The Invisible Man from Salem (27 page)

‘Not exactly, no.'

‘Koll is the type of criminal who does as he's told. Provided you can afford to pay his prices.'

‘So he's a consultant?'

‘Something like that.'

Birck calls the lift and waits. He looks worn out; his clear eyes are bloodshot, and his skin is paler than yesterday.

‘So,' he says, ‘if you don't know who he is, how come he wants to talk to you?'

‘He's been instructed to.'

‘Yes,' Birck says impatiently, ‘but by whom?'

The lift arrives. One of the chief constable's secretaries steps out, professionally uninterested and with a serious demeanour.

‘I think I know why she died,' I say.

Birck looks at me as the lift doors close and the metallic-grey cube starts moving upwards.

‘I'm listening. Why?'

‘Because of me.'

Birck keeps staring. I think he's trying to work out if I'm joking or not.

‘A further analysis of the prints on the necklace,' Birck says slowly, ‘revealed that your print was very old.'

I REMEMBER
a forensic-science teacher we had during police training. He started his lecture with a story about Babylon and China several hundred years BC, where fingerprints were used as signatures. The use of fingerprints is ancient and widespread, but their use by the police is much more recent. A Scottish teacher — I think his name was Faulds, or something like that — published an article about them at the end of the nineteenth century, and he turned to the police in London since he felt that they could use his method. The London police thought it was stupid, and dismissed him. I think that little detail is what makes me remember all this, because even then the forces of law and order were extremely conservative and sceptical players.

In any case, this caused Faulds to contact Charles Darwin, who was too old and famous to start working on Faulds' observations himself. But he must have guessed that Faulds was on to something, because he gave the information to his cousin, Galton. He was an anthropologist, and he probably wasn't terribly busy, considering that he went on to study fingerprints for ten years before publishing his masterpiece. Fingerprints stick on almost any surface, and Galton had shown that they were statistically unique. No two people had the same prints, so the whole world of forensic science was turned on its head. I remember we were still reading short extracts from Galton's
Finger Prints
when I did my training.

I remember that, and this: fingerprints are deceptive things. How long a print stays on a surface depends on a host of factors: what kind of surface it is; how much exposure to the elements it gets; how salty, oily, or fatty the print is; and so on. But there is no set point at which a fingerprint will be destroyed. A fingerprint can, in unusual circumstances, outlive us.

I look at Birck.

‘So?' he says.

The print must be fifteen years old. If that's right, if it's still there, the necklace must have been stored very carefully. I don't know what to say.

‘I don't know if I'm right,' I say. ‘Maybe Koll can help …'

The lift door opens. I get out before Birck. He sighs.

PETER ZORAN KOLL
is sitting in Interview Room 3 — the same room, the same chair as I was sitting in about twenty-four hours earlier. He's shorter than I expected, has a square face and the sort of haircut you only see in American war films. His shoulders and his chest are broad. He's wearing light jeans, a T-shirt, and an unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt. A constable in a light-blue shirt and tie is standing watching him just inside the door. Koll has a smug glint in his eye. His hands are cuffed, and the cuffs scratch against the tabletop when he moves.

Birck has collected a folder and a dictaphone from his office, and nods silently to the constable, who leaves the room without looking at me. Koll's eyes follow her.

‘Something interest you, Koll?' Birck asks, pulls out a chair, and sits down.

‘I'm used to keeping an eye on people.' He looks at me. ‘Leo Junker.'

‘That's right,' Birck says, and opens the folder, while I hesitantly pull out the chair next to him. ‘Leo is here now. Let's talk.'

Koll laughs — a short, mocking laugh.

‘You have misunderstood.'

‘What have I misunderstood?'

‘I'm not talking to you. Only to him.'

‘You're not the one who gets to decide around here,' Birck says calmly.

‘Oh yes I am.'

‘And what makes you think that?'

‘I know something you don't know.'

‘And what might that be?'

Koll smiles. He has clean, white teeth.

‘I have strict instructions to only speak to him. Alone.' He attempts to fold his arms, but doesn't manage it. The handcuffs stop him. He looks surprised, as though he'd forgotten they were there. ‘No sound recording.'

‘Who has given you these instructions?' attempts Birck.

‘I only talk to him.'

Birck stares at him for a long time before looking at me.

‘One moment, Peter. We'll be back soon.'

We come out, and the police constable sweeps past us as she goes back into the room to keep him under supervision. Birck leans against the wall, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and closes his eyes tightly. He opens his eyes, blinks a few times, and runs his hand through his hair.

‘Right,' he says. ‘Do it. In exchange, we demand that he does the interview again later, with just me.'

‘But I'm not up to speed on the investigation.'

‘That's why this is strictly between us. You don't say a word to anyone about this. Got it?'

‘Yes.'

He looks very focused.

‘Well, then.'

‘RIGHT,' I SAY
to Koll. ‘Tell me.'

‘What do you want me to tell you?'

‘You've been instructed to only talk to me. Who instructed you?'

‘You're stressing,' Koll says, irritated. ‘Calm down.'

‘Okay,' I say. ‘We'll start somewhere else. I'm not really sure what you do. How do you make a living.'

‘I do what people ask, you know.'

‘Which is what?'

‘You name it.'

‘Like killing people for money?'

‘Not really,' Koll says. ‘I don't like that.'

‘But you did it this time?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘My family's in Turkey. I'm in touch with a police chief there. He can get them to Sweden, for a price.'

‘You've bribed a Turkish police chief? Is that what you're saying? Have I understood correctly?'

The look in Koll's eyes darkens.

‘Not exactly. I contacted him a few years ago and asked him what it would take to get them to Sweden.' He clears his throat. ‘Four million. Per person.'

‘Aren't you from Yugoslavia?'

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘I just wonder why your family is in Turkey.'

‘That's where they went. They've got friends there. But my brother committed a crime and ended up in prison.'

‘And the others? Are they inside, too?'

‘No.'

‘Can't they help your brother?'

‘They can't do what's required, you know. They don't have, what do you call it, resources.'

‘So you're saving up.'

‘Yes.'

‘Through crime.'

‘Yes.'

‘In Sweden, there are easier ways to get hold of money than going round committing crimes.'

‘Are there?' Koll asks, with raised eyebrows. ‘Like what?'

I realise that I don't have a good answer for that one.

‘How much have you got?' I ask instead.

‘I've got enough now. That's why I said yes.'

‘So, did your employer know about your situation?'

‘I think so, can't be sure.'

‘What makes you think so?' I ask.

‘Seems weird that someone comes and offers me exactly what I need. Don't you think?'

It does, undeniably.

‘So,' I say. ‘Let's go through this one more time. You take a job from someone, who gives you exactly the sum of money you need to get your family to Sweden. Is that correct?'

‘That's correct.'

‘And you've been instructed to only speak to me.'

‘Correct.'

‘Have you been instructed to get caught, too?'

Koll laughs — a mocking laugh, again.

‘No. But if it was to happen, I was going to get more money, and I should demand that I only speak to you.'

‘That was part of the deal?'

‘Yes.'

‘You don't seem too upset about having been arrested.'

‘I am, but I know that I'm going to be, what's it called, compensated.' He hesitates, before he lifts his head, with an honest expression on his square face. ‘I don't actually like killing people.'

He is more malleable now, I can tell, but it's still too early to ask about his paymaster. That hasn't been said, but it rests between us, like a silent understanding.

‘The one you were given the task of killing was Rebecca Salomonsson at Chapmansgården.'

Koll stares blankly at me.

‘I didn't hear a question.'

‘Is that correct?' I say.

‘Did anyone else die there that night?' he asks.

‘No one else died at Chapmansgården that night.'

‘Well, then, it was her.'

There it is: the confession. It's been a long time since I sat in an interview with a suspect — too long — but the feeling of getting that out of him is surprisingly familiar, satisfying.

‘Tell me about it,' I say.

‘What do you want to know?'

‘Rebecca Salomonsson died shortly after midnight, didn't she?'

‘I didn't check if she was dead, if that's what you're wondering. I don't like killing people, but I know how to.'

He smiles. I want to punch him in the face.

‘Tell me what you did that night,' I say.

‘I went to a place on the other side of the road, a flat, from about eleven at night. I knew that she was usually among the first, so I made sure I was there in time. The flat was on the second floor, two windows facing the street, no curtains. I sat there and waited, looked through the windows at Chapmansgården. I could see the dorm, and bits of the other rooms. I waited for her to arrive and lie down in one of the beds.'

‘Whose was the flat?'

‘I don't know. No furniture, so I suppose someone had just moved out. But there was still a name on the door.'

‘What name?'

Koll squints, studying the tabletop that separates us.

‘Wigren. C. Wigren.'

‘With a V or a W?'

‘W.'

‘How did you get hold of the flat?'

‘It came with the job. I got the keys, and the money.'

‘How did you get them?'

‘A P.O. box. I always use P.O. boxes.'

‘How long did you sit there?'

‘Till I saw her arrive, till she went in and lay down.'

‘Did she have anything with her? A bag or anything?'

He shakes his head.

‘I checked the people coming and going through the doorway. It wasn't hard to work out when someone who was on their way there turned up. You can tell who belongs there, they often have … they're junkies and whores. I'd done some reconnaissance in the days leading up to it, so I knew she usually slept there and that the door was unlocked, that you could open the windows from the inside — just open that little catch. And that the woman who runs it always starts with the washing up. That was good, because it would mask the sound. She walked down the road much earlier than I was expecting, you know; it can't have been later than midnight. She was high as a kite, could hardly stand up. I think she felt sick, because she kept, what do you call it … heaving, and had her hand in front of her mouth. She went in and lay down on one of the beds. I waited a while, but I didn't want to wait too long; I was worried that others might turn up, you know?'

‘I understand.'

‘I just had to go out, cross the road, and go inside. That woman was there in the kitchen, doing the washing up. I snuck past, into the bedroom, put a bullet in her temple and put the jewellery in her hand, then left via the window, back down onto the street again.'