Anger Mode (4 page)

C
HAPTER 3

KARIN SJÖSTRAND STUCK her head inside Malin’s room for the second time that morning.

“It’s seven-thirty. You’ll be late again.”

“I’ve already said that I’m fucking awake!” screamed Malin under the duvet.

“Okay, I can hear you,” sighed Karin as she closed the bedroom door.

It was always the same ritual every morning – nagging and scolding to get the kid off to school. Karin tried in vain to recall if she had been as much hard work and as defiant when she was fifteen. She had always been on time for school and had obtained good grades. But there were more rules and regulations at school in the seventies. Nowadays, it seemed as if school was one big youth centre where all the kids were left in charge of the teachers.

Janne had left Karin when she got pregnant with Malin. He had found a new woman, one who was not expecting. Perhaps it was just as well that he had abandoned them. He would not have been a good father figure anyway. On a few occasions, Malin had asked after Janne, but she did not seem very interested in meeting him when Karin had asked her outright.

It could hardly be Karin’s genes that were at fault. More likely then Janne, Malin’s long-lost father. There was a lot to be desired when it came to his DNA. It was pretty hard to imagine anything closer to a two-legged pig. He was lazy and incapable of doing anything other than gambling away his wages.

Karin was stressed because she was due to be at the district court by nine o’clock, as a lay juror, for closing statements. She browsed quickly through the case notes to be sure she had not forgotten anything, just in case the court judge quizzed her. A male football player from one of the lower divisions had been shot in broad daylight during a match. The media interest in the incident was huge and it increased the pressure on the court.

Eight forty-five. The door to Malin’s room opened and a tired teenager dressed in an oversized T-shirt saw the light of day. Her long, ruffled hair hung over one shoulder and she announced her entrance with a loud, drawn-out yawn. After that, she moved slowly into the kitchen.

“Hello, are you still here?” she yelled, while getting the milk from the fridge.

No reply.

She topped up with cornflakes and some slices of bread from the pantry and sat down at the breakfast table.

“I think it’s really bad of you not to get up on time,” said Karin, entering the kitchen in her outdoor clothes. “Now you’re going to be late for school again,” she continued, upset.

Malin casually flicked through a magazine while the cornflakes slowly found their way into her mouth.

“Chill, Mum. I’ve got it under control,” she mumbled, without lifting her eyes from the magazine. “I’ve got PE this morning, so it’s not as if I’m missing anything important.”

Since Karin did not have the time for a drawn-out discussion, nor for repeating the same old series of entreaties, she decided to nag Malin only moderately this morning.

“It doesn’t matter,” she retorted. “You should be on time even if it is only PE. Besides, I don’t want you being with that Sanna and what’s-his-name …”

“Musse,” Malin reminded her.

“Exactly, Mustafa and his friends,” Karin said. “Saga’s mother has definitely told me that this Mustafa is into drugs.”

Malin looked up from her magazine with an irritated expression. “Just drop it, okay! What drugs? Saga’s mum is talking bullshit.”

“I don’t believe that she is,” Karin responded firmly.

“Saga is a fucking martyr and her mum’s a weirdo. Do you really believe them?”

Karin felt her patience running out, but checked herself. She had an appointment, and this could go on for the rest of the morning if she persisted.

“I don’t have time to discuss this with you right now,” she said. “But this evening you and I are going to have a serious talk.” This last phrase she had uttered many times previously, without having brought about any improvement. But this time, she was determined really to follow through on her word. The only question was what she would use to threaten her with. A move away from the city, perhaps.

Karin shut the front door with a sigh.

After breakfast, Malin went back to her room. She threw herself on her bed, picked up her mobile phone from the bedside table, and flipped to her best friend’s number.

“Uuuuh … Sanna,” replied Sanna, just awake.

“Are you going today?” Malin asked, while nonchalantly turning her bedside lamp on and off.

“Noooo … I don’t think so. Are you?” Sanna answered after a moment’s thought.

“PE sucks; shall we check what Musse’s doing instead?”

“I know already,” Sanna retorted, much more awake. “He’s skiving off and hanging with those guys from Rinkeby. He called me yesterday evening and wanted to see us today. ‘Take Malin with you,’ he said.”

“He did?” Malin sat up.

“I think they have something going on. Are you up for it?”

“I dunno,” Malin hesitated. “Are you?”

“I am if you are. No fucking way am I going there by myself, and Musse knows that. That’s why he wants you to come along.”

Malin thought for a brief moment. She thought about what Karin had said, but dismissed it as quickly as her maths homework.

“Okay, it’s cool,” she said finally.

“I just have to call Musse and grab a bite to eat,” yawned Sanna. “Shall we meet at eleven outside the 7–11 by the tube station?”

“Okay,” Malin agreed and folded shut her mobile phone.

Anticipation suddenly overtook Malin and she found herself in a good mood. A few minutes ago, everything had felt like shit. Sanna was really the best of best friends and this day had got off to a great start. No schoolwork on her horizon – not today at any rate. Even her mum had been unusually subdued and had not nagged until she was blue in the face like she usually did. That was probably because something at work was taking up her time. As far as Malin was concerned, she was welcome to work around the clock.

C
HAPTER 4

FROM A CRACK in the cloudbank, the sun found its way through the dirty window in Walter’s office. A welcoming warmth met him as he stepped over the threshold. He had not seen the sun for some time. Nor had anybody in mid-Sweden over the past few weeks, and he stood with eyes closed, feeling embraced by the heat. Memories from the summer floated up, and he thought about when he had anchored at a secluded beach and had spent a whole weekend lying on the foredeck with a Patricia Highsmith in his arms and a Bell’s whisky. Life had been carefree and he had been far away from the stress of the everyday world. The gentle slapping of the Baltic as it hit the hull of his small sailboat had had a healing effect. It soothed him, even though he knew that he would never heal completely. Not a day went by when he didn’t think of Martine.

The sun went behind a cloud and he was back in the doorway. He saw the blue folder tossed onto the keyboard and had just picked it up when he heard a woman’s voice behind him.

“Excuse me.”

Walter turned around.

“Are you Walter Gröhn?” asked a young lady with inquisitive brown eyes.

“That’s correct,” Walter hesitated, as if he first needed to recall his name.

“Jonna de Brugge, RSU.” the woman smiled and stretched out a hand. “It seems that we’ll be working together.”

“That’s correct,” Walter answered, wondering if he should try to vary his replies.

She was young. Young in a way that made Walter feel like an old, dead battery. Probably around twenty-five. She had a soft face with high cheekbones that were framed by shoulder-length, chestnut-coloured hair. Unlike Cederberg and Jonsson, her eyes revealed intensity and focus. Whether they reveal her true character is still to be proven, Walter thought, and shook her hand. She had a firm handshake.

“So, when do we start?” she asked eagerly, eyeing the folder that Walter was holding in his hand.

To Walter, his new partner’s boldness came as a surprise. He was used to a calm, sensible pace among hardened veterans, in late middle age, who were more concerned about promoting their own personal wellbeing than operational efficiency. Neither Jonsson nor Cederberg ran the risk of a heart attack, at least not during office hours. That probably applied to the rest of the police staff as well.

“Actually, we can start right away,” Walter said and handed over the file. “While you read through this, I’ll go and get us some coffee and cake.”

“I’ve already read it,” Jonna replied, taking the file anyway. “Perhaps we should go and interview him instead. He’s been admitted to the psychiatric emergency unit at Karolinska.”

“All right, so now we have saved some time and I always welcome time-saving,” said Walter. “We shall go and interview him, but not right now. Instead, maybe you can tell me what is in the file while we walk to the canteen. They’ve got insanely good pickled herring sandwiches there.”

Jonna hesitated at first. She would rather have left for the hospital than go and eat herring sandwiches, which, incidentally, she detested. But now Detective Inspector Walter Gröhn was her superior, albeit temporarily, and it would not look good if the first thing she did was to question his judgment.

“Absolutely,” Jonna said and put the file down. “His name is Bror Gustaf Lantz, and he’s been a judge at Stockholm District Court for the past eleven years. He’s been an employee of the Justice Department for thirty-two years. He’s fifty-six, has been married to Elsa Lantz for twenty years, and resides in Täby. No children are registered. He has no criminal record – speeding a few times, but not enough to lose his driving licence. He’s had fourteen parking tickets in the last three years.”

“A regular Snow White,” said Walter, “which, in itself, is not so unusual, considering his profession. They’re supposed to set a good example, or whatever you call it.”

Jonna continued to recite from memory as they walked down the corridor. “He was found sitting by the side of a crashed taxi on Sveavägen on Friday evening. The taxi had driven head-on into an oncoming car after swerving over to the wrong side of the road. Lantz was apparently the passenger in the taxi, and one witness saw what he thought was some kind of a struggle inside the car while it stood parked at the kerb. It was unfortunately too dark for the witness to be able to describe in detail what was actually going on in the car. The victim was the taxi driver; his name was Ojo Maduekwe. He is, or rather was,” Jonna corrected herself, “married to Britt-Marie Maduekwe for three years and had worked as a taxi driver for five months. As far as we know, there are no previous connections between Bror Lantz and Ojo Maduekwe.”

“I think we shall rename our Snow White the Evil Queen, or whatever her name was,” Walter said and clicked his fingers.

“The Evil Stepmother, perhaps?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” said Walter.

The forensic technicians found what they think is Lantz’s trouser belt in the back seat of the car,” Jonna continued. “The buckle has the Justice Department’s symbol etched into it. Apparently, this is an emblem of long and faithful service. Maduekwe also had the symbol on his neck and Forensics believe it can be linked to the belt. Therefore, one might deduce, with a little bit of imagination, that Lantz tried to strangle Maduekwe, probably from the back seat. Maduekwe had burst vessels in his eyes and lungs, which are normally the result of asphyxiation. But the actual cause of death was almost certainly a broken second vertebra in the neck, which probably happened because the steering-wheel airbag detonated too close to Maduekwe’s head during the collision. Why his head would be so close to the wheel is not known, just that there were powder burns from the airbag’s explosive charge on Maduekwe’s face.”

“The judge perhaps was pissed off about the cost of the taxi and tried to choke Ojo What’s-his-name and avoid the bill,” Walter said. In a gentlemanly fashion, he held the staircase door open.

“Hardly believable,” Jonna answered dryly.

“Whether Ojo What’s-his-name died of strangulation or because of the airbag significantly affects the charges brought,” Walter said. “If he died from being strangled, the charge is murder for the Evil Stepmother; if he died because of the airbag, the charge will probably be manslaughter. The difference is a few years’ jail time for the judge. If he ever gets charged, that is.”

“Why wouldn’t he be charged?” Jonna asked, surprised.

“Some among us can unfortunately dodge the long arm of the law,” Walter said, and held open the door to the canteen.

Jonna looked at Walter suspiciously.

Welcome to the real world, little girl, Walter thought to himself.

As the herring sandwiches had run out, much to Jonna’s relief, there was no coffee break in the police station’s large canteen. Walter decided, after a brief lecture to the serving staff in which he deplored the lack of herring sandwiches, to sign out an unmarked vehicle and go to see Bror Lantz at the Karolinska University Hospital.

When they came to the police garage reception, it turned out that the only unmarked car that was available was an old model of a Volkswagen minibus, probably a vehicle that the Drug Squad used. They had a fondness for older minibuses. A stench of ingrained nicotine and something that reminded him of ancient vomit hit Walter when he opened the minibus door.

“Do you have a car?” he asked and closed the door.

Jonna frowned. “If you mean my private car, the answer is yes.”

“Good,” said Walter. “Do you have it here?”

“Coincidentally, I did drive my car in today because …”

“Then I think we should take it,” Walter interrupted. “I’ll see that you get reimbursed.”

“Reimbursed?” Jonna cursed the fact that she had taken the car this morning. She had intended to run some errands after work, buy some plants at Weibulls garden centre, among other things. Using her private car for work was something she avoided as much as possible, due in part to the Swedish tall-poppy syndrome, and a stubborn grandfather as well. He was wealthy and used to having things his own way. Jonna had defied him as much as she was able to do without hurting his feelings. But if you belonged to a shipowning family with roots going back to the seventeenth century, it was a simple matter to take away the silver spoon from a pretty mouth when the family fortune was to be shared between heirs. And she could not sell the car without inflicting major bruising to her grandfather’s car-obsessed ego. Why did she decide to pick up those plants today?

Still, she knew it was just a question of time before her background would become common knowledge at the police station. There would be whispering and gossiping behind her back no matter what she did, and parking a million-Swedish-crowns car in the police garage would not make the situation any less difficult.

Walter stared tentatively at Jonna’s car, which was parked in a corner of the second floor of the police garage.

“A Porsche 911 Carrera convertible,” he declared in disbelief.

“4S Cabriolet,” Jonna added. “It’s a four-wheel drive. It also has a sequential transmission.” No point in being modest now that the cat was out of the bag.

“Looks like a new car,” said Walter. “At least, if the licence plate is authentic.”

“Almost one year old,” Jonna said and unlocked the doors with the remote.

Walter said nothing and instead made himself comfortable in this premier icon of capitalism, a symbol of the industrialized nations’ wanton luxury. Probably cost at least three years’ wages, Walter thought, and closed the door. The scent of new leather enveloped him.

“But I didn’t win the lottery,” Jonna began and turned the ignition key. It was better to pre-empt the tide of questions that would inevitably follow. The six-cylinder Boxer engine roared into life and then faded to a muffled growl.

Walter put his seat belt on and tried to raise the seat. It felt as if he was sitting directly on the ground.

“It’s an advance on the family inheritance,” Jonna explained, and swung out of the car park.

“Since you brought it up,” said Walter with a thoughtful look, “where have I heard the name Brugge before?”

“Perhaps as in Brugge Line,” suggested Jonna. Now it starts, she thought.

“Exactly,” said Walter. “The shipping family Brugge. I knew I’d heard your surname before.”

“de Brugge,” corrected Jonna. “We have Dutch roots.”

Walter looked at her thoughtfully. “Haven’t you chosen the wrong profession? Ships should be more suitable for you.”

Jonna stopped at a red light. “What was your father’s profession?”

“He was a lumberjack for the first half of his life. The second half he spent researching all the different brands of booze.”

“I see,” said Jonna, immediately regretting the question.

“He became an alcoholic after we moved to Stockholm,” Walter continued. “The sawmill in Övik was shut down, and there were no timber stocks in Stock-holm, despite the implication in the name.”

Jonna’s mouth smiled a little at Walter’s irony. “I should have applied to the river police with my background.”

“And spend each and every day giving breathalyzer tests to the hobnobbers as they cruise by in their million-dollar yachts? I don’t think there’s any upside to that job, unless you’re looking for a year-round suntan of course,” said Walter, looking at Jonna’s lightly tanned skin. She definitely had something southern European about her, maybe also a bit of Belgian Wallonia in her ancestry. He had done some genealogy research on himself and had ended up among farmers and peasants north of the Dalälven river.

Jonna did not know what to say. “Not everyone has million-dollar yachts,” she blurted out.

“No, true enough,” Walter agreed. “I myself have a boat in the same price range as one of the wheels on your car.”

Jonna felt the situation becoming even more uncomfortable. This was exactly what she had wanted to avoid. She had not asked for such an expensive sports car. She had escaped from the family’s traditionalist claws and made her own way in the world. Made it by herself without their money or connections, and sought a life far away from the demands and expectations that the name de Brugge placed upon a person. Yet still she was sitting here, forced to defend herself. Damn this car and damn my grandfather, she swore silently to herself. There would be a hell of a to-do over this tomorrow. Glib comments and gossip about her money and her family would spread like the plague throughout the department.

But then Walter smiled. “You can relax. I won’t say a word about your car or your family, even though it will come out sooner or later. Many here will find it difficult to handle the news about your, shall we say, class membership. Not only are you a woman, you have a background that will provoke many of your testosterone-charged colleagues with muscular arms and wagging tongues – especially the ones who drive around in old Saabs and have second mortgages on their terraced houses.”

“I know,” said Jonna, pressing her lips together into a thin line. She would not sound embittered. Instead, she was quietly grateful to Walter for the integrity he had shown despite his shabby appearance.

“How long will you be training with the CID?” Walter asked, offering a box of cough drops that he had pulled out.

“Two months, to start with,” Jonna answered, declining the cough drops. “But it depends. I don’t want to finish in the middle of an investigation; that pretty much defeats the point of the training.”