Europa Blues

5

SINCE SARA SVENHAGEN was having trouble working out why she was in an unmarked police car, en route from Kungsholmen to a motel somewhere in Stockholm’s southern suburbs, her thoughts drifted back to that morning. They floated in through an elegant doorway in Birkastan, up a genuine art nouveau staircase and in through a door marked with the area’s only foreign name, through the stylish but messy kitchen of a little three-roomed flat and then into a loudly creaking marital bed. Just as she caught a first glimpse of her fiery latin lover’s olive-coloured skin, the long panning shot of her thoughts was broken by an aggressive honking of a horn. Her attention was brought back to being in the passenger seat of an unmarked police car, en route from Kungsholmen to a motel somewhere in Stockholm’s southern suburbs.

So it goes.

Kerstin Holm let out a particularly coarse string of abuse, turned round and said: ‘I am sorry.’

Sara Svenhagen pulled a face and managed to focus on her older colleague behind the wheel.

‘I don’t know what I’m meant to be forgiving,’ she answered honestly.

Kerstin Holm looked at her and smiled wryly.

‘Let me guess where you were,’ she said, giving the finger to a confused old man in a checked cap driving a silvery Volkswagen Jetta.

‘What did he do?’ Sara Svenhagen asked, still half asleep.

‘He just proved that driving licences have a best before date. Don’t try to change the subject. You were in the bedroom of a newly bought three-roomer in Birkastan. Right?’

Sara smiled weakly and felt like she had been caught red-handed. Kerstin nodded self-righteously, struggling with the lid of a stubborn pot of snus tobacco and eventually managing to push a portion of it up under her lip.

‘You still haven’t told me what it cost.’

‘It was pretty run-down…’

‘That’s a new one. Nice. Normally I hear: “We exchanged for two rentals”, “the price per square metre was surprisingly low”, and then the cryptic “second mortgage rates are pretty good at the minute”. I want a hard figure.’

‘Two point two.’

‘Thanks,’ Kerstin Holm said, accelerating gratefully.

‘Including two rentals. One of which was in Rågsved.’

‘Sounds pretty cheap.’

‘It was a good price. The price per square metre was surprisingly low. And it was pretty run-down.’

‘What did you get for your place on Surbrunnsgatan?’

‘I didn’t sell it illegally. We exchanged.’

‘Who said you sold it illegally? That came from the heart.’

‘Three hundred thousand. And I think they saw Jorge’s bloody studio in Rågsved as more of a punishment. A cross to bear.’

‘So it was up around two and a half million?’

‘Almost. We were thinking of having a house-warming party next weekend. What do you think?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Other halves are welcome too.’

Kerstin Holm accelerated slightly less gratefully.

‘Wow, what a subtle turn of events,’ she said gloomily. ‘What a smooth interview technique.’

‘Let’s hear it now,’ Sara Svenhagen said, turning to face her. She couldn’t quite escape the feeling that Kerstin Holm was the proudest person she had ever met. Even in profile – her dark, elegant, dishevelled hair; the well-defined lines on her face – everything suggested a kind of innate proudness which, she had to admit, she admired. It had been almost a year since Sara Svenhagen had joined the A-Unit and the two women had worked together a few times, but she had never felt that she was a real, proper equal. In her eyes, Kerstin Holm was the best interviewer the police corps had to offer, and she still had plenty to learn from her. That did mean it was tough sometimes, when you knew she had seen right through you. After a conversation with Kerstin, it was as though you had no secrets left. Everything always came out. But with Kerstin herself, the exact opposite was true: she was one big mystery. So that meant it felt good to have turned the conversation around. Even though Kerstin had clearly seen straight through it.

‘I’ll be coming alone,’ Kerstin said, guiding the old Volvo out onto the E4 motorway. ‘If that’s OK with you.’

And with that, the conversation was over.

They drove in silence for a while. Both were searching for something to talk about. It wasn’t an easy task. Sometimes, it was just too awkward. Sara knew that back in the beginning, Kerstin had been with Paul Hjelm, a married man. Her own husband Jorge Chavez’s partner and best friend.

It all felt a bit complicated.

‘Is it true he’s the only darkie in the neighbourhood?’ Kerstin Holm eventually asked.

That broke the ice. The two of them laughed. It felt good.

‘It’s very, very true,’ Sara said, then, changing tack: ‘Where are we going, exactly?’

‘No idea,’ Kerstin Holm said, still laughing. ‘No, we’re going to the Norrboda Motell in Slagsta. The refugee centre is full, so the immigration authorities have been renting rooms in the motel. Apparently some of the refugees staying there have gone missing. There seems to be a whiff of international criminality to the whole place, so they’ve called us in to take the case. If it even turns out to be a case. Any other questions?’

‘What kind of whiff?’

‘The motel seems to have been a bit too self-sufficient. A whole load of smuggling has been linked to it, with the Russians and the Baltic states mostly, but there’ve also been suggestions of prostitution. And a few of the women who’ve gone missing now are suspected to have been involved in that.’

‘So in other words, a group of whores have disappeared?’

Kerstin Holm pulled a face as they drove through Skärholmen in the cool but bright May afternoon.

‘It’s looking that way,’ she reluctantly admitted.

‘Who reported it?’

‘The owner, apparently. He’s been the subject of certain suspicions himself. Jörgen Nilsson’s his name.’

‘What kind of suspicions?’

‘Not seeing, saying or doing anything. But he’s been cleared. Reporting this is probably just a way of showing us that he’s on the right side.’

Sara Svenhagen leaned back in the worn-out passenger seat. She was forced to admit that she didn’t quite understand the priorities of Swedish immigration policy. From certain countries, primarily the EU member states, it was clearly possible to immigrate quite freely. Becoming a Swedish citizen was no problem. But from others, it seemed to be a completely impossible task. To even stand a chance, you had to seek asylum and claim to be a refugee. That meant you had to make sure not to stop off in any other countries along the way. If you managed that trick – which in itself meant increasing numbers of deaths, with people suffocating in containers or dying of dehydration in the boats transporting them – then you ended up in a refugee centre while your case was considered. The combination of growing numbers of asylum seekers, tougher regulations and more sweeping staff cuts meant that waiting times were becoming more and more absurd, the refugee centres brimming over and being outsourced to private businesses, usually second-rate motels and hostels. There, you would find people with terrible experiences behind them, rotting away in some kind of limbo for years on end. Sara couldn’t quite understand how they were then expected to become integrated, functional citizens – nor how so many people actually managed it.

She had tried reading up on the subject. It was impossible to avoid it. On 1 July, the national immigration authority would change its name to Migrationsverket. The idea was to enable a general oversight of migration and the movement of people, as well as the country’s immigration, integration and return policy. The latter was something new. Provisional refugee was a concept that had only recently emerged, above all in connection to the Yugoslav wars. Simply put, the Swedish government let people stay for a while, until it was safe for them to return home, and when they did eventually go back, it gave them a small contribution for not becoming the burden on the state they would otherwise have become if they’d stayed. In doing so, they gave the whole business an aura of voluntariness. An idea which was a pure fiction.

The essence of this new migration concept was – if Sara had understood correctly – that returning was viewed as an equally crucial moment as integration. You could infer a great deal about contemporary society’s attitudes from that, she thought.

The old Volvo had reached Slagsta, which lay squashed up like an artificial idyll against the shore of Lake Mälaren before you came to places like Fittja, Alby, Norsborg and Hallunda – names synonymous with a high immigrant population. In any case, it was home to the ugly Norrboda Motell, a long, five-storey building of classic seventies architecture. Both detectives stood speechless for a moment, each of them longing for a glimpse into the mind of the architect. That was, in all likelihood, precisely what they got the moment they set foot in its uniform corridors, clad in urine-coloured carpets and matching, age-faded institutional material on the walls and ceilings. So this was the first image that Swedes-to-be were given of their future homeland.

It was probably a deliberate part of the national return policy.

Just past the deserted reception, they found the manager’s office; it was nothing more than a motel room among others. Jörgen Nilsson met them with a nervous heartiness. Sara thought she recognised the type immediately. An idealist from ’68, someone who had wanted to fundamentally change society but instead found himself transformed into something resembling a prison guard-cum-bureaucrat. The grimace of bitterness writ plain on his face.

Perhaps that was unfair. He was probably doing his best.

Jörgen Nilsson gestured for them to sit down in his utterly anonymous office. He perched on the edge of the desk and began speaking with the energy of a self-righteous man.

‘Four rooms have been emptied. There were two women in each. Eight missing asylum seekers.’

‘What does “missing” mean?’ Sara Svenhagen asked innocently.

‘That they should’ve reported to me this morning,’ Jörgen Nilsson replied, looking at her with a surprised expression, ‘but didn’t. I went to their rooms – they’re next to one another – and realised they were gone.’

Kerstin Holm felt obliged to explain.

‘We’re from CID,’ she said. ‘We don’t normally get involved in immigration cases.’

‘CID?’ Jörgen Nilsson blurted out, his face turning noticeably pale. ‘It’s just a few… women who’ve gone underground. It happens every day somewhere in Sweden.’

‘But it’s happened a few too many times here, hasn’t it?’

‘I’ve been completely cleared of all those allegations. They were bitter, rejected refugees, those people who filed reports against me. Completely baseless. You know that full well.’

Sara Svenhagen shifted in her seat and said: ‘What were you planning on saying just then, instead of “women”?’

Jörgen Nilsson stared furiously at her.

‘What? For God’s sake, haven’t you got anything better to do?’

‘You were planning on saying something other than “women”. You paused like you were swallowing some kind of ill-thought-out word. What was it?’

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of an appreciative look from Kerstin. It gave her encouragement.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Nilsson said, getting up from the edge of the desk and pacing around the tiny room. It seemed slightly laboured.

Kerstin Holm pushed another portion of snus tobacco under her lip. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it with malicious slowness. Reading it, she eventually said:

‘You moved here in September last year. In October, a Russo-Lithuanian cigarette smuggling group was uncovered. In December, it was the illegal movement of Coca-Cola from Turkey. In February, a couple of Gambians were stopped with large amounts of brown heroin. And in March, we had reports of prostitution. It was the word “whores” you were trying to stop yourself from saying, wasn’t it?’

Jörgen Nilsson continued his pacing. Despite his highly strung state, he seemed to be busy weighing up the pros and cons of talking. He came to a decision, paused, and returned to the edge of the desk.

‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Kerstin Holm. ‘You’ve got to understand how hard it is. These people seeking asylum are locked up for months. Years, sometimes. Obviously they’ve got to have sex lives of some kind during that time. The whole thing’s a powder keg from the very start, and trying to control their sex lives would be like putting a match to it. I admit, the number of partners does get a bit much sometimes, if you see what I mean, but reporting them for it would be the same as sending them straight back home. I try to be tolerant. And yes: sometimes I might’ve looked away a bit too often. Let’s call it my form of civil disobedience. I won’t be a concentration camp guard, for God’s sake.’

‘You’re not the one we’re after,’ Holm said, feeling sudden sympathy for the exasperated man in front of her. ‘But we’re worried something might’ve happened to these women. Why else would they go underground if – with your blessing – they’ve been able to go about their business relatively undisturbed here? They didn’t have any rent to pay, after all.’

‘Though it’s entirely possible they were paying in one way or another,’ Sara Svenhagen said, looking at Holm, who pulled a disapproving face. It was plain it was the thought she disapproved of, not what Sara had said.

Jörgen Nilsson’s diatribe was preceded by a brief shifting gaze. Then it came:

‘Am I accused of anything here? Just come out and tell me exactly what it is you want. Are you seriously accusing me of sexually exploiting asylum seekers? Just spit it out! Do you think I’ve chopped eight women up into pieces and eaten them or something like that?’

Sara felt like she might – though only might – have gone a step too far. She had taken on the role of ‘bad cop’ voluntarily, without thinking it through. It had just happened.

‘Like we’ve said, you aren’t the one we’re after,’ she said courteously. ‘But it’s important you aren’t sloppy when you think it through – because that’s what you’ve got to do now. Has anything unusual happened, anything at all, the past few days? What about yesterday evening, last night, this morning? Could any of the neighbours have seen anything? Who knows about the prostitution? Do you know any of the johns? Is there a pimp?’

Kerstin waited until Sara was finished. Then she stood up, pushed a pad of paper and a pen over to Jörgen Nilsson and said: ‘Keys to the rooms, please. We’ll go and have a look round while you get your answers to those questions together. And provide us with the most comprehensive information on the missing women you can.’

The keys were placed in her hand, and as they left the manager’s office, they could clearly hear the scratching of pen on paper; frenetic, as though done by a man with a knife to his throat.

Both detectives walked down the corridor with stony faces – right until they turned the corner and reached the stairs. Then they started giggling like schoolgirls. The moment passed. As they climbed the stairs, Kerstin Holm said gruffly: ‘It’s important you aren’t sloppy when you think it through.’

‘It just came to me,’ Sara said with a hint of smugness, running her hand through her cropped blonde hair. ‘What reason could he have for keeping quiet about prostitution in the refugee centre?’

‘Just when I’d started to like him. I actually fell for his whole civil disobedience thing. Me, an old dear, I’m more naive than you. That feels weird.’

‘Don’t say that. All the crap I saw when I was working with the paedophile unit… It’s nothing to be jealous of. And you’re not an old dear.’

‘Mmm,’ Kerstin Holm replied, gravely serious.

They came to the rooms, four doors next to one another in the middle of a seemingly endless corridor two floors up. Rooms 224, 225, 226 and 227. After fumbling with the keys, they made their way into number 224. Unmade beds against two of the walls; an empty desk; a couple of empty wardrobes, doors flung wide; ugly strip lighting on the ceiling and the same piss-coloured wall-to-wall carpet and institutional fabric as everywhere else. It was clear that the atmosphere wasn’t part of what the brothel had to offer. People came here for raw sex, nothing more, nothing less. Even the reading lamps were bare strip lights.

They stood for a moment, taking in the scene.

‘What’s your intuition telling you?’ Kerstin asked, a question aimed as much at herself as Sara. ‘Is it worth calling the technicians in? Do you think they’ve just done a runner? Or has something happened to them? Sara?’

‘Fingerprints, semen…’ Sara thought aloud. ‘Yeah, well… should we take a look at the other rooms first?’

The other rooms were remarkably similar. In fact, there was barely anything to distinguish them. It was like that classic nightmare: no matter which door you opened, the very same room was waiting on the other side.

Both women knew that it would take multiple, time-consuming interviews before they would even start to form an idea about what had happened here. And by then, it would be too late for the technicians. They would have to go on their intuition. Breathe the rooms in. Try to find some small clue as to what had happened.

They thought about the decree from above – from the CID department head, Waldemar Mörner – which obliged staff to minimise their use of the National Forensic Laboratory, since its services were, in his view, ‘criminally overpriced’.

They stood for a moment, trying to get a sense of the atmosphere. Then they nodded, both at the same time.

‘Yup,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘Something’s not right.’

‘No,’ said Sara Svenhagen. ‘Something’s not right.’

And so they called in the technicians. Not that it was easy; they were busy elsewhere.

‘Skansen?’ Kerstin Holm exclaimed into her mobile. ‘What the hell are they doing there? Wolverine shit?? OK, OK, someone’s been reading their Ellroy…’

She hung up on her boss, Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin, and shook her head. Doing so still hurt slightly. Just over a year ago, she had been shot, leaving her left temple paper-thin. Her hair was still refusing to grow back over it. She poked at the little bald spot which her dishevelled black hair was managing, with some trouble, to cover.

‘Don’t ask,’ was all she said as they relocked the doors and headed back downstairs.

When they reached the manager’s office, Jörgen Nilsson had already filled ten or so sheets of A4. They looked at one another and groaned.

It would be a long afternoon.