‘We’re already getting requests from other security services to share our experiences.’
‘So you’re playing with the big boys now,’ she says with a smile, as irritable red spots start to appear on her forehead.
‘No … well, yes, we’re at least in the same playing field,’ Verner confirms.
‘Fine. Then I need to keep working,’ she says.
‘You had information on your computer that jeopardised the confidentiality of the operation. That’s a serious offence against the democratic state.’
‘I know what confidentiality is,’ Saga snaps. ‘But the Foreign Minister is dead – isn’t he?’
‘He died a natural death,’ Verner points out.
‘Who’s going to find the killer?’
‘What killer?’ he asks, looking at her without blinking.
‘Absalon was sliced open in front of his wife and children by the same—’
‘That’s very sad news.’
‘By the same killer.’
‘Janus doesn’t think there’s any connection between the deaths – which is why we’re having to deprioritise the investigation.’
‘I have to keep looking,’ she says in an agitated voice.
‘OK, so keep looking.’
‘No damn holiday.’
‘Fine … but you have to work with Janus.’
‘And Joona,’ she adds.
‘What?’
‘You promised Joona an unconditional pardon.’
‘No,’ he says.
‘Don’t you dare lie to me,’ she says threateningly.
‘If you’re referring to confidential material, I must remind you that—’
She sweeps her hand across his desk, sending his phone and a stack of reports flying.
‘I’ll continue the investigation with Joona,’ she says.
‘Why are we even talking about him?’
‘Joona understands killers, I don’t know how, but he does. And now you’ve sent him back to Kumla.’
‘You’re not to have any contact with Joona Linna, and that’s an order—’
Saga knocks a coffee cup and a thick folder to the floor.
‘Why are you doing that?’ Verner asks.
‘You promised Joona, you fucking promised him!’ she screams.
‘Now you won’t get that vacation after all,’ he says.
‘Fuck the fucking Canaries!’ Saga snarls, and marches towards the door.
62
While DJ helps Sammy with his black suit, Rex goes into his bedroom to call Sammy’s mother. As the call goes through, he sighs and thinks about everything that happened. The cops towed DJ’s car and Sammy and Rex caught a taxi home. Sammy was still asleep when Rex woke up at ten o’clock with a pounding headache. He went up to the kitchen and opened the door of the wine-cooler. He picked the most expensive bottle, a Romanée-Conti from 1996, pulled out the cork, and poured the wine away. He watched the red liquid swirl down the drain before getting the next bottle.
‘Hello?’
Veronica sounds stressed. There’s a rumbling, rattling sound in the background, and a woman crying wearily.
‘It’s Rex,’ he says, and clears his throat. ‘Sorry if this is a bad time …’
‘What is it?’ she asks bluntly. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, yesterday,’ he says, and feels tears prick his eyes. ‘I had a drink and … I …’
‘Sammy already called. He said you’re getting along fine, that you had a drink yesterday but that it was nothing to worry about, and that everything was good.’
‘What?’ Rex whispers.
‘I’m so happy that Sammy’s happy. He hasn’t had an easy time of things, you know.’
‘Veronica, it’s been …’ he begins, and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. ‘It’s been good for me to get to know Sammy … I hope that’s something that we can continue.’
‘We can talk later,’ she says curtly. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
Rex sits with the phone in his hand. Sammy is much more mature than he thought. He’s already called his mother, lying and saying things are fine to make sure she doesn’t drop everything and rush home.
Fifteen minutes later Rex is sitting in the back seat with Sammy in a black Uber, listening to DJ tell the driver that they can get out on Regerings Street and walk the last stretch to the church.
The driver tries to turn around, but the side-street is blocked with huge concrete roadblocks and a traffic cop waves them straight on instead.
For security reasons the whole area around St Johannes’ Church has been cordoned off.
The guests include members of the Swedish government, the foreign ministers of the Nordic countries, the ambassadors of Germany, France, Spain and Britain. But the main reason for the heavy security is the presence of the acting US Defence Secretary, Teddy Johnson, who was a personal friend of the Foreign Minister’s. Because Johnson was involved in the administration’s decision to invade Iraq, he’s regarded as a high security risk.
‘Sammy, I don’t know if you noticed, but I got rid of all the wine and spirits in the house.’
‘I heard you doing it this morning,’ his son says quietly.
‘I realise that I can’t trust myself,’ Rex goes on. ‘You know, I despise the alcoholics at those meetings, but I’m no better than any of them. It’s hard to admit, but I’m the worst dad in the world, and it serves me right if you hate me.’
The atmosphere is still subdued when they get out of the car and start to walk up David Bagares Street. The three of them are dressed in black suits, white shirts and black ties, but Sammy has tucked a red handkerchief in his breast pocket.
Police officers and security guards have been stationed at strategic positions around the church. Bus routes have been redirected. All the litter bins have been removed, manhole covers welded shut. The airspace above the church has been closed, so that only police and ambulance helicopters are allowed. Neighbouring buildings have been searched, sniffer-dogs have checked the whole of the cordoned-off area.
Blue lights sweep the street as Rex, DJ and Sammy approach the next roadblock. A police van is parked in front of riot barriers, and police officers with automatic pistols hanging by their hips stop them to check their invitations and IDs against the guest list.
‘I know not everyone likes me, but this amount of security seems over the top,’ Rex jokes.
‘We just want to make sure you’re safe,’ the police officer smiles as he lets them through.
A long line of guests snakes past the graves, up the broad steps leading to the church, to the security check at the church doors.
Rex is following Sammy and DJ through the crowd when a journalist from one of the evening papers stops him and asks for a short interview.
‘What did the Foreign Minister mean to you?’ the reporter asks, aiming a large microphone at Rex.
‘We were old friends,’ Rex says, running one hand instinctively through his hair. ‘He was a wonderful person … a …’
The bald-faced lie makes him lose his thread. Suddenly he doesn’t know what to say, how to continue the sentence. The journalist looks at him with a neutral expression. The microphone wavers in front of Rex’s mouth and he starts to say that he’s brought his son to the funeral before stopping himself.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m a bit shaken. It’s such a loss … my thoughts are with his family.’
He excuses himself with a gesture and turns away, then pauses a couple of seconds before moving towards the church to try to find DJ and Sammy in the crowd.
Two bodyguards are following the Prime Minister and his wife up the steps.
A dog starts barking and the security personnel lead one of the guests aside. He’s clearly annoyed, speaking strongly accented English as he gesticulates towards his waiting companions.
The noise of a helicopter echoes between the buildings. An elderly man with a walker is being helped into the church.
‘Over here!’ DJ calls.
Sammy and DJ are waving to him from the line at the foot of the steps. The black eyeliner his son is wearing only accentuates the paleness of his fragile features. Rex pushes his way through to them.
‘Where did you go?’ DJ asks.
‘I was talking to a journalist about my old friend,’ Rex replies.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ DJ says happily.