Grendel's Game (27 page)

45

The Story

B
runo Haeggman was standing in the second floor, glass-fronted office of his paper's editor at 875 Ullevigatan, a nondescript building two blocks from Volkmann's restaurant.

Haeggman had outrage written all over his tight-lipped face. When he'd handed in his story about Grendel's involvement in the Westberg disappearance, he knew it was a huge scoop and would be major news all over Sweden. Now he was being told to do a drastic rewrite.

“Bruno, it can still be a front-page story, but any connection to Westberg has to be dropped,” said his boss, Arne Trest, a big, bluff man of sixty with a ruddy complexion and watery blue eyes.

“Tell me again exactly why,” said Haeggman, daring him to repeat it.

“You know why. It would traumatize the Westbergs. You're suggesting in your story that this cannibal, Grendel, has sent part of their missing son to the police, and the cops won't discuss it. You write as though it's some kind of cover-up, but they're acting the way you'd expect police to act in any investigation. And they're incidentally doing the decent thing. So should we.”

“Your deep concern for the tender feelings of the Westbergs does you credit, although it wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that he owns 20 percent of the paper, and is a friend of the publisher, right?” asked Haeggman.

“Sure it does. Don't bullshit me. You know better than pretend to be shocked; it's the real world. And how do you even know these letters are related to the case? Ekman didn't say they were, did he?”

“No, but when I mentioned the name, he sure offered to meet very fast.”

“So what? It's still pure speculation based on this character who's calling himself Grendel.”

“Look, it's not speculation. I told Ekman that Grendel sent me those letters, but it was someone else, someone on his investigating team. And the last note Ekman got from Grendel did enclose a piece of Westberg: not an ear, his genitals.”

“My God, that's gruesome . . . Who's your source?”

“I can't tell you, but he's gold. I promised I wouldn't say, and I don't want to compromise getting more info.”

“I can't accept that. We're on the same team and you work for me. Who is it?”

Haeggman was reluctant to give up the name, but if the story was going to be printed, he had to. “It's a police inspector named Rapp.”

“You talked to him?”

“He called me and said I'd be receiving some information from inside the investigation.”

“Did he say why he was doing this?”

“I asked. He said he had personal reasons.”

“So you checked him out?”

“Of course. He's a senior inspector named Alrik Rapp. He's pissed about something, and this is his way of getting back at his boss, Ekman.”

“How does he know that what Grendel sent is from Westberg?”

“They're doing DNA testing and should find out soon.”

“So, for now, it's just a guess?”

“Yes,” Haeggman acknowledged, biting his lip, “but probably an accurate one.”

“That's not the kind of reporting we do here. Even with inside information, that's not good enough, and you damn well know it. We need at least two reliable sources before we can print anything, and there's nothing at this point that involves Westberg at all. We're not some scandal sheet, for God's sake,” said Trest.

“Look, I'll accept Rapp as a source, and that Ekman's eagerness to meet with you when you mentioned Grendel's name confirms there's a dangerous nut out there calling himself that. But you cut the story way back to eliminate any reference to the note about Westberg, or speculation about how Grendel is connected, or I'll do it myself, and drop your byline.”

It was the ultimate threat for someone like Haeggman who lived for headlines over his name.

“Okay, okay. But without referring to Westberg, it's lost its punch,” said Haeggman, with a downturned mouth.

“What are you talking about? Just say we've received the Grendel material from ‘a reliable police source,' that the threat of cannibalism makes us concerned for the public's safety, especially since a senior police officer has been the victim of a theft connected to this maniac.

“Follow up with some quotes from the letter and briefcase note. You can ask what the police are doing about it. Period. No reference to Westberg. It's still going to shake things up and grab headlines everywhere. Hell, TV news will want to interview you. If they do, by the way, you, of course, will say, ‘No comment, my article said it all.' ”

“All right, you win. I'll give you the rewrite in half an hour,” he said, and walked stiffly out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

46

Home

I
t was after eight when Ekman got home. He'd gotten the information from Rapp and Bergfalk for the computer warrants. Then he'd spent hours writing out affidavits for them and the listening devices. He'd sent them over to Edvardsson before the end of the day. Usually he'd have Holm prepare drafts for his review, but now he had to do it all himself. He missed having him around, not only for his assistance, but because he enjoyed their kicking ideas back and forth.

Ekman knew that if the surveillance of Lindfors and Stillen was going to continue much longer, Holm and Vinter would have to be relieved before they became exhausted. He was going to have to get more people involved, and because his best people were stretched thin, would have to ask Rystrom for help . . . again, much as he didn't want to.

When he pulled into his drive, the contrast between this dark, empty house, and the warmly lit, welcoming one when Ingbritt was there, made him feel her absence all the more. After a quick meal of warmed-over sausages and beans, Ekman sipped an ale at the kitchen table, trying to relax. Looking at the clock, he saw it was past nine, and picking up the phone, called Ingbritt.

“I was wondering when you'd call,” she said.

“Sorry, it's been another busy day. I just got in a little while ago. I really miss you.”

“I miss you too, Walther, even though I've been busy too.”

“What've you been doing?”

“Running around this morning at a playground, trying to keep up with a very active little boy. It's fun, but exhausting. This evening Carla got a babysitter, and she and Gunnar took me out to a really nice French restaurant.”

“It sounds great. Again, I wish I were with you.”

“How is your case going?”

In a few words, Ekman told her what had happened.

“Do you feel you're getting closer?” she asked.

“Yes and no,” he replied. “Yes, we're developing information, but no, nothing that brings Grendel into sight yet. Maybe tomorrow we'll have something that will give us greater confidence. But you'll be hearing more about this case.” And then told her about Haeggman.

“So this will be in the paper?”

“After the morning, I expect in a lot of papers and on TV.”

“That will make things harder for you, won't it,” she said, concerned.

“Yes, but we'll get through it. Maybe the publicity will turn up new leads. That's the bright side I'm trying to keep in mind.”

“I love you, Walther Ekman.”

“I know. I love you too. Say hello to everyone for me. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Good night, Ingbritt.”

After they'd hung up, Ekman thought about reading for a while, but was too tired. His mind kept churning through the day's events. He tossed about fitfully before finally falling asleep.

47

Midgame

T
hursday, October 20.
Grendel was both elated and disappointed. The bold headline plastered across the front page of the Sydsvenska Nyheter, “
Cannibal Stalks City,
” delighted him. The story named him, quoted his first letter to Ekman, and the briefcase note, and speculated about what the police, and in particular, Ekman, the victim of the theft, were doing about it. Centered in the middle of the page was a photo of a glowering Chief Superintendent Ekman, whom the story cast as his nemesis. This was as he'd planned. But he was frustrated there'd been no mention of the third letter making the connection to Westberg's disappearance.

Later that day, tomorrow, and for many days, Grendel's fame would light up the media sky in other papers and on TV. He'd long hoped for this. But even more publicity would come. He could see the entire plan in his mind's eye. Soon it would be reality and the focus of the world's attention.

That fool Haeggman, so greedy for a big story, for his small taste of fame, was ready to be deceived with little effort. Grendel had initially called and said he was Inspector Alrik Rapp and wanted to give Haeggman an exclusive, with written material, from inside the investigation. And Haeggman hadn't inquired too closely, blinded by ambition for a blockbuster scoop.

When he spoke with him again after sending copies of the letter and notes, Haeggman had eagerly fastened on the link between the cannibal, Grendel, and Westberg's disappearance, followed by the arrival of a body part, presumably Westberg's. The story had all the lurid qualities that would make it an absolute media sensation. Yet someone at the paper had squelched it. Grendel was surprised. He shrugged off his annoyance and disappointment; the problem would be fixed later.

For the next scene in the drama he'd constructed, Grendel needed to do one more thing. He picked up the same untraceable temporary mobile he had used to phone Haeggman, and made another call.

T
he two newspapers Ekman picked up from his front stoop on a cold, gray morning were wet from the blustery downpour despite their plastic wrappings. The heavy rain promised to continue for the rest of a dismal fall day.

Haeggman's story was on his paper's front page, where Ekman was afraid it would be. But as he read it over toast and coffee, he was surprised to see that while he was named in the briefcase theft, there was nothing about the Westberg case. How did we dodge that bullet, he wondered?

He knew other media would be calling about the story looking for more details, and Ekman considered holding another press conference, but decided against it. He was afraid someone besides Haeggman would put two and two together and ask point-blank if Grendel was connected to Westberg's disappearance. The communications officer would have to field inquiries, acknowledge there was an ongoing investigation of the Grendel matter, and say that, therefore, the police had no comment at this time.

A
t seven thirty that morning, Garth Rystrom was briefing the two technicians and two detectives from CID who would be putting devices in Lindfors's apartment and listening.

“You're authorized to enter the building and Stina Lindfors's apartment, using ‘whatever technical means are necessary,' ” Rystrom said, reading from the warrant.

“That won't be a problem, Super,” replied the senior tech, a short, bald man in his fifties, with thick-lensed glasses.