The Andalucian Friend (36 page)

Gunilla was staring at Sara with something like sorrow in her eyes.

“Well?” Sara’s nerves had settled, and she pulled out her ace. “Patricia Nordström, does that name mean anything to you?”

Gunilla tried to maintain an unconcerned expression but ended up with a smile that lacked any joy, stiff and unnatural.

“Patricia Nordström disappeared five years ago,” Sara went on. “She disappeared while you were working with her. There’s nothing in the records to suggest that her disappearance had anything to do with that gangster Zdenko, the one they called the King of the Racetrack, she disappeared while
you
were working with her. Does that apply to Sophie now? Is she going to disappear too?”

Sara was gambling everything. She really had no idea what she was talking about, she just knew that there was something rotten in all this, and she’d probably known it ever since Lars started working on the case. Moving from beat cop to Crime overnight, that was unlikely. And he changed from Lars into someone completely different, which was just as unlikely. …

Gunilla couldn’t seem to be able to look away from Sara. Then she turned and walked away. Even Erik was surprised, and could do nothing but follow her.

Gunilla was upset
when they pulled out of the garage to drive back in toward the city.

“Stupid, stupid girl,” she said to herself.

Erik was silent behind the wheel.

“Why now?” she went on.

Erik knew she wasn’t expecting any answers from him.

“Doesn’t she understand?”

Gunilla was staring straight ahead.

“Is this the same old story again?” she went on.

They passed the Kaknäs Tower.

“How could she have found all this out?”

Gunilla sighed, and fell deep into thought.

“Damn,” she whispered to herself.

“Patricia Nordström? How did she find out about her?” Erik asked.

Gunilla folded the sun visor down.

“That’s in police records. There were a few little details that I never managed to get rid of. I don’t know how she’s managed to get hold of them, maybe she just requested to see them. But it doesn’t matter. She’s figured out something out that she’s not supposed to figure out.”

“With Lars’s help?”

“I don’t know, I doubt it … You saw what he did to her.”

Gunilla thought for a moment.

“What did she say before she mentioned Patricia?”

“Bugging.”

“Before that?”

“Albert.”

“How could she know about Albert?” she asked.

Erik didn’t have an answer.

Gunilla sighed and folded the sun visor up.

“We’ll hold back on Lars. We’ll keep him at a distance, as usual. But Sara …”

Erik turned onto Strandvägen.

“Maybe it’s time for Hasse’s initiation,” she said.

Erik muttered in agreement.

“Damn,” she whispered to herself again.

Ralph Hanke was in a terrible mood.
As usual when this happened, he maintained an impenetrable silence. Anyone around him felt it like the electricity from a high-tension cable. Everyone kept their distance.

He gazed out across central Munich through the picture window on the seventh floor. It was misty. The undersides of the gray clouds were almost at the same height as him. A few floors up and he wouldn’t have been able to see a thing — which might actually have been a good thing. He often stood and looked out at this view when he couldn’t make sense of his thoughts. He rarely noticed anything, just thought better when he had the world beneath him. Today he was wearing a cardigan. That rarely happened, but when it did he liked it. Maybe because it meant he was escaping his suit, could feel a bit freer. But the cardigan also seemed to have another effect on him. It created a particular mood in Ralph. His thoughts became clearer, his mind colder, more angry, like today. And a clear, cold thought in an angry mind made life’s decisions much easier to take.

The intercom buzzed.

“Herr Hanke?”

His secretary’s calm voice filled the room.

“Herr Gentz is here.”

The door to the office opened, Roland Gentz came in and walked across the parquet floor, sat down in an armchair, and took some documents out of his bag. They never said hello to each other. They never had. Not through impoliteness, just a tacit agreement that this was the sort of men they were when they were working — men who didn’t bother with pleasantries.

Ralph didn’t move from the window. The dull weather, combined with all his problems, was making him long for a drink. He looked out over the city.

“Do you want a drink?”

Roland looked up from his papers, surprised at the question.

“When did we stop drinking during the day?” Ralph asked.

Roland thought.

“Sometime during the ’90s … Around the time we stopped wearing ties, I think.”

Ralph walked toward his desk.

“Two good things,” he said with a sigh.

He sat down.

“Well?”

“Sure, why not?”

Ralph pressed the intercom.

“Frau Wagner. Two single malts, no ice.”

“Yes, Herr Hanke.”

Ralph assumed a patient posture, knitting his hands together. Roland leafed through his papers.

“We’ve been paid for those three shopping malls in Britain. We’re still having trouble in Hamburg, with the bridge project … Something to do with the hydraulics, it’s going to take time. We’re on track to get the contract with the Americans, but we’re going to have to be patient, everyone wants in on it.”

Ralph wasn’t really listening, he’d spun his chair around and was looking out the window again: Roland went on talking in the background. After a few minutes Ralph interrupted him.

“Never mind all that … What’s happening in Sweden?”

Roland looked up from his papers.

“Sweden? Nothing new …”

“What’s the latest?”

Roland thought for a moment.

“Mikhail’s partner is in the hospital …”

“Will he talk?”

Roland shook his head. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“Mikhail says so.”

“They’ve been very quiet.”

Roland didn’t answer.

“And the go-between, the man with the guns?”

Roland adjusted his position in the chair.

“Can I tell you what I think, Ralph?”

Ralph looked out over the city.

“Go ahead.”

“Why don’t we just drop all that? It’s getting in the way of our other business, it represents a risk factor that gets bigger with each passing day … And as a project it’s utterly insignificant … Can’t we just let it go and concentrate on what’s really important?”

Ralph turned his chair to face Roland.

“What’s the name of the man we bought?”

Roland wondered if Ralph had heard a word of what he’d just said.

“Carlos, Carlos Fuentes.”

“Who is he?”

“Some background character who owns a few restaurants. Some sort of cover for Hector, I don’t know exactly how.”

“Let’s use him a bit more.”

“I think he’s used up.”

“How?”

“He was the one who got Hector to come to the restaurant so that Mikhail and his partner could pick him up. They’re not stupid enough to think that was a coincidence.”

“Is he dead?”

Roland shrugged.

“Maybe …”

There was a light knock at the door. Frau Wagner came in with a tray and two thick-bottomed whiskey glasses. She served the drinks, then left the room.

They didn’t drink at once, sniffing at their glasses. Ralph drank first, and Roland followed him. They swallowed and savored the aftertaste in their mouths. That was where whiskey was at its best — a taste that conjured up false memories and dramatically beautiful feelings about something that was beyond the reach of human hands. Maybe that was why a certain type of romantic was susceptible to ruination by the drink.

They put their glasses down.

“Have we got anyone in Spain?” Ralph asked.

“How do you mean?”

“Have we got anyone like Mikhail in Spain?”

Roland shook his head.

“No.”

“Sort something out. I want a sleeper there, someone we can call on at short notice.”

“For what?”

“For when we need force. Ideally two, three men.”

“I don’t agree,” Gentz said quietly.

Ralph didn’t respond. The sounds of central Munich could be heard far below them.

“The woman, then? Who’s she, what do we know?”

“Nothing … Just a woman, do you want me to take a closer look?”

Ralph thought, raising the glass to his mouth.

“Yes, do that.”

A white peony had just opened up.
It was improbably beautiful, big and broad, symmetrical and dreamlike. Tommy Jansson looked at it. He was sitting back in one of Gunilla’s white-painted wooden chairs. The table in the arbor had been set, a little corner of the garden that smelled of old-fashioned roses and clematis.

Tommy Jansson, departmental head of the Intelligence Division within National Crime, the department in which Gunilla had been employed for the past fourteen years. In formal terms he was her boss, an old tough guy who drove an American car and had a 357 in his holster. His attitude to life was like a child’s, his attitude to work strictly professional. She valued him highly as a boss, but also as a friend and colleague.

Gunilla put down a plate of freshly baked cinnamon buns. Tommy waited until she had sat down opposite him.

“I hear they call you Mommy.”

Gunilla smiled.

“Who says so?”

“Your brother. I called him on the way over here to get an idea of how things are going for you all.”

She made herself more comfortable.

“Why did you call him?”

“Because I did.”

Gunilla poured English tea into Tommy’s cup. He took a sip before going on.

“A bit of time has passed now. People are starting to wonder.”

“Oh?” Gunilla said.

“The prosecutor’s waiting for you to send some material over.”

“You know how I work, Tommy, you know I don’t like to let anything go until it’s watertight, so that some stressed-out prosecutor doesn’t misunderstand and misuse it, and the whole thing ends up going nowhere.”

“I know, but I’ve got people pestering me. I can’t keep covering up for you the whole time.”

The birds were twittering in the trees, the area was very quiet. She peered at him.

“Covering up for me?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

Tommy looked at her.

“It isn’t just the prosecutor asking,” he went on. “But she’s airing her theories. It’s unsettling people.”

“Berit Ståhl?”

Tommy nodded.

“What’s she saying?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Gunilla didn’t answer. Tommy tried to find a more comfortable position on the wooden chair.

“She’s saying she can’t understand why you’ve been given such a free hand.”

“And what do you say to that, Tommy?”

“I say what I’ve always said, that you’re one of the best I’ve got.”

“And what does she say?”

Tommy took a sip of tea, resting the cup on his thigh.

“That there’s nothing to suggest that.”

“To suggest what?”

“She’s been through all your cases from the past fifteen years, and claims that the percentage of your cases that have led to convictions is way below the average.”

Gunilla sighed.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to say. What else?”

“That’s all.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Gunilla didn’t take her eyes from Tommy. He looked down.

“She says that the reason you work the way you do, with your own group, without any oversight, in a separate location and so on, is a way for you to build up something you can be put in charge of when the police is reorganized in a few years’ time.”

“I see. And?”

Tommy shrugged.

“That’s what she’s saying.”

“That I’m ambitious?”

Tommy sighed.

“Nobody cares … yet. But if she carries on making a noise, she’s going to make people nervous, and they’ll start asking questions.”

Tommy went on in a low voice.

“If you’re floundering, Gunilla, if you haven’t got as much as you wish you had, I want you to tell me. I’ve protected you before, and I’ll do it again in the future. But if I find out that you’re not being straight and open with me …”

“Don’t worry,” she said quietly.

He rubbed his ear with his knuckles.

“I’m not …”

She let out a laugh.

“Of course you are.”

He didn’t answer.

“Stick to the agreement we had at the start, Tommy.”

“What agreement’s that?”

“That I don’t need to report back,” Gunilla said.

“Who’s saying I’ve come out here for a report?”

“Why else are you here? For the buns?”

“Yes, the buns.”

Neither of them was smiling.

Tommy considered what had been said. Then he carried on thinking; she was like him, they thought the same way, had the same opinions. It wasn’t anything they talked about, there was a lot they didn’t need to talk about. They knew that they generally shared the same attitude toward things.

Tommy broke the deadlock.

“I want to know where you are, and when you think you’ll be able to provide us with concrete evidence from your investigations. And I also want to know if you need anything.”

A chill came over her.

“You bastard,” she said.

He pretended not to understand.

“What?”

“I know what you’re trying to do, and you won’t succeed.”

“What are you talking about, Gunilla?”

“If you think you can gather information now so that someone else can take over, you’re very much mistaken.”

Tommy shook his head.

“I’m not here to fire you.”

“That’s not what I said. But I know what you’re up to.”

“So what am I up to?”

“You’re protecting your own position, gathering information, and if it looks like things aren’t going the way you want, you’ll replace me. I’ve seen you do it before.”

Tommy was starting to get annoyed.

“Look, stop this game now.”

“You stop, Tommy. I mean what I say, I’m not going to change. We’ve got an agreement. No one’s going to change that … least of all Berit Ståhl.”

“Oh, just ignore her,” Tommy said.

Gunilla relaxed.

“Thanks …”

He shook his head.

“No, you don’t have to thank me. You seem to have misunderstood our agreement.”

They could hear children laughing in a nearby garden.

“What do you mean?”

“That it’s mainly about me and the other bosses.”

Gunilla didn’t reply. He looked at her intently.

“You’re sitting in the shit,” he said.

She wrinkled her nose.

“What sort of language is that?”

“Aren’t you?”

She shook her head.

“No, I’m not,” she said in a low voice.

They’d had hundreds of similar conversations over the years, all of them circling the same basic point — Tommy wanted control, and she didn’t want to let go of it.

“How’s Monica?” Gunilla asked. Her tone was gentler now.

Tommy looked out at the garden.

“She’s good, no obvious symptoms yet.”

“What do the doctors say?”

He met her gaze.

“That they don’t know. But that they do know. More or less.”

“Which means?”

Tommy lowered his voice.

“That the illness is there, that ALS is incurable, that Monica will start to show the first symptoms before too long.”

Gunilla could see how upset he was. He looked down into his teacup.

“Do you know what the worst thing is?” he asked quietly.

Gunilla shook her head.

“I’m more frightened than she is.”

Silence settled again. Just the sound of insects buzzing, the wind in the trees, birds singing.

Tommy drained his cup and put it on the table, then stood up. He was back to being a boss again.

“I’m behind you, Gunilla. But make sure you ask for help if you need it.”

Tommy left the arbor and headed off toward the gate. She watched his back as he went. A bumblebee was hovering behind her.

It was half past two at night.
Lars picked the lock of the terrace door, it opened easily now. He took off his shoes, took two steps into the living room in his socks. Everyone in the world was asleep. He did what he had come for, crept over to the standard lamp beside the sofa, and looked closely at it. He found the little threadlike microphone that Anders had installed, and carefully removed it with his thumb and forefinger. He put it in the little plastic bag he had in his pocket, and retreated toward the terrace door. A thought struck him and he stopped. The thought wasn’t framed in words, more like feelings, something along the lines of: She’s lying up there …
oh my God
.

Lars made his way upstairs, genuinely drawn up there. He crept up, silently and carefully.

The door to her room was ajar. Lars put his ear to the gap and listened. Low, soft breathing from within. Slowly he pushed the door open, it all happened without a sound. One careful step and he was standing on the carpet.

There she lay, in almost the same position as last time, on her back with her hair over the pillow, just a few yards away from him. Doubt crept up on him. What was he doing there …? He was about to turn back … But … He stared at her, at her beauty, felt his longing grow inside him, his doubts vanished. Lars wanted to cuddle up next to her, tell her he was feeling bad. Maybe she’d want to comfort him. A sound woke him from his fantasy. Thin fluttering, catching sounds. The noise was coming from behind the curtain. A moth. Its wings were beating against the glass in a tortuous desire to get out, toward the faint light from the streetlamp.

Lars’s pulse was calm, his breathing was calm … Very slowly he got down on his knees and crept toward her on all fours. Carefully, carefully, soon he’d be able to detect her scent. He was getting hard, and imagined putting his hand over her mouth … climbing on top of her, and …
No, not like that
. Lars cursed himself. But he could just …
No, he couldn’t … could he?
He fought against the idea, but as on every other day of the week, impulse got the better of Lars Vinge on this occasion as well.

Kneeling up carefully he unbuttoned his trousers, pulled the zipper down and put his left hand inside. He didn’t want to do it, but he couldn’t help himself. Lars closed his eyes, making love to her in his imagination. She was groaning his name, begging for more, stroking his back, telling him she loved him. The moth’s wings fluttered against the window. Lars was kissing the empty air when he came inside his trousers. The feeling of emptiness that followed was all-consuming.

He made his way cautiously down the stairs, crept across the living room and left the house the same way he had entered.

They couldn’t even look at each other.
Anders’s neck was hanging low, Hasse sighed with every other breath. They were sitting in Anders’s Honda, parked up on Bastugatan. Hasse broke the silence.

“Have you done it before?”