Zack Page 8

  They pass Alvik and carry on toward the airport and out-of-town shopping outlets, where people hunt for short-term happiness in the form of bargains. Then they turn into the Ulvsunda housing project. Their surroundings instantly become uglier and dirtier. Shabby buildings, high fences, cracks in the tarmac.

  “Stop here,” Zack says, pointing. “There it is.”

  Deniz pulls over to the edge of the pavement. Some thirty yards ahead of them a large concrete wall rises up, topped by spirals of barbed wire. Inside the wall they can see an old industrial building made of corrugated metal.

  “Shall we go and see if Sonny Järvinen would like to give us a guided tour of his fortress?” Zack says.

  “I bet he’s got loads of fluffy throw pillows on the sofa, and ‘Carpe diem’ written on the wall above it,” Deniz says.

  They ring on the entryphone by the rusty iron gate. A tin sign bearing the club’s logo is fastened at eye level. Two stylized bearded men with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Angular black faces against a red background.

  Zack notices for the first time that the men’s arms have grown together. The same old myth about inseparable brothers. A myth that falls apart the moment anyone gets fed up with being pushed around or decides to put their own family first.

  They ring again. No answer.

  “Time to call for reinforcements?” Deniz asks.

  “Do you think that’s necessary? We only want to talk to him, after all.”

  Zack looks along the wall. It’s about thirteen feet high. A security camera is pointing down at them, but it looks dead. Are they blind inside there?

  He thinks of Rudolf Gräns. No one is truly blind. Perhaps they don’t need cameras to feel the presence of strangers.

  But it’s so quiet. So desolate. As if every business on the entire estate has quickly shut up shop, leaving them in a ghost town.

  Zack looks at Deniz. She’s on high alert, just like him. This is when she’s at her best, he thinks.

  He really doesn’t like this silence. Waiting for backup would be the sensible option.

  Besides, it looks like Rudolf and Niklas are on their way to pick up a suspect. Maybe this is just a dead end.

  “Let’s go in,” he says, regardless.

  He puts a foot on one of the hinges of the gate and nimbly climbs up. The pain in his shoulder is almost gone now.

  The fingers of his left hand take hold of the gap between the top of the gate and the wall. He puts his other foot in a small hole in the concrete and grabs hold of the top of the wall with his hands. He tenses his muscles and heaves himself up to look through the barbed wire. Two shiny Harley-Davidsons are parked carelessly in front of the building, but he can’t see any sign of movement. Not a sound.

  The tarmacked yard is tidier than he had been expecting. A short distance away are two large charcoal grills, a long bench, some round plastic tables, and several stacks of white plastic chairs. Against the wall is a bench press. Weights of various sizes are hung on iron poles fixed to the wall.

  Close to the gate there are three-foot-high pallets of Rockwool insulation in red-and-white packs, and farther away, three feet or so from the wall, are some even taller stacks of rough timber.

  Building work under way, Zack thinks, as a dog starts to bark inside the building.

  If there’s anyone here, Zack thinks, they know something’s going on now.

  Next to the insulation there are a number of black garbage bags, some tied shut, others full to bursting with empty beer cans. There are wasps and plenty of flies buzzing round the bags.

  A smell of fermenting beer reaches his nostrils on the faint breeze, but also something else. Something rotten.

  What’s in those bags?

  His skin crawls as he imagines what might be hidden beneath the black plastic.

  Human remains.

  More dead women.

  Is that smell coming from their rotting flesh?

  The dog barks louder.

  His heart is beating violently inside his leather jacket.

  Still no sign of movement in the yard.

  Even the main building seems empty. The windows of the office block are dark, and there’s no movement behind the blinds on the upper floor.

  Zack pulls himself up and crouches on top of the wall. The barbed wire fastens in his jacket and jeans, but he manages to stand on the spiral of wire with one foot as he carefully frees himself from the sharp barbs.

  His eyes sweep the yard and buildings again.

  Then the dog falls silent.

  A trickle of sweat runs down between Zack’s shoulder blades, but nothing happens.

  He looks around one last time, then stands up, puts both feet on the barbed wire, and jumps down onto the tarmac on the other side.

  There’s a metallic rustling as the compressed barbed wire springs back into shape, but Zack lands softly and silently. He immediately runs over to the main building, resisting the urge to stop and investigate the stinking sacks. Keeping his back to the wall, he looks around before edging closer to the corner of the building. A black van is parked by a loading bay.

  There must be someone here. But where are they?

  His breathing gets faster.

  His head feels as lucid as it does after three lines of cocaine. Fear and threat make the present moment clear. People meditate for years to get this feeling, he thinks.

  He leaves the shadow of the building and walks almost silently over to the gate in the wall.

  He presses a button with a symbol of a key on it and hears the bolt in the lock click.

  The gate opens and Deniz is about to say something when her eyes fix on a point above Zack’s shoulder.

  “On the roof! Take cover!”

  The bullet hits the gate with a metallic clang. They run forward and throw themselves behind the packs of insulation. Zack shoots back, and through the thunder of guns going off and the dog barking he hears Deniz call for backup.

  There are muffled thuds as two bullets hit the insulation, and it occurs to Zack that he ought to be getting frightened. But he never gets scared in situations like this.

  Zack curses the fact that they left their bulletproof vests in the car. If the bikers have weapons of a slightly larger caliber they’ll easily be able to shoot through the insulation.

  A bullet hits one of the garbage bags with a squelch. Fragments of the black plastic are torn away, revealing a bloody piece of meat.

  Human remains?

  Another shot goes off, but the sound is different, more muted.

  A rifle.

  “Fuck. There’s at least two of them,” Zack says. “Can you see anyone?”

  “I can’t see a damn thing,” Deniz says. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  The stench from the garbage bags is unbearable now.

  Zack yells as loudly as he can:

  “We’re police officers! Put your weapons down!”

  A bullet hits the wall behind them and Zack feels his cheek burn as sharp fragments of mortar spray in all directions.

  I can’t die in this fucking dump.

  I can’t fail my promise to Mom.

  Another shot is fired and he hears Deniz scream in pain as the sound of the dog’s barking echoes across the yard.

  10

  THE ENTRANCE to the fifth of the Hötorget skyscrapers is covered from floor to ceiling with polished black marble. No one can avoid the underlying message: there’s money here.

  Niklas and Rudolf step into an elevator with shiny white walls behind its gold-colored doors. The buttons are chrome, each one surrounded by a discreet circle of blue light. A soft female voice addresses them from a hidden speaker:

  “Which floor, please?”

  “Sixteen,” Rudolf replies.

  “Sixteen,” the voice repeats, and the elevator begins to move, silently and gently.

  Rudolf and Niklas can’t help laughing.

  “Marvelous that scientists have chosen to devote their resources to
making life easier for us old folk who can’t see so well,” Rudolf says. “Bit different to Police Headquarters.”

  The reception area on the sixteenth floor has an oiled wooden floor. A few anemic tubular metal chairs are arranged in front of a white Corian reception desk. The air is pleasantly cool, neither dry nor damp, perfect for people and computers alike.

  Niklas gently guides Rudolf with one arm as they walk across the reception area.

  A young blond woman with her hair in a French twist sits behind the desk. D’Inc’s logo is lit up in large green italics on the white wall behind her.

  “How can I help you?” she asks, adjusting her black jacket. Niklas recognizes it from Maison Martin Margiela’s guest collection for H&M: his wife, Helena, bought one just like it.

  Perhaps the people here aren’t as cool as they’re trying to make out, he thinks. Or else Helena’s cooler than I thought.

  The woman’s smile is so poised and professionally polite that Niklas is reminded of the hubots, the human robots in the television series Real Humans. They aren’t that different from his neighbors out in Näsbypark.

  “We’re looking for Peter Karlson.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  The receptionist tilts her head at precisely the right angle. Her teeth are white as chalk, and perfectly straight.

  “No,” he replies.

  The woman looks at them skeptically, particularly the old man with the dated sunglasses. She looks as if she thinks everything about him is wrong. His creased, ill-fitting jacket, cheap trousers, hesitant gait. He doesn’t belong in the friction-free world she’s striving for.

  “Peter’s extremely busy, so if you haven’t made an appointment I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to help you. But perhaps I could give him a message?”

  Niklas pulls out his ID.

  “We’re police officers.”

  The woman’s hubot smile stiffens into a grimace.

  “Wait here, please. Do have a seat.”

  They’ve just had time to sit down when the receptionist comes back. Her voice is politely friendly again.

  “Would you mind waiting a few minutes? Peter just needs to finish a call. Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee in the meantime?”

  “Thanks, but no, thanks,” Rudolf replies.

  Niklas notes that she’s staring at him again as if she’s trying to reconcile herself to the fact that this handicapped old man is going to have to be on the premises for a while longer.

  Rudolf turns his face toward her, as if he can actually see her.

  “We won’t clutter the place up for long. You don’t have to worry.”

  The woman looks surprised and blinks nervously a few times. Then she excuses herself and retreats behind the reception desk.

  A frosted-glass office door opens and Peter Karlson emerges with the determined stride of someone who believes that time is money. His smart suit is dark blue, but his speckled green tie doesn’t match it, and his brown shoes look rather scuffed. His short brown hair is combed in a side parting, and his straight, dark eyebrows accentuate his blue eyes. He has thin lips, and there’s a barely perceptible dimple in his chin. He looks better than Niklas was expecting. Nothing like a deranged Neanderthal from the darkest corners of the Internet.

  “I don’t really understand how I can help you, gentlemen, but why don’t we go into my office?”

  They enter Karlson’s office and the center of Stockholm spreads out before Niklas’s eyes.

  If only Rudolf could see this.

  The black-and-white paving of Sergels Torg, the glass front of Kulturhuset, the people inside it like fish in an aquarium. The two blocks of the parliament building, the heavy bulk of the Royal Palace, and the boats on Riddarfjärden. Niklas lets his eyes roam across the famous landmarks. Skansen, Hammarbybacken, the old Tax Office skyscraper. The view goes on forever from up here.

  They sit down on white leather armchairs. Niklas skips the introductory pleasantries.

  “As part of an ongoing criminal investigation, online comments made under the pseudonym of Gustav Vasa have turned out to be of interest. Seeing as you’re the man behind that alias and the blog of the same name, we’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Karlson’s surprise at having his alias unmasked is only visible for a fraction of a second. He starts, but then his arrogant façade is back in place again and he leans back slowly in his chair.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Where you were last night, for instance.”

  “A number of witnesses can confirm that I was in Edsviken last night. It was a very pleasant party, actually. A gathering of urbane north Europeans socializing politely and exchanging experiences and thoughts about the future. The sort of party everyone likes, wouldn’t you say?”

  “How long were you there?”

  “I went home shortly after midnight.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm that’s what you did?”

  “No, I live alone. What’s this actually about?”

  “The opinions that you express on your blog . . .” Niklas begins.

  “. . . aren’t my own,” Peter Karlson interjects. “Of course not. You saw that for yourselves. ‘Gustav Vasa.’ He’s a fabricated character I sometimes play with. Like a sort of role play, you could say.”

  Peter Karlson looks at his Breitling watch.

  “I have to say, it’s rather tragic that you should harbor ridiculous suspicions that I might be involved in any sort of criminal activity.”

  “No one has suggested anything like that,” Rudolf responds calmly.

  “Really? You march in here and insinuate that something I write for my own amusement might be connected to a crime. That’s on the verge of harassment, actually. What are you investigating, anyway?”

  Rudolf leans forward and asks curiously:

  “What harm have women from Thailand ever done you?”

  “I have nothing against them at all,” Peter Karlson replies, giving an innocent shrug of his shoulders. “Nothing at all. As long as they adhere to Swedish laws and regulations, they’re welcome to live here if they want to.”

  “But on the Internet you wrote that they should be shot?” Niklas says.

  “Like I said, those are the views of a fictitious character. I allow him to be something of a polar opposite to myself.”

  “And you wrote that you paid for sex with them.”

  Peter Karlson leans closer to Niklas.

  “Haven’t you ever fantasized about shooting and killing someone? Or having sex with someone other than your wife?”

  “You like hurting women, is that right? You did carry out that rape you were reported for, didn’t you?” Niklas asks.

  Peter Karlson smiles.

  It strikes Niklas that Karlson’s face is just like his office. Highly polished, blemish free, and utterly devoid of any genuine warmth. Does he have what it takes to shoot four women and then sit here and mock two police officers? Quite possibly.

  He looks into those ice-blue eyes and sees in them a psychopath who could well believe himself capable of committing the perfect crime. Who believes he could remove all the evidence. And, from what Koltberg has said, it looks like the murderer did a pretty good job of that.

  “It was very good of you to make the sort of sacrifice that you did at the Sawatdii massage parlor,” Rudolf says gently.

  Peter Karlson looks at him with distaste.

  “Perhaps you’re a little hard of hearing. The post I wrote online was fictitious. I’ve never been to a massage parlor.”

  “Did you feel dirty afterward, or was it actually rather nice?” Rudolf goes on, taking off his sunglasses and rubbing his eyes.

  Peter Karlson’s tight lips crack into a malicious smile.

  “Now I get it. You think I’ve got something to do with those murders out in Hallonbergen. Those Thai women you found this morning. I saw it on the Dagens Nyheter website. You’re completely mad.”

  “Do y
ou still have any pistols from when you used to shoot for sport?” Niklas asks.

  Peter Karlson simply shakes his head.

  “Perhaps you think it’s more exciting to shoot live targets than boring old cutouts? Particularly if the targets are foreigners who are sucking all the money they can out of Swedish society. The sort who demand payment in full for their poorly executed services,” Rudolf says.

  “I think this meeting is over now. Let me show you out.”

  Rudolf and Niklas stand up, and Peter Karlson moves quickly to hold the door open. He mockingly offers to lead Rudolf out.

  “After all, we don’t want you knocking anything over, do we?”

  He puts his arm on Rudolf’s shoulder. Rudolf lets it stay there. Feels the weight, the warmth, feels the other man’s presence course through him.

  In his mind’s eye he can see Peter Karlson sitting on a massage table in a cramped room smelling of cheap oil. His trousers are pulled down to his ankles, and a slender hand is moving up and down as he leans his head back and groans.

  Peter Karlson calls the elevator for them and waits until they’ve stepped into it.

  “Oh yes, there was one more thing,” Rudolf says, turning around.

  “Really, what?” Peter Karlson says irritably.

  The elevator doors are closing.

  “Happy birthday.”

  11

  MORE BULLETS smash into the wall behind Zack and Deniz, but they’ve managed to move from behind the packs of Rockwool to the big stack of timber a few yards away. The planks are tightly packed, and the stack is at least three feet across. No bullets are going to get through that.

  Deniz’s face is contorted and she’s clenching her teeth tightly. She’s clutching her neck with one hand, and when she takes it away her fingers are bright red.

  “Fucking hell!” she says.

  “Let me see,” Zack says.

  He leans over and inspects the wound. A flash of memory goes through his mind. He sees another neck, another wound. A wound that means everything.

  He screws his eyes shut and forces himself back to the present. A trickle of blood has already run under Deniz’s top, making irregular stains on the fabric.