The Other Son (23 page)

They had checked out the various addresses throughout the city. All of them exclusive and unreachable. This was the way to do it. Start slowly, be careful, work through the list, take care not to miss anything along the way.

Jens came back, opened the car door, and got in beside Mikhail, who pulled away. No one said anything; they were all unhappily aware that their search wasn't getting anywhere.

They struggled back toward their hotel through the city traffic.

“There's one more place,” Jens said thoughtfully.

“Where?” Sophie asked.

“Mikhail, you know the one. The house in the suburbs,” Jens said.

“Which house?” Mikhail asked.

“The row house, where you took my guns last summer after you stole my car on Jutland. When you, Ralph, and Christian all showed up.”

Mikhail remembered, then shook his head.

“That house was always empty, we only ever used it in emergencies.”

“How do you mean?”

“In emergencies,” Mikhail said once more.

“How do you mean?” Jens repeated.

Mikhail glared at Jens, as if to suggest that he ought to know better than to ask.

“How do you mean?” Jens didn't seem to care.

“You remember the man in the garage.”

Jens did remember. The dead man who had been lying there, sliced open, on top of Jens's crates of weapons, his throat cut, the congealed blood. A calling card from Ralph Hanke.

“That's what we used the house for,” Mikhail said.

“Then let's go,” Jens said.

“What for?”

“Because we're checking everywhere,” he said.

The house, one
of many in a street where there was no variation.

They sat in the car and looked at the building: dark inside, no movement, nothing.

Jens opened the car door and got out. He walked across the narrow street and up to the front door. He tried the handle. Locked.

Mikhail sighed.

“Come on,” he said to Sophie.

They crossed the street. Mikhail headed toward the garage, whistled to Jens, walked up to the garage door, and pulled at it a few times until the lock gave way.

There was a creaking, grinding sound as the rusty springs in the door settled and the small wheels came to a rest in the narrow grooves.

They peered into the gloom as a damp, musty smell hit them. A garage without cars. They searched it, nothing. Dead.

The dark basement steps led upward.

The hall on the ground floor was silent and deserted. Jens and Mikhail checked the kitchen and the two other rooms on that floor, then they all headed up the stairs to the top floor.

The man was lying on his side on an unmade bed with his clothes on—stonewashed jeans and a yellow T-shirt. He was dirty and unshaven, and had curly black hair. Southern European, perhaps, maybe north African. In his thirties. On the floor beside the bed were several candles, spoons, lighters, two syringes, some old soda cans, and candy wrappers. By the foot of the bed a pistol, silvery, partly rusted, old and tired. Mikhail walked over and picked it up, checked the magazine: fully loaded. He put it in his jacket pocket.

The three of them stood there looking at the prostrate body. The man was completely fucked. His mouth was open, dribbling saliva, and his breathing was slow. The sounds coming from his throat were dry and rattling. Sophie went over to the man, sat down next to him, and felt his pulse. It was weak, his skin clammy.

“Who is he?” Sophie asked.

“I don't know,” Mikhail said. “One of Hanke's guys, on the way out, I guess.”

“On the way out?”

“This is what he usually does.”

“What?”

“Among the lower ranks they're nearly all addicts,” Mikhail said.

“Why?”

Mikhail kept his eyes on the man.

“When Hanke no longer needs them, he gives them a little push over the edge, raises the dose. That way he can't be held responsible for what happens. They kill themselves. He did that with a few guys when I was working for him. People say he did the same with his first wife, Sabine, Christian's mother.”

The man lay there, enjoying his misery. He wasn't going to make it any further than this. His heart would get weaker, then he'd die of an overdose.

Mikhail rubbed his nose.

“I'll wait here until he wakes up,” he whispered.

Jens took Sophie by the arm and led her out of the room and down the stairs.

They sat down at the kitchen table as the walls made quiet creaking sounds. A few cars passed by outside the thin window.

Muffled noises from upstairs…a conversational tone, calm questions, calm answers. The voices got louder. It wasn't Mikhail she could hear mostly but the other man. He sounded upset…angry…scared. Mikhail kept talking; she couldn't make out the words, just distorted sounds making their way through the walls and floor to the kitchen.

Then a hard thud, followed by a stifled scream. A cry of pain from behind a closed hand.

Sophie looked up at Jens. He shook his head slowly.

More thuds, and the ceiling above them shook. The man cried out in pain.

Sophie flew up, but Jens grabbed her wrist. She tried to pull free but he caught her in his arms and held her tight. The assault upstairs went on. The thuds grew heavier and more regular, methodical, and rhythmic. Then it was suddenly completely silent.

Heavy steps on the staircase. Jens let go of Sophie.

Mikhail came into the kitchen with a vacant look in his eyes.

“There's a boy out at one of the farms,” he said. “A teenage boy.”

Mikhail walked out of the house.

Antonia was waiting at the counter at the dry cleaner. The radio was playing pop music. A woman's voice farther inside the premises was singing along.

Antonia rang the bell on the counter. The singing stopped.

Marianne came out.

“Hello, Superintendent,” she said. There was a faint but detectable note of sarcasm.

“Was that you singing, Marianne?”

“Yep.”

“It sounded good.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you offering coffee?” Antonia asked.

“No,” Marianne said. “But there's water in the tap; come on through.”

She went back into the depths of the laundry.

Marianne Grip, Assar Grip's wife. Assar, one of the big gangsters in Stockholm back in the 1980s. Vanished without a trace. Marianne was trying to keep the organization going, mainly to help the youngsters. She seemed to take an odd sort of responsibility for them, as if she were their mother.

That was how Antonia had first met her. By chance. She liked Marianne, and felt that she liked her back. She turned a blind eye and left Marianne alone. And asked for favors every now and then.

They walked back to a very small kitchen.

Marianne was used to these meetings of theirs, and waited for Antonia to explain why she was there.

“Two things,” Antonia said.

“There are always two things,” Marianne said.

“First a man, in his thirties. He beat up his ex, a stripper. His name's Roger Lindgren. I've looked, but I can't find anything except a PO box.”

Marianne's face wasn't giving anything away. Antonia went on.

“And I need an ID card for a dead man. New picture, but otherwise the same information.”

“Does the dead man's driver's license still exist?”

“No.”

“Passport, any other form of ID?”

“I'm afraid not.”

Antonia took out four passport photos of Miles Ingmarsson and passed them to Marianne, who looked at them.

“What's the ID card going to be used for?” Marianne asked.

“You don't need to know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“If it's going to be scanned electronically, it'll be difficult. If it's only going to be looked at manually, that makes things easier.”

“It's only going to be used manually, I think,” Antonia said.

“You think?”

“Yes, I think.”

“So that's as good as saying you don't know?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Marianne held Miles Ingmarsson's passport photograph up to Antonia.

“Good-looking guy. Don't you think, Antonia?”

“No.”

Marianne cracked into a smile.

“It's always good to see you, Antonia.”

“It's good to see you too, Marianne.”

“So, how are you?” Marianne asked.

“Not sure, I never have time to think about it. You?”

“I'm fine.”

“And your daughter, Ester?”

“Oh, she's fine too. Her dad would have been proud. Sometimes I have to pinch myself; here we are, thirty years on, and we can talk about absolutely anything, her and me. Things are going well for her, she means the world to me.”

“What's the trick?” Antonia wondered.

“Mother and daughter?”

“Relationships in general.”

Marianne shrugged. “I suppose you just have to be honest and true to yourself and the people you love?”

“Is that enough?”

“More than enough.”

“Is it really that simple?”

Marianne thought for a moment.

“In practical terms, no.”

“So?”

Marianne shrugged again.

“No idea. Why? Are you having relationship trouble?”

“No.”

“Are you even in a relationship?”

“Sort of.”

“Who with?”

“A colleague.”

Marianne waved the passport photograph of Miles Ingmarsson.

“Is this him?”

“No, someone else. His name is Ulf.”

“Mm.” Marianne nodded. “Ulf, you say. And what do you want with him?”

Now it was Antonia's turn to shrug.

“So what's he like?” Marianne asked.

“He's kind, sensible, and afraid of intimacy. A lot like me, really.”

“Minus kind and sensible,” Marianne said.

“Yes, minus kind and sensible, obviously.”

“You deserve love, Antonia. Grab it if it appears.”

“If it appears, I promise I'll grab it. And how's business?” Antonia asked.

“Can't complain. A lot of people out there are fighting for survival these days.”

“True.”

There was something very likable about the woman.

“The guy who beat up his ex is obviously free of charge,” Marianne said. “The ID card will cost, both money and favors.”

Antonia took her hands off the back of the chair.

“I'm a police officer, so my salary isn't great.”

Marianne stood up.

“Like I'd care about that! You could always join us, Antonia. You've got a natural talent for it.”

Antonia laughed at the compliment.

“Do you know what my husband used to say?” Marianne went on.

“Yes,” Antonia said.

“Let's hear it, then.”

“ ‘If a storm breaks out, don't shit yourself.' ”

“Exactly.”

“But Assar wasn't the one who came up with it,” Antonia said. “He stole it from Max von Sydow in that film….”

“Maybe, but Assar stole everything. And then he thought it was his. That's why he was so easy to live with.”