Inertia, page 22
Malin shrugs.
‘No idea, but I hope this will be quick.’
Just as I am popping the last piece into my mouth, Letit enters the room, dressed in the same see-through shirt as the other day, this time without a string vest underneath.
‘What would you say about a chat with Igor Ivanov’s right-hand man?’ he asks and sits down on one of the worn chairs.
Malin puts her paper cup down so hard that the coffee splashes onto the table.
‘What? Did you find Malte Lindén?’
Letit leans forward, looks Malin in the eye and flashes a wide grin.
‘The investigative unit located him last night and serious crimes pulled him in for questioning after a prosecutor’s order this morning,’ he says. ‘I just went down there to look in on him.’
Malin nods and wipes the coffee up with a napkin with a faded Christmas print that has survived at least one winter in the recesses of the police building.
‘Is he giving us a hard time?’ I ask.
Letit shakes his head.
‘No. He’s not new to this. He’s done time for possession and assault. He knows to pick his battles. But of course he did try to wangle his legal counsel into the questioning.’
‘And what did you say?’ Malin asks.
Letit smiles slyly.
‘That he has no more right to a lawyer than a whore has to sick pay,’ he says emphatically. ‘You get a lawyer when you are reasonably suspected of a crime, according to the twenty-first chapter of Procedural Law – it follows that one must have been made party to such a suspicion according to chapter twenty-three.’
*
Malte Lindén is leaning back in his chair with his arms firmly folded across his chest.
He’s wearing a white vest and a pair of baggy jeans. His body is thin, bordering on emaciated, thin light brown hair falls in greasy strips across his acne-scarred face. His facial expression is indifferent and his gaze bored, as if he were sitting on a train, rather than at the station being questioned by the police.
We introduce ourselves and sit down around the table.
Malte’s face does not change, but he does raise one eyebrow when all three of us enter the room – normally there are two officers at a questioning.
Just as Malin is about to start the tape recorder there is a knock on the door and Malik pokes his head in.
‘Letit, would you come with me for a bit?’
‘Must I?’ Letit asks, sounding like a cranky five-year-old.
‘It’s important.’
Letit sighs, gets up and leaves the room with deliberate slowness.
Malin starts the tape recorder and rattles off the formalities. Then turns to Malte and gets straight to the point.
‘Did you know Johannes Ahonen and Victor Carlgren?’
There is a short pause before Malte replies.
‘No,’ he says, without looking at Malin.
‘So you have never met either of them?’
‘No.’
Malin takes out photos of Johannes and Victor and places them on the table in front of Malte.
‘Do you recognise these men?’
‘No,’ Malte replies without looking at the pictures.
‘I need to ask you to look at the pictures,’ I say.
Reluctantly Malte’s gaze makes its way down to the printouts. He shrugs.
‘Do you recognise them?’ Malin asks again.
‘No.’
‘Never seen them?’
‘No.’
‘And you are sure of that?’
‘Mhm.’
‘We have information indicating that both Johannes Ahonen and Victor Carlgren have bought cocaine from persons whom we can connect to you and Igor Ivanov. What do you have to say about that?’
‘Nothing,’ Malte answers sluggishly and in the cold glow of the fluorescent lights looks disinterestedly at the nails on one of his hands.
‘So you have no comment on them having bought cocaine from your crew?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Malte says without raising his voice. ‘I said I have no comment on your allegation that they bought cocaine from people you allege know me.’
Malin shoots me a resigned look and I shrug.
This is to be expected.
Hardened career criminals are not so easily shaken. There needs to be more than a couple of fragmented allegations during a questioning to get a guy like Malte to admit that he has done anything that even borders on illegal.
I try a different tactic. Take out the pictures taken by the forensic pathologist and put them on the table.
‘The guys were likely murdered,’ I say. ‘They were young. Had their whole lives ahead of them. Someone took that from them and dumped them in the ocean, like rubbish.’
Malte glances at the pictures without altering his facial expression at all, apparently completely unaffected by the bloated bodies and the distended, split skin.
‘That’s too bad for them,’ he mumbles in the same monotonous voice.
Malin sighs, squirms and says: ‘If you know anything at all about this you would do well to tell us now.’
Malte doesn’t answer.
‘Do you know anything, Malte?’ I ask.
Slowly the thin man’s gaze meets mine and the hair at the back of my neck stands up when I see his indifferent expression. A chill spreads through me, despite the interview room being as hot as a sauna.
Something glistens inside Malte’s mouth and only now do I notice that his front teeth are gold.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t know anything.’
The room is quiet.
‘Malte, where is Igor?’ I ask.
‘Don’t know.’
‘You have no idea?’
‘Maybe he went for a swim?’
‘Went for a swim?’
Malte bends and pulls on his bony fingers so that the knuckles pop, one by one, and I detect a smile on his skinny face.
‘Well, the weather is nice.’
*
On our way up the stairs we run into Letit who is on his way down. He puffs and pants as if he has just run a 400-metre race and I see large wet spots under his synthetic sleeves.
‘Not a thing,’ Malin answers the question that Letit hasn’t asked.
‘What-did-I-tell-you?’ Letit pants.
‘But what if you were wrong?’ Malin says.
‘I’m never wrong,’ Letit says, without a doubt. ‘I have only been wrong once, and then I thought I was wrong. Although it turned out I was right.’
He laughs, grunting at his own hilarity.
‘But don’t mope, kids,’ he continues and takes a step up the stairs. ‘Because uncle Gunnar has a really nice bone for you to chew on. Come, let me show you!’
We follow him up the stairs to his office, where his laptop is open.
‘Malik wanted me because we had a visitor from forensics,’ Letit says, wiping sweat off his brow. ‘And since I have worked a bit in this area he wanted me to be in on it.’
He says the last part emphatically and with poorly concealed pride.
He types something into the keyboard and the screen comes to life.
Then he clicks through a sequence of pictures.
‘This is Victor Carlgren’s body, neatly packaged in a sheet and wrapped in chains. What’s not immediately apparent is that there is also some masking tape on the sheet, here by the neck.’
Letit points at the mummy-like figure.
‘OK . . .?’ Malin says hesitantly.
‘The tape has protected the fabric under it from decomposition,’ Letit continues. ‘And right here . . .’
He points at a spot on the mummy’s neck and continues:
‘Right here a few hairs and corresponding follicles were found under the tape. The forensics team has managed to extract nuclear DNA, which means that we have a complete DNA profile of the person the hairs came from.’
He pauses and looks triumphantly at us.
‘And it’s neither one of the victims,’ he adds.
‘The killer?’ Malin whispers.
‘Could be,’ Letit says, looking first at me, then at Malin. Then he flashes the biggest smile I have ever seen on him. His entire face, typically so morose, cracks and softens.
‘But we know whose DNA it is!’ he says. ‘Because he has a criminal record.’
‘Who?’ Malin asks on an inhale.
Letit’s grin gets even wider.
Malin boxes him tenderly on the shoulder.
‘Dammit, Gunnar. Tell us!’
He nods slowly, strokes his beard and taps the keyboard again. A mugshot of a man with tangled brown hair and a beard appears.
‘Olle Berg, thirty-one years old. Convicted of assault and unlawful threats.’
Pernilla
T
he ferry landing at Stuvskär is empty except for two ten-year-old boys sitting at the edge of the jetty fishing.
A muggy breeze ripples the water and makes my wide skirt flutter so that I have to hold it down. There is a strong smell of seaweed and fish from the small shiny perch that lie neatly lined up on a newspaper behind the boys. In the distance a white archipelago ferry is headed toward us. Foam is streaming around the bow and people are crowding at the gunwale for a place in the sun.
I’m supposed to meet Samuel in fifteen minutes.
I sit on the concrete bench and put the gym bag between my feet. I hope this has taught him a lesson and that he gets his life in order now. Because I can’t always run to the rescue every time he’s in a scrape.
At least, not if that involves breaking the law.
The boat is almost here now. I can see the passengers clearly. Those who are going to spend Midsummer in Stuvskär are already lining up at the bow with bags bursting with food, beer and aquavit.
The boys who were fishing on the dock get up. One of them takes out his phone and begins to photograph the perch. Then he picks up the paper and throws the fish in the water.
I feel immediately nauseous.
I know. These are just some fish. But why would you do that to another living creature? Catch it only to take a photo and throw it back in the ocean when you’re done?
What’s the point?
I watch the boys as they disappear in the direction of the harbour pub.
They walk side by side but do not seem to be talking to each other, instead they are so deeply immersed in their phones that one boy almost walks straight into a parked car.
The boat docks and passengers in their Midsummer best stream onto the jetty, walk towards the harbour and disappear in various directions. A flatbed moped starts and drives off with its cargo of people and luggage. Two dogs bark angrily at each other.
I press my ankles around the gym bag and glance at my watch – five minutes to go.
The landing is empty now.
The ferry disappears behind an island. Large dark clouds accumulate over the land and the wind picks up. The rusty semaphore tower squeaks a little and an old ice-cream wrapper flies past and lands in the water below me.
I look at my watch again.
Samuel is ten minutes late, but then that isn’t unusual. Samuel is often late. Or early, but very rarely on time.
I look down at the bag between my feet.
It looks so ordinary, so quotidian and inoffensive. I would certainly not have suspected it of containing anything illegal if I’d seen someone carrying it about town.
My phone rings and I shiver, despite the heat.
It’s Stina wondering if I will be able to work tomorrow. I say that I can and we talk for a while. When I tell her that Father has passed away she comforts me and promises that she will take care of me when we see each other. I suspect this means that she is going to fill me with alcohol again, but don’t say that. Then we talk about Samuel. I hear genuine joy in her voice when I tell her I am waiting for him at Stuvskär.
‘I am so very happy for you, my friend. So very happy.’
We agree to meet up as soon as I am back in town. Stina wants to make me dinner and I promise to come, if it’s not too much trouble.
‘Nonsense,’ she exclaims. ‘You’re no trouble at all, sweetie. By the way, how did things go with that sanctimonious pastor? Has he left you alone?’
I tell her what happened when we were about to leave for that hike, how the pastor ordered me to come with and how I told him he could think again.
Stina wheezes with laughter and seems to drop her phone on the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ she snorts when she has got hold of it again. ‘Did you say that? In front of the kids? That’s the funniest thing I have heard in a long time. You’ll have to tell me more when you come over for dinner. And then I’ll make sure to complain to you. It’ll be my turn. I always meet the wrong men, have I told you that?’
I laugh and say no, she hasn’t told me that. Then we hang up.
I don’t tell her about the bag of money. I am far too ashamed.
The minutes pass, minutes become an hour. The sky gets even darker and I can hear thunder in the distance. Deep rumbling rolling across the islands like a giant rock.
I look out across the sea. I look out onto the land.
I check my phone every ten minutes.
I go up to the harbour pub and peer in through the unwashed windows. I go into the supermarket and buy the cheapest thing I can find – a ridiculously expensive carton of organic coconut water.
But still no Samuel.
Heavy rain begins to fall.
In the end I leave the dock and begin to walk aimlessly along the small gravel road along the water. I pass red cabins and small inlets where the water rests black and placid under the heavy clouds. The rain gathers force and I look around for some kind of shelter.
Next to a jetty, maybe thirty yards away there is a small boathouse. The roof extends beyond the door.
I jog over to the dilapidated wooden structure and press against the door.
I can hear the rain patter on the roof above me. The thunder rumbles and lightning is near constant. My dress is wet and cold and my hair hangs in wet strands down my back, but all I can think about is that my child is missing again. And suddenly I am seized by a completely irrational, yet entirely convincing sense that he is in danger.
That something terrible has happened.
Samuel
I
gor is over me.
I am flat on my belly with my hands locked in an iron grip behind my back.
Strong arms lift me up and slam me against the floor.
Lift me up. Slam me.
Over and over, as if I were a rag doll or perhaps a coconut that he is trying to crack open.
I feel something in my face break; my nose crunches as he once again throws my head to the floor. Seconds later my mouth fills up with blood.
Igor’s hold is so hard that I can barely breathe. All I can manage is to inhale teeny, tiny gasps.
Then he sits on me. A knee presses into my lower back. The grip on my hands becomes even harder and a sharp pain radiates through my already numb arms.
He leans over me and whispers in my ear.
‘Fucking. Bastard. Damn. Cunt.’
Spit splashes across my cheek.
I can’t answer, can’t move. I can’t breathe, but I can still detect his smell; a predator’s acrid scent of sweat and rage.
And in the midst of all the chaos it is as if some part of my brain is still able to analyse the situation. Calculate the likelihood that he will crush my head against the floor or break my arms. Weigh my options with astonishing precision.
And that part of my brain dryly establishes that I am toast. That I stand no chance in hell against Igor. That he will mash me like an overripe banana.
I should be panicking. Perhaps I should be praying. But all I can do is think of her.
Mum.
‘You thought you could get one over on me? You’re going to die, do you understand?’
The words are more distant now, as if I am thinking them or maybe remembering them rather than hearing them.
‘Your mum led me here. Isn’t that comical? She . . .’
Igor’s voice fades away and all that exists is the red-hot pain that pulsates through me in waves. As if I am drowning in a sea of pain.
Then everything is white and quiet.
The pain fades away and I can feel her presence. Know that she is standing there next to me, that she will not let me die. She places her cool hand on my forehead.
‘Samuel.’
Her voice is a whisper, but it contains so much love.
‘Samuel, how are you? Please, tell me that you are OK!’
The pain returns to my arm, my nose begins to throb and the world around me regains solid outlines. I recognise the shiny wooden floorboards against my cheek and become aware of the weight on my back.
She gives my shoulder a light shake.
‘Samuel!’
I open an eye.
It’s not Mum, it’s Rachel.
And then I see the blood. It’s oozing across the floor like a fucking lake. Covers almost the entire hallway.
I scream even though I suspect that I am dead. Surely nobody can bleed this much and live?
Rachel puffs and groans and a few seconds later the weight on my back is gone. The relief is immediate – I feel almost as if I am floating above the floor.
I manage to get up into a squat and look around. Slip on the blood and almost fall.
Igor is lying on his back on the floor next to me.
His arms have fallen out to the sides; his mouth is open, his eyes too and there is a gaping red hole in his temple. It looks like a predator took a large bite out of his head.
I look at Rachel.
She is standing next to Igor. On the floor beside her is a doorstop in the shape of a lamb.
It is covered in blood.
Rachel is distraught.
Tears stream down her cheeks and snot hangs in long strands from her nose.
‘I. Didn’t. Mean. To. Kill. Him.’
I can barely make out the words between her sobs as we move into the kitchen. I turn the tap off and wipe myself on the linen tea towel, but my hands are shaking so badly I drop it on the floor.
‘He’s deeaaad,’ Rachel groans and begins to walk back and forth in the kitchen. She leaves sticky red footprints in her wake.
