Vanished (18 page)

He gestured towards the dusty corner, but she pulled up a chair instead.

‘I think everything is about to fall in place,’ she said, brushing a hand across her forehead. ‘Rebecka Björkstig has promised to fax over those last bits of information, and I got an explanation for where the money goes.’

Schyman looked up.

‘Money? Do they charge for their services?’

Annika flipped through the large pad she’d taken out of her bag.

‘The proceeds have been used to build a route for people who can’t stay in Sweden,’ she rattled off from her notes. ‘Paradise has the contacts to arrange government jobs and housing in other countries. So far, they’ve pulled this off twice, for two families. No one has had to change their identity. Issuing new personal ID numbers is not something Paradise or any other organization can do, only the government. But this hasn’t been necessary for Paradise’s clients.’

She looked up at the deputy editor and tried to smile.

‘Good stuff, isn’t it?’

Anders Schyman regarded her calmly.

‘That doesn’t wash,’ he said.

She looked down at the desktop and didn’t reply.

‘Arrange government jobs in other countries?’ he went on. ‘That sounds like a tall tale to me. Does this Björkstig woman have any proof?’

Annika leafed through her pad without looking up.

‘Two cases,’ she said. ‘Two whole families.’

‘Have you talked to them?’

Annika swallowed, crossed her legs and felt herself getting on the defensive.

‘Rebecka knows what she’s talking about.’

The deputy editor tapped a pencil on the table top as he reflected.

‘Really? The government doesn’t issue new personal ID numbers. That’s performed by the Internal Revenue Service at the request of the Swedish National Police Board.’

Sounds in the background receded, as Annika felt the blood drain from her face.

‘Is that true?’

Schyman nodded and Annika sat up straight, frantically flipping through her pad.

‘But she said it was the government, I’m sure she did.’

‘I believe you,’ Schyman said, ‘but I don’t believe that Paradise lady.’

Annika slumped down in her chair again and closed her pad.

‘So I went to all that trouble for nothing.’

Anders Schyman got up.

‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘This is when the real work begins. If such an organization actually exists, then that’s sensational, regardless of whether this woman happens to be lying. Tell me, what has she told you?’

Annika gave him a summary of how Paradise worked, how they wiped people off the record; about Rebecka’s strange threats in the past that were somehow connected to the Yugoslav Mafia; and finally, she told him her own thoughts about where the money went.

Schyman walked around, nodding, and then sat down again.

‘You’ve got pretty far,’ he said. ‘But we have to have that list. If this is a fake we need the help of the authorities to get hold of all the information about the foundation.’

‘The alternative is,’ Annika said, ‘to get hold of one of the women who have experienced the organization from the inside. Or find someone who has worked there.’

‘If there are any such women,’ Schyman said. ‘Or any employees whatsoever.’

The list still hadn’t arrived. There wasn’t anything wrong with the fax. More than two hours had passed since Annika had spoken to Rebecka.

Annika sat down at Berit Hamrin’s desk and dialled the number – the unlisted, secret number. The signals echoed into a void. She dialled the number again. No answer. No answering machine. The call wasn’t forwarded.

‘Could you tell me if that list turns up?’ she called out to Eva-Britt Qvist.

The researcher was on the phone and pretended not to hear her.

Annika went over to the computer with the modem and got hooked up to PubReg, the state-operated register listing every individual issued with a Swedish personal ID number, pressed F8 to do a name query and typed in
Rebecka Björkstig.
The computer chugged along for a while and then spat out its answer.

One single hit:

. . .
personal data is protected.

That was it. Not so much as a comma.

Annika stared at the screen.
What the hell?

She typed in her own name:
Bengtzon, Annika, Stockholm
, the gauze condom on her finger getting in the way; chug, bingo, there she was. Her personal ID number, address, last known official change of recorded domicile two years ago. She switched commands to F7 for a historical list and found her old address at Tattarbacken in Hälleforsnäs. The technology was working just fine.

She started over again and typed
Rebecka Björkstig, female –
and the results were the same as before.

. . .
personal data is protected.

Rebecka really had been wiped off the record.

Annika looked at the screen for a long time. One of her duties during the night shift was to locate photographs of people, usually their passport photos, and in order to access them she needed their personal ID numbers, and then she used the PubReg. She had looked up nearly a thousand people over the years she’d worked the night shift, but she had never come across this particular message. She got a printout and paused. Typed in
Aida Begovic
and got eight hits. One of the women lived on Fredriksbergsvägen in Vaxholm, that must be her Aida. She got another printout and went back to Berit’s desk.

‘Still no list?’

Eva-Britt Qvist shook her head. Annika called Paradise again – no reply. Slammed down the receiver, hard –
damn it!

What was she going to do now? Her finger hurt. Go back to the hospital? Try to find a nursing home in Stockholm? Go home and do some cleaning?

She rummaged through her papers and found the folder about foundations issued by the Internal Revenue Service that she had ordered from the archives.

As of 1 January 1996 there was a law for foundations, she read. This law contained regulations about how to establish a foundation, about the management of a foundation, bookkeeping and auditing procedures, maintenance, registration, and so on.

Annika skimmed the paragraphs. There were different types of foundations, apparently, that were subject to different tax brackets. The ones that had a ‘qualified public service objective’ paid less, she read.

Fancy statutes weren’t enough to get you a tax exemption, you had to follow those statutes too, it said.

Annika put the folder down – what was this? This was just a load of garbage.

Why bother? It didn’t mean a thing.

Oh, yes it does
, she thought suddenly,
it means that Paradise would have to have drawn up some kind of statute as well. They would have to submit their bookkeeping to a public accountant. They would be subject to taxation. It’s not like they could be wiped off the face of the Earth.

She picked up the papers Rebecka had given her and looked at the post office box number in the heading. She called the post office in Järfälla and asked who leased the box in question.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ a harried cashier said.

‘But there would be a street address connected to the box number, right?’ Annika said. ‘I’d like to know who leases box number 259.’

‘That’s classified information,’ the cashier said. ‘Only the authorities can access information like that.’

Annika thought hard for a second or two.

‘I might be a civil servant,’ she said. ‘How would you know? I haven’t introduced myself, and you haven’t asked who I am.’

For a moment there was silence at the other end.

‘I’ll have to check with Disa,’ the official said.

‘Who?’

‘The Disa system: we’re hooked up to a database that supplies us with eligibility guidelines. One moment, please . . .’

It seemed to take for ever as several minutes passed.

The official’s voice was even frostier when she came back on the line.

‘Ever since the state postal service was converted into a company, all contracts between ourselves and our customers are confidential. Should the police suspect that a crime that would entail a prison sentence of more than two years has been committed, we are allowed to disclose information, but only in those circumstances.’

Annika thanked her and hung up, banging down the receiver. Restlessly, she roamed the newsroom; people were talking, shouting, laughing. Phones were ringing, computer screens flickered.

The authorities, she needed access to someone working for the authorities, someone who knew the ropes. Since she didn’t know of any specific case, she had to go fishing. She went back to her desk, opened the telephone directory and called the Stockholm city council offices.

‘Which district would you like to be connected to?’

She picked her own, Kungsholmen, and was put on hold. After twelve minutes of uninterrupted silence she hung up.

What about Järfälla?

The Family Services Department had telephone access hours between 8:30 and 9:30 a.m., as well as 5:00 to 5:30 p.m. on Thursdays.

Annika groaned. Calling at random like this was pointless. Even if she did, against all odds, find someone who knew something, they wouldn’t talk. All these cases were kept confidential. She had to find an opening, someplace where she was certain that the local authorities would be involved.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, blowing on the liquid on her way back to her desk. She passed a group of laughing women belonging to God knew what department and walked past without saying hello, her gaze fixed on the floor. In her mind, their voices seemed to die down as she passed, the conversation came to a stop, and she believed that they had been talking about her.

I’m just imagining things
, Annika thought, not convincing herself.

She set down the plastic cup on Berit’s desk, spilling some, and tried to concentrate on work.
There’s no point in contacting social workers
, she thought.
They panic before you have time to ask questions and they never give you any answers, even if the information isn’t classified.

Where would that information be available?

Suddenly it hit her, and she ended up scalding her tongue with her coffee.

The invoices. Of course!

The invoices sent by Paradise ought to contain lots of information: their corporate identity number and their address, a bank account number or a postal giro account number. Anyone in charge of finances at the local authorities would be able to obtain details about taxes, statutes and accountants.

Annika leafed through the different districts in the green pages of the telephone directory. Which one should she choose?

Putting down the directory, she picked up the PubReg printouts instead. Rebecka’s district wasn’t listed, but Aida was registered in Vaxholm.

Vaxholm.

Annika had never been there: all she knew about the place was that it was located to the north, by the sea.

This is a long shot
, Annika thought. Aida might not even have contacted Paradise. The local authorities in her district might not be involved. It could be that not enough time had passed.

On the other hand, it could pan out. She dialled the number and waited for ever. Her thoughts drifted off – she really ought to call and find out how her grandmother was doing. By the time the operator answered, Annika had forgotten why she was calling. She asked to speak to someone in the accounts department at Social Services. The line was busy and there was one call on hold: could she possibly call back later?

She hung up, put on her coat, stuffed her pad in her bag and headed for the attendants who handled the newspaper’s cars.

‘No list?’

No reply from Eva-Britt Qvist.

The E18 to Roslagen was famous for its afternoon rush-hour traffic. For about fifteen minutes Annika stood still in Bergshamra, then it picked up.

It felt great to be behind the wheel. She exceeded the speed limit, overtaking vehicle after vehicle, the
Kvällspressen
car was pretty peppy. Downtown Vaxholm appeared sooner than she’d expected. Perky little flags waved along a cobblestone street lined by dainty period buildings. A bank, a flower shop. A Co-op. It occurred to Annika that she didn’t have a map.

The local authorities
, she pondered.
City Hall, by the main square. It can’t be all that hard to find.

Annika kept driving until she reached the waterfront, made a right turn at a small traffic circle and came to a ferry berth. A long line of cars were waiting to take the dirty-yellow ferry out to Rindö.

She made a left turn. Östra Ekuddsgatan was the name of the street. She gazed out over the row of opulent waterfront homes belonging to wealthy tradesmen.

The fancy side of town
, she thought.
The hot-shit people.

Slowly, the car made its way up a steep road paved with asphalt and coated with grit. Every home was fenced in and gated.

‘Too bad,’ she said aloud and noticed that she was back where she’d started from. She headed down the street with all the perky flags and made a left turn instead of a right. This took her to the police station near a small square. Straight ahead she could see a large orange building topped by a small Russian-style bulbous dome. The double doors in front were done in painted marbling, and so were the posts that flanked them. A small mailbox bore the legend
Vaxholm City Hall.

The weather didn’t improve. The greyness had invaded Thomas’s mind. He felt like crying. The narrow street below his window looked like a ditch full of mud. The piles of papers and assignments threatened to smother him and the damn phone kept ringing. He stared at the jangling device.

I won’t bother answering it
, he thought.
It’s only another day-care centre that imagines there’s money left in this year’s budget.

With a jerk he picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, this is the front desk calling. There’s a reporter here who wants to speak to someone in charge of finances and contracts at Social Services, and I thought you might—’