Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (25 page)

“Here,” Agnes says and points to the screen. “These are the documents used today. The most recent one looks like a ticket – oh, look.”

“What?” Lena can tell from Agnes’s expression that she has found something. A camera flashes outside. Police officers order some overly curious spectators to move back.

“This was viewed just before we got here,” Agnes says.

Lena looks at the screen. A mass of pink and blue boxes filled with text and data. “It’s a flight ticket,” she says and leans closer. “In Tom’s name. From Arlanda, this afternoon. When was it last opened?”

Agnes scrolls down. “Not long before you tried calling the office.”

They look at each other. Arlanda: Sweden’s largest airport. Five terminals, hundreds of corridors and thousands of people. And soon John, armed and hunting.

“The car,”
Lena breathes. “Now.”

*

John drives towards the airport.

He follows the slow flow of the traffic past rolling fields dotted by barns, country cottages, radio masts and copses of pine and spruce worn by hard wind and rain. Heavy clouds create an artificial dusk over the landscape as the blizzard regroups for a renewed attack on the city.

Gusts pummel and push at the car, threatening to force it off the highway and into the ditch, but he keeps it steady, overtaking other vehicles only when safe. At his current speed, a collision would at best cripple John, but it would give Tom time to escape. There will be no more escapes. Not for Tom, not for John.

“Sir?” says the man cowering on the floor in the back of the car. “Where are we going?”

“I told you to be quiet,” John says. “I’m in a hurry. If you distract me, I’ll stop by the roadside and make sure you won’t do it again.”

“Please,” the man begs. “I have kids.”

“Then you have a good incentive to do as I say.”

“Okay. I will be quiet. I promise.”

A film of snow screens the meadows and groves that line the road. Soon, driving will be difficult and even slower. John competes with both time and climate.

He touches the handle of the knife in his bag to reassure himself the weapon is there. His arsenal is reduced: On his way out of the city, he parked by the roadside and tried to reload the gun, out of sight of his hostage, but he cannot understand how to open the weapon. It is a setback, but he has the knife and his hands. That will have to do.

Twenty minutes earlier, John exited Tom’s office building, crossed the road, and walked down a long, narrow street between blocks of old and luxurious flats. Less than a minute after he closed the emergency exit door behind him, he passed a middle-aged man who was loading slalom skis into a Packline mounted on a white Volvo SUV. There was no one nearby.

John stopped and waited until the man reached for his gloves in the backseat, then walked and pressed his knife to the man’s body.

To many, guns are things of fiction that do not belong in humdrum life. Their reaction to seeing one might be delayed. But a blade that pricks a soft part of your body is an immediate, physical threat that leaves no room for doubt or debate. John ordered the man to get in the car, and a minute later they were on their way out of Stockholm.

John passes the first of the many signposts for the different airport terminals. By the time he reaches the turn to the fifth terminal, the heavy snowfall cuts visibility to less than a hundred meters.

He overtakes a car and drives faster. Tom is an imaginary dot on the horizon, His personal, offensive North Star, the beacon of his journey.

Soon John will extinguish it.

*

Lena ignores the gawking onlookers as she runs to her car. All she sees are obstacles slowing her down: a crowd, slippery snow, the closed door, finding the car key. As soon as the engine roars to life, she slams into first gear. Agnes barely manages to get in the passenger seat before the car is in motion.

Ahead are more hindrances: parked cars, ambulances, mounds of snow, and a fire engine that has materialized without her noticing. She flicks the siren on, sounds the horn, and keeps going down the street. Screams and curses follow her as the car shoots past stunned people, brushing against legs and jackets.

She veers onto the busy plaza and almost slides sideways into a bus. Both lanes are full of cars. The fastest are moving at walking speed.

“Double back,” Agnes says. “Then straight ahead. Past the intersection.”

Lena circles the block, drives out onto a wider street, cuts off a taxi, and shoots past a local bus. She zigzags through the lanes, overtaking cars and trucks. The traffic is still light, and the drivers in front of her try to clear the road, but the traffic seems to move in slow motion.

She wills her car to go faster and magically close the gap between her and John. Fashion shops, restaurants, travel agencies and cafés form a glossy neon blur on her left and right. In the wake, a cascade of dirty snow sprays nearby pedestrians.

Agnes takes Lena’s radio and rattles off reports to the central command, the Piket and Gren, pausing to give Lena directions. Lena tries to listen in, but in her mind, she is already at the airport. John is heading into a net he cannot escape. If he enters any of the terminals, he will be caught; the exits are easily monitored, and there are CCTV cameras everywhere. If he turns back, the roads will be cut off.

“Have you called the airport yet?” Lena asks Agnes.

“Gren’s doing it now. He said he’ll call you too.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

They pass under a series of viaducts, and century-old buildings give way to scattered office blocks, lush parkland and small lakes. Lena enters the motorway and glances at the clock. Eight minutes since they left the scene. How fast would John drive? At what speed will someone without fear, doubt or self-perseverance travel? She accelerates and grips the steering wheel harder.

Snowflakes whip off the windscreen and wash over the car. The sky ahead is a wall of deep blue clouds; before long, the road will be a stretch of darkness blurred by waves of snow. She feels as if she drives vertically, heading down a cliff.

She passes a lumbering coach and is about to change lanes when her phone rings. Knowing who the caller will be, she takes the call without looking at the display.

“Speak loudly,” she shouts over the siren.

“It’s Gren here. You know why I’m calling.”

“You want to tell me not to go in alone?”

“Stay away from the terminals entirely. The National Task Force are on their way with a hostage negotiator. They will probably pass over you soon. The airport police have been notified.”

“Tell them to be discreet. John will fire if threatened. He won’t back down.”

“Agnes told me what you found on the computer.” Gren pauses. “Are you sure he’s heading to the airport?”

“Completely.”

“And that he’s got a hostage?”

“I think John took the receptionist with him to keep her from telling anyone where he went.” That was a best-case scenario; John had demonstrated that he knew other ways to silence those in his path. Her radio beeps, and she hands it to Agnes for her to answer.

“Have you stopped the airport trains?” Lena asks Gren.

“The trains and the coaches are informed. John won’t get on them without us knowing. The airport’s been notified, and they’re calling for Tom over the PA. We tried to contact Tom directly, but his phone is switched off. We’ve left a message.”

“His whole bloody company is there. Someone must have a working phone. Try to text him.”

“We’ve tried that. We’re looking up the others in his company. Don’t worry. Soon we’ll have a number; then we’ll talk to Tom and make sure he’s out of harm’s way. We have a few questions for him.”

“What about the task force?” Lena asks. “If John runs into them before they can disarm him or pick up Tom, it’ll get ugly.”

“No one’s going to get hurt.”

Lena does not reply; she is distracted by Agnes, who motions for Lena to take the radio. “I have to go,” she tells Gren. She hangs up and takes the radio. “Who is it?” she whispers to Agnes.

“The Piket team leader.”

Lena grimaces and takes the radio. Most likely, he wants to reprimand her for interfering with their search. “Franke here,” she says and braces herself.

“We have the receptionist.”

Lena loses control of the car. The vehicle careens into the adjacent lane, but Agnes throws herself at the wheel and turns it the other way, narrowly avoiding an oncoming minibus. Agnes keeps hold of the steering wheel until she sees that Lena is in control of herself again.

“How?” Lena asks. Is she wrong? Is John still in the city while Lena races farther away on a ghost hunt? If so, she has directed all the search effort towards a blind spot.

“She was tied up and hidden in a storage space in the corridor. Some kind of built-in wardrobe. The suspect had glued a framed painting over the hinges.”

“Bloody hell,” Lena breathes.

“That’s why we missed her during the first sweep. The glue’s probably the same he used to jam the emergency exit. And on that other man. I heard about it.”

Lena’s numbness turns to a cold. “Did he–”

“He glued the painting to the wall, that’s all. The woman’s mouth was duct taped. She’s okay. But she refuses to talk.”

“Why?”

He clears his throat. “Shock, I think. We’re trying to get information out of her, but she won’t talk about the suspect. Just shakes her head. We’ve got an ambulance here to bring her in.”

“Damn it, she’s the last one who’s seen John. Hasn’t she said anything useful?”

“Just one thing.” A pause. “She said Tom’s dead.”

The tornado of thoughts in Lena’s head picks up speed. Had John killed Tom and hidden him too? That cannot be right; the woman outside the office said Tom had left by the time Lena and Agnes got there.

“Tom can’t be dead,” Lena says. “That doesn’t fit.”

“He’s not. We’ve asked around, and we’re positive Tom’s at the airport.”

“Make some goddamned sense, will you?”

“I’m guessing here.” The Piket team leader’s patient voice is laden with static. “But I think she meant that Tom is as good as dead.”

Lena looks into the distance. “I understand.”

A distant thudding growl on her left makes her look out the window. Two bulky military helicopters scythe through the low clouds, heading north parallel with the highway. The National Task Force, rushing towards the airport.

“Make sure she’s safe. And don’t push her too hard. Out.” She drops the radio on the floor and drives faster.

*

John arrives at the airport.

On his right is terminal five, a vast complex of steel and glass. Across the street is a large circular parking house. Buses and cars compete for space outside the sliding doors as travellers march between the buildings or wrestle their luggage into baggage compartments. Hard winds funnel snow between the buildings and into unzipped jackets, tax-free shopping bags and squinting eyes. A plane takes off, the flat thunder of its jet engines temporarily drowning out all other sounds.

John drives slowly between coaches and taxis while he studies the area. Near the middle entrance are three police cars. They are parked not immediately outside the doors, but close enough for the officers inside the cars to monitor the entrance. Inside the terminal are security guards eyeing everyone who passes through the doors. The alarm has been raised.

He considers the gun in his bag and the number of police officers he has seen. Once, he travelled to Spain for a week on the Canary Islands, leaving a balmy, sun-drenched Stockholm for six days of incessant rain and one day of blasting sunshine that burned his face lobster red.

The flight had left from Arlanda. He recalls the passport controls, security gates and locked doors, but his memories are old, separated from today by a decade of terrorism paranoia and several airport extensions. He knows at which gate Tom is supposed to be, but not how many officers and barriers he would encounter if he tries to reach Tom by speed and force. When he last travelled, the passport control alone had consisted of two doors of bulletproof glass. It would be even more secure today.

He needs a new plan.

Watching out for police cars, he drives past the terminal and parks the car a few minutes walking distance from the entrances.

“What are you doing?” the man in the back seat asks.

“I’m leaving the car,” John says. “You will stay here. Keep in mind that I know your address. If I see you anywhere outside this car, I will go to your home, and I will use my knife on your family.”

The man tenses, and John raises the gun a fraction. Mentioning the man’s family was reckless; he has pushed the father too far. A fight in the car could draw attention and could ruin John’s plan.

“I’ve changed my mind,” John says. “Wait here for an hour; then you can do what you want. You won’t see me again.”

“Fine,” the man says after a moment. “I’ll stay.”

John takes the man’s mobile phone and his wallet. He will have to move fast, so he puts the sheathed knife in a pocket and leaves his bag in the car.

He shuts the car door and walks towards the distant terminal, a blur of shadows and neon in the thick snowfall. His hand throbs fiercely, and his gait is unsteady. Those are bad signs, but he will last a little longer.

John passes rows of cars buried under snow, waits while a group of people pull their luggage across his path, and walks up to the parking house opposite the terminal. Stopping in a shadow, he pretends to make a phone call while he looks around.

The police cars are still there. Two officers inside, middle-aged men. They talk and laugh, but their eyes are watchful, nervous. Above him, another jet roars and fades into a remote growl.

John takes out the phone he took from the man in the car and texts Tom.

Run cops r coming got car outside / Niklas

While John waits for a reply, he hears far-off sirens slowly coming closer.

The phone rings. An anonymous caller. John kills the call and texts Tom again.

Cant speak cops close run

The reply comes quickly.
Cops
just
called
n said theres trouble. Some fuck looking 4 me.

It’s a
trap.
Avoid cops n security.

The sirens are a fraction closer when Tom replies.

Fuck ill kill him where r u

Parking house run dont let cops see u,
John texts back.

A new message from Tom.
Stay there
.

John walks into the parking house and looks for a place to hide. Cars enter and leave in a steady stream, but there is an alcove in the back cloaked in deep shadow. He leans against the wall inside the entrance and waits.

Three minutes later, John sees Tom exit the terminal.

Tom resembles the passport photo, but he is taller than John expects. Grey suit, pink shirt, brown leather belt and matching shoes. His black hair is ruffled by stress and wind. He walks slowly but fidgets with his wristwatch and looks over his shoulder.

John knows Tom’s face is flushed from more than anxiety: One moment Tom is heading for a day of drinks and negotiations, the next he is fleeing like a squirrel exposed on a field. When Tom sees a police car, he turns around, crosses the street behind a coach, and heads for the parking house again.

John watches Tom come closer.

When Tom is a few moments away, John retreats back into the parking house and runs to the alcove. The small space is a bin storage with no door. It is sooty, cramped, and reeks of old garbage. Cars drive past up on the curved ramps that lead to the upper floors.

John presses himself to the wall inside and holds the knife behind his back. If he is right, he will look like a shadow when seen from the entrance, and Niklas would have all reason to hide. By the time Tom is close enough to see John’s face, it will be too late.

Tom enters the parking house. He pauses in the entrance, runs his hands through his hair, and looks around. John pulls himself deeper into the shadow and calls out, trying to sound coarse and discreet. When Tom does not notice, John calls again, louder.

Tom starts and peers at the shadow where John hides. “Niklas?” he calls. “Where are you? Stop fucking around.”

“I’m here,” John says. “Come, quickly.”

Tom hesitates, curses, and runs over to the alcove.

John pulls back again.

The knife is in his hand. In a moment, Tom will be inside the alcove; John hears the man’s heavy breathing, the crush of gravel under his soles, the rustle of his suit.

Tom steps inside and sees John. “What the–”

No speech precedes John’s attack. There is no elaboration on righteousness or scornful remark, no smirk or victorious gesture. Justice fills John’s mind, but he has no need to flaunt his triumph.

He has a weapon, a target and a goal. Severing the chain that hurt him is the purpose of his existence; beyond that, nothing matters. A chase, a stab, and then peace.

But Tom twists to the side, and John’s knife cuts through empty air. John follows with a sideways stab, but Tom blocks John’s arm and drives his fist into John’s abdomen.

John drops the knife, falls backwards into the wall, and slumps down on the grimy floor, coughing and retching.

*