Vanished (2 page)

The living man looked at the two dead men for a period of time that he later couldn’t specify. He was interrupted by a gust of wind that threw him to the ground. He put out his hands to break the fall and placed one hand in a pool of brain tissue. The sticky, viscous substance seeping between his fingers made the living man suddenly feel violently sick. He threw up over the bumper of his car and then frantically wiped the sticky stuff off his hands on the upholstery of the driver’s seat.

The police’s central control room in Stockholm received the call from the Värtan Free Port at 5.31 a.m. The news reached the newspaper
Kvällspressen
three minutes later. Leif phoned in the tip-off.

‘Car 1120 is on the way to Värtan, plus two ambulances.’

At this time in the morning, forty-nine minutes after deadline and twenty-six before the paper went to print, the usual focused and creative chaos reigned in the newsroom. The red-eyed sub-editors were punching in the last headlines, putting the final touches to the front-page lead and captions, and correcting errors. Jansson, the night editor, was scrutinizing the dummies and sending off pages to print via the new electronic highway.

The worker responsible for answering tip-off calls at this point was the night-shift sub-editor, Annika Bengtzon.

‘Meaning?’ she said, taking hurried notes on a Post-it pad.

‘At least two murders,’ Leif said and hung up, in order to be the first with the news to the next newspaper. Second in line with a tip-off didn’t get any money.

Annika stood up and put the receiver down in one movement.

‘Two stiffs in the Värtan Free Port. Possible murders but not confirmed,’ she said to the back of Jansson’s head. ‘Do you want it in the first edition?’

‘Nope,’ said the back of the head.

‘Shall I give it to Carl and Bertil?’ she asked.

‘Yep,’ said the back of the head.

She walked over to the reporters’ area, the yellow note stuck like a flag on her index finger.

‘Jansson wants you to check this out,’ she said and pointed her finger at the reporter.

Carl Wennergren pulled off the note, a look of mild distaste on his face.

‘Bertil Strand is in, if you need to go there,’ she said. ‘He’s in the photo lab.’

Annika turned round and walked off without waiting for a reply from Carl. Their relationship wasn’t what you’d call ‘hearty’. She sank down on her chair. She was done in. The night had been a hard one with lots of last-minute saves. The night before, a hurricane had swept in across Skåne and continued up the country.
Kvällspressen
had put a lot of resources into covering the storm, and with considerable success. They had flown down both reporters and photographers on the last flight to back up the Malmö team. The journalists in Växjö and Göteborg had been at it all night, assisted by a number of stringers supplying both copy and pictures. All their material had ended up on the night desk and it was Annika’s job to organize and structure the articles. This meant rewriting every single one so that they would harmonize with each other and fit the context. Yet her name wouldn’t appear anywhere in the paper except for under the fact box about hurricanes that she had prepared in advance. She was a sub-editor, one among the many anonymous, invisible journalists.

‘Shit!’ Jansson suddenly shouted. ‘The damned yellow hasn’t reproduced on the front-page picture. The goddamn . . .’

He raced over to the picture desk and yelled out for the picture editor Pelle Oscarsson. Annika smiled wanly – Brave New World. According to the futurist gurus, digital technology would make everything work faster, safer and simpler. In reality, the little gremlin that resided in the ISDN cable that ran between the newsroom and the printers intermittently gobbled up one of the colour plates, usually the yellow. If the mistake wasn’t spotted, the outcome would be some very peculiar pictures in the paper. Jansson maintained that the colour-gobbler was the same little devil that lived in his washing machine and constantly ate that other sock.

‘ISDN!’ the night editor snorted derisively on his way back to his desk after the catastrophe had been averted and the picture retransmitted. “It Sends Damned Nothing.” ’

Annika tidied up on her desk.

‘Still, it worked out in the end, didn’t it?’ she said.

Jansson dropped into his chair and put an unlit low-tar cigarette in his mouth.

‘You did well tonight,’ he said and nodded appreciatively. ‘I saw the original copy. You really did a good job on it.’

‘It’ll do,’ Annika said, embarrassed.

‘What was that about some stiffs in the port?’

‘Don’t know. Do you want me to check?’

Jansson got up and walked over the
Smoking
cubicle.

‘Go ahead,’ he said.

She started out with the emergency services control room.

‘We’ve sent two ambulances,’ the manager confirmed.

‘Not bag cars, then?’ Annika asked.

‘We discussed it, but as it was a security guard who called in, we sent ambulances.’

Annika took notes. The bag cars, or hearses, were only sent in if the victims were certifiably dead. According to the rules, a police officer could only order out a bag car if the victim’s head was severed from the body.

She had difficulty getting through to the police central control room and had to wait for several minutes before anyone answered the phone. Then it was another five minutes before the officer on duty could come to the phone. When he eventually answered, he was clear and concise.

‘We’ve got two bodies,’ he said. ‘Two males. Shot. We can’t say whether it’s murder or suicide. You’ll have to get back to us.’

‘They were found in the City Free Port,’ Annika said quickly. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

The duty officer hesitated.

‘I can’t make any guesses at this point in time,’ he said. ‘But you’ve got a brain yourself.’

Putting the phone down, she knew the double murder would dominate the paper for several days to come. For some reason, two murders weren’t just twice as big as one murder, but infinitely bigger.

She sighed and contemplated getting a plastic cup of coffee. She was thirsty and felt faint. It would do her good. But caffeine at this time of the night would keep her awake late into the morning, eyes staring at the ceiling, her body throbbing with fatigue.

Oh, what the heck
, she thought and walked over to the machine.

It was hot and did her good. She went back to her chair at the night desk and sat down with her feet on the desk.

A small double murder in the Free Port, there you have it.

Annika blew at her coffee.

That the victims had been shot indicated that it wasn’t the result of a drunken brawl. Winos killed each other with knives, bottles, fists, kicks, or they were pushed off a balcony. If they ever had access to a weapon, they’d sell it to buy booze.

She finished her coffee and threw the mug in the bin. She went to the toilet and drank some water.

Two men didn’t point to murder and suicide, not in the City Free Port when a hurricane was blowing. Jealousy could probably be ruled out as a motive. That meant motives of bigger media interest were at play. A dispute in the underworld, meaning anything from biker gangs to various mafias and financial syndicates. Political motives. International mix-ups.

Annika went back to her desk. She was sure about one thing: she wasn’t going anywhere near this murder. There were others who would cover the murder for
Kvällspressen.
She picked up her clothes.

There was no morning shift on weekends, which meant that Jansson would stay on until the morning editions had gone to print. Annika stopped work at six.

‘I’ve had enough of this now,’ she said to the night editor when he walked past. He looked dead tired and would probably have liked her to stay.

‘You’re not waiting for the first edition?’ he asked.

The bundles arrived by courier from the printers fifteen minutes after printing began. Annika shook her head and called a cab, then got up and put on her jacket, scarf and mittens.

‘Can you come in early tonight?’ Jansson called out after her. ‘Sweep up after the hurricane hell?’

Annika hung her bag over her shoulder and shrugged.

‘Who’s got a life, anyway?’

Thomas Samuelsson touched his wife’s stomach lightly. The old firmness was gone; her flesh was soft and warm under his hands. Since she became branch manager at the bank, Eleonor didn’t have time to work out as hard as before.

His hand moved in circles downward, over her navel and down to the groin. His finger slowly trailed down and slipped in between her thighs, felt the hair, found the moistness.

‘Don’t,’ his wife mumbled and turned away from him.

He sighed and swallowed, then rolled over on his back; excitement throbbing like a hammer. He folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. He listened as her breathing slowed down again. She was never interested these days.

Annoyed, Thomas threw the cover back and went out into the kitchen naked, his dick a wilting tulip. He drank water from a dirty glass, then put coffee in a filter, filled the coffee maker with water and switched it on. He went to the bathroom and peed. In the bathroom mirror his tousled hair gave him a reckless look that was more in keeping with his age. He sighed and pushed his hair back.

It’s too early to have a midlife crisis
, he thought.
Much too early.

He returned to the kitchen and looked out the window at the sea. It was black and wild. Last night’s storm lingered in the sprays and white horses; the neighbours’ sundial lay overturned next to their terrace door.

What’s the point?
he thought to himself.
Why do we go on?

He was filled with a huge dark melancholy and realized that it verged on self-pity. There was a draught of cold air from the window –
damned jerry-built house –
so he went and got his dressing gown. A present from his wife last Christmas: green, blue and burgundy, and expensive; slippers to match, which he’d never used.

The coffee maker started gurgling. He took out a mug with the bank logo and switched on the radio, hitting the
Eko
news. The news items were filtered through his weariness and coffee, entering his mind at random. Hurricane sweeping through southern Sweden causing considerable damage. Households without electricity. Insurance companies making assurances. Two men dead. Security zone in south Lebanon. Kosovo.

Thomas switched off, walked out into the hallway and pulled his boots on. He’d get the newspaper from the letter box instead. The wind tore at the bits of paper, found its way in under his dressing gown, chilling his thighs. He stopped short, closed his eyes and breathed. There was ice in the air; the sea would soon freeze over.

He looked down at their house, the beautiful house her parents had built, designed by an architect. The light was on in the kitchen on the upper floor, the lamp over the table by a designer whose name he’d forgotten. It gave a greenish and cold light – an evil eye watching over the sea. The white tiles were grey in the light of early dawn. His mother had always thought it was the most beautiful house in all of Vaxholm. She had offered to make curtains for all the rooms when they moved in. Eleonor had declined, politely but firmly.

Thomas went inside. He leafed through all the sections without being able to focus on anything. As usual, he ended up on the ads for houses and flats for sale. ‘Four-bedroom flat in central Vasastan, tiled stove in every room. One-bedroom flat in the Old Town, penthouse w/ raftered ceilings, view in three directions. Timber cottage near Malmköping, electricity and water. Autumn bargain!’

He could his his wife’s voice:
Daydreamer! If you gave the stock market half the attention you give ads for flats, you’d be a millionaire by now.

She already was.

He immediately felt ashamed. She meant well. Her love was as firm as a rock. He was the problem. He didn’t have the energy. Maybe she was right in thinking that he couldn’t deal with her success. Maybe they should see that counsellor after all.

He folded the paper along its original folds – Eleonor didn’t like to read a second-hand newspaper – and put it on the side table that was reserved for post and magazines. Then he went back into the bedroom, slipped out of the dressing gown and crept back into bed. His wife wriggled in her sleep when she felt his cold body. He pulled her up against him and blew into her soft neck.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

‘I love you too,’ she murmured.

Carl Wennergren and Bertil Strand arrived late at the Free Port. As they parked the photographer’s Saab they were just in time to see the ambulances roll through the cordons. The reporter couldn’t help letting out an annoyed curse. Strand was such an extremely careful driver, keeping to 30 or even 20 m.p.h., even if there wasn’t a soul about. The photographer caught the unspoken criticism and was nettled.

‘You sound like a woman,’ he said to the reporter.

The men walked over to the police cordon, the space between them accentuating the emotional distance. But as the flashing blue lights and the police officers’ movements became clearly visible, the distrust faded away, action taking over.

The cops were working fast today. The storm probably had their adrenalin pumping already. The cordoned-off area was large, from the fence on the left side all the way over to the office building on the right. Strand sized up the situation: great place, almost right in the centre of the city and yet completely separate. Good light, clear yet warm. Magical shadows.

Carl Wennergren buttoned up his oilskin coat. Shit, it was cold.

They couldn’t see much of the victims. Junk, police officers and ambulances blocked their view. The reporter stamped his feet against the cold, hunched his shoulders and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets; he hated the morning shift. The photographer hauled out a camera body and a telephoto lens from his rucksack and glided along the cordon tape. He got a few good shots at the far left end: uniformed officers in profile, black bodies, plain-clothes technicians in caps.