Grendel's Game (7 page)

A Robbery

H
eading across the square, Ekman had a strange, momentary feeling he was being watched, but looking around saw only the usual pedestrians, cars, and a few motor bikes. Nothing caught his attention.

He thought he'd take a shortcut back to his office, and turned into a narrow alley on the west of the plaza. The buildings on each side cast an unexpected gloom as he trudged along.

After going half a block, he heard the revved motor of a scooter coming up fast behind him. He stepped closer to the wall on his right to let it pass. It was the wrong decision.

There was a rider behind the driver. As the bike came abreast of him, it slowed for an instant. The rider reached out with a knife, cut the strap of Ekman's briefcase where it hung on his left shoulder and grabbed its handle as they roared away.

Ekman stood there in shock for an instant, then reached into his coat pocket for his gun. He remembered he'd left it in his desk just as the scooter banked sharply and vanished around the next corner. It had happened so fast he hadn't been able to get the license number.

It was the first time in a long career of putting criminals away that he'd become a victim himself. Like so many others, he was enraged at the violation, and at the same time had a humiliating feeling of powerlessness.

Ekman thanked God he hadn't taken his gun. He was so angry that in the heat of the moment he might have lost control and shot at them. He was appalled that he was capable of reacting so violently. Ekman had always practiced rigid self-control. In all his time as a police officer, he'd never had to fire his weapon at anyone.

With only a lightning glimpse of the helmeted driver and rider, it was hard to tell, but from their slender body builds he felt they were quite young. Despite the tension of the moment he half-smiled to himself imagining Malmer's horrified reaction to what might have been tomorrow's headline, “
Chief Superintendent Kills Boys Over Stolen Briefcase
.”

Still somewhat shaken, he thought, what are you going to do about this Ekman, file an official report you've been robbed? Not very likely. He'd become a laughing stock, even though there was nothing he could have done to prevent it except, of course, to have stepped to his left. Too late now.

But the robbery couldn't just be ignored. He probably wasn't their first victim, and wouldn't be their last. They had to be stopped before someone was hurt, as well as robbed. And besides, he missed his briefcase. Maybe it could be recovered.

If this had to happen, he was glad it was after he'd left the papers with Edvardsson. The briefcase had been empty.

Back at the office, he asked Holm to come in. “Please close the door, Enar,” he said.

He told Holm about his conversation with Edvardsson and observed, “We're going to have to work even faster, now that there's a deadline.

“There's something else,” Ekman added, and told Holm about the robbery.

“That's incredible,” Holm exploded, incensed that his boss had been victimized. “In broad daylight, near the courthouse! It's outrageous.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” said Ekman with a wry smile. “They've got to be stopped before someone is hurt. People could easily be dragged if they hung on to their bag. I'd like you to find out whether there's been an increase in bag snatching using this method, and what's being done about it. I don't remember it being mentioned in the daily incident reports.”

“I'll do it right away. I'm sorry you went through this,” Holm said.

“Enar, for now, this is just between us.”

“I understand, Chief. We'll find them, have no doubt.”

“Thanks, Enar. I appreciate your treating this as confidential.”

Looking at the clock, Ekman saw it was past his usual lunchtime. The strain of the robbery had made him forget he'd intended to have lunch before coming back to the office, but now he didn't feel like going out again.

I guess it's time to go back to the cafeteria and see if the food has gotten any better, he thought. He hadn't eaten there in months, preferring the superior food, available alcohol, and above all, quiet, of outside restaurants.

The cafeteria was thinly occupied with uniformed officers. He nodded to one of them he had worked with recently, but chose a table in the corner overlooking the enclosed courtyard with its small stand of birch trees and some wooden benches. Going to the counter he ordered an open-faced shrimp sandwich and double espresso. He took a few bites of the sandwich, but the robbery had taken away his appetite and he pushed the plate aside, staring into the courtyard. He felt despondent. Perhaps that's how crime victims always feel, he thought. It's the powerlessness that's humiliating and depressing. Shoving back his chair, he headed up to his office.

Ekman found a message waiting for him. Malmquist had just phoned. Ekman called him immediately.

“Ludvig, thanks for calling. What have you got?”

“Unfortunately, not a hell of a lot. The paper is available everywhere and the printer used is a popular Canon model. There are no unidentified fingerprints. The ones we found match file prints for you, Holm, and the mail people. The sender probably wore gloves, which may indicate his prints could be on file. The good news, however, is that by carefully lifting the envelope flap we were able to extract some fragments of DNA. He either made a mistake, probably using saliva on his gloved finger, or doesn't care about DNA because we don't have his on file and he thinks he'll never be caught.”

“But is there enough for a match?”

“Yes, perhaps. We ran it through the DNA database, but all we got was confirmation the sender is male. That could be because the sample was inadequate or there was just nothing to match it against. In my opinion, it was probably the latter.”

“That would be my guess, as well. This is someone we have no DNA record of.”

“When you have a suspect we can try again.”

“Ludvig, you've been a great help, as always.”

“In a negative sort of way.” Malmquist paused. “If you want my unsolicited opinion, you're right to pursue this. I don't believe he's just a crackpot. I think he's dangerous. Possibly, already a killer.”

“That's what I've been afraid of. I hope we'll know more soon. I've got a team working on it.”

“Good luck. And Walther, if I can be of any more help, don't hesitate.”

“Thanks, Ludvig,” said Ekman, ending the call.

Paper had piled up in his in-basket as usual and Ekman, looking at it, sighed. It had been an eventful day. He was feeling worn and had no patience for routine paperwork; instead he took out his needlepoint to try and relax. He was relieved when Holm knocked and came in.

“I've checked on the bag snatching,” Holm said. “There've only been occasional reports in the recent past, nothing lately, and no motor scooters have been involved.” He'd often seen Ekman stitching while they spoke.

“So, I guess I was their first, but not their last. Please keep an eye open for similar incidents, Enar.”

“Sure, Chief. Is there anything else you'd like me to do about it?”

“Right now, I think we'll just have to wait and see what develops. How are the missing-person cases going?”

“Gerdi and I have been making good progress. From their background, almost all the unsolved cases we've seen seem to have been properly handled as likely family or business problems: husbands and wives running out on each other, teens taking off, and people escaping creditors. Most of these are still being worked because a trail is active. There are a few unresolved disappearances, however, that don't fit the usual pattern and aren't easily explained. We should have more for you by tomorrow's meeting.”

“Sounds interesting. I'll let you get on with it,” Ekman said, getting up as Holm left.

12

Confession

T
he stress of the robbery had made Ekman more tired than he'd realized and he decided to head home early. First, he wanted to stop at the stall in the square and get some flowers for Ingbritt. He'd have to tell her about the robbery, and somehow hoped the flowers would ease a difficult conversation.

Unlocking the drawer where he'd put his gun, he took it out of the holster, which he left, and slipped the gun into his overcoat pocket. Although he wasn't expecting anything more to happen, that afternoon's incident had made him cautious. He also hadn't forgotten what Karlsson had said about the letter writer's apparent fixation on him.

Holm wasn't at his desk, so Ekman left him a note saying he could be reached at home. He took the stairs and went out the front entrance into the square.

Near the large nineteenth-century bronze fountain in the middle of the plaza was a flower stall with a bright green-and-white-striped awning. He chose a huge bunch of blue irises, which the vendor wrapped in sheets of green tissue paper. Handing her 265 kronor, he was surprised how expensive they were, but figured they must have been flown in from somewhere south.

Heading back across the square to headquarters, for the second time that day he felt as though he were being watched, but looking around, saw nothing that caught his attention. He walked the short distance to the garage entrance, and nodding to the security officer—who eyed the flowers, obviously curious—Ekman went down the ramp to his car.

I
t was four
P.M
. He hadn't told Ingbritt he'd be home early. When he pulled into the garage he saw her car wasn't there. He thought about calling her on her mobile, but decided she'd be back shortly.

Ekman hung his coat in the closet, leaving his gun in the pocket. What would Ingbritt do with the flowers? Going into the kitchen, he found a suitable vase in a cabinet, and taking it to the sink, filled it with warm water. Unwrapping the flowers and cutting their stems with kitchen shears, he placed them in the vase, arranging them as he'd seen her do. He put it in the center of the table and examined his effort. It was satisfactory.

Pleased with himself, he took out the Renat, and poured himself a drink. He felt he deserved one; it had been an extraordinary day, his first as a crime victim.

Taking the glass to his study, he settled into his big, dark-green leather recliner, reaching to the side table for the book he'd last been reading two days ago. It was an impressive biography of Peter the Great, who had, by sheer force of personality, dragged a still medieval Russia, kicking and screaming, into eighteenth-century Western Europe. His mortal enemy, Sweden's Charles XII, was another megalomaniac with unbounded ambition. Both had built their achievements, thought Ekman, at tremendous cost in human suffering.

Like Grendel, Peter and Charles believed they were above any law. Today, they could be labeled war criminals, Ekman mused, hauled before the International Criminal Court for crimes against humanity. Perhaps things had gotten somewhat better. At least our perception of right and wrong had become a little clearer, although constant wars seemed to be the human lot. Maybe we're the victims of our genes and nothing can be done about it. He hoped he was wrong and that people willing a less violent world could somehow make it happen.

At that moment he heard first the garage door, and then the door to the hall, open and close.

“Ingbritt,” he called, “I'm in here.” There was no answer.

For an instant, Ekman became irrationally anxious, until he heard her cheerful, “Thank you for the flowers, Walther. They're beautiful.”

Today's incident has made me edgy, he thought, as he pulled himself out of the recliner, and went into the kitchen.

“You're home early,” she said. “Is anything wrong?”

“I'm just a little tired,” he replied. “Although,” he paused, “there is something else.”

“Sit down and tell me what's happened,” she said, concerned.

He told her about the robbery.

Her face went white.

^“
W
alther, how awful for you,” she said, as she came over and kissed him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“Well, after the first moments, it wasn't so bad. It could have been a lot worse. I could have been injured, or I could have done something stupid if I'd had a gun and shot them. It actually crossed my mind. Apart from Holm, no one knows, and I intend to leave it that way. Otherwise, I'd look foolish, even though I couldn't do anything about it.”

“Thank God you weren't hurt. It was only a briefcase that can be replaced.”

“So, now that I've told you all about it, let's put it out of our minds. You were shopping?”

She opened the grocery tote she'd brought in and took out two large ribeye steaks, a bag of fingerling potatoes, a head of cabbage, and a bottle of French cabernet.

“That looks wonderful. While you're pulling that together, I'll open the wine and let it breathe.”

After they'd eaten and cleaned up the kitchen together, he went back to his study to read. But he couldn't stay focused on his book and took up the needlepoint he kept at home. He worked on it for ten minutes and then put it aside.