Bad Blood: A Crime Novel (16 page)

It was a different story with Justine Lindberger, a young, dark beauty with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs whose equally young husband and coworker Eric hadn’t come home the night before. While the cooler box was opened, she waited, paralyzed with fear, radiating desperation, convinced that the corpse would be her murdered husband—and when that turned out not to be the case, she broke down and wept. Norlander’s attempts to comfort her were beyond awkward; he had to call in personnel from psych, who gave her an injection of a rather heavy sedative. When Norlander sat back down at the desk, his body was trembling.

Last up was Egil Högberg, an old rapids-shooter from Dalsland who’d had both legs amputated. He’d been driven down from the nursing home in his wheelchair by a young female aide.

“My son,” he said to Norlander in a toothless, quavering voice. “It must be my son.”

Norlander did everything in his power to ignore Högberg’s
monstrously bad breath. The gum-chewing aide just rolled her eyes. He let the odd couple into the room and opened the cooler.

“It’s him,” Högberg declared calmly, placing his rheumatic hand on the dead man’s icy cheek. “My only son.”

The aide tapped Norlander lightly on the shoulder, and they left Högberg alone with the dead man. Norlander closed the door.

The aide said, “He doesn’t have a son.”

Norlander looked at her skeptically and peered through the window at the elderly man, who was now laying his cheek against the corpse’s.

“He gets unmanageable,” she continued, “if he doesn’t get to come down and look at the new bodies. We don’t know why, but it’s best to let him have his way.”

Norlander didn’t take his eyes from the old man.

“Presumably he’s preparing to die,” said the aide.

“Or?” said Norlander.

“Or else he’s an old necrophile,” said the aide, blowing a big pink bubble.

It was quiet for a moment. Then someone said, “Or else he wishes he had a son.”

After a while, Norlander realized that he’d said it himself.

He opened the door. Egil Högberg looked up from the corpse and sent his crystal-clear gaze straight into Norlander’s. “The line of descent is broken,” he said.

Viggo Norlander closed his eyes and kept them shut tight for a long time.

The first thing that struck Gunnar Nyberg was the contrast between LinkCoop’s headquarters in Täby and its warehouses in Frihamnen. The only link between them was the vulgar logo that blinked in all the colors of the rainbow as though advertising Stockholm’s most lavish brothel.

At closer glance, the 1980s-style two-story building was a well-camouflaged skyscraper that had prophesied the conclusion of the decade by falling over. The luxurious atmosphere inside the company gates had more in common with a golf club than with a factory building. LinkCoop didn’t manufacture anything; the company was merely a link between east and west, as advanced computer equipment made in a variety of places streamed in from the east and out toward the west and vice versa. Nyberg didn’t really understand how this enterprise could be as profitable as the building suggested it was. On the other hand, economics was not his strong suit, and he felt some trepidation about the terminology that he would soon have to face.

Nyberg drove his Renault past a security gate that was disguised as a vehicle reception, then headed toward the main building. He obstinately parked across two handicap spots, because he couldn’t imagine that anyone with a handicap worked at LinkCoop; the spots were the only two empty ones and reeked of artificial political correctness. Striding through the overzealous rain, he couldn’t see a single car in the lot that had cost less than 200,000 kronor. Either the janitors and receptionists used public transportation, or there was a hidden lower-class parking lot somewhere, along the lines of a good old kitchen entrance to a gentry flat.

In other words, Gunnar Nyberg was properly worked up as
he loped through the autumn storm, fat jiggling, and arrived at the main entrance. Once he was inside the automatic doors, he shook off the water like a walrus on amphetamines. The twin receptionist beauties had clearly been forewarned, for their only reaction to this antibody in their bloodstream was a tandem smile of the kind that could soothe even the most inflamed of souls.

“Mr. Nilsson is waiting for you, Mr. Nyberg,” they said in unison.

Mr. Nyberg stared at them. Was this Villa Villekulla? Was Pippi Longstocking’s horse waiting in the wings?

He collected himself, returned the smile, and accepted what tonight’s dreams would have in store. That was apparently the duo’s mission: to supply the customer’s subconscious with a positive image; LinkCoop would be present at even the most intimate moments.

The exquisitely beautiful duo were separated, however, as one of the receptionists led him through the sober rooms, his impressions of which were unfortunately diminished by the tempting dance of the miniskirt. In only a matter of seconds, Nyberg had been transformed from a radical champion of the working class to a drooling dirty old man—the result of some carefully planned PR work.

The seduction of capitalism
, he thought helplessly.

Finally they reached a door, which opened the instant they reached it. The security system must have been perfect. A thoroughly elegant middle-aged woman appeared, nodded curtly to the receptionist, noticed Nyberg’s wandering eyes, and shook his hand firmly. “Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen,” she said, “Mr. Nilsson’s secretary. Please follow me.”

Pippi Longstocking herself
, Nyberg thought inappropriately,
downgraded to Mr. Nilsson’s secretary
. He followed Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen into a gigantic room where the only piece of furniture
was a large desk. It was empty except for a well-designed computer and an equally well-designed telephone, on which she pressed a button and said: “Detective Inspector Gunnar Nyberg from the National Criminal Police is here.”

“Send him in,” replied an authoritative, distortion-free voice from within the keypad.

Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen gestured toward a door at the far end of the room and sat down at the computer without conferring upon him a single further look.

Nyberg stepped into the CEO’s office, which was about twice as large as the secretary’s atrium. The whole room—it was sacrilege to call it an office—had a well-balanced, utterly showy un-showiness; a splendid, crystal-clear, pure style. An impeccably dressed man in his forties stood behind a gleaming oak desk and extended his hand. Nyberg took it. His handshake was firm, to say the least.

“Henrik Nilsson, CEO,” said the man distinctly.

“Nyberg,” said Nyberg.

Henrik Nilsson pointed at a chair in front of the desk, and Nyberg took a seat.

“I don’t believe I said either ‘detective inspector’ or ‘National Criminal Police’ when I announced myself out there,” said Nyberg.

Henrik Nilsson smiled self-confidently. “It’s Betty’s job to have all available information.”

“And to show it,” Nyberg said, but was ignored. He was used to it.

“National Criminal Police,” Nilsson said. “That means that you think there’s a link between the banal break-in at our warehouse and the corpse outside it.”

“It’s likely.”

“And furthermore, it means that the corpse isn’t just any corpse, but a corpse of national concern. And furthermore,
that LinkCoop has somehow been dragged into a national murder case, which we would prefer not to happen. In other words, we’re at your service.”

“Thank you,” Nyberg said, instead of saying what he bit away from his tongue. “Was anything stolen?”

“A great deal was destroyed. Nothing stolen. The door has to be replaced. Otherwise we came out relatively unscathed this time.”

“This time?”

“Our goods are so theft-prone that they’re hard to insure these days. We’ve had a few break-ins recently. The goods are sold to the east.”

Nyberg thought for a moment, then said, “So the guard ought to have been on alert?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Then how did it happen that he didn’t see the crime being committed on his monitors? Even your Betty out there could see me walk from reception up here to her custom-designed computer.”

Henrik Nilsson shook his head. “You’ll have to speak with our chief of security about that. It’s his responsibility.”

“I will. But first I’d like some information about the company. You buy computer equipment from west and east and sell it to east and west. Is that the business concept?”

“The best one there is today,” said Henrik Nilsson, not without pride. “As long as the trade routes between east and west are as blocked as they still are, the kind of link we provide plays a crucial role.”

“And when the blockade is lifted?”

Nilsson leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Nyberg. “It never will be. It’s a fluctuating branch of commerce. Old businesses collapse; new ones are always springing up. The only constant is us.”

“What kind of computer equipment is it?”

“Everything.”

“Even military?”

“Within the boundaries of the law, yes.”

“And was it military equipment that was in the warehouse that was broken into?”

“No, that was regular computers. Taiwanese WriteComs. I’ve compiled the information for you in this folder, a complete list of what was stored in that warehouse. As well as information about the company. You can get someone with experience to look at it, of course.”

Nyberg ignored the sarcasm and took the elegant, burgundy leather folder. The company logo that adorned the front was toned down into a single color—gold. “Thanks,” he said. “Then there isn’t much more to ask. I just want to speak to your chief of security.”

“Robert Mayer,” said Nilsson, who stood and extended his hand again. “He’s waiting for you. Betty will show you the way.”

Once again Betty popped in at exactly the right second, herded Nyberg out of the monumental CEO room and into the corridor, walked past a few doors, and stopped outside the farthest one. After a few seconds of embarrassing delay, a broad man in his fifties opened the door. He could probably be considered a rather typical chief of security at a high-risk company: former police or military, sunburned, weather-beaten face, close-cropped hair, sharp eyes, handshake as firm as a rock. Since the former Mr. Sweden had had enough of firm-as-a-rock handshakes, he answered with one that was even firmer; he couldn’t help it.

“Robert Mayer,” said Robert Mayer with slightly raised eyebrows and a slight accent. It wasn’t German, as Nyberg had expected, but Anglo-Saxon.

“Nyberg,” said Nyberg. “Are you an Englishman?”

The eyebrows went up a millimeter or so. “I’m originally from New Zealand, if that is of interest.” Mayer made a slight gesture, and they stepped into the first of the chief of security’s rooms: a relatively small nook where the walls were covered in monitors. They sat down at the desk.

Nyberg decided to skip all the chitchat. “How did it happen that the guard, Benny Lundberg, didn’t see the break-in happening on his monitors?”

Robert Mayer, behind the desk, didn’t seem to lack the ability to concentrate. “It’s simple,” he said. “All together, our storage at Frihamnen is made up of thirty-four buildings of various sizes. We have monitor coverage on only eight of them, the most important ones. Maintaining thirty-four monitors would require us to post at least two more guards, which, with around-the-clock observation, would involve at least six full-time positions, many of them with odd working hours. Along with the cost of materials and installation, the extra cost would far exceed the potential returns. The building where the break-in occurred, in other words, doesn’t have monitor coverage.”

A straight answer
, Nyberg thought, and shifted tactics. “How well do you know Benny Lundberg?”

“I suppose I don’t really know him, exactly, but it’s hardly possible to find a more dedicated guard.”

“Mr. Nilsson pointed out that you’ve had a number of break-ins down there recently. What happened with those?”

“There have been eight break-ins in the last two years, which isn’t a catastrophe, but it isn’t acceptable, either. Three of them were stopped by our security guards, Lundberg among them; two failed for other reasons, while three were truly devastating pro jobs. It was after the last one that we got our own guards instead of relying on security companies. Since then we’ve done well.”

“So Lundberg has been on staff for—only one year?”

“A bit more than a year, yes. Since we switched over. And that’s another reason everyone’s thinking it was an inside job, if that’s what you’re fumbling for: not a single successful break-in has occurred since we got our own squad of guards. The boys do an excellent job.”

“What was stolen during the ‘successful’ break-ins?”

“I’ve put together a file.” Mayer handed him a folder bearing LinkCoop’s gold logo, which gave Nyberg a sense of déjà vu. “It contains copies of our police and insurance reports from all eight break-ins. All the information is there. You can get someone with experience to look at it, of course.”

Gunnar Nyberg observed the man in front of him. Robert Mayer was the perfect chief of security, a rock that a company could lean on, professional, clear-sighted, experienced, hard as nails, cold as ice. The steel-blue eyes met his, and he sensed that his body-builder handshake had not been forgotten. For a second he wondered what Mayer had actually done when he was in New Zealand.

Then he relaxed. There was nothing more to add.

He wondered what a chief of security earned.

The seduction of capitalism
, he thought, and bade farewell to Robert Mayer.

When Jan-Olov Hultin returned on the well-worn path from the john, he found a nervously tramping man in his forties standing outside his door. His first thought was that the Kentucky Killer had quite coolly walked into police headquarters to stick his tongs into his neck. The man’s strangely clear, green eyes
calmed him, however; he looked more like a humiliated high schooler outside the principal’s office.

Having realized this, Hultin could curse the security procedures down at reception a bit more levelheadedly.