The Beige Man (16 page)

He stopped for a moment, and Irene thought his eyes
looked suspiciously shiny, and it wasn’t with happiness or laughter. She could tell that from his voice as he went on.

“He met me at the main train station. No hug to welcome me. Just a formal handshake. Then we went to his apartment and he cooked some kind of lentil burger. I nearly threw up. Do I need to say that there was no soccer game, no trip to Liseberg? We did go up to Delsjö for a swim, but that was all. I remember it was lovely up there, and I bought three hot dogs from a guy who was selling them from a little kiosk. I bought them in secret, when Torleif was in the water. Fortunately Mom had given me some money; after all, she knew Torleif, and she had a good idea how things would be.”

He paused again, then continued. “When I got back to Stockholm I tried to keep up appearances and said it had been great to see my dad. But Mom saw right through me, of course. She took me to one side and told me the truth. She showed me the adoption papers. Father unknown, it says. She’s never told anyone who my real father is; only she and I know. Even today she still says she regrets having let me go through with that visit to Göteborg, not telling me before I left. But the fact is, I was relieved when I found out the truth—that Torleif wasn’t my biological father, and that I never had to see him again if I didn’t want to. And I certainly didn’t want to!” He looked very determined as he finished speaking.

“Did you never see each other again?” Irene asked.

“Yes. Just once, when I came down to Göteborg to see Bruce Springsteen a few years ago. My girlfriend, who is now my wife, was traveling from Malmö, where she lived, and we’d arranged to meet at the central station. I had a few hours to spare, and I called Torleif on a whim. We met in a coffee bar, and the first thing I did was to tell him I knew he wasn’t my father. He didn’t seem to care. And I think we both realized we didn’t have anything else to say to each other. He used to call me
occasionally after that; the last time was just before Christmas two years ago, as I said. And we quarreled as usual.”

Stefan leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. The amber-colored eyes gazed steadily at Irene.

“I know I don’t have to tell you all this crap, but somehow I have a feeling that it’s important for you to know how things were. And perhaps it was important for me to be able to tell you. Maybe I should have spoken to a therapist before I became a father myself, but this is much cheaper.”

He grinned to show that he was joking, but those amber eyes told the truth. They revealed a little boy who had had a really tough time when he was growing up. In spite of that he had survived and succeeded in building a future for himself and his family. Irene had come across many children like that over the years: survivors in spite of everything.

“I really appreciate the fact that you’ve confided in me. I knew who Torleif was when he worked in the third district, but I never got to know him on a personal level. I suppose the age difference had something to do with that,” she said, smiling back at Stefan.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“How long are you staying?” Irene asked to break the silence.

“Until Thursday. I spoke to a funeral director this morning, and I’ve made all the necessary arrangements. Now I need to deal with his estate and put the apartment on the market. All those practical things that have to be done when someone dies. The funeral is in three weeks; I’ll come back down then.”

“I’ll put out a call for the car. I can get the license plate number from records.”

They both got to their feet at the same time and shook hands as they said goodbye. Irene gave him her card in case he needed to contact her.

“T
HAT
’
S VERY STRANGE
,” was the superintendent’s response when Irene had finished a brief summary of her conversation with Stefan Sandberg.

“So you didn’t know that Torleif wasn’t the boy’s real father?”

Andersson shook his head. “No. Quite the opposite. He used to boast about the fact that he’d already gotten her pregnant before they were married. He always claimed they had to get married. When they split up he said it wasn’t right, that she’d run off back to Poland so he didn’t get to see his son. I remember telling him to go over there and visit the boy. I mean, Warsaw isn’t exactly on the other side of the world. But then he complained about how expensive it was to travel. He could be a real miser, to be honest. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but it’s true. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why we gradually lost touch …”

Andersson left the sentence hanging in the air as he stared blankly out of the window. Outside there was nothing but a compact darkness, broken only by the lights of the city. The weather forecast had promised rising temperatures, but there was also the risk of further snow or rain. Irene loved clean, white snow, but in the city it soon became black and filthy. The thought of rain on top of all that snow made her shudder. The whole lot would turn into a black, slushy mess.

Andersson glanced wearily at her. “What do you think about this business of the stolen car?” he asked.

“Presumably some thief was keeping an eye on the area and noticed that the car hadn’t moved from its parking space. It is pretty new, after all.”

The superintendent nodded, but didn’t really seem to be listening to her answer. His mind was clearly elsewhere. What was wrong?

As if he’d noticed her concern, he said, “I’ll be in a little later than usual tomorrow. After ten. I’ve got a check up.”

His curt tone left no scope for questions. Irene was worried, with good reason. Andersson wasn’t exactly blessed with an iron constitution. He was overweight, and suffered from asthma, high blood pressure and vascular cramps, among other things. Had one of his ailments gotten worse in some way? Or had he developed something new? The questions were on the tip of her tongue, but she was sensible enough to hold back. He wouldn’t like it if she asked. She might find out eventually.

“We’ll have a meeting after lunch tomorrow. By then we should have the autopsy report on the little Russian. Can you let the others know, please?” He waved his hand as if to indicate that the audience was over. It wasn’t like him to be distracted and dismissive. There was obviously something on his mind.

T
HE MOOD AROUND
the table was subdued. Before dinner Krister had told them what had happened when he took Sammie to the vet. Irene pushed her food around her plate, unable to eat. Her worst fears had been realized: the hard lumps were probably tumors. The vet couldn’t say for certain what kind of cancer it was, but the fact that the tumors were spread all over Sammie’s body, more or less, meant that the prognosis wasn’t good.

“According to the vet, the only course of treatment is to carry out a biopsy on one of the lumps, and then to prescribe an appropriate form of chemotherapy,” Krister explained.

“Chemo makes you sick. And you lose your hair … or fur.” Jenny sighed gloomily.

“He’s happy and as bright as a button. Maybe he’s a little more tired than he used to be, but after all he is almost thirteen,” Irene said.

“Thirteen’s old for a dog,” Jenny said.

Both Krister and Irene looked at her. It was Krister who eventually spoke. “You don’t think he should have any treatment?”

“No. That would just make the time he has left miserable. It’s better to let him be himself for as long as he’s feeling okay.”

On top of being a committed vegan, Jenny was also opposed to all forms of pharmaceutical drugs. She abruptly got to her feet and went into the living room. Sammie was lying under
the coffee table snoring contentedly. He woke up when Jenny lay down beside him and buried her face in his soft fur. Still half-asleep, he noticed that she was crying and did his duty as he had done so many times before. Gently he nudged her hair with his nose before licking away her tears. They were salty and delicious. He had done the same thing through all the years, whenever one of the twins had been upset. Eventually he could turn their tears into giggles and laughter. It always worked. But not this time. Instead Jenny sobbed as if her heart would break. Sammie grew more and more unhappy. He looked at his beloved young mistress in confusion as she lay there beside him, sobbing away. His troubled gaze met the eyes of his master and mistress. Krister and Irene were standing in the doorway, at a loss in the face of Jenny’s grief.

Krister leaned against Irene and whispered, “I think Sammie knows best when it comes to consoling her.”

They went back to the table. Katarina’s place was empty; she wouldn’t be home until later. At which point no doubt a similar scene would be played out.

“I don’t think we should grieve before we have to. After all, we know that dogs live for around ten years. Some live longer, some less. I think Jenny is right. We should let Sammie have a good life for whatever time he has left. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, or to be suffering in any way. That day might come, and if it does, we’ll have to deal with it. But until then we should appreciate every day we still have him,” Krister said firmly.

Irene nodded, but was incapable of answering him. She didn’t think her voice would hold.

D
URING THE NIGHT
the weather had changed. The temperature was around freezing, and a thick fog came sweeping in off the sea, enveloping the entire coastal area. The dampness penetrated the dry snow, and the snowdrifts had begun to
collapse since the previous day. Irene was glad she had cleared away the snow as it fell.

The curtain of fog meant that visibility was down to just a meter or so. The traffic edged along slowly, each car following the taillights of the vehicle in front.

It was the kind of morning that was likely to mark a distinct peak in the suicide statistics, and Tommy looked as if he were seriously considering adding one more to the count.

Irene was taken aback when she saw the gloomy expression on his face. It wasn’t like him at all. He was usually annoyingly cheerful first thing in the morning. She had a bad feeling as she greeted him and hung her jacket on the hook behind the door.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

“Sit down,” Tommy said, waving toward her desk.

When she had done as she was told, he said, “Hannu called. Birgitta is in hospital. Apparently she almost had a miscarriage.”

“Oh my God! She told me on Friday that she was pregnant again …”

The worrying news was entirely in keeping with recent events, she thought pessimistically. Sammie’s lumps, and now this. The fog lay draped over all this tragedy like a thick, grey blanket.

“According to Hannu, the doctors are hopeful that everything will turn out okay, but Birgitta is going to be off work for quite some time. Two weeks at least.”

“Two weeks! I need a coffee,” Irene said with a sigh.

“Of course you do,” Tommy replied with just a glimmer of a smile.

Out in the corridor they bumped into Linda Holm. Her face brightened when she saw them.

“Hi. Just the people I was looking for. I’ve had a reply from our colleagues in Tenerife. From some Comandante something-or-other with the Policía Nacional. They—”

Tommy interrupted her. “Grab yourself a coffee and come along to our office,” he said.

With a certain amount of satisfaction Irene noticed that for once he actually sounded a little tired.

“T
HAT
C
OMANDANTE-WHATEVER ASKED
if I could put him through to the person in charge of the Trafficking Unit. When I told him it was me, he went very quiet.” Linda couldn’t hide a smile of satisfaction before she went on. “The guy spoke terrible English, but I did manage to understand that they’d picked up my query as to whether they knew of anyone named Sergei within the trafficking industry, and they reacted right away. They’ve got problems with a Sergei who has disappeared. Sergei Petrov. But then it all got messy. Someone was shot dead because this Sergei has gone missing. The Comandante wasn’t too happy when I explained that all we had was the name Sergei, and the fact that he was supposed to have traveled from Sweden to Tenerife with a young girl. I told him we’d found the girl dead, and that she’d been murdered. And that we have no idea who this Sergei is. To be honest, I don’t know if he understood what I said. He wants to speak to the person who questioned the witness who gave you the name Sergei.”

“That was Fredrik, but he’s not too happy at the moment,” Irene said. “Svanér, Anders Pettersson’s hotshot lawyer, came steaming in this morning and managed to get his client released. Fredrik has been to see the prosecutor and raised hell; he’s persuaded them to let us pick Pettersson up again.”

She went to see if Fredrik was in his office. When she opened the door and peeped in, she could see that everything looked the same as usual—as if a minor tornado had swept through the room. Fredrik insisted that he could put his hand on whatever he needed in the middle of all the mess; it was just that no one else had managed to crack his system.

“He’s already out, probably looking for Pettersson,” Irene informed the other two when she got back to her office.