The Andalucian Friend (53 page)

Lars pulled on the face mask, stood up, went over to him, and crouched down. Anders stared up at Lars, a trickle of blood running out onto the floor under his head.

“You’re an asshole, Anders Ask, do you think I’m totally stupid?”

Lars could detect a faint smell of burned meat.

“Let’s take a moment to consider the situation … I live, you die.”

Anders tried to say something, no sound came out, just a mouth moving laboriously, like a fish on dry land.

“I can’t hear you, Anders,” he whispered. “It’ll be straight to hell for you. You’ve killed women. A boy’s lying in the hospital, possibly paralyzed for life. They’ve probably got a special section for people like you down there.”

Lars looked on patiently as Anders Ask’s life ran out onto the linoleum floor. When he was dead Lars stood up, opened the kitchen window, wiped the gun on a kitchen towel, all the while staring at Anders’s corpse as it lay there. What was he feeling? Regret? No … Liberation? No, he wasn’t feeling anything. Lars turned the kitchen radio on at full volume. It was tuned in to P1.

He crouched down beside Anders again, put the dead man’s right hand on the pistol, aimed the barrel at the open window, angled his own hand away from the gun so the flash of powder would hit Anders’s hand as much as possible. Lars fired. The news drowned out the bang, the bullet flew out through the window, shot over Vanadislunden and kept going, past Eastern Station, finally coming to earth somewhere on Lidingö. Maybe the neighbors would have heard two shots, but that couldn’t be helped … Witnesses were usually wrong. Every police officer assumed that. Witnesses were basically a bit thick.

He closed the window and looked at Anders’s position in the room, working out how the pistol would most likely have fallen from his hand. He put it on the floor a little way from the body. Then he went into the bedroom, opened Anders’s suitcase, and unpacked it, putting the clothes back in the closet, his passport in a drawer, then shut the empty case and slid it under Anders Ask’s bed.

Lars backed out of the apartment, pulling off the latex gloves and face mask, and shutting the door behind him.

Lars slept soundly
that night, waking up at half past five in the morning. He ordered coffee in his room, didn’t feel any need for food. He waited until eight o’clock before making the call. The man at the other end was dubious, but Lars was insistent.

He had showered and ironed a shirt. The shirt was smooth and unbuttoned as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and combed his hair into something vaguely neat. He was high, but in a controlled way, and was combing very slowly. …

His shoes were polished, his trousers had been under the mattress all night. He looked respectable, and tried out his face in the mirror, he never had any problems with that when he was high. He practiced an expression. An expression that would be hard to read. Lars came up with something vacant and neutral, buttoned the shirt, took his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on. On his way out he picked up the sports bag from the bed and left the room.

Daylight was dangerous for him. But he had no choice. This had to happen during the day so that his target didn’t suspect anything. He had chosen Mariatorget, an open square that he knew he could get a good view of.

He was standing
in the stairwell at the top of a neighboring building, looking down on the square through a pair of binoculars. The time was now 11:44. The meeting was supposed to take place at half past eleven. He scanned the people down below with the binoculars. Mostly mothers with strollers, children on swings, one or two dads with their backs bent, holding hands with their one-year-olds who were insisting on walking. He looked farther away, toward Sankt Paulsgatan. People who were in a hurry, a group of laughing youths, a few elderly people sitting on benches.

Lars turned the binoculars back toward Hornsgatan, nothing there, either. Cars, people walking around aimlessly, fat tourists from the country eating ice cream by the little kiosk.

He lowered the binoculars, looked at his watch — 11:48, should he get going? He took a last look at the square … And there, in the middle of his sweep, a single man on a bench. Lars looked back at him again. The man was sitting with one arm along the back of the bench, he had fairly long hair with a bald patch on top. The man turned slightly and Lars saw his cop’s mustache. Hell, that had to be him.

Lars keyed in a number on his cell phone. Put the phone to his ear and looked at the man through the binoculars, saw him feel for his cell in his pocket, pull it out, answer.

“Yes?”

“Tommy?”

“Yep.” Almost inaudible.

“I’m running a bit late, five minutes.”

Lars hung up. Looked at Tommy Jansson through the binoculars again. Tommy remained seated on the bench, glaring at the people in the square. He didn’t call anyone, didn’t give any signal. He just sat there waiting — bored, restless, and hot. Lars scanned around with the binoculars. Looked at the people in the vicinity. Looked between the trees on the far side by the old cinema, saw nothing. It looked as if Tommy had come alone.

He put the binoculars in the bag and walked back down the stairs. Lars stepped out into the sunlight and headed toward the bench where Tommy was sitting. The next bench was empty, and Lars sat down there. Tommy glanced at him, then looked out across the square again. Lars waited and waited, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Tommy sighed and looked at his watch. Lars stood up, went over and sat down next to him.

“I’m Lars.”

Tommy was annoyed.

“You’re an arrogant bastard, Lars. Making me sit and wait like this, I don’t like that. What do you want?”

Tommy had a Södermalm accent,
Maybe his mom had given birth to him right where they were sitting …?

“I want to talk to you about a few things.”

“Yes, so you said on the phone. … You work for Gunilla, why don’t you talk to her? You’re aware of the chain of command, aren’t you?”

Lars looked around, a lot of people milling about. He suddenly felt nervous again.

“Can we go somewhere else?”

Tommy snorted.

“Forget it, I’m sitting here on overtime … Come on, spit it out, or I’m leaving.”

Lars pulled himself together, looked at Tommy. Doubt hit him like a tidal wave. Was this the right man to talk to, or was he about to make the mistake of his life?

“I’ve got information,” Lars said.

“About what?”

“About Gunilla.”

The frown on Tommy’s forehead looked fairly set. “Oh?”

“Gunilla isn’t running any investigations, it’s all a bluff,” he said in a low voice.

Tommy looked hard at him.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’ve been working for her for the past few months.”

Tommy looked at Lars sternly.

“You don’t think four dead in Vasastan counts as an investigation?”

“There’s an investigation because of the murders, but she was never interested in that.”

“What do you mean?” Tommy asked.

Lars wanted to give him the whole picture.

“It started when we bugged the nurse.”

Tommy’s irritation was still visible on his forehead.

“What nurse?”

Lars was tense.

“Wait, let me go on … Hector Guzman was in the hospital, Gunilla was there, and started to take an interest in a nurse on the ward who had evidently developed some sort of relationship with Guzman. Either way, we bugged the nurse’s home, Anders Ask and I.”

Tommy was listening, and the frown of annoyance gradually became one of curiosity.

“I was instructed to watch the nurse, Gunilla was certain she and Hector would end up having a relationship, which they did. As usual, she was right, but nothing came out of it, not the bugging, nor the wider surveillance.”

Tommy was about to say something, but Lars went on.

“As time went on, Gunilla got more and more stressed when nothing useful emerged. She called in an old riot-squad gorilla from the Arlanda Police, Hasse Berglund, and turned him into her weapon, together with Erik and Anders. As her frustration grew, she reacted in a very odd way.”

“How?” Tommy asked in a low voice.

Lars looked out across the square.

“She went for the nurse’s son.”

Tommy wasn’t with him.

“Hasse and Erik brought him in for questioning, a faked-up interview. They’d concocted a story about the boy forcing himself on a girl, rape. …”

Tommy didn’t know what to think.

“That way they’d have a hold on her … I think they were trying to get her to shop Hector in return for her son’s problem disappearing, something like that.”

Tommy was thinking.

“So did she do it?”

Lars shrugged.

“Don’t know … I don’t think so, I don’t think she had anything to tell.”

Tommy slapped his right thigh.

“OK, this is terrible, Lars, if what you’re saying is true. Gunilla’s always used unconventional methods. But now she’s gone too far, no question. I’ll talk to her. Thanks for contacting me.”

Tommy stood up and held out his hand.

“Let’s keep this between us, OK?”

Lars looked at Tommy’s hand.

“Sit down, that’s only the start of it.”

Lars gave Tommy
Jansson everything he had, from start to finish. It took twenty minutes.

Tommy was glowering. His face had changed.

“Fucking hell … ,” he whispered.

He was no longer stroking his mustache, and was scratching hard at his stubbly cheeks instead.

“Holy fuck …”

He stared at Lars.

“And you’ve got all this on tape, you say?”

“I’ve got recordings where she discusses Sara’s murder, with Anders Ask and Hasse Berglund present. The murder of Patricia Nordström is also mentioned. There are also recordings of the conversations about how to frame the nurse’s son, how they ran him down, about the illegal surveillance, her whole method of working. There are notes and accounts detailing the numerous millions that she, her brother, and Anders Ask have stolen from the investigations they’ve worked on over the years.”

Tommy swore quietly to himself for the tenth time.

“And the boy? Is he still in the hospital?”

Lars nodded.

“He’s in a bad way.”

Tommy sighed, trying to fit the puzzle together.

“What are you going to do?” Lars asked.

The question seemed to hit Tommy Jansson hard, as if he didn’t want to hear it.

“I don’t know … Right now, I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“You probably do know.”

He looked at Lars. “Oh?”

“She a murderer, a criminal … and a police officer. You’re her boss, so she’s your responsibility.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The fact that you’ve got two choices.”

“And they are?”

Lars waited for a couple of elderly people to walk past.

“Either you arrest her for murder, extortion, making illegal threats, breaking and entering, impeding the course of justice, bugging … well, the whole lot. And you as her boss will go down with her. At a guess you’d get caught for something once this gets examined by every police officer and journalist in the whole country. No one’s going to believe that you were completely ignorant.”

“But I am. I didn’t know any of this.”

“Do you think anyone’s going to care about that?”

Tommy leaned back against the bench.

“Option two, then?” he asked quietly.

Lars had been waiting for him to ask.

“Option two is to let her go.”

Lars leaned forward.

“That way you avoid problems, questions, responsibility. She just resigns. Age, grief at Erik’s death, I don’t know. But she has to disappear from here, go far away. In return for keeping quiet about this, I want her job … or something better in Crime. I want you as my immediate superior. I don’t want you looking over my shoulder while I work. And after a few years I want to be promoted. …”

Something hard came over Tommy.

“You’re a beat cop who for some inexplicable reason ended up in Gunilla’s group. You have no experience, no track record, nothing. How the hell am I going to explain that when people ask?”

“You’ll think of something.”

Tommy bit his lip.

“How do I know what you’re saying is true? Maybe you’re just sitting here making it all up.”

Lars pushed the sports bag toward Tommy.

“Take a look for yourself and get back to me, preferably this evening,” Lars said.

Tommy was trying to think. Lars stood up and walked away. Tommy watched him go, then he picked the bag up and headed in the opposite direction.

Fauré was playing in the church,
the procession past the coffin had just started. Gunilla was standing at the top end of the coffin, where she laid a flower on its lid and curtsied, all according to custom. A few old duffers in badly fitting police uniforms were among the thirty or so people who had gathered to say a last farewell to the idiot, Erik Strandberg.

Lars was observing the spectacle from a pew toward the back of the church. Tommy Jansson was standing in the line waiting to walk past the coffin. At least he’d had the good taste to come in just a blazer.

Lars tried to catch Gunilla’s eye as she went and sat down. He thought their eyes met briefly. Or did they? Lars looked at Tommy Jansson, was he going to wobble, was he going to let on to her that he knew? But Tommy smiled amiably, sadly, and assuredly at Gunilla, and even patted her on the shoulder as he passed her.
Good, Tommy
.

When the procession was over the mourners left the church.

Gunilla was standing by the door, accepting the fabricated grief of those present. Lars gave her a hug.

“Thanks for coming,” she said sadly.

“Have you got a moment?” Lars asked.

After Gunilla had
listened to all the condolences they walked off to one side outside the church. They found a quiet spot under a holly.

“How are you feeling?” he asked in a friendly tone.

She sighed.

“It feels sad, but good as well, it was a nice funeral.

“I thought so too,” Lars said in a friendly voice.

The churchyard was completely still now. A mild summer breeze ruffled their hair.

“I waited half an hour before calling the ambulance. I sat and waited half an hour for your brother to die.”

He looked into her eyes as he spoke to her, his voice was low.

“He had a stroke … He was lying there on the floor. He’d be alive today if I’d called the ambulance. But I waited. …”

Gunilla was pale. Lars smiled.

“He suffered badly, Gunilla.”

She was staring at him.

“And imagine, Anders Ask shooting himself with your old Makarov? However could that happen?”

Gunilla couldn’t make sense of her thoughts and was about to say something. Lars got in first.

“I suppose we’re quits now?” he said.

She didn’t understand, and narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Gunilla shook her head slowly.

“Sara … You murdered Sara.”

Lars stared into Gunilla Strandberg’s eyes. They were shut off. Lars gestured toward Tommy.

“He knows what you’ve done. He’s giving you until this evening to run. That’s probably the best offer you’ve ever had. Take it.”

Tommy was standing in a group of men and looked over toward Lars and Gunilla, and nodded almost imperceptibly. She turned to Lars.

“You’ve got nothing, Lars. I never let you have anything. Have you got even the faintest idea of why you were ever allowed anywhere near this?”

“Because I’m malleable?”

Gunilla looked at him in surprise.

“I took one of the microphones from Sophie’s house and left it in the office in Brahegatan. It’s all been recorded: Albert’s kidnap, the bugging, Sara’s murder, Patricia Nordström’s murder … It’s all there … loud and clear. I’ve got your notes and bank papers as well. The amount that you, Anders, and your brother stole over the years …”

Gunilla was standing still, staring at Lars, trying to find words, thoughts. Then she turned and walked away.

Lars watched her go, then headed back toward the church. He found a bench, sat down, and pulled out his cell phone, filling his lungs with air and gradually letting it out. The bells started to ring, and he raised the phone and keyed in the number. The ringing tone sounded foreign.

She answered with a hello. He got nervous when he heard her voice. He muttered his name. Her tone was abrupt, she didn’t sound at all happy that he had called. Lars apologized and said that everything had been sorted out, that she could feel safe now. She asked what he meant and he explained to her what he had done.

“I’m going to be away for a while,” Lars said.

Sophie was silent.

“Maybe we could meet up and talk sometime when I get back?”

Sophie ended the call.

They made a stop-off at Ruzyně International
in Prague. Leszek took her and Sonya to the VIP lounge, where they had a bite to eat and got some rest, their flight to Arlanda wasn’t due to leave for another couple of hours.

Sophie tried to read a newspaper. She folded it, stood up, and walked around to stretch her legs. She stopped to look through the window down onto the arrivals hall. People were milling around down there in a sort of organized chaos. This journey was approaching its conclusion, but it didn’t feel like that. Instead she had a constant sense that something had only just begun, that something big was in the offing. She let her eyes drown in the sea of people below. After a while she turned away. She saw Leszek lying asleep on a sofa, Sonya leafing through a magazine. She went and sat beside them, picking a magazine off the table. Sonya looked up from hers, smiled at Sophie, then went on reading.

From Arlanda she
went straight to the Karolinska. Jane and Jesus were sitting in Albert’s room, both reading books. Jane stood up and greeted Sophie with a long hug.

Albert was still unconscious. Her legs wouldn’t hold her any longer and she had to sit down. Albert looked so peaceful; maybe he was dreaming beautiful dreams, she hoped so, that was the only thing she hoped at that moment. She held his hand and time dissolved. The thousand and one thoughts that had occupied her in recent days, one single wish, just expressed in different ways — that Albert would be all right, one way or another.

She sat there for a long time, hours, perhaps. Then she left the room. She walked down the corridor, passing a man with a goatee beard and short hair who was sitting on a chair against the wall. He was trying to catch her eye and she stopped.

“I’m a friend of Jens,” he said discreetly before she had time to ask. “I’ll carry on making sure nothing happens to your son.”

He looked away, as if their conversation was over. She didn’t know what to say, she wanted to say something, and ended up whispering
“Thank you
.
”

She unlocked the
door of the house and stepped inside. The silence that met her was audible as little creaks in the building. She walked into the kitchen and stopped in the middle of the floor. She felt like calling out to him, let him know she was home. He’d answer, from either the television room or upstairs. He would sound angry even though he wasn’t, then she’d get on with putting the food in the fridge, or laying the table … or just sit down on a chair and read a magazine she’d just bought. He’d come down into the kitchen, joke with her. She’d ask about homework and tell him he ought to get his hair cut soon. He wouldn’t answer, and she wouldn’t mind.

But … no noise anywhere. No one else there apart from her. She felt like she was on the verge of collapse. She didn’t want that, she fought against it, and found her way back to something deep inside.

They arrived at
quarter past seven, the way guests usually do.

Sonya, Leszek, Ernst, Daphne, and Thierry were all in her living room. Leszek had taken up position by one of the windows and was keeping an eye on the garden and road. Ernst was looking at a painting. The others were looking at the photographs on the mantelpiece and talking among themselves.

She watched them from the kitchen as she finished preparing dinner. They were an odd crowd of people, but they were her crowd now, her people. Friends? No … not at all. Enemies? No, not that either. She felt alone, and she felt that she was playing her role. Perhaps that was what the others were doing as well.

They talked and ate. Sophie listened to the emotionless topic of conversation. Everyone agreed that they should lie low, wait and see what happened with Hector. The Hankes were going to die, the only question was how and when.