The Other Son (35 page)

He leaned forward, picked up a folder from the table and put it on his lap, then leafed through it. Ann Margret was babbling on about Antonia Miller.

“She makes repeated calls to her mom, who lives in Falköping, to a Japanese restaurant, to that Ulf, and makes occasional calls to a friend….”

Tommy went on reading, and Ann Margret kept going. An echo of something appeared in his consciousness.

“Ulf who?” he interrupted.

Ann Margret stopped talking, considered his question, and went back in her mind.

“Ulf,” she said. “He's in Surveillance! Ulf Lange.”

Ann Margret leaned over to the wine box and pressed the magic button. Her glass filled up.

“You had information about him in previous reports.”

Ann Margret drank some wine.

“Antonia talks to him by phone a few times a week,” she said. “They might be in a relationship, I wrote that I suspected as much. I haven't got any evidence, but it seems quite likely. So I wrote it down for you. My own analysis, if you like.”

“Do they talk to each other during work time?” he asked.

“What?”

“Do they talk at work, or privately?”

“Let's see,” she said, then cleared her throat and tried to hide her nerves.

Ann Margret leafed back through the folder on Tommy's lap, leaning close to him, ran her finger down the list of contents, and pushed it in by one of the numbered tabs.

It took time. She had to move the folder from Tommy's lap to the table as she looked for the phone number and times.

“Mm-hm, as I thought,” she said weakly. “Outside working hours. They mostly talk in the evening….”

“And you say they're in a relationship, Ulf and Antonia?” Tommy asked.

“I don't know for sure, but I looked at a number of factors and eventually concluded that—”

“You're a star, Maggie,” he interrupted, without any feeling.

Her face broke into a crooked smile.

“Well, thank you.”

“One last thing,” he said. “Could you get hold of something for me?”

“What?”

“Lange's phone calls. A list of calls he's made and received over the past two weeks.”

“Ulf Lange?”

Tommy smiled. What the fuck was wrong with the woman? “Yes.”

“No problem, that's easy,” she said merrily.

Ann Margret got to work at her computer.

Tommy took the folder and looked back through it, then started again from the beginning. He scanned page after page.

He was almost taken aback by what he read. Surprised that the image that emerged was so clear. In purely structural terms, the folder was a fucking open book about what Tommy had been up to.

He glanced at the woman beside him, still banging on, trying to show how clever she was. Did she really not have any idea of what was going on? It was all there, after all, and in the right order, too. Anyone who spared it more than a passing thought would realize that Tommy Jansson, as a result of the questions he had asked her over the past six months, was in all likelihood involved in the deaths of Gunilla Strandberg and Lars Vinge.

Was she completely stupid, the woman sitting next to him?

“Here you are, Tommy,” she said with a smile.

Ann Margret turned the screen toward him, and he read through Ulf Lange's call history. One number of particular interest stood out. It appeared many times at odd times of the day. Ulf had received the first call from that number the day after Tommy had searched Antonia's apartment.

“Can you check to see who owns that number?”

She tapped at her keyboard.

“I'm afraid not. It's an unregistered pay-as-you-go cell phone.”

Bingo.

Tommy copied the number from the screen on a page of the file.

“Well, we should celebrate this!” he said, closing the folder noisily.

She laughed. “Celebrate?”

He emptied his glass.

“You've done a remarkable job, Ann Margret. Let's go out!”

She laughed, not quite understanding.

“What?”

Tommy hid his irritation, he hated having to repeat himself.

“Let's go out and celebrate!”

“Now?”

“Yes! But let's have another drink first.”

Ann Margret's laughter bubbled happily.

“Goodness! Right, then!”

Tommy and Ann Margret, in her tragic little kitchen. He made sure she carried on drinking wine until she was completely drunk and lost the fragile hold on reality that was all she could possibly have. And she did. Ann Margret got to her feet and danced badly to the music, looking up at the ceiling with her arms held out from her body.

She lurched forward and tried to kiss him. Her judgment was screwed.
Perfect.

Tommy found a carton of orange juice and a bottle of Campari in the fridge door, and a clouded bottle of vodka in the freezer. He mixed a lethally strong cocktail in the Campari bottle—not much juice and a hell of a lot of spirits. He found two glasses.

“One for the road,” he said in English.

She tried to figure out what he was saying, but it was too hard.

They were sitting
in his car, she was drinking the cocktail, spilling it on the seat, and kept fiddling with the radio: she wanted music. “One Night in Bangkok.” She sang along, and he cast a disgusted glance at her. She was making this so easy for him.

It was a long drive, but Ann Margret was hammered and had a very weak grasp of time.

They turned off where Ove had killed Miles Ingmarsson, Ove Negerson's favorite place for drowning people.

“Where are we?” she asked. She was slurring her words, and sounded grouchy.

“Out in the countryside, we're going to have a little picnic,” he said.

Ann Margret jerked her head to look at the impenetrable darkness. Then she looked back at Tommy.

“Here? But it's dark, and winter?”

“Yes, but you can't really complain about the weather—come on!”

Her mood suddenly changed.

“No, I don't want to. I want to go home now, Tommy.”

“Don't be so fucking boring,” he said with a laugh, then opened the car door and got out and walked around the hood toward her door.

Ann Margret panicked and locked the door, trying to hide her growing unease with a forced smile through the window.

Tommy tapped on the glass, then bent down closer to her.

“What's the matter, Ann Margret? Open the door!”

“I want to go home now, Tommy. It's late, I'm freezing, and I'm tired.” She had sobered up in an instant.

He knocked hard on the glass.

“Stop being silly, come on, let's have a drink.”

She looked down at her lap, her lips pursed tightly.

Tommy used the remote key in his pocket to unlock the door and quickly opened it. She tried to move across to the driver's seat, but he grabbed hold of her arm. Ann Margret screamed as he dragged her out of the car. Her white slacks got splattered with muddy snow, and he let go. She tried to get up and run, but he caught her easily. The water was some way off. He decided it would have to happen here instead.

Tommy pushed her down on her back in the grass, put his hands around her throat and pressed hard. She was silently mouthing his name. He looked away, breathing into his arm.

As Ann Margret struggled and shook beneath him, Tommy Jansson decided to stop drinking.

The fire was burning in the living room.

“Why Malmö?” Mikhail asked from his armchair.

“I don't know,” Sophie said. “Roland said the location was a multistory garage. That I should take Lothar up to the top floor…”

She was standing up, arms crossed, and was fiddling with the rug with her foot, staring down at it.

“And what did Aron say when you told him the location?” Jens asked from the other armchair.

“Nothing, he just said yes. That they would be there.”

“No objections?”

“No…”

“What else did you say?”

“That Hector was to wait on the top floor, like Roland had told me.”

“And Aron just accepted that?”

“Yes.”

“How is the exchange supposed to happen?” Mikhail asked.

“I'm to wait until Hector shows up. Hand Lothar over to him and leave. Albert will be waiting in a car on the floor below.”

Jens and Mikhail exchanged a glance. Sophie saw it.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. I just think the whole thing is odd,” Jens replied.

“Tell me something that isn't odd,” she said.

“It's difficult,” he whispered.

They paused.

“Well, now we're here, Jens,” she said.

“Where?”

“You said that even if I could give Hector to the Hankes, you doubted that they'd let me have Albert back.”

“Mm…Yes, I said that.”

“Do you still think that?”

He didn't say anything.

“So what's your advice?” she said.

“I haven't got any advice, Sophie.”

“Stop it, Jens. Tell me what to do!” She sounded upset.

“Can you choose not to go?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No, I can't do that.”

“Well, then.”

“We'll have to assume the exchange is going to take place. And that we'll be leaving there with Albert,” Mikhail said.

Sophie closed her eyes, then opened them again.

“What do we do?” she said.

“I mustn't be seen,” Mikhail said. “I'm Hanke's former bodyguard; both sides would start shooting at me. I'll wait nearby with the getaway car. Jens can keep an eye on the floor of the parking garage where Albert's going to be left. You and Lothar do as you've been told.

“There are three groups,” Mikhail went on. “Us, the Hankes, and Hector's gang. Let them fight it out, not us. Just quick in, quick out, and don't upset anyone we don't have to.”

Sophie stood for a moment with her arms clasped around herself, her head bowed.

“I'll go and check on Lothar,” she whispered, and left the living room.

The wood on the fire crackled and hissed. Mikhail scratched the back of his neck.

“They're going to kill Hector on the roof of the garage,” he said to Jens.

“Aron must have realized that?”

“Yes. He'll have snipers set up nearby.”

“How are the Hankes thinking?”

“That depends on who's taking care of this for them. Kill Hector…or capture him. I don't know.”

The fire went on burning, and the next day got closer.

Sophie had paid for an apartment in Stockholm via two false businesses and a fake name. The real estate agent, Peter, had been bribed, threatened, and frightened by an unknown man of Polish origins. Antonia and Miles had eventually managed to get the address out of him.

It was three o'clock in the morning when they reached Eriksbergsgatan and stopped outside the door to Sophie Brinkmann's building. The newspaper delivery showed up fifteen minutes later, brought by a girl in a tracksuit. Miles and Antonia pretended to be a bit drunk, said they'd forgotten the code, and followed her into the stairwell, stumbled a little, then took the elevator up, passing the girl as she was on her way back down.

Brinkmann's apartment was on the third floor. Antonia looked through the mail slot—there was a metal grille inside, impossible to force open. On the floor was a pile of papers and mail.

“Impossible,” she said.

They went back down and out into the street. Miles took a few steps backward, then looked up at the façade and pointed.

“That balcony belongs to her apartment.”

His eyes went to a drainpipe attached to one corner of the building.

“You could get across fairly easily.”

Antonia looked. It was high.

“Me?” she asked.

Miles raised his bandaged hand.

She bit her lip, kicked off her shoes, and dropped her coat on the ground.

She tugged hard at the drainpipe a couple of times, then started to climb up it. Her arms were strong, and she made her way farther and farther up with her legs locked around the drainpipe to support herself.

Miles lit a cigarette.

Antonia was getting close. She stopped for a moment to gather her strength, then she grabbed the lower part of the balcony railing. The balcony shuddered. She hung there swaying for a moment.

Miles watched her from below, smoking to calm his nerves. Antonia pulled herself upward, caught hold of the top of the railing, heaved herself up and over, and landed on the balcony. Antonia stood up, kicked through one of the windows in the balcony door, and disappeared inside the apartment.

Miles stood there waiting, chain-smoking cigarettes; he said hello to a young couple going by, waved to a solitary dog. A half-drunk young man wove his way past and asked for a cigarette.

“
Watch out!
”

Miles looked up, something was flying toward him. A plastic bag. It was falling through the air at high speed. His instincts kicked in and he caught the bag like a goalkeeper, with his cigarette still in his mouth.

Antonia made her way down the drainpipe.

She picked up her gray coat and put it back on, then slipped her shoes on.

“OK, let's go home, Miles.”

They emptied the
contents of the bag on the floor of the fuck pad.

Antonia had gathered together anything connected to Sophie. Even things that at first glance didn't seem to offer any useful information at all.

She went through every object, thoroughly and carefully, then passed it on to Miles. Her concentration was infectious. Miles double-checked everything.

Handwritten notes, an address book, receipts, bank statements, photographs, a napkin with a handwritten number on it. Information about her son Albert's school, handwritten scribbles on a newspaper, a stack of old bills and other documents.

“OK,” Antonia said to herself, looking at the pile on the floor in front of her. She held her hand out.

“So this is Sophie Brinkmann.”

Miles looked through the address book.

“We're going to have to make some calls,” he said.

“It's still the middle of the night,” she said.

“At least people are at home then,” he said.

They worked their way through Sophie's address book, pretending to be colleagues from work or old friends. Sleepy answers, nothing useful.

Antonia Miller looked at the handwritten number on the napkin. A German country code. She dialed the number.

A ring. A very long ring…then another one.

The phone was picked up at the other end, and a mumbling male voice answered.

Antonia took a chance.

“Sophie,” she said simply.

“
Hello, Sophie,
” the voice said in broken English.

“Who am I talking to?” Antonia said in a neutral voice.

“
It's me, Rüdiger.
”

“I want to get hold of Sophie,” she said quickly in English.

“
I can't help you,
” the man replied.

“Her life is in danger.”

“
That's not enough,
” he said calmly. “
I'm going to hang up now, don't call back.
”

“Wait!” Antonia cried. “Are you in touch with her?”

The man didn't answer. Antonia decided to go for it.

“My name is Antonia Miller, I'm a Swedish police officer, her life is in danger, mine too. I'm in hiding, and I think she's doing the same. I have to get hold of her.”

The man remained silent, but he hadn't hung up.

“I'll give you my phone number,” she said.

No answer.

She told him her number. Then, when she was finished, the man hung up.

Stefan Andersson worked in Forensics. He was a computer specialist who kept an eye on racehorses.

Tommy was sitting in his car, talking to Stefan on his cell phone, hands-free.

“Saturday, Stefan. Which ones do I bet on?” Tommy asked.

Stefan started babbling about horses, jockeys, results, and his own complicated theories about who would come in first, second, and third.

Tommy wasn't listening. He waited until Stefan had finished, then said, “Thanks. And what can I do for you in return?”

“
I want that forensic IT job, but you already know that.
”

“I know, and I've spoken to your boss about it, just be patient.”

“
Thanks, Tommy.
”

“Don't mention it….Actually, there was one more thing.”

“
Oh?
”

“I could do with some help tracing a cell phone—”

“
You just have to download the right app.
”

“I don't want a fucking app,” Tommy said.

“OK, give me the number.”

Tommy read the number out. It was a little while before Stefan spoke again.

“
I'm not getting much. The GPS is switched off.
”

“So what have you got?”

“
That the phone is probably somewhere in Vasastan. But it's a big area. I'm localizing it from the towers used to make the last call.
”

“You can't say where it is, then?”

“
No, not at the moment. But I'll keep an eye on it, Tommy, in case the GPS gets switched back on. Then I'll be able to locate it, down to the nearest meter. I'll be in touch.
”

“OK, thanks, Stefan,” Tommy said.

“Good luck this weekend.”

“With what?” Tommy wondered.

“The races.”

“Sure.”