THEY FACED EACH OTHER ACROSS the table, palpably irritated. Half an hour had gone by. The suspect’s sullen responses weren’t exactly conducive to a congenial conversation.
Seated in the interview room were the detective inspectors, a thirty two year old male suspect and his female lawyer. Although the young man had once again declined the offer of a defence lawyer, this time Sanna had insisted.
Sanna sighed and leaned back in the chair with her hands clasped behind her neck. The suspect refused to let his lawyer speak, even thought she was there to protect his best interests.
Javier stared at the man. “You may as well tell us why you did it. We’ve gone through all your phone calls with him and know that you threatened to kill Berg. You must have been livid when you found out that he was your wife’s lover.”
The suspect closed his eyes and adjusted his glasses. “Yes, I admit that I threatened him. But it would have been crazy to actually go through with it. She’s not worth it. I got divorced instead. I have no intention of ending up in prison because of her.” He pressed his sinewy frame against the back of the chair and then shifted position again almost immediately. His legs were so long it was hard to find a comfortable position.
He could easily lift Berg onto a bed without too much effort, thought Sanna.
“When did you last see Konrad Berg?” she asked.
“I’ve never met him!” he protested, glaring threateningly at her with his piggish blue eyes. “How many times do I have to repeat myself? You cops just don’t get it, do you?”
“You have no case against my client,” said the lawyer. “I demand you release him immediately!”
The thirty-two year old suspect looked at his lawyer but made no attempt to argue.
“No,” said Sanna. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it. How many times do we have to keep telling you that we have witnesses to back us up? You can’t continue to deny everything. All you’re doing is making your situation worse.”
“The more you lie the more suspicious we get,” added Javier.
The suspect leaned back and crossed his arms.
“That’s it for now, but make sure you stay in Stockholm. We haven’t ruled you out of our enquiries,” instructed Sanna, looking first at him, then at the lawyer.
THEY EMPTIED THE BANANA BOXES one by one and sifted carefully through the contents.
“Aron Alvik certainly liked to collect mementos,” said Monica Lind wearily.
“That’s for sure,” said Kalle. “There’s a lot to go through, but so far it seems as if the stuff we found on the first day is much more interesting. These are just old, nostalgic photos of the group.”
Monica Lind looked at him in disbelief.
“Look, here’s a photo of Aron Alvik, Konrad Berg and another man. We need to find out from Alvik who this other man is.”
SANNA JOHANSSON WAS ENGROSSED reading a case file when Samir Mohamed knocked gently on the door. He entered and placed a post-it note on the table.
“We’ve got a few tips and a couple of people claiming responsibility for the murders,” he smiled.
“Hmm,” mumbled Sanna.
“About five minutes ago we received a potentially interesting call from a bus driver who saw a woman coming out of the house on Ingarö.”
“What’s his name?” asked Sanna with sudden enthusiasm.
“Markström… Jonas Markström. I have his mobile number.”
“Good, ask him to come here tomorrow – preferably in the morning.”
Mohamed nodded and left the room.
IT WAS NINE THIRTY IN THE evening and Javier was craning his neck to get a better view of the two people standing outside a restaurant on Södermalm. The wind and heavy rain had subsided but water continued to stream down the window screen, obscuring his view. Javier pointed the lens of his camera at the woman and her male companion – a well-built man with shaved head and a prominent tattoo on his left arm. Nina Jay was as statuesque as he remembered. Today she was dressed in black leather motorcycle gear, which accentuated her female form. Javier took more photos and waited.
Suddenly, a Harley Davidson spun around and screeched to a halt in front of the couple. The driver tucked his helmet under his arm and handed Nina Jay a large envelope.
They exchanged a few words.
“Damn!” mumbled Javier in irritation. He couldn’t hear what they said, but the exchange didn’t seem friendly.
Javier aimed his camera and clicked away eagerly at the dispatcher and his bike. He studied the images. He had managed to get a shot of the man’s profile just before he put his helmet on and drove off but the vehicle registration number was obscured in the darkness.
”Bloody hell!” he growled.
A few minutes later the pair continued towards the restaurant. Javier decided not to follow them.