then head towards the nearby plaza, walking slowly in the narrow path made by other pedestrians. Few cars pass outside; the street is wide but ends in a
cul
-
de-
sac
currently used as a snow dump, making the street passable only by foot.

The entrance opens to a large marble hall. Inside is a spiral staircase to the left of the doors. Next to the staircase is a large, lush plant in a terracotta pot, placed to conceal a fire extinguisher. On the opposite wall are a chrome bin and two elevators. To the right of the elevators is a curved desk in pale pine. Behind the desk, a receptionist watches a flat computer screen. She is a complication. He had not expected the entrance to be manned on a weekend.

John crosses the street and waits near the entrance. He continues to pretend to have a conversation over the phone. A sign next to the door lists the companies on each floor. Lundberg Invest is on the second floor.

After a few minutes, the doors to the elevator open. A man exits, walks towards the entrance, and opens the door. As the door swings back, John steps forward and keeps it open. When the man glances at John, he nods in greeting at the man and murmurs spurious details of an advertisement plan into his phone. The man frowns and walks away. John steps into the hall, closes the door behind him, and walks towards the stairs.

“Excuse me,” the receptionist chirps.

John pauses with one foot on the stairs. He turns to face the receptionist.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

John walks up to her desk and studies her. Flawless make-up, early twenties, not a strand of hair straying from her blonde ponytail. Blue business shirt, sleek black headset.

“I’ve come to see Tom Lundberg,” John says. His voice echoes in the marble hall.

“Of course.” She flashes a professional smile, taps at her screen, and frowns. “Have you made an appointment?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t.” John grimaces. “It’s regarding a proposition I think Tom will be interested in. The deal is quite big, if you see what I mean. Which is why I’m here in person.”

The receptionist nods but looks apologetic. “I understand, and I’m sure he would be interested, but unfortunately Tom is not in. Can I take a message?”

John pauses. “I don’t understand,” he says. “I called in earlier to make sure that Tom would be here. The woman who took the call confirmed that he was.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” she says. “You spoke with me. Tom was in at the time, but he’s gone to Arlanda Airport for a business trip. He’s due back early next week.”

John stiffens and holds his breath. His prey has fled, perhaps too far to be caught before the police come too close. His head begins to throb. The muscles in his body ache with pent-up tension.

“I thought you wanted to talk to him over the phone,” the receptionist continues. “But you hung up or were disconnected. If I’d known you wished to see him, I would have told you he would be leaving. I’m terribly sorry. Do you have his mobile phone number?”

“I do,” John says, “but this is a matter I’d like to discuss face to face with Tom. Perhaps I can go to the airport and meet Tom there, if there’s time?”

“I suppose you can,” the receptionist says hesitantly. “His flight will leave early this afternoon, so he might already have gone through passport control. Let me give him a call and see where he is. Perhaps he can wait for you outside the security check.” She beams at John and reaches for her keyboard.

John weighs risks in his mind. He asks if she knows exactly when Tom’s plane is meant to take off.

“I have the details of the booking here, but–” The receptionist trails off and looks up.

John sees the wariness in her face, but she is too late. Three quick strides take him around her desk, where he crouches, close to the receptionist and out of sight from the entrance.

The receptionist stands up. “Excuse me, but this is a restricted space. You must move away.”

When John fumbles inside his jacket instead of leaving, she takes a step back and reaches for the phone on her desk.

“If you don’t leave, I’ll have to–” she begins.

John aims his gun at her. “Keep still,” he says. He must use both his hands to hold the weapon; its weight pulls his injured, tired fingers down.

The receptionist stares at the gun while her professional airs dissolve into naked fear. She points at a handbag that hangs on the back of her chair. “Take it,” she stammers. “It’s all I have.”

“Sit down and face the entrance.” When a faint ringtone sounds from the woman’s headset, he instructs her to ignore the call and take off the headset. He grabs a handful of power cords on the floor and pulls the plugs out of the sockets. The computer and the telephone shut down with a series of clicks. Glancing above the desk, he looks at the front door. No one outside.

“Get down on the floor,” John says.

The receptionist obeys, moving as if only in partial control of her limbs. Her face is pallid and clammy.

This is a new problem; if the woman faints, he will have to find someone else who has the information he needs. Pain or fear might keep her conscious long enough.

John takes out his knife from his bag and explains what he will do with the knife if she passes out. He adds that he does not want to hurt her, but he must.

Tears well up in the woman’s eyes. “What do you want?” she croaks.

“Information,” John says. “Not money. Did you book Tom’s ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a copy?”

“Yes.” She chokes back her tears and nods at the desk above her.

“Get the paper and show it to me.”

“It’s not a paper,” she says and swallows. “The ticket’s on the computer.”

There is a small printer on the desk. “Print a copy of the ticket,” John says.

“You turned it off.” The receptionist points a trembling finger at the sockets. “You have to plug the cables back in.”

John plugs the computer in again. “Hurry up.”

The receptionist rises slowly, sits down on the chair, and starts up the computer. Minutes pass while she sobs and stares at the screen. Someone exits the elevator and leaves through the front door.

“Here,” she says hoarsely. “Tom’s itinerary and the other papers.”

John looks at the columns and rows of information on the screen. “Print it.”

The printer buzzes and spits out a stack of papers. Keeping his gun trained on the receptionist, John takes the papers and studies them. The flight leaves at three thirty.

One of the printouts shows a copy of Tom’s passport: A man in his early thirties, fit and broad, white perfect teeth. Slightly raised chin, two-day stubble. Hard eyes focussed on the lens. Thick dark hair, perfect
brush cut.
Success with a dry smile.

John memorises gate, departure time, and flight number. He checks the time. The flight leaves in two hours. Quickly, he looks around the desk. Still no one outside.

He stands up and slams the butt of his gun into the monitor until it cracks and goes black.

“Walk up the stairs,” John says and takes his bag. “Keep in front of me, and take me to another way out. An emergency exit, if there is one.”

The receptionist begins to cry again. “There is. If I show you, can I go?”

“Yes,” John says to calm her, but he knows that he will have to bring her along; the woman is too harried. No threat will stop her from breaking down and telling the police everything.

The receptionist nods, rises and walks slowly towards the stairs. After three steps, John tells her to stop.

Motionless, he stares at the entrance, oblivious to the risk of being seen. A sound on the border of his awareness has caught his attention. A remote, blaring song. Two distant notes of imprisonment and ruin.

Sirens.

They are coming closer; he can see flashes of blue in the windows across the street. He turns to the receptionist, who stands unmoving on the stairs, and she understands the look on John’s face.

“No,” she says, hysteria rising in her voice. “It wasn’t me. I swear. You watched me all the time. I didn’t call. You have to believe me.”

John turns away. Even if the receptionist had managed to trip an alarm, it is irrelevant now. The police are coming, and he must escape. Only that matters. Fear is a concept left behind in Molly’s flat.

“Lie down behind the desk,” John says.

The receptionist turns around, stumbles to the floor, and crawls to her chair. Once she is out of sight behind the desk, John walks over to the entrance door, pulls it open, soaks the lock with the spray glue, and pushes the door shut. The sirens, now more than one, howl in the distance.

John leans close to the glass pane and looks down the street. A police car is speeding down the road. Behind it are a large van and more police cars. There are seconds left before they are outside the entrance, metres from John. If he runs now, they will be too close behind him.

“Stay there,” he tells the receptionist.

John crosses the floor and fetches the fire extinguisher. As the police car skids to a stop outside and its blue lights flick across the marble walls, he rips off the safety seal, turns the muzzle towards the entrance, and squeezes the handle.

The fire extinguisher spews a torrential cascade of dry powder that instantly transforms the hall into a wintry landscape, filling the air and blocking all sight through the windows. The sirens screech as if raging at losing sight of him. John coughs, holds his breath, and continues to spray. When the hall is thoroughly clouded, he drops the fire extinguisher, returns behind the desk, and draws the gun again.

Someone bangs on the entrance and rattles the handle. “Police,” a male voice barks over the sirens. “Open the door.” More bangs follow. John hears the glass crack. A few more hits and it will break.

“Where is the fire alarm?” John asks the receptionist.

She points to a small red box near the staircase. John looks between the alarm button, the stairs, and the front door. The entrance is a faint rectangle of light behind the churning white powder.

“Go back to the stairs,” John says.

“Why?” the receptionist stammers. “Where are we going?”

John does not answer. He stands up, turns to the entrance, and raises his gun.

The receptionist raises her hand to her mouth. “No, don’t–”

The shots are thunderous whiplashes, much louder than John had anticipated, and the violent recoil almost wrenches the weapon out of his hands. He grips it firmly, squares his feet, and keeps firing.

Two of the bullets miss the window and bury themselves in the mortar behind the marble. The remaining six bullets tear through the white cloud and through the window. Next to the staircase, the receptionist screams and covers her face.

After all eight shots, the gun clicks. Screams and shouts sound over the sirens outside. A car alarm bleats manically near the entrance. John breaks the glass cover of the fire alarm with the butt of the gun and punches the button.

A piercing ringing joins the pandemonium. Outside, a voice shouts inaudible words in a megaphone. The receptionist looks at John through her fingers. Her eyes flicker to the gun. She does not know the magazine is empty.

“Show me the emergency exit,” John shouts. “One far from this room. If you choose to stall, I will shoot you in your spine. You will die or be crippled for life. Understood?”

She shakes her head. “There are people up there. I can’t help if someone sees–”

“That doesn’t matter. If they stop us, I’ll shoot them.”

“Okay.” Her breathing is rapid. “Oh, God. Okay.”