Babylon (25 page)
Seja could feel the weakness in her voice; she didn’t know how she got the words out.
‘But you’ve just denied Markus any contact with his father. And instead you’re turning to strangers to give you a break.’
‘It’s called a
contact family
.’ Once again, Hanna’s articulation was exaggerated. ‘A lot of single parents have one. It is a right within our society, if you need it. I have no intention of being ashamed of the fact that . . . You don’t have any children, Seja. I just don’t understand how you can . . .’
She fell silent, and Seja shook her head disconsolately. ‘I really don’t mean to judge you,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘I just think it’s such a shame. Such a waste for you to be hanging around at home thinking you can’t cope. When you could be doing anything. You used to have dreams about what you wanted to do, back in the old days. I mean, this business of stress; studying or working isn’t just stressful and hard work, it’s good fun too! It’s inspiring, it allows you to develop.’
Hanna pulled on her trainers and pushed her towel and swimsuit into her rucksack. Then she dropped the bag between her feet.
‘Yes, I had dreams. Some came true, and some didn’t, same as everyone. And one of those dreams was that I wanted children.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
Seja suddenly realised that she was close to tears: fury and tears because every single thing she said was coming out wrong.
‘I absolutely agree that you’re a brilliant mum to Markus, but that’s nothing to do with any of this. You can be a good mum and do loads of other things at the same time. Lots of parents manage it. And so do lots of single parents.’
Hanna closed her eyes.
‘I really don’t know why we’re having this conversation.’
She pointed at Seja without saying anything else; Seja took the hint and quickly pulled on her clothes over her swimming costume as tears of frustration scalded the inside of her eyelids.
‘You’re taking everything I say the wrong way,’ she said quietly when she was dressed, her wet costume making her breasts and stomach itch.
Hanna didn’t answer, she simply turned away and set off.
Gothenburg
Michael Gonzales put his feet on the edge of his desk and pushed off, rolling his chair the short distance to the other side of the room. There was a bottle of tepid mineral water on the bookshelf, but nothing to open it with. He rested the cap on the corner of the desk and pulled down sharply. It left a little mark.
Tell was in Copenhagen; he’d virtually got home and set off again straight away. Paperwork was piling up. Gonzales and Karlberg had interviewed everyone who had any connection with the archaeology department: students, tutors, researchers. The majority appeared to know nothing, while others looked at them knowingly and told them what they already knew: that Henrik and Ann-Marie had been having an affair. That fact was shared in a half-whisper, mainly by other students. The small number of Ann-Marie’s colleagues who knew what had been going on shook their erudite heads. They couldn’t understand why Karpov had embarked on a relationship with a student, and one on the foundation course at that. She was well respected; they had thought she was above that sort of behaviour.
At first Gonzales had been excited by the idea of peeking into the rarefied world of Olof Wijks gata, of charting the illicit relationships struck up behind its stone walls. But now he was tired of hearing the same thing over and over again. Some knew Henrik Samuelsson as a charming, intense, perhaps slightly arrogant know-it-all who liked getting into theoretical debates. Many thought he was inoffensive. The words
charming
and
committed
came easily to those who liked him. Gonzales found the workings of the female mind incomprehensible: on paper Henrik was a loser who could barely support himself. And yet he had obviously been popular with the ladies.
No one had a word to say against Ann-Marie. She was an expert in her field, inspiring, modest, blah blah.
Gonzales sighed. He flicked aimlessly through the reports, stopping at the transcript of Karlberg’s interview with Marie Hjalmarsson. She had mentioned someone called Annelie Swerin, who had also been in Istanbul. Hjalmarsson had reluctantly talked about conflict within the group. Was it worth taking a closer look? According to the report, Swerin was working on a dig in India, but perhaps she was back now.
He checked the telephone lists and keyed in Swerin’s number. Just as he put the receiver down, having gone through to voicemail, his phone rang.
‘Gonzales speaking.’
‘Gonzales? I asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Christian Tell. I’m afraid I’ve misplaced his number.’
Was it another Dane? Gonzales’s mood lifted. ‘DI Tell isn’t here; can I help you?’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘What is your name, and what’s it about?’
‘Forgive me. My name is Alexandr Karpov and I work at the Archaeological Institute in Copenhagen. I’d like to arrange a meeting with Inspector Tell . . .’
‘I’m working on the same investigation,’ said Gonzales, turning to a clean page in his notepad. ‘If there’s something you’d like to tell me I can pass it on. But I think Inspector Tell is actually in Copenhagen as we speak.’
‘Yes. But I’m at a seminar in London, at least for the next few hours.’
Karpov seemed to hesitate. ‘Christian Tell spoke to me about my wife. My ex-wife Ann-Marie. And he talked about—’
‘I’m aware that he spoke to you.’
‘. . . about specific artefacts on the Red List.’ Karpov took a deep breath and exhaled as he spoke. ‘I think I’ll have to call back.’
‘Please tell me what this is about.’
‘No. For personal reasons I would prefer to speak to Christian Tell face to face. But I can tell you that I know the murdered man, Henrik Samuelsson, had in his possession a stolen item which is probably extremely valuable. And . . .’ Karpov took another deep breath. ‘And I know who knew he had it.’
‘And how did you know that?’ Gonzales pressed the receiver to his ear. ‘Hello?’
‘Because I was the one who told them. I told Knud Iversen and Dorte Sørbækk. My assistants.’
Gonzales went over the conversation with Karpov in his head. He took out his notes from their recent briefings.
For some time Tell had been convinced of a missing link. Antiques. Danes. These apparently odd coincidences.
Gonzales stared in bewilderment at the paper in front of him. Sørbækk. Iversen.
He tried Tell’s mobile. Even if Tell were mid-interview, he would prefer to hear the latest news, especially as he was in Copenhagen and could perhaps act on the information.
The person you are calling is not available
.
What people like Mads Torsen and possibly Rick Pedersen had to do with this . . . gang of academic archaeologists was still a mystery to Gonzales. Tell was right, there was a missing link. Could Karpov’s assistants be that link?
Gonzales spent half an hour ringing around Copenhagen police stations without understanding a fraction of what the receptionists said. The only thing he had grasped was that they couldn’t help him to find a visitor, irrespective of whether this visitor was a detective inspector, and no matter how important the message might be.
Gonzales made an instant decision.
Copenhagen
Pedersen hadn’t been in the tiny room for long. He was still furious, a frame of mind at odds with his fey appearance. He was slightly built, with downy blonde hair. He wore a shabby suit several sizes too big, which made him look pathetic, like a little boy wearing daddy’s suit
for his first night out. His shoes also looked too big; they were brown and scruffy and didn’t match the black suit. And then there were his white sports socks, which poked out every time he crossed his legs. His face was pale, narrow and pointed, with almost no sign of stubble.
His eyes were the only thing that gave him away; they were penetrating in their milky-blue intensity. Dark rings formed craters around them.
‘He’ll be a nasty piece of work in a few years – just look at those eyes,’ Tell said to Dragsted as they stood watching Pedersen through the glass.
‘You’re right there. He’s one to watch. His sister’s a bloody mess as well. But nicer. That one . . .’ He waved in the direction of Pedersen, who was now rocking back and forth. ‘You don’t know where you are with that one. Twenty-two years old, and on his way up.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Barely. But he knows what this is about. You can see that. He’s scared.’
Enrique Pedersen grinned. He was trying to play the big man, but had ended up looking even more desperate. His eyes flitted constantly between Tell and Dragsted.
‘This is Detective Inspector Tell. He’s come over from Gothenburg, as I said.’
‘I’m a Danish citizen. He has no right to question me . . .’
‘No, but I do,’ Dragsted snapped. ‘I’m the one questioning you. Inspector Tell will merely sit in on the interview, since we have discovered that you and Mads Torsen broke into a house in Gothenburg. There’s no point denying it.’
Tell nodded in agreement, even though Dragsted was stretching the truth.
‘However,’ Tell went on quickly when it looked as if Pedersen was about to protest. ‘You might be able to help us if you just listen. The thing is, we know we’re looking at something much bigger than a little break-in. I wouldn’t have come all this way to hear about a little break-in, as I’m sure you’re well aware.’
Pedersen had pricked up his ears. He was tugging down his sleeves, which were already too long, presumably to hide the track marks on the back of his hand.
‘So. We know that you’re mixed up in this. The question is: do you know what you’re mixed up in? Are you just an errand boy, or were you in on it from the start?’
Pedersen snorted, but continued to glare at the floor.
‘How much money were you promised? How much did you and Torsen get for shooting Henrik Samuelsson and Ann-Marie Karpov?’
Pedersen looked up, obviously confused. ‘Shooting? I didn’t . . . I haven’t fucking shot anybody, I—’
‘Yes?’
‘I . . . I don’t know about any shooting.’
Tell shrugged. ‘You’re the best lead we have in the case of a double murder in Gothenburg. A dozen clues lead straight to you and Torsen, via stolen goods worth . . . Well, it’s impossible to say. Millions, perhaps. Do you know how much they’re worth?’
‘What the fuck? I don’t know a fucking thing.’
‘Was it you who beat up Torsen before he died? He was found dead and he’d been badly beaten; you were the last person to see him alive. We can prove that.’
‘For fuck’s sake, I didn’t kill Torsen! If you go around saying that, I’ll be dead in two days!’
‘I’m a police officer. I don’t spread gossip among junkies.’
Pedersen pressed his hands against his bony knees, frantically shaking his head.
‘I hit him. I was furious, I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. I mean, the stuff was supposed to be in the house, loads of it. He must have taken it all himself! When I realised he was going to sell it, I . . . but I didn’t kill him. I suppose he must have OD’d, he wasn’t taking decent stuff, and there was something wrong with him. I didn’t take the same stuff, because—’
‘The same heroin?’
‘Yes, but I took—’
‘So you admit you were in Gothenburg with Torsen at the time of his death? It would be better for you if you did. We have several witnesses who can testify that you attacked him in a public place in Gothenburg. We have also taken his fingerprints from the house in which the burglary took place, and we know that he was not alone. What you need to tell us now is who was behind this.’
‘OK, yes. For fuck’s sake! I went to Gothenburg with Torsen. It was just a job and we were supposed to look for some fucking . . . ornaments and stuff, I’d only seen a picture of them. Old things and gold. Cash in hand, and I don’t know any more because Torsen wouldn’t tell me a fucking thing.’
‘Sure.’
‘I didn’t fucking shoot anyone, I didn’t shoot this Samuelsson and I definitely didn’t . . .’
His voice cracked and he swallowed before going on. ‘I didn’t kill Torsen. He took a fucking overdose. That’s all I can tell you.’
In the cafeteria Dragsted introduced Tell to some of his colleagues. Tell was distracted and not in the mood for small talk.
‘Could you possibly find me a computer? I’d like to check my messages.’
Dragsted showed him to a computer and helped him to log in.
Dragsted had treated Enrique Pedersen like a hardened criminal. But his shell had buckled under a small amount of pressure; just below the surface he had seemed shocked and desperate. Scared. As if he had been lured into something on a false premise, only to discover too late that . . . what? That shooting Samuelsson and Karpov was part of the deal?
If Samuelsson had indeed been in possession of extremely valuable artefacts, for reasons unknown, this might well have been the motive for the break-in. But the murders? Why not just take the stuff, go home, sell it on the black market and earn a bit of cash? After all, that must have been the idea from the start. Why go to the trouble of tracking down Samuelsson at Karpov’s apartment and killing them both? Why take the risk? It was illogical. Tell contemplated the alternatives. Either one line of enquiry had nothing to do with the other or Henrik Samuelsson had some other link to Mads Torsen. Perhaps Torsen had got angry with Henrik and decided to put him out of action. Were they in on the same scam? Were they in a smuggling ring?
Tell switched on his phone and rang Gonzales for an update. He was surprised to find that his colleague was in the same building.
Stenared
Seja was puzzled, but Christian’s message had given her a boost nonetheless. She had gathered quite a lot of information on the illegal trade in artefacts of cultural importance. Whether this might lead to an article was as yet unclear, but if Christian could make use of what she had found out, that was fine by her.
She suspected the question might also have had a subtext: they should let bygones be bygones. He trusted her judgement. When she had written about the infamous Granith case eighteen months earlier, Christian had suggested that she had gone behind his back and exploited him after they’d got together.