The Silenced

Manboy.

She didn’t approve. Wallin was a talented policeman and an equally skilled administrator. But now others were enjoying the fruits of his labors, and the whole of his handpicked team had been transferred to the staff of the national police chief. All but Wallin himself, which most of his colleagues took to mean that he was going to be sidelined somewhere and never heard from again. She hoped that interpretation didn’t turn out to be correct.

“Have you been able to identify the body?” Wallin wiped his mouth on his napkin with exaggerated thoroughness.

“Not yet. We’ve checked for a match on the missing persons register: nothing there. His hands haven’t been found, so we haven’t got fingerprints. Same with teeth and dental records. We’re expecting DNA results from the National Forensics Lab by tomorrow at the earliest but probably on Friday, maybe even Monday. It’s not at all certain that they’ll be able to get any DNA. The body was in a very poor state.”

“And the face? Could you release a photograph to the press? Ask the general public to get in touch with tip-offs?”

Julia shook her head.

“The perpetrator had a go at the face with a chain saw. It’s completely unrecognizable.”

At least for the time being, she added to herself. She considered telling Wallin about her backup plan. Let him know how good she was at her job. Six months ago she would have done so without hesitation. But for some reason she decided to wait. Besides, she wasn’t even sure if what she was considering could actually be done.

“The experts in the tabloids are right, then,” Wallin said. “You’ve got a real challenge on your hands with this case. You know the statistics as well as I do. Only six out of ten dismemberments get cleared up. A sixty percent chance that quickly shrinks to single digits if you don’t manage to identify the body. And what would that do to your solving rate?”

The question seemed to be rhetorical, because Wallin turned his attention back to his food without waiting for an answer. Julia stuck her fork into her Caesar salad, took a mouthful, and discovered at once that something was missing from the dressing. It took her a few seconds to work out what. Anchovies. What chef would make a Caesar salad without using anchovies? Presumably one who thought he could get away with it.

The murmur of conversation in the restaurant rose in volume as more and more diners sat down at the tables. One or two suits, but mostly neon-clad laborers. People who, like Wallin, had a preference for traditional Swedish fare. Personally she preferred Asian. Lighter food: less flour, cream, and potato.

Wallin went on eating calmly. He was evidently planning to make her ask.

“So, tell me! Why is the minister of justice’s special investigator so interested in an old dismembered body?”

Wallin took a sip of his lingonberry drink and then carefully wiped his mouth again before leaning over the table.

“As you may be aware, the party has its training center in Källstavik. Several of the higher-ups rent houses on the grounds with access to the water, including the minister of justice’s father-in-law, Karl-Erik Cedergren. A dismembered body in the water they go swimming in, just in time for the holidays, is a little uncomfortable, particularly when the tabloids are wallowing in the details. The minister’s phone is going to start ringing, and when it does, I want to be prepared.”

“You want me to keep you informed?”

He smiled at her, a crooked, slightly mocking smile. Yet Julia still found herself smiling back at him. She’d missed this. Missed their rather peculiar sense of camaraderie.

The first time she’d met Oscar Wallin was around five years ago. She’d been part of the team investigating an unusually grisly murder in the southern suburbs of Stockholm. The victim was a small-time informer, and the method resembled another case that National Crime was investigating. Wallin was involved in his capacity as National Crime’s informant handler, and he was the only one who didn’t shake his head when she, unlike all the alpha males on the investigative team, declared firmly that they were dealing with two different perpetrators and that the second was simply a copycat. When the forensics experts proved her right a week later, Wallin bought her lunch. Over a meal of stuffed cabbage leaves he asked how she could have been so certain. She explained that the two crime scenes were just too different. The perpetrators had moved through the rooms in different ways and did things in a different order. And, unlike all the other police officers she knew, Wallin seemed to be in no doubt about her abilities.

Two months later he had called her and asked her to take a look at the security camera footage of a robbery and compare it with videos of various suspects and images from where they lived. She had found it relatively easy to point out those whose movements and rhythms matched the robbers’. Not long after that, she was suddenly promoted to detective inspector and given her own room in the front corridor of the crime unit, and she slowly began to make a name for herself within the force. And even if Superintendent Pärson claimed the credit for having discovered and coached her, Julia was well aware of who her real mentor was.

Wallin had continued to contact her every now and then: sometimes to find out how she was getting on, but more usually to give her a new challenge or ask for discreet favors. Most recently last Christmas.

“By the way, what happened about that trace of blood I found in Sophie Thorning’s apartment?” she said. “Did it help prove that someone else had been there the night she jumped?”

Wallin shook his head. “It turned out to be her own blood. I thought I’d told you that.”

“No, we haven’t spoken since I sent you my report. Not so much as a Christmas card by way of thanks.” She pretended to be upset. That would have made most guys blush and start to stammer their apologies. She knew she looked pretty good and that this could occasionally be used to her advantage. But that sort of trick never worked on Wallin, which was another reason why she respected him. The only way to get Wallin’s attention and respect was by delivering results.

“I’ve been busy,” he said, without sounding the slightest bit apologetic, but more like he was chastising her for not realizing something so obvious.

“And the post of national police chief …?”

Julia regretted saying it before it was even out of her mouth. Wallin’s mouth narrowed to a thin line.

“If I’m allowed to say what I think, the minister of justice picked the wrong person,” she added quickly.

Wallin sat silent for a few seconds, as if he was trying to work out how truthful her statement was. The thin line curved into a controlled smile.

“Thanks. Obviously, I’m aware that I’m being talked about. That people are saying I’ve been passed over, even that I’m heading toward the exit.” Wallin shook his head gently. “Success breeds enemies, Julia. You’ll find that out. Colleagues who are envious or bitter, who take pleasure in the few occasions when you fail, and who don’t hesitate to spread all manner of rumors.”

He leaned forward slightly and smiled more broadly, revealing his canine teeth.

“But I’m still here, as you can see. I’ve still got an office just a few meters from the minister’s, and sooner or later everyone who’s underestimated me will have to pay for that.”

He held her gaze for a few seconds. Then straightened up.

“Enough about that. There’s another reason why I wanted to talk to you. It’s about your new colleague …”

Wallin wasn’t the sort to do air quotes, but Julia thought she could almost see his fingers twitching on the checkered tablecloth.

“Omar Amante, lawyer, excellent grades at university, foreign service. If the predictions are correct and the opposition win this autumn’s election, his stepfather will replace Jesper Stenberg as minister of justice. Which makes Amante junior the golden boy. The question is: Why has he suddenly appeared from nowhere to join you in the Violent Crime Unit?”

“What do you mean?” Julia frowned. A police car drove past outside in the street. Flashing lights and sirens. The sound bounced between the buildings, drowning out everything else for a few seconds.

“Amante left his job with Europol last Christmas,” Wallin said as soon as the car had passed. “Six months before his contract was due to finish. One unconfirmed rumor is that he fell out with his boss. That there was some sort of scene that got hushed up. No one seems to want to talk about it. Either way, Amante disappeared off the radar for a few months. He wasn’t in Sweden, and he wasn’t at Europol’s offices in The Hague. Then he suddenly shows up in Stockholm and lands in the middle of a murder investigation that has vague connections to the party. The same party that his stepfather is doing his utmost to eject from power.”

Wallin leaned across the table again and lowered his voice.

“You’ve been saddled with Amante for a reason. And I’d dearly love to know what that reason is.”

* * *

Sarac zipped his jacket up and pulled his hat as far down on his forehead as he could before looking at his watch again. Thirty seconds. This was madness. He was mad. Which made it all the more ironic that he was trying to escape from a mental institution.

He put his fingers on the door handle. Five, four, three, two, one …

He stepped out into the corridor. Walked without hesitation straight toward the door to the stairwell, not falling for the temptation of looking up at the spherical camera above it. The change of shift was under way and the likelihood of any member of the staff looking at the picture from the camera for the few seconds it took him to pass it wasn’t very high. At least that was what he tried to tell himself to calm his pounding heart. Panic and fear were being temporarily held at bay by the tranquilizer he had swallowed just over half an hour ago.

This isn’t a good idea, the voices in his head whispered. But the happy pills had rendered them impotent. Easier to ignore. At least for the time being.

The doors to the ward were always kept locked, and he fiddled with the key, got it into the lock, but couldn’t turn it. He jerked and twisted it. For a fraction of a second he considered giving up. Going back to his safe little room, forgetting everything, and carrying out his original plan. Gulp down all those sleeping pills at once, tonight. Put an end to everything. But he knew that was impossible. He had to know the truth, had to know how everything fit together.

He suddenly felt the lock give with a clicking sound. The key Eskil had given him was evidently a cheap copy that took a bit of fiddling to make it work. He guessed that his new pen pal Frank had paid for it, just as he had paid for Eskil’s services.

Sarac headed down the marble staircase, all the way to the basement. He managed to unlock the heavy steel door almost at once and found himself in a bare, low-ceilinged corridor. Another glance at his watch. Two minutes and ten seconds had elapsed since he began his escape. He quickened his pace, trying to make use of the surplus adrenaline while it lasted.

He stopped at the door marked District Heating. Once again he used the copied key to unlock the door and stepped inside a large, warm room full of pipes and meters. He stood still for a couple of seconds to get his bearings. Then he identified the incoming pipes and followed them to the far end of the room, just as he had been instructed to do. Another heavy door, and behind it a tunnel where the pipes disappeared into the darkness. He took a few steps forward. Felt for the circuit breaker but couldn’t find it.

Suddenly the door behind him closed and everything went pitch-black. He was seized by panic as it broke through the chemical barrier protecting him from his anxieties and gripped his rib cage.

Why are you doing this, David? the voices whispered. Why?