Grendel's Game (12 page)

“Enar, I'd like you to get a detailed map of southern Sweden and put it up on the corkboard. Then take photos of the three missing men and put them around it. Show the distances and driving times among the locations.

^“
T
he rest of you, please put your lists on the whiteboard. We'll need three columns with the men's photos, names, ages, dates of birth and disappearance, and all the other information you've gathered.”

Ekman looked around the table. “Okay, you've got your assignments. I know tomorrow's Saturday, but let's make this a short weekend and meet again tomorrow.”

Vinter and Holm looked glum. He guessed he was ruining some weekend plans.

“On the bright side,” Ekman added, “you'll all be on overtime pay. We'll take a break on Sunday.”

20

Westberg

A
t his desk, Ekman mulled over the meeting. His vision of the Grendel case was still clouded, but he felt they were making progress. That is, if there really was a connection with the missing men. He only hoped they weren't going too slowly.

Ekman frowned at the stack of papers remaining in his in-box, the personnel items. He'd made a considerable dent yesterday on the routine paperwork and the out-basket showed his progress. Now came the hard stuff.

He reached for the top item, an annual performance review for Rapp. Looking over the self-assessment section, he thought Alrik had been much too modest. He would have rated him higher. Rapp had been an inspector for more than eight years and was past due for promotion.

If he also wanted to promote Holm soon, to be fair, he'd first have to recognize Senior Inspector Rapp's very real accomplishments. These were the sorts of administrative considerations he disliked, but it was his responsibility, and there was no escaping the difficult choices. He wrote out a promotion recommendation for Rapp to chief inspector.

Knocking, Holm reminded him, “Alenius and Rosengren are here, Chief.” Startled, Ekman realized it was already ten o'clock.

“Please sit down,” said Ekman. “How is the Westberg case going?”

“I hate to say it, but there's been no real progress, Chief,” said Rosengren, always the spokesperson for the duo.

“We've run out of leads. We've looked at other recent burglaries and there's no pattern we can see. Some were daylight, some weren't. Nobody saw anything. Also, we've run down all the local break-in artists and checked their alibis against the burglary time frames without results. It's all here in the report,” he said, handing it to Ekman. “We know Westberg and the DC aren't going to be happy.”

“Thanks for all your work,” said Ekman. “It's no reflection on what you've both done, but Malmer wants me to get involved. I'm meeting Westberg in a little while to brief him.” Their faces tightened.

“This is one of those high-profile cases that needs some window dressing. It's political, that's why Malmer is pushing it hard. I don't think I'm going to find anything you missed. This is just PR, okay?”

“We understand, Chief,” said Rosengren, getting up. “Right, Alenius?” Always taciturn, he just nodded his agreement.

Ekman knew they were unhappy, but there was nothing more he could do about it.

Asking Holm to come in, Ekman handed him their report. “Send a copy to Malmer with a note telling him I'm meeting with Westberg this morning. Thanks, Enar.”

Instead of driving, Ekman thought he would walk to Westberg's office, but before he left went back into the conference room. Pouring a cup of coffee, he reached for a sweet roll, stopping himself just before his hand touched it. Fat, Ekman, he thought, you're getting way too fat, and with an effort, turned aside, sipping his coffee.

Westberg's office on Yakullsgatan was ten blocks away. Ekman was looking forward to the walk on a sun-filled day like this, but not the conversation with Westberg. Despite their best efforts, Alenius and Rosengren hadn't come up with anything solid and Ekman very much doubted he could do any better. He would try to put things in a positive light, but the councillor had a reputation for being difficult and wouldn't be satisfied. It promised to be an unpleasant conversation.

Ekman walked along Dalagatan thinking about what lay ahead. Rounding the corner on Sturegatan, he passed an antiques shop and was stopped by the window display. An easel had been placed on a red-and-blue-patterned Persian rug, and on it was a gilt-framed panoramic view of old Stockholm. Peering at it, Ekman could just make out the legend at the bottom: “1648,” the end of the Thirty Years War.

It was likely an original etching and he wondered whether he could afford it. He made a mental note of the address. If it was still available, maybe he could come back another day. Right now, he didn't have the time.

Turning from the window, for an instant Ekman caught the slight moving reflection of a person across the street, just vanishing around the corner. He suddenly realized that while he'd been looking at the picture, the dimly reflected figure—he couldn't be sure if it was a man or a woman—had been staring at him. He briefly considered following, but then thinking it was pointless, shrugged, and continued on his way.

Three blocks farther down, Yakullsgatan cut across Sturegatan. Going right, climbing up a hill, Ekman saw the ten-story building he was looking for near the top. In the elegant, marble-floored lobby, he checked the directory and found Westberg's name, with the words “Commercial Insurance” after it, listed on the tenth floor.

The elevator rose smoothly and when the door opened he found himself facing a large, modern console desk with a receptionist. Westberg's firm took up the entire top story. Going across the thick brown carpet, Ekman announced himself to the frowning, middle-aged woman behind the desk.

“Yes, Herr Ekman, Herr Westberg's expecting you. His office is at the end of the corridor on the left,” she said, picking up the phone to call him.

Ekman knocked and, opening the door, entered a huge corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. Eugen Westberg was coming around his glass and steel desk to meet him. He was a big man, almost as tall as Ekman, about sixty, with brushed back, thinning brown-gray hair, and a carefully trimmed gray moustache.

‘‘Herr Ekman,” he said in a booming voice, extending his hand, “it's good to meet you. I've heard so much about you. All very complimentary, of course. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me,” he continued with every appearance of earnestness. Ekman could see why he was successful as a politician, as well as a businessman.

“I'm pleased to do it, Councillor,” responded Ekman, as Westberg led him to two armchairs with a window view.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Westberg raised a phone to call.

“That would be great.” Sipping coffee together might make this easier. Ekman looked around the office.

“You have a wonderful view of the city.”

“Yes, it's enjoyable, even on a bad day, let alone one like this,” Westberg smiled.

“Have you always had your office here?”

“No, we moved in a year ago. Before that we were in a sort of hole-in-the-wall place on the other side of town. But business has been good over the last few years.”

There was a knock, a side door opened, and a young man came in carrying a tray with coffee and biscuits. He set it down on the table between their chairs.

“Thanks, Frans,” said Westberg, as the man smiled, poured and left.

After they'd drunk some coffee, Ekman began, “I wanted to personally bring you up to date on the investigation. I know the break-in must have been very upsetting for you and your family.”

“Yes, for my wife especially, since she was the one who discovered it.”

“The men I assigned, Alenius and Rosengren, are two of my most experienced investigators. They've been very thorough, looking not only at your burglary, but others to see if there's some common pattern. They've also questioned potential suspects and checked their alibis.”

“But . . .” said Westberg, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Yes, I'm afraid they've been unable to get any further with the investigation. However, I'm going to go over the case in detail myself, starting with a visit to your home, if that's all right with you.”

“Yes, certainly, Herr Ekman. I know you have many other things to do and I appreciate your taking the time to look into this yourself.”

This is going to be easier than I thought, Ekman said to himself. He was premature.

“Like you, I want some clear answers,” said Westberg in a harder voice. “When do you think you'll have them?”

“That's difficult to say. I don't want to promise something I can't deliver. I want to assure you, however, that whatever can be done to find the burglar will be done. This is not being treated in a casual manner.”

“I appreciate that. I know you're giving this unusual attention,” Westberg said, getting up. The interview was over.

Ekman shook his hand. “I'll let you know as soon as we come up with anything.”

“Thanks for taking a personal interest,” said Westberg in a flat tone, walking him to the door.

Ekman was relieved Westberg hadn't been more hostile. He'd look at the crime scene as he'd promised, but thought that at this late date he wouldn't discover anything new. He was going through the motions primarily to get Malmer off his back.

At his office, he decided there was no point in prolonging things, and called Westberg's house. A woman, he presumed the wife, answered.

“Is this Fru Westberg? This is Walther Ekman. Your husband may have told you that I'd like to come by. Yes, in an hour would be fine. I'll see you then.”

Malmquist called back sooner than he'd expected.

“We've finished with the package you sent, Walther, and apart from the distinctive knot we discussed yesterday, there really isn't much to say, I'm afraid. There were no unidentified fingerprints on the package itself. Yours were on the briefcase, along with some unusable smudged prints.

“However, the white gift box was a type made over the last three years only for the Åhléns department stores. From a few fibers we're still tracing, it seems to have contained a garment made of good quality, brown merino wool. The tissue might also have come from that store, but looked new and could have been bought anywhere. The address on the box was done using a standard black marker of the same type used on the letter envelope, and in the same handwriting. The note itself was probably copied on the Canon printer, using a cheap grade of paper. And that's it.”

“Ludvig, don't feel discouraged. I really appreciate the fast work.”

“Are there any other leads?”

“We're looking into some missing-person cases, but so far, don't have anything.”

“Walther, I should say the same thing to you, ‘Don't feel discouraged.' Just remember it's still quite early: it's Friday, and this got started on Tuesday. I'd say you've already covered a lot of ground quickly. It will just take more time to find him, unless he slips up.”

“You're realistic, my friend, and you're right. I'm too impatient and the frustration level is rising.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, as always, Ludvig.”

21

House Call

E
kman thought it was too far and would take too much time to walk to Westberg's house. Besides, he felt he'd had more than enough exercise for the day. He took the elevator to the garage.

In light traffic, it took him fifteen minutes. Westberg's home was on a street off Eddavagen, in a quiet neighborhood of large, expensive homes. Pulling into the semicircular driveway, Ekman could see the house was insulated from its neighbors by high hedges on both sides. From Alenius's report, he knew the curtain of hedges extended around the back.

Fru Westberg was a short, thin, fair-haired woman in her late fifties, carefully made-up. She wore a dark blue dress with a diamond and gold brooch at her shoulder and a string of pearls around her neck. She looked as though she were about to go to a formal luncheon.