Anger Mode (40 page)

“We’re going to get some information out of our friend in the boot,” Martin answered and got out of the car.

“Why?” Tor asked. “He has the evidence in some fucking safety deposit box.”

“I want to make an assessment of the situation myself,” he said dryly.

Suddenly everything fell into place. The loose ends that Tor had tried to figure out suddenly connected with ominous precision, and he now knew why the cop had taken Jerry’s gun. It was linked to the cop murder and as contaminated as a crackhead tart. Jerry had been holding the gun, but Tor would be the fall guy. The psycho was arranging a set-up here. First, he would shoot the bloke in the boot with Jerry’s gun after he had made him talk, and then he would put it in Tor’s hands so that he …

Death was slowly creeping up on him.

C
HAPTER 32

“GONE?” WALTER CRIED and knew that he was going to have a migraine shortly.

“Yes,” Jonna said. “He wasn’t in the car when I came out of the detention-cell block.”

“Did you call his mobile?”

“Of course,” Jonna answered, irritated. “And all I heard was someone gasping for breath and some strangers talking.”

“Why would he want to leave?” Walter said. “He’s been hanging around you like a back pack. Why would he leave?”

“We stopped off at his flat before I dropped off Tuva Sahlin,” Jonna said, with a guilty conscience.

The phone went quiet. Probably the calm before the storm, she thought, and moved the phone a little farther from her ear.

“And why did you do that?” Walter finally asked, now in a stern voice.

“He needed to change clothes. He nagged me constantly about it and there was the lorry driver in the back seat complaining as well. In a moment of weakness, I let him persuade me.”

“To give in to him was perhaps not such a good idea,” Walter declared.

“You mean that somebody tailed us to the police station and took him by force?”

“Why not? The Finn and Headcase are both looking for our fairy queen.”

“I saw no sign that we were being followed.”

“No, but you can’t always be sure. Good hunters are never seen. Were you never taught surveillance techniques at RSU?”

“Do you think that Headcase and Salminen would be any good at surveillance?”

“Probably not,” Walter agreed. “But there might be others who are.”

“Who could that be?” Jonna asked doubtfully. “The ones that shot at Jörgen on the street? The Albanians?”

“Hardly,” Walter said.

“Who do you mean then?” Jonna asked, irritated. “Folke Uddestad, maybe?”

“No, not him either. But he may have hired someone more professional, some ex-KGB or GRU people. There are quite a few of them for hire nowadays.”

“If that’s the case, then we have quite a problem on our hands,” Jonna said resignedly.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“To leave him in the car by himself wasn’t my decision,” Jonna said bitterly. “Since there were no explicit orders from Julén and yourself to allow him to enter the detention centre cell-block, there was no other option than to leave him in the car. And we were outside a police station.”

Walter chuckled. “Let’s write one-one in the fuck-ups score sheet then.”

Jonna knew she had made a mistake letting Jörgen go back to his flat. She was getting overconfident, perhaps? Negligent? Hardly, but extremely unlucky if they had been shadowed by some retired Russian agents who then had the nerve to grab him outside a police station.

Commissioner Folke Uddestad was apparently quite innovative.

“We should send out a description of Jörgen,” Jonna said, becoming overwhelmed by her sense of guilt.

Even though she did not care much for Jörgen, she felt ashamed of her naivety.

“Yours truly will take care of that,” Walter said. “Now let’s concentrate on bringing Leo Brageler in for questioning; he’s on the wanted list now. I’m waiting for a search warrant from Julén. In the meantime, you have to go to Uppsala where you’ll meet some local talent from their CID.”

“I see, and who will lead the interrogation?” Jonna asked. “Should we bring him to the hospital, perhaps?”

“Lilja will lead the interrogation, with you assisting,” Walter answered. “Inspector Lilja is about as proficient at interrogations as I am at cooking.”

“How should I interpret that?”

“When I get out of Täljkvist’s claws, I will treat you to some of my home cooking. Lilja’s technique will give you a flavour of how that will taste.”

So they had finally found the pattern. The fifth had been a failure, just as the first. But that meant nothing any more. He found less and less comfort in what he had done. She had stopped talking to him. He prayed for Cecilia to show herself, but she remained silent. To whom was he praying anyway? There is no God. Perhaps he was praying to his subconscious, so that it would speak to him in Cecilia’s voice.

He was sitting in a park with no compass, no direction. He had no idea why he was sitting there. Perhaps he was looking for an answer; he just wanted to look Bror Lantz in the eyes.

The flat he lived in had become increasingly bleak. The house with his memories was occupied by the police. The end was getting closer and he knew what that meant. He and the others were experts on death. The soul was a chemical composition that together with electrical impulses constituted a sense of ego in the brain, nothing else. Like a memory card in a camera. The body was the camera. Empty and without content.

He knew he would never see her again. There was no life after death, but the scientific certainty of the end still comforted him. That, in the infinite darkness, he would be rid of his pain.

He was ready
.

JUST AS THOMAS KOKK was about to switch off his desk lamp for the evening and make his way home to his sleeping family, he received an urgent email. It was from Forensics and concerned Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat back down in his chair and started to read the attached post-mortem report.

Thirty seconds later, he picked up the phone and dialled the number of his newly discovered blood brother, Agency Director Anders Holmberg. Thomas Kokk would not be with his family for many hours.

MARTIN BORG WALKED to the boot of the car and was about to open the boot lid when he heard a sound in the forest. At first, Martin thought it was a frightened animal. When he looked into the empty car, he realized that it was Tor who had run off into the woods. Martin stared thoughtfully at the thick forest.

Why had he run off now? Was that journalist story just a bluff?

There was no point in starting to hunt for Tor. Visibility was negligible and the forest was big enough to hide in. Tor did not present an immediate threat; he could not talk without implicating himself. If the idiot wanted to break their agreement here and now, there was nothing Martin could do to stop him.

In fifteen minutes, Martin would himself be gone, but first he would have a little talk with the guy in the boot.

EVERYTHING HAD HAPPENED so quickly. From out of nowhere, that Headcase had appeared and torn open the door to the Porsche. He had tried to pull out a terrified Jörgen, who instead had managed to open the passenger door on his side, throw himself out of it and run towards the detention-cell-block doorway. Just as safety had come within reach, everything had gone black.

When he came to his senses, he was lying in the boot of a car. He had difficulty breathing and a terrible pain in his back and head. Somewhere through the fog, he heard a familiar sound. At first, he could not place the familiar snatch of music, the schnapps song with little Santas clinking glasses, but after a while he remembered that it was the ringtone of his mobile phone. After fumbling in the dark, he managed to get the mobile phone from his trouser pocket and luckily find the right button. But all he could get out were cracked whispers.

Suddenly, the boot opened, and someone brutally tore the mobile phone from his hand.

His last chance of salvation was gone.

Jörgen was left in the dark and cold for some time until the boot opened again.

This time, a voice told him to pull his shirt over his head and to turn his face away. The voice was disguised, almost in a comical way. It was dark and deep, like a trailer voiceover for some Hollywood action film.

Jörgen shook with cold and the fear of death. He was still having problems breathing and it was not helped by the ice-cold air. Through a crack between his shirt buttons, he could distinguish a figure in the dark. He had something wrapped around his head to hide his face. Judging by his height, it was not Headcase.

“Where is the evidence on Folke Uddestad?” the voice muttered impatiently.

So the purpose of the kidnapping was now clear. These characters were not keen on small talk.

Jörgen did not know what to answer or even how to make himself heard. All his concentration was on keeping his breathing somewhat under control, while pain flashed between his lower back and his head. He tried to signal his inability to answer by waving a hand.

“Uddestad!” the voice boomed, even more impatiently.

Jörgen waved once again. This time, he managed to make a small sound. It sounded like a gasp.

“Let’s try this one last time,” the voice said, more composed.

Through the thin shirt fabric, Jörgen felt something cold and hard against his head. Shortly afterwards, he heard a familiar metallic sound.

Jörgen closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed to a god he had never believed in.

Suddenly, he created a sound. A sound left his lips between his tortured breaths.

“I can’t hear you,” the voice hissed. “Speak louder.”

“I don’t have anything anymore,” Jörgen blurted out. Slowly, he was beginning to regain control of his breathing and his voice.

“Anything what?”

“The police have everything on Uddestad,” Jörgen answered carefully. He had to struggle for each word.

“You mean RSU and that little cunt Jonna de Brugge who drives around with you in a Porsche?”

Jörgen nodded. How did he know that?

“What was the evidence?”

“A video and some photographs,” Jörgen answered truthfully.

“What type of video?”

“A sex video,” Jörgen explained.

The voice pressed the gun harder. Obviously, not the right answer.

“I secretly filmed myself and Folke during a sexual act. Then I used the video for blackmail.”

“Is Uddestad really gay?” the voice asked in disbelief. The depth had disappeared and Jörgen could hear certain characteristics of what was probably his real voice.

“Yes, he is,” Jörgen answered. “And he’s also a transvestite. If that makes it any better.”

It was quiet for a few seconds. Apparently, the voice was digesting Jörgen’s answer.

Jörgen was shaking so much from the cold that his teeth began to chatter. If he did not die from a bullet in the head, he would soon die of pneumonia.

“Then it’s time to wrap this up,” the voice said and gestured with the pistol. “You are of no use to me any longer.”

And that was the truth. If the journalist had given RSU the evidence on Uddestad, there was no more for Martin to gain. His knowledge of Uddestad’s homosexuality and preference for women’s clothing would not give him any advantages, not without solid proof.

“One last question,” the voice said. “Not that it makes any difference. Out of curiosity, how is it that RSU knows about your, shall we say, secrets?”

Jörgen hesitated at first. Should he tell it like it was? What was to be gained by keeping quiet? Anything that would delay a bullet in the head was a blessing.

“I made a deal with them,” Jörgen said.

“A deal?”

“Yes, they got all the evidence with myself and Uddestad in exchange for the full picture on the investigation into Drug-X.”

“Drug-X?” the voice said, astonished.

“If you don’t pull the trigger, I’ll give you an exclusive on it.”

“Do I look like a journalist?” the voice snapped.

“No, not exactly. We don’t use force to get information,” Jörgen said.

“No, but blackmail is apparently quite acceptable.”

“Can we come to an agreement?” Jörgen continued. “My life for some information you can use?”

It was silent.

“Tell me, and I will decide afterwards,” the voice said.

“Not until I’m safe,” Jörgen said, beginning to feel that he had something with which to negotiate. The voice might possibly be interested in what he knew about the investigation into the drug and Leo Brageler.

Something else occurred to Jörgen. The masquerade. Why was he forced to pull his shirt over his head and why had the voice covered his face? Possibly because they were empty threats. Perhaps it was not his intention to liquidate Jörgen after all.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” the voice said. “So say what you have to say now, or don’t say anything and we can end this now. I don’t have all the time in the world.”

“No, but I repeat my previous request to first have a measure of safety,” Jörgen insisted and kept going through his chattering teeth. “You must understand by now that I can’t trust someone who points a gun at my head and threatens to finish me off as if I were a temporary project.”

“A classic dilemma,” the voice laughed ironically. “In actual fact, I hadn’t intended to kill you – hence the masked face and disguised voice. But to let you go free now without saying a word is clearly not acceptable. Either you start singing a pretty tune, and I’ll keep the jacket around my head, or you don’t and I’ll reveal my face. In the latter case, I will be forced to liquidate you, as I’m sure you realize.”

“How can I be sure you’re not lying?”