MemoRandom: A Thriller (7 page)

Never forgive, never forget
was written in ornate golden letters on the silk ribbon. The men who had in all likelihood sent the wreath were all standing in the group just behind Atif. A couple of dozen people, almost all men. Most of them were wearing sunglasses even though the sun had barely risen above the pine trees. Several of the men had nodded to Atif as he and Cassandra hurried past in the chapel. There were a few familiar faces, but most of them were unknown. In Adnan’s world, friendship was often a perishable commodity.

In a short while he would have no choice but to talk to them. Shake their hands, accept their condolences. He wondered whether any of them drove a large Audi with shiny wheel trim. But that was really none of his business. Cassandra wasn’t the sort who liked living alone; she needed a benefactor. Someone to take care of her. Her and Tindra, he corrected himself. The thought of the little girl made him feel slightly brighter. But the feeling vanished when he looked down into the grave again.

He was hardly in any position to stand in judgment over Cassandra. If it hadn’t been for him, Adnan might have stood a chance. Might not have ended up as a five or six pounds of ash in a cheap urn before he had even turned thirty-five.

Money, respect, recognition—that was what it was all about. Adnan had followed in Atif’s footsteps, the way he used to in winter when he was little. Adnan had followed the path marked out for him, not reflecting on where it was going to take him. Or on the fact that he was actually walking around in a large circle and would end up back where he started sooner or later. Atif had tried to make his little brother understand—at least that was what he tried to tell himself afterward. Had tried to persuade him that the only way to get anywhere in life was to dare to take a step into unknown territory. But clearly he hadn’t sounded convincing enough.

After the move to Iraq they only spoke a few times a year. Christmas and birthdays, little more than that. They had mostly talked about Tindra or their mother, never about work—his own or Adnan’s. But Atif had still got the impression that Adnan knew he had changed sides. Maybe their mother had mentioned it, before she disappeared into her own memories. She and Adnan had always been close. He was the youngest, Mommy’s little boy.

During the early years there had been vague talk of Adnan moving down to join them. They talked about setting up their own business, a security firm, something like that. When their mother got worse Atif even bought a plane ticket for his
brother. But a week before he was due to leave, Adnan was arrested for taking part in the robbery of a security van and locked up for two months. The trip was never mentioned again after that. It had never been more than idle talk, Atif thought. Adnan would never have left Tindra. The same would have applied to him if it had been his daughter.

Atif looked around at the rows of snow-covered gravestones. He hated Swedish cemeteries. He hated the smell of box hedging, which even the snow was unable to hide. The day after tomorrow he would be leaving and going back to the heat, to his house and garden. Leaving all this behind him, for good.

A gust of wind caught the dark pines, making a dull, rumbling sound that drowned out the funeral director’s concluding words. Beside Atif Cassandra shivered and pulled her coat tighter.

Sleep well, little brother,
Atif thought.

•  •  •

“So, how are you feeling, David?”

Sarac gave a little shrug. “Bruised, sore, a bit confused. Apart from that, not bad.” He was clutching the piece of paper in one hand, keeping it under the covers, out of sight of the thin-haired man in the visitor’s chair.

“The doctor said something about gaps in your memory?”

Sarac tried to force a smile, then glanced down at the note that the nurse had written for him.

You’ve had a mild stroke.

You were involved in a car accident in the Söderleden Tunnel on November 23, 2013.

Your doctor’s name is Jill Vestman.

The gaps in your memory are . . .

“Temporary,” he said quickly. “That’ll improve as soon as the swelling goes down a bit.”

At least Sarac had no trouble remembering Kjell Bergh. He
had recognized his balding, overweight boss the moment he walked through the door. Bergh was the sort of man who could never be taken for anything but a police officer, even though he didn’t wear a uniform. There was something about the way he held himself and his weary but watchful eyes. Almost forty years in the force had left their mark.

“So how much do you remember?” Bergh adjusted the vase of flowers he had just put on the bedside table. There was a note of tension in his voice.

“The accident and the days leading up to it are a bit of a jumble,” Sarac said. “The weeks before too. But all that’s only—”

“Temporary.” Bergh nodded. “Yes, you said.”

“The car accident. Can you tell me what happened?” Sarac said.

Bergh shrugged his shoulders and pushed his thin glasses up onto his forehead.

“You drove straight into one of the concrete barriers in the Söderleden Tunnel. Next to the exit for Skanstull. Head-on, no rubber on the road to suggest that you braked, according to the traffic unit. Molnar’s group got there just after the accident and managed to put the fire out. I heard that a couple of the guys were in tears, it looked so bad.”

Sarac nodded and gulped.

Bergh leaned closer to the bed. Sarac suddenly noticed the dark patches under the man’s eyes.

“We had to open the safe,” Bergh said in a low voice. “It’s standard procedure when a handler . . . I mean, we weren’t sure if you were going to make it.”

Sarac nodded, trying to work out why he didn’t want to tell his boss the truth about the gaps in his memory. His sense of unease began to grow again. It made him clutch the piece of paper even tighter.

“Kollander was there, as head of Regional Crime. He and I used our codes, all according to protocol,” Bergh went on, pulling a face. Sarac’s heart immediately began to beat faster. “Your
envelope was empty, David.” Bergh’s voice was so low now that it was almost a whisper. “No backup list, no names, nothing.”

Sarac slowly shook his head. He could feel the headache gathering strength in his temples. Suddenly there was the sound of voices out in the corridor and Bergh glanced quickly over his shoulder. Then he leaned even closer to Sarac, so close that it was possible to smell the garlic on his breath.

“I managed to get the head of Regional Crime to hold back on filing an official complaint. Or at least wait a few days, until we’d had a chance to talk to you. None of us want Dreyer and the Internal Investigation team snooping about the department again.” Bergh licked his lips. “Kollander’s wetting himself. Says we might have a mole in the department. Someone selling information. It’s only a matter of time before he goes running to the district commissioner, and you know what that would lead to.”

Sarac gulped again and tried to moisten his lips. But his tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Forty years in the force, only three left to retirement. None of that would count for anything when it comes to Operation Clean Threshold. Just look at what they did with the Duke. The district commissioner has set her sights on becoming the next national police chief, and nothing’s allowed to spoil her pitch. Nothing!” Bergh’s face was now bright red, and his tired eyes looked worried. Almost frightened.

“Well, I, er . . .” Sarac tried to say something but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, once, then several more times. He suddenly noticed that his right hand was cramping. He slowly forced it open and glanced down at the crumpled piece of paper.

“I trusted you, David,” Bergh said. “I didn’t ask any questions, I let you run your own race.” A little drop of saliva flew out of his mouth and landed in front of Sarac. “Up to now the results have been fantastic, but now you’ve got to explain what’s going on. The missing list, and your crash. That can’t be a coincidence. Someone’s after you, David. And after your CI.”

Sarac swallowed again, trying in vain to moisten his mouth and lips.

“Do you remember what job you were working on?” Bergh hissed. “Was it weapons, drugs? What instructions had you given your CI? Who was he targeting? For Christ sake, you must remember something?!”

More voices in the corridor, closer this time. Bergh spun around toward the door.

The scrap of paper in Sarac’s hand gradually unfurled. He could see some of the writing. But it wasn’t the nurse’s even handwriting he could see. There was something written on the back of the paper. Jagged capitals that looked as if they had been written with a lot of effort.

EVERYONE IS LYING

DON’T TRUST ANYONE!

Bergh turned back to Sarac, who quickly slid his hand back under the covers. The voices in the corridor were clearly audible now. One of them belonged to Dr. Vestman.

“You have to hand him over, David,” Bergh hissed in his ear. “I can protect him, you—the whole department. But you have to give me Janus!”

The smell of perfume lay heavy in the little entrance hall to the chapel. About fifty people in total, Atif estimated. Considerably more than he had thought at first. A seventy-thirty split between men and women. Almost all of them were younger than he was; a few of them didn’t look like they were even twenty-five. More than half the men had gym-pumped bodies and a swaggering walk. They were also relatively smart and well turned out. There were a couple in tracksuits and a few more in jeans and hoodies, with T-shirts underneath with gang symbols on them. But most of them were, like him, dressed in cheap black suits from Dressman. Diamond earrings, gold necklaces and bracelets—all the predictable gangster accessories. Atif didn’t recognize any of the men, but he still knew exactly who they were. Or rather, who they were trying to be.

Did I used to be like that? Did you, Adnan?
Silly question . . .

They had all shaken his hand, fixing their eyes on him and giving it a good squeeze. To show that they didn’t back down for anything, never showed any cowardice. But at least half of them had had sweaty palms and not even their overwhelming aftershave could hide the smell of fear. The first of them had made the mistake of attempting some sort of ghetto hug. But Atif had been prepared; he locked his lower arm, and stopped the man halfway. He had given him a quick look, which the man had been smart enough to pick up. The rest of them figured out the rules, even the women.

It was different with Cassandra; she hugged them all and took her time over it. She let them kiss her on both cheeks and
seemed to enjoy being the center of attention in her role as the grieving widow.

He had exchanged a few words with Cassandra’s parents and some of the older guests. Naturally they had all said nice things about Adnan. How pleasant and considerate he was, how much he loved his family. Atif had listened, knowing full well that they weren’t just the usual funeral clichés. Adnan had been an easy person to like, he always had been. Open, cheerful, funny, loyal. He could think of a whole heap of adjectives.

Atif slid over to the coffee machine in one corner of the hall, put in a ten-kronor coin, and waited as the machine set to work. He tried to force his mind to change track. Soon he would be sitting on the plane.

A plastic mug slid out, then the machine squeezed out a thin brown trickle. The mug filled slowly, as if the huge machine were really doing its best to produce some liquid.

“Atif, my friend.”

With the plastic mug in his hand he turned around. He had identified the hoarse, rasping voice before he saw the familiar face. He couldn’t help smiling.

“Abu Hamsa!”

He leaned forward and let the fat little man kiss him on both cheeks. Abu Hamsa was an old friend. Atif’s mother had worked in one of his bars a long time ago. Atif, and later Adnan, used to hang out there after school. Running small errands in exchange for the occasional bar of chocolate or can of cola. Hamsa was one of the old guard. He owned a couple of neighborhood bars, a few exchange bureaus, and loaned out money—no champagne orgies or luxury villas, no overblown signs of success. Nothing to attract the attention of the police, or anyone else, for that matter.

“Envy, boys . . .” he used to say in his hoarse but simultaneously slightly shrill voice. “Envy is fatal. If you make too much of a show of success, people will want to take it from you!”

Hamsa was content with what he had, the status quo suited
him, with its calmness and balance. For that reason he was also a popular mediator, someone everyone trusted. He must be close to seventy now, yet there wasn’t a single gray hair on his head. He probably dyed both his hair and his little mustache. The rug on his head also looked suspiciously thick: Abu Hamsa had always been rather vain.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss, my friend,” he hissed in Arabic. “Your brother was a fine young man. He deserved a far better fate than this.”

“Thank you, Abu Hamsa,” Atif said as he blew on the scalding-hot coffee.

“How long are you staying, my friend?”

“I’m going back the day after tomorrow.”

“Ah, so you’re not looking for work?” Abu Hamsa smiled.

Atif shook his head, which seemed to make the little man’s smile even wider.

“Wise decision. Things aren’t what they used to be. The consultants are taking over, even in our business. Everything is being opened up to competition, there’s no honor anymore, no loyalty. High time for people like me to get out. Let younger talents take over, inshallah.”

Abu Hamsa made a small gesture toward the ceiling. Atif couldn’t help looking over at the young men who were still flocking around Cassandra. A couple of them were glaring in his direction. He drank some coffee without looking away.

“You can hardly blame them.” Abu Hamsa seemed to have read his mind.

“How so?”

“You still have a certain . . . reputation, my friend. There was a lot of talk when you left. Some people really weren’t happy, and even suggested that you were letting everyone down.”