Babylon (5 page)

She slipped the radio into her pocket. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll call you.’

Granberg looked at his colleague with gratitude as she keyed in the entry code fru Stenius had given her, pushed open the heavy wooden door and disappeared into the courtyard.

Only a moment later, he was regretting the decision. They weren’t supposed to respond to calls alone; if anything happened, however unlikely that might be, it wouldn’t look good. He gritted his teeth and gathered his things before limping after Andersson, but he hadn’t even got to the doorway when he picked up her call on his radio.

Her voice sounded faint, and he could sense immediately that something was wrong.

‘We need to go in.’

He half ran the remaining few steps to the doorway. Afterwards, Andersson would describe the smell seeping out through the letterbox: the sickly smell of blood suddenly hitting her nostrils. And what she’d seen through the gap.

7

Christian Tell could just as easily have not bothered going into work. Since the department was quiet for once, and the crisis was over for now, there was no reason to sit there twiddling his thumbs. Besides, when he was at his desk there was always the risk that something would come up, a case that would swallow him whole and refuse to spit him out for days on end.

On the insistence of his girlfriend, Seja Lundberg, he had written one and a half day’s leave into his diary. Tell suspected she was keeping note of how long it had been since they’d done anything together that could be described as fun. It had been about six weeks, a period of
neglect that required a decent level of compensation, which was why he had requested a few days’ leave later in the summer.

This time they were planning a full day in the southern archipelago. The boat from Saltholmen left at twenty to two; they would sit for a while in the garden at Café Öbergska on Styrsö. Perhaps they would go for a walk. Seja would no doubt want to swim; she swam all year round in every kind of weather. That evening they would go for dinner with Tell’s former colleague, Josef Palmlöf, and his new girlfriend. Tell had started looking forward to the trip once he managed to get over his first, instinctive reluctance to break from his routine. When it came down to it, his routine consisted more or less entirely of work and the diffuse state that followed: the magical magnetic pull of the sofa in front of the TV.

He shut down his computer and glanced at the clock. He had plenty of time. Perhaps he would stroll down through Haga and buy something for Seja: absurdly expensive olive oil, gift-wrapped and placed in a rustling paper bag. Loose-leaf tea in a little retro tin from the health food shop. Almond butter face cream. Jewellery? There were endless possibilities, so many things she loved to receive but would never buy for herself.

He also wanted to make up for the previous day’s exchange of words, which had ended in strained silence, even if he didn’t really understand why.

They had been on the way home from his father’s birthday celebration. Seja’s first meeting with her future father-in-law had gone more or less as Christian had expected; she had charmed him by being sharp and funny and appearing to be perfectly relaxed, unlike his elder sister Ingrid who, true to form, fussed and tried to act as hostess when none was needed. It was unlikely that anyone apart from Christian had noticed the slight twitch at the corner of Seja’s mouth that appeared when she was nervous.

On the way home they had joked about his father’s not particularly discreet flirting with the staff. When they had almost reached Seja’s cottage, Christian had asked, on the subject of family gatherings, why she hardly ever saw her parents. If his eyes hadn’t been on the road he would no doubt have seen her body language change, her arms folding across her chest, as she glanced restlessly through the window.

‘I do see them,’ she answered curtly. ‘But not very often, that’s all.’

‘You’ve only seen them once since we got together, as far as I know.’

‘You don’t know everything.’

At which point, when he really should have withdrawn, he decided to smooth things over with a jokey remark about how she always said
he
was the one who set boundaries. Now she was the one who . . .

It had ended with Seja slinging her rucksack over her shoulder and marching down the slope towards the cottage on her own. He waited until she had crossed the footbridge and was heading up the other side. In the autumn and winter it was possible to see the house from the lay-by on the track, but yesterday she had been quickly swallowed up by the trees and was gone. He sat there sulking for a while with the engine idling, wondering if he ought to run after her and try to make amends. He decided to let things be.

They hadn’t actually discussed whether he would spend the night with her; he had just taken it for granted. And if there was one thing he had learnt in his dealings with women, it was not to take anything for granted.

When Seja rang later in the evening, it was with a casual request to bring her trainers the following day; she’d left them in his apartment. The matter was resolved.

They had been a couple since falling for each other eighteen months earlier in an unholy mess of mixed-up roles: she had been a witness in a murder inquiry, and a journalist into the bargain, while he was a police officer. He had resisted and tried to behave professionally. She had stuck it out and waited. In the end, he had given in and admitted that he was hopelessly in love. He couldn’t really claim any credit for that; he hadn’t had any choice. And it was probably this realisation that made the times when he imagined he missed his uncomplicated bachelor life both short-lived and rare: he needed her.

For reasons which completely escaped him, the feeling seemed to be mutual.

Christian Tell was dazzled by a bright light when he looked out of the window. Behind him someone tapped on the doorframe.

The figure spoke before Tell had time to blink away his sun-blindness. ‘Thinking of leaving, were you?’

Detective Inspector Bengt Bärneflod was stroking his bald head with
an unmistakable expression of
schadenfreude
as he leaned his corpulent frame against the wall.

‘Grankvist and a colleague of his came across a pretty unpleasant scene this morning. Quite strange, in fact.’

Tell took out the fresh shirt which he had been keeping in his cupboard.

‘I presume you mean Granberg.’ Tell was not indispensable and his colleagues were perfectly competent. But still, he had a sense of foreboding.

‘A man and a woman, shot at close quarters. He’d been shot in the head. She’d been shot in the chest. Incredibly cold-blooded.’

‘And what’s so strange about that? That sounds like a gangland execution. No tag?’

‘Well, that’s just it; the odd thing is the context. An upmarket apartment on Linnégatan, nobody famous at that address. A single woman, a teacher, according to the neighbour.’

Tell picked up the phone. ‘Who’s in?’

‘Beckman, and Karlberg’s on his way from Biskopsgården. He should be here at any moment.’

‘They don’t all need to go.’

‘I’m not doing anything.’

‘OK, you and Beckman go on ahead and take a look. I’ll be there shortly.’

Bärneflod patted Tell on the shoulder and smiled. Tell sat quietly with the receiver a few inches from his ear as he keyed in Seja’s number.

8

When Andreas Karlberg found Bengt Bärneflod, he was checking the courtyard for alternative points of entry and exit.

‘Have you been inside?’

‘Not yet. But Tell’s spoken to the technicians; we can go in and have a look.’

In the sunshine that flooded through the stairwell’s leaded windows, Bärneflod’s pale cotton jacket took on an orangey hue. They reached the fourth floor, huffing and puffing, and found the red panelled door marked Karpov.

Karlberg nodded to the constable on duty, stepped inside and stopped in his tracks. Karin Beckman was just emerging from the apartment next door. She didn’t look in the mood for talking.

The murdered woman was lying just inside the door, in the corner formed by the wall and a wardrobe. Her body was lying in an unnatural position, with her knees and feet pressed together at one side and her arm and the fingers of the other hand pointing pathetically up to the shelves. She had bled copiously.

Karlberg sighed.

They could hear the lift complaining as it struggled upwards; it stopped and Tell pulled the creaking metal grille to one side, clocking the people assembled in the doorway. Bärneflod pushed his way into the apartment and crouched down next to the woman, carefully avoiding the blood that was seeping into the red carpet.

‘Shall I hide inside the wardrobe or under it?’ he muttered in an affected voice. He bent down and peered under the wardrobe. ‘As if she had a chance either way.’

‘Logic goes out of the window when you’re faced with a deranged murderer,’ Tell retorted, placing his briefcase on the floor, unbuttoning his jacket and adjusting his shoe protectors. His tolerance levels were always significantly lower when it came to Bengt Bärneflod. His irritation would attach itself firmly to his spine, before overriding everything that his mature, rational self wanted to say. However he only gave in to his frustration in extreme cases. Most of the time it ate its way inwards, causing him stress.

But they had worked together for many years. They’d had their ups and downs. Sometimes Tell even valued Bärneflod’s competence; if experience and competence could be equated. He had a lot of years in the job under his belt; nobody could deny that. He had seen everything at least once, as he himself was fond of saying. And no doubt it was true. The criminals of Gothenburg could do little to surprise Bärneflod.

‘Have you been inside, Beckman?’

‘Only briefly. But I’ve spoken to the neighbour who made the call,
and picked up quite a bit of information about the woman in there; we can safely assume she is Ann-Marie Karpov. Fifty-one years old, researcher or lecturer in archaeology at Gothenburg University. She’s the only person registered at this address – it seems she’s divorced from a professor in the same subject, who is currently attached either to the Department of Archaeology in Copenhagen or to a museum called Glyptoteket. She didn’t know for sure. Ann-Marie Karpov has lived here for years.’

‘Good,’ said Tell. ‘Pass all that on to Gonzales and he can start work on it straight away.’

A white-clad figure was moving around at the far end of the passageway: Magnus Johansson, the forensic technician. Tell had worked with him on several cases, and thought very highly of him.

‘Who’s in there?’ Tell asked without looking at Beckman.

‘So far just Granberg and his colleague, a young woman. Johansson and some of his team.’

‘Which is more than necessary.’ Tell ran a hand through his hair. ‘But we might as well take a look inside before it gets too messy, don’t you think? Where can we start?’

Beckman, who had already checked with the technicians, led the way. They passed through a suite of two rooms to reach a third which had a bay window facing onto Linnégatan. The room was a good size, with a high ceiling and an imposing open fireplace.

Bärneflod greeted Granberg, his old trainee, in a subdued voice, then stopped dead in the middle of what was apparently the dining room.

‘So this is how the other half lives. Stucco and fancy skirting boards and God knows what else.’

He walked through to the next room. ‘There’s another one in here.’

The man’s body was propped at an angle, his legs outstretched and his head resting against the back of the sofa. What made the sight absurd was the expression on the dead man’s face. His eyes and mouth were wide open; he looked like a child who was completely amazed. On closer inspection, other things looked out of place: he seemed to be bracing himself against the sofa cushions with his fingers spread wide, as if his body had been pressed or thrown against the piece of furniture.

Tell leant forward cautiously and flicked a lock of hair from the man’s temple with his ballpoint pen. The entry wound. He went round to the other side.

‘Straight in through the temple. No exit wound.’

‘The bullet’s still lodged. Explains the lack of blood,’ said Bärneflod.

He took a couple of steps back and looked at the scene, lost in thought. The man on the sofa was wearing only a T-shirt and shorts, which suggested that he and the murdered woman were somehow intimate. Or perhaps they were related.

‘Can I borrow him for a minute? I need to take a couple of photos.’

Tell nodded mutely to the woman with the camera.

He went into the kitchen, which was large and could have come straight from a feature on French country living in a glossy magazine. One of the walls curved inwards; it was painted a striking burgundy and was fitted with bespoke shelves, which showcased objects from around the world: masks, tapestries and carved wooden figures. A generous oak table stood in the middle of the floor, cluttered with everything from cookery books to candle holders and used mugs. Photocopied material bearing the University of Gothenburg logo lay in surprisingly neat piles. The person who lived here liked order in the midst of chaos.

The doorbell rang. The sound was strangely distant, giving a sense of how large the apartment was.

Someone cleared his throat right behind Tell. ‘Not exactly a fan of minimalism, I see.’

It was Karlberg.

‘No. She likes her bits and bobs. And she clearly travels a lot.’

‘They’ve found the man’s wallet,’ said Beckman. ‘Henrik Samuelsson, thirty-five years old.’

She clamped her mobile to her ear and tried to make notes in her black book at the same time, holding her palm up to Bärneflod and Tell. ‘OK . . . yes, I’ll be in soon. Yes.’

She slipped the notebook in her pocket. ‘Henrik Samuelsson. His registered address is in Majorna. Kungsladugårdsgatan. One Rebecca Nykvist is registered at the same address.’

‘Is that Samuelsson?’

‘Definitely. The photo on his ID card seems fairly recent.’

‘Tell . . .’

‘Gonzales has everything he needs. I’m going to join him and go back to the station, unless of course you want an on-the-spot report from the door-to-door inquiries.’