CELL 8 (11 page)

A couple of minutes later, various hands in various Interpol offices around the world picked up the inquiry from their Swedish colleagues from the fax machine.

Some sighed and put the paper to one side, some planned to do a search later in the day, others immediately started to look through the registers that were open on the screen.

Marc Brock in the Washington Interpol office was one of them. On the desk in front of him he had half a café latte, paper cup with a plastic lid every morning from Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue. He drank it slowly without really looking at the fax he’d just received.

That meant work and concentration at the computer, and he . . . he was tired. It was just one of those mornings.

He looked out of the window.

It was the eleventh of January, still cold, spring was a long way off.

Marc Brock yawned.

The fax, it was still lying on top, he pulled the pile over. A search request from Sweden.

Northern Europe. Scandinavia. He had actually been to Stockholm once, when he was young and in love and the woman was beautiful.

The summary was written in good English. A person who was probably not of Swedish origin had been held in custody for aggravated assault. A John Doe who called himself Schwarz, who had a false passport and now refused to give his correct identity.

Marc Brock studied the photo, a pale man with a stiff smile and uneasy eyes.

A face he might have seen before.

He turned on the computer, opened the registers he needed, searched using the information that the Swedish police had sent—the photo, known personal details, fingerprints—with a request that it be dealt with swiftly.

It didn’t take particularly long, it actually never did, not even when he was tired.

He drank some more coffee, yawned again, and then realized he didn’t really understand what he was looking at.

He shook his head.

It didn’t make sense.

He sat quite still and stared at the screen until it became blurred. Then he got up, walked around the room, sat down again and decided to go through the whole procedure again, one more time. He logged off, turned off the computer, waited a few seconds, then turned the computer on again, logged on, opened all the registers and ran the search a second time, using the information he’d been given about a man who only a matter of hours ago had been kept in custody in a city in northern Europe, and who called himself John Schwarz.

He waited with his eyes glued to the top of the desk, then slowly looked up at the screen.

The same answer.

Marc Brock swallowed his discomfort.

It didn’t make sense. Because it quite simply couldn’t make sense.

The man in the photo, the man he only minutes ago thought he might have seen before, was dead.

EWERT GRENS KNEW WHAT HE HAD SEEN. HE HAD WAITED TWENTY-FIVE
years for this. He didn’t give a damn about whether it was possible or not. She had seen the boat, and she had waved her hand back and forth, several times. It
had
been a conscious action. He, if anyone, knew every single expression she used, each one she was capable of, as only people who have lived together closely for many years do.

It was one of the archipelago ferries. They all looked the same. Grens pushed the Schwarz investigation over into a corner of the desk, placed an empty notebook in front of him, and phoned Waxholmsbolaget, which operated ferries all through the Stockholm archipelago. He swore loudly at the electronic voice that asked him to press a number and then another number and he shouted,
I want to talk to a person
, at the receiver and then threw it down. He sat there with the empty notepad and receiver lying in front of him, then after a while turned around to the old cassette player and put on one of three mix tapes of all the songs that Siw Malmkvist ever recorded, in chronological order. He fast-forwarded to her version of “Ode to Billie Joe” from 1968—it was different, he liked it a lot. He listened to the whole song once,
time 4 minutes and 15 seconds
, calmed down, rewound it, turned down the volume, and listened to it again while he lifted the receiver. The same damn electronic voice, he pressed this number and that, and waited where he was supposed to wait until he eventually heard a real human being.

Ewert Grens explained the time and place, he wondered what the boat was called, the one that had passed along the water below the nursing home. He also wanted to book some tickets, three people, for sometime later in the week.

She was helpful, the woman with the real voice.

The boat, the one he
knew
she had waved at, was called the
Söderarm
and stopped at Gåshaga jetty on Lidingö and arrived at Vaxholm forty minutes later.

You told me.

You wanted to go.

He turned up the volume, the same song for the third time, he sang along and he stood up, danced alone around the room, holding her.

Someone knocked on his open door.

“Apologies. I’m probably a bit early.”

Grens looked at Hermansson, nodded at her to come in and pointed to the visitor’s chair, went on moving slowly over the carpet; there were still some bars left.

Then he sat down, with a sweaty forehead, out of breath.

Hermansson looked at him and smiled.

“Always the same music.”

Ewert waited to get his breath back, it was more regular now.

“There is nothing else. Not in this room.”

“If you open the window. Out there, Ewert. In the real world. It’s a different time.”

“You don’t understand. You’re so young, Hermansson. Memories. The only thing that’s left when you’ve lived.”

She shook her head.

“You’re right. I don’t understand. I don’t think it has to be like that. But you’re a good dancer.”

Grens nearly laughed. And that didn’t happen often.

“I used to dance quite a bit. Before.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Twenty-five years. At least.”

“Twenty-five years?”

“You can see how I look. With a limp and a neck that won’t move.”

They sat in silence for a while. Until Ewert leaned forward and pulled the telephone toward him.

“Do you mind waiting outside? Until the others come. There’s a phone call I have to make.”

She left the room and closed the door behind her. Grens dialed the number to the nursing home, asked to speak to the matron. He explained that he was going to take Anni on a boat trip and that he’d like one of the staff to go with them. The young woman, Susann, the one who was studying to become a doctor. He knew that she did extra shifts and so insisted on paying her himself, because it was important that it was her, and only her. Some protest, but he got what he wanted, and he was a happy man when he opened the door again and let in the three people who were standing waiting in the corridor by the coffee machine.

Sven was drinking some with that artificial milk substitute, Hermansson had something that looked like tea, Ågestam’s smelled like hot chocolate. Grens asked them to sit down and then went out to get himself a cup of black coffee, nothing else.

He drank half of it, felt the warmth moving around his body.

“Schwarz.”

He looked at them, they no doubt felt the same. Who could be bothered with this?

“Klövje has sent out an Interpol blue notice to search for the bastard. Every English-speaking country now has everything we have on him. If he’s in any of the criminal records, we’ll know about it in a few hours.”

They were all sitting on the old sofa, the one he usually slept on. All in a row, Hermansson in the middle with Sven and Ågestam on either side.

“Have you got anything to say?”

Hermansson blew on her tea before speaking.

“There are twenty-two people called John Schwarz in Canada. I asked the official at the embassy in Tegelbacken to check them all, the same guy who helped us yesterday.”

“And?”

“None of them matches the man who is now sitting locked up in Kronoberg detention center.”

Ågestam had hot chocolate on his upper lip.

“We don’t know who he is. Or where he comes from. What we do know, on the other hand, is that he’s capable of kicking someone in the face, and yet is terrified of us connecting the dots. Yesterday in court it was horrible—he lay down on the floor shaking when it was announced that he’d continue to be held in custody. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

Ewert Grens snorted.

“I don’t fucking doubt it. Chocolate on your face, like a child. What exactly
have
you experienced?”

Lars Ågestam stood up and strode around the room on his skinny legs, hand through his hair several times to check that his fringe was in the right place, as always when he was agitated.

“I
have not
experienced ongoing investigations being put to one side to prioritize a comparatively insignificant one. I
have not
experienced an investigating officer attempting to influence the prosecutor’s choice of crime designation.”

He ran his hand through his hair again.

“Grens, are your priorities being guided by personal issues in this case?”

Ewert Grens slammed his hand down hard on one of two desk drawers that were open.

“You can bet your ass they are! And if you knew as much as I do about extreme violence to the head, you might give it the same priority, my friend.”

As he spoke, he grabbed hold of the open drawer, pulled himself toward it to gather momentum, and then let his chair spin around halfway until he was sitting with his back to the prosecutor, demonstrating his disgust.

Sven Sundkvist couldn’t bear any more tension between the detective superintendent and the public prosecutor, the silence that invaded as Ågestam stared at Grens’s neck, so he hurriedly interrupted.

“Schwarz’s reaction. I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the assault that he’s pleaded guilty to.”

“Continue.”

“Ewert, I think that the inertia he showed when we first took him in, his withdrawal interspersed with sudden, loud, horrible screams, it’s shock we’re dealing with. He’s frightened. He’s frightened of something that’s happened before, that somehow has something to do with this. Being locked up. Controlled. He’s experienced it before, he’s been damaged by it.”

Ewert Grens listened.
He’s smart, Sven, I forget it every now and then, I must remember to tell him.
He looked at all three of them in silence, before starting to speak.

“I want him in for questioning. Now. As soon as we’re done here.”

Ågestam nodded, turned toward Sven.

“You do it. Your theory, Sven, I buy that.”

Grens interrupted.

“So do I. But Hermansson will do the questioning.”

Interrogating Officer Mariana Hermansson (MH): Hi.

John Schwarz (JS): (inaudible) MH: My name’s Mariana.

JS: (inaudible) MH: I can’t hear what you’re saying. You’ll have to speak up.

Lars Ågestam looked at Ewert Grens in surprise.

“Hermansson? Isn’t Sundkvist better suited for this?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Ågestam? I’m sure that a smart young woman will get a lot further than a smart middle-aged man in this case.”

MH: Are you sitting comfortably?

JS: Yes.

MH: I understand if you’re nervous. Sitting here. It’s a strange situation.

“Trust. Hermansson will win his trust. She’ll help him with the small things first.”

MH: Do you smoke, John?

JS: Yes.

MH: I’ve got some cigarettes. Would you like one?

JS: Thanks.

“She’ll be friendly, continue to help him, she’ll be completely different from the rest of us bastards.”

MH: What’s your name?

JS: John.

MH: What’s your real name?

JS: That is my name. John.

MH: OK, so that’s your name. John?

JS: Yes?

MH: Did you know that your wife was here a couple of hours ago?

“You see, Ågestam, it gets fucking tough after a while, even when you have to . . . to sit there lying to someone who only wants the best for you. And Hermansson—Schwarz will be convinced—Hermansson will only want what’s best for him.”

MH: You have full restrictions. And you will until you talk. So long as you obstruct the investigation, you won’t be able to see your wife. Do you understand?

JS: Yes.

MH: She had a child with her too, a little boy, four, five years old. Your son, I guess? You won’t be able to see him either.

JS: I have to . . .

MH: But I can arrange it.

“After a while, interviewing officer Hermansson will start to pop up outside the interview room. And she’ll help him then too. She’s kind. She understands.”

MH: There’s a small park outside this building. Do you know it?

JS: No.

MH: You can meet him there. If I come with you. I find it hard to believe that you meeting with a five-year-old might complicate the investigation. What do you think?

“He’ll talk, Ågestam. They always do in the end. There will be a moment that crystallizes all Hermansson’s friendliness, kindness, and understanding, and when Schwarz feels it, Hermansson will take the next step, then she’ll make demands, she’ll demand something back.”

Ewert Grens stood up and walked to the door. He waited until the three people on the sofa had stood up as well.

“And then it will be his turn to give.”

The meeting was over.

He was convinced. Schwarz would talk soon.

Soon they would know who he was, where he came from.

KEVIN HUTTON SAT WITH THE BLINDS DOWN IN ROOM 9000 AT
550 Main Street in Cincinnati. He always did—the daylight irritated his eyes when he had to read onscreen and he was doing it more and more, staying in the office and communicating via the Internet. He was thirty-six years old and had worked in the FBI office in western Ohio for ten of them. The work had changed following the explosion of information in the digital world, he was special agent in charge and that was as far as you could get in a local office, and yet the jobs were not really what he’d imagined when he’d first opened the door to what was still his office. He should be out there. In reality. All this, more and more office work, sometimes he just longed to be somewhere else.