First week of June. For several weeks the people of Stockholm have been waking up much too early. The sun rises at three thirty a.m. and remains bright almost the entire night. The weather has been unusually warm. The exuberant bird cherries and lilacs bloomed at the same time. Dense sprays of buds spread their aroma from Kronoberg Park all the way to the entrance of the National Police Board headquarters.
The National Police Board, Sweden’s only centrally operating police organisation, is responsible for combating serious crime at both a national and international level.
The head of the National Criminal Investigation Department, Carlos Eliasson, is standing by the low window on the fifth floor scanning the view over Kronoberg Park while pressing the phone to his ear and dialling Joona Linna’s number. Once again, he hears his call connect to voicemail. He sets the phone down and glances at the clock.
Next door, a tired voice tries to deal with a European arrest warrant and the Schengen Information System.
Petter Näslund enters Carlos’s office and, clearing his throat carefully, leans against a streamer that declares: WE MONITOR, MARK THE SPOT, AND DISTURB.
“Pollock and his guys will be here soon,” Petter says.
“I can tell the time,” says Carlos.
“The sandwiches are ready,” Petter says.
Carlos suppresses a smile and asks, “Have you heard they’re recruiting?”
Petter’s face turns red as he looks at the floor, collects his thoughts, and looks up again. “I would … Can you think of anyone better who would work well in the National Homicide Squad?”
There are five experts who make up the National Homicide Squad. The Commission, as they’re known, works systematically using a methodology known by its initials, PIGC, Police Investigation of Grave Criminality. The burden they carry is enormous. They are in such demand, they barely have time to get to the police station for a meeting.
The paradise fish in Carlos’s aquarium calmly make their turns. As he reaches for fish food, the phone rings.
“They’re on the way up,” says Magnus in reception.
Carlos tries one last time to reach Joona Linna by phone, then gets up, checks himself quickly in the mirror, and goes to welcome his guests. Just as he reaches the lift, the doors soundlessly slide open. Seeing the entire Commission together makes an image flash in his mind: a Rolling Stones concert he attended a few years back with some of his colleagues. The band on the stage looked like relaxed businessmen, and just like the National Homicide Squad, they were all dressed in dark suits and ties.
Nathan Pollock steps out first, his distinctive silver hair in a ponytail. Following him is Erik Eriksson. He likes glasses decorated with diamonds, hence the nickname ‘Elton.’ Behind him saunters Niklas Dent, next to P. G. Bondesson, and walking behind all of them is Tommy Kofoed. Kofoed is the forensic technician. He’s hunchbacked, and stares sullenly at the ground.
Carlos shows them to the meeting room, where Operating Commander Benny Rubin is already sitting at the round table, waiting for them, a cup of coffee before him. Tommy Kofoed takes an apple from the fruit basket and bites it loudly. Nathan Pollock looks at him with a smile and shakes his head slightly. Kofoed stops right in the middle of a chew.
“Welcome,” Carlos begins. “It’s good we can get together. There are several serious issues on the agenda.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Joona Linna?” asks Tommy Kofoed.
“Well …” drawls Carlos.
“That man does just what he pleases,” Pollock says quietly.
“Hey, come on now,” Tommy Kofoed says defensively. “Give the man his due. The Tumba murders last year? He had them all figured out and I still don’t know how he did it.”
“Against all fucking logic,” Elton says with a smile.
“I’d say I’m fairly well versed in forensics,” Tommy Kofoed continues, “but Joona walked in, took a look at the blood spatters … He knew right away when each murder had occurred … Amazing …”
“It’s true, it’s true. He could see the whole picture,” Pollock says. “The degree of violence, the level of force, the stress level, how the footprints found in the apartment lagged more, which showed more exhaustion than those in the locker room.”
“Fucking awesome,” Tommy Kofoed mutters.
Carlos clears his throat, returns to his informal agenda.
“The Coast Guard called this morning,” he tells them. “An old fisherman found a dead woman.”
“In his nets?”
“No, he saw a large motorboat drifting with the current near Dalarö. He rowed out, boarded the vessel, and found her sitting on her berth in the fore.”
“That doesn’t sound like something for us,” Petter Näslund says, and smiles.
“Was she murdered?” asks Pollock.
“Probably a suicide,” answers Petter quickly.
“There’s no need to make snap judgments,” Carlos says as he helps himself to a slice of cake. “But I wanted to bring it up.”
“Anything else?”
“We had a request from the police in West Götaland,” Carlos says. “The form is on the table.”
“I won’t be able to take it on,” Pollock says.
“I know how busy you are,” Carlos says, slowly sweeping crumbs from the table. “Let’s skip to the other end of the agenda: recruiting someone for the NHS.”
Benny Rubin looks around with a sharp glance and explains that the leadership is aware of the heavy workload, and they therefore, as a first step, have allocated funds for expanding the Commission by one full-time position.
“What does everyone think?” Carlos asks.
“Shouldn’t Joona Linna be here?” asks Tommy Kofoed. He leans forwards and takes one of the wrapped sandwiches.
“I’m not sure he’ll make it,” Carlos says.
“What about a bite before we get into this?” says Elton, reaching for the tray.
Tommy Kofoed methodically unwraps the plastic from his salmon sandwich, peels back the bread, plucks off a sprig of dill, squeezes lemon juice over the salmon, and reassembles his sandwich.
Suddenly the door to the meeting room swings open and Joona Linna steps in. His short-cut blond hair stands straight up.
“Syö tilli, pojat,” he says in Finnish.
“That’s right!” Nathan Pollock laughs. “Eat your dill, boys!”
Nathan and Joona grin at each other. Tommy Kofoed’s cheeks turn red and he shakes his head with a smile.
“Tilli.” Nathan Pollock repeats the Finnish word and laughs out loud as Joona walks past Tommy and sticks the dill back onto his sandwich.
“Let’s get back to the meeting,” says Petter.
Joona shakes hands with Nathan, then takes an empty chair, slinging his black jacket over the back as he sits down.
“Please pardon my being late,” he says.
“Let me welcome you as a guest of this meeting,” says Carlos. “We were just bringing up recruiting. I believe I’ll hand the floor over to Nathan.”
“All right, and I want everyone to know that I’m not alone in this,” Nathan Pollock begins. “Rather … we’re all in agreement. Joona, we’re hoping that you’ll come on board with us.”
The room falls silent. Niklas Dent and Erik Eriksson nod. Petter Näslund is a dark silhouette in the backlight.
“We’d really like to have you,” Tommy Kofoed ventures.
“I appreciate the offer,” Joona answers as he runs his hand over his hair. “You’re hardworking guys, and you’ve proved your mettle. I respect your work …”
Everyone around the table smiles.
“But as for me … I just can’t be tied down to your strict methodology. To any strict method of investigation,” he explains.
“We know, we understand,” Kofoed says quickly. “The way we work is a little rigid, but it’s shown …”
Kofoed falls silent.
“We just wanted to ask,” says Nathan Pollock.
“It’s just not the way I work,” Joona explains.
To a man, they look down at the table; someone nods. Joona’s mobile phone rings and he excuses himself to answer it. He stands up from the table and leaves the room. A minute later he returns and slides his jacket off the chair.
“Sorry. I would like to stay, but—”
“Something serious?” asks Carlos.
“That was John Bengtsson from Routine Patrol,” Joona says. “He’s just found Carl Palmcrona.”
“Found?” asks Carlos.
“Hanged,” Joona answers. His eyes gleam like grey glass.
“Who is Palmcrona?” asks Nathan Pollock. “I can’t place the name.”
“He’s the general director for ISP,” Tommy Kofoed says quickly. “He makes the final decisions on Swedish arms exports.”
“Isn’t everything at ISP classified?” asks Carlos.
“True,” Kofoed answers.
“So let the guys at Säpo take it.”
“I’ve just promised Bengtsson I’d come in person,” Joona answers. “There’s something not quite right about the scene.”
“What?” Carlos asks.
“He said … well, I really have to see it myself.”
“Sounds interesting,” Tommy Kofoed says. “Can I come?”
“If you want,” Joona answers.
“I’ll come, too, then,” Pollock says swiftly.
Carlos tries to remind them about the meeting in progress but sees it is pointless as the three men get up and walk out into the cool hallway.