The Nightmare (24 page)

The notes state she shrugged her shoulders at this point.

“Could you tell us something about those four days?” he asked.

“I come to Director Palmcrona’s apartment every morning at six. I am only allowed to use my key early in the morning, since Palmcrona sleeps until six thirty. He keeps regular hours and he never sleeps in, not even on Sunday. I grind the coffee beans in the hand grinder, cut two slices of brown bread, and spread extra salted margarine on them before I place two slices of truffle-filled liver pâté and pickles along with one slice of cheddar cheese to one side. I set the table with starched linen and the summer porcelain. I must remove all advertisements and the sports section from the morning papers and place them, folded, on the right side of his plate.”

With minute detail she ran through the entire preparation of Wednesday’s ground-veal patties in cream sauce as well as her preparations for Thursday’s lunch.

When she got to the point where she returned to the apartment with food for the weekend and rang the doorbell, she fell silent again.

“I understand that this might be difficult for you,” John Bengtsson said after some more time had passed. “But I’ve been listening to your every word for quite a while. You have gone through Wednesday and Thursday but not once have you said anything that might touch on Palmcrona’s unexpected death.”

She said nothing.

“I ask you to search your memory again,” John Bengtsson said with great patience. “Did you know that Carl Palmcrona was dead when you rang the doorbell?”

“No.”

“Did you or did you not ask Detective Linna whether he had been cut down yet?” John asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Yes, I did.”

“Had you already seen him dead?”

“No, I had not.”

“But what the hell!” John’s irritation burst forth. “Can’t you just tell me what you know? What made you ask whether we’d taken him down or not? You were the one who asked that! Why did you ask if you didn’t even know that he was dead?”

John Bengtsson noted that he’d unfortunately allowed himself to be provoked by the woman’s stolid avoidance of direct answers and that after he’d cursed, she’d closed up like a clam.

“Are you accusing me of a crime?” she asked coolly.

“No.”

“Then I believe that we’re finished.”

“We would really like your help…”

“I remember nothing else,” she said as she got up from the chair.

Joona looks at Saga. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead.

“I’m thinking about the interview with the housekeeper,” he says.

“Me, too.”

“John got fed up with her attitude and thought she was contradicting herself. He assumed that she knew that Palmcrona was dead when she rang the bell and we answered.”

“Right,” Saga says, still not taking her eyes from the road.

“But she was speaking the simple truth. She really did not know that he was dead. She believed he might be, but wasn’t sure,” he continues. “That’s why she said no to his statement.”

“Edith Schwartz sounds like an unusual woman.”

Joona says, “I believe she’s trying not to lie but still keep something secret from us.”

46

the photograph

Neither Joona nor Saga believe they’ll be able to get anything important from Edith Schwartz, but perhaps she can reveal where the photograph might be. They need it to solve this case.

Saga turns west onto Route 77 underneath the highway viaduct on the way to Knivsta, then almost immediately turns off onto a small gravel road paralleling the highway.

Low spruce forests line fallow fields. The masonry edge of a manure pool has broken and its tin roof is hanging lopsidedly.

“We should be there,” Saga says with a glance at the GPS.

They slowly roll up to a rusty boom and stop. As Joona gets out, he hears the dull drone of traffic on the highway. Twenty meters along, they can see a one-story house of dirty yellow brick. Decorative shutters are screwed on, and moss covers asbestos cement sheeting on the roof.

As they approach the house, they hear an unusual whirring sound. They glance at each other and move cautiously toward the outer door of the house. A rattling noise is coming from out back; then they hear the metallic whine again, coming closer. Racing around the house comes a German shepherd, mouth gaping wide. He slams to a stop a meter away from Saga, jerked back onto his hind legs by a long leash. He shuffles back a little, crouches, and begins to bark. He tosses his head from side to side to set himself free. As he jumps, the leash slides along a wire line with a whining, rattling sound.

The dog turns to rush at Joona but is choked back again. He barks dementedly but stops the second he hears a voice from inside the house.

“Nils!” a woman commands.

They hear the floor creak inside and a moment later the door opens. The dog scurries back behind the house and the whirring sound disappears with him.

“We need to talk to you,” Joona says.

“I’ve already told the police everything I know,” she replies.

“May we come inside?”

“No.”

Joona glances past her into the dark interior of the house. The hall is littered with pots and pans, plates, a gray vacuum-cleaner hose, clothes, shoes, and a rusty crayfish pot.

“We can stay outside,” Saga says reassuringly.

Joona glances at his notes. It’s routine to go over details from an interrogation to catch any discrepancies or even catch someone out in a downright lie they no longer remember correctly. “What did Palmcrona have for dinner on Wednesday?”

“Ground-veal patties in cream sauce,” she says.

“With rice?” asks Joona.

“With potatoes,” she replies. “Always boiled potatoes.”

“At what time did Palmcrona return to his apartment on Thursday?”

“At six in the evening.”

“What were your duties when you left Palmcrona’s apartment on Thursday?”

“He gave me the evening off.”

Joona looks directly into her eyes and decides there’s no point in beating around the bush. He goes straight to the point.

“Did Palmcrona fix the noose already by Wednesday evening?”

“No,” says Edith.

“That’s what you told our colleague, John Bengtsson,” Saga said.

“That’s incorrect.”

“Your interview was recorded,” Saga wants to say, but she finds herself so irritated, she decides to keep quiet.

“Did you ask Palmcrona any questions about the noose?” Joona asks.

“We never discussed private matters.”

“But isn’t it odd to just leave a man with a noose hanging from his ceiling?” asks Saga.

“Well, what could I do? Stay around and watch him?” Edith replies with a small smile.

“That’s true,” Saga agrees calmly.

For the first time, Edith inspects Saga. Without embarrassment, she runs her eyes from Saga’s fairy-tale hair caught back in a colorful headband to her clear face and down to her jeans and running shoes.

“Well, I must say, I find this a bit confusing,” Saga says. “You told our colleague that you saw the noose on Wednesday, but just now, you said the opposite.”

Joona checks his notebook for Saga’s earlier question.

“Edith,” Joona says, “I believe I understand what you’ve said.”

“That’s good,” she replies.

“Concerning the question of whether Palmcrona hung up the noose on Wednesday, you said no—because Palmcrona wasn’t the one who put it up.”

The old woman gives Joona a hard look. Then she says firmly, “He tried, but he couldn’t do it. His back was too stiff from his operation last winter … so he asked me to.”

Silence falls again. The trees surrounding them are completely still in the heat of the day.

“So you were the one who tied a laundry line into a noose and hung it from the ceiling?” Joona asks.

“He tied the knot and held the ladder when I climbed up,” she says.

“Then you put the ladder away, went back to your normal duties, and went on home after washing up the dishes from Wednesday’s dinner,” Joona says.

“That’s right.”

“You came in the following morning,” he continues. “You began the day as usual by making his breakfast.”

“Did you know that he wasn’t already hanging from the noose yet?” Saga asks.

“Well, I took a peek into the small salon,” Edith answers.

The shade of a sarcastic smile appears for a split second on her closed face.

“You’ve already told us that he’d eaten breakfast as he usually did, but that he didn’t go to work Thursday morning either.”

“He was in the music room for at least an hour.”

“Was he listening to music?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Right before lunch, he placed a call,” Saga says.

“Well, that I don’t know. He went into his office and closed the door, but before he came to eat his lunch of boiled salmon, he asked me to order a taxi for two o’clock.”

“Was he planning to go to Arlanda Airport?”

“Yes, he was.”

“And at ten minutes to two, someone called him?”

“Yes, he’d already put on his coat and he answered the hall phone.”

“Did you hear what he said?” Saga asks.

“‘It’s not a nightmare to die,’” replies Edith.

“I’ve asked you what he said,” Saga repeats.

“Now you’ll have to excuse me,” Edith says shortly and begins to close the door.

“Just a second,” Joona says.

The movement of the door stops and Edith frowns at him through the gap without reopening it.

“Did you sort Palmcrona’s mail today? Do you have it here?” Joona asks.

“Of course.”

“Please bring us everything that’s not an advertisement,” Joona requests.

She nods, walking into the house, leaving the door ajar, and returns with a blue bowl filled with mail.

“Thank you,” Joona says as he takes the bowl.

Edith closes the door completely and they hear her locking it behind her. A few seconds later, they hear the whirring of the dog’s tether again. They hear his aggressive barking behind them as they walk to the car and climb in.

Saga starts the engine, then puts the car into gear and turns it around. Joona puts on protective gloves to sort through the letters in the bowl and then pulls out a manila envelope with a handwritten address. He opens it carefully and just as carefully slides out the photograph for which at least two people have died.

47

the fourth person

Saga Bauer pulls onto the shoulder of the road and parks. The grass in the ditch is so tall it brushes the passenger-side window. Joona Linna remains absolutely still as he contemplates the photograph.

There’s something fuzzy on the upper edge of the picture, but in general, it is perfectly sharp. Probably the camera was hidden and the photograph taken secretly.

There are four people sitting in the large box of a concert hall. Three men and one woman. Their faces are clearly visible. Only one person is turned away, but even that face is not hidden.

There’s champagne in a chiller and the table has been set so they can converse and eat and still listen to the music.

Joona recognizes Carl Palmcrona right away. He holds a champagne flute. Saga can identify two of the other people.

“That one is Raphael Guidi, the weapons dealer mentioned in the blackmail letter,” she says as she points to a man with thin hair. “And the one looking away is Pontus Salman, the head of Silencia Defense.”

“Weapons,” Joona says.

“Silencia Defense is a well-known company.”

Under the spotlight, onstage behind the men, a string quartet can be seen: two violins, a viola, and a cello. The musicians are all men. They sit in a half circle, their faces calm in concentration. It’s hard to tell if their eyes are closed or slightly open, whether they are looking at their music or simply following the different parts.

“Who is the fourth person, the woman?” Joona asks.

“Let me think and it’ll come to me,” Saga replies as the wheels turn in her mind. “I do recognize her, but … damn…”

Saga’s voice fades as she stares at the woman in the picture.

“We have to find out who she is,” Joona says quietly.

“Right.”

Saga starts the car and, at the same time she bumps back onto the road, she has the answer. “That’s Agathe al-Haji,” she says. “She’s the military adviser to President Omar al-Bashir.”

“Sudan.”

“Right.”

“How long has she been his adviser?”

“Fifteen years or so. I can’t really remember.”

“So what’s going on in this picture?” Joona muses.

“I have no idea. I mean … the fact that the four of them are meeting is not so strange. Perhaps they are discussing business proposals,” Saga speculates. “These kinds of meetings happen all the time. This could be a first encounter. You meet, explain your intentions, and maybe ask for ideas, even a preliminary decision, from Carl Palmcrona.”

“And his positive reaction could mean that the ISP will most likely give export permission in the end?”

“Exactly. It would be a good indication.”

“Does Sweden usually export war matériel to Sudan?” asks Joona.

“No, I don’t think so,” she answers. “We should ask an expert. I believe that China and Russia are the largest exporters to Sudan, but I’m not so sure anymore. There was a peace pact made in Sudan in 2005 and I imagine that the export market was opened after that.”

“So what does this picture tell us? Why would Carl Palmcrona take his own life because of it? I mean, they met in public in a concert-hall box.”

In silence they keep driving south on the dusty highway while Joona goes over the photograph again and again, turns it over, notices the torn corner, and thinks.

“So this actual photograph cannot be dangerous to anyone,” he states.

“Not if you ask me.”

“Did Palmcrona take his own life because he realized that the person who took this picture could expose something? Maybe the photograph is just a warning? Maybe Penelope and Björn are more important than the picture?”

“We don’t know a damn thing.”

“Yes, we do,” Joona says. “The problem is that we don’t know how to connect the dots. We’re still guessing at the orders for this hit man. It looks like he was only trying to find this photograph to destroy it and that he killed Viola because he thought she was Penelope.”