Marked for Life (24 page)

CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO

Wednesday, April 25

HENRIK LEVIN WOKE UP.
Didn't know where he was, but realized after a few seconds that he'd fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room. It was pitch black in the room. He picked up his mobile; the display said it was 02:30, so he had only slept a couple of hours. The display turned off and it became black around him again.

At seven o'clock he woke up to the sound of a smothered ringing tone. He had dropped the phone in his sleep and now he had to look on the floor to find it. It was under the sofa, and when he reached it he turned the alarm off, stretched out and felt that he had had far too little sleep.

After a quick breakfast with Emma and the children, he drove to the station. Gunnar Öhrn was the first to meet him and they made their way together to the conference room.

“It seems as if everyone in the containers has been shot. There are marks on the skeletons to indicate that,” said Gunnar.

“So they were killed and then dumped into the sea,” said Henrik.

“Yes.”

“But why were they killed? Was it about money? Drugs? Were they refugees who didn't pay? Did somebody betray them? Were they smugglers?”

“I don't know, but I'm thinking along the same lines. Above all I can't really see what role Hans Juhlén had. Why was he murdered?”

“Ought we to bring in his wife for questioning again?”

“Perhaps, but I think we can get some more out of Lena. To be honest, Henrik...”

Gunnar stopped and looked in both directions. Then he looked at Henrik. Sighed.

“This has turned into an extremely complicated series of events. I don't know any longer what we should concentrate on. First Hans Juhlén, then the boy and last Thomas Rydberg. And then this mass grave at sea—it's rather hard to digest. And hardly something we can make public. Yet Carin is on me like a polecat.”

“She wants a press conference?”

“Yes.”

“But we've got nothing concrete to give them.”

“I know, and we must tone it all down. It already feels as if this is getting too much for us. I might have to ask the National Crime Squad for help and you know what I think about that.”

A shadow fell across Gunnar's face.

Henrik pondered.

“Wait until we've questioned Lena again,” he said.

Gunnar looked at Henrik as he said that. His eyes were red, shiny. He threw out his hand.

“Okay, I'll wait until we know some more.”

* * *

At a quarter to seven, Jana Berzelius drove down the slip road to the E4, the motorway to Stockholm.

The sun was up and it dazzled her from the east. The music on the radio was interrupted for news and weather reports and the meteorologists warned about black ice on the roads.

The traffic got heavier after Nyköping and the sun disappeared too. The sky turned dark gray and the temperature went down to zero. The hard rain beat against the asphalt. She stared straight ahead on the wet road. Listened to the noise inside the car. The forest dashed past on both sides of her. The fencing was rubbed out in the periphery. Taillights turned into red streaks.

At Järna the lines started. While she waited for the traffic to start flowing again, she opened an app on her mobile and entered the address for Danilo Peña. She couldn't use the car's own GPS—it would have been extremely risky as her journey could easily be tracked should anyone do a check.

The app presented a clear route and she could see that she was only ten minutes from her destination. The rain stopped but the heavy gray clouds remained. She turned off the motorway and drove toward the center. A right turn and she was in Ronna. Here were blocks of flats with green, blue and bright yellow balconies. On the streets there were lots of neon-colored signs with handwritten texts in languages other than Swedish.

A gang of five youths sat in a smashed bus shelter, an elderly lady stood some way away supporting herself with a brown stick. A car with a punctured tire, a bicycle with the front wheel missing and an overflowing wastepaper bin.

She looked for number 36 and found it far down along Smedvägen. She parked on the street and considered putting money in the parking meter, which was covered with graffiti, but it was out of order. On her way to the high-rise building, she passed several cars, all with crosses or icons hanging from the rearview mirror by the windscreen. By taking small steps she avoided the pools of water that had formed on the ground.

In the entrance hall sat three ladies with shawls, chatting to each other. They stared quite openly and disapprovingly at Jana when she came in through the door. A child's scream, loud voices and the banging of doors echoed in the stairwell. It was cold and damp. Smelt of cooking.

The list of tenants showed that she would have to go to the eighth floor, so she took the lift. When the lift doors opened again she looked out cautiously. On the door closest to the stairs it said D.Peña.

She stepped out of the lift and raised her hand to knock on the door but that same instant discovered that it wasn't properly shut. She gave it a push and the door swung open.

“Hello?” she called out and stepped into the hall.

No furniture at all, just an old mat on the floor and yellowy-brown wallpaper.

She called out again and got an echo in answer.

For a moment she hesitated, but then felt bolder and stepped straight into the living room. A ripped-open sofa, a little table in front of it, a television, a mattress without any sheets, a pillow and a checkered blanket. The wind howled through the crack in a window.

She went through the living room toward the kitchen. Stopped, held her breath and listened for any sound.

She stood like that for a few seconds, then stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. That same moment she saw a fist coming at her and the blow knocked her to the floor. She saw the fist again and immediately raised her forearm to shield herself. The other forearm came up, the blow hit her wrist and the pain was intense.

Up, she thought.

I must get up!

She twisted her body toward the left, quickly put her right hand in under her chest and pushed herself up.

Then she saw a man and what he had in his hand.

“Don't move,” he said. “If you want to live.”

CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE

THE GIRL TRIED
to swallow but her tongue felt numb. She tried to open her eyes but couldn't. As if in a tunnel, she heard a voice talk to her but she couldn't grasp the words. Somebody touched her and she tried to hit the hand away.

“Calm down,” said the voice.

When she lifted her hand to hit out again she felt an intense pain in her head, which forced her to remain still. In the end she opened her eyes and met with a strong light.

She blinked several times until a stranger appeared in front of her. A white-dressed man was leaning over the bed she lay in.

“What's your name?” he said.

The girl didn't answer.

She screwed up her eyes to accustom them to the light. The man had blond hair, spectacles and a beard.

“I'm Doctor Mikael Andersson. You are in hospital. You've been in an accident. Do you know your name?”

She swallowed again, searched her memory for an answer.

“Do you remember what happened?”

She turned her head and looked at the doctor. The pain pulsated in her bandaged head. She shut her eyes for a few moments, and then opened them again slowly. She didn't know how she should answer. Because she couldn't remember.

She couldn't remember anything at all.

CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR

PHOBOS FIDGETED WITH
his gun. He knew that he had carried out the mission most satisfactorily. And it was a simple task to shoot that man who hadn't paid in time.

A single shot sufficed. In the back of his head. One hole. Blood on the floor.

It was better to sneak up on the victims and shoot them from behind, then they didn't have time to react and there was less risk of opposition. They just fell forwards. Most of them died straightaway. Others shook. Made a noise.

The water broke against the boat and it rocked heavily. Even so, he felt relaxed and satisfied. Because he knew he would get his reward.

At last he would get the dose he deserved.

* * *

The gun was two centimeters from Jana Berzelius's cheek.

The man in front of her quickly wiped a drop of saliva from the corner of his mouth. He had long dark hair, brown eyes and an angular face.

Who was he? Was it Hades?

“Who the hell are you?” said the man and pushed the gun even closer to her cheek.

“I'm a prosecutor,” she said and wondered quickly about possible escape routes.

They stood in the kitchen; the living room was behind her, the hall in front. Two escape routes, one of which required more time. She could knock him out but he had the advantage with the gun.

She looked across at the kitchen table. No knives.

“Don't try,” said the man. “Tell me instead what you as a prosecutor are doing in my place.”

“I need your help.”

The man laughed.

“Oh really? You don't say. How interesting. And what can I help you with?”

“You can help me to find out something.”

“Something? And what is this
something
about?”

“My background.”

“Your background? How could I help you with that when I don't even know who you are?”

“But I know who you are.”

“Really? Who am I then?”

“You are Danilo.”

“Brilliant. Did you work that out all by yourself, or did you perhaps read my name on the door?”

“You are someone else too?”

“You mean I'm a schitzo?”

“Show me your neck?”

The man fell completely silent.

“You've got another name written there,” said Jana. “I know what it says. If I guess right then you must tell me how you got it. If I guess wrong then you can let me go.”

“We'll change the agreement a little. If you guess right then I'll tell you. Sure, that's no problem. If you guess wrong, or if I don't have a name on my neck, then I'll shoot you.”

He cocked the gun, took a couple of steps back from her and stood with his legs apart ready to shoot.

“I can report you for attempted murder,” said Jana.

“And I can report you for breaking in. Now guess!”

Jana swallowed.

She was pretty sure it was him.

But would she dare say the name?

She shut her eyes.

“Hades,” she whispered and heard a shot go off.

CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE

THE GIRL SAT
before her on the hard chair with her eyes on the floor. She hunched up and her hands were hidden under her thighs.

She just sat there.

Silent.

Welfare officer Beatrice Alm looked up over her reading glasses and delicately shut the folder lying on the desk.

“Well now,” she said and leaned forward and folded her hands. “You are one lucky girl. You are going to get a mommy and a daddy.”

CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX

JANA OPENED HER EYES.

The man was still standing in front of her with the gun lowered. For a brief second she felt her body to see if she had been hit. She hadn't. The bullet had gone right past her and left a hole in the wall behind.

She fixed her eyes on the man. He was breathing heavily.

“How do you know?” he asked with his jaws tightly pressed together. “How the fuck do you know? Tell me!”

He went up to her and stood with his face against hers.

“How the fuck did you know that? Tell me now!”

He grabbed her hair and forced her head back. Brutally. Then he hit her on her forehead with the gun and pressed it against her temples.

“I'll shoot again. And this time I promise it'll go right in here. So tell me. Spit it out!”

Jana made a face.

“I've got a name too,” she said roughly.

He immediately thrust her head to one side. Pulled at her hair, scratching the skin. She felt her neck exposed to him and began to panic. She quickly got out of his hard grip. She backed a few steps and looked up at him.

He shook his head.

“It can't be true, it can't be true. It can't be you.”

“Yes, it is me. And now you'll explain to me who I am.”

* * *

It took Jana Berzelius ten minutes to tell the brief story of her life. She sat next to Danilo on the thin mattress in the naked living room. Both with their knees drawn up and with their heads bent down.

“So you were adopted?” he said.

“Yes, I was adopted. Jana is my first name now. Berzelius my surname. My father is the Prosecutor General but now he's retired. What he wanted most of all was a son who would follow in his footsteps. Instead, I got to do that.”

They studied each other. Both uncertain how to react.

“I remember nothing from the accident. I've been told that I had fallen down onto a rail track in the underground and hit my head so hard that I lost my memory. Nobody could tell me how I came to be there on the track or who I was. I was alone. There was nobody who asked about me, or who came looking for me after the accident.”

Jana stopped speaking.

“So you can't remember anything at all?” Danilo said.

“Some fragments or images can come to me in dreams, but I don't know if they're real memories or pure fantasies.”

“Do you remember your real parents?”

“Did I have any?”

Danilo didn't answer.

The wind howled loudly from the crack in the window. The room immediately felt cold. Jana wrapped her arms around her knees.

“Can't you tell me something about your life?” she said.

“There's nothing to tell.”

“I dreamed that you were murdered.”

Danilo squirmed uneasily.

“I escaped. Okay? I got a bullet in my shoulder,” he said, and pulled down his sweater to reveal a large scar on his right shoulder. “When you ran away I just lay there completely still, played dead. When Mama ran after you I got up and ran off too. And here I am now. End of story.”

“But didn't they find you?”

“No.”

Jana pondered.

“Is that what she was called?”

“Who?”

“Mama, was she called that?”

“Yes.”

“Did I say it too?”

“Yes.”

Danilo's shoulders sank somewhat.

“Why are you here? Why are you raking up the past?”

“I want to know who I am.” Jana bit her lip. “Can I trust you?”

“How so?”

“Can I tell you secrets without you spreading them?”

“Hang on. Who has sent you?”

“Nobody. I'm here entirely on my own and for purely personal reasons.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I've got to a point where I need answers. And I need to find out things without involving the police.”

“But you're a prosecutor. Surely it's the police you should talk to?”

“No.”

“Okay, okay. First I want to know what this entails before I decide if I want to help you or not.”

Jana hesitated.

“I promise I'll keep quiet about everything you tell me.”

He sounded convincing and for the time being Jana didn't have anyone else to turn to. She had to trust him.

So she told him.

* * *

It took more than an hour to describe all the intricate details in the investigation. She told about Hans Juhlén, about the boy with the name carved on his neck who had been found dead out by the coast at Viddviken. She told about Thomas Rydberg but left out the detail that it was her who had killed him.

When she came to explaining the salvaging of the containers, Danilo became pale in the face.

“Oh, fuck,” he said.

“In one of the containers I found a mirror. I think it belonged to me. Now you must tell me—have I been in there?”

“I don't know.”

“Please, tell me if I've been there.”

“You haven't. Get it!”

“I just want to know who I am. You are the only person who can help me. Tell me who I am!”

Danilo got up. His face had become dark.

“No.”

“No?”

“You're welcome to dig into the past, but I don't want to do it.”

“I don't usually ask for favors, but please, help me.”

“No. NO!”

Danilo looked out through the window.

“Please!”

“No!” Danilo turned quickly toward Jana. “Never. I'm not going to do it. Get out of here now!”

He pulled her up from the mattress. She fought her way free.

“Don't touch me!”

“Never come here again!”

“I won't. I can promise you that.”

“Good. Get out!”

She remained standing where she was. Looked at Danilo a last time before leaving the flat. She cursed herself. For having told him everything. Having opened up. She should never have done it.

Never.

* * *

Henrik Levin looked at the clock. 15:55. Five minutes to go before the interview with Lena Wikström was to begin.

Jana Berzelius was late. She had never been late before.

Henrik scratched his head and wondered how he should handle the questioning without her by his side.

Mia Bolander noticed his worry.

“She's bound to turn up,” she said.

That same moment, Peter Ramstedt came in.

“Oh I see,” he said. “So the prosecutor doesn't want to join the interview in time? That is rather problematic.”

He laughed aloud.

Henrik sighed and looked at the clock again. One minute left. He was just about to close the door to the little room when he heard quick steps in the corridor.

Jana Berzelius ran across the stone floor. She had a large plaster on her brow.

“You're late,” said Mia triumphantly when Jana reached them.

“No, I don't think so. You can't be late to something that hasn't even started,” said Jana and slammed the door right under Mia's nose.

* * *

The interview had gone on for two hours.

Now Henrik Levin knocked lightly on Gunnar Öhrn's office door.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing?” Gunnar repeated.

“She refuses to say who gave her the order to delete the file with the container combinations, or what the text she got from Thomas Rydberg means.”

“And what does she say about the containers?”

“She says that she doesn't know anything about them either.”

“But that's not true. I mean she knew where we could find them.”

“I know.”

“So what do we have?”

“She won't admit to anything and I can't actually see what we can prove.”

Gunnar sighed loudly and breathed in through his nose.

“Time to go home,” said Gunnar.

“I will. What about you?”

“I'm going to finish soon too.”

“Plans for the evening?”

“I'm having company. Female company.”

Henrik whistled.

“No, not that sort. It's only Anneli who's going to fetch a carton with some stuff in it. And you?”

“Thought I'd surprise the family with dinner.”

“Exciting.”

“I don't know whether McDonald's is so exciting.”

Gunnar gave a little laugh.

“See you tomorrow,” said Henrik and walked with light steps toward the lift.

* * *

When Jana Berzelius sat down at the table for two at the local restaurant, The Colander, she was already irritated by her colleague Per Åström. For more than twenty minutes he had talked nonstop about his results in a tennis tournament that had been arranged the weekend before. His company had never bothered her earlier, but now she had to struggle not to open her mouth and tell him to close his!

Jana had long since realized that she didn't feel comfortable in social relationships and she had organized a life for herself as a hermit. She was satisfied with that. Of course, her work demanded a whole lot of social interaction with people but they were always superficial contacts and that was something that suited her perfectly. And besides, it was arduous and time-consuming to get to know another person. And she hated it too when people got nosy about her private life, and asked questions that she didn't want to answer. Per Åström often got on her nerves with his questions, but for some strange reason he hadn't given up like all the others when Jana had declared that she wanted to be left in peace. On the contrary, he had liked her cold attitude and over the years had learned to interpret her vague looks.

Per fidgeted with his wineglass.

“What's the matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“What's the matter, I can see there's something.”

“It's nothing.”

“Has something happened?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I feel fine.”

She met his gaze. It felt strange to lie to him. She had nobody else she could have a conversation with, and she would very much have liked to tell him everything. But how would he react if she said she had murdered Thomas Rydberg? What would he say when she admitted to having sought out an old friend whom she thought was dead but who was very much alive? And how could he even begin to understand when she explained that she would do anything to find out about her background? Her hidden background? There was no point in saying anything. Not to anybody.

“Is it something you need help with?”

Jana didn't know what she should say. Instead she got up and left the restaurant without saying goodbye.

She walked down Kvarngatan, cut across Holmen Square and then the market square at Knäppingsborg. Inside her apartment, she took off her coat, pulled off the high-heeled boots and went into the bedroom where she immediately took off her trousers. When her sweater was over her head she heard her cell ringing. She went into the hall only wearing silk underwear. She looked at the display.

Hidden number.

It must be Per. He always used a hidden number to prevent clients from getting the idea of ringing to his private telephone.

She answered.

“I don't want to know how tasty the food was,” she said.

There was silence at the other end.

“Hello?”

She was just about to end the call when she heard a voice which said: “I'll help you.”

The hairs on her neck stood up.

She recognized the voice.

It belonged to Danilo.

“Meet me in the town park in Norrköping tomorrow. At two o'clock,” he said.

* * *

Gunnar Öhrn freed himself from Anneli Lindgren's arm.

They were sitting on the dark brown leather sofa in the living room, each with a glass of wine. The room was lit low with a 3-way lamp in one corner. One wall had bookcases and a liquor cabinet. A few paintings waiting to be hung were leaning against another wall. Two wine bottles stood on a glass table. Both were empty.

“This isn't a good idea,” said Gunnar.

“What?” said Anneli.

“What you're trying to do.”

“It was you who said I should come over.”

“To pick up the carton, yes. Not...”

“What?”

Anneli put a hand on Gunnar's leg.

“Don't do that.”

Anneli moved closer and gave him a light kiss on his throat.

“That's better.”

Anneli slowly unbuttoned her blouse.

“That's actually rather nice.”

“And this?”

She took her blouse off, and climbed astride him.

“That is really nice,” said Gunnar and suddenly pulled Anneli toward him.