MemoRandom: A Thriller (17 page)

Then, after the interview, a meeting with his press secretary and an update about social media. More than a hundred new followers every day, and more on the days when he posted or tweeted something. He needed to get better at that.

After that he was straight back to the Stone Age with a meeting with the National Head of Police. He hadn’t even had to try. Old Rosengren wasn’t stupid. He had realized long ago that his term wasn’t going to be extended next year. He was already muttering about wanting to cut down on his workload. Spend more time with his grandchildren, go fishing, play a bit of golf, blah, blah, blah . . . Stenberg felt inclined to let the old man get away with it and couldn’t see any immediate advantage in leaking the fact that Rosengren was actually being given the
sack. Either way, next year he would be able to appoint someone of his own choosing to the top post within the national police force. Someone who, unlike Rosengren, had what was needed.

Well, one thing at a time. For the next half an hour, he had to concentrate on his meeting with John Thorning. His old boss and mentor seemed to have got over the tragedy of his daughter’s suicide. Time for the obligatory visit where John Thorning would tactfully imply the importance of keeping on good terms with old friends, and offer him the benefit of his knowledge, experience, and contacts.

There was a short knock, then his secretary walked in.

“Mr. Thorning, Minister.” She smiled and held the door open for the older man.

“John, good to see you! How are you?” Stenberg smiled his broadest heartfelt-but-still-professional smile. All of a sudden he felt inexplicably elated.

“Jesper. Karolina and the children are well, I hope?” The handshake was dry and firm, as always. But the expensive suit didn’t fit as well as usual. John Thorning had lost weight, fast, and not in a good way. His shirt collar was loose, revealing folds of skin, his face was gray, and there were dark bags beneath his thin, rimless glasses. His steel-gray hair could have done with a trim a few weeks ago as well. The difference from the man’s usually imposing appearance was striking.

“Sit yourself down, John!” He gestured to one of the armchairs on the other side of the desk. “So, how are you and Margareta?” Stenberg opened, in his most sympathetic tone of voice. But John merely shook his head.

“You’re a busy man, Jesper, so we can skip the small talk and get straight down to business.”

Stenberg was taken aback. “Er . . . of course, by all means.”

“I want the investigation reopened.”

“I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t follow you, John.”

John Thorning grimaced irritably. “The police investigation into Sophie’s death. I want it reopened, as soon as possible.”

Stenberg cleared his throat, trying to buy himself a couple of more seconds’ thinking time. His brain had shifted into top gear.

“W-well, John, you know as well as I do that it doesn’t work like that,” he began. “A Swedish government minister can’t simply—”

“With respect, Jesper, that’s complete bullshit!”

John Thorning leaned over Stenberg’s desk and jabbed a bony index finger at the polished mahogany. “You’re the most senior lawyer in the country, Jesper. Head of the entire justice system. Do you mean to say that you can’t get a tiny little police investigation reopened, without a lot of fuss about exceeding your authority?”

“Erm, well . . .” Stenberg was perfectly aware of how uncertain he sounded. Damn, this discussion really wasn’t turning out the way he had expected. But he was saved by the gong.

“I’ve brought you some coffee,” his secretary twittered with exaggerated cheeriness as she slowly put the tray down on the desk.

“Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Thorning?”

The lawyer muttered something in response, clearly annoyed at the interruption. Then he leaned back in his chair and took the cup from her.

Stenberg shot Jeanette a look of gratitude. Her timing was perfect, as always. Almost as if she could hear the discussions going on in his office.

Jeanette handed him his coffee. Black, with just a teaspoon of milk, exactly the way he liked it.

“The cake is homemade,” she added. “I hope you like it. If you need anything else, I’ll be right outside.” She addressed this last remark to Stenberg. He gave a short nod of thanks.

“I apologize for my little outburst, Jesper,” John Thorning said the moment the door was closed. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Margareta is down in Marbella with some friends. The house is far too quiet.”

He took a sip of coffee, then put the cup down on the delicate saucer.

“It’s like this, Jesper.” John Thorning took a deep breath. “The police officer who investigated Sophie’s death made things very easy for himself. He got the prosecutor on his side early on—agreeing that they were dealing with a clear case of suicide. But there were several lines of inquiry that were never investigated properly. A neighbor heard raised voices earlier that evening, for instance.”

John Thorning leaned forward slightly. “Not to mention the suicide note that was sent to me from her iPad. I must have read it a thousand times, and I can’t escape the feeling that it was written by someone else. Little things, words that Sophie wouldn’t have used. And the fact that she called me John rather than Daddy in the e-mail.”

Stenberg was fighting hard to look neutral and even managed to squeeze out a couple of sympathetic nods. That fucking e-mail, he had sensed it was a step too far when he read the police report.

“But in spite of that,” John Thorning said, tapping on the desk again, “the whole thing was written off as suicide. It’s eating me up from inside, Jesper.” He threw his arms out. “You knew Sophie, you worked together for years. She could certainly be a bit unstable. But suicidal?”

Stenberg realized he was expected to say something here. His old mentor was clearly in complete denial. Time for a small, tentative reality check. He took a deep breath and made an effort to sound thoughtful and sympathetic. It took a lot of work.

“John, obviously you have my very deepest sympathies. But, as you once said to me, it’s never a good idea to let your feelings get in the way of your judgment. Sophie had problems, we both know that. All the facts indicate that—”

“Stop it, Jesper!” The older man held up his hand. “You forget who you’re talking to, so stop tilting your head to one side and pretending to quote me. You’re a father too, try to imagine
if something happened to one of your girls. Wouldn’t you do anything to make sure that justice was done?”

It was a clever trap, one that Stenberg had used many times in court. No matter how you answered, you were caught, so it was better not to say anything. Which was exactly what he did.

After a few endless seconds John Thorning stood up, put his hands on the desk, and leaned forward.

“You’re clearly not going to make things easy for me, Jesper. Well, there are obviously other ways to get some clarity in this matter. I know a former police officer who runs his own security company. I could ask him to investigate the case for me. But then an interesting little problem arises.”

Stenberg sat up straight.

“As you know, I’m also general secretary of the Bar Association, and generally regarded as your mentor,” John Thorning said. “Someone who’s part of Team Stenberg. Imagine the reaction if it leaked to the media.”

He paused.

“That my faith in the police, the organization for which you are ultimately responsible, is so low that I choose to initiate a private investigation into my daughter’s death.” John Thorning smiled at Stenberg, a cold smile that was little more than a twitch at the corners of his mouth. Then he sat down and folded his arms.

Stenberg did his best to look unconcerned, as if the threat didn’t really bother him. But the old bastard was right. It would harm his reputation if one of his most ardent supporters was seen to be dissatisfied. It would give rise to unnecessary speculation, maybe even lead others to reevaluate their support. And the Bar Association was a very influential body, capable of shaping opinion. He would need its support in the future. But political considerations were really secondary. It was considerably more troubling that an external investigator might end up snooping about in the case. All it would take was one witness whom the previous investigation had missed. Someone who
had spotted Stenberg down in the garage or out in the street, or had seen his registration number or something else that could link him to the scene.

In some ways the old man had done him a favor by coming to see him first. It gave him an opportunity to take control of the situation. Stenberg closed his eyes and discovered that his heart was beating a bit faster. The way he had felt in the garage came flooding back. The sense of sharpness. Of being completely in the moment.

“I hear what you’re saying, John,” he said slowly. “Naturally, I want to help you. But a Swedish government minister isn’t permitted to intervene directly in operational matters. I’d risk being called in by the Standing Committee on the Constitution. Anything of that sort wouldn’t do either of us any favors.”

John Thorning’s expression hadn’t changed.

“What I might be able to do is ask one of my more trustworthy colleagues to take a judicious look at the case. Go through the investigation again and follow up any loose ends, and hopefully that could give you the answers you think you’re missing,” Stenberg went on.

He left his mouth open for a moment, waiting until the old toad leaned forward.

“But in that case I would have to impose certain conditions, John.”

Stenberg leaned across the desk as well, his face barely a foot and a half from his former mentor’s. John Thorning nodded almost imperceptibly. He thought he’d got his way, the way he usually did. That he was still the one pulling the strings. He hadn’t realized that things had changed.

“Firstly.” Stenberg held up his thumb. “You have to leave everything to us. No private detectives running around complicating matters, not now, and not later. Is that clear?”

Thorning went on nodding, slightly harder now.

“Secondly.” Stenberg held up his index finger as well. “No leaks. If I see the slightest hint in the media that some sort of
secret investigation is under way . . .” He paused long enough to be interrupted.

“Of course not, Jesper, this stays between us.”

Bait taken, hook in mouth. Now to make sure the barbs were secure.

“Excellent. There’s just one more condition, John, and it’s nonnegotiable. I suggest that you think it through very carefully before replying.”

“I’m listening, Jesper.”

Stenberg stood up from his chair, walked around the desk, and sat down on one corner of it. He suddenly realized that he was enjoying the tension of this game. His heart was thudding in his chest, and the sense of being in the moment was almost total.

“If my people reach the same conclusions as the previous investigation,” he said. “If all the evidence indicates that Sophie committed suicide, you have to accept that. Put the matter behind you and move on, no matter how painful it might be.”

John Thorning opened his mouth to say something, but Stenberg was quicker.

“To put it plainly, John: no private investigations, no long interviews in the Sunday edition of
Dagens Nyheter,
no teary appearances on daytime chat shows. Nothing of that sort. None whatsoever. I want you to give me your word on that!”

John Thorning’s lips narrowed to form a thin line. His eyes became slits. Stenberg was unconsciously holding his breath and felt he could almost taste the tension in the room.

“And if the reverse happens.” The old man cleared his throat. “If you do find something to suggest that Sophie . . .”

Stenberg swallowed a barely noticeable hint of nervousness, looked John Thorning in the eye, and held out his hand for a firm handshake.

“If anything crops up, any evidence to suggest that someone else was involved in Sophie’s death, I guarantee that we will identify that person and bring them to justice. You have my word on that, John.”

Sarac took a couple of cautious steps across the snow-covered cul-de-sac. He looked up at the wooden building, shading his eyes with his hands so as not to be blinded by the sharp sunlight. He must have slept like a log; he hadn’t even noticed them getting onto the car ferry.

The air was crisp, the silence almost total. Just a few magpies calling from the tall pines around the old house. Nothing but snow and trees in all directions, with the exception of the little drive winding off toward the road no more than six hundred feet away. The house was one of the oldest on the island, a big, yellow archipelago villa, two stories, built in the early 1900s. There was a glazed veranda facing the garden, with leaded windows and plenty of ornate woodwork. The plot was huge, stretching all the way down to the water and the private jetty on the other side of the wooded hillock.

Molnar went up the steps to the porch, kicking away some of the snow before raising a loose plank. He fished out a key, unlocked the door, and went inside. Sarac slowly followed him. He was taking small steps to stop himself from slipping. Josef kept close behind him, ready to catch him if anything did go wrong.

Sarac stopped in the porch and inhaled the familiar smell of old wood and dampness. A torrent of memories overwhelmed him. Images of idyllic summers with Elisabeth and her children. Cloudless skies, trips in the rowboat, hammocks in the shade, and Evert Taube on the transistor radio. He longed intensely for those moments. But could they really have been
as perfect as he remembered them? As beautiful and faultless? It was impossible to say.

“Come in, David.” Molnar came back to the door. “After all, it is your house. Cold as hell, but I’ll get the wood burner going. It’ll soon warm up. You don’t happen to know if there’s any oil in the tank?”

“No idea,” Sarac muttered.

“No, of course not, sorry.” Molnar made a little apologetic gesture. “Can you sort some wood out, Josef?” he called over Sarac’s shoulder. “The woodshed’s around the back of the house.” Molnar closed the front door behind them.