Box 21 (24 page)

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘All alone?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Afraid?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Kneel.’

 

‘Why?’

 

‘On your knees. Hands behind your head.’

 

‘Haven’t you done enough?’

 

‘On your knees.’

 

‘Like this?’

 

‘There, you can do it.’

 

‘Now what?’

 

‘Do you know who I am?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Don’t you remember me?’

 

‘What do you mean?’

 

‘What I say. Do you remember me, Bengt Nordwall?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘You don’t?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Klaipeda, Lithuania. The twenty-sixth of June, two thousand and two.’

 

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

 

‘The
Stena Baltica
. The twenty-sixth of June, two thousand and two. At twenty-five minutes past eight in the evening.’

 

Ewert had seen Lydia Grajauskas only once, just over twenty-four hours ago. She was unconscious inside the flat with the broken-down door; he had just pushed past the shit they called Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp and was walking quickly through the hall towards Lydia’s naked body. One of her arms was broken, her face was swollen and bruised and her back was a mass of bleeding gashes, more wounds than he could count. He had come across girls like her before, different names, but the same old story. Young women who opened their legs and were beaten up, then cared for until they healed, so they could open their legs and be beaten again. They would go off the radar as suddenly as they had turned up, moved on to a new flat somewhere else and a new set of customers, do the rounds a couple of times before they disappeared for good and were replaced by new women. There were always new ones to be bought from people who traded in people, three thousand euros for young girls, who also coped better with the beatings.

 

He had seen her carried out on a stretcher.

 

He could understand her hate; it wasn’t hard to understand that constant humiliation would force you in the end to choose between giving up and going under, or trying to humiliate someone else as a payback.

 

But how she found the strength to keep her broken body upright, to occupy a mortuary and threaten people in her faint voice, that was utterly beyond him. And why was she targeting doctors and policemen? What was she actually after? He didn’t understand, not even at the point when he interrupted John’s translation and shouted out loud.

 

‘The
Stena Baltica
? That’s a bloody boat! This is something personal! Bengt, over! Fuck’s sake, Bengt. Stop it! Squad, move in! All clear. Repeat, move in!’

 

 

* * *

 

Afterwards all their accounts differed slightly, mostly in the time dimension, but then it’s often a fact that time is the most difficult thing to pin down when someone stops breathing. In general, their observations with regard to the events were consistent, what happened and when. After all, they had stood side by side in the Casualty operating theatre, listening to the same radio and heard the sounds of two shots in quick succession, then one more shot shortly after, followed by the crash when the Flying Squad battered down the door to the mortuary suite and went in.

 

 

 

 

 

Every death has its consequences.

 

Ewert Grens knew that. He had worked with the police for thirty years; most of them had been spent investigating murders, which meant that his work often started with death. That was what he did, worked with death and its consequences.

 

And the way the dead continued to live on afterwards was always so different.

 

Some just disappeared quietly, no one asked for them, no one missed them, it was as if they never existed.

 

Others seemed to be more alive in death than in life, with all the commotion, all the investigation, the endless words from friends and strangers that had never been spoken out loud before, but were now repeated over and over again until they became true.

 

You breathe and then a moment later you don’t breathe any more.

 

But the consequences, the consequences of your death, depend entirely on what caused you to stop breathing. When the sound of the three shots rang out in his earphones, Ewert knew instantly that something terrible had happened. The sound invaded his mind, his very being.

 

So he should have been able to understand his grief, the grief he did not allow himself to feel, but that would continue to gnaw at him until he too ceased to exist. He should perhaps have also sensed the loneliness that would follow, that it would be even worse than he had feared.

 

But not the rest.

 

Despite having listened to the strange and violent death, Ewert Grens could never have anticipated that he would think back on the days that followed, and the consequences of this death, as the most hellish time of his life.

 

He did not cry. It is hard to say why – he himself has no explanation – but he could not cry. He doesn’t cry now. Afterwards, he didn’t cry when he entered the mortuary through the splintered door – when he saw two people on the floor with holes through their heads, the blood that had not yet dried.

 

Bengt was lying on his back. He had been shot twice.

 

Once through his left eye. Once in his genitals, which were covered by his blood-soaked hands. She had aimed between his legs first and he had instinctively put his hands there.

 

He was naked, pale bare skin against the grey floor tiles. Lydia Grajauskas lay next to him with her plastered arm twisted oddly under her. She had shot herself in the temple and must have hit the floor hard, almost bouncing, to end up lying face down.

 

Ewert moved cautiously along the new marker lines dividing up the room. He had to get an overview, had to be efficient, that was what he always did, to escape his feelings, work work work to shut out everything else. He didn’t need any drugs to block off his emotions, he just got on with the work in hand, head down and no let-up until the worst had passed.

 

He gently prodded the bare white thigh with his foot.

 

You bloody fool.

 

How can you lie there without looking at me?

 

Sven Sundkvist was standing at a distance. He saw Ewert prod Bengt Nordwall’s body with his foot and then silently bend over the dead man, a body surrounded by a white outline. He went and stood just behind his boss.

 

‘Ewert.’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘I can take over now.’

 

‘I’m in charge of this operation.’

 

‘I know. But I can take over down here. Just for a while. I’ll manage the site examination. You don’t need to be here, not now.’

 

‘Sven, I’m working.’

 

‘I know it must be—’

 

‘Sven, how did a prostitute manage to take us to the cleaners like this?’

 

‘Ewert, please. Just go.’

 

‘Can you tell me that? If not, move over. You must have things to do too.’

 

You bloody, bloody idiot
.

 

Say something.

 

You’re not saying anything.

 

Just lying there on the floor. Not saying a word. And not a stitch on.

 

Get up!

 

Ewert recognised the four forensic technicians who were down on their hands and knees, crawling all over the mortuary suite looking for the sort of things forensics look for. Two of them were his own age, and for years they had met just like this, at crime scenes where life had slipped into death. They would stay in touch for as long as the investigation continued, then nothing for a few months, until there was another suspicious death. Then they would meet up again and chat. He touched Bengt’s thigh for a second time and then walked over to the nearest of the technicians, who was hunched over a supermarket carrier bag, examining it for fingerprints.

 

‘Nils?’

 

‘Ewert, I’m very sorry. I mean that Bengt—’

 

‘Please, not now. I’m working. That bag, is it hers?’

 

‘Seems to be. Quite a few bullet magazines left. Some explosive and a few detonators. A couple of pages torn from a notebook. And a video.’

 

‘How many people have handled it?’

 

‘Two. Small hands. Two rights, two lefts. I’m pretty sure they were both made by women.’

 

‘Two women?’

 

‘One set is probably hers.’

 

The technician, whose name was Nils Krantz, nodded in the direction of Lydia Grajauskas’s still body. Ewert glanced at her and then pointed at the video.

 

‘Let me have that when you’ve finished with it.’

 

‘Sure. Give us a couple of minutes more.’

 

Ammunition. Explosives. A video. Ewert’s eyes were fixed on her lacerated back.

 

‘What were you after? What did you really want?’

 

Suddenly someone was calling out, a man’s voice out in the corridor.

 

‘Ewert!’

 

‘Yes! I’m here.’

 

‘Come and see this.’

 

Ewert hadn’t realised that he would get there so quickly, but was glad that he had come as asked.

 

‘Look.’

 

Ludwig Errfors stood in the middle of fragments of what had once been a human body, the body Grajauskas had made them carry out and blow up in order to make her message absolutely clear to everyone.

 

‘Ewert. Look at this. A dead body.’

 

‘I don’t have time for games.’

 

‘Please. Have a closer look.’

 

‘What the hell’s your problem? I heard the blast. I know he or she is as dead as you get.’

 

‘This is a dead person and was a dead person at the time of the blast, and has been a dead person for about a week.’

 

Ewert reached out and touched the arm that Errfors was holding. It was colder than he had expected. Earlier he had felt, somehow, cheated, without understanding why. Now he knew.

 

‘Look around. No blood. Just a peculiar smell in the air. Can you smell it, Ewert?’

 

‘Sure.’

 

‘Describe it.’

 

‘Bitter. A little like bitter almonds. Bengt said he picked up an astringent smell just before he went in.’

 

‘It’s formaldehyde.’

 

‘Formaldehyde?’

 

‘She blew up one corpse and she shot another. Not the hostages. The first time, yes, she shot the student who attacked her. But he was the only person she shot.’

 

Errfors took one more look at the arm that had been lifeless for at least a week, shook his head and put it back where it had been. Ewert left him examining the remains in the corridor, moving from one body part to the next.

 

No blood anywhere. And that smell.

 

She had used the dead bodies and left the hostages alone. She had only wanted to get Bengt there. That was all.

 

That was all she had really wanted
.

 

He went back inside, to Bengt’s naked body, to the woman in her oversized hospital clothes.

 

You’re not saying anything.

 

Bengt.

 

Talk to me, for Christ’s sake!

 

He almost stepped in the blood from the wound on her temple when he went closer to them.

 

So it was him you wanted all along
.

 

Bloody whore!

 

I don’t get it.

 

He didn’t hear Nils coming up behind him, nor that he
asked him to take the sealed plastic bag with the video in it. Nils tapped Ewert on the back, repeated what he had just said and held out the sealed plastic bag.

 

‘The video, Ewert. The video is all yours now.’

 

Ewert turned.

 

‘Right. OK. Good, Nils. Any prints?’

 

‘Same as on the bag and the rest. Two different people, probably women. Grajauskas and someone else.’

 

‘And it was with the ammunition?’

 

‘Yep. In that carrier bag.’

 

Nils made to go. Ewert called after him.

 

‘Do you need it back?’

 

‘Yes. Chain of custody. You know.’

 

Ewert watched Nils as he pulled on white fabric gloves and went off to investigate a door to some kind of equipment store. She had smeared pale brown dough around the frame.

 

‘Ewert?’

 

Sven Sundkvist was sitting on a stool by the wall-mounted telephone from which she had rung – the one they blocked for outgoing calls, and then unblocked. Ewert closed his eyes and tried to visualise her, gun pointing at the hostages, talking into the phone, threatening, but demanding nothing. A frail creature with one arm in plaster, who had forced them to evacuate one of the largest hospitals in the country and had practically every policeman and journalist in the city on the run. For a few hours that little whore had kept as many men busy as she had ever fucked.

 

‘Ewert.’

 

‘What is it?’

 

‘The widow. Remember.’

 

Ewert heard Bengt’s voice, the conversation they just had, when his old friend, his link with the past, was still alive. He had stood there in his underpants in that bloody corridor and asked Ewert to speak to Lena,
if anything happens I want you to tell Lena.
As if he had known or had a premonition of what awaited him behind the mortuary door.

 

‘What’s that, Sven?’

 

Sven shrugged.

 

‘Just that you know her. You should go over there.’

 

He hadn’t noticed before, but now he registered that the pale body looked almost calm: hands resting close together on his belly, his legs straight, feet turned slightly outwards and no trace of the distress he must have felt when the gun was pressed to his forehead.

 

I have to tell Lena.

 

Talk to me!

 

I have to do it.

 

I am still alive.

 

Dead!

 

You’re not alive.

 

You are dead!

 

Grens knew that he had kept them waiting for too long. Lang had to have a full body search. Every minute that ticked by reduced their chance of finding crucial remains of blood or DNA from Hilding Oldéus.