The Viper (21 page)

If he had made enemies in Japan it would scarcely have been job related. At least, that was what she said.

“Let’s hear something else,” he said hopefully and looked around the table expectantly. “Don’t think so ‘investigatively.’ Just throw something out there.”

The room was silent. He leaned forward over the table and continued.

“Sure, he may have financial resources that we don’t have any idea about, that don’t leave any trace, he may have taken refuge in some old monastery in the mountains north of Sapporo, or maybe he’s sitting on a beach somewhere in West Africa in a country where we’d have no chance of getting him extradited even if we found him. Leave that to National CID and Interpol. The question is what we can do here, right now.”

Silence.
Well, just let it be silent then for a while,
he thought. Ove sat there hunched over staring down at the tabletop. He opened and closed the fingers of his left hand slowly. Was that just an unconscious mannerism or was it somehow a result of breaking his arm two years ago? Lennart wandered slowly across the room. A forced smile flashed across his face and caused Sara’s to smile in the same way. Fredrik cleared his throat as if he was preparing to say something, but nothing came. Gustav ran his thumb along his beard.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” said Göran, “we’ll go through all the passenger lists from the ferries and flights again, from Wednesday up until we first started monitoring departures from the island on Friday afternoon. If we follow up on and can confirm all the names, then we know that in all likelihood he hasn’t left the island under another name. Then, Eva, we’re going to have to turn that house upside down. Every inch of the place—the basement, the car … There’s got to be something in there that can give us a hint as to where he’s gone. How’s it going with those diaries, maybe they might give us something? Divide them up among yourselves and take them home for nighttime reading.”

Göran mustered a smile.

“And then we’ll continue questioning relatives, friends, acquaintances, colleagues. Anyone who might give us something.”

“I was thinking about Karl-Johan Traneus,” said Fredrik. “Could there be something in what he’s saying, that Rickard knows something about his father’s whereabouts?”

Göran turned toward Sara.

“What do you think? You want to give it a try?”

Sara squeezed her lips together and wrinkled her nose.

“No, huh?” said Göran.

“I’ve already been down that path. I haven’t come straight out and accused him of knowing something, but I’ve covered all the possible angles.”

“Even if Rickard Traneus doesn’t know exactly where his father is hiding, he may be holding something back to protect him,” said Fredrik.

“It might be worth letting someone else question him?” said Göran and looked at Fredrik and Sara.

“Fine by me,” said Sara.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

*   *   *

GÖRAN LEFT THE
briefing feeling uneasy. He would have liked to shake them up a bit, get them to think in new directions. All he had succeeded in doing was making everyone feel discouraged. He tossed his papers onto the desk and sat down with his back to the door.

He tried to shake off the feeling of failure. It wasn’t even a proper murder investigation. The case was crystal clear, they knew who the killer was, all they had to do was find him. Sooner or later they’d catch him. Tomorrow or in three years from now. There was no reason to feel discouraged.

But, if he turned it around, what did that have to do with his inability to inspire his investigators? He didn’t get any further than that before there was a knock at the door. It was Lennart.

“Sit down,” said Göran without thinking.

“No thanks,” said Lennart.

“No, of course not. I noticed that you uhm … during the briefing. How are you doing?”

Lennart walked up to the window that didn’t face outside, but looked out at the stairs leading down to the uniformed department, before he turned to Göran.

“I don’t think it’s gonna work anymore.”

Even though it was clear what he was referring to, for a split second Göran thought he was talking about the investigation.

“Your back?” said Göran.

“Yeah. It’s terrible.”

“You should go on sick leave. That’s all there is to it.”

“Seems like really bad timing.”

“Bah,” said Göran and got up, “don’t you worry about that. It is what it is. Besides … this investigation, it’s only a question of time.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” said Lennart. “It’s just so damn unpredictable. I can be fine for long periods, but then all I need is one little strain, and I’m out for the count. What kind of a police officer is that, who puts his back out just by lifting a phone book in the wrong way?”

“I thought you did all your number inquiries online,” smiled Göran.

“Don’t joke around with me,” said Lennart.

He drew himself up slowly and gingerly and Göran could almost hear his vertebrae cracking.

“You do a lot of good here in the station,” said Göran.

Lennart looked at him gravely without answering.

“There are a lot of us old hands who are a bit behind when it comes to working with computers.”

“You can be proud of what you do,” said Göran.

Lennart waved dismissively.

33.

Ricky woke up suddenly. He was looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Above him hung the extinguished red glass oval that had bathed yesterday evening in a warm and enchantingly unreal glow. Now the room was far more jarringly real. The sun shone in harshly behind the drawn curtains and the man sleeping beside him exuded a strong and unfamiliar scent. Ricky couldn’t make out what it was. It wasn’t perfume, it wasn’t sweat, it wasn’t sex, it was just unfamiliar. He knew that this smell would follow him around all day.

The body next to him was suntanned and hirsute unlike his own fair, hairless skin. Yesterday it had excited him to slide his fingers through the stiff, rustling body hair. Today it only seemed animal-like, in the basest sense.

It wasn’t the first time he had woken up in this bed, but each time it ended the same way.

He cautiously slid one leg out over the edge of the bed, put his foot on the floor, and sat up. From experience he knew that the man next to him wouldn’t wake up, or at least would pretend not to wake up, whichever it was.

Ricky gathered his clothes and got dressed in the living room. His body felt at once light and heavy and his skin almost hurt as he pulled on his rough jeans, as if every nerve ending was suffering from extreme oversensitivity. His head felt like it had pins and needles, as if his brain had actually fallen asleep, and his mouth felt so dry, like it had been glued shut. He filled a glass of water in the kitchen, also cautiously, no spattering stream against the metal sides of the sink, and raised it to his dry lips. He drank, slowly at first, but then with increasing thirst.

Then he was out on the street, bare feet against the leather of his shoes, the daylight cut straight through him like red-hot knives. Only now did he realize that it was still early in the morning. He headed down toward the sea. He was hit by a cold wind when he emerged from the sheltered back alleys, but the sun warmed his neck. Way out at sea, lined up in the shipping lane, the big cargo ships gleamed in the sunshine.

His feet were cold, so he bent down and tied his shoes. Everything was back the way it was. Cast out into reality. For a few hours the night before he had been released from everything, absorbed in the present and his own body. He had forged beautiful plans, but they had nothing to do with the future. It was only when time ceased that his thoughts about tomorrow could become so bright. Now he felt disheveled, burned out, and real. Real and completely repulsive.

He kicked away a rock that disappeared silently and imperceptibly into the choppy water. He had to think for a moment to remember where he had parked the car. Over by Söderport, he realized finally. Why all the way over there? Totally the wrong end of town. He sighed and started to walk along the seafront, turned up next to the big conference building, and passed between a deserted and yellowing Almedalen Park and the library’s high glass facade. He glanced at a group of students, caught a few words in a foreign language. Polish, Russian?

I’m still young,
he thought. It wasn’t too late. He was still young.

*   *   *

LOW CLOUDS HUNG
over the Karlsö Islands, but they seemed like they were about to dissolve, blown apart by the strengthening wind. The trees, still green in patches, jerked and shook in the gusts.

Fredrik drove south along the coast road and was just south of Västergarn when the phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the display.

“Fredrik Broman,” he answered.

It was from the repair shop. They had found a problem. Some kind of a grease seal on the right front axel was cracked. It wasn’t very expensive to repair, but they wouldn’t get any spares in until tomorrow morning.

“I see,” he sighed, “well, I guess I don’t have much choice. But are you sure you’ll be getting one in tomorrow?”

The mechanic said that it was a sure thing and rambled on at length about their spare parts delivery routine, the night ferry, and other details Fredrik hadn’t asked for. When he was finally done, Fredrik hung up and tried to call Gustav, but got no answer.

“A grease seal,” he said out loud and at that same moment was overtaken by a black Opel Astra.

It was a bit of a reckless maneuver done well above the speed limit. The car hummed onward toward Klintehamn and was soon out of sight.

When Fredrik reached Levide only Elin Traneus was home.

“You can come in and wait if you want, but I’ve got no idea when he’ll be back,” she said.

She looked tired from lack of sleep, pale and with a murky gaze.

“Do you know where he is?” asked Fredrik.

“No. In Visby, I think, but other than that…”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ll have to come back later,” he said and took a step down from the porch steps.

He nodded good-bye to her and was already on his way toward the car when she stopped him.

“Anything new on that Karl-Johan?”

Fredrik stopped and turned around.

“I spoke to him this morning together with another officer. If he comes here again he gets hit with a restraining order. He knows that. I doubt he’ll be showing up here again.”

“Are you sure?”

“About the restraining order you mean?”

“No, that he won’t be coming around here again,” she said.

She fiddled with the bolt on the door while she waited for his answer. Locked it, opened it again.

“Are you okay here?” he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders again.

“I guess so.”

“Have you tried calling your brother?”

“Yes, but he’s not answering.”

Fredrik thought for a moment, then he took out a business card.

“There’s something I have to take care of, but I’ll be back in an hour, so we’ll just have to see if Rickard has come back by then.”

He handed her the card.

“Maybe you could give me a call when he shows up, or ask him to call me, so I know. I’d be very grateful.”

Elin nodded.

Fredrik sat in the car and drove off, somehow relieved at having gotten away from there.

*   *   *

ALREADY ON THE
way into Visby he had decided to swing past the crime scene to take a look around. It was only when he was pulling up in front of the farm that it struck him that Eva would be there.

He was about to turn the car around and drive away when she suddenly stepped out of the kitchen door. Eva immediately recognized him.

“Fuck!” he swore under his breath.

He had no choice but to stop and climb out of the car.

They said hi to each other. She with a certain tightness around the corners of her mouth, he thought. Couldn’t she ever just relax? Only once had he called her up and been difficult, and that was a long time ago now. One single drunken pleading phone call a little too late at night. It ought to be stricken from the record by now.

“I didn’t get hold of Rickard Traneus, so I decided to swing by here.”

Why did that sound like a bad excuse?

“Okay,” said Eva.

The kitchen door opened again and Granholm came out. He glared at Fredrik through his round glasses.
Granholm to the rescue,
thought Fredrik.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked Eva. “I’ve got an hour to kill, give or take.”

Eva looked a little at a loss, but then seemed to think of something.

“You can start in the basement if you like.”

Relegated to the basement,
he thought, when a minute later he walked down the basement steps and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
Oh, well, nothing to do but grin and bear it.
No coldness or dank earthy smell hit him when he descended into the whitewashed corridor with no less than five doors on either side of it. It was warm and clean.

To the right there was a sauna and something that he at first took to be a jacuzzi made of stone and sunken into the floor. Then he saw that it was some kind of a Japanese bath, given the small wooden stools that were piled up by the wall. The next was a laundry room, opposite that was the boiler room, and then adjacent to that, closest to the stairs, there was a big storage room for clothes, shoes, skis, and other sports equipment. At the far end of the corridor there was a food cellar, or a big larder more like. It was cooler in there and there were cans, jars of jam, pickled vegetables, and all sorts of different bottles of liquor stacked on unpainted storage shelves. At the very back of the larder, there was a narrow door and on the wall next to it some kind of device with a little glimmering red light on it. It looked like an AC unit, only smaller.

Fredrik opened the door and felt how the damp and cold swept over him. There was a completely different climate in there, than in the room outside. He switched on the light. Two dim bulbs cast a warm glow over a room that was about double the size of the larder. It was a wine cellar. The right wall was completely covered with cemented clay pipes. Sticking out of virtually each one of them were foils in red, green, and gold. His curiosity piqued, he moved closer and pulled out a bottle at random, wiped off a little dust and peered at the label.