Babylon (17 page)

It was a familiar sensation, he realised now. When he had found Seja’s things in his chest of drawers, he had felt happy because she still wanted him, in spite of his unreasonable behaviour and bad habits and the fact that he was often vile first thing in the morning. But another feeling had been lurking just below the surface: the feeling that he needed an escape route. He had felt an uncomfortable pang last Christmas when she had started talking about their summer holiday.

Several other situations came to mind now. Just a couple of weeks ago he had arrived home to find her friend Hanna in his kitchen, with her wild gestures, wine-stained teeth and long purple nails. Hanna was only supposed to be calling round to pick Seja up, but instead she
had stayed there with her wine box and her chatter and her cigarette stubs. He had felt trapped and had withdrawn to the living room.
If there’s no escape route, I’ll kick my way out
.

If you had kids, you nailed every escape route shut.

He set off towards Rådhuspladsen and the hotel; it was far too early to go back, but he had no idea what else to do. He couldn’t see Seja anywhere, nor was it likely that she would return to the spot where they had parted company. Because she was too proud. She was just as proud as he was.

But then he was overcome by a wave of tenderness when he thought of her patience, the way she was always battling with her pride. Of the strength of character it took to be with someone who always made things difficult, always having to compromise her own needs and desires. And yet she still managed to stick to her guns. Seja never went for the easy option. That was why she lived in her little cottage in the forest, with her horse and her cat.

He laughed out loud. A woman in front of him turned around and smiled.

His sudden change of heart made Seja reappear. She was sitting on the far side of a church he didn’t know the name of, at a pavement café. She had switched on the palmtop she always carried and was absorbed in the screen. She had a steaming cup of something in front of her, a cappuccino perhaps, and a frothy little moustache on her upper lip.

He was close enough to see the moustache. And the Danish pastry; she took a bite, then crumbled a piece under the table for the pigeons.

That’s what she looks like when I’m not with her, that’s Seja when she doesn’t know I’m looking at her
. He hadn’t the faintest idea why this felt significant.

He sat down at the edge of the steps leading up to the church door. He didn’t want the moment to end.

She stretched her back without taking her eyes off the screen. Lifted the hair from the nape of her neck, as she usually did in the heat. She had small, dark patches of sweat under her arms; she screwed up her eyes as she looked into the last glimmers of the evening sun, then put on her sunglasses. When she turned her face towards him he couldn’t work out whether she was looking at him or not. Not until her expression lightened and she sang, just loudly enough for him to pick up
Stefan Sundström’s classic:
It was almost like an advert, la la la la . . . Like some handsome stranger, but the same
. . .

He smiled back and felt overcome by warmth. He got up and walked slowly to her table.

When he leant over her, the pigeons took off with a cacophony of flapping wings.

‘Shall we go back to the hotel?’ he whispered against her mouth.

When she shook her head, his rough cheek gently scratched her face. ‘The night is young. In fact, it’s only just begun.’

23

Gothenburg

It wasn’t going to be a pleasurable visit. Even Beckman had moments when she was tempted to apologise for the job she had to do. When Rebecca opened the red door, her expression couldn’t have made her thoughts any clearer.

‘Haven’t you people done enough?’

‘Well, you could say that.’

‘I really don’t have time for this.’

‘No?’

‘I’m working from home today, I’ve got loads to do.’

Beckman cleared her throat. The fact that Rebecca Nykvist had been taken into custody and subsequently released gave her the upper hand, and she was making the most of this. Or perhaps she really was busy. Beckman was surprised that she hadn’t signed herself off work, but perhaps she needed to work to keep her anguish at bay.

It was as if Rebecca had read her mind: ‘It feels better if I keep going. I’ll go crazy if I’m just pottering around the house.’

It was a start. Self-awareness? Beckman asked if Rebecca would prefer her to come back some other time. There was no reason to engage in an unnecessary trial of strength. In any case, she wasn’t really sure what she was looking for.

‘I don’t really need you,’ she said. ‘If you want to carry on working, I can look around on my own.’

Rebecca peered distrustfully at Beckman and the officer standing behind her on the steps.

‘Isn’t spying on me 24/7 enough for you people? You mean you want to poke around the house as well? I thought you’d already searched the place?’

‘I’ll be looking around on my own. My colleague will wait outside. Or in the hallway.’ Beckman was getting tired of standing on the steps. ‘Unfortunately, looking around is part of the process in a murder investigation. And I’m not searching for anything in particular. I just want to take a look around.’

Rebecca stepped aside. ‘I’ll be in my study. But if you take anything away – evidence or whatever you call it – I want to be informed.’

‘Of course.’

Beckman removed her shoes. The hallway was still in disarray. Perhaps Rebecca was depressed. Beckman knew that she saw a psychologist on a regular basis, which was reassuring. However, as Rebecca pointedly disappeared into the room beyond the kitchen, Beckman couldn’t help remembering that she had abused her ex-boyfriend and threatened to kill him. Several times.

She went upstairs and stood on the landing, contemplating her non-existent plan. She heard the floor creak downstairs, then silence. No doubt Rebecca was listening to her every move.

She was searching for Henrik’s secrets, because Henrik had definitely had secrets. This was true of most people who were murdered without an obvious reason.

There were two alternatives: firstly, that Rebecca knew about these secrets and was lying. Beckman was in no doubt that she was a skilful liar, that wasn’t the issue. And yet she was leaning towards the other option: that Rebecca’s confusion under interrogation had been genuine; that she knew nothing about her partner’s secret life. Or was she afraid? Perhaps. She had a good poker face.

Beckman thought for a while. Where would Henrik hide things he didn’t want Rebecca to find? Was the study his private space? No. Henrik would choose a much better hiding place than that.

She went into the bedroom. There was a cabinet on either side of the double bed; the one on the right had obviously been Henrik’s.
The
Land of Ur
could well have been on his reading list, even if it looked old. As she flicked through it, a bookmark fell out. She put it back between the pages. She looked at the next book: Åke Jönsson’s
Football – the Development of the Greatest Sport in the World
. So Henrik had been a football fan.

Camorra – the Mafia in Naples
. Beckman had heard of that. Tomas Lappalainen. She read the back cover before opening the first page and scanning a couple of paragraphs.

A clattering sound from downstairs made her put the book back; there was nothing else in the dark recesses of the cupboard apart from a half-empty packet of painkillers. It sounded as if Rebecca were rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. Beckman went through the storage space under the bed and the little room leading off the bedroom, her eyes stinging in the dust as she rooted among things that had been packed away long ago. Under the mattress of the spare bed she found a DVD in a blank case. Deciding that someone could have hidden it there deliberately, she took it with her.

The musty smell of the wardrobes made her feel ill. Her back creaked as she stood up. Perhaps this was a waste of time. She had to assume the burglars had found whatever they were looking for; they had certainly been thorough. Signs of their activities were everywhere, but she could also see traces of the police search. She wondered how long Rebecca would wait before sorting out Henrik’s possessions, his clothes, his books. The smells, the immediate reminders. People handled that kind of thing differently. Beckman had always imagined it would be easier if memories didn’t confront you everywhere you looked. But then what did she know?

There was no light in the loft, just two small windows at each end casting a small amount of daylight across the wooden floor. Beckman considered going out to the car to fetch her flashlight, or asking Rebecca if she could borrow a torch, but decided against it.

She was on her way down the stairs when a sudden thought sent her back to the bedroom. She picked up
The Land of Ur
and turned it upside down. The bookmark – or had the picture in fact been hidden between the pages? – was a photograph of a necklace and a clay statuette, perhaps in the form of a person. It was difficult to tell how big it might be in real life. The photograph was amateur and, judging
by the things just visible in the background, it had probably been taken in that very room.

There was nothing written on the back. Tell had called to tell her about his conversation with Karpov, and the man’s ill-timed lecture on ancient artefacts. Something was niggling at the back of her mind.

When Beckman walked into the kitchen, Rebecca was on the phone. She waited by the sink, close to the door of the study, which was ajar.

‘. . . it has to go. The new system has already been installed . . . Yes, I can hold. Thank you.’

Beckman hadn’t heard Rebecca’s formal voice before; presumably that was how she addressed her colleagues. Her professional voice. Her private voice was more defensive. Tense, reserved and ready to attack.

This was how Beckman usually walked into people’s lives: straight into their grief, their vulnerability, their fear. No introductions, no getting-to-know-you. In that way it was a peculiar job. In many ways it was a peculiar job.

It sounded as if Rebecca was talking to a workman.

‘I just want it dismantled. No, you’ll need metal-cutting equipment. That’s right, in the cellar. There’s a door at the back and it’s three steps below ground level.’

Beckman moved so that Rebecca could see her; Rebecca mimed that she would be another minute, then spun the chair around so that she had her back to Beckman.

‘When was the boiler made? I have no idea. Does it matter?’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’ll check and call you back.’ She slammed the phone down. As she spun around to face Beckman she looked tired, with dark shadows forming hollows under her eyes.

‘The boiler’s bust. I bet it wasn’t half as much trouble having it installed as getting rid of it appears to be.’

Beckman made appropriately sympathetic noises. She knew nothing about boilers, but was surprised by Rebecca’s friendly tone of voice. This woman was certainly unstable. Was she even aware of the confusion she inspired in other people?

‘I’m taking these with me,’ Beckman said, showing her the DVD and the photograph. ‘Have you any idea what the photograph is of?’

A shadow passed over Rebecca’s face. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I suppose it might have something to do with Henrik’s course; why are you taking it?’

‘I don’t actually know,’ Beckman said honestly. ‘But you’ll get it back.’

24

Gothenburg

Torsen needed to be on his guard. He had been in pain the night before, but had taken very little medication. He had made sure he stayed awake. He needed to think, to make decisions. Stay in Gothenburg and see what happened. Await new orders from Knud. Or say sod the lot of it. Sell the figure he’d kept hidden from the lad. He deserved the money. Go back to Copenhagen and forget the whole bloody thing.

The fact that they hadn’t found ancient gold from the Middle East, as they’d been promised, was something the boy found as difficult to understand as Torsen. The lad thought they’d been conned, and he didn’t like it. His face rarely showed emotion, but suspicion and discontent had filled his narrowed eyes.

Torsen should have taken control of the situation yesterday, but it was all he could do to stay on his feet. And now he had no money. He only had enough smack for a small fix. But he needed more than that.

When day broke, he finally decided to leave the sinking ship. The lad’s purple, veiny eyelids twitched as Torsen passed the alcove in the hallway, where their rucksacks and a couple of blankets formed a temporary camp.

He went out the back way, moving as quickly as he could in the direction of the tram depot because the car belonged to the lad, and he watched over the keys like a hawk. As Torsen headed for the city centre, he was already beginning to have doubts. For the second time he broke his resolve not to contact Knud while he was in Gothenburg.

After the break-in, he had left a message out of sheer frustration. It was cryptic, but Knud would understand: only one object that matched the pictures he had been shown. Now he rang again to issue a warning.
The clay figure they had found would barely cover his costs. He had taken risks. For twenty-four hours, no more and no less, he would lie low and wait for new orders.

The number you have called is not available at present.

The cops were hanging around down by the stop at Gamlestadstorget. Two of them, leaning on their patrol cars.

His stomach turned. If they searched him, he would go down both for the break-in and for possession. He was sweating. Without arousing too much suspicion he had to dig a couple of tablets out of the nylon pouch he wore around one calf. His mouth was powder-dry, saliva a distant memory. The tablets scratched his throat as he swallowed them. The revolting taste would last for hours.

He jumped off at the central station and headed straight for Nordstan. There, he searched out a dealer he knew only by sight; it was a crazy idea and he had to pay over the odds, but Torsen had neither the time nor the energy to look further. Having spent the last of his money, he stuffed the goods in his pouch and said he’d be back in a couple of hours with more cash.