Anger Mode (28 page)

“What a genius,” Martin sighed.

“But I know his name.”

“How do you know that? Did he say his name?”

“Nope, but we found out later because it was in Omar’s computer. Omar had everything on that computer, a shitload of contact names. Quite a few dirty cops were on there.”

“So, what was his name?” Martin was eager to know.

“Who?”

“The police chief, of course.”

“It was Folke Ugglestag, or something like that,” Tor answered.

“Uddestad?”

“Yes,” Tor replied.

Martin shook his head. “Unbelievable. Totally, fucking unbelievable,” he said aloud. “This can’t possibly be true!”

“Why not?” Tor asked.

“Who else knows about it?”

“Knows what?”

“That he’s a high-ranking county police chief called Folke Uddestad.”

“Well …” Tor said, dragging out the word while he thought. “Omar, me and Jerry. Don’t know if Haxhi knows that he’s a cop boss. He probably only has the top-up card number, but doesn’t know his name. And, of course, the journalist, who was obviously blackmailing the cop about something. Anyhow, he’s the one with the photos and the sex video in the safety deposit box. I …”

“How do you know it’s a sex video and photographs?” Martin interrupted.

“Omar had written in the computer that the video and photos showed the journalist and the cop shafting each other in latex gear. Two gay bastards fucking each other. Disgusting!”

Martin pushed out his lower lip, making popping sounds like a fish while he mulled things over. “I think I understand now,” he said thoughtfully. Something interesting was beginning to take shape.

“That they’re both poofters?” Tor wondered.

“How did Omar know what was in the photos unless Uddestad told him about them?”

“I don’t bloody know.”

“But why did he tell Omar? The less known about what the photos show, the better for Mister Police Commissioner.”

“How am I supposed to know that? Do I look like a fucking fortune teller or something?”

Martin rubbed his chin. “Where’s the computer and Omar’s phone now?”

“I have the mobile in my pocket,” Tor said triumphantly. “But the computer is still in the warehouse.”

“Bloody hell,” Martin swore. “That computer was worth its weight in gold.”

“But I have the hard drive thingy. It’s in my other pocket,” Tor smirked.

“You do?” Martin looked astonished at the prize idiot, who nodded, confirming that he had the hard drive. How the hell had he missed both the hard drive and the mobile phone when he frisked him for weapons earlier? That oversight could have cost him his life.

“Was it Jerry who removed it?”

“Yes, he was a smart guy,” Headcase smiled.

“A regular hero,” Martin said, stretching out his hand. “Give me the mobile and the hard drive.”

Tor shook his head in refusal. “No, then you’ll just finish me off here.”

“I could do that right now if I wanted to.”

With the gun pushed in his face once again, Tor had no alternative but to give up Omar’s mobile phone and hard drive. Martin stuffed the phone and the small hard drive in his jacket pocket.

“What happens now?” Tor asked anxiously. Without the hard drive and mobile phone, he felt naked. He had lost his trump card.

“Well, then,” Martin said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He stood up and felt his arm, which made him groan with pain. “Logic dictates that I should finish you off.”

Tor lowered his eyes from Martin and tried to stand up, but was unable to get further than all fours. His muscles quivered and would not carry him.

Martin shook his head and, with his left arm, took hold of Tor’s jacket. He pulled him up until he could stand by himself on wobbly legs.

Events and people had come together to suddenly conjure weaknesses and opportunities out of thin air. Martin saw them all clearly. To have the County Police Commissioner, Folke Uddestad, by the balls was almost too good to be true – especially since he had already proven susceptible to blackmail. Hardly surprising, considering what the photographs showed. He wondered what the journalist had been given to keep quiet.

Things would be so much easier with a police commissioner in his pocket. It would improve Martin’s career prospects significantly and, of course, simplify his campaign against the enemies of democracy. A winning lottery ticket.

In addition to Martin and Headcase, the only one who had any knowledge of this was that journalist. It was important to steer this ship carefully and avoid any rocks. He was already sailing in dangerous waters.

Martin considered Tor, who had now taken a few stumbling steps. To shoot him here and now would only give him a shitload of problems. Where would he hide the corpse? He couldn’t transport it in the car that he and Jernberg had arrived in, since it was a police vehicle and would be the subject of an internal investigation, with Forensics all over it. Besides, he would have to stay and wait for his colleagues, with whom he would soon have to raise the alert. Perhaps it was not that risky to let the fool walk away. He was, after all, party to a cop killing so he would keep his mouth shut until Martin, or someone else, arrested him for that crime. But this was not the time to take risks; he did not know anything about this Headcase. He could not know how trustworthy he would be in the long term.

“Okay, this is what we do,” Martin said. “You’ll get your deal.”

Tor looked disbelievingly at Martin, who had put his gun back in his shoulder holster.

“You’re going to start working for me.”

“Me working for the cops?” Tor asked, surprised.

“Yes and no,” Martin said, trying to find an example that the genius in front of him would understand. “Imagine that I’m running a small shop in a shopping centre. And you’re going to start working for me in the shop.”

“Doing what?”

“You’ll be working for me and not officially for the police. Do you understand?” Mentioning the Security Service was irrelevant right now.

“I will be your personal snitch?”

“Yes, but more than that. You’ll be my right-hand man and do what I tell you to do without questioning or moaning about it. But if you play silly games or run your mouth off or work for someone else, then I’ll pull the plug on you faster than you can shift into first gear.”

Tor looked thoughtful. “Do I have any choice?”

“You can say no and be dead in five minutes. Or take a percentage of what we make. Shall we say twenty?”

“What are we going to make money from?”

“You’ll find out later,” Martin lied. The idiot really believed that Martin was teaming up with him.

“First things first: we have a few other things to take care of. We both need to get to a hospital. But not the same hospital, for obvious reasons.”

Martin wiped more sweat from his brow, feeling his arm. He was starting to get feverish.

“Can you drive a car?” Martin asked.

“I should be able to manage. I have Omar’s car keys and it’s an automatic.”

“Excellent,” Martin said. “Omar’s car is also not on the stolen car list like your Saab is now. Do you have anything in the Saab that can lead back to you?”

Tor thought for a brief moment, then shook his head. The only thing he had in the car was the toolbox, and that could not be traced to him personally. It had been stolen from a cellar in Sundsvall three years ago.

“Good,” Martin said. “Take Omar’s Mercedes and drive to the A&E at Stockholm Söder hospital. Tell them that you were working on your summer cabin and that you accidentally shot yourself in the hand with a nail gun. Meanwhile, I’ll torch the Saab to destroy your DNA and fingerprints.”

“Will they believe me?” Tor asked, stressed. “The hospitals have to report all gunshot wounds immediately to the cops. Everyone knows that.”

“As long as there’s no bullet, then there’s no risk of that. By the way, what was the name of the journalist?”

“Jörgen Blad,” Tor said. “A short, dark-haired fatty. Didn’t understand much of what he said. He talks faster than fucking Bugs Bunny.”

“Never heard the name. It will be interesting getting to know him a little better.”

“Do we waste him before or after we have grabbed what he has in the safety deposit box?”

“Don’t worry about that now. Give me your mobile number and get going to Casualty. Park Omar’s car a few blocks away and don’t fucking park illegally. We will have to torch that one too, later on. You know what the score is. No fuck-ups or it’s bye bye, Tor. It doesn’t matter where you hide, I’ll find you regardless. Understood?”

Tor gave Martin his mobile-phone number and staggered off towards Omar’s Mercedes-Benz GL450.

Martin watched the car drive off and, for a split second, wondered if he really should let Tor get away. But as an accomplice in a police murder, he would probably not be a problem. A life sentence behind bars was not something to look forward to.

Martin contacted the duty officer at SÄPO who, in turn, alerted the county communications centre, who then requested
police, fire engines and ambulances. SÄPO also sent the on-duty unit from Stockholm, consisting of five men, two of whom were forensic technicians. While waiting for the cavalry to arrive, he memorized the story he had invented. Everything had to be airtight. Every detail of the story would be scrutinized by Internal Affairs and they were not easily fooled, especially when it came to a cop killing. The sky was going to fall in on Martin in the coming days. Thus far, however, he felt he had control over the situation.

A small distance into the forest, he hid Tor’s and Jerry’s guns and Omar’s mobile phone and hard drive under a rock. For safety’s sake, he sprinkled petrol from the police vehicle’s spare tank to disguise the scent from any sniffer dogs. He washed clean the blood trail left by Tor on the tarmac with washer fluid from the Saab, which he then set on fire with the remainder of the petrol from the spare tank. The practical cover-up was ready and the story nicely tied up any loose ends.

Despite the circumstances, he felt elated. Almost euphoric. The knowledge that the hard drive lay waiting for him with all that information gave him hope. A new era was dawning in the life of Martin Borg and it looked very inviting.

He squeezed his charm tightly. This will strengthen our cause, he told himself.

C
HAPTER 20

THREE HOURS HAD passed since Jonna had left the hospital when she rang the “freak”, whose real name was Serge Wolinsky. A tired and grudging voice declared that, no matter who was calling, he had neither the time nor the desire to hold a conversation. Jonna managed to say Walter’s name just as he was about to slam the phone down. He fell silent. Then a heavy sigh could be heard on the other end.

“When, where and what?” he said.

Jonna hesitated.

“When, where and what?” Serge repeated.

“When? As soon as possible. Where? Well, why not at your place? But as far as what goes, I was hoping you could tell me; otherwise, I’m talking to the wrong person,” she said, and hoped the answer would be good enough for this man of few words. The telephone line was silent.

“Shall we say in one hour? You’re in the Stockholm area, right?” Jonna continued. She could hear her own breathing in the telephone and thought for a minute that he had hung up. But then, she heard him. “Ringvägen 96. Second floor. It says Albert von Dy on the door. You can figure out the door code yourself,” he said quickly and hung up.

Charming fellow, that one. No wonder he and Walter seem to have hit it off,
Jonna thought.

Jonna had managed to drive exactly one hundred and seven metres and shift the 911 into fourth gear when her mobile phone rang.

“I’ve been discharged,” announced a happy Jörgen Blad.

Not another complication! She had assumed that the journalist would be bed-bound for at least a few days longer.

“That’s nice,” she lied.

“I was able to nag my way out of here. At my own risk, according to the doctor.”

“That’s very nice. But I’m a little busy right now. Let’s meet at your hotel room tomorrow morning. And when the bank opens, we’ll tackle the practical task of fetching the stuff you have in the safety deposit box.”

“I can hear that you’re driving a car.”

“Yes. So what?”

“Then you can pick me up at the main entrance.”

“Why should I?” Jonna asked.

“Well, partly because there is an imminent risk of something happening to me on the way to the hotel, and partly because I want to accompany you to the place I think you are going. Or have you already forgotten our agreement?”

“But you were supposed to check into a hotel until we had made permanent arrangements for your security. That was the agreement. Besides, nobody knows that you were admitted to the hospital unless you have told them yourself. So what can happen to you on the way to the hotel?”

“Sure, but now I have a clean bill of health and you’re on your way to the freak, and I am tagging along. Otherwise, there’ll be no security deposit box tomorrow.”

Jonna had no other choice but to take Jörgen with her. And it was what they had agreed. She made a U-turn on Torsgatan and drove back towards the hospital.

There was no mistaking the glee in Jörgen’s eyes as he got into the car.

“A Porsche Carrera,” he smiled.

Jonna did not answer him. She felt a general annoyance, particularly when it was a task that involved Walter. He was the hockey player who spread chaos all over the ice rink, and she was the goalkeeper who had to catch all the pucks, or missiles, that kept coming from all possible directions. And here was yet another puck, with only one eye and an attitude that made Hollywood divas seem sympathetic.

“Is this your car?”

“Yes,” she sighed.

“Police salaries seem to have outrun the cost of living,” he continued, squeezing the upholstery.

“Indeed,” Jonna answered. “We take home at least a hundred and fifty grand every month plus overtime. After tax, of course.”

“Okay, it’s no business of mine if you have made the money for the car legally or not.”

“Exactly. It’s none of your business,” she said and turned onto Sankt Göransgatan.

Jörgen shut up.

“Have you then?” he asked after they had driven for a short while.

“Have I what?” Jonna sighed again.

“Bought it legally?”

“You will have to find that out yourself; you’re the journalist.”

Jörgen shut up again. He said nothing during the rest of the journey, spending his time trying to clean an imaginary spot on the car’s leather interior with his index finger, which he repeatedly moistened with his mouth.

Jonna was about to comment several times, but held back since it was better if he stayed quiet. Not until they arrived and were standing outside the entrance to Ringvägen 96 did he open his mouth to speak.

“Is this the place?” he asked, looking up at the façade.

Jonna did not reply. Instead, she keyed in the door code that only postmen and emergency crews used when they needed to access locked foyers of blocks of flats.

They took the stairs to the second floor and buzzed the door with the nameplate for Albert von Dy.

The door was opened by a hollow-eyed, skinny figure with an overgrown beard and straggly hair pulled up in a ponytail. He was wearing an oversized and faded T-shirt that read, “100% AUTONOMOUS”.

“Jonna de Brugge,” Jonna introduced herself, stretching out a hand.

The man stared suspiciously at Jonna and then Jörgen. His eyes flitted between the one-eyed journalist and the woman police officer. Finally, he threw open the door.

“A real comedian,” Jörgen murmured. “He can be the entertainment at my next garden party.”

They followed the man to something resembling a living room. In one corner, there was a sofa covered with pilling grey fabric and a table full of old coffee mugs. The remainder of the room was furnished with half a dozen smaller computer desks. On each of the desks, there were at least two screens and one high-end computer. Bundles of electric and data cables lay in a tangle on the well-worn parquet wood floor, along with lots of dust balls. The way in which the equipment blinked and flashed made Jörgen think of Las Vegas. Everywhere, cooling fans whizzed in the warm room. The windows were screwed shut with strong bolts and appeared unopenable.

“You’re not much of a cleaner, are you?” Jörgen said after tripping over some cables and knocking over a stack of empty pizza boxes.

The man glared at Jörgen with expressionless eyes.

“You’re not a great talker either, right?” Jörgen murmured and sank into the sofa. Like a housekeeper, he started brushing away crumbs between the lines of coffee mugs.

“Thank you for letting us come,” Jonna began. “As I didn’t get to introduce myself by the door, let me try again. As I said, my name is Jonna de Brugge and I work with Walter Gröhn in the police. With me, I have Jörgen Blad who is … our expert in certain matters.”

She looked pointedly at Jörgen, who grinned at the deception.

Serge looked curiously at Jonna and then at Jörgen. “Expert in which matters?” he asked disbelievingly.

“We can talk about that later,” Jonna quickly replied, trying to change the subject. “I assume that you are Serge Wolinsky?”

Serge frowned. He did not like getting a question instead of an answer.

“That might be correct. Be …”

“And I understand that you’re a friend of Walter Gröhn,” Jonna continued. It was important not to lose pace so that he would not have time to analyse and question.

“I wouldn’t say friend,” Serge answered formally.

“But you obviously know each other, right?”

“Regrettably, he knows me,” he answered, emphasizing the word “me”.

“How long has Walter known you then?” asked Jonna, stressing the word “you”.

Without answering, he got up and went over to one of the computers. His fingers moved like lightning over the keyboard and he seemed to be searching for something. Finally, he found what he wanted. Jonna looked at Jörgen, who shrugged his shoulders.

“So, a journalist?” Serge said contemptuously and glared at Jörgen.

“And expert,” Jonna quickly added but realized that he had probably seen through her lie. It had taken less than thirty seconds. Things went fast around here. If only the police force was as efficient. There would be a shortage of unsolved crimes.

“You journalists are no better than cops,” he said and stood up.

“What do you expect me to say to that?” Jörgen asked, feigning insult and winking with his healthy eye like a labrador puppy.

“We’re not here to discuss the media’s role in society,” Jonna explained.

Serge threw up his hands. “What do you want me to do for you then? Fix your broadband connection? Clean your computers of spyware?”

Jonna leaned forwards. “Walter said that you could fix it so that we get access to a certain …”

“Walter, always Walter,” he interrupted Jonna. “You know what? You can tell him this is the last time I do anything for him. I’ve paid back my debt many times over by now.”

“What debt is that?” Jörgen asked, also leaning forwards towards Serge.

“Some other time,” Jonna interrupted. “I need help to use the criminal records database without being seen. Can you set that up?”

Serge pulled in his chin. “Aha, now we are getting warm,” he said, waving his hand in the air.

“I also need to get into some public and restricted databases at the Stockholm District Court,” she added.

Serge looked at Jonna, thinking hard. “That’s quite a tall order at such short notice,” he said.

“I don’t know who you are or what you can do and, to be honest, I don’t want to know. But I’ll ask you again for the last time. Are you going to help me or not?”

She tried to sound friendly, yet firm. As if he had no choice, even though it was a question.

Serge assumed a troubled expression behind his beard.

“What are you looking for?”

“We’re under no obligation to tell you that,” Jörgen answered dryly.

“I won’t ask you again,” Jonna said, in a sharper tone.

“I know,” Serge answered. “Now you’re going to threaten me with Walter.”

“Correct. I’m following his instructions. Your dealings with Walter are none of my business. But if it makes it easier for you, then you can imagine that I am Walter.”

“Albeit a little more attractive,” Serge said, forcing a smile.

“So what’s it going to be?” Jonna started to stand up from the sofa.

“You need a microrouter,” Serge answered quickly.

“A what?” She sank back onto the sofa.

“What do you know about computers?”

“Not much more than the average user,” she said apologetically.

“Okay,” Serge said. “A router is a type of switch that is designed just to sit in a data network and direct traffic between computers so that the right data goes to the right computer. Do you understand?”

Both Jonna and Jörgen nodded.

“The criminal records database is physically separated from the network and computers that use email and the internet at the police station. All the different police stations are connected using what is known as a Virtual Private Network, or VPN, that’s impossible to connect to from the internet no matter how smart you are, because it’s physically separated. The reason for restricting access to the internet is to prevent attacks on the system that breach the firewall and then fake or clone a computer within the system. If you could do that, then you would just have to hack the passwords and security-level codes, and then you could do anything you wanted within the database whenever you wanted. Also, every key stroke in the system is registered and it sends alarms according to special rules.”

“Sounds like a foolproof system,” Jonna said.

Serge laughed. “There’s no such thing in the world of computers. And certainly not if the breach is carried out from within, which is often the case with companies and the authorities.”

“You mean that it’s the employees who are responsible for most of the hacking attempts?”

“Yes, that’s correct. It can be done intentionally, by the employee, or unintentionally, when a Trojan – a type of virus – finds its way into the employee’s computer when they use an innocent website or open an email.”

“But then it’s impossible to hack into it from the outside,” Jörgen concluded.

“As I said, nothing’s perfect in the world of computers. Not even the Pentagon has managed to avoid being hacked.”

“So how are we to do this?” Jonna asked.

The hollow-eyed beardie lit up. “Coincidentally, I used to be one of the consultants that helped to design the criminal records database for the police. I was a subcontractor for the consultancy company that had the task of developing the whole system. I had full access to the project and the source code just by signing a piece of paper about confidentiality, which didn’t mean anything to me. Naturally, the Security Service did a thorough background check on me and all the other consultants.”

“And access to the source code means what?” Jonna asked, not at all interested in his career as a consultant.

“It’s very simple,” he continued in a superior tone. “As the programmers in the consultancy company were birdbrains, I added a few back doors that the idiots never managed to find. At first, it was mostly for my own amusement and to see if they’d find them during testing of the code before the first release. They never did. In fact, I’d bet that nobody outside the Von Dy group can find those back doors, since they’re hidden in some anonymous SET variables.”