Vanished (14 page)

Annika swallowed again and caught her lower lip between her teeth.

‘Will she be able to live at home again?’

‘We’ll have to wait and see before we can tell. Generally, patients who live at home usually recuperate better, as long as they are provided with substantial at-home care. The alternative is an institution or a geriatric ward at a hospital.’

‘An institution?’ Annika said. ‘Not Lövåsen, I hope?’

The doctor smiled.

‘There’s nothing wrong with Lövåsen. Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’

‘I wrote the articles,’ Annika said.

‘I have nothing against Lövåsen,’ her mother said.

The doctor got up.

‘She’s back from the scan now. Once her temperature has stabilized you can go in to see her. It will take a while.’

Annika and her mother nodded in unison.

Thomas Samuelsson crumpled the wrappers from his hamburger meal and tossed them into the waste-paper basket. He’d have to remember to empty it on his way out, or else his office would smell like a fast-food joint all week.

Heaving a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. The darkness outdoors produced a reflection of his office, another civil servant in charge of finances in some other world that was identical, only inverted. City Hall was quiet – nearly all the employees had gone home. Soon, the members of the social welfare board would gather in the conference room next door, but at this point it was quiet. Thomas felt strangely content, free and at peace. He had used work as an excuse when Eleonor had discussed dinner, which wasn’t really a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. His workload was always heavy this time of year, but it wasn’t any heavier than usual. It never used to stop him from going home for dinner. Dinner was their couple time. An appetizer and a main course; Eleonor never had dessert. Always with candles during the dark winter months, always with crisp cloth napkins. He had enjoyed it, Eleonor had adored it and often told their friends about it. So romantic. So fantastic. What a perfect couple, a match made in heaven.

No, not in heaven
, he thought.
In Perugia
.

Thomas couldn’t say when boredom had started to set in. The feeling of being grown-up had faded and something else took hold, something more honest. They weren’t grown-ups, they only played at being grown-up. They went sailing, had dinner parties, were involved in clubs and societies. Vaxholm was their world, the development and growth of their community was their greatest interest and the focus of their ambition. They had both been born and raised there; neither of them had ever lived anywhere else. No one could say that they weren’t responsible, both socially and at work.

But when it came to their own relationship the commitment had worn thin. They still acted like two teenagers who had just moved away from home, playing romantic games and always having to defer to their parents.

Thomas sighed. There it was again.

Parenthood.

Eleonor didn’t want to have children. She loved their life, their time together, the dinners, the trips, her career, her stock portfolio, the neighbours, the clubs, the boat.

‘I don’t need to prove that I’m a woman by having kids,’ she told him the last time they had quarrelled about the subject. ‘It’s my life. I can do what I like with it. I want to have fun, meet people, go places at work, put top priority on our relationship, and the house.’

‘We’re ready to begin.’

The administration manager was standing in his doorway. Thomas blinked in surprise.

‘Sure, I’m on my way.’

Slightly embarrassed, he swiftly gathered his papers. He knew he had grown absent-minded and wondered how obvious it was.

The eleven members of the board were seated at the table. Thomas sat down opposite the secretary of the board who was sitting at the far end to one side. The supervisors flanked one side of the table. A few civil servants were present. The agenda covered some twenty items, most of which did not concern him. The budget was going to be presented at a special two-day meeting at the hotel and today he was only supposed to account for a few particular items, then be available if any critical issues came up.

While the chairman opened the meeting Thomas glanced at the agenda: the usual stuff – the day-care plan, personnel issues, the care of the disabled, the home-help service. Half of the items had been disputed time and time again, and would hardly be resolved this evening either. His item about out-of-control costs for the transportation of the elderly and the disabled was number eight on the list. With a faint sigh he scanned the rest of the list and drank some ice water. Item number seven was new: the Paradise Foundation.

What kind of revolutionary set-up was this? Did they actually believe that they could take on new contracts now, when their finances were so strained? Thomas sighed as quietly as he could and turned his attention to the members of the board.

The party demagogues, the Social Democrat and the Conservative, sat at either end of the table, ready to argue their case and make reservations. ‘Individual freedom’, the Conservative would say, while the Social Democrat would counter this with the word ‘solidarity’. Soon the politicians’ desire for something
real
would surface, they would demand a
follow-up
, and Thomas would make a reference to numbers and tables that wouldn’t satisfy anyone.

Perugia
, he thought. That was where he was at this very minute, on the crest of a mountain in Umbria, king of the hill.

He smiled at the thought.

Oddly enough, I think of that city as a man
.

‘Thomas?’

The chairman was looking at him in a friendly fashion. Thomas cleared his throat and fished out the right paper.

‘We have to do something about transportation costs,’ he said. ‘Costs have escalated to a sum three times as high as this year’s budget allows for. I can’t see how we are going to avoid this increase, the laws pertaining to these matters don’t give us any answers. Should we allow free access, the need for these services will be insatiable.’

He reeled off numbers and tables, consequences and alternatives. The chairman produced a circular with new guidelines from the Association of Local Authorities: they were not the only ones with this problem. The Association had taken notice and their standardized directives were as pompous and vague as ever. Soon they were bogged down in a discussion about how to keep social workers abreast of the situation; would it be better to send them off for a course or to hire a contractor?

Paradise Foundation
, he thought.
Nice name
.

The meeting plodded along. They got bogged down again in another detail, a playground that needed repairs, and Thomas could feel himself getting annoyed. By the time they reached item number seven he leaned forward. One of the civil servants, a female social worker who had worked for the city for many years, presented the matter.

‘The idea is to resolve in principle whether we should purchase the services of a new organization or not,’ she said. ‘We have an urgent case pending that has already been treated by the board for special issues, but we wanted to present the contract to you before we said yes.’

‘What is this foundation all about?’ the Social Democrat asked suspiciously, and Thomas knew where they were heading: if the Social Democrat was against an issue, the Conservative would automatically champion it.

The social worker hesitated. She couldn’t go into detail since the minutes of the meeting were made public.

‘Broadly speaking, the organization protects people whose lives are threatened,’ she said. ‘The director has just run through their procedures for us, and in this particular case they offer services that we need, in our opinion . . .’

Everyone studied the contract carefully, even though there wasn’t much to read. The local authorities of Vaxholm committed themselves to pay for safe housing for three thousand, five hundred kronor a day until a satisfactory solution could be arranged for this particular client.

‘What exactly is this?’ the Social Democrat continued. ‘We have several treatment facilities on contract already – do we really need another one?’

The social worker looked ill at ease.

‘This is a totally new and unique service,’ she said. ‘The Paradise Foundation focuses entirely on protecting and helping people whose lives are in danger, mostly women and children. These individuals are wiped off all public records so that their persecutors won’t be able to trace them. All efforts at finding them will lead to a blank wall, this foundation.’

Everyone present stared at the social worker.

‘Is that really legal?’ the newly elected delegate from the Greens, a young woman, asked. As usual, she was ignored.

‘Why can’t we take care of this ourselves with our own resources?’ the Conservative asked.

The supervisor in charge of welfare issues and child protection services, who was obviously familiar with the case at hand, took the floor.

‘There’s nothing strange about this,’ he said. ‘You might say that it’s all about an approach, a capacity that only a fully private organization can supply. They have a flexibility that government authorities like ourselves lack. I believe in this.’

‘It’s awfully expensive,’ the Social Democrat said.

‘Care costs. When are you ever going to realize that?’ the Conservative countered, and then they were off.

Thomas leaned back and studied the contract. It was very bare-bones. No specific services were detailed, there was no information about the location of the organization, there wasn’t even a corporate identity number. A reference to a post office box number in Järfälla was all there was.

As usual he wished he had the power to speak out, that he could present pertinent and specific objections.

Obviously, they had to request references from this organization and check with the legal staff at Social Services that these measures were legitimate. And how could they justify such an expenditure at this time? And why the hell hadn’t anyone asked him if this was financially feasible? He was the only person around here who knew all the angles of their budget, why else was he on the board? Was he some kind of goddamn decoration?

‘Do we have to reach a decision tonight?’ the chairman asked.

Both the social worker and the supervisor nodded.

The chairman sighed.

Something snapped inside Thomas. For the first time in the seven years he’d worked for the local authorities, he raised his voice at a board meeting.

‘This is insane!’ he said in an agitated tone. ‘How can you even consider buying services without considering the consequences? What kind of organization is this, anyway? And it’s a foundation, to boot. Jesus! And what about that cheesy contract? They don’t even submit a corporate identity number. This stinks, if you ask me, and I damn well think you should!’

Everyone stared at Thomas as if he was a ghost. Suddenly he was aware that he was on his feet, that he had been leaning over the table, gripping the contract in his fist and waving it overhead like a flag. His face burned, he felt sweaty. He dropped the contract on the table, raked his hair back with his fingers and straightened his tie.

‘Please excuse me,’ he said. ‘I apologize . . .’

In confusion Thomas sat down and started leafing through his papers. The board members averted their eyes and looked uncomfortably down at the table top instead. He wanted to die, to sink through the floor and disappear.

The chairman took a resounding breath.

‘Well then, perhaps we should conclude this matter . . .’

The contract was approved, the vote coming to seven ayes and four nays.

‘I’ve got one heck of a lead.’

Sjölander and Ingvar Johansson looked up at the reporter interrupting them in irritation. The displeasure on their faces was transformed into indulgence as soon as they saw it was Carl Wennergren.

‘Go ahead, shoot,’ Sjölander said.

The reporter perched on the crime-desk editor’s desk.

‘The free-port killings,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a damn hot tip.’

Both Sjölander and the news editor planted their feet on the floor and sat up straight.

‘What is it?’ Ingvar Johansson asked.

Lowering his voice, Carl Wennergren said: ‘I just talked to a cop. They think Ratko is involved.’

The older pair regarded the younger man.

‘Why?’ Sjölander asked.

‘You know,’ Carl Wennergren said. ‘Organized crime mobs, Yugoslavs, missing cigarettes – it certainly has Ratko written all over it.’

‘Who did you talk to?’

‘A police detective.’

‘Did you call him, or did he call you?’

The reporter cocked an eyebrow at him.

‘He called me. Why?’

Sjölander and Ingvar Johansson exchanged a quick glance.

‘Okay,’ the editor said. ‘So what did the police want?’

‘To tip us off that Ratko is involved – they’re looking all over the place for him. The police want us to run his name and his picture.’

‘Is there a warrant out for him?’

The reporter knitted his brows.

‘The detective didn’t mention that, only that they were looking for him.’

‘This is good stuff,’ Ingvar Johansson said as he scribbled on a pad. ‘We’ll do it like this: Sjölander will compile a background piece on Ratko, you’ll go out to the Yugo-controlled restaurants and clubs and interview people tonight. This could be headline material.’

‘Right on!’ Carl Wennerholm exclaimed and bounded off to the photo desk.

The two supervisors followed him with their gazes until he disappeared from view.

‘Did you know about this?’ Ingvar Johansson asked.

Sjölander sighed and put his feet back up on the desk.

“The police don’t have a single good lead. The guys who were killed were rookies fresh from Serbia. There weren’t any witnesses, no one can talk. I don’t know why, but the cops obviously want to smoke out Ratko.’

‘Is he involved, do you think?’

The crime-desk editor laughed.

‘Of course he is. Ratko controls the Yugoslav cigarette operations in Scandinavia. He might not have pulled the trigger, but he definitely has something to do with those killings.’