‘And who the hell might that be?’
‘You ought to know that. His name cropped up in the Karl Lundstr?m case.’
Jeanette Kihlberg pauses, and he sees an opportunity to put the brakes on the conversation. ‘So …’ he says, as slowly as he can. ‘On what grounds, Detective Superintendent, do you wish to take such a drastic measure as invoking paragraph seven of chapter twenty-four of the Judicial Procedure Act? The second clause? There isn’t a possibility that you’re being overhasty once again?’
He can hear her drawing breath, and he’s amused by the certainty that she’s about to explode. He continues, even more slowly, as he sees Dennis Billing get out of a taxi and walk in through the main entrance. ‘I mean, over the years you and I have had a number of dealings with each other, and, if we’re being completely frank, Detective Superintendent, there’s been more than one occasion when you’ve lacked sufficient evidence for your assertions and have had to take a couple of trips to Canossa.’ He’s on the point of saying ‘my dear’, but stops himself. To his surprise, he hears Jeanette laugh.
‘Very funny, Kenneth,’ she says, and he feels disappointed that she hasn’t flown into a rage and let rip with the torrent of feminist drivel he was expecting.
Before he manages to think of a suitable riposte, Jeanette goes on without any audible sign of excitement. ‘Beneath Dürer’s garage we’ve discovered things that would make your favourite murderer Thomas Quick green with envy. But unlike that case, we’re on firm ground, if you understand what I mean? I’m talking body parts, torture instruments and equipment for a hell of a lot of medical experiments. And from what I could see, Dürer isn’t just guilty of one or two murders. You’re more likely to have to count them by the dozen, then round the total up. There’s no doubt at all in my mind that we’ve got the right man. He’s documented everything. The whole lot.’
His head is spinning. ‘Can you repeat that?’
Prosecutor Kenneth von Kwist takes a deep breath and tries to think of relevant questions, suitable legal objections, significant contradictions in her analysis of the situation, whatever the hell might justify his desire to postpone issuing a warrant for Dürer’s arrest.
But his head is empty.
It’s as if someone has built a firewall between his brain and his larynx. He knows what he wants to say, but his mouth won’t move. His entire army of brain cells has mutinied and is refusing to obey orders, and with the phone pressed to his ear all he can do is listen to the pious, conceited Jeanette Kihlberg in silence. She’s like a spot on your arse, he thinks. And what the hell has Dürer been up to?
Body parts? he wonders.
The prosecutor’s chain of associations is as short as it is logical, but his new medication, together with the alcohol, makes it easier for him to suppress that particular thought. His intoxication is helping him not to lose his mind completely, but he’s starting to feel distinctly nauseous.
‘Ivo Andri? is still out there with forensics. I’ve cordoned off the immediate vicinity and given orders for radio silence. All communication is to be conducted via personal phones rather than an open line. I’ve also imposed a complete ban on talking about what we’ve found to anyone not directly involved, because I don’t want the papers there at such a sensitive time. There aren’t any close neighbours, but anyone living nearby is probably wondering why there’s so much traffic. But there’s nothing we can do about that.’
She pauses, and von Kwist clenches his fist in his pocket and prays that she’s finished at last, that everything’s going to be nice and quiet and he can get back to others at the party. After all, he only wants to be happy, drink some free wine and eat canapés with his colleagues.
Please, let it end soon, he begs of the God he turned his back on at fifteen after a heated argument with his confirmation priest and to whom he has never returned. But whoever he is praying to is either holding a grudge, deaf or simply not there, because Jeanette Kihlberg continues. The prosecutor’s legs are now feeling so weak that he doubts they can hold him much longer, so he grabs the nearest chair and sits down.
‘Look, I’m convinced that putting out a national alarm for Viggo Dürer is an absolute necessity,’ Jeanette goes on. ‘I want your consent, but because I can hear that you’re at a party and presumably can’t get away easily, we’ll have to leave the paperwork till later. You’ve either got to trust me, or explain to my boss tomorrow morning why the national alarm was delayed so long. It’s your choice, basically.’
Finally she stops, and he hears the sound of a car braking hard, then her colleague Jens Hurtig swearing.
‘And there’s no doubt at all that it’s Dürer?’ The prosecutor has regained the power of speech after a short rest on the chair, and he still wants to believe in the possibility that someone else might be responsible, but her answer is immediate and is, even for anyone doubtful, difficult to misinterpret.
‘No,’ she says, and Prosecutor von Kwist realises that he is about to embark on his very own walk to Canossa.
‘In that case you have my consent to take whatever measures you think necessary.’ He falls silent and tries to think of a remark that will restore his authority and suppress his fear that he’s going to end up in the most terrible mess. ‘Even if you want to, can you at least wait a while before getting Dürer added to the FBI’s most wanted list?’ That’s the best he can come up with on the spur of the moment, but he’s not happy with it. He realises that it didn’t hit home the way he hoped it would.
Dennis Billing is coming towards him with two glasses of sparkling wine, and the prosecutor gets ready to end this dreadful conversation.
But he doesn’t know what to say. It feels like he’s caught in a trap. The more he struggles to get free, the more stuck he gets.
‘I’ll leave the FBI till tomorrow,’ Jeanette Kihlberg says. ‘He’ll probably end up on their list anyway, whether you like it or not.’ He hears her draw breath and sigh theatrically. ‘And as far as Henry IV’s walk to Canossa is concerned,’ she says, in a tone of voice matching his earlier overemphatic and slow delivery, ‘I believe that recent research has shown it to be a masterstroke on Henry’s part, and that he came out of it better than the corrupt Pope Gregory. Correct me if I’m wrong. After all, you’re the historian, and I’m just a silly woman.’
He hears the phone click. When Jeanette’s boss, Dennis Billing, slaps him on the back and hands him a glass of wine, he’s bubbling with suppressed rage.
Who the hell is she suggesting is corrupt?
Klippgatan – Second Flight of Steps