Savage Spring (16 page)

A doorbell and speakerphone.

They ring the bell, Malin’s never been inside but has a mental image of an open gravel clearing with motorbikes, a few workshops and a run-down office building.

Drugs.

Extortion.

Cowboy builders. Protection rackets, fraud, counterfeit money. There are plenty of rumours about what the Dickheads are involved in.

Contract killings.

They got one of the leaders of the Hells Angels in Gothenburg for murder last year. But in Linköping they haven’t got anywhere with their associates, the Dickheads, nor with their rivals in Los Rebels.

A hoarse, tired, almost hungover voice: ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

Malin looks at the gates and feels that she’s standing outside an impregnable fortress based on pure evil.

You mustn’t let the shit get a foothold.

Because then it takes over.

The world becomes a dark place.

Zeke holds his ID up to the camera.

‘Police. We’d like to talk to Dick Stensson. Is he here?’

A long silence. Then there’s a crackle over the speaker and the gates open with a grinding sound, and Malin can see how well her mental image matched the reality. Big, long-framed motorbikes lined up in front of two grey-painted workshops.

What’s in here? Where are the bodies hidden? What’s locked away?

A shabby office building, then a bearded ape in a leather tunic and checked shirt striding towards them with threatening, heavy steps, holding out his hand and saying in a mild, friendly voice: ‘Welcome to the Dickheads.’

A firm but not unpleasant handshake.

Zeke shakes his head gently as they follow the man towards the office building.

‘Dick will see you at once,’ the man says, and a minute later he leaves them alone in a waiting room outside a solid oak door, and if the building looks shabby on the outside, it’s in perfect condition inside. The walls shine with white paint, and the ceiling is smooth, with inset halogen lights, and the leather armchairs beside Malin and Zeke are plump and modern. The black leather looks soft and malleable, and Malin knows it must have cost a great deal, and she has the impression that she’s in the home of a successful entrepreneur with very good taste.

Then the oak door opens and a deep voice, slightly bored but businesslike, calls from inside the room: ‘You can come in now,’ and a moment later Malin sees Dick Stensson sitting behind his desk in a grey hooded top, beside a large, flat computer screen. Then, as if he were a financial advisor in a bank or insurance company, he asks: ‘And how can I help you?’

An amused smile on his thin, strong face, and Malin feels the whole of her weight as she sinks into one of the two office chairs positioned in the middle of the room.

‘You were in the bank yesterday, just before the explosion. Is that correct?’ Zeke asks.

Dick Stensson nods.

‘That’s correct,’ he says. ‘I was seriously lucky not to get caught up in those lunatics’ evil act. I’d got as far as the castle when it went off. It sounded extremely loud, even up there.’

‘What were you doing in the bank?’ Malin asks.

‘I was paying in money. The weekly takings from our various businesses, and a bit of private money. Nothing funny. I checked my shares. I’ve got a few Kurtzon global shares. Highly recommended.’

‘The director, Lundin, said that you usually visit the bank at the same time each week.’

‘He’s a branch manager, not a director. I’m the sort of man who likes things to be regular,’ Dick Stensson replies, leaning back, his eyes twinkling.

He’s good-looking, Malin thinks. Almost attractive, with all his self-confident authority.

Is attractive.

Focus, now.

‘You’re not scared of too much regularity?’ Malin asks, and Dick Stensson grins at her, then adopts a look of surprise.

‘What would I be scared of?’

‘Regularity might make you easy to get at.’

Dick Stensson nods.

‘But it also proves that I don’t care, doesn’t it? That I’m the one in charge.’

Malin nods, thinking that the man in front of her is intoxicated with himself, he thinks he’s invincible, and there’s something in that which she reluctantly has to admit arouses her physical interest.

‘So you don’t think someone who was after you could have left the bomb outside the bank?’ Zeke asks.

‘I think that would be unlikely,’ Dick Stensson says, as his fingers dance over the keyboard in front of the screen, as if he’s answering an important email that can’t wait.

‘Why would it be unlikely?’ Malin asks. ‘You don’t have any enemies?’

‘No enemies,’ Dick Stensson replies with a shake of his head.

‘Have you noticed any increase in threats against you recently?’

‘Why would there be any threats against me?’ Dick Stensson says. ‘I’m just an ordinary entrepreneur.’

‘We’ve received reports of an increase in violence between you and—’

‘Like I said. I’m just an ordinary honest businessman.’

‘Lay off that crap,’ Malin says. ‘All three of us know perfectly bloody well who you are and what you do. Two young girls are dead. We’re trying to find out what happened. If you’ve got even the tiniest idea that could help us, you’d better tell us, otherwise I’ll be on your arse like a soldering-iron until you’re in your grave.’

Dick Stensson smiles.

‘So the little lady has a temper,’ he says in an amused voice, and Malin feels like flying across the desk and wrenching the biker bastard’s nose, but she holds back.

‘Easy now,’ Zeke says. ‘Nice and fucking easy. So you haven’t got anything to tell us?’ he asks in his steely voice, as if to demand respect from Stensson and calm Malin down.

‘No.’

‘You can be sure we’re going to be taking a good look at your affairs pretty soon,’ Zeke says. ‘Don’t be in any doubt about that. Every single scrap of paper.’

‘Do the police have time for that?’

Dick Stensson is smiling again.

‘And I don’t know anything about that Liberation Front.’

‘You’ve heard of it?’ Zeke asks.

‘It’s the lead story on
Aftonbladet
’s website.’

‘Did you see anything unusual in the square yesterday, anything at all?’ Malin asks.

‘I saw the girls. I saw them eating hotdogs and I thought they were pretty. I’m fond of children and I remember thinking that they were too beautiful to exist on our cruel planet. I remember thinking that, Malin.’

Dick Stensson fixes his gaze on hers. The look in his eyes is hard and cold and factual, and she tries to see some sort of warmth there, but there’s nothing remotely like it.

‘You ought to concentrate on catching those activists. In the Liberation Front. After all, they’ve confessed.’

‘We’re working on it,’ Zeke says, and Malin can tell he’s annoyed with himself for responding to Stensson, that he’s somehow gone on the defensive, justifying himself, us, the police, to this bastard.

‘Thank you. That’s all,’ Malin says, getting up.

We can hear engines, Malin.

Inside the workshop.

We hear them running, like nasty, hungry animals, hear them grunting out their song into the afternoon.

There are lots of closed doors there. Do they have to be opened?

Our names are on the Internet now. On the newspapers’ websites. Everyone knows who we were.

The Vigerö girls.

Mummy.

She’s breathing. She’s fighting. We’re trying to persuade her to come to us, calling to her, but she’s resisting, wants to stay where she is, but she’ll probably come to us soon anyway.

She’s got a temperature. She’s dreaming dark dreams full of our faces and men who aren’t human.

Men who consist of just a few limited characteristics.

We call for Daddy.

We can see the man in the hood, the man with the rucksack on the bike.

Who is he, Malin? Is he our fear? Is he our desire for more life? More and more and more.

We weren’t ready, Malin. Aren’t ready. We want more life. Can you give it to us?

We want you to help us, Malin, to become the girls we were, become the girls we were supposed to be.

Now the other children are calling again, Malin. They’re calling for you.

‘Come, come,’ they call, and they call for their daddy, but he doesn’t know where they are, and their mummy can’t come because she’s dead like us.

Actually, Malin, we don’t want to help them. Because why should they get to live when we can’t? But we’re supposed to help each other, be nice, everyone’s supposed to, so help them, Malin, save them.

They’re waiting for you to come and save them. Do it, and you might be able to save yourself.

If you listen carefully, you’ll be able to hear them too.

Grown-ups are supposed to come when you call.

But you can’t hear them.

You can’t hear them.

Zeke drops Malin off outside the sand-coloured apartment block on Ågatan.

There are lights on up in the flat.

Maybe Tove’s there? Hope so.

Malin’s longing to curl up next to Tove on the sofa. For Tove to feel that she’s the sort of mum who cares. Who doesn’t put her job, or drink, first. Who doesn’t have to call from some bloody rehab centre and say she feels better.

I’m longing for a friend as well, Malin thinks. A proper friend to have a serious talk with. To dare to be silly with. Maybe Helen Aneman, the radio presenter, could be that sort of friend? Possibly. Helen is smart and funny and sympathetic. But somehow they never manage to meet up. And Malin isn’t good at getting in touch out of the blue. Mostly she’s only heard Helen’s voice on the radio over the past year.

In the car on the way back from Jägarvallen she and Zeke talked about Stensson.

Let their thoughts roam free.

Could someone have wanted to get at him, then set up the Liberation Front website to mislead the police and focus suspicion elsewhere?

Maybe.

There’s no limit to the lengths organised crime will go to. And those fucking crooks can live handsomely from their crimes, better than any ordinary wage-slave can dream of, living in the sort of luxury that would make an unemployed labourer pass out.

Honesty doesn’t pay very well.

Or did a few activists simply take the opportunity to promote their message when the chance of getting a bit of attention came along?

As they were approaching the city centre, Malin called Sven Sjöman. Forensics hadn’t made any progress with
their digital inquiries during the day. The IP address of the Liberation Front was hidden behind some advanced technical trickery. The question was whether they would ever be able to get at it, or even persuade the IP provider to surrender the information. They were also trying to find out where the email to the
Correspondent
had been sent from, and had sent a request to YouTube for information about the video, but any answer from there was likely to take a while.

The source of the material used in the bomb would also be hard, if not impossible, to trace.

During the afternoon, Johan Jakobsson, Börje Svärd, and Waldemar Ekenberg had questioned more known activists, but that hadn’t given them anything. No one knew anything about the Economic Liberation Front. It had appeared like a cloud of smoke after the explosion, and maybe it would vanish just as quickly, without trace. No other media apart from the
Correspondent
had received the email, and they’d spoken to a professor in Stockholm who had never heard of any financially motivated activism from the left in Sweden, let alone the Economic Liberation Front itself. Certainly, the communists had once protested outside the Enskilda Bank, but that was back in the seventies. And the professor thought it unlikely that they were dealing with right-wing extremists. However, he did think it possible that a new type of revolutionary movement might have arisen because of the financial crisis and the growing inequality in society. It was just a question of when those who felt they had been sidelined would react, not if.

Forensics were carrying on with their analysis of the surveillance video covering the cashpoint machine. The recordings inside the bank had provided little of interest, but they did show Stensson on his way towards Jeremy Lundin’s office with a briefcase in his hand.

There had been no new activity reported from the bank branches identified on the website. All the country’s banks were still closed until further notice. The Security Police had remained silent, nothing about any Islamic extremists, and Karim had spent most of the day trying to hold the media at arm’s length. One of them would be bound to find out about the connection to the biker gang and Stensson, and then the papers would go into overdrive. There would be someone working in the bank, possibly even Jeremy Lundin himself, who wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to get their hands on some of
Aftonbladet
’s reward for a tip-off. They had decided not to dig any deeper into Dick Stensson’s affairs for the time being, in all likelihood that was beyond the remit of this investigation, and they needed to maintain their focus, even if that was pretty much impossible in a situation that seemed to change by the minute.

‘We’ll carry on with this tomorrow, Malin,’ Zeke says now, just before she closes the car door.

The sky has grown even darker.

There’s rain in the air, maybe the spring is turning back into winter now. Maybe it’ll be like up in Norrland, Malin thinks. Where nature leapfrogs spring and goes straight to summer, letting everything skip childhood. Maybe to avoid the torments and vulnerability of youth?

‘Hope the rain holds off,’ Malin says.

‘Good work today, partner,’ Zeke says, and Malin nods, wants to be able to accept praise, let it sink in.

‘See you tomorrow.’

And she shuts the door.

Looks up at the flat.

My daughter.

Are you there?

She thinks about Tove.