Vanished (10 page)

‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Now is not a good time. Trust me.’

Annika studied him closely for a few seconds, then nodded.

‘I understand,’ she said and left, scooping up her bag and coat untidily in her arms.

Anders Schyman sighed when the door closed behind her.

The freshly waxed floor shimmered, computer screens flickered in the dim room. Ice-blue faces focused exclusively on virtual reality, keyboards hummed, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Cursors darted across the screens, one computer mouse after the other gnawed away at the words that appeared: rewriting, deleting. Jansson on the phone, smoking and hammering away at the keys, disregarding the designated smoking area. Annika dropped her things on the floor next to the night desk and went to the restroom, running hot water over her wrists, feeling chilled to the bone.

She closed her eyes and saw the man in front of her, the handsome man in black with one hand inside his jacket pocket. The killer. She couldn’t recall what she had said, or what he had said, only her own awkward confusion and paralysing fear.

Why me?
She thought.
Why does stuff like this always happen to me?
She dried her hands, looking at her miserable face in the mirror.

Grandma
, she thought.
I’ll go and see Gran tomorrow and be able to sleep, rest, live.

A slight sensation of relief emerged, her pulse returned to her body, her hands. The tightness in her chest uncoiled a bit.

Paradise
, she thought,
maybe I should try to get moving on the Paradise Foundation story after all. I might not spend the entire weekend at Lyckebo, I might get in some writing too.

Annika smiled to herself; that tip about the foundation might be a turning point. She would be thorough, she would really work on it. Schyman would . . .

Suddenly she went cold, her chest constricting sharply again.

Schyman! What if he was right? What if Rebecka was bogus, a fake, a crook? She raised a hand to her mouth and gasped. Good grief, Aida from Bijelina – she had already sent someone to Paradise!

The chill had her in its grip again, it spread throughout her entire body.

Oh God, how could she have done such a stupid thing? Recommend something she didn’t know a thing about?

She entered a stall and sat down on a toilet, dizzy and weak.
I mean, how stupid can a person get?

She took a breath, trying to pull herself together.

What have I done? What choice did Aida Begovic have? If I hadn’t been there, Aida would have been dead.

Annika got up, went over to a washbasin and drank water straight from the tap, registering her blazing face in the mirror.

On the other hand, how could she be so sure? Aida might be a liar too, a maniac. Maybe she liked to ride a bike from Huddinge to downtown Stockholm until she collapsed, and not have money for the fare home? The handsome man in black might have been a brother wanting to bring her back home.

Annika closed her eyes, the back of her head against the tiled wall, and took a few deep breaths.

No one would ever know. No one would ever find out what she had done. Aida was right. They would never meet again.

If Paradise was on the level, she would disappear for good.

If it wasn’t, she would die.

There was a way to verify that Aida knew what she was talking about.

Annika went over to her desk and dialled Q’s number.

‘This is not a good time for me,’ her source at the police said.

‘Have you found that truck?’ she asked quickly.

A lengthy and stunned silence followed.

‘I know you’re looking for one,’ she added.

‘How the hell did you know about the truck?’ he asked. ‘We just found out that it was missing – we haven’t even put out an alert yet.’

She exhaled in relief. Aida hadn’t lied.

‘I have my sources,’ she replied.

‘You get scarier every day,’ said Q. ‘What are you, psychic?’

She couldn’t help laughing, a bit too loud.

‘I’m serious,’ said Q. ‘This isn’t a game. You’d better be careful about who you discuss this with.’

Annika’s laughter got caught in her throat.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everyone who knows about the missing truck is in major trouble, including your source.’

She closed her eyes and swallowed.

‘I know.’

‘Know what?’

‘What do the police know?’

He sighed quietly.

‘This is far from over,’ he said.

‘More murders are on the way,’ Annika added quietly.

‘We’re trying to stop them, but they’re way ahead of us,’ Q said.

‘What can I write?’

‘The stuff about the truck or rather the trailer is all right. You can write that we know it’s missing and that it contains a shipment of cigarettes, value unknown.’

‘Fifty million,’ Annika said.

She could hear him breathing on the other end.

‘You know more than I do, but I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Who were the men?’ she asked.

‘We still don’t know.’

‘My source says they weren’t important. What do you think she meant?’

Silence.

‘So your source is a woman? You
do
know we’re looking for her, don’t you? She might have been intended to be the third victim – we found blood on the dock next to the site.’

Silence.

‘Bengtzon, watch your back.’

Then he hung up.

Annika held the receiver, the dead line buzzing for a few seconds. She was filled with an abstract sense of discomfort.

‘What was that all about?’ Jansson asked.

‘Just checking a lead,’ she said as she headed over to the crime desk.

Sjölander was cooing into the phone and looked up in irritation. She perched on the edge of his desk, just like he usually did on hers.

‘Those murders down at the free port. More instalments will follow. A truckload of contraband cigarettes are missing and the police are waiting for the next homicide.’

The head of the crime desk nodded appreciatively.

‘Good stuff,’ he said. ‘Want to write it yourself?’

‘Preferably not,’ she said. ‘But it’s on the level, I’ve got two sources. One of which is the police.’

‘E-mail me what you’ve got,’ he said.

‘How about a more detailed background piece about cigarette rings?’

By that time, he’d picked up the phone again, so he gave her a thumbs up.

TUESDAY 30 OCTOBER

A
nnika was wide awake and stared up at the ceiling, so cracked and grey. The daylight making its way through the white curtain told her that it was lunchtime and that the weather was lousy. Strangely enough she felt rested and it didn’t hurt anywhere.

She rolled over on her side, her gaze stopping at the card she had put on the night-stand. Rebecka’s number. The decision came from out of nowhere; she simply sat up in bed and dialled the number on an impulse, out of curiosity.

It rang. Regular tones – nothing sounded unlisted or unusual. Tense, she waited.

‘Paradise.’ The voice was that of an older woman.

‘Umm, my name is Annika Bengtzon, and I’d like to speak to Rebecka.’

‘Hang on . . .’

The telephone crackled with the ordinary sounds of silence: heels tapping along the floor, approaching, a toilet flushing. She listened attentively. So far the sounds at the Paradise Foundation appeared fully normal.

‘Annika, how nice to hear from you.’

The high voice, a bit drawling and slightly cool.

Annika felt the old familiar surge of excitement; she’d almost forgotten its pull.

‘I’d like to see you again,’ she said. ‘When would be good for you?’

‘This week’s a bit tricky, we’ve got several new clients on the way in. Next week looks pretty busy too.’

Her heart sank.
Shit
. . .

‘Why did you call us if you don’t have time to talk?’ Annika challenged her.

More silence, crackling.

‘I’d be happy to see you again when I have the time,’ Rebecka said in an airy voice, cool, neutral.

‘And when would that be?’

‘I have a meeting in Stockholm at two p.m. We could meet right before that. It’s the only time slot I can offer.’

Annika looked at her alarm clock.

‘Right now? Today?’

‘If that’s all right with you.’

Annika lay down again, keeping the receiver to her ear.

‘Sure,’ she said.

After they hung up, Annika remained in bed for a while, calm. For a brief spell light filled the room again, shimmering. Then she tossed the covers aside, pulled on her jogging pants and her sweatshirt and ran down to the shower in the building across the courtyard, clutching some soap and shampoo. The water was warm and caressing; she washed her hair and dried herself languidly. The light had returned.

She dashed up the stairs, made some coffee and had some yogurt, then brushed her teeth by the kitchen sink. Wiped up some water she had splashed on the floor.

There was a cold draught from the broken living-room windows. She swept up the shattered glass and the plaster, and found a paper bag from that crappy store ICA that she taped over the hole in the pane.

Soon, soon I’ll know how Paradise works.

Soon I’ll be with Gran over at Lyckebo.

Rebecka was dressed in the same clothes as last time: linen, or some cotton blend. Her hair scraped back, blonde, a slightly taut mouth.

Evita Perón helping the poor and the weak
, Annika thought.
Don’t cry for me, Argentina.

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ the woman said, ‘so could we wrap this up quickly?’

She was fond of hotel lounges, Annika noted as Rebecka flagged down the waiter and ordered a bottle of mineral water for each for them.

‘We got as far as the removal process last time,’ Annika said, leaning back, her hair still wet and smelling of Wella. ‘You make people disappear. How does it work?’

Rebecka sighed and picked up a napkin. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she wiped her hands, ‘but we’re fairly busy right now. We just got a case that’s rather complicated.’

Annika looked at her pad and tried out her pen.
Could that be Aida from Bijelina?
she wondered to herself.

The waiter brought her water over. His apron was clean. Rebecka waited for him to leave, just like last time.

‘You have to remember that these people are extremely frightened,’ she said. ‘Some of them are almost paralysed by fear. They can’t go shopping or go to the post office, they aren’t able to function like ordinary people.’

She shook her head over her poor clients.

‘It’s awful. We have to help them with everything – practical details like childcare, a new place to live, work, schools. And, of course, psychiatric care and welfare issues: many of them are in poor shape.’

Annika nodded and wrote notes – this was something she could relate to – and thought about Aida again.

‘So what do you do?’ she asked.

Rebecka wiped a spot off her glass and took a sip of water.

‘Clients have around-the-clock access to their contacts. It’s vital that someone is always there for them when things are rough.’

Get to the point
, Annika thought.

‘Where do these people live? Do you have a large house?’

‘Paradise has access to a number of properties all over Sweden. We either own them outright or lease them through a figurehead that makes it impossible to trace us. Our clients stay there temporarily. At this point, any necessary treatment takes place without the physician knowing the patient’s identity. No records are kept. Instead of the regular state patient ID card, they receive a card with a reference number. Paradise notifies the hospital or the clinic about which city council will be responsible for billing. Generally clients don’t apply for help in the community that is footing the bill . . .’

Annika took notes. This sounded pretty good.

‘How long are you able to keep . . . a client with you?’

‘As long as necessary,’ Rebecka replied, with determination in her breathless voice. ‘There is no maximum time limit.’

‘How about a normal case?’

The woman dabbed at the corner of her mouth.

‘If things go according to plan, we’re done in three months.’

‘And when you’ve arranged for a new place to live and medical treatment, anything else?’

Rebecka smiled.

‘Of course. There are lots of other things that need to be taken care of when a person moves on to a new life. Salary payments and child benefits, for example. Our banking procedures work along the same lines as for housing. We have a few select partners. The client doesn’t have to have an account in the community where she lives. Every time pay day rolls around, or bills need to be paid, the banks contact Paradise, and we arrange the transactions using a reference number. The same procedure applies for contacts with day care, schools, pediatric care, health insurance, the internal revenue service – the works. Many clients require legal aid, and we arrange that as well.’

Annika took notes.

‘So you help them arrange new jobs, new places to live, new day-care centres, schools, doctors and lawyers within the framework of Paradise?’

Rebecka nodded.

‘The victimized person disappears behind a wall. Anyone looking for someone whose record has been wiped clean will find us, and that’s it.’

‘What do these people live on during the removal process? They can’t very well work, can they?’

‘No, of course they can’t,’ Rebecka said. ‘Several are ill and receive compensation, some are on welfare, quite a few have children and are eligible for child benefits and maintenance advances. Legal aid is often available in the case of court proceedings such as custody hearings.’

Annika mulled this over.

‘But,’ she said, ‘what if the stalker doesn’t give up, what do you do then? Can you help your clients get new social security numbers, the personal ID numbers we use here in Sweden, too?’

‘We have completed sixty successful removal procedures. Not a single client has had to change her identity. It hasn’t been necessary.’