Authors: Arne Dahl
‘No, it wasn’t. We haven’t accepted any form of protection.’ Lidner held his head high.
Hultin took a deep breath and controlled himself. ‘What the hell was Alexander Bryusov, a member of the Russian mafia, doing outside your villa last night?’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Lidner insisted.
‘He shot one of my men!’
‘I’m truly sorry about that, but it has nothing to do with me. I’m grateful for the police protection. It was probably me he was after. Now you have your mafia murderer.’
Hultin stared at Jacob Lidner, displaying a deep and sincere hatred. Söderstedt and Norlander exchanged surprised glances. Lidner, although a bit subdued, maintained his well-practised defensive posture.
‘Let me tell you how this whole thing went down,’ said Hultin between clenched teeth. ‘You accepted our theory that the Lovisedal board might be in the danger zone, even though you knew that the Russian mafia was not to blame, for the simple reason that you’re already closely connected to those crooks. But you didn’t trust
my
men’s ability to provide sufficient surveillance, so you brought in some extra life insurance, in the form of a mafia member to keep watch in the garden. Bryusov was also in your debt because you paid the superstar lawyer Reynold Rangsmyhr to defend him and then saw to it that Bryusov was able to disappear while still inside the courthouse. You posted him in the garden, with orders to shoot anything that was the least bit suspicious and then erase all traces. He knew that Söderstedt here was inside your house, so when another man, a giant of a guy not unlike Bryusov’s former colleague Valery Treplyov, came into the garden, he opened fire, in accordance with his orders. Fortunately, if I can say such a thing, it was Gunnar Nyberg that he shot, and one shot wasn’t enough to bring him down. The bullet passed right through his neck, but that didn’t prevent Nyberg from stopping Bryusov. Do you understand what I’m saying? Your fucking illegal and amateurish attempt at surveillance almost cost one of my highly professional men his life!’
Lidner looked at him for a moment. Then he laughed right in Hultin’s face.
He shouldn’t have done that.
From their front-row seats, Norlander and Söderstedt witnessed something that would make Hjelm and Chavez jealous for the rest of their lives.
A genuine Hultin eyebrow-splitting headbutt.
He took aim at Jacob Lidner’s bushy white eyebrows and slammed into him. The man’s left eyebrow instantly split open.
Lidner stared in surprise at the blood dripping onto the table in front of him. ‘Good God’ was all he could say.
‘Don’t you realise that Alexander Bryusov has talked?’ bellowed Hultin. ‘Do you think I’m standing here bullshitting you for social reasons? So I can expand my “network”? The good Igor has told us everything about the close contacts that you and the Lovisedal conglomerate have established with the branch of the Russian-Estonian mafia headed by Viktor X. He’s expecting to be the star witness, and he certainly will be. Your fucking tricks almost cost me one of Sweden’s best police officers!’
Lidner was pressing his hand to the gush of blood from his eyebrow. He was now a different man.
‘There weren’t supposed to be two police officers,’ he said quietly. ‘There was always only one.’
Hultin stood up. ‘You’ll be remanded into custody immediately, of course,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘You’ll be charged with the attempted murder of a police officer, but the later indictment will include much more. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you to get yourself a lawyer.’
Out in the corridor Jan-Olov Hultin rubbed his hands together. Then the trio briskly continued to the most isolated section of police headquarters. Hultin had a card and a code that gave him access to these dimly lit passageways. He yanked open an office door.
There sat two solidly built gentlemen in their forties, wearing identical leather jackets. They looked up from
their
computers, and in only a second both men pulled out huge pistols and aimed them at Hultin, Söderstedt and Norlander.
‘What a pleasant scene,’ said Hultin calmly.
‘This is a restricted area, Hultin. You have no right to be here,’ said Gillis Döös harshly. ‘Get out before we call the guard.’
‘None of us is going anywhere until we find out what the hell happened with the investigation that Mr Max Grahn buried. The one where Valery Treplyov was found murdered and lying inside a locked bank vault in Algotsmåla, Småland.’
Döös and Grahn looked at each other.
‘That’s confidential,’ said Döös, sounding slightly different.
‘Since when do you have the right to pretend to be part of the NCP? And what the hell ever happened to the exchange of information? Do you realise how much you’ve delayed this case with your damned secrecy and your grotesque meddling? Do you realise how many of your precious businessmen have died unnecessarily? Murdered as a direct result of your actions?’
Max Grahn cleared his throat. Perhaps he turned a little pale.
‘We had our sights on Igor and Igor long before they became relevant to this case. When that zealous inspector from Växjö called, we went down there at once; we realised that it was Treplyov that they’d found inside the vault. Igor and Igor were well established in that part of
Sm
åland. We knew that a major Soviet infiltration was taking place in Sweden, and that it was as big as hell.’
‘And you let us struggle our way through the whole damn Russian-mafia lead without giving us a single piece of information?’
‘We’ve been working two lines the whole time,’ said Döös, ‘the Russian-mafia lead and the Somali lead. Both of these investigations are top secret, matters of national security.’
‘What the hell is the Somali lead?’ shouted Hultin.
‘Sonya Shermarke, for God’s sake!’ exclaimed Döös. ‘The cleaning woman that you’ve totally ignored. The one who “found”, as she said, Director Carlberger’s body. It turns out that she, along with a whole group of potential Somali terrorists, have been living in Sweden illegally. She pretended to be a cleaning woman and wangled her way into the homes of many influential families in Djursholm. We’ve been interrogating her and her cohorts for over a month now. And soon we’ll have them.’
‘Oh, now I remember,’ said Hultin acidly. ‘That’s right! Seven Somali children, their five Somali parents and a pastor from Spånga. What an elite band! Sentenced to be deported, terrified and crammed into a little two-room apartment in Tensta, hidden by the local Swedish church. What a great coup. Seven children. Have you been interrogating them too for a month in your basement dungeon?’
‘Do you know what a modern-day terrorist can use children for?’ Döös said in all seriousness.
‘For the sake of my incipient ulcer, let’s drop the subject.’ Hultin looked conciliatory. ‘What have you managed to make of the blinded Treplyov in Algotsmåla?’
‘Clearly a settling of accounts in the underworld,’ said Grahn. ‘Somebody wanted to take over Igor and Igor’s territories. Mafia factions from the Soviet Union today are conducting a more or less open war for power in the Swedish underworld.’
‘And the connection to the Power Murders?’ said Hultin mildly.
‘We’re investigating the links between the Somalis and the Russians. We think it’s a joint conspiracy based on old Communist values.’
Hultin stretched his back, still with a good-natured expression on his face. Söderstedt and Norlander feared the side effects of a well-aimed headbutt inside such a small space. Instead Hultin delivered a metaphorical headbutt.
‘For over a month you’ve known that Igor and Igor were an important focus of our investigation,’ he said gently. ‘If nothing else, you must have seen the announcement of the manhunt published in the newspapers. You have wilfully and intentionally misled what the head of the NCP, as recently as yesterday on TV, has called the most important investigation in Sweden since the Palme case; in addition, you used the NCP for a highly irregular, highly illegal cover-up. All of these acts are not only a dereliction of duty, they are crimes. I’m going straight to the head of the NCP to inform him of your illegal
activities
, and I anticipate that both of you will be off the force by this afternoon, latest. You can start packing right now.’
‘Are you threatening us?’ Döös stood up.
‘I prefer to think of it as a promise.’ Hultin smiled politely.
31
GUNNAR NYBERG WAS
being fed through a tube. It protruded from the bandages that covered him almost entirely from the crown of his head to his neck, and large portions of soup were running through it. His eyes were the only things visible, and they were beaming with joy.
‘As I’ve just told Nyberg,’ the doctor explained to the three visitors, ‘we’ve determined that, in spite of everything, his throat should heal completely. The bullet missed the carotid artery by half an inch; it missed the larynx by about the same distance, but it passed through the upper part of the oesophagus, just below the pharynx. He’ll soon be able to sing again, but it will take a while before he can eat normally. In addition, his left zygomatic bone and left maxillary bone were shattered. He suffered a significant concussion and a number of bruises and burns on his face, and on the area from his shoulders up. He has four broken ribs, a fractured right arm and a wide assortment of minor cuts and burns over most
of
his body. But,’ said the doctor, ‘he seems to be in good spirits.’ And then he left them alone.
Nyberg had obtained a little blackboard on which he could write messages in his wobbly left-handed script. ‘
Igor?
’ he wrote.
Hjelm nodded. ‘Alexander Bryusov. That idiotic tackle you made on his car uncovered the whole connection between Viktor X and Lovisedal, a very real connection. Bryusov is apparently going to be the star witness.’
Nyberg wrote, ‘
Not our man, right?
’
Hjelm had to ask Chavez and Holm for help in deciphering his scrawl.
‘No,’ said Chavez. ‘Bryusov isn’t our man. Our man is an ordinary Swedish bank teller by the name of Göran Andersson.’
The twitching under the wads of bandages could almost be interpreted as a laugh.
‘We’re conducting a nationwide manhunt for him now,’ said Hjelm. ‘But you may be back at work before he’s arrested.’
Nyberg shook his bandages emphatically. The tubes that connected him to the surrounding machinery swayed alarmingly. One apparatus began beeping, as if in fear. He wrote, ‘
Damn it all, no, you’ll get him in a couple of days
.’ Then he erased the words and wrote a new message: ‘
Missa
.’
‘Missa what?’ said Hjelm.
‘Is there something we’ve missed?’ asked Chavez.
‘Ah.’ Kerstin Holm, who had been standing at Nyberg’s
feet
, walked over and sat down on the chair next to his bed. She took his hand, the only patch of skin visible in all that whiteness. She hummed a pure and clear note for ten seconds, then she began to sing. It was the lead alto part in Palestrina’s
Missa papae Marcelli
.
Nyberg closed his eyes. Hjelm and Chavez just stood there, motionless.
When they returned to police headquarters, Hjelm found a fax lying on his desk. Since Hultin was waiting for them in Supreme Central Command, he cast only a quick glance at it as he headed out of the room. Not until he was out in the hallway did his brain register the name of the sender: Detective Superintendent Erik Bruun of the Huddinge police force. Hjelm went back to his desk.
‘I thought it best that you hear this from me rather than in the media,’ Bruun had written. ‘Last night Dritëro Frakulla committed suicide in his cell at Hall Prison. At least now his family will be allowed to stay. Don’t let this affect your work. You were just doing your job. Warm wishes, Bruun.’
Last night
, thought Hjelm, holding the fax in his hand. What a strange night. Gunnar Nyberg was shot in Lidingö, Ulf Axelsson was murdered in Göteborg, Dritëro Frakulla killed himself in Norrköping and Göran Andersson was identified in Algotsmåla. And all of these events were vaguely connected.
What a small country Sweden is
, he thought, realising
that
he ought to be thinking about something else.
He was still holding the fax when he entered the room of Supreme Central Command. The other members of the A-Unit were already there. It was the first time he’d seen Hultin since they’d returned from Växjö.
‘An outstanding job in Växjö.’ Hultin gave him a searching look.
Excellent job
, thought Hjelm, and for a moment he felt as if he was sinking into a pile of shit and had to stand on top of Dritëro Frakulla’s body in order to keep his nose above the surface. He shook off the image, let go of the sweaty fax and sat down.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘So outstanding that I’m even going to ignore the time between when you found out the perp’s name and when you called in your report.’
Hultin’s praise was seldom one-sided.
‘Okay,’ he continued calmly. ‘The surveillance effort has been moved from the Lovisedal board members in 1991 to the Sydbanken board in 1990. Daggfeldt, Strand-Julén, Carlberger, Brandberg and Axelsson are all dead. Unfortunately, the board included an additional twelve individuals. Eight in Stockholm, two in Malmö, one in Örebro and one in Halmstad. The sole member from Göteborg has already been taken out. Of the twelve remaining members, we’ve located nine and set up surveillance for them. But one is out of the country, and two we still haven’t found. Both happen to be Stockholmers: a Lars-Erik Hedman and an Alf Ruben
Winge
. Finding them is our highest priority. An all-points bulletin was put out this morning for Göran Andersson’s green Saab 900. It turns out that for almost a month it’s been in the possession of the Nynäshamn police, without licence plates and with the VIN number filed off. The techs are going over it right now, but as is to be expected, the preliminary report says they haven’t found any evidence. As for Andersson himself, we’ve put out a nationwide alert, and the most recent photo of him has been sent to all police districts and border stations. The question now under discussion at the highest level is whether to release his picture to the press and enlist the aid of that Big Detective, the public.’