Knock Knock Page 27

  “Where are you going, Piet? Or, let me rephrase that, what kind of weather are you headed for. Temperature, humidity, etc.”

  “Same as here. Hot. But the heat is more normal there, I guess.”

  “And we’re sticking with this look? Flaps above your eyes, crooked nose with largish wings, slightly puffy cheeks and chin and stomach?”

  “That’s me. For a little longer.”

  He sat down in the chair, and thought how nice it was that this time he wasn’t going to have any goop smeared over his face or the cement that held the plaster strips while they hardened. With the help of the cast from his last visit, there were more pieces of this disguise waiting for him. The makeup remover released the old pieces so new ones could be glued on, and then she tested the hanging eyelids and the cheeks and chin to make sure they were all firmly attached.

  “This will last a while longer. There are two new shirts in the plastic bag, which fit your larger stomach—and an extra bottle of glue, just in case. Check as often as you can. Shouldn’t be a problem, but you never know with the heat and physical exertion, it could loosen.”

  The next taxi ride took him to the all-night gas station in Hammarby Sjöstad. That was where he asked the driver to drop him off. One and a half kilometers left. He walked the last bit, approaching slowly to make sure he wasn’t being followed. As he stood in the darkness, twenty-five meters away from the apartment that hid everything he cared about, he felt that same poisonous cocktail of fear and rage that he’d felt holding the hand grenade his youngest son had played with—and it made his whole body tremble. That’s why he picked up the phone. He had to call. But not Zofia, who he could run to in just seconds and hold tight, which would take away his longing for a moment, but afterward would just make it worse. So it would have to be second best. A call to someone who could see her.

  “Boss—so late? Did something happen?”

  “I’m leaving in a couple of hours, taking a short trip. And I wanted to make sure things were working with the new family? The mother and her three children.”

  Hoffmann took a few steps back to avoid being caught by the cameras, so Andy wouldn’t accidentally detect him on any of his monitors.

  “No lights on. They seem to be sleeping.”

  “And . . . well, have you . . . has anything else happened? I mean if you’ve been able to see them. How do they seem to be doing that is. The worry you mentioned last time, about the boy—said you could see it on him.”

  “He seems calmer. The few times I’ve caught a glimpse of him—the boys stay away from the windows. But the mother? You were going to talk to her? About the phone?”

  “Yes?”

  “She got another call! I could see it through the window. Boss, how the hell can we assure their safety if they won’t follow instructions, I mean . . .”

  “It’s my fault, Andy. Sorry. I forgot—but I promise again to contact her. She’ll understand. She seems to be a wise woman.”

  “And you still don’t know why they’re there? What happened?”

  “Nothing, only that it has to do with her husband.”

  Piet Hoffmann stood there a long time staring at the windows and the wall that separated them.

  Soon.

  5:01 AM

  (2 days, 17 hours, and 1 minute remaining)

  A successful interrogation was based on surprise, and for a man who was locked up drunk, late at night, wearing a fancy tuxedo, it was quite a surprise to be awoken by Ewert Grens’s unnecessarily loud and irritating Gooood morning being shouted through a small hatch in the door. And it wasn’t much more fun when the keys to the jail cell rattled and shook into his head and the sound of the metallic whine of the bolt became a sword piercing his every attempt to think. Or when the cell door was opened and the detective superintendent stormed in, followed by the female police officer who’d brought him in on this groundless arrest. Which was why Dusko Zaravic turned over on his cell bunk and met every question Grens asked with the silence of his back.

  “You and I last saw each other seventeen years ago. I questioned you about the murder of a family—I know you remember it, you bastard. And I interrogated your friends Dejan and Branko and Ermir—I bet you remember that too. Then I questioned your employer, but I was forced to let him go after seventy-two hours and watch him flee the country—I’m sure you remember that particularly well. And, Zaravic, since you do remember all of that, you might also recall that I promised I’d never allow a killer to go free again after I found him? So if you . . .”

  “Are you done?”

  Zaravic still had his back to his visitors. Ewert Grens leaned closer, hissing.

  “I’m done when you and I look at each other and I can ask my questions.”

  Then they waited in his narrow prison cell—a sink and a floor-mounted stool were the only furniture besides the bunk.

  Silent minutes.

  Until Zaravic made a point of turning over slowly.

  “Say whatever the hell you came to say. And then leave.”

  “Yes, I could do that, if I wanted to. Leave, that is. Unlike you. But first, an observation: you don’t seem particularly upset that your colleagues are being executed, one by one.”

  “Upset? Why would I be?”

  “Because they seem to be dying off rather quickly. Two one morning, a third the next.”

  “From bullets—not age. So why should I worry? You, on the other hand, Superintendent or whatever the hell you are, how old are you?”

  “Three dead. Within twenty-four hours. And the fourth shows up at a wedding without a care in the world wearing that—a white tuxedo, not very careful behavior for a man whose friends just left him.”

  “I don’t walk around on the streets being scared.”

  “Or maybe you know you don’t have to be—because you shot them?”

  He laughed. Dusko Zaravic really laughed. Not as a challenge, or with scorn. More heartily. If gangsters were capable of that these days.

  “Is that . . . for fuck’s sake, is that why you took me in on this bullshit charge? Because you think I’m running around and knocking off my unfortunate brothers?”

  Ewert Grens beheld an expression that could mean many things.

  I could be sitting in a detention cell with a triple murderer, who has turned one of my colleagues and is in control of classified documents.

  Or the man stretching out on that bunk was the next one in line and should be grateful we’re keeping him here for a while.

  Or he has nothing to do with this at all, not as a victim or a perp.

  Doesn’t matter, let him sit there.

  “We believe that an organization is trying to take over the Swedish arms trade. And that you murdered your potential competitors. On behalf of someone who is currently in Albania.”

  “Seriously—what the hell are you talking about?”

  “We both know you were mixed up in that line of work many years ago. You might even have been in that apartment, employed by the man who likes to call himself King Zoltan. And now there are ten thousand weapons out there worth a billion kronor that Zoltan, or someone who’s using you as a hired gun, thinks it’s fine to kill people for.”

  That laugh again. It was real.

  “For fuck’s sake—you know as well as I do that’s as imaginary as the charges you’re holding me on. And even if it were true, why the hell would I tell you? Look at my hands. I have nails, okay? Do you know how long it takes them to grow out again? I’ve broken interrogators you can’t even touch.”

  Then he turned around again. The back of his white tuxedo toward Grens and his silent face against the cell wall. The detective superintendent nodded to Hermansson, who was waiting by the cell door—their first interrogation was over.

  They’d reached the cell closest to the entrance—which was the liveliest as usual, with yapping
inmates and a fan on high and jail guards shouting to each other—when Hermansson began to speak.

  “You put on a good show.”

  “A show?”

  “You really made it sound like you suspect him of something. When all you want is to keep him locked up as long as the law will allow.”

  “He could be involved. If he is, I’ll know once we find our dirty cop.”

  He looked at her. Searchingly.

  “And that—the dirty cop—still isn’t a problem for you?”

  She didn’t answer this time either.

  “Because we’re gonna find our colleague who has switched sides, and we’re gonna find whoever is shooting people twice in the head. I’ll soon have a man in place in Albania who will figure out who’s in charge, and who’s doing their grunt work.”

  “A man in place?”

  “Yes. A man who thought it would be easier to do what he needed to do with that psycho off the streets.”

  “The man I met in your kitchen?”

  “Could be, yes.”

  The ride down in the elevator from the Kronoberg jail became uncomfortable in the way such elevator rides can be, when every look and word feels like too much. But this was more than that—Ewert Grens had openly accused one of his closest colleagues of selling them out, betraying them, for a second time. They stepped out of the first elevator on their way to the next, and now they had to pass through five doors that required access cards. Just before the third, Grens couldn’t take it anymore.

  “I . . . well, I apologize.”

  She swiped her card, opened the door, and they walked on.

  “I . . . never should have accused you. But this whole fucking story, someone breaking into Wilson’s safe, and you not wanting to help me and look into him . . . It feels better now, Hermansson. You arrested Zaravic. I no longer doubt you.”

  She stopped abruptly.

  “No, Ewert. You should never have accused me. And you will never do it again. Because I will apply for a transfer. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She looked at him, through him. As only she could.

  “Yes, Hermansson. I understand.”

  The fourth door, the fifth door, and finally the last elevator, now on their way to the homicide unit. But just as they were about to reach their floor, Grens pushed the red stop button, then a button that made them head back down.

  “One more thing.”

  He might as well. Now that the ice was broken. She was the only one who talked to him about these things, who again and again demanded answers, and who could look straight at him and say you don’t know how to separate intimacy from integrity, just like the people we investigate, and that, Ewert, makes you terrified and still he wouldn’t cut her out of his life. That’s why she was the one he could talk to about a problem with no solution.

  “I used to have a colleague I liked quite a bit. Looked up to. A mentor, you might say. But when he was about to retire . . . He changed. He couldn’t handle that big black hole. The emptiness. There was nothing because he had nothing else. One night, with just a couple of weeks left at the police station, he called a squad car, asked them to come to his home. Then he shot himself. A bullet in the mouth. He knew the right way to do it to leave the least amount of trouble for everyone involved.”

  The elevator stopped again. Now it was Mariana Hermansson who pressed the button in the opposite direction.

  “Shot himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because he couldn’t stand it?”

  “His whole life was about being a police officer. He had nothing outside this station. Just a big apartment he shared with no one else.”

  The elevator stopped again. She pressed down. It stopped. She pressed up.

  “What was this mentor’s name?”

  “Name?”

  “Yes.”

  “He . . . yes, I . . .”

  “Okay, Ewert. You don’t need to say more.”

  The next time the elevator stopped, they actually got out, headed into the homicide unit. Hermansson’s office was closest, and just as she was about to enter it the detective superintendent put a gentle hand on her shoulder; he’d never done that before.

  “I’m not old. I’ve just lived a long time. Do you understand?”

  They stared at each other for a while, she nodded slightly. Grens’s next stop was the coffee machine, halfway to his office. Two cups, black.

  “Ewert?”

  Sven’s office was almost next door, and Sven, sitting behind his desk, waved Ewert in eagerly.

  “Come in.”

  “Soon, I’m just going to . . .”

  “Now, Ewert.”

  Grens sank into the visitor’s chair, Sven closed the door before settling down opposite his boss and pointing to his coffee cups.

  “Can I have one?”

  “There’s no milk, the way you like it.”

  Sven had already grabbed one of them, was drinking it.

  “You asked me to look into Hermansson.”

  “You don’t need to do that anymore.”

  “You even asked me to follow her.”

  “I’ve talked to her, Sven, and you . . .”

  “I did it. Followed her. Even though it felt shitty. A close colleague? Would you allow someone to follow me—or maybe someone already is?”

  “I told you . . .”

  “Maybe you were right, Ewert.”

  The detective superintendent had just emptied everything inside him in an elevator. He felt good again. As if he weren’t alone with his thoughts. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear the rest of what Sven had to say.

  “Mariana and I had lunch yesterday. Here, in the station. She was her usual self. And yet—not at all. I just couldn’t quite place it. But when you know someone well, you know when something is wrong.”

  Sven leaned forward, and it was clear he took no joy in what he was about to say.

  “We parted, and she headed off to the prosecutor’s office for a meeting. So I did it. Followed her. I’m normally good at it. And yet somehow she managed to lose me several times. Extremely vigilant. Turning around constantly, changing direction. Worried, that’s how I would describe her.”

  Now he lowered his voice, as if he thought what he had to say could be heard several doors away.

  “Roslags Street. All the way to Vanadislunden Park. Quite far from the prosecutor’s office. That’s where she went. A normal apartment building, five stories. She looked around repeatedly before punching in the code and going inside. There was a café across the street, from there I had a perfect view. One and a half hours. Until she came out. When we met here in the corridor later, I asked how it went, and I felt it again. She seemed off. And she lied. Started telling me about the prosecutor’s new ideas. And you know as well as I do, Ewert—the Mariana Hermansson we know never lies. Or, maybe we thought we knew. I checked the building, every apartment owner. No name that was associated with any ongoing investigations—nothing that could be connected to Hermansson, either, not at work or privately.”

  Ewert Grens sank down even farther into the visitor’s chair. Sven Sundkvist was the least dramatic man he’d ever met. Sven never over-interpreted, never let his feelings take the lead. If common sense had a face, it would have looked like the man Grens was across from.

  And yet. He had to protest. Because that was only reasonable response.

  “There could be so many explanations for why she wouldn’t tell you about the company she keeps, or the addresses she prefers to take her walks to.”

  “Yes. That’s true. But I did a little more digging. Our calendars. Went through my notes on meetings we conducted separately in recent investigations. And several of Mariana’s own meetings—listen now, Ewert—never took place. Nothing so big that it affected the final result. B
ut several of the people she stated she had met, logged meetings outside the station for, confirmed that she never met with them.”

  And again Sven’s expression was anything but happy. “And since both you and I have felt the same thing, and one of the explanations is the only thing that it absolutely cannot be, I would recommend that we continue to monitor her. And that you’re careful about what you share with her. I’m not so stupid that I haven’t realized there’s someone else working on this with you, with this investigation, whose name I don’t know, and if Hermansson isn’t the person we think she is, if she’s leaking information—then more people could end up hurt.”

  12:12 PM

  (2 days, 9 hours, and 50 minutes remaining)

  Piet Hoffmann walked through a small but surprisingly modern airport. Large glass partitions and glossy floors and stressed-out travelers staring at departure screens. Aeroporti Ndërkombëtar i Tiranës Nënë Tereza. The rental car was prebooked, and within a half hour he was driving north on newly laid asphalt, a highway that hadn’t existed the first and only other time he’d visited this country, many years ago and on a very different mission. And for just a moment—the kind that cuts into chest and gut, which transports a person back in time—he missed it. Being on his own. In his own reality with no right and wrong. No consequences. Back then when the bus left from Belgrade or Tirana, and he bought ten automatic rifles at a time. Just a little hustle—fifteen hundred kronor for the guns, plus five hundred to the bus driver for a bag that sat among other bags—no risk involved, all profit. The few times the bus got stopped, the driver, of course, didn’t have a clue whose bag that was. Transports twice a week, and the shit made it through every time.

  He sighed. Life looked different now.

  Because he wanted it to—being with Zofia and the children won out every time against those small highs.

  And it wasn’t just him. Weapons smuggling had changed too. Piet Hoffmann might not indulge anymore, but he knew because he got regular offers of just this once and easy money. The principle was of course the same—most illegal weapons started out legal. It was the Swedish customers who had changed. Now every teenager in every shitty neighborhood wanted to carry a piece. So to keep prices up the people who import weapons have to hold on to them for a while, sometimes even choose who gets to buy it. While more established groups, like Hells Angels and Bandidos, never turned to the open market, but instead structured their supply around hangers-on who were trying to prove their worth. And from the Balkans to Denmark, it was easy. On the other hand, the last bit could be a little dicey, crossing the bridge into Sweden. So now it was all about these small delivery services that seemed to multiply daily. Delivery companies with two cars, two employees, an office in Warsaw and one in Sofia, apartments where people dropped off what they wanted transported to Sweden, companies that were run like normal shipping firms and, just like the bus drivers he’d used, never exposed themselves to risk. The delivery firms that drove the goods from point A to B weren’t responsible for the customs paperwork, so if they got pulled over it was never their fault—their task was just to pick up and drop off. The declaration of contents was created outside Sweden’s borders, somewhere in the EU where signatures could be bought, then were never checked again.