*
Two hours later, Gunnar ?hrn and Henrik Levin had a long and heated discussion with the county police commissioner Carin Radler where they had described their progress in the investigation. Carin listened patiently while they recounted the interview with Lena Wikstr?m.
“You could say that it is of utmost importance that we salvage those containers,” said Gunnar.
“And how many people know about her involvement?” said Carin.
“So far, only the team. We must work quickly before the media get wind of all this.”
“And how will you explain the salvage operation?”
“We’ll cover it.”
“But I consider a salvage operation to be irrelevant. The containers you talk of might not even exist.”
“I believe they do, and we must find out what they contain.”
“But I’m the one who makes the decision in this case.”
“I know.”
“Putting resources into such an operation is very costly.”
“But necessary,” said Gunnar. “Two people and a boy have been murdered. Now we must find out why.”
Carin thought a while.
“What do you want?” Gunnar had asked.
“I want a solution.”
“Good, we do too.”
Carin nodded briefly.
“Okay. I’ll rely on your judgment. The salvage operation can start tomorrow. Phone the docks.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
IT WAS EARLY morning when she got back to Stockholm.
The girl stumbled along on the cobbled street, supporting herself with one hand against the rough fa?ade of the buildings. The shop window glass reflected her mirror image but she did not care. Her little hand touched the locked doors as she passed by. She was looking for a place to hide. Somewhere she could rest. The gun rubbed uncomfortably against her tummy; she had to stop it falling out from her waistband so she used her other hand to keep it in place.
A pedestrian tunnel appeared in front of her. She staggered down the stairs and when she was on the bottom step she met an elderly couple. They stopped and stared at her. But she just kept on going.
The girl felt dizzy. Her legs suddenly gave way and she thrust out her arms to break the fall when she landed on the hard concrete floor. She got up again. Took one step at a time. Supported herself with one hand on the tiled walls. She looked straight ahead and counted every time she put one foot down in front of the other. She had to keep focused. At the end of the tunnel she saw a barrier; she tried to get through but the doors wouldn’t budge. So she sank down on the floor and crawled under it. Then she heard a female voice behind her.
“Hello there! You must pay!”
But the girl didn’t listen. Kept on going.
The voice got louder.
“Hello you! You must pay if you want to travel through here!”
She stopped, turned round and whipped the gun out from her trousers. A woman in uniform behind her immediately held up her hands and took a step back. The girl balanced the gun’s weight in her hands; it felt dreadfully heavy. She could hardly hold it up.
The woman looked frightened. So did the other people who passed by. They all stopped in their tracks and stood completely still.
She waved the gun in front of her and backed toward the stairs. When she reached the top step she turned round and ran down as fast as she could. Her arms shook. She had trouble holding the gun up. She counted as she walked straight ahead 32 steps, and then she lost her footing on the last one. She twisted her ankle in the fall; the pain was intense. Still she didn’t show any emotion.
She got up again and limped across to a garbage can. A metallic sound could be heard when the gun landed on the bottom. She shuffled on, relieved that she no longer had to carry the heavy weapon. Now she felt all right. And she would feel even better if she could only get some sleep. Just a little.
Exhausted, she hid in a little space behind a bench, flopping down with her back against a concrete wall. The hard surface pressed against her backbone. Her ankle was throbbing but she didn’t care. She found herself in a borderland state between dream and reality.
Then she fell asleep. Sitting in the underground station.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, April 24
HENRIK LEVIN WRAPPED his arms around himself against the cold. His down jacket wasn’t much help. The merciless Baltic wind seemed to find its way through the zipper of his coat. He had tried to layer himself, but three hours out in the bitter cold had taken its toll. He looked around to see if there was anywhere he could seek shelter. Ahead of him lay the open sea, and the waves washed against the slippery rocks.
Brand? Island was as far out as you could go in Ark?sund. The tourist boats flanked the idyllic spot in the summer and the archipelago line passed close by. Now those summer months felt far away.
His scarf fluttered in the wind and Henrik wound it yet another time round his neck keep out the draft. He contemplated sitting in the car and looked across to the cordoning tape where a total of fifteen police cars were parked.
The cordoned-off area was all of 500 square meters, and the harbor staff worked methodically so that they could start the salvage process.
It had taken a long time to locate the containers. They had to map the sea floor in the specified area repeatedly with echo sounding. Every response was followed up by divers. The process had taken time, and delayed things by more than two hours.
Around the area they had cordoned off a safety zone and had forbidden other boat traffic. They had a floating crane in place as well as a freight barge for the containers.
Henrik looked at his watch. Ten minutes, they’d said. Then the lifting would start.
*
Jana Berzelius listened to the radio. As in all complex operations, somebody always revealed more than necessary. Who leaked? The salvage work had attracted an enormous amount of attention and been the most important news item all morning.
Jana turned down the volume and looked out through the windshield. She didn’t feel at all like getting out of the car and joining the shivering police officers who were next to the cordon.
Farther away stood Henrik Levin, and he also looked frozen. His shoulders were hunched and his scarf tightly wound round his collar. Now and then he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to get warm.
She turned up the heat in the car—to 23 Celsius—before she pulled out her mobile and downloaded the last hour’s emails. There were eight of them, most about additional material for one case or another. One question asked about protecting a witness; another was about a future trial that would take place on May 2. The charge was arson, and the victim was a young woman who fortunately had escaped with her life, but suffered severe burns to her face.
Jana put the phone down in her lap and felt it vibrate. She saw her parents’ number on the display. She wondered why they were phoning. Again. Three times in just over a week was out of the ordinary.
At the same time, someone knocked on her windshield.
Mia Bolander waved lazily. Her nose and cheeks were red from the biting wind.
“We’re about to start now,” she mimed through the glass and went straight off toward Henrik.
Jana nodded and silenced the call.
The dockworkers started moving. Someone waved his arm, another one half ran toward the rocks. A bearded man talked into a walkie-talkie and pointed out to sea.
Jana stretched up in the front seat to try and see what was happening. But she still couldn’t. She would have to get out of the car. She put her cell in her pocket, unbuttoned the top button on her parka, turned up her collar and left the car. Her checked cap and long matching scarf kept her warm as she resolutely walked into the cordoned area.
Henrik noted her presence when she came and stood beside him.
The bearded man received a message on his radio and answered.