Grendel's Game (3 page)

Malmer

S
eated behind his massive walnut desk, shaven-headed, grim-faced Olov Malmer looked intimidating, and meant to have that effect. His secret was in the tall, red leather armchair, raised so that his waist was level with the desktop; only his powerfully built torso was visible. Stunted, bandy legs that barely skimmed the floor beneath the desk made him a short five foot five. He tried to conceal his height from his colleagues, hiding his sensitivity behind a brusque manner. It proved very effective in keeping people at a distance.

“So, Walther, come in, come in, and sit down please,” he said in a grating, high-pitched voice. He intensely disliked tall men standing over him.

Ekman's ample rear perched on one of the two hard, straight-backed wooden chairs in front of Malmer's desk. They weren't intended to be comfortable or prolong meetings.

Malmer looked directly at him for several moments without speaking. It was a trick he often employed to fluster subordinates. Ekman was used to this; imperturbable, he waited him out.

“We have a serious problem,” Malmer said at last.

“Yes, I know. I'm dealing with Westberg's break-in. I've already assigned an inspector.”

“That's not adequate. This can't be treated as a routine matter. What else will you do?”

“All right, I'll assign Alenius and Rosengren to the investigation,” naming two senior inspectors. “If additional people are needed it will be disruptive, but it will be given priority.”

“Consider this your most important task until it's solved. I expect daily reports,” Malmer said.

“You'll have them every morning. Perhaps we'll get lucky and this will lead to solving the other burglaries.”

“It will take more than luck, Walther. Hard work is what's needed. The commissioner and I expect quick results,” he said, slapping an open hand on the desk to assert authority over Ekman.

“Of course,” said Ekman, getting up to end the discussion and heading for the door.

One of these days, he fantasized, he'll push me too far and I won't be able to resist picking up that pompous little prick by the neck and banging his shiny skull against the ceiling. He understood why Malmer's stature led him to harass taller men; he knew he should empathize. But the mental image of Malmer's terrified expression when he lifted him out of his rigged chair brought a wide grin to Ekman's face as he closed the door behind him.

Arguing with Malmer about the real priorities of police work was always a mistake. He, and his friend the commissioner, political appointees who'd arrived a year ago, had shifted all daily responsibilities to him. They preferred to spend their time meeting with council members like Westberg, lunching with other influential people, and junketing to pointless police conferences around Sweden and Europe.

Ekman missed their predecessors whom he'd dealt with more or less amicably for fifteen years. They'd retired, one after the other, leaving him to establish some kind of working relationship with the bureaucratic Malmer and the amateur commissioner.

He had Holm arrange a meeting in two hours with the new inspectors he was going to put on the Westberg case. Ekman knew they'd resent it because a more junior officer had already been assigned, but it couldn't be helped. This was part of the job he intensely disliked . . . catering to political superiors.

6

The Choice

A
fter rereading the cannibal's letter, Ekman walked to the windows, back to his desk, and then stood motionless again at the windows, looking out into the square for a few moments before sitting down. He reached into a drawer for his needlepoint and began stitching.

It may be just a practical joke by someone who wants me to run with it and end up looking ridiculous, he thought; there are plenty of people around here who'd laugh their heads off if I took the bait.

Perhaps it's a ploy by the animal rights people. They'd love to have the police treat the letter seriously, give it publicity, and get the public worked up.

If either possibility were right, the best course was to ignore it.

But what if that's not what it was about? How can we know whether to take it seriously? It would be irresponsible to just set it aside and there was a murder, or worse still, a series of murders. Suppose, after killing, the writer sent the letter to the media. How could we defend ourselves when we hadn't tried to prevent a murder we'd been warned about?

The fundamental problem was where to begin a possible murder investigation without any evidence of a crime, let alone a body.

If the letter was a real threat, the writer is a man. A woman wouldn't set out to be a cannibal; it just felt wrong to him. The letter's style was stilted; he was trying too hard to be cute. He was no doubt insane, but clever.

Ekman hesitated. He didn't want to, but had to get Malmer and the commissioner involved.

He replaced the needlepoint, and, pulling the gloves back on, took the envelope and letter to Holm. “Put on some gloves and place these in clear covers please, make three copies, and give them back to me. Package the originals for Malmquist at the forensics lab. Get a uniform to hand deliver it to him. I'll let him know it's on the way.”

Ekman went back to his office and phoned Ludvig Malmquist, the director of the National Forensics Laboratory in Linköping. They'd worked together for more than a decade.

“It's been weeks since I heard from you, Walther, how are things?”

“The same. The family is fine. Malmer still enjoys being an obnoxious bastard far too much. And you and yours?”

“Olivia and the children are well thanks. At the lab we're overworked, short-staffed, and underpaid. The usual.”

“Ludvig, I need your help with something special.” Ekman knew he was using his friendship with Malmquist to jump a long queue of other jurisdictions with forensic specimens awaiting analysis.

“I was afraid you were leading up to that,” Malmquist said in a flat voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I've gotten a letter from a maniac who's threatening a killing spree. I'm sending it by courier. Can you tell me anything about it by tomorrow evening?”

“You don't ask much do you?” He paused. “A maniac you say? Okay. We'll do what we can.”

“My fingerprints are on the envelope and letter. The fingerprints of my assistant, Inspector Holm, are on the envelope only. They should be in your database.”

“Well, that makes it so much easier, Walther,” said Malmquist drily. “I'll do my best. I'll call you tomorrow. Late.”

“I owe you one, Ludvig.”

“Actually, Walther, I've lost track of how many you owe me, but never mind.”

When Holm returned with the copies, Ekman said, “Call Malmer's office and tell Annika I need to see him again right away.”

He looked up from his desk at Holm, “You've read it?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

He valued Holm's opinion. His intelligence and drive had made him an inspector in record time. More than that, Ekman had become fond of him; Holm was almost a second son.

“There's nothing you can do except treat this as a real threat.”

“Good. It helps to know you agree. It may be a prank, someone looking for attention, but we can't disregard it.”

^“
D
on't tell me you've already broken the Westberg case?” Malmer asked.

“Something else has come up. You need to read this. It just arrived this morning,” he said, handing him a copy of the letter.

“Sit down, for God's sake,” said Malmer. Ekman sat while Malmer read.

“This is bizarre, preposterous. You're not suggesting we take this seriously?”

“It may be somebody's sick idea of a joke, but I don't think we have a choice. If it's real, something happens, and it came out that we ignored it after we were warned . . .” He trailed off.

Malmer hesitated. The fear of adverse publicity was his strongest motivation. He hated to rely on Ekman, but depended on his expertise.

“The letter's being sent to forensics. We may know more tomorrow. It could be a challenge, as well as a warning. The killing may already have begun. I have another copy for the commissioner,” he said, giving it to Malmer. “I think he should be informed.”

“I scarcely need you to tell me that. I'll speak with him right away.”

“Tell him we can assume a few things.”

“Such as?”

“The writer is an intelligent, literate man. The style of the letter isn't a woman's. Neither is the threatened cannibalism. Whoever he is he likes attention. He may send this to the media at some point, but I think not yet. He wants to challenge us first. We need to treat this as a real threat and spoil his fun before he starts, if he hasn't already.”

“I'll take this to the commissioner now,” Malmer said, but didn't stand. He avoided getting up when Ekman was in the room.

“Would you like me to come along?” Ekman knew Malmer would hate this, but couldn't resist needling him.

“I can handle this quite well alone, thank you,” he said, his face reddening with irritation. “I'll get back to you.”

^“
Y
ou've got Alenius and Rosengren waiting in your office,” Holm said.

“I almost forgot.”

“We've been working major crimes and now we're supposed to give a routine break-in priority?” protested Rosengren again. He's a short, fireplug of a man with side-combed, thinning red hair. His partner, Alenius, tall, gaunt, and taciturn, just nodded agreement.

“It's what needs to be done, so get on with it. Malmer wants daily morning reports. You don't have much time.” Ekman gestured at the bookcase clock.

Defeated, Rosengren got up and looked at Alenius, who was leaning against the wall near the door.

“Okay, Chief. If that's the way it is . . .”

“That's the way it is. Don't either of you take it too hard. This isn't personal,” said Ekman, standing. “On the contrary, the reason you guys have been picked is because you're the best and everyone knows it.”

Rosengren half smiled at this as they left. Alenius remained expressionless. As they walked out, Holm stuck his head in, “Malmer wants to see you again.”

7

The Team

“
I
've just spoken with the commissioner,” Malmer said. “He thinks there could be public hysteria if this letter gets out. We need to keep a lid on it until we have something to say, and then can report progress. After all, as far as we know, no crime has been committed. There may be no need for anyone to be alarmed. Probably nothing has happened. But still, the commissioner wants you to quietly, I repeat
quietly
, handle this as a potential major problem before it becomes one. I agree with him.”

“We're not starting from zero.” Ekman had been thinking about what the letter writer must be like and had reached some tentative conclusions.

Malmer raised thick, dark eyebrows, prominent under his shining dome.

“Whoever he is, he probably doesn't have a serious criminal history. If he had a record that would lead us to him, he wouldn't have sent the letter. It would make it too easy for us. He's also probably under fifty, or we'd have become aware of him. He may have been treated for mental illness, but not confined to a mental hospital. Again, that would make it too easy.

“He's sent us this virtual declaration of war because he feels he can play hide-and-seek with us. He believes he's a genius and we're imbeciles. We'll no doubt hear more from him. I think this publicity-hunting lunatic, sooner or later will go to the media. And he's told us point-blank there have been, or will be, victims.”

“So how would you proceed?” asked Malmer.

Ekman had thought of a strategy. He'd been the youngest chief superintendent in Sweden when he was appointed twenty years before. By now he could have been a DC, or even a county commissioner, but Ekman couldn't tolerate the constant need for political maneuvering that occupied higher ranks. It was bad enough at his level.