The Andalucian Friend (28 page)

Anders closed the door and went around to the baggage compartment. He opened it and looked in, searching all around it with the lamp. Nothing there, either. He switched the light off and sniffed the air, trying to identify the smell. There was a faint hint of bleach, and something else strong, something chemical … then another familiar smell, he took another sniff, was it glue? He looked at the mat covering the floor of the baggage compartment. Wasn’t it slightly too small? He lifted one edge and put his nose to it. Damn, it was glue.

“Hasse!” he hissed.

Hasse wandered over lethargically.

“Smell this.”

Hasse leaned over and sniffed.

“Glue?”

Anders nodded.

“Look at this mat, it’s not the original, it’s too small.”

Hasse shrugged and took a swig of beer. He didn’t care much about anything when he was drunk. Anders took a sample of the glue and snipped off a piece of the mat. He put them in separate little plastic bags and sealed them. He photographed the rest of the vehicle carefully, then locked it with the digital gadget. The neighbor’s car locked as well. Everything was back to normal.

Gunilla had called
him and told him to break off his surveillance at eight o’clock that evening, and to head into the city, to the Trasten restaurant, instead. She’d never asked him to do that before. Nothing was happening there, and after a while he realized that something else was going on, and drove back out to Stocksund again.

Lars had kept his distance, in a neighbor’s garden, hidden among the bushes. He had seen them walking up the road, half drunk and fearless, he could hear them chuckling at some remark about terrorists. What the hell were they doing there?

The telephoto lens had given some decent pictures, the silence button clicking off clear close-ups of both Anders Ask and big Hasse Berglund. He waited until they had left, not moving, until he was sure he was alone. He pulled a sheet from his notebook, wrote
Be careful
on it in his scratchy handwriting.

Lars dropped the note in Sophie’s mailbox.

Back home in
the apartment Lars transferred the pictures of Anders Ask and Hasse Berglund to his computer, printed out a couple of them, and fixed them to the wall. He sat down on his office chair, rolled back, and looked at his handiwork. The wall had grown, as if it had a life of its own.

Sara was standing in the doorway. She’d just woken up, and was squinting as she looked at the wall. The entire wall was covered with names, pictures, words, arrows, times, underlining, question marks. Total confusion, an insane confusion. Her eyes moved to Lars as he sat there staring. Vacant, pale, bad skin, greasy hair — he looked ill.

“You need help,” she said.

He turned toward her.

“You need to move out.”

“I’m going to, as soon as I find somewhere to go. I’ve spoken to Terese, she might be able to help me.”

He looked at her.

“Do you think I care?”

She looked sad, and glanced back at the wall.

“What is all this, Lars?”

Lars stared contentedly at his grandiose achievement.

“Life on a wall … All of fucking life … on a wall!”

She didn’t understand a thing. He stood up and went toward her on unsteady legs. He looked happy, and she brightened up, maybe he was going to give her a hug …

Bang! He hit her hard in the face. Her legs crumpled and she fell to the floor, badly shaken. Suddenly he was sitting on top of her, his face contorted. He was screaming, saliva flying from his mouth, screaming that she was never to set foot in his office again. If she did, he would kill her.

“Carlos Fuentes sought medical attention
on Saturday night.”

Gunilla stopped, thinking about the words before she took off her coat.

“The same night?”

Eva nodded.

“He claimed he’d been attacked by a gang of teenagers.”

Gunilla hung her coat on a hanger.

“Has he been questioned?”

Eva gestured to a bundle of papers on the desk in front of her.

Gunilla read through the interview, conducted by a patrol at 1:48 that same night. There was nothing remarkable about it. Carlos had crossed Odenplan and was walking up Norrtullsgatan when he was suddenly attacked by three unknown youths. He couldn’t give a description, the youths had run off. Gunilla checked through the medical report, Carlos had lost two top teeth, and his face was bruised and cut. She read it once more.

“No marks on his body,” she said.

Eva looked up from her computer.

“Sorry?”

“He was attacked by three youths, and it looks like they all went for his face. He’s got no injuries on his body, arms, or legs.”

“That’s impossible, surely?” Eva said.

Gunilla was staring at the report.

“Yes, it is …”

She sat down on a chair, read the report from the beginning, all the way through. When she was done she stood up and went over to the whiteboard on the wall, picked up a marker, and wrote the date on which the man with the shotgun wound had been left in the ambulance bay. Above the date she wrote
Two unknown men to Trasten
. Then she wrote
Hector?
And
Sophie’s car?
She wrote
Man shot
and she wrote
Carlos Fuentes beaten up
. The phrases formed a half-moon above the date. Beneath the date she wrote
Unknown man in Sophie’s car? Car recently cleaned?

She took a step back. There was no evidence that it was Sophie’s car in the ambulance bay, there was no evidence that these events had anything in common. On the other hand, with all due respect to coincidence … sometimes that just wasn’t a credible explanation.

“Eva?” she said.

Eva Castroneves looked up.

“Carlos was beaten up the same night, and Anders has identified one of the two men who went into the Trasten as the man who was shot and is now in the hospital, with seventy percent certainty, as he put it … The mat in the back of the car is too small, and was recently glued in, and he could smell cleaning fluids … Can we rule out coincidence?

Eva looked at the whiteboard without replying.

Gunilla turned back to the board again, thinking and trying to find a connection for a long while. Eva went back to work. After spending an age just staring, Gunilla woke up and went over to her desk, took off her necklace, and unlocked the middle drawer with the key attached to the necklace. She pulled out a black notebook, locked the drawer, put the necklace back on, and left the room.

Gunilla walked out into Brahegatan, turned left, and kept going until she reached Valhallavägen. She walked a bit farther until she found a good place to sit down, a bench opposite Stadion underground station. She sat there for a while.

Amid the sound of the traffic and other atmospheric noises she closed her eyes and let her inner world take precedence over the outer. Gradually the noise of traffic faded, the wind in the trees, the whole world around her. Gunilla was concentrating hard; nothing got in, nothing got out. She opened her inner eye. She saw Sophie Brinkmann before her, she saw the expression on her face, heard her tone of voice, saw her hand gestures, small and insignificant. The right hand tucking her hair behind her ear, the index finger stroking one eyebrow, the palm lying flat on her right thigh. Gunilla saw a small jerk of the head, she saw three different smiles: the honest one, the polite one, the questioning one. She heard three different tones of voice: the natural one, the hesitant one, the
unconsciously dishonest one
 … She compared her meetings with Sophie Brinkmann against each other, compared her tone of voice, expressions, and phrases against each other. She saw the look on Sophie’s face when Gunilla said she felt guilty for no longer having parents. She heard Sophie’s tone of voice replaying inside her, it was genuine and quietly spoken … evasive. She remembered the look on Sophie’s face when she made it clear that she controlled her, and then asked
How does that feel?
Then Sophie had sounded different, she had been lying. Gunilla could hear her voice, and compared it with the phone call in which Sophie assured her that she had driven home from the restaurant before Hector disappeared. It was the same tone of voice, the same tone of lie.

Gunilla saw a linear scenario play out inside her: Hector disappears from the restaurant for some reason, Sophie and Aron help him. … She’s lying about something. Is she lying all the time? Has she always been lying?

Reality came back, the sound of her own breathing, the sound of the light breeze in the treetops, the sound of traffic and people … Gunilla Strandberg blinked a few times and opened her eyes.

She opened the black notebook in her lap, wrote down everything she had just concluded, all the thoughts and reflections, all the insights … all the
instincts
. The whole book was full of similarly indistinct realizations.

She read through what she had just written, over and over again — the image cleared. Sophie Brinkmann was evidently doing what she herself wanted.

Gunilla stood up and walked back to the office, called her brother Erik and said she wanted to test out a theory with him.

Albert felt elated as he walked away
from her house, with the taste of her chewing gum still in his mouth. They had only been together for two weeks. Now they were a couple. Her name was Anna Moberg, and he had always liked her.

A car drove up beside him as he walked. It kept to the same slow pace as Albert. He looked at the car, at its driver, wondering if he wanted something, but the driver’s window was closed. He carried on walking, then stopped.

The car went on a couple of yards, then it stopped as well. Albert crossed the road behind the car and quickened his pace. The window wound down.

“Hey!”

Albert turned around, and saw a thickset, unfamiliar man in a windbreaker behind the wheel.

“Albert Brinkmann?”

Albert nodded.

“Come here, I’d like to talk to you.”

Albert was on his guard. “No, I’m going home.”

He could hear the nervousness in his voice and tried to hide it by adopting a firm stance, but his body wouldn’t obey him. The man in the car waved him over with his hand.

“Come here, I said. I’m from the police.”

Albert walked nervously toward the car. The man held up an ID badge.

“My name’s Hasse, get in the back.”

Albert hesitated.

“Get in the back,” he repeated in a low voice.

The backseat was upholstered in velour fabric. He could smell food, maybe hamburgers. Hasse Berglund looked at Albert in the rearview mirror.

“You’re in a fucking precarious position, kid.”

Albert said nothing. There was a short, muffled, synchronized sound as the central locking sealed all the doors. The man turned around and looked Albert in the eye.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

The man had a round face, short hair, and a double chin. Albert caught a glimpse of something mad in his pale, watery eyes.

The blow came out of nowhere. Hasse clipped him on the head with the palm of his hand and Albert’s head hit the door window. For a second he didn’t know what was going on, then the pain kicked in. Albert put his hands to his head.

“What are you talking about? You’ve got the wrong guy,” he muttered.

He was close to tears, his whole body shaking.

“No, Albert, I never get the wrong guy.”

Hasse had turned around and was staring straight ahead.

“I’ve just had a word with a young lady, or should I say little girl. Fourteen years old, and she says you forced yourself on her at a party two weeks ago … and do you know what?”

Albert was looking down at his lap, one hand on the side of his head, where it hurt.

“And do you know what?” Hasse roared.

Albert forced himself to look the man in the eye.

“No?”

“I believe her. And there are three more lads who are prepared to give statements, and we’ve got a medical report as well. Fourteen means underage. That’s not the sort of thing that society takes lightly … not at all.”

Albert’s fear faded slightly.

“Well, then you’ve definitely got the wrong kid. My name’s Albert Brinkmann, I live in Stocksund, over there.”

He pointed toward his house. Hasse settled himself back in his seat.

“Were you at a party on Ekerö … ,” he said, looking down at his notebook. “Kvarnbacken, on the fourteenth of this month?”

“I don’t know what the place was called.”

“But you were at a party there?”

Albert didn’t want to but nodded anyway.

“But I didn’t meet any girl there … I’m going out with a different girl.”

“So you’re a horny little creep?” Hasse said in a conspiratorial tone of voice. “Aren’t we all. But when it turns into something else, that’s when I come into the picture and put things right. That’s my job, see?”

The car was starting to get stuffy.

“I haven’t done anything,” Albert whispered.

Hasse licked his front teeth, folded down the sun visor, and inspected his smile in the mirror.

“We’re going into the city, to Norrmalm. We’ve got the witnesses there, they need to get a look at you. If it’s the way you say, you’ll be free to go. OK?”

Albert tried to make sense of it.

“What’s her name, then, this girl?” he asked.

Hasse Berglund flipped the sun visor back up, started the car, and drove off toward the city. He never answered Albert’s question.

“There you are, you’ve got a call, it’s Albert.”

She smiled to her colleague and went into reception, sat down on a chair, and picked up the receiver that was sitting on the desk.

“Hello, darling.”

At the other end she could hear her son crying like a baby. Incapable of explaining what had happened. She listened, tried to calm him down, and said she was on her way.

At the police
station she was left to sit and wait in an empty corridor several floors up in the building. She sat alone in the silence. In front of her one office door was ajar. It was empty inside, the room wasn’t in use. Then there were steps along the corridor. A big, bearded man holding a plastic folder was walking toward her. He stopped and introduced himself as Erik, then sat down beside her on the bench. She could smell stale sweat on his clothes.

“Your son, Albert. He’s explained to you what this is all about?”

The man’s voice was dull and ordinary.