The Silenced

“Aren’t you feeling well, Jesper?” his wife asked.

* * *

Julia sat with her lower arms resting on the wheel as she fiddled with her cell phone. Both side windows were wound down to keep the summer heat from turning the car into an oven. Even so, she could feel her blouse sticking to her lower back, and she started the engine and air-conditioning the moment she saw Amante emerge from the Forensic Medicine Unit.

She’d had time to make four calls while he was in there, all with similarly disappointing results. No one could tell her where David Sarac was being treated. Or, to be more accurate, where he had been treated before someone murdered, dismembered, and dumped him in Lake Mälaren. Because she was still convinced that they were right and Pärson was wrong.

“All sorted out?” she said.

“Yes.” Amante sat heavily in the passenger seat and closed the door. “My good friend in there promised to put the head in an empty compartment in cold storage. One of his colleagues will find it within the next few days and call the Security Police. A regrettable mistake, blah, blah, blah …”

“And how much did that cost you, then?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Julia didn’t answer. She just took the hand brake off and let the car roll slowly out of the parking lot. Suppressed an urge to put her foot down and force Amante to grab for the handle above the door.

“Are you planning on telling me what Pärson meant earlier?” Amante said after several minutes’ silence.

“Which bit?” she muttered.

“What he said about your solving rate.”

She glanced at Amante, but nothing in his tone of voice or expression suggested that he was teasing her. The best idea would obviously be to keep quiet. Follow Pärson’s advice, get shot of this mess, and put the whole case behind her.

“I’ve got the best clearance rate when it comes to murder investigations,” she found herself saying instead. She heard the note of pride in her own voice.

“In Violent Crime?”

She shook her head. “In the whole country, actually. Almost all the cases I’ve investigated have ended up solved.”

He turned toward her and she could sense his skepticism.

“We’re talking solved from a police perspective,” she added. “Not necessarily guilty verdicts. In two of the cases the perpetrators are dead. And in two more they’ve fled abroad and can’t be brought to justice because of that. And in one … in one the perpetrator was released on appeal, unfortunately.”

She bit her top lip gently. Thought about saying that the appeal was successful because of an unusually sloppy prosecutor, but decided against it.

“Either way, I’ve concluded all my investigations. Answered all the questions and worked out what happened, who did what and why.”

“I get it. So Pärson’s going to shuffle a few papers to keep this from affecting your statistics.”

“Something like that,” she mumbled.

“Great,” Amante said in a tone that suggested he meant the exact opposite. Silence fell inside the car as he studied her.

Julia pulled up at a red light. She went on staring straight ahead to avoid meeting his gaze. Even so, he seemed to have read her mind.

“You still think Sarac is our victim, don’t you?”

She realized she was biting her lip again and made a mental note to stop doing that.

“I haven’t seen any evidence to prove that he isn’t. The fact that Pärson says Sarac is locked up is one thing, but I know him well enough to assume he hasn’t called to check. If he even knows where to start. I’ve made a few calls myself, but no one seems to know where Sarac is.”

She turned to look at Amante.

“What about you? What do you think?”

“I was actually thinking of asking if you had any plans for the weekend.” He smiled that cryptic little smile again, and for a moment she thought he was going to ask her out.

“Why?” she said, more abruptly than she intended.

“Well, if you’re free, I wondered if you fancy a little trip up north.”

“Where to?”

“Pick me up at one o’clock tomorrow and you’ll find out.”

The car behind them blew its horn and Julia realized the lights had turned green.

Three

A monotonous four-hour drive—that was what Julia’s Saturday afternoon had consisted of so far. Back roads, fir forests, and wildlife fences.

This wasn’t how she had imagined the weekend. She had been planning to work out, finish the book she never seemed to get to the end of, go to the movies, or do one of the other things that got her through weekends when she wasn’t working. Instead she was sitting behind the wheel, glancing at Amante as he watched the GPS bubble on the screen of his smartphone.

“Turn right here.” Amante pointed toward an anonymous-looking side road. “One kilometer of country road, then we’re there.”

“Okay.”

She wondered how he’d found out the address of the nursing home; she’d even asked him about it when she picked him up outside his apartment. But, as usual, all she got in response was that tentative little smile.

About half an hour earlier they had stopped at a gas station to look at the map and see what Amante’s smartphone could tell them about their destination. The satellite picture showed what looked like a manor house with two wings. Surrounding the main building was a large park that stretched all the way down to a small lake. If you zoomed in really close, you could just make out the walls and fences surrounding the entire property. But as they approached the facility, none of that was visible apart from a section of wall, a security lodge, and a large metal gate. All you could see from the gate was tall, well-established trees in the park beyond.

Julia drove slowly into the visitors’ parking lot and turned the engine off.

According to Google, the home had originally been built as a sanatorium. Over the years it had been an adult education college and an old people’s home. According to one five-year-old article, it had been sold and turned into a nursing home, but that was about it. It wasn’t even possible to find a phone number for the main switchboard, so, whatever they were doing there, they were keen to avoid publicity—which seemed fairly logical if they were treating patients with PTSD. The female security guard behind the glass hatch was similarly welcoming.

“Sorry.” The speaker fixed in the reinforced glass gave the guard’s voice a metallic clang. “All visits need to be authorized in advance. Those are the rules.”

Amante raised his ID higher, pressing it against the glass.

“Like I said, we’re police officers, and we’re conducting an investigation. It’s extremely important that we see David Sarac.”

“If it’s that important, then you should have spoken to the senior consultant and got him to arrange a visit. Anyway, you’re not a police officer; it says you’re a civilian investigator on your ID.”

Amante took a sharp breath, but Julia put her hand on his shoulder before he could say anything else. Arguing with a guard was never a good idea. She recognized the type all too well. Low-level employees who were given a tiny bit of power and made the absolute most of it. She stepped forward and held her own ID up against the glass just as Amante had done.

“I’m a police officer,” she said. “And, like my partner just said, it’s very important that we see one of the patients here. His name is David Sarac.”

The guard leaned closer to the glass. Read her name on her ID. “Look here, Detective Inspector … Gabrielsson. You see those signs?”

She pointed to a yellow rectangle with black lettering hanging above her head. Then at another one a short distance away on the heavy metal gate.

“This is a secure site. That means no unauthorized access. Under any circumstances. And seeing as neither you nor your colleague appear on the list of names, that means you aren’t authorized, whether you’re police officers or not. Those are the rules. People have lost their job for less.”

“What sort of nursing home gets classified as a fucking secure site?”

Amante’s sudden outburst took Julia by surprise. She squeezed his arm and got him to shut up. The guard glared at him.

“We look after soldiers here: people who have been in wars. According to the Security Police, that makes it a potential target.”

Amante opened his mouth to reply, but Julia squeezed his arm again, harder this time. What was wrong with him?

“Rules are rules,” she said to the guard. “Obviously we appreciate that you’re just doing your job. You’ll have to excuse my colleague: the case we’re investigating is pretty serious. A lot of pressure.”

She looked over toward the metal gate. The sign on it was bright yellow, but it was already bleached by the sun. And the barbed wire on top of the wall didn’t look new.

“We’ll call the senior consultant and come back tomorrow.” She bustled Amante a couple of steps toward the car before she turned round again. “By the way, how long has the home been classified as a secure site?”

“Since sometime last winter,” the metallic voice replied.

“Do you remember which month?”

The guard glared at Julia, then at Amante.

“Early March. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. Just curious. Thanks for your help.” She nodded to Amante to get in the car. She didn’t say anything until the doors were closed. But he beat her to it.

“Coming here was a long shot—I said that before we set off—but maybe if we wait until it gets dark—”

“And do what?” Julia interrupted. “Climb over the wall? Break in through a door? Smash a few windows at random?” She shook her head. “We have no idea what the inside of the building is like. And if our suspicions are right and Sarac is our dead body, then we’re looking for someone who isn’t even in there.”

Amante looked suddenly sullen. “Sorry I dragged you up here for nothing. We could have waited till Monday, I could have asked my contact to get hold of the senior consultant’s number. I got carried away …”

Julia held up a finger to get him to stop talking. The metal gate was slowly swinging open. A car drove out, followed by another one. Then a motorcycle. The vehicles stopped and a man in uniform emerged from the security lodge to check the backseats and trunks. He even insisted on looking behind the motorcyclist’s visor and seeing some ID before he allowed them to leave.

The vehicles passed their parked car. Two men in the first car, a lone woman in the second one. It wasn’t possible to determine the gender of the motorcyclist. All three vehicles turned left at the junction a short distance away.

“They’re very conscientious with their exit checks,” Julia muttered. She looked at the time. Quarter past five. Probably a change of shift. Suddenly she had an idea. She turned the key in the ignition and roared off, following the three other vehicles.

They caught up with the motorcycle just before the small village that consisted of little more than a cluster of bungalows and a gas station. The motorcycle turned off at the gas station and pulled up at its little hot dog stand. Without saying anything to Amante, Julia got out of the car. She walked toward the stand, but when she was almost there she pulled out her phone and pretended to take a call. The biker, a man in his fifties, had taken his helmet off and was chatting to the attractive woman in the stand—she was maybe half his age—before she put together his order. The smell of fast food reminded Julia that it had been a while since she had eaten anything.

She waited until the man had gotten his food, put his helmet back on, and driven off before walking up to the window.

“Hello,” she said.

The woman behind the counter returned the greeting.

“Regulars, eh?” Julia said, nodding toward the disappearing motorbike. “I’ve just come from the nursing home. It was the staff who told me to come here.”

She smiled, trying to come across as friendly and unthreatening as she read the menu.

“Well …” The young woman hesitated over her reply, but Julia’s smile seemed to convince her. “You could say that. Some of them stop off here practically every night.”

“Best place for an evening burger, the girl in the gatehouse said. You probably know her: fair hair, keeps herself in shape. Maybe a little grumpy?”

“Mia. Yes, she can be a bit sullen.” The young woman gave a wry smile and Julia reflected it back to her.

“Mia—that was it. Smart too. You seem to know what’s going on as well. Who works where and so on.”

“This is a pretty small place: everyone knows everyone else. The doctors live in town, but most of the other staff up there come from around here.”

“You don’t happen to know if anyone’s left recently?” Julia said. “Someone who maybe lost their job last winter, something like that?”

Another long shot, based on something Security Mia had said. People have lost their job for less. But Julia could tell from the evasive look in the young woman’s eyes that she’d guessed right.

She leaned over the counter and held out her police ID. She saw the woman’s eyes open wide.

“It’s vital that we talk to that person, right away.”

* * *

The man looking out from the gap in the door was wearing underpants, a T-shirt, and a grubby dressing gown, even though it was late afternoon. His eyes were red and a cloying, burned smell that Julia recognized all too well drifted out across the crooked front steps. She cautiously took hold of the door handle from the outside.

“Eskil Svensson?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Food delivery from Isa in the kiosk.” She held up the plastic bag and let it dangle from her forefinger. The smell from it made her stomach rumble.

The man in the robe seemed just as hungry as she was. He reached out one hand for the bag without letting go of the door with the other.

At that moment Julia tugged the door toward her, which made the man lose his balance and tumble out onto the porch, where he landed at their feet. Before he had time to react, she put one knee against the back of his neck and twisted his arm behind his back. Then she winked at Amante.

“Police,” he said, sounding rather breathless. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

Four

“The girls are watching television. I was thinking of going for a run round the Altorp track. I’ll be gone an hour at the most. Then I thought we could have a nice, cozy evening together.”

Stenberg’s wife came into his study with a cup of coffee in her hand. She put it down at a safe distance from the keyboard, leaned over, and kissed him on the head.

“You look tired.” She ran her hand through his hair, forcing him to look up from the screen. “Is it anything in particular? Anything you want to talk about?”

“No,” Stenberg muttered. “Just a lot going on.”

“Is the prosecutor general causing trouble again?”

He nodded absentmindedly and looked at the screen again.

“The prime minister trusts you, Jesper, now more than ever. The fact is that the whole party trusts you, so you can’t let little things like that get in your way. We need a modernized justice system; we’ve needed one for ages. Otherwise people will gradually lose faith in the system. The contract between citizens and the state, all the things we discussed ad infinitum at law school. You already had a vision back then, a conviction that made people take notice of you. It made me notice you.”

“I know, darling. But trying to reform state institutions is a constant uphill struggle: various government and other entities everywhere having their say on things, with everyone terrified of losing influence.”

“What about Wallin? Can’t you let him do some of the heavy lifting?”

Stenberg felt his jaw tighten. Even here at home in his study, his inner sanctum, Wallin cast his baleful shadow.

Karolina raised her eyebrows. “Is it Wallin who’s the problem?”

Damn. She knew him far too well. Noticed the slightest change in his expression. She could even hear things he didn’t say. Keeping his affair with Sophie Thorning secret all those years had taken all his willpower and concentration. Yet he knew he probably wouldn’t have been able to lie if Karolina had confronted him, if she’d asked straight out if he was being unfaithful and looked at him the way she was right now. Fortunately she never had.

He filled his lungs, then slowly breathed out through his mouth.

“What’s this all about?” Her tone of voice was perfect, a fitting combination of concern and empathy. Karolina would have been a brilliant lawyer, but instead she had put his career ahead of her own. Taken on the role of supportive wife and mother to his children. Her grandfather had been foreign minister; her father, Karl-Erik, was a member of the party’s inner circle. She had opened doors for him that he could never even have dreamed of. And how had he thanked her? With betrayal, lies, and infidelity.

For a couple of moments the feeling he had had last winter was back, the conviction that he ought to tell her everything. Beg for her forgiveness. But he couldn’t ask that of her. It wasn’t Karolina’s responsibility to lighten his burden.

“Oscar Wallin …” He took a sip of his coffee to make what he was thinking of saying sound less loaded. “He’s very ambitious. You saw him with John Thorning. Wallin is forming new alliances, and, to be honest, I’ve started to have doubts about his loyalty.”

Karolina leaned against the edge of the desk.

“Wallin couldn’t be national police chief. We agreed on that. You, me, and Daddy. Appointing Eva Swensk gained you support within the party, support you’re going to need in the future. We’re going to need …”

She paused and stroked his hair again. He liked her hands, even though she herself didn’t. Those long, strong fingers. The hands of a person who could be practically anything she wanted to be.

“Right now it’s more important than ever to think strategically. You have to see things in a longer perspective, not just focus on the present. If you’re convinced that the goal is the right one, you mustn’t hesitate to make unpalatable decisions. Keep your eye on the prize.”

He shut his eyes. He’d seen this trick before and was starting to get a bit tired of it. Karolina’s lips were moving, but the voice coming out of her mouth belonged to someone else.

“If we win the election, the prime minister will probably step down at the next party conference. Go out at the top. And if we lose …”

She pulled out a chair and sat down next to him.

“If we lose, he’ll have to accept the consequences and resign at once. Either way, the party will be looking for a younger, more energetic successor. Someone whom can reform politics the way he’s reforming the justice system.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Stenberg said, but more and more often these days he wasn’t sure whom he was replying to: Karolina, or her father.

* * *

Julia Gabrielsson held up the little plastic bag of marijuana she’d found on Eskil Svensson’s coffee table. Waved it slowly in front of his pallid face.

“So, to sum up: a mysterious man calling himself Frank contacted you early in February and paid you to take messages to and from Sarac inside the home, and then a bit more for helping Sarac escape. But that’s as much as you know.”

Eskil was sitting on the sofa between her and Amante, shaking his head.

“And you don’t know where this Frank came from or what he wanted with Sarac?”

“Like I said, he showed up in the pub one evening and started buying me drinks. Then he asked for a favor. It didn’t sound too difficult and the money was good. Then it sort of grew …” He pulled a pained expression and seemed to be avoiding looking at the bag of marijuana between Julia’s fingers.

“And you started to acquire a taste for the money. I get that.” She put the bag down on the table in front of Eskil. “This is quite a stash. I’d guess about a year in prison, wouldn’t you say, Amante?”

“Maybe two,” he said somberly as he stared at Eskil. “Possession with intent to supply—that’s serious stuff.”

Julia was having trouble keeping a straight face. Amante was a fast learner.

Eskil turned even paler. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“Come off it. That’s my weed. I’m not some fucking dealer. Look, I’ve told you all I know. The only thing I did was get the master key copied. Then we decided what time was best if you wanted to escape without being spotted. Sarac got out and hid in the trunk of my car during the shift change. Then I let him out at the railway station and gave him a train ticket, a travel card for Stockholm, and a bit of cash. That’s all.”

“And then you got caught,” Amante said.

“No, for fuck’s sake! Haven’t you been listening?” Eskil threw his arms out. “They accused me of stealing drugs.”

“The sleeping pills and tranquilizers that you gave Sarac.”

“That’s right. I understand the tranquilizers. I mean, the guy wasn’t well. But he already had a bag full of sleeping pills, so I can’t see why he wanted two more. But he said it was important—that he needed to have exactly twenty-five before he left. Otherwise he wasn’t going anywhere.”

“So it was the pills that got you the sack?” Julia said.

“Shit, you two are unbelievable,” Eskil groaned. “Aren’t there any entrance requirements for joining the police? I’ve already told you what happened. No one fired me. They couldn’t prove anything, so I was given six months’ wages in return for handing in my resignation. I didn’t want to work there anyway. You’ve seen what it’s like there. It’s a fascist setup. The staff have to give urine samples, all kinds of crap like that …”

“This mysterious Frank,” Julia said. “Tell us about him again.”

Eskil let out a theatrical sigh.

“Like I’ve already said a thousand times: he and Sarac had been on that island together last winter. Where a load of people got killed. That’s why he wanted to talk to Sarac.”

“And you don’t remember anything else about Frank apart from the fact that he might have had a slight accent, paid well, and acted like a cop?”

“No. I mean, it’s several months ago now. Actually, he did have a bit of a limp, even though he looked like he was in good shape.”

Julia started waving the bag of weed again. “What do you think about getting a sniffer dog out here?” she said to Amante. “Turn this apartment upside down. Maybe ask the neighbors if they’ve noticed drug dealing going on here.”

“Do you want me to call right away?”

“Probably just as well. Eskil here isn’t exactly a rocket scientist. I doubt we’re going to get anything else useful out of him.”

She turned toward Eskil and could almost see the cogs turning inside his head. Amante slowly got to his feet and pulled out his cell phone.

“Wait,” Eskil said. “Wait, for fuck’s sake! I’ve got something you might want to see.”

He started to dig about in the pockets of his dressing gown. He fished out a smartphone with a cracked screen and started to look through it.

“Here,” he said eagerly, holding the phone out to Julia. “Sarac made me take a picture.”

The screen showed a grainy photograph of a man with sharp features. He was half facing away and seemed unaware that he was being photographed.

“That’s Frank. See what I mean about him looking like a cop?”

Five

The rain started falling just as they passed the sports ground on the edge of the village. Tiny drops to start with, barely enough for Julia to switch the windshield wipers on. But gradually the rain got harder, wiping out the distinction between the summer’s evening and the forest spreading out on either side of the road.

“What do we do now?” Amante said. “Call Pärson and tell him that Sarac isn’t in the home after all? That we’ve got a picture of the man who lured him out and probably killed him?”