Black Lies, Red Blood

Thirty-three

The afternoon meeting, called by Ottosson and the prosecutors Fritzén and Hällström to summarize the investigation of the murder of Bo Gränsberg and subsequent events, Ingegerd Melander’s death, and the murder of Jeremias Kumlin, was a long, trying sitting. It was Friday and everyone had been working intensively the whole week, the majority with hours of overtime. The force was decimated by illness and vacation, and the investigation had swelled out to almost unsurveyable proportions. So despite the widespread fatigue, a summary was needed.

Ottosson had Sammy Nilsson make a chart on the whiteboard, with photos of those involved and brief information below each. Arrows ran across the board in an intricate system, not entirely clear to everyone, pointing to connections between those involved, established links indicated with solid lines, and others with dotted lines. Question marks, written in red, were abundant.

The given question was: Were they dealing with the same murderer where Gränsberg and Kumlin were concerned?

It was not obvious. The only known link that existed between them was a twenty-year-old photo. Henrietta Kumlin had never heard the name Bo Gränsberg. When she and Jeremias met, he had just finished his bandy career. She said that later they went to a few Sirius parties, including an anniversary dinner, but could not recall more than a handful of names, and Gränsberg was not one of them.

She could not identify him on a photo either, either in the group photo or pictures taken later.

“So did she recognize the journalist, that Brant?” Riis asked.

Sammy Nilsson shook his head.

“Where the hell is he?”

Sammy Nilsson looked at Riis, who had a talent for letting every question sound like an insult or an accusation.

“In Brazil,” he said, smiling.

“A fucking Nazi,” Riis exclaimed, whose line of thought was not always easy to follow, but Sammy Nilsson and most of the others understood that he was thinking of the many Nazis who fled to South America in the final stages of or after the Second World War. “What the hell is he doing there?“

“That’s less interesting,” said Sammy. “I think we can remove him from the investigation. He met Bo Gränsberg in his work. Brant is writing a book about homeless people in different countries, and it was in that connection he visited Gränsberg. They knew each other from before. The notebook we found in Gränsberg’s shed that he got from Brant was to write down some of his experiences.”

“How the hell do you know that? Have you talked with Brant?”

“No,” said Sammy Nilsson.

“You, Haver?” Riis continued, turning around.

Ola Haver, whose task had been to trace Anders Brant and who to the surprise of everyone except Ottosson had returned to work that morning, shook his head.

He looked so miserable that even Riis thought it a good idea to leave him alone.

Sammy Nilsson seized the opportunity, giving Ottosson a quick glance before continuing, hoping that Riis would let go of Brant.

“Then we have the question of Henrietta’s absolutely certain assertion that the ‘fence man’ was Russian.”

“Do we know what her husband was working on right now?” asked the prosecutor, Fritzén.

“Not entirely, and perhaps we’ll never know,” Fredriksson interjected.

He was the one, along with Olof Myhre at the financial crimes unit, who had taken on Kumlin’s business activities.

“Jeremias Kumlin owned several companies, some on his own, some with Russian partners, among them this Oleg Fedotov, and almost all of them concerned gas and oil. There are a few exceptions and those involve surveillance systems and alarms. It’s impossible to speculate about what was worrying Kumlin. It’s a tangle of companies, and for that reason there are any number of conceivable explanations,” Fredriksson summarized his and Myhre’s impressions.

“Are there any relevant documents?”

“Yes,” said Fredriksson. “A whole room full. He used a room on the top floor as an office. Myhre thought it would take at least a month to go through all the papers, and what might be considered relevant is impossible to say.”

“A hitman from the East,” the trainee Nyman said for no reason, seeming to find the thought of the Russian mafia appealing.

“But Kumlin was just about to go to Moscow,” the prosecutor resumed. “He must have prepared for the trip, wouldn’t there be documents packed in his bag?”

“No, his packing consisted solely of a computer, clothes, and a toiletries case,” said Fredriksson. “We found a locked bag on the garage floor. It’s clear that Kumlin was on his way out and was surprised by the murderer in the garage.”

“The murderer may have brought the bag with him,” the prosecutor objected.

“Maybe,” said Fredriksson calmly. “But Henrietta doesn’t think so. Her husband had the habit of getting his bag ready the night before and putting everything by the door to their garage, or by the outside door if he was going to take a taxi. That particular evening, according to his wife, there was only the suitcase with clothing, nothing else, by the door. Kumlin fell asleep early in the evening in front of the TV, was awakened by Henrietta at eleven thirty and then went straight to bed.”

“But going to see a business partner in Moscow without any documents seems improbable to say the least. He may have had them in his office and brought the papers down in the morning,” Fritzén countered.

Fredriksson shrugged.

“It’s possible,” he said. “My theory is that when Kumlin came into the garage the ‘fence man’ was there, ready with the pipe wrench. Then if there were papers or not-”

“But maybe it was those very papers that were the target of the attack,” the prosecutor persisted.

“We may never know that,” said Fredriksson.

“How did he get in?” Fritzén asked.

“The garage door to the street was unlocked.”

Fritzén pushed his glasses up onto his head and rubbed his face.

“What a mess,” he said, and that probably expressed what they were all feeling that Friday afternoon. “An unknown man who disappears. The only thing we have is a pretty good facial description, which fits a few million Russians, and Swedes too for that matter. And Henrietta Kumlin maintains that her husband did not recognize him.”

Fredriksson had slid far down in his chair-the others were convinced he was dreaming about walks in the forest-so it was Sammy Nilsson who continued the brainstorming.

“It was probably Jeremias who said that, and we can imagine he did not want to admit it to his wife. He was also against calling the police. He did not even want to go out and ask what the man was doing. Completely passive, in other words, and that’s a little peculiar.”

“It doesn’t indicate great fear exactly,” said Fritzén. “I don’t think he recognized him or felt any real threat. Then surely he would have acted differently.”

Submerged in his own musings, Sammy Nilsson thought, where does Brant fit in? Was it too hasty to remove him from the list of interesting persons? He remembered again the material he had found on the journalist’s desk that prompted him to call Ann, but that had been forgotten in her agitated state.

Russia. Putin. Was there something in that? Anders Brant was an investigative journalist, perhaps he had dug up something that had to do with Kumlin’s business deals, even something about Oleg?

Sammy Nilsson kept this to himself, and decided to plod ahead on his own on that line of inquiry. This would mean having to get into Brant’s apartment one more time. Nilsson, the building manager, would surely no longer be as accommodating.

After two hours of discussion and arguing, the gathering broke up. Their collective fatigue was monumental, and nothing new had actually emerged, but it had been a necessary session, everyone realized that. Seemingly meaningless talk might waken slumbering insights to life, perhaps not during the meeting, but over the weekend or next week or in a month. That was how police work functioned. It was only Riis who complained loudly of wasted time.

Sammy Nilsson went past Ann Lindell’s office, but it was empty. He had heard about the disappointing result of the questioning of Magdalena and Andreas Davidsson. Both had been able to leave the building, without Lindell having become any wiser.

Fredrik Johansson had also been released, after Prosecutor Molin and Lindell had conferred. It could not be proven that Fredrik was the perpetrator. The timing was the reason, and as long as they could not present evidence that Fredrik had returned to the shed in Skärfälten, or that his father’s car had been driven to the garage, they had no case.

Sammy could imagine Lindell’s disappointment. Twice convinced that the murder was about to be solved, twice forced to see it would not hold. Would there be a third time?

He sauntered back to his office. It was already three thirty and he should go home. The weekend was earmarked for a visit to Tärnsjö in northwest Uppland, the promised land of mosquitoes, where the livestock went crazy and the camping sites were going out of business due to bloodsucking insects, who propagated at a magnificent rate in all the windings of the nearby Dala River, and then visited the area in dense clouds to attack every living thing.

It was not an enticing visit, but Angelika’s coworker and close friend was turning forty and having a party. There was no avoiding it. Sammy Nilsson had a feeling he would get drunk, and perhaps that was the only way to put up with the mosquitoes. The Tärnsjö mosquitoes ate insect repellent for breakfast, and mosquito candles and other types of incense only got them excited. But on the other hand, in that part of the landscape they were surely accustomed to alcohol too.

Just when he had decided to leave the building, the phone rang. He hesitated before answering, but picked up the receiver after the fifth ring. It was Morgansson.

Sammy Nilsson immediately noticed in the northerner’s serious voice that he had something unusual to tell. The technician said that Lindell had just stopped by and asked to look at the protocol from the investigation of Anders Brant’s apartment. When she left the tech squad she looked completely destroyed, did not say a word to Morgansson or anyone else, simply closed the folder, sat awhile staring blankly, and then more or less staggered away like a sleepwalker.

Sammy Nilsson realized immediately what had turned her into a zombie, but had no time for a follow-up question before Morgansson barreled ahead with an intensity that Sammy had never experienced before.

“I’ve also secured a print in Ingegerd Melander’s apartment.” Sammy Nilsson could not avoid noticing how the excitement was mixed with pride. “You know how Bea is, she’s extremely nitpicky. I’ve been trying to get hold of her but haven’t been able to.”

Sammy Nilsson was not surprised. Beatrice had an unfailing capacity to disappear and cover her tracks when the weekend was approaching.

“And?”

“Hold on now,” said Morgansson. “It’s Anders Brant’s fingerprints, a clear index finger on the toilet paper holder.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“Yes,” said Morgansson contentedly. “Crystal clear. He used the john at Ingegerd’s.”

Sammy encouraged the technician to immediately call Ottosson so that he could inform the prosecutors.

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

“Go to Tärnsjö and fight mosquitoes,” Sammy replied. “Well done, Charles! But call now, so you don’t miss Ottosson!”

Sammy Nilsson hung up and immediately called Lindell’s cell phone. No answer. He went back to her office. Empty. Irresolute, he stood awhile going back and forth before he took the elevator down to the garage.