Project Nirvana (39 page)

He took the bus to Södertälje central station and then he indulged in a taxi to a spot on Nyköpingsvägen where it crossed the Bränninge river.

Two hundred and thirty crowns to drink his thermos in solitude, but it was worth every crown. His plan was to follow the waterway to the Länna lake for his first coffee break.

The area was remote and a light rumble from the traffic on the E4 motorway in the distance was all that he could hear. The ground was muddy and he carefully tramped his way along beside the river.

It was an unfamiliar feeling to be out in the countryside on a normal working day, he thought. At the same time, his body was euphoric. The old-age pension was one of society’s best inventions. To be able to do as you please and still get paid every month was unbeatable. After twenty minutes’ hiking through the wet mud, he arrived at his favourite rock. He cast a glance over the lake, which was totally tranquil. The noise from the E4 was gone.

There was an easterly wind, which made the silence total. He poured out a full cup and sat back on his back pack. A forest pigeon swooped down from a tree and landed at the water’s edge. It started to pick at something. After a while, it flew off over the lake and Gunnar watched it. Then, his eyes were caught by an object. It was shiny and looked like the metal body of a car. He stood up and put his glasses on. Damned right it was a car. Damn it. There was just one road that went to the edge of the lake and, of all the gravel roads in the country, somebody had chosen to use this one today. So he was no longer alone and his mood had evaporated. He finished off the remainder of his cupful and put the thermos back into his back pack.

Then he started to deliberate. Something he often did after partaking of alcohol. Who comes all the way here on a weekday and parks their car in the bushes? Hardly mushroom- or berry-pickers at this time of year? Perhaps a pensioner like himself, seeking a little solitude. Perhaps someone dumping a stolen car. Or perhaps drug addicts. He imagined a pair of drug-users sitting in the car, splitting their haul of stolen valuables.

Except for continuing to deduct tax for driving to work long after selling his Ford, Gunnar was a law-abiding taxpayer. He was filled with a strong desire to make clear to the addicts that they were not alone here. He wouldn’t allow them to encroach upon his favourite spot, much less defile it with stolen cars and other such ill-gotten gains. On TV, he had seen how these dropouts might be armed with infected syringes and knives. Even handguns. Nonetheless, he was determined to find out exactly what mischief they were up to. He took out the thermos and poured out a full cup of coffee. Although the coffee was hot, he downed the entire cupful. An invigorating warmth spread through his chest.

Fortified by the coffee, he began making his way towards the car. No sign of life yet. After a while, he stopped. Behind two bushes, he glimpsed two men. They were up to something, but he could not see what it was. He also noticed that there were more cars. One was a big van. It was turning into a bloody car park. Then he saw the flames. The men disappeared and black smoke quickly spread. He heard the sound of engines starting and, from the bushes, he saw the van and another car driving back onto the gravel road. The easterly wind soon blew the smoke in Gunnar’s direction. He frowned as he tried to think. Had they intentionally set a forest fire?

The cars drove at high speed on the gravel road and soon they would be passing him. He was damned if he would let them get away; he was going to get their registration numbers and call the police. These weren’t addicts; they were pyromaniacs. He moved closer to the road and hid behind a big rock. Now he would be able to see their number plates as they drove by. Seconds later, both vehicles speeded past. He managed to read the number plate of the van, but he had nothing to write it on. His memory after thirty years at Albert Setterwall was not at its best and when he really needed paper and pen he naturally did not have it. He looked around to see as if he could find something to write on. He found a solution. An engineer had to be innovative. He broke off a twig and drew the letters and digits of the number plate in the muddy earth by the side of the big rock. The rock would be his landmark.

As soon as the vehicles were out of sight, he hurried towards the smoke. He stopped in surprise after a few metres. It was a car that was in flames. The heat and smoke hit him like a wall, so he was forced to cover his mouth. Cautiously, he approached the flames. He circled around so that the wind was at his back. He glimpsed something in the car and tried to focus his eyes, despite the heat. He took a few more steps, despite the risk of the petrol tank exploding. Then he saw what it was. The horrific sight made him stumble backwards. The body inside the car was burning like a human torch. The mouth and eyes were black holes. The charred body was sitting upright and the face was twisted into a grotesque, tormented expression. His chest stabbed with pain and he had to sit down quickly, with his heart in his throat. A dark blue cloud soon enveloped the car. He had to get away from the toxic smoke. Gunnar got to his shaking legs and took a few steps away from the car. He had to call for help. Now he appreciated the usefulness of mobile phones, which until now, he had rejected.

The mud and stones by the river made it difficult to run. He tripped several times and fell so badly that he almost couldn’t get back up. Something was wrong with his foot.

Limping, he continued to follow the Bränninge river. He was forced to stop and rest several times, so it was more than thirty minutes before he finally made it onto Nyköpingsvägen.

After a few moments, a car approached from the north. Gunnar walked to the centre of the road and started to wave his arms. The car slowed down at first, then it accelerated and swerved around him. Gunnar looked at the disappearing car in astonishment. Then another car approached from the opposite direction. The red Nissan slowed to a standstill and Gunnar limped up to the driver’s door.

“You have to call the police,” he gasped.

An elderly lady looked anxiously at Gunnar through the window glass. “What’s that?”

“Call the police and the fire service, right now!”

“Whatever for?” she asked, looking around.

“There is a car on fire at Länna lake. Just do as I say.” Gunnar pulled open the driver’s door so that the woman would realize that he was serious.

“Do you have a mobile phone in there?” he asked, pointing at the lady’s handbag.

She nodded and took out her mobile phone.

“Give it to me,” Gunnar ordered and grabbed the mobile phone from her hand after she had dialled 112.

“Send a fire engine, police and an ambulance to the Länna lake outside Södertälje,” Gunnar shouted into the phone. “There’s a body burning inside a car and I have the registration number of the ones who did it.”

Fifteen minutes later, the first emergency vehicle arrived.

Walter observed thomas
Kokk. Kokk was obviously not the best poker player in the room.

“What’s the problem?” Walter asked.

“The last trace of Borg is from when he used one of his personal credit cards to hire a car in Södertälje,” Kokk explained.

“How long have you known that?” asked Walter.

“Just recently,” Kokk said, without further explanation. “There has been, however, a new development.”

“Indeed?” Äsa Julén remarked; even she was becoming irritated by the scanty revelations of information.

“The car that Borg hired went up in flames next to a lake in Södertälje. According to the chassis number, we identified his Volkswagen Golf as the same hire car. A charred corpse was found in the vehicle.”

A brief silence. Then the room erupted with low murmers.

“When will we be able to verify that it is Martin Borg in the car?” asked Julén, cutting off the hubbub.

“As soon as the DNA tests are complete,” Kokk answered.

Julén shook her head, increasingly irritated. “Yes, I realize that. When will the DNA results be ready?”

“We’ve sent our own forensic technicians to the scene and have also requested assistance from the National Laboratory of Forensic Science,” Kokk replied. “Perhaps in a few hours, depending on how quickly SKL processes the evidence.”

“Do we know when this happened?”

“Yes, we also have a witness to the incident. The witness saw the offenders leave the crime scene and had the presence of mind to write down one of the number plates.”

“Who’s the owner of the vehicle?”

“We don’t know yet,” replied Kokk. “The witness can’t find the spot where he wrote down the number plate. Apparently, he wrote it in the mud and we are expecting a storm soon, so there is a risk that we may not find it.”

“Pull in all your personnel and do a blanket search of every inch of the area.” Walter said.

“But that’s impossible . . .”

“I see two candidates for the victim in the car,” Walter interrupted determinedly. “Leo Brageler or Martin Borg. My best bet is Borg.”

“Why?” Jonna asked.

“Because Borg is a liability and a potential risk,” answered Walter. “They know that we have our eyes on Borg, who is now the weakest link. They kept Brageler alive in the building and there is no reason to kill him now.”

“Perhaps Brageler was no longer of any use to them,” Jonna suggested.

“Maybe. But then they would hardly get rid of him by torching him in a car hired by Borg. I’m more inclined to believe that they have moved Brageler. We still don’t have any leads as to who they are or what their agenda is. Something is driving them. Something bloody important that is making them nervous, so they are taking unnecessary risks. Even killing their own.”

“Despite the appearance of a criminal organization, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Julén said, fidgeting nervously with her pen. “It doesn’t have to be an organization. It could be a few individuals . . .”

“This is a well-informed group of extremely dangerous people, whose identities are unknown to us,” Walter interrupted. “Unknown, at least, to County CID. Perhaps SÄPO has something to tell us?”

“If we do, we’ll let you know,” Kokk answered briefly.

“I thought as much,” said Walter and threw the Chief Prosecutor a resigned look. Julén quickly averted her gaze and returned to reading some papers.

She could teach the others how to play poker, Walter thought, tossing his pen onto the table.

In her wildest
imaginings, Jonna would not have believed that the democracy she had pledged to protect harboured such ruthless elements. Conspiracy theories were one thing, but this was really sick. She could not comprehend what was in the minds of these individuals, nor what was driving them. She didn’t have any theories. If she were still working at RSU and had been so incapable of formulating an analysis, she would spend the rest of her tenure fetching coffee for the other analysts.

If they discovered the cause that Martin Borg had espoused, perhaps they would find an answer. If it was a group they were looking for. It might just as well be random accomplices, not an organized group. The more people involved, the greater the risk of detection, a fact that contradicted Walter’s theory about a large organization. Unless they were fanatics. Individuals not motivated by personal gain.

She sat in the well-worn visitor’s chair as Walter closed the door behind her.

“SÄPO know a lot more than they are saying,” he said, walking to the window. He gazed down at the street.

“What makes you think that?” Jonna asked.

“They almost always do. They never reveal more than is necessary. I think there’s a link between the man that died in detention last year and Martin Borg, other than the fact that he was interrogated by Borg.”

“Such as?” Jonna asked, interested.

“What was the strongest motive for Borg’s line of investigation into Drug-X?”

Jonna looked at Walter thoughtfully.

“Well, it was his interest in the Islamic terrorists,” she said.

“Yes, he had an excessively zealous conviction that they were behind everything.”

“So?”

“I think you understand,” Walter said, turning around.

At first, Jonna did not understand, but after a little thought she started to understand Walter’s implication. She had read about organizations that had attempted to promulgate anti-communist feeling during the Cold War. Defenders of Western democracy, a kind of modern-day Knights Templar. In this case, however, the communists were not the enemy.

“You mean that Borg belongs to a type of secret brotherhood?”

Walter did not answer.

“With a holy mission,” Jonna continued with her line of reasoning, “to defeat Muslims?”

“Not necessarily a brotherhood,” Walter said, “even if there are Christian sects in Sweden which fit that profile nicely. I think it’s more likely that the organization’s mission is to prevent the spread of Islam. In particular, on European soil. And they are prepared to give their lives for the cause.”

“SÄPO knows of this organization?”

“Most likely,” Walter said. “They could be accused of many things, but occasionally they are good at what they do. Especially with regard to keeping quiet.”

Jonna raised her hands. “How are we supposed to crack this case if SÄPO keeps us in the dark?”

Walter gestured for Jonna to join him at the window.

“Do you see the people walking down there?” he said, pointing down at Bergsgatan.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do they care what we do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it really matter what we do tomorrow?”

Jonna looked at Walter puzzledly.

“In today’s society, nobody cares any more,” he carried on. “As long as the internet and texting is working, the rest of the society can crumble and fall.”

Jonna did not know what to answer.

“Do you know what I really wish for?”

She guessed that he wanted to turn the clock back thirty years to a time when the internet and mobile phones did not exist.

She shook her head instead.

“To think differently,” he said. “I am not talking about rational thought, rather the subconscious. I wish I was so stupid and so uninterested in life that I could sleep peacefully every night. Just close my eyes and let go. But it’s never going to happen. The entire weight of this shambles is already resting on my shoulders and there won’t be any sleep until at least four o’clock tomorrow morning. This is not a job, it’s a way of life. If you can call it a life.”