She had never taken the ferry from Slagsta before – a yellow car ferry sailing from Skärholmen to Ekerö. The boat slowly crossed the strait to the sound of gulls and lapping waves, as if it were in its own small bubble far from the big city and the hustle and bustle despite the E4 motorway and a string of concreted suburbs being in direct proximity.
It was almost three o’clock. Sara had left Torpa at half past eleven. By now she was a couple of hours late, but she hoped that her colleagues would think she had been out in the line of duty. And she had, in one sense. The crossing on the ferry only took ten minutes, but it felt as if time was standing still while the ship was out there on the water. Her arms and back were feeling the seven hours spent behind the wheel, but now she could at least let her brain rest a little. Reset for her actual job.
There were men fishing off the ferry pier on either side of the strait, men of all ages, most from immigrant backgrounds, residents from Fittja and Skärholmen and the other nearby suburbs, she assumed. Did they know what had almost been dumped in the lake they were fishing in? Perhaps there were corpses all over the place in Lake Mälaren. Perhaps the fish those men were reeling in lived on human bodies slowly disintegrating on the bottom of the lake. Would they have fished just as eagerly if they had known about it?
Sara thought about the notorious serial killer known as the Laser Man, who had been caught during her youth largely thanks to an angler reeling in a revolver that the Laser Man had thrown into the water off the Lidingöbron bridge. And sometimes it felt as if her own job worked in the same way: aimless fishing that very rarely and only with a big dose of luck ever led to the arrest of someone. But the whole business with the East German spy ring had actually proved the opposite to be true. In that case, it had been Sara’s stubbornness and focus that had led to a solution.
These ferries might not exist soon, if and when the new tunnel bypass project came to fruition. The tunnels would emerge in the middle of beautiful, rural Ekerö. They were fully occupied blasting and digging and had been for several years, careless pillage taking place with the consent of the politicians, wounds being torn open in the idyllic landscape like the blow of an axe striking into the bark of a beautiful tree. The parties responsible would surely be remembered, but not in the way they thought. The worst thing was that the guilty would never be held accountable. It was inconceivable to Sara. She had spent her entire working life hunting down crooks and would happily have taken on those bad guys too.
Back to the present. Bielke, charged with leading the preliminary investigation, was out at Ekerö with the diving team. Residents in nearby Kolbotten had testified that the boat the dead men had been carrying keys for had been tied up there for at least six months and used occasionally by men who had driven in using the private road and parked their big SUVs on the patch of gravel. Someone had also seen the boat moored in one place on the water on one occasion, which was why Bielke was now supervising the dive searching for other bodies.
‘You’re late.’
Axel Bielke looked her right in the eyes, the way he always did when talking to someone. It was a firm, penetrating gaze from eyes that never seemed to blink. It was hard to guess his age. He was grey-haired with a furrowed face, but straight-backed and athletic, which made him seem more youthful than most of his subordinate younger colleagues. Nevertheless, he had to be in excess of sixty, Sara guessed. But he was handsome – still very much an alpha male. He was always elegantly turned out, regardless of whether he was wearing a suit or jeans and a polo and short-haired, fit, almost military in appearance. An active manager who was prepared to listen, but who demanded obedience when issuing orders. Sara contemplated whether he felt threatened by the younger personnel, challenged for his role as the lead male. But if he was, he didn’t give that impression.
Sara tried to produce an apologetic smile, but it felt more akin to a grimace.
‘Yes, sorry about that. I had to sort something out.’
Bielke suddenly scrutinised her with even greater intensity.
‘I hope you weren’t getting involved in another case.’
‘No.’ Sara grew worried. Did Bielke know something? Would he continue this line of inquiry? But it didn’t seem that he did. ‘Why would there be?’
‘I’ve heard about the business with Stellan Broman. And I don’t want other cases to take you away from your job.’
‘They won’t, I promise.’
Bielke’s gaze lingered on Sara for a second, as if he was debating whether or not to believe her.
‘Good,’ he said in conclusion, before switching straight to the case in hand. ‘Poles. Jozef Koson and Adam Wiernik. Good old central European gangsters, according to Interpol. They started out as football hooligans in some of the violent groups of ultras and from there they were drawn into right-wing extremist groups and convicted repeatedly for acts of violence. These particular gentlemen had Wisla Krakow tattoos all over their bodies – it’s a club known for its violent fans and right-wing tendencies – they openly display Nazi imagery. Presumably in their old age they grew tired of drinking lager and fighting in the streets, and their rap sheet made them perfect recruitment material for some criminal gang that was looking for hitmen and foot soldiers.’
‘But Interpol didn’t know anything about that?’
‘No, the two dead men don’t seem to have drawn any attention in recent years. Perhaps because they’re no longer involved in visible acts of violence.’
‘What were they doing here?’
‘Unclear. Drugs? Unpaid debts? Market-related turf wars? Or just a paid job. Sometimes the gangs bring in outsiders to cover their tracks. Perhaps they’ve advanced to using professional contract killers. We’ll just have to hope it doesn’t mean there’s a new gangland war brewing.’
Sara squeezed her car key with her hand and it suddenly hit her.
‘Why didn’t they take the ferry?’
‘What?’
‘Why didn’t they take the ferry? Bekas lived more or less round the corner from the pier on the far side. The quickest way to get here would have been on the ferry.’
‘The ferry?’
‘From Slagsta. Norsborg. They drove via Bromma.’
‘Well, either they didn’t know where they were going to begin with, or they didn’t drive from his home address.’
‘But he was hiding out there – in the neighbourhood where he had friends he could hide with. What would have persuaded him to leave there? Alone, without his mates?’
‘Yes, that’s a good question.’
‘Have the divers found anything?’
‘It’s a big area to search. I don’t think we should set our hopes too high.’
‘Well, what do we do next then?’ Sara asked.
‘Wait for the call logs from Bekas’s mobile over the last twenty-four hours, check the phone records for the other gang members, ask his pals about Polish contacts, keep an eye on rival gangs. I’m trying to get extra manpower for surveillance work. And I think we need to talk to everyone again. These aren’t the sorts of people who usually talk to us, but perhaps we can find some small crack in the façade somewhere.’
‘OK, which one am I taking?’
‘Bielke.’
Sara hadn’t heard a ringtone or even a soft vibration, but his phone must have rung because Bielke was now speaking into his mobile. His eyes narrowed increasingly as the call continued.
‘We’re on our way,’ he said eventually, before hanging up. ‘Come on!’ he said to Sara without looking at her, running towards his car.
‘What is it?’
‘They’ve shot the leader of a rival gang.’
‘I’ll take my car.’
‘Not the ferry. Take Essingeleden. And make sure you use your blue lights.’
Sara tucked in behind Bielke doing one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour on Ekerövägen heading back towards the city, and they hit one hundred and sixty on Essingeleden heading south towards Alby.
The shot man was one George ‘Jojje’ Taylor Jr., twenty-six years of age. He hailed from Botkyrka, his father a South African and his mother from Kungsör. He was one hundred and ninety centimetres tall and strikingly big, weighing in at almost one hundred kilos, of which only a few grams were fat. He had dazzlingly white teeth, dark brown eyes and hair done in cornrows. He had been hit three times by a shooter who had been sitting on the back of a souped-up moped. Jojje had been as lucky as his attackers had been unlucky. None of the three bullets had damaged any vital organs, so he was conscious when Sara and Bielke arrived on the scene. The attackers, on the other hand, had come crashing down when they hit a traffic island. The shooter had been knocked out cold and had managed to fire a shot into the back of his driver. Given that things were more critical for the moped driver than Jojje, the first ambulance had prioritised him, while the first officers arriving on the scene had been able to arrest the shooter.
The officer in command of the first patrol to have arrived was able to inform Bielke and Sara that George Taylor Jr was the leader of a rival gang and that the shooter was the fifteen-year-old younger brother of murder victim Cesar Bekas.
‘Did your organisation kill Bekas?’ was Bielke’s first, highly direct question to Jojje. They didn’t have long before the next ambulance arrived. Gunshot wounds naturally took priority over police questioning.
‘“Organisation”? There’s no need to big us up,’ Jojje said, grinning.
‘Did you?’ Bielke said, ignoring the quip.
‘Look mate, why the hell would we?’
‘Why else would someone want to shoot you?’
‘Maybe it was some AIK nutjob? I’m a Hammarby man, innit.’ Jojje smiled again – a broad, self-confident smirk. Sara recognised the attitude from other alpha males in his world. The important thing wasn’t to be funny – it was to be cocksure.
‘What’s the quarrel over? Drugs? A girl? Divvying up the spoils?’
‘You’ve been watching too much Snabba Cash, mate. We’re not criminals, we’re businessmen. Look.’
Jojje pointed and Sara and Bielke followed his finger with their eyes.
‘Pizzeria St Tropez. That’s mine. And I’ve got another three. And a dry cleaner’s. And a convenience store. You hungry? Pop in for a pizza. Best in town. On me. Tell them I sent you. Have a “King of the World”, best bloody pizza in the whole fucking world. All the toppings. All of them. But don’t forget to tip.’
‘And why does a fifteen-year-old take three shots at a pizzeria owner?’
‘Maybe we wouldn’t sell him beer? You know how it is, we always card people.’
Jojje pressed his hand against the dressing applied to one of the gunshot wounds and grimaced with pain.
‘He’s just a kid,’ said Bielke.
‘He shoots like a kid,’ said Jojje, glancing down at his wounds and laughing.
‘The last thing we want is a new gang war,’ Bielke continued.
‘Don’t start one then.’ Jojje shrugged.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Hey, I ain’t starting no war.’
‘But you get your own back if you’re attacked?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘I’d talk to the police.’
‘You’d talk to yourself? Creepy!’
Bielke looked Taylor Jr right in the eyes.
‘Don’t seek out revenge,’ he said with emphasis.
Jojje raised his eyebrows.
‘What have I got to take revenge for? Them driving like little bitches? Look, seriously, it was no fifteen-year-old that shot me.’
‘No?’
‘No. It was a white boy in a suit. Looked like he worked in a branch of fucking Nordea. You know how it is – loads of them suit monkeys coming down here and causing a fuss. They try to launder their Baltic cash through our pizzerias. You bring the Nordea management team in for an identity parade and I reckon I’ll be able to pick him out. Or do you protect criminals?’
Bielke turned on his heel and left without saying a word. Jojje switched his attention to Sara.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Beyoncé.’
Jojje grinned.
‘Beautiful name. What’s your number?’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘You don’t want me to call you?’
‘No.’
‘What if I remember something?’ the gangster persisted.
‘I thought you didn’t talk to the cops?’
‘“You”? Which you mean? Niggas?’
‘Crooks,’ Sara said curtly.
‘I told you I ain’t no crook. I’m a businessman. I have a company and everything. I always help the police if I can. I’m a mother-in-law’s dream. What’s your number?’
‘No date.’
‘No, no, I swear. I’ll only call if I hear something, mate.’
Sara gave Jojje her number and wondered whether it was flattering or insulting to be referred to as mate by him.
‘Or if you ever want to try out my pizzeria some time?’ he said, looking deep into Sara’s eyes with a meaningful smile.
‘Listen, Mr Horndog. I’m twenty years older than you.’
‘Twenty? Pfft. Why so focused on numbers? You an accountant or something?’
‘No, and I wasn’t born yesterday either.’
‘The fact that you ain’t no bimbo with no clue about what she wants turns me on. I’ve had hundreds of them, innit. “Is this what I should do?” “How do you want me?” Boring.’
‘And you’re boring to me.’
The second ambulance arrived and two paramedics got out and unfolded a trolley that they helped George Taylor Jr onto. But before they rolled him away, he raised a hand to stop them and he smiled at Sara again.
‘You have no idea what a kick I’d get outta pulling you. Like trapping a lion.’
‘Is that how you see me? As quarry?’
‘Yes. You like it?’
‘Not one fucking bit. Lucky for you that you didn’t say “catching a whopper of a pike” at least.’
Sara turned around and left. The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance while George watched Sara departing, his expression confused.
‘What’s a pike?’