A Darker Shade of Sweden (23 page)

“God
damn
it!”

Banegas gave him a reproachful look. “My dear friend, I don't know what that was all about, but there is no need to worry. Here we both are, and none the worse for wear.” He glanced down at Adam's feet. “Well, sorry about your shoe. But I assume you must agree that it's a minor problem.” He checked his watch. “Sorry, I really can't chat any longer. Remember that according to our schedule we are having supper after the performance. Make sure not to get home earlier than midnight.”

The minister hurried off towards Kungsträdgården park.

Back at his house, the windows glowed in the night. Adam hid behind the snow-laden lilacs. According to the program he shouldn't be here, but there was no helping it. His foot felt frozen stiff. In the washroom there were rubber boots and a laundry basket with warm socks; the key to the cellar was in the third right-hand flowerpot in the greenhouse. Perfect.

Then he saw it. The door to the cellar was open. The kids must have been playing down there again. How many times had he told them . .
.
And besides, there had been a lot of burglaries in the area lately. Silently he sneaked across the lawn, cursing under his breath every time the cold water in his shoe splashed his toes.

He walked soundlessly through the cellar and was just about to start digging in the laundry basket when he saw the man. His heart skipped a beat and he had to bite his lip not to scream. Wasn't that . . . Yes, something metallic gleamed in the thief's hand! Adam's eyes flickered wildly around the room and stopped at a board left over from their renovation. Perfect. He grabbed it, slipped forward. His temples throbbed. I'll fucking show you!

Slap that thing out of his hand with the board. Get the bastard. He lifted his arm, felt his foot slip on the floor. He lost his balance but completed the blow. No, a little too high, straight to the head. And much too hard! A nasty, dull sound and a jolt he could feel all through his arm and body. The man collapsed to the floor and made a rattling sound.

Fuck, how bad had he hit him? He couldn't . . . A thin, red trickle of blood ran from his ear and joined the blood on his cheek. Adam frantically looked for some sign of life. He couldn't . . . Warily his shaking hands turned the body. That's when he recognized the familiar face, burned hazel by endless hours on the golf courses in Torremolinos. An unlit flashlight rolled from a slack hand. He felt his cartoid artery. Nothing. No no no, say it isn't true! Anything, just not this! Suddenly he heard the rhythmic yells of his children upstairs.

“Where's the Krokofant? Where's the Krokofant?”

Get rid of the board, find socks, put on boots. Fuck fuck fuck. He ran across the lawn, through the woods, to another subway station. Just to be safe. Threw his shoes in a building-site container. Then he threw up on the platform. It just couldn't be true. At the pub in the main railway station he downed a pint of beer and immediately ordered another. At least it made his hands stop shaking. What had he done? But it was an accident! Sure, but still!

While running through the wood he had promised himself at least to consider it. But halfway through his third pint he made up his mind. What good would it do? Confessing wouldn't bring Göran back to life. But it wasn't the thought of jail that frightened him, it was the reactions of his children. What would they think of him? He would forever be the man who had killed their adored Grampa. And Kattis? No, no, he would keep silent.

The two police officers waiting in the living room were dressed in civilian clothes and unobtrusive. The body had already been removed, the older one whispered, a kindly man who reminded Adam of his company's personnel officer. His colleague was a younger woman who wore an inscrutable expression and her hair in a ponytail. She scrutinized Adam from head to feet. Did he have any stains? He had checked so carefully! The personnel officer cop took him aside.

“A horrible thing. I understand you are all in shock.” He went on to explain the circumstances with which Adam was already much too familiar. “We have had reports of a number of burglaries in this area. Your father-in-law must have left the door open and been surprised by them. He was playing some game with the children, aah . . .”

The young police woman checked her notes. “Where's the Krokofant?”

“Exactly,” the policeman went on. “These international burglar gangs are no Sunday school boys. They used as much violence as necessary to be sure of getting away. Unfortunately they may already be out of the country.”

Adam slowly shook his head, angrily clenching his jaws to hide his relief.

“Of course we hold no preconceptions,” the young woman added. Adam said nothing. He much preferred her older partner.

Adam spent the rest of the evening trying to comfort Kattis. His mother-in-law took care of the children and managed to be both strong and tender despite her own grief. Had he misjudged her all these years? Before the police officers left they had wanted to know where he had spent his evening. Just routine, the man assured him self-consciously. Adam told them about his visit to the opera and showed them the ticket Banegas had given him. The policeman excused the necessity for such formalism. The woman said nothing but carefully noted the seat number in her little book. No, Adam didn't like her at all.

That night he got no sleep at all. Would the police contact Banegas? And what had that policewoman been looking at all the time? He had to get hold of Banegas before the police got to him. At eight in the morning he sneaked out into the garden to call Banegas' cell. No answer. He called again, several times, until nine-thirty. He didn't dare phone their room at the hotel, given how suspicious Mrs. Banegas was.

Finally he decided to go to the Grand Hôtel. He waited in the lobby for at least an hour. Suddenly he got a glimpse of Mrs. Banegas, hurrying out alone through the revolving doors. Strange. According to their schedule, there were no imaginary educational field trips until three o'clock. At this hour, Banegas ought to be keeping his wife company. Could he be busy with the police?

Nonchalantly, Adam stepped into an elevator. On the third floor he found room 318.

“Señor Banegas,” he hissed while knocking. “Señor Banegas, it's me. Adam.”

No reply. Adam tried again. “Héctor! Open, it's important.”

He waited for another minute and was just about to knock again when he heard someone clear his throat behind him. A tall man in the hotel uniform, buttons gleaming.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Adam made a half-hearted attempt to explain.

“Hotel policy is that all callers must announce themselves at the reception. And your friend doesn't seem to be in. If you give me your name, I will inform him that you have been here to see him.” He gave Adam a strange look. “Your
full
name.”

Adam thought for a second and decided on “Jonas Lindgren,” an old classmate who had always gotten into trouble. The uniformed man followed him all the way out to the street.

Kattis had decided to leave for Spain that day, bringing her mother and the children. They had to get away from the house for a while, she said. Adam told her that he understood and promised to take care of all the practical details, whatever they might be. When he had waved them off in the departure lounge at Arlanda airport he felt sweat begin to seep out on his forehead. But not because of what Banegas might say; what filled his mind was the memory of the blood trickling from Göran's ear. It was an accident, he mumbled, a little too loudly. People around him seemed to look suspiciously at him.

When he got home he was unable to eat and instead poured a large whiskey. He had heard that some of the neighbors were going to start patrolling the area at night after what had happened, but that they didn't want to ask him to join. Nobody wanted to ask anything of him. Out of sympathy. His conscience was surging over him and he began pondering whether he should begin building water mains in Sudan, give all his money to homeless or join a monastery. But it passed. What did any of that have to do with Göran's death? Maybe he could just sign up to be a Homework Help instructor with the Red Cross. It had just been an accident, after all.

He lay down on the couch, pulled a throw over himself and tried to read. When the doorbell rang, he didn't know how long he had slept. It was the two police officers. Something seemed to have changed. Now the young woman stood in front while her male partner stood to one side behind her, his head slightly bent. And it was she who spoke first.

“Could we come inside, we have a few more questions.”

They asked about his evening with Banegas, about the opera and the supper. Adam answered to the best of his ability and kept to the schedule. What might Banegas have told them?

“Have you spoken to him?” Adam tried to smile. “He can be a bit confusing sometimes, maybe the Swedish police would make him nervous if . . .” He fell silent. Something was obviously wrong, enormously wrong. The two police officers exchanged a glance. The woman cleared her throat.

“He is dead.”

“Dead?” At first, Adam felt immensely relieved. His worries about what Banegas might say had been totally needless.

“Banegas was found murdered on Kastellholmen,” the police woman said. “Beaten to death with a blunt object. We estimate the time of death to between ten p.m. and midnight. In other words, shortly after you left the opera.”

Adam had nothing very satisfactory to say and chose to give an uncertain nod.

“There are a few details we find confusing. We thought you might help us fill in the blanks.”

Was this when he should insist on having a lawyer present? Or was it too early? Would it seem suspicious instead?

Before he had reached any conclusion, she went on: “Maybe we could do this down at the precinct.”

They took turns questioning him. The older policeman seemed anxious to explain that it was all just routine, nothing to worry about. He had a kindly smile.

His female partner didn't. She pulled out Banegas' schedule. “Do you recognize this?”

Adam nodded.

“What happened to your supper? At the Gyldene Freden they have no memory of you, and there was no reservation made in your name.”

Adam managed to strain out an answer he felt reasonably satisfied with, about having forgotten to reserve a table and that anyway it had turned out Banegas had preferred to go for a walk on his own. If he had said anything else earlier, he must have mixed things up. She silently wrote down what he said. Then her partner took over and explained that of course this was no interrogation, but would Adam consider helping them out by staying on for a couple of hours?

In fact, only around three-quarters of an hour passed before the police woman returned. “Your schedule says that Harald Thorvaldsson at the Export Council was supposed to join you at the opera.”

Damn it!

“However, when we spoke to Mr. Thorvaldsson he denies that any such thing was ever even considered on his part. In fact, he dismissed it very firmly.”

The answer Adam managed this time was less satisfying. She put a few resulting questions, and Adam got himself still more entangled. After a while she suggested that they could take a break and continue later. He declined to have a lawyer present.

When he was brought back into the room, the kindly policeman was gone and the woman in the strict ponytail questioned him alone. As before, she wasted no time on small talk or smiles. “We have had an interesting conversation with a member of the Grand Hôtel staff. The day after the murder someone tried to gain access to the room where the Banegas couple stayed. That person acted nervously and gave a name that turned out to be false. However, you were identified from the photo we took in connection with out other investigation.”

Adam's efforts to explain were torn to shreds by her furious counterquestions. He needed to sleep and clung to the single point which seemed to speak in his favor. “But why would I have anything to do with Señor Banegas' death? It's absurd!”

“Actually, we've learned a reasonable motive from his widow. It seems that you have spent a long time discussing some major road construction project. But Banegas had already given the commission to some American consortium. He was going to tell you before leaving for home.”

What a bastard! “But you don't kill anyone because—”

But she wasn't interested in Adam's reasonable objections. They let him go home to sleep but brought him back again the next morning. At first, the atmosphere seemed more relaxed. The kindly policeman said that they accepted Adam's statement that he had left for home immediately after the opera. Adam said that he was glad to hear it, and the policeman seemed pleased as well. But the female officer remained silent and resolute throughout. Without any warning, she asked:

“So could you tell us why you didn't get home until two hours later? And wearing rubber boots?”

Suddenly the interrogation veered off on a new, horrible track.

The lawyer looked up from his notes. “So that was when you decided to confess to the murder of Banegas?”

Adam nodded. “I just can't bear to be convicted of murdering Göran, my father-in-law.” He thought of Kattis and the children and closed his eyes. “This way I get an alibi for that.”

“But now you claim that you had nothing to do with Banegas' death?”

“That's what I've been telling you. But on the other hand—”

The lawyer held up a deprecating hand. “One thing at a time. Let us focus on the crime you have been arrested for.”

He summed up the situation in a few tired platitudes and looked at his watch. “We'll see,” he said. “Complicated. Must consider strategy, consult my colleagues.”

A police officer arrived to return Adam to his cell. He was led along a corridor and past the open door to a room. In the room was a sobbing, rotund little woman dressed in black. She was leaning her head against the shoulder of a woman officer, but despite that Adam immediately recognized Mrs. Banegas. She glanced up at him. Her sly eyes shone triumphantly and her mouth curled in a superior smile.