Anger Mode (41 page)

“You’re still alive,” the voice said. “Isn’t that proof enough?”

Jörgen thought hard for a few intense seconds. The voice was right.

But if Jörgen refused to talk, would he still survive? Perhaps it was worth testing the voice anyway.

“I’m not saying anything more now,” Jörgen answered defiantly.

“I see,” the voice said calmly, as if he had expected such an answer. “Let’s meet each other halfway, then.”

“How do we do that?”

“Well,” the voice said, “the car you’re lying in is stolen. It can’t be traced to me or anyone else. You can stay locked in the boot.”

“I’ll freeze to death,” Jörgen said anxiously.

“That is, you might say, the whole point. If you’re lucky, then you’ll make it. If you’re unlucky, then you’ll freeze to death. Your fate will be in somebody else’s hands. Not in mine.”

This was quite a different twist to the one Jörgen had expected. It was clear that the voice was not stupid. Jörgen became more confused.

“All right,” Jörgen said. “I’ll tell you everything I know. But first, answer me one question honestly.”

The voice laughed. “Be my guest.”

“Are you police or military?” Jörgen asked.

The voice hesitated for a few seconds. Jörgen observed that he had guessed correctly.

“What I am is of no concern,” the voice replied tersely.

Better to trust a corrupt cop than Headcase and his Finnish bodybuilder, Jörgen thought. He had interviewed many police officers as a journalist and he recognized the jargon. This was definitely a policeman who also knew that Jonna worked for RSU.

“Say what you have to say or I’ll lock the boot,” the voice said.

Jörgen told him how he came to meet Walter Gröhn and Jonna de Brugge. How they started up a private investigation and where their subsequent findings had taken them. He also described how the idiots at SÄPO had derailed the investigation by linking it to a Swedish Islamist movement.

Jörgen took the opportunity to emphasize his role as a first-class investigative reporter. He described the traffic accident and the drunken director, the motive, and the apparent purpose of the crimes. That it was a research scientist at a biodynamics company who was responsible for the singularly advanced drug.

The voice listened patiently without saying a word. Jörgen could see, through the crack in his shirt, clouds of condensation from warm steady breathing making their way out from under the jacket. Obviously, this was a topic that he found very interesting.

When Jörgen had finally said everything that could be said, the man took his hand from the boot lid. He could almost hear the voice thinking.

Jörgen was now freezing so much that he was having speech problems again. His teeth shook like castanets and his speech was increasingly slurred.

“Do you know the name of the man behind the drug?” the voice said, turning towards Jörgen again.

“Of course,” Jörgen stuttered. “If you let me get into … the warm car, then I … will even write it down … for you.”

“First the name,” the voice said and put his hand on the boot lid again.

“All right … take it … easy,” Jörgen stammered. “His name … is Leo … Brageler …. He lives … near Uppsala.”

“And is there a writ?”

Only police officers used the term “writ” instead of “arrest warrant”. Jörgen was now sure that he was not in the military. Had Uddestad sent a colleague?

“Yes … because when … Tuva Sahlin was in protective custody … Bror Lantz was also being picked up,” Jörgen blurted.

“Picked up?”

“Yes … he was not there … when you … kidnapped me. The new investigation … not official yet. … We were freelancing.”

Jörgen tensed every muscle in his body as much as he could. Relaxed them for a few seconds, and tensed again. In that way, the brain could be tricked into thinking that the body was working and stayed warm. He had learnt the trick from one of his best friends, his father, who was a wildlife enthusiast. Jörgen did not know if it would work, but he could not think of a better idea.

Right now, he wished he were back in his childhood. Sitting next to his best friend, his dad, in front of a campfire deep in the Nacka Park national park. Like they used to do when they had made camp and pitched the tent. He wanted to hear the stories again. About the crazy squirrels that had molested a stray cat or the scabby fox that was attacked by a huge crow. He wanted to hear all the yarns and gossip again. He wanted to taste the sooty-black hot dogs speared on a freshly broken beech twig. He wanted to listen to his dad snoring so loudly that he kept the birds awake at night. He wanted to be in the woods again, not in the boot of a car, waiting to die. Tears welled up when he realized that all hope was finally gone.

C
HAPTER 33

MARTIN FOUND IT difficult to believe what the journalist was telling him, but there were far too many details that were not public knowledge to make his story anything but credible.

Whoever got their hands on Drug-X could, without doubt, become very powerful and very rich. If you could get hold of the brain behind the drug. Any morally bankrupt, corrupt state or shady organization would pay a fantastical price to have access to the architect and technology behind Drug-X. What a weapon the drug would be. Its use was limited only by the imagination. The drug would serve him and his comrades well; there was no doubt about that. It would speed up their progress by years.

He drummed his finger on the small pistol that once was Jerry Salminen’s. Its connection to Ove Jernberg’s death made it dangerous but also very useful. For Martin, the gun represented power and choice. The power to frame someone for a cop killing and the choice to frame whoever he wanted.

“Describe Leo Brageler’s appearance,” he ordered.

Jörgen stuttered out what he had heard about Brageler’s looks from Tuva and her friends.

“And you’re sure about this?” Martin checked.

Jörgen tried to answer, but did not have the strength.

Martin pulled Jörgen out of the boot and put him up against a tree, facing away from the car. Then he tied Jörgen’s hands with a towrope from the car and looped it around the tree trunk a few times.

“If you shout long and hard enough, someone will probably hear you,” he said. Then he walked away and sat in the car.

Jörgen heard the engine start and the car skid away on the muddy road.

When Jörgen could no longer hear the car, he started to yell. At first, he could only manage hoarse whispers, but after a while, he managed to muster enough strength to hear his own voice echo in the treetops. The shirt was still drawn over his head and, even though it was pitch black, it would have been easier if his eye was not blindfolded by the shirt fabric.

The cold penetrated into his bone marrow, and fatigue drew him farther from consciousness. After a while, his eyelid wanted to close, but he knew that he could not let that happen. He would never wake up again, and the last thing he would see would be the inside of his shirt.

He thought about Sebastian. What he was doing in South America and how far they were from each other. How much he missed him and the first thing he would do when they met again. His thoughts strayed to the news desk. What were they doing at the moment? Did they have any leads about what had happened? He strongly doubted it.

He thought for a while about the story, which now had a really nice added bonus if he survived this. There had been a risk that he would not be believed.

Slowly, Jörgen moved into a more pleasant state. Without moving a single muscle, the coldness became heat. Everything around him lost significance. Not even Sebastian or the exclusive story mattered anymore. He let go of all the things he thought were important. Of life itself. Of all the things he wanted and could not have. He had finally come home, to the warm campfire and, by his side, his best friend, Dad.

TO MARTIN’S GREAT satisfaction, Bror Lantz did not have an ex-directory number. Thirty seconds later, the operator had already found his address and home number.

Martin parked the car on a hill, a few hundred metres from Lantz’s address. He had a full view of the house without being seen himself. He now had to think like Leo Brageler: hunted, on the run, and with a last chance to destroy judge Bror Lantz.

Had Martin’s colleagues put the house under surveillance and were they, like Martin, waiting for Brageler to show up? Perhaps they had set a trap. There was a light in the window, but nobody answered the phone. To go to Brageler’s house would be pointless. The police were certainly already there, perhaps waiting to ambush him. If he was smart, which Martin assumed he was, he would stay away from his house.

Martin got out of the car and walked towards Lantz’s house. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and put his hands in his pockets. After about fifty metres, he passed a blue Volvo V70 that was illegally parked. From habit, he routinely looked through the tinted windscreen and glimpsed something red blinking at the bottom of the car’s central dashboard. The red and green lights were a familiar sight. The CID or RSU were already here.

After another dozen metres or so, a new car appeared. A white Saab 9-5. This time, there were two people in the car. One was a blonde woman in her thirties with a ponytail. The other was a man with a short haircut and a leather jacket with shoulder epaulettes. Typical surveillance police. As predictably dressed as Santa on Christmas Eve.

Martin quickly passed by the car and felt their eyes burning into his back, even though he knew he didn’t have to worry. He looked nothing like the description of Brageler. And no one outside SÄPO knew what he looked like. That was the advantage of working with SÄPO. He was anonymous. Now that the investigation had been taken away from SÄPO, the surveillance on Lantz was being carried out by officers from the local police.

There was obviously nothing for Martin to do here. He had arrived too late for the party. It was just a matter of time before the officers pulled in Brageler.

Two setbacks in less than one hour. The Uddestad train had left the station, and now Brageler’s. All he had to be happy about was Omar’s hard drive. Perhaps he should not be greedy and just make the best of what was on the hard drive. He took a side road, planning to circle back to the car so that he would avoid the two surveillance vehicles. After a few hundred metres, he arrived at a park.

Martin turned onto a dimly lit gravel path that snaked its way through different types of thick bush. After passing some pines and shrubs scattered on either side of the gravel path, he arrived at a poorly lit sandpit with wooden benches near the longer sides, where watchful mothers sat during the day and guarded their little treasures at play. One of the benches was in the shadow of a pine tree.

After he had passed the last bench, he saw the silhouette of a man. Martin started at the sudden encounter. Without making a sound, the figure sat on the bench in the shadows, immobile.

His right hand instinctively went under his jacket and gripped his gun. He carried on, but stopped after a few metres. Who sits in the middle of a park late in the evening and stares into the dark in silence?

Surveillance?

Hardly. They are never that discreet.

Martin continued walking. Moonlight suddenly lit up the park bench. In a fraction of a second, his luck had changed. Sitting on the bench was the perfect match to the journalist’s description of Leo Brageler.

KENT ANDERSSON AND Robban Roth of the Uppsala Police Violent Crimes Unit welcomed Jonna outside the reception desk of the main entrance to the Uppsala police headquarters. Both of the middle-aged policemen looked at the once-immaculate Porsche in awkward silence. The doubt in their eyes was enough to guess at what they were thinking. Jonna explained that it was on loan from the Surveillance Unit and that it had suffered some minor parking damage. Neither of the policemen seemed to accept that explanation. After completing the formalities, they sat in Inspector Anderson’s service vehicle, an Audi A6. It wasn’t a Porsche, but if she found it acceptable, then Jonna was welcome to ride along. After some comments on sports cars in general, RSU and people from Stockholm specifically, they had arrived at Leo Brageler’s house. Two chequered police cars had already arrived and the mandatory blue-and-white police tape was neatly set up around the house.

Jonna got out of the car and looked at the mustard-yellow house, which dated from the turn of the century. It had two stories and two small towers on either side. The window frames were painted white and, in the style of the period, ornamental carvings sat below the roof fascia boards, indicative of a love of carpentry. In some places, the paint was peeling; in others, it was bare to the wood. The large garden that surrounded the house was neglected and overgrown. The stone tiles up to the main door were covered in grass. It was as if the house had been abandoned for years and no one was maintaining it.

Roth waved Jonna through the door. A stench of decay hit her as she walked into the hallway.

“Not exactly Café Opera, eh?” Roth joked, waiting for Jonna’s first reaction to the acrid odour. He was obviously expecting to see a nauseated rookie who turned back at the door. She would not give him that pleasure. No more sudden exits and vomiting for her. What could be worse than Mrs Ekwall’s brain tissue on the floor?

“I once had a meal at one of Uppsala’s finest restaurants,” Jonna said, looking around the big hall. She really had to steel herself against the bad smell of the house. “You know the one: not so far from the main square, Stortorget.” She breathed with short breaths, which deadened the stench a little. “The smell in here reminds me a little of that place.”

Roth then dropped the subject of restaurants and smells. Instead, he continued into the house towards one of its many rooms.

After visiting the source of the stench, the kitchen and piles of rotting rubbish bags under the sink, Inspector Anderson called Jonna to a big room with a swivel armchair in the centre of the room. As Jonna entered the room, she got goose bumps. She saw a room that was straight out of an Hollywood film. Every millimetre of the walls was covered with pictures and photographs depicting a woman and a little girl. A light-haired woman with lively eyes and her smiling daughter. The walls were decorated with hundreds of pictures of the girl and the mother at different ages. Some of the photographs had been enlarged to almost poster size; others were as small as passport photographs. Many of the photographs were taken with horses.

Jonna went up to one of the photographs. The image was a close-up. She saw the girl, whose name was Cecilia and who would never be older than ten, holding an ice-cream. It was summer and her face was beaming. Her eyes sparkled with the light, and around her smile were traces of ice-cream. In the background, a light-blue ocean stretched endlessly and, on the horizon, there were white sailing boats. She stood on the beach. Perhaps she had been swimming. Her long hair looked wet, a little messed up and half-dried by the sun. Her bare shoulders were red and were testament to the fact that she had been wearing a swimsuit or a bikini. Perhaps she was sunburned, perhaps they were abroad.

Jonna would never know. The girl in the picture was dead. All that was left of her was the photographs and the memories of those who loved her.