His plan is as devious as it is simple, and is based on the idea that legal exceptions are always possible, so long as all parties agree to keep quiet about it. In other words, that the colleague in Nacka stays silent and that Jeanette Kihlberg will be willing to kiss his feet in gratitude.
Five minutes later Kenneth von Kwist leans back contentedly in his chair, folds his hands behind his head and puts his feet up on his desk. That was that, he thinks. Now there’s just Ulrika Wendin and Linnea Lundstr?m left.
What have they told the police and that psychologist?
He has to admit that he has no idea, at least not as far as Ulrika Wendin is concerned. Linnea Lundstr?m has obviously said something compromising about Viggo Dürer, but he doesn’t know what it is yet, even if he fears the worst.
‘Fucking kid,’ the prosecutor mutters, thinking about Ulrika Wendin. He knows that the girl has met both Jeanette Kihlberg and Sofia Zetterlund, and has therefore breached their informal contract. The fifty thousand kronor that were supposed to keep her quiet evidently hadn’t been enough.
He must confront Ulrika Wendin and get her to realise what she’s dealing with. He takes his feet off the desk, adjusts his suit and sits up straight in his chair.
One way or another, he needs to silence both Ulrika Wendin and Linnea Lundstr?m.
Greta Garbos Torg, S?dermalm
FORMER SMALL BUSINESSMAN Ralf B?rje Persson, founder of Persson’s Building and Construction Ltd, has been homeless for four years. It all started well, the business was successful, lots of good contracts, new house, new car and even more work. But when competition for jobs got tougher and criminal gangs entered the building trade with cheap, illegal workers from Poland and the Baltic States, it started to go downhill. The pile of unpaid bills kept growing, until the point where it was no longer possible to hold on to the car and the house.
The phone that had once been so busy went silent, and his so-called friends vanished or didn’t want anything to do with him.
One evening, four years ago, B?rje went out to the shops and never returned. What was supposed to be a turn around the block had become a walk that still hasn’t ended.
B?rje is standing outside the state-run off-licence on Folkungagatan. It’s a few minutes past ten o’clock and in his hand he’s holding a lilac plastic bag containing six export-strength lagers. Norrlands Guld, seven per cent alcohol content. He opens the first can, tells himself this is the last liquid breakfast he’s going to have, and that he’ll get a handle on his life as soon as he gets rid of the shakes. He just needs one can to restore his equilibrium. And he believes that he’s earned a beer. Now that he’s going to start afresh.
The promise is redeemed the moment it is made.
The first thing he’s going to do once he’s finished his beer and life has got a bit simpler is take the metro to police headquarters at Kronoberg and tell them what happened down in the cavern under St Johannes Church.
He hasn’t been able to miss the flyers about the Duchess’s murder, and it’s pretty obvious to him that he was the one who showed the murderer where to go. But could it really have been that pale woman, not much older than his own daughter, who had executed his sister in misfortune in such a bestial way?
The beer is warm, but it does its job, and he drains the can in one long, deep swig.
He walks slowly east, turns into S?dermannagatan and continues until he reaches Greta Garbos torg, close to Katarina S?dra School. The school that the reclusive actress attended as a child.
There’s a paved circle in the middle of the square, with hornbeams and horse chestnuts planted around the edge of the circle. Ralf B?rje Persson finds a bench in the shade, sits down and thinks about what he’s going to say to the police.
No matter how he looks at it, he can’t escape the conclusion that he was the only person to see Fredrika Grünewald’s murderer.
He can describe the coat the woman was wearing. And her dark voice. And the unusual dialect. And the blue eyes that looked so much older.
After reading what the papers have written about the murder, he knows that a Jeanette Kihlberg is leading the investigation, and she’s the one he needs to ask for at reception in the police station. But he’s reluctant. His time on the street has led him to develop severe police paranoia.
Maybe it would be better if he wrote a letter and sent it to the police instead?
He takes out his pocket diary, tears out a blank page and holds it down on the leather cover. He takes a pen out of his coat pocket and thinks about what to write. How should he phrase it, and what are the important facts?
The woman had offered him money as thanks for him showing her the way down into the cavern. When she took out her purse he had seen something that caught his interest, and if he had been a police officer investigating a murder, that particular observation would have been extremely important, for the simple reason that the number of suspects would decrease dramatically.
He writes, explicitly enough so that his meaning won’t be misinterpreted.
Ralf B?rje Persson bends over to get another beer out, feels his belt strain against his stomach, reaches out and finally grabs one corner of the plastic bag just as he feels a stabbing pain in his chest.
His eyes flare. He falls from the bench and ends up on his back, with the note still in his hand.
The cold from the ground makes its way to his head, where it meets the warmth of intoxication. He shivers, and then everything explodes. It’s as if a train has driven straight into his head.
Kronoberg – Police Headquarters
ANNETTE LUNDSTR?M DOESN’T see through the deception and comes in the following day.
‘Hasn’t the case been closed now that Karl’s dead? And why isn’t Mikkelsen –’
‘I’ll explain,’ Jeanette interrupts. ‘But there’s also something else I want to talk to you about. How do you know Fredrika Grünewald?’ she asks, and watches Annette’s reaction.
Annette Lundstr?m frowns and shakes her head.
‘Fredrika?’ she says, and Jeanette gets the impression that her surprise is genuine. ‘What about her? What’s she got to do with Karl and Linnea?’
Jeanette waits for Annette to go on of her own accord.
‘Well, what can I say? We were in the same class for three years, but we haven’t seen each other since then.’
‘What can you tell me about her?’
‘How do you mean? What she was like at school? But that’s twenty-five years ago.’
‘Try anyway,’ Jeanette prompts.
‘We didn’t really have much to do with each other. We were in different gangs, and Fredrika hung out with the popular girls. The tough crowd, if you know what I mean?’
Jeanette nods to say she understands, and gestures for her to go on.
‘The way I remember it, Fredrika was top dog in a gang of wannabes.’ Annette falls silent and looks thoughtful as Jeanette takes out a notepad.
‘You want to know what I thought about Fredrika Grünewald?’ Annette suddenly snarls. ‘Fredrika was a bitch who always got her way. She had a court of faithful lackeys who always stuck up for her.’ She looks aggressive all of a sudden.