Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (5 page)

John

John stumbles after Miriam through the tunnel. Only briefly dispelled by Miriam’s lantern, the darkness presses in from all sides. If he walks with his hands outstretched, his fingers brush against the cool, wet rock on each side.

Either they are walking uphill, or he is in very bad shape, even considering that he was naked and frozen minutes earlier. Worse, his memory refuses to come back. Cloudy images and distant echoes fill his head like blurred frames from a ruined film reel, but there is no coherence or pattern.

He has to trust Miriam. After all, he knows her, if only by her name. “How are you keeping up?” Miriam looks at him over her shoulder while she walks.

“Are we going up a slope?” John asks.

“I think so. I hope so. The exit is up there somewhere, so we definitely don’t want to go down. By the way,” she adds, “there’s a big room up ahead.”

“Have you been here before?”

Miriam laughs. “I told you that this is my turf. And I’m here to help you, as much as I am allowed. Think of me as your personal cerebral Florence Nightingale.”

“What?” John frowns at her back in the gloom. “You’re a famous bird? Could you just–” He stumbles on the uneven ground and drives his knee down into the stone. A wave of pain spreads from the limb, and he inhales with a sharp hiss.

“Come on, John.” Miriam looks over her shoulder again, this time examining the darkness behind them. When John struggles to rise, she pulls him upright, grabs his shoulders, and turns him around to face her.

“Are you all right?” she says, searching his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“You have to keep going. Stay alert. If you see something odd, don’t stop and gape. Do you know what the world’s most famous last words are?”

“I’ve no idea,” John says, rubbing his injured knee.

“They are ‘what’s that?’”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How come?”

“Because whatever ‘that’ is,” Miriam says, “it’s usually a reason to run.”

John stops and leans against a wall. “Look,” he says. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You make no sense.
Nothing
makes sense. If it weren’t so damn cold, I would say I was dreaming, because that would explain a lot. Hey, what are you doing?”

Miriam grabs the collar of John’s shirt and pulls him close. Her pupils are black pinpricks in her narrowed eyes. She looks furious, but John knows that there is worry underneath her apparent frustration.

“More talk about dreaming,” Miriam says, her voice dangerously low, “and I will slap you again. I mean it. You are right here, nowhere else. Thinking otherwise is dangerous. I didn’t come all the way down here to see you wander off.”

“Why would I do that?” John struggles in her grip, but he is too weak to push her away. “And where would I go? I’m lost, remember?”

“I mean you have to pay attention. Be spirited. In the moment.”

John makes a disgusted sound. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks. “All I want is a straight answer. Just one. I’m lost, I’m cold and I’m hungry. I have no memories, and I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. And I’m walking through a cave with someone who gives questions for answers. Why the hell are you smiling?”

“Are you angry?” Miriam asks.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Good.” She lets go of him and smoothes his shirt. “You need your fighting spirit. Soppy-eyed whining won’t get us anywhere.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He frowns. “What do you mean ‘slap me again’?” he asks. “Did you hit me earlier?”

“What should I have done?” Miriam asked. “You weren’t exactly attentive. Besides, I hurt my hand. It felt like smacking a block of frozen cod. And those clothes are actually yours.”

He looks down. “They don’t fit.”

“Huh. No little spark of familiarity when you put them on?”

“Well, yes,” he admits. “They feel strange, though. Old.”

Miriam grins. “Almost twenty years. I had to dig deep, but I thought you’d feel comfortable in them.”

John’s arms fall to his sides. “Have you broken into my house?” he asks, unsure if he owns one. He certainly does not have any keys.

Miriam hesitates. “One thing at a time,” she replies. “All will come back to you soon enough. I hope.” She starts to walk up the tunnel again.

John takes a deep breath, lets out a haggard sigh, and falls in step with Miriam. After what he believes is half an hour, the walls curve away and the tunnel widens into a larger room. Miriam stops, and he limps to a halt behind her.

They are surrounded by space instead of rock. He cannot see any walls, but he senses that the room is vast. The darkness around him is pooling and churning, so dense he is surprised he cannot touch it.

“All right,” he says. “Just tell me this one thing. Please.”

Miriam raises her lantern and peers into the darkness in front of them. “What?” she asks.

“Why do I need to find my fighting spirit?”

Miriam turns to face him. “Because you need to overcome things like this,” she whispers, and then twists the wheel at the base of the lantern until the glow lights up the entire room.

When John looks over her shoulder, his face grows slack in disbelief.

“Oh, fuck off,” he whispers.

*

Lena negotiates the icy road while she fiddles with the stereo to silence a current affairs debate. In the bad reception, the frenzied voices sound like mad wasps trapped in a can.

She turns the radio off, waits a few seconds, turns it on again, and stabs at a button in search of a decent channel. After several tries, a slow growling beat fills the car. A woman’s whisper emerges over the deep bass tones. A Friday night dance mix, blissfully free from talking.

She sits back and puts both hands on the steering wheel. Agnes’s car is just ahead. Passing through the web of smaller streets alongside the main road is hazardous; many of them are not ploughed. Getting stuck is easy, but in difference to the thousands of cars queuing on the bigger roads, she is still moving. It is a good time to summarize certainties, guesses, and loose ends.

A woman is dead. There are no immediate witnesses of her death. Her boyfriend, killer or not, is on the run and has bought footage of another man. Someone present at the scene and who disappeared. One body, two missing suspects, and no weapon.

The idea that John is not the offender feels more and more likely, but it is crucial to keep her mind open to new evidence and sudden leads. Latching on to one particular theory too early is risky. It is one of the many reasons why the murder of Sweden’s prime minister twenty years earlier never had been solved, or so many claimed.

But she needs to know what is on that film.

Her phone buzzes as she clears a small roundabout. She turns down the music and looks at the screen. It is the prosecutor.

“Lena Franke here.”

“This is
Lars Rosenberg,” the prosecutor
says. “You have requested a search warrant?”

Lena goes over the details for the warrant while she watches the
tail lights
of Agnes’s car. After a few minutes, they pass under a viaduct where the underground train crosses the road and starts its climb up to
Vällingby
. Far away are two hulking office buildings, almost all windows dark. Across the road is a small lake surrounded by thin copses of trees.

She had been here many years ago, at a competition on a shooting range beyond the lake, tucked away behind the sprawling yard of a marina. It had gone well; lack of concentration and technique had been offset by her good eyesight and some luck.

That day had been full of small rushes: the smell of hot cartridges, the gun slamming in her hands, the tight cluster of holes in the paper targets. Press the trigger, open a hole, claim the prize and walk away. Organized and focussed.
At a firing range,
every shot is neat and clean, small loud textbook procedures.

The real world, she had found later, is anything but tidy.

She runs a hand over her eyes and forces her attention back to her conversation with the prosecutor. “I think that’s it,” she says.

“Anything else?” Lars asks.

“Not for the moment. I’m – I have to hang up.”

Lena ends the call, flings the phone in the passenger seat, and breathes out. The firing range is not close, but she imagines its smells reaching her: oil, fire, friction and attention. Unmoving targets, fluttering and shuddering.

She blinks slowly and stares at the lights ahead. Eyes on the road. Keep driving, think of John and Molly.

Fucking focus.

Farther up the road, Agnes stops at a red light at a new roundabout. On Lena’s left are lines of low flats, most windows lit by kitchens lamps, TVs or the azure glow of computer screens. Neon signs point to pizzerias, barbers and flower shops. At the top is the bright red logotype of a local pub. John’s home is a few corners away.

Lena and Agnes drive onto a parking lot framed by three interconnected buildings. Four other cars are parked nearby, all of them covered in snow. No sign of recent arrivals.

Lena checks the address she has scribbled down on a note. “Number nine,” she says to herself and looks up. “First floor.”

She spots the entrance in the corner. Going by the look of the block, there are two flats on each floor, each with two windows facing the parking lot. The two windows on the left on the first floor are dark, and the blinds are pulled down. The windows on the right are lit. She can make out people inside: two adults and two or more children, all with Asian complexions.

John’s flat has to be the dark one. On foot, he has not had time to get here, and the snow looks undisturbed. She reaches for her radio.

“This is Franke,” she calls. “
Petersen
and I are outside the home of John Andersson, wanted for questioning in regards to a shooting earlier tonight.” When her report is acknowledged, she stuffs her radio in her pocket, braces herself for the wind, and leaves the car.

Shielding her face, Agnes walks up to Lena. “I’ve called the locksmith,” she says. “He should be here any minute. His office is up in Vällingby.”

They wait with their shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in their pockets. The wind builds up strength on the flat meadows around Grimsta and is channelled by the buildings into frosty streams, rocking traffic lights and shaking trees.

At least the air is crisp, all dust and fumes wiped away by the storm. Lena inhales until the cold burns her lungs. Maybe it will help her to concentrate.

“I heard the forecast,” Agnes says. Her voice is muffled; only her eyes and nose are visible over her scarf. “There’s more snow on the way. Stronger winds, too.” She rubs her gloves together and looks at Lena. “Can I tell you something?”

Lena’s throat tightens. They have worked together too long for tentative questions like this. Besides, Agnes usually handles conversations like pointer dogs treat quarry. This hesitation is a bad sign.

Then again, it was a matter of time before Agnes heard the stories.

“I’m listening,” Lena says, forcing her voice to stay steady. “It’s a personal question, I suppose?”

“Not really a question.” A smile flashes on Agnes’s face. “It’s something I’ve been wanting to say for some time.”

“Uh-oh.” Lena manages a bravado smile while she prepares her usual explanation.

“I’m glad they teamed us up.”

“What?” Lena breathes out and looks at Agnes in surprise. That was not what she expected.

“I’ve learned so much from you during these months,” Agnes continues. “And I’m still learning. You’re a good mentor. I was nervous when I came to the force, because I know what some officers think of being burdened with a graduate. But you don’t look down on me. You’re professional, and kind.”

“I’m – of course I don’t.” Lena stares at the parked cars and wonders what to say; the compliments have shot straight through her guard. In truth, Agnes is the one who is professional, while Lena is a paranoid, absent-minded wreck.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Lena says at last, “you’re as good as anyone else.” She winces. “I meant that as a compliment. I’m no good at giving out praise. It’s one of the reasons people say I’m prickly.”

“They said that about me too,” Agnes says.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I had a nickname back at the police college.”

“Really?”

“‘Miss Tetchy.’”

Lena scoffs. “Not very original,” she says and blinks as a snowflake finds its way into her eye.

“I argued with a lecturer once. That’s all it took. He started using the name, and it stuck.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Lena takes a deep breath. “You must’ve heard some of the monikers they have for me.”

Agnes hesitates and shakes her head, but she is too late. When she realises that Lena has seen her flinch, her lips tighten.

“A few,” Agnes admits. “But I don’t listen to what they say. People talk. In any case, what I’ve heard doesn’t matter.”

Lena finds that hard to believe. “Tell me what you’ve heard,” she says. “I don’t care much, but it’s good to stamp out lies.”

“They don’t matter,” Agnes says and faces her squarely. “Not at all. It’s no one’s business.”

Lena opens her mouth to tell Agnes that it is everyone’s business, but pauses. She expected Agnes to look wary or at least guarded, but she seems concerned, her eyes intent, searching and wondering.

Lena starts to backtrack. “What exactly is it that doesn’t matter?”

“Whom you live with.”

“Come again?” Lena asks. “I’m hopelessly single. That’s no secret.”

“I mean whom you’d prefer to live with, if you weren’t single.”

“How could–” Lena stops and chuckles. This is new, but not entirely unexpected. “Hold on,” she says. “They say I’m gay now?”

“Some do,” Agnes confirms. “As you’d expect, it’s mostly the nervous ones.”Lena sighs. Her workouts are a way to hone and regroup her thoughts: only during a hard session, lost on adrenaline tides and with the iron bar in her hands, can she shed her everyday ghosts and think freely. But it seems eighteen months in her basement lifting weights to get some peace of mind has turned her into a threat. And she is working with people who are supposed to shine at guesswork.

“As far as I can tell,” Lena says. “I’m straight as a ruler. Or at least a measuring tape. It’s very simple; I just haven’t been seeing anyone lately. There hasn’t been time.”

Although time has little to do with her solitude.

In the wake of her career is a series of brief and collapsed relationships. More than two years have gone by since her most recent affair. She would love to think that she is not the problem, however the power of self-deception is only so mighty. All her partners had signalled their looming departures with variations on
I know your work is important to you
followed by a ‘but’.

And that had been before she had taken up the weightlifting to keep her sane. Before the sleepless nights and the memories that came back to her at the worst of times.

“Right.” Agnes looks away and smiles into the blizzard. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

Lena can tell that Agnes does not believe her
;
the officer’s smile is strained. For some reason, it is also strangely secretive.

“And,” Lena adds, “just like you said, it’s totally irrelevant. Each to her own. Look, our man is here.”

A red van with a large yellow key on its roof drives onto the parking lot. Lena waves, and the car parks close to where they stand. A young man in a red company jacket and a yellow cap steps out and slams the door shut. In his hand is a large toolbox. Young and tired, eager to get home.

Together they trudge through the snow to the block’s front door. Lena scans her note, punches in the code, shoves the door open and pauses on the doorstep in surprise. Stairwells usually smell of disinfectants, damp and cold stone; this one is warm and thick with the scent of flowers. She switches on the light and blinks.

Flowerpots in a multitude of colours stand on every step in the curving stairs. On the first landing are two large plants with large, lush green leaves. Lena touches a radiator inside the door and snatches her hand back. It is scorching hot.

Agnes takes off her gloves and looks around. “It’s a greenhouse in here.”

“Sure is.” The locksmith nods and scratches his neck. “Where to?”

“First floor,” Lena says.

On the first landing are two doors. One reads
Wau-Pong
, the other
Andersson
. As Lena suspected, it is the flat with the dark windows. No peephole, decorations or special features on the door. Only a sticker reading
No Junk Mail Please
. Agnes rings the doorbell, and a stifled buzz sounds from inside the flat.

Lena flexes her fingers and tries to imagine the inside of the flat. Despite having done dozens of similar searches before, the sense of brutal intrusion is the same every time: they are about to trespass into someone else’s territory.

John should not have been able to get here yet, and it would be an idiotic decision to run home, but there is always the possibility that she is wrong. Perhaps he has his gun trained on the door right now, waiting for it to be opened. The locksmith is experienced; he stands away from the door, out of a likely line of fire.

No one opens the door. Agnes rings again while Lena quickly peers through the thin mailbox. No light or movement. She lowers her mouth to the mailbox. “Police,” she calls. “Open up.”

Still no reaction from inside. She nods to the locksmith, who puts down his toolbox, opens the lid, and takes out an electric lock pick, a black, slim instrument that looks to Lena like a reciprocating saw.

The locksmith gestures at the door. “It’s a standard lock. Shouldn’t take long to crack.”

“Okay,” Lena replies, then spins around as the door opposite John’s flat opens.

A man in his late thirties leans out. Asian complexion, shaved head, black jeans and football shirt. A boy in diapers clings to one of his legs. Toys are strewn around on the floor behind them. The smell of spicy meat and ginger blends with the scents of the flowers in the stairwell.

“Excuse me,” the man says. “Looking for John?” The boy looks up at his father, who ruffles his son’s hair.