Babylon (20 page)
‘I wish I could have stopped him.’
Suleyman pursed his lips, shushing Henrik. ‘You’ve got a bloody nose. I’m sure you did what you could. Please sit down, both of you.’
The tea glass was almost unbearably hot in spite of the starched serviette wound around its base.
‘I also wish you could have stopped him, of course. But I am wondering about the figures – you saw them, didn’t you, Henrik? The jewellery, the other artefacts? Perhaps you remember certain things about them?’
Henrik nodded, raising the glass to his mouth. His tongue was quickly scalded into numbness. He felt as though he would never be capable of speech again.
‘Good. In that case I am wondering whether you have heard of The Red List, Henrik?’
Henrik didn’t reply, his mouth still paralysed.
‘Naturally you know what I am talking about, Ann-Marie. Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain to Henrik?’
Ann-Marie Karpov nodded and stood up.
Gothenburg
‘Isn’t there a psychological term for that, Beckman?’ Karlberg joked. ‘It affects burnt-out detectives. The classic symptom is seeing connections everywhere. A double murder in academic circles somehow relates to one drugged-up tourist having a go at another out on the street.’
A telephone was ringing persistently somewhere down the corridor. Tell tipped his chair back and slammed the door.
A pile of coloured copies of a photograph Beckman had brought along to the last briefing was lying in the middle of the table. He grabbed one and held it up.
‘Listen to me. You know Beckman went round to Rebecca Nykvist’s the other day, with nothing particular in mind, just to get a feeling for Henrik’s secrets. An excellent idea, by the way. She was looking for something, anything, that we might have missed. She found a porn film under a mattress – not very exciting – and this photograph of a
clay figure and a necklace. An amateur photo that Henrik may or may not have been trying to hide. She has shown a copy not only to the archaeology department at the university, but also to the staff at an antique shop who made a call to the police the day before yesterday. Over to you, Beckman.’
‘Holmström’s Antiques is a shop not far from the cathedral. They had a Danish customer in the day before yesterday. Apparently it was all very odd. He seemed to be drunk, or under the influence of something else, he looked like a junkie. He wanted an object valued, the atmosphere got a bit strange and he took off. The thing is, just after he left the shop, he was attacked in a doorway just around the corner. All hell breaks loose and a girl comes running into the shop to ask the antiques dealer to call the police.’
‘A Dane who wanted something valued?’ Gonzales said. ‘Give me a break . . . are we supposed to start looking at everybody who’s interested in antiques now? Because if so, the whole of the archaeology department has to be under suspicion . . .’
‘The whole of the archaeology department
is
under suspicion, Gonzales, since it’s our primary link between the victims,’ Tell pointed out.
‘Well yes, but there could be hundreds of other links. Henrik Samuelsson and Ann-Marie Karpov were having a relationship. They might have had mutual friends. And their relationship seems to have aroused interest, people were talking about it. What about her ex-husband? He has an obvious motive if anyone does. And no alibi whatsoever, as I understand it.’
‘I haven’t finished,’ said Beckman. ‘This Danish guy was knocked out. The owner of Holmström’s Antiques, the person who rang in, found the man’s driving licence in his jacket pocket, but when they tried to put him in the recovery position while they were waiting for the ambulance, he came round and went crazy. He punched the antiques dealer and took off.’
‘He did a runner?’
‘He did a runner.’
‘But we’ve got ID? And what about the attacker?’
‘No. Unfortunately the witness who ran into the shop gave a description that could fit any number of people; she was afraid to get too close. But we might be able to use her later for identification, if we bring someone in.’
‘But there must be several witnesses if this happened in town in the middle of the day,’ Karlberg chipped in.
‘Let’s go back to the guy who actually
was
identified,’ said Beckman. ‘We managed to do a little bit of research on him straight away. Mads Torsen, well known to the Copenhagen police.’
‘A junkie,’ Tell took over. ‘He’s been in and out of prison for the past ten years. He was a higher class of conman in the nineties, but he ended up on heroin and has mostly stuck to burglaries ever since. He went down for robbery the last time, but came out nine months ago.’
‘Going back to where Tell started,’ Beckman went on. ‘This morning I went to the antiques shop to show them the photo, and discovered that the clay figure is almost certainly the one the Danish guy had taken in. It’s really old, apparently, and was stolen from some museum in Iraq.’
‘How could they be sure it was the same one?’ asked Karlberg.
‘It was marked in some way.’
Karlberg looked thoughtful. He tapped his biro pensively on the table.
‘OK. So we suddenly have three parallel cases. The murders in Linnégatan, the break-in at Rebecca Nykvist’s house and an attack on a Danish junkie?’
He thought for a moment, then went on: ‘I’m thinking this guy is a well-known burglar. He’s high, he gets confused and tries to get something valued that he’s been hanging on to since his last job . . .’
‘You’re still not getting it – think about where he went,’ Tell interrupted. ‘Remember, the figure matches the photo Beckman found in Henrik Samuelsson’s bedside cabinet. Look at the background: this figure had been in Henrik’s home. We’re talking about a unique object here. And don’t forget: the Danish guy could have gone to any pawn shop, but he goes to Holmström’s Antiques.’
‘And a guy like that knows about that kind of thing?’
‘He knew the object was old and valuable. He wanted to find out
how
valuable. And he probably wanted to get rid of it.’
‘And how valuable is it?’
‘It’s valuable in many different respects. It’s an artefact, after all.’
Beckman leant back in her chair with an amused expression as Gonzales put his hand up.
Tell sighed. ‘Yes, Gonzales? We’re not still at school, you know.’
‘Thanks. This Mads Torsen. Where is he now?’
‘If I knew that I would have told you. We’re looking for him; both Gothenburg and Copenhagen are working on it’
‘But it gets even odder,’ Beckman continued. ‘We were alerted to the incident at Holmström’s Antiques by one Tom Svensén, a tutor in the archaeology department. He reacted when I showed him the photograph. He knew the figure, because he and Evert Holmström are part of some kind of body involved in the protection of cultural treasures.’
‘And Svensén did well to work it out,’ said Tell. ‘But what’s our next move, apart from trying to identify the lad who beat up Mads Torsen – can you keep an eye on that, Beckman? What do the rest of you think? He’s been in Gothenburg, so we need to start looking for clues. We also need to look for the figure – where’s that gone? Where’s Mads Torsen been? – we’re checking all known addresses. There was a receipt in his wallet from a tobacconist’s in Angered. Speak to the drugs squad and see if they know anything about what’s been going on in the dodgy parts of Angered. We’ll start with that. To be on the safe side we’ll check rooms as well – cheap hotel rooms, hostels. Hospitals too, since he’d been beaten up. I’ll contact the Danish police to see if I can get a bit more information, and I’ll send the picture of the figure to Alexandr Karpov. According to Svensén, he’s one of the few experts on this particular type of artefact. We’ll see what he has to say.’
‘Sorry if I’m being a bit slow here,’ Bärneflod said. ‘But . . . are you thinking that Mads Torsen, this junkie, is the one who murdered Henrik and Ann-Marie and broke into Rebecca’s house?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that we have a number of leads that need to be followed up.’
Gonzales stuck his index finger in the air once more. Tell waved it away.
‘Yes, we are going to check the fingerprints from Linnégatan and Kungsladugården against Danish records.’
Gonzales stood up. ‘Are we done, guv? Only I’ve got someone waiting for me downstairs.’
Tell nodded and gathered up his papers. ‘Yes, I reckon we’re done.’
Gonzales patted Beckman and Tell affectionately on the shoulder as he passed.
‘I get the whole connection thing. It’s as clear as day.’
‘Good,’ said Tell. ‘You just keep on working.’
Gothenburg
They were sitting in the kitchen, curled up on Hanna’s day bed by the window, the city spread out before them: the hill and Masthugget Church in the foreground, the roofs below, the harbour, the outline of cranes, all set against a darkening late spring sky. Seja hadn’t intended to stay so long. She had a morning shift at the care home and would have to set her alarm for six-thirty when she got home.
The thought of the car parked not far away was comforting; she wouldn’t have to worry about catching the last bus out to Stenared. She was grateful; she was starting to feel tired, her limbs and thoughts slow and heavy.
‘I saw Sally the other day at one of those family events at the House of Music,’ Hanna said. ‘You know the kind of thing,
drum your way to Africa
, the kids get to borrow instruments and the parents pretend to let it all hang out and dance . . . Remember Sally, from Year Nine?’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, she was telling me about her house in Långedrag and her husband who runs a building company; these days, when I see faces from the past I always feel so . . . immature. Like the eternal teenager, with my little apartment in Masthugget and no plan and no . . . savings. The idea that I could speculate in stocks and shares feels absurd.’
‘Why are you thinking about savings?’
Hanna gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Well, I don’t have any. Everyone tells me I ought to have at least one savings account. Give myself a safety net.’
‘I don’t have any savings either. Then again, I haven’t really got much in the way of an income, or of outgoings. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve started to live outside society since I moved to Stenared. As if the pressure to be part of it all has eased.’
‘And what do you do instead? Instead of being part of it all?’
‘Kick back!’ Seja laughed and took a sip of her tea, which was getting cold. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’ve missed out on something too. Those years when everybody else was becoming so responsible. I was studying drama and women’s history and hanging out in the pub while others were getting ahead with their careers and saving up to buy a place of their own. At least you’re a mum. I haven’t got round to that either.’
‘I should think that’s the least of your problems. I mean, you have a man and everything.’
Seja hoped her expression didn’t reveal what she was thinking, and quickly returned to the topic of conversation that had occupied most of the evening.
‘So doesn’t Markus want to know more about his dad?’
‘No. Yes. Sort of. The thing is, I try to remember that I need to look at it from Markus’ point of view – Peter hasn’t been around for five years. For the whole of Markus’s life he’s been absent, uninterested. And now, all of a sudden, he pops up like a jack-in-the-box, wanting joint custody and insisting that Markus should spend half his time with him, talking about rights and . . . Oh, just thinking about it drives me crazy!’
Hanna pretended to tear at her hair. ‘Markus doesn’t even know him, for God’s sake!’
‘Was Peter around even at the beginning?’
Hanna let her hands drop to her lap again. ‘No. We weren’t together, we only did it once and I got pregnant. I rang and told him a few weeks later. He just said it was my choice, but that he had neither the time nor the inclination to be a father. He’s spent a fair amount of time abroad since then.’
‘But now he’s come home?’
‘It would seem so.’
The bedroom floor creaked as small bare feet moved across the parquet.
Seja leant on the window ledge, resting her chin on her hand. Outside, the silhouettes of the city were fading. She couldn’t help thinking about what Hanna had said – that she had a man. Sometimes she still caught herself blushing at the thought of Christian, at the idea that they belonged together, in spite of the fact that they had been
together for over a year now. It was as though she expected to be punished as soon as she took things for granted.
Across the hallway, Hanna slowly closed the bedroom door, pulling a face as it squeaked.
‘Did he go back to sleep?’
‘Mm. He’s got a temperature. I hope it’s not his ears again, I don’t fancy spending tomorrow in a waiting room.’
‘Speaking of tomorrow, I’d better go. My shift starts at half past seven.’
‘Are you still at the care home?’
‘Yes. It’s OK. I get time to read, especially when I’m on nights. And I need the money.’
Hanna opened the window and lit a cigarette. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘What question?’
‘About you and Christian. About kids and . . . your plans.’
‘I didn’t realise it was a question.’ Seja smiled. The fact that they had revived their friendship as adults after a ten-year pause was largely due to Hanna’s insatiable curiosity. Seja had contacted Hanna – her former best friend – eighteen months previously, when it became clear that she had witnessed, as a teenager, events linked to one of Christian’s more famous cases.
She hadn’t expected Hanna to get so involved. Together they had opened a window on the past and picked up their friendship where it had broken off, without diminishing the significance of the years that had elapsed in between. Seja would probably never really know where the darkness in Hanna came from; perhaps it had been there all along. That was the way it was: you only ever knew what other people wanted you to know.
Her thoughts drifted back to Copenhagen.
‘This is as good as it gets,’ Christian had said as she lay in his arms after making love in their hotel room. And she knew perfectly well that he was talking about the moment: the good food, their stroll, the conversation, the closeness. And yet she had felt a pang. It was a perverse, crazy reaction, but she wished he hadn’t said it.
This is as good as it gets
. As if he didn’t want anything more from her. From them. As if he didn’t want their relationship to develop.