Without a Trace (2 page)

Then came the muffled sound of heels approaching. A face suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass door. Nina took an involuntary step back.

‘Nina Hoffman?’

The woman was short and blonde, curvy and wearing high heels.
Barbie doll
.

‘Welcome to National Crime! Come in.’

Nina stepped into the corridor. The ceiling was very low. There was a faint rumbling sound from somewhere. The floor was polished to a high sheen.

‘I’m here for the induction course,’ Nina said, by way of explanation. ‘Perhaps you could tell me where …’

‘The head of CIS says he’d like to see you straight away. You know where to find him?’

How could she? ‘No,’ she replied.

The Barbie doll explained.

Nina’s footsteps plodded dully on the plastic floor; there was no echo. She walked past open doors, fragments of voices dancing past, light from small windows up by the ceiling. At the end of the corridor she turned left and found herself at a corner room with a view of Bergsgatan.

‘Nina, come in.’

Commissioner Q had risen through the ranks. He’d left Stockholm’s Violent Crime Unit to become head of CIS, the Criminal Intelligence Unit at National Crime.

She stepped into the room and unbuttoned her jacket.

‘Welcome to National Crime,’ he said.

That must be the usual greeting for new recruits. ‘Thanks.’

She studied the man behind the desk, without being too obvious about it. His garish Hawaiian shirt clashed badly with the municipal furnishings. They’d had dealings with each other before, when David Lindholm, a police officer, had been found murdered (when
she
had found David Lindholm murdered), and she wondered if he was going to mention that. His desk was empty, except for a coffee mug, a laptop and two thin folders. He stood up, walked round the desk and greeted her with a firm handshake.

‘Have you found your way around the labyrinth yet?’ he asked, as he gestured towards a visitor’s chair.

How was she supposed to have done that? She’d arrived just five minutes ago. ‘Not yet.’

She hung her jacket over the back of the chair and sat down. It was hard and uncomfortable. He returned to his chair, leaned back and looked at her intently. ‘I understand you’re doing the induction course today. Is that right?’

All week, she’d been told. ‘Yes.’

He reached for one of the folders, put on a pair of reading glasses, opened the first page and read through her CV.

‘Police Academy,’ he said. ‘Then Katarina Police District on Södermalm, trainee, constable and sergeant. Then more studies, Stockholm University, courses in behavioural science, criminology, social psychology and ethnology.’

He looked at her over his glasses. ‘Why behavioural science?’

Because I was lost. Because I wanted to understand people
.

‘It seemed … interesting.’

‘You speak Spanish, I understand? As well as German and Portuguese?’

‘I grew up in Tenerife. My dad was German. I understand Portuguese, but I’m not fluent.’

‘English?’

‘Of course.’

He closed the file. ‘When I took this job, I insisted on being allowed to bring in some of my own people. I want you here.’

She didn’t answer, just studied him carefully. What did he mean? Why was he bringing up her education?

Q pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. ‘Why did you leave Katarina and start studying again?’

Because my entire family has been criminal for generations. Because I chose the same path, but from the other side. Because I shot and killed my brother on a hash plantation in Morocco
.

‘I felt I needed to develop … that I had more to give.’

He nodded again, and regarded her calmly. ‘We don’t do police jargon here,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for unusual people. Abnormalities are an asset. We want women, gays, ethnic minorities, lesbians, academics …’

Was he trying to shock her? If he was, he’d have to try harder. Or was he fishing?

She didn’t answer.

He smiled. ‘Because you’re a trained police officer, you’re still authorized to carry out police business, so you can conduct interrogations, and so on, in so far as you deem it necessary, but your post here will be as an operational analyst. How important is it for you to go on that induction course?’

She didn’t respond.

‘I mean, you know about timesheets, Lamia can sort out a pass-card, computer and a login ID, and you can go round saying hello to people later, can’t you?’

Presumably Lamia was the blonde. She would have been happy to do the course – she wasn’t sure she remembered how to fill in a timesheet. The system had probably been updated during the four years that had passed since she’d left the force.

The head of CIS took her silence as agreement. ‘Do you know who Ingemar Lerberg is?’ he asked.

Nina searched her memory: a politician, forced to resign. ‘Of course.’

Superintendent Q opened the second file and pulled his glasses onto his nose. ‘Lerberg has been found assaulted in his home in Solsidan, out in Saltsjöbaden, it’s not yet clear if he’s going to make it. We’ve received a request for assistance from Nacka Police. Do you have any contacts out there?’

Solsidan? Wasn’t that a comedy series on television?

‘Not that I can think of.’

He held the folder across the desk. ‘We’re putting together an investigative team today, two or three people to start with. I’d like you to go out and take a look. Don’t be afraid to ask if there’s anything you’re not sure about … See it as an introduction to working here.’

The superintendent leaned back in his chair. ‘We’ll get together in the meeting room at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Bring whatever you’ve been able to find. Lamia will sort out a car for you.’

*

The house was on its own at the end of the road, not too far from the little station.

Annika Bengtzon switched off the wipers, then leaned forward and tried to peer through the windscreen. The heater was spewing hot, stuffy air into her face, and she turned it down, then glanced up the road.

Nacka Police had cordoned off the turning circle and the far end of the road, the whole of the property and parts of the neighbours’ lawn. Several other journalists had already parked their cars at the side of the road and were either sitting in the warm, behind misted-up windows, or standing about by the cordon. The first news-agency report had claimed that Ingemar Lerberg was dead. Then it had been changed to ‘very seriously injured’. The initial mistake was probably the reason for the remarkably large media interest. A murdered politician was always a murdered politician even if he’d only been a member of Nacka’s social-services committee. But in the past Lerberg had also been a controversial Member of Parliament, someone of whom there were plenty of pictures in the archives.

Annika took a deep breath. Violence still made her feel uneasy, as did hordes of journalists. She decided to stay in the car as long as she could.

The house was situated towards the back of the plot, partially concealed by a thin lilac hedge and a few apple trees, all dripping with water. A rocky outcrop rose up behind it, greyish-yellow from the remnants of last year’s grass. There was nothing remarkable about the building: painted red, white gables, hipped roof, probably built in the 1920s and renovated in the 1970s, when a new façade and large picture windows had been put in. The result was a mishmash, a strained attempt at modernity. It would be difficult to make it live up to its billing as the luxury villa the head of news had said it was, but everything was relative. It was a question of how you phrased things. For her mum at home in Hälleforsnäs, a renovated wooden house in Saltsjöbaden was definitely a luxury villa.

Lerberg had been taken to hospital, she knew that much. There was already some mobile-phone footage on YouTube of him being driven off in the ambulance. Picture-Pelle had spoken to the man who’d shot the footage and offered to buy the rights to post it on the
Evening Post
website, but had lost out to their wealthier competitors.

The rain wasn’t showing any sign of letting up. A television van turned into the narrow road and parked in front of her, blocking her view of the house. She switched off the engine, pulled up the hood of her raincoat, slung her bag over her shoulder, grabbed the tripod and got out of the car. The wind tugged at her coat. It really was bloody cold. She said a brief hello to TV4 and the prestigious morning paper, but pretended not to notice Bosse, from the other evening paper, who was standing by the turning circle, talking far too loudly into his mobile. She looked at her watch. She hadn’t got the children that week, but she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. Jimmy, her partner, was cooking that night and she’d promised to be home in time for dinner. And there was no exclusive here, nothing to dig out, just routine coverage. Fast and efficient. Get some clips for the website and some quotes from a police officer, then try to embroider a story with fragments of fact.

Assaulted in his home. Very seriously injured
.

She set up the tripod in the road in front of the cordon, just a couple of metres from a local radio reporter, then pulled the video-camera out of her bag and fixed it to the stand.

‘Do you want me to hold an umbrella over that?’ the reporter offered. He was tall and thin – she recognized him but didn’t know his name. He was carrying a radio transmitter, with four aerials and a little flashing light, on his back. It made him look like an insect.

She smiled tentatively at him. ‘That would be great. Mind you, by now my camera’s got its own swimming badge, and can ski down black runs …’

‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’ Insect Man agreed. ‘Where does all this snow and rain come from? It’s got to stop at some point …’

She plugged the microphone cable into the audio socket, cleared her throat, pressed play and stood in front of the camera. ‘Here,’ she said, looking hard into the lens, ‘in the middle of the idyllic residential area of Solsidan in Saltsjöbaden, politician Ingemar Lerberg was found seriously assaulted earlier this morning. He has been taken to Södermalm Hospital in Stockholm, where he remains in a critical condition.’ She looked at the radio reporter. ‘That was fifteen seconds, wasn’t it?’

‘Maybe fourteen.’

She lowered the microphone, went to the camera and let it pan across the scene: the dripping cordon, the media scrum, the figures visible behind the closed curtains up in the house. She would use the pictures as a backdrop to a voiceover once she knew more about the case. The reporter was still holding the umbrella above her.

‘It’s not quite as smart as I thought it would be out here,’ he said.

‘It’s probably only the address that’s smart, not the houses,’ Annika said.

She pressed stop, then put the camera back into her bag. The reporter lowered the umbrella.

‘Do you know who first reported it?’ Annika asked.

‘No, just that the alarm was sounded at nine thirty-six.’

Annika looked at the house. The radio reporter and head of news weren’t the only ones who had expected something more. Ingemar Lerberg was the sort of politician who expressed himself through grand gestures and seemingly infinite pomposity. He called himself a businessman, and often had himself photographed on impressive yachts.

‘Why did he resign? From Parliament, I mean.’

‘Something to do with tax,’ Annika said. ‘One of his companies, I think.’ She gestured towards some unmarked cars inside the cordon. ‘National Crime?’

‘I think so,’ the reporter said.

Annika looked up at the house again. Another floodlight was switched on upstairs, and the acid bluish-white light made the dampness outside the window seem to crackle. ‘If National Crime are here, things must be pretty terrible inside,’ she said.

‘Unless the Nacka Police are just covering their backs,’ Insect Man said.

Recent graduates weren’t stupid these days, she thought.

‘Annika Bengtzon,’ a voice said behind her.

Her heart sank. ‘Hello, Bosse,’ she said. She couldn’t understand why she’d once found the idiot attractive.

‘Changing the world at this time in the morning?’

She could either ignore him, which would amount to a declaration of war, or talk to him – he really wasn’t worth getting upset about. She turned and smiled. ‘It’s all food on the table, Bosse. We can’t all live off the dividends from our investments.’

Bosse was fond of holding court at the Press Club, where he would bang on about his risky investments, often made with borrowed money. But the joys of hunting in the stock-market jungle were seldom long-lived. Now his smile became rather more strained. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘here you are, still trudging about in the mud with the rest of us mere mortals.’

Annika raised her eyebrows quizzically.

‘You should be sitting in some state-owned palace in Norrköping, shouldn’t you, now that Jimmy Halenius – your new boyfriend – is about to take charge of the Migration Authority?’ Bosse went on.

Annika had heard Jimmy had been offered the post. She sighed theatrically. ‘Bosse,’ she said, ‘you disappoint me. I thought you were a man with his eye on the ball.’

‘Something’s happening up there,’ the radio reporter said.

Annika pulled out the video-camera and focused on the house. A group of police officers, two in uniform and three in plain clothes, were standing on the porch steps. One of the detectives was a young woman, broad shoulders, slim legs and a long, poker-straight brown ponytail. Annika’s breath caught – could it be …?

‘That’s Nina Hoffman,’ Bosse said, nodding at the woman. ‘She was involved in the David Lindholm murder case. I thought she’d been pensioned off.’

The two reporters went on talking, but Annika didn’t hear what they said. Nina Hoffman had lost weight since she and Annika had last met. Now she was pulling off pale blue plastic bootees and walking towards one of the unmarked police cars, ignoring the media.

The officers on the steps were still talking, and one of the detectives was gesticulating wildly. Then he headed towards the reporters. He stopped a metre or so from the cordon and Annika aimed her camera at him as, beside her, the radio reporter held out his microphone.