Dark Secrets (43 page)

The gun club lay to the north near the airport. It was a wooden building resembling a barracks, which had doubtless belonged to the military at some point in the past. There seemed to be both indoor and outdoor shooting ranges, and Vanja, Sebastian, and Billy could hear the dull reports of gunfire as they approached. Vanja had called in advance and spoken to the club secretary, who lived nearby; he had promised to come down to answer some questions. A man came out onto the steps to greet them. He was about forty-five and wore a short-sleeved shirt and scruffy jeans. He looked like an ex-soldier and introduced himself as Ubbe Lindström. They went into the barracks together and were invited into the dingy office, which acted as both the club’s administration center and storeroom.

“You said this was to do with one of our members,” Ubbe said as he sat down on a threadbare desk chair.

“That’s right: Ragnar Groth.”

“Oh, Ragnar. Good shot. He’s won bronze at national level twice.” Ubbe went to the overstuffed bookshelves, took out a well-worn folder, and opened it. Searched through a great pile of papers before he found what he was looking for.

“He’s been a member here since 1992. Why do you want to know?”

Billy ignored the question.

“Does he keep his guns here at the club?”

“No, he keeps them at home. Most of our members do. What’s he done?”

They ignored the question again. Vanja joined the discussion.

“Could you tell us what guns he owns?”

“He has several—he hunts as well as competes. Is this something to do with that boy from his school? The one who died?”

He was a stubborn man, Ubbe. Sebastian had already grown tired of the discussion and moved out of the office. It didn’t take three of them
to ignore Lindström’s questions. Billy glanced in Sebastian’s direction while Vanja pressed on.

“Do you know if he has anything in a twenty-two caliber?”

“He owns a Brno CZ 453 Varmint.”

At least Ubbe had stopped asking questions and started answering instead. Which was something. Vanja made a note on her pad.

“What was it again? A Bruno…?”

“A Brno CZ. A hunting rifle. Terrific weapon. What do you carry? Sig Sauer P225? Glock 17?”

Vanja looked at Ubbe; he really did seem to like following every answer with a question of his own. She was prepared to allow him this one.

“Sig Sauer. Is that the only twenty-two Ragnar has access to?”

“As far as I know. Why? Was the kid shot?”

Sebastian walked down the long corridor and came to a common room containing a coffee machine and a large, battered fridge. Two large glass cabinets full of trophies and medals took center stage in the room. In front of the cabinets were a number of plain chairs and tables marked with cigarette burns, from the days when men with guns didn’t have to go outside for a smoke. Sebastian ambled into the room. A girl of about thirteen was sitting at one of the tables with a can of Coke and a cinnamon roll in front of her. She gave Sebastian a noncommittal teenage look. He nodded to her, then went over to the cabinet containing the gold-colored trophies. He was fascinated by the way in which people insisted on rewarding victory in any sport with ridiculously huge golden trophies. It was as if the participants actually suffered from extremely low self-esteem, and deep down they were aware of the total pointlessness of what they were doing. Their way of denying this truth and showing the world how important their activities really were resulted in total trophy inflation. In terms of both size and luster.

The walls were adorned with photographs of individual club members and groups. Here and there was a framed news placard or newspaper article. It was a classic club room, in fact. Sebastian glanced idly at the pictures. The majority showed proud men holding their guns, legs apart, beaming at the camera. There was something about those smiles that looked ridiculously false, he thought. Was it really so terrific to be holding those guns, that trophy? He felt the girl’s eyes on his back and turned to face her. She still had that same look on her face. Then she spoke.

“What are you doing?”

“Working.”

“At what?”

Sebastian glanced briefly at her.

“I’m a police psychologist. What are you doing?”

“I’ve got a training session soon.”

“Are you allowed to shoot at your age?”

The girl laughed.

“We don’t shoot at each other.”

“Not yet… Do you enjoy it?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s more fun than running around after some stupid ball. Do you enjoy being a police psychologist?”

“It’s okay. I’d rather be shooting at things, like you.”

The girl looked at him in silence and went back to her Danish. Obviously the conversation was over. Sebastian returned to his contemplation of the wall. His eyes settled on a picture of six cheerful men standing around one of those enormous trophies. A small gold plaque above the picture described the moment as
NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIPS—BRONZE 1999
. Sebastian peered more closely at the photograph. Particularly at one of the six men. He was standing on the left, looking especially cheerful. Big smile. Lots of teeth. Sebastian took down the picture and left the room.

By the time Ursula left Rotevägen, she and Sundstedt had become more and more convinced that the fire at Peter Westin’s home had been deliberately lit. The fact that it had started in the bedroom was beyond doubt. The wall behind the bed and the floor beside it showed clear signs of an explosive development of the fire. Once it had taken hold, the flames had spread hungrily to the ceiling and been fed with fresh oxygen when the bedroom windows were blown out by the heat. There was nothing around the bed to explain the rapid spread. When they examined the area more closely, they found clear traces of an accelerant. Definitely arson, then.

Westin’s actual cause of death was still unknown, but Sundstedt had managed to get the body out from beneath the rubble. It had taken several hours, because it had been necessary to prop up the damaged floor from below before they could make a start. Ursula made sure the body was carefully packed into a body bag and decided to go along to the forensic lab herself to attend the autopsy. Sundstedt promised to get his report in as soon as possible.

At the lab they had raised their eyebrows slightly at her presence, but she took no notice. Ursula had promised herself that this time she was going to stay at the center of things. Otherwise this could turn into a real nightmare for them. A comparison with the dental records she had requested quickly established that the body they had found in the half-burned-out house was definitely Peter Westin, which meant Ursula was pretty certain that one murder had become two and that they were now dealing with a double killer. She also knew that someone who is capable of murdering twice could do it over and over again. Each time it would be a little easier.

She called Torkel.

Billy and Vanja didn’t get much further with Ubbe Lindström. He became more and more defensive as the conversation went on. They
had found out the most important thing: Ragnar Groth had a gun that matched the one that took Roger’s life, at least as far as the caliber was concerned. Ubbe kept on trying to get them to reveal the reason for their interest in one of the club’s most loyal and successful members. The fewer answers he got, the more terse and reluctant to respond he became. Vanja realized that Ragnar Groth and Ubbe Lindström were probably more than just fellow members; she got the feeling they were friends, and was growing concerned that Ubbe would call his friend and tell him about their visit the minute they left.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, your gun license has to be renewed every five years. If it comes to my attention that this confidential discussion wasn’t quite so confidential, then…” Vanja let the rest of the sentence hover unspoken in the air.

“What do you mean?” said the club secretary, fury in his voice. “Are you threatening me?”

Billy smiled at him.

“All she means is that this conversation is just between us. Okay?” Ubbe’s eyes darkened and he nodded irritably. At least they had tried, and he had been warned. Sebastian lumbered into the office.

“Just one more thing.” He placed the framed photograph in front of Ubbe. Pointed at something in the picture. “Who’s that? Top left?”

Ubbe leaned forward and peered at the photograph. Billy and Vanja moved forward and caught a glimpse of the man with the broad smile.

“That’s Frank. Frank Clevén.”

Vanja and Billy recognized him at once. His picture was already on the wall back at the station. Minus the broad smile, admittedly, but there was no doubt that this was the man who had booked a room in a run-down motel the previous Friday.

“Is he a member here as well?”

“He was. Moved away the year after they took bronze. He lives in Örebro now, I think. Or Eskilstuna. Is he involved as well?”

“Nobody is involved in anything. Just think about your license,” Vanja replied curtly, then left with the others. All three of them walked
back to the car much more quickly than usual. This was turning out to be a really good day.

Frank Clevén lived on Lärkvägen in Eskilstuna. Billy couldn’t get an answer on the landline, however, and they couldn’t find a cell number registered in his name. After a little research Billy found the name of Frank’s employer, a building firm known as H & R Bygg. He worked as a construction engineer and had a work cell. Billy called him. Frank was very surprised to hear that the police were looking for him, but Billy stressed the fact that they just wanted to ask him a few questions.

Which they would like to do at his place of work.

In thirty minutes.

They insisted on it, in fact.

Vanja and Sebastian were already in the car halfway to Eskilstuna when they got the call from Billy, who had stayed back at the station. He read out the brief details available on Frank Clevén. They didn’t reveal much. Fifty-three years old, born in Västervik, moved to Västerås at a young age. Four years studying technical options at high school, military service with KA3 Gotland, gun license for both a pistol and a rifle since the end of 1981, still current. No criminal record, no bad debts. Nothing of note. But they did get an address.