A sense of calm had pervaded the room. Which was odd given the brutal events that had brought them all there. Perhaps the dead had found peace? That, at any rate, was Anna’s theory. Sara chose not to comment.
White tiles surrounded them and strong lighting shone down on the stainless steel benches that held the naked bodies. Had any of the deceased imagined that they would end up lying here today, cut up, their organs removed, examined as objects? No longer people, simply evidence in the investigation of a crime. Had they sensed what awaited them?
The four corpses were all badly wounded, two of them very seriously.
The divers were continuing their work in Lake Mälaren, but the four bodies that had been found to date were those of two men and two women with crushing injuries, burns, stab wounds and other penetrative injuries. One man’s throat had been cut. Both women had been subjected to serious sexual violence. They were young, naked and seemingly of non-Scandinavian origin. They had tattoos and cheap jewellery in the form of rings, earrings and ankle bracelets. One of them had long, manicured fake nails, while the other’s nails were worn and bitten short. One man was middle-aged, of northern European appearance and slightly overweight, wearing a Brioni suit and Johnston & Murphy shoes. He had cufflinks but no wristwatch. The other man was around sixty-five at a guess, tall with blue eyes and white hair around a bald crown. He appeared to have been in good physical shape, with the exception of a scar left by a presumed heart operation. What connected the four? More than the fact that they had met with a violent death before being dumped in a lake in close proximity to each other . . .
‘Not typical victims of gang conflict,’ Sara noted, taking a step back. It was almost as if the contrast between the gleaming surfaces and the dead bodies reinforced the smell of decomposition. Odd.
‘What the hell is it all about in that case?’ said Anna.
‘Not a clue. Someone murdering people at random?’
‘Almost looks that way. I’ll check reported missing persons matching these descriptions.’
‘Fifty kronor says no one has reported the girls missing,’ said Sara.
‘I won’t take that bet. Will you do dental photos?’
The forensics staff confirmed they would take photos and email them as soon as possible. Sara and Anna checked the belongings of the dead, which in this case were comprised solely of rings and jewellery, double hearing aids for the older man and a Dupont cigarette case from the besuited man’s inside pocket. No wallets and no money, but robbery was hardly the cause of these murders.
When Sara’s mobile rang, she went into the corridor to answer, whether out of respect for the deceased or to avoid disturbing the forensics team she wasn’t sure.
‘Sara Nowak.’
‘Hi, it’s Herman Cederqvist, Linköping police. Look, those names you gave us, and the thing about the money . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘We checked up on the priest’s accounts. And the bank were very cooperative. I’m not sure that the clerk was really allowed to give us the information – maybe she likes cops. You get to find after a while that there are some people who really want to help, and then there are those who totally refuse. Wouldn’t talk to the police if their own mother was on fire. Well, what am I saying? I mean, if their—’
‘What did the bank say?’ Sara interrupted a little brusquely, hoping that Cederqvist wouldn’t be offended.
‘Well, it was quite interesting, actually. Stiller had recently received three deposits of exactly one hundred thousand apiece. From three different depositors.’
‘Three? Not four?’
‘No, so I suppose it might not add up, or perhaps one of the four didn’t pay, because he didn’t have time or didn’t want to.’
Sara wondered whether to share Hedin’s theory that Stiller had been murdered with Cederqvist, but she decided to keep that to herself. While they hadn’t yet launched a murder inquiry down there, she was technically in the clear when it came to not getting involved in someone else’s investigation if she kept digging. And after all, she didn’t think the murderer was still in Östergötland. Cederqvist cleared his throat following what was, for him, an unusual silence.
‘So, as I said, we’ve got three names—’
‘Let me guess? Three out of these four: Hans Gerlach, Stefan Kremp, Otto Rau, Marita Werner?’
‘No, not at all. Well, not and not. The three names the bank gave us were Bo Enberg, Günther Dorch and Marita Leander. So at least one of those first names was right: Marita.’
‘Günther Dorch?’ Sara repeated. The name was familiar. Where did she recognise it from? ‘And these three people paid a hundred thousand each?’ she continued.
‘Exactly.’
‘And the bank clerk was sure about the names?’
‘Oh yes. Whether she was really allowed to help us I don’t know, but it was the savings bank down in Ydre, and my wife’s parents are from Asby, so they know who I am around there and perhaps they’re up for helping people they know. And what with one of their customers dying in such tragic circumstances, well, I don’t know—’
‘Did you get addresses for the trio?’
‘No, she wasn’t able to see that information. But she was able to determine which bank accounts the funds had come from. I think there were two in Stockholm and one in Gävle.’
He gave Sara the details, and she thanked him for the information and hung up. She promised herself that if she found anything that had a direct impact on Stiller’s death, she would pass it on to Cederqvist.
There was only one Bo Enberg in Gävle the same age as Stiller. There was only one Günther Dorch in Stockholm, and the same applied to Marita Leander, so Sara assumed they were the right people. None of them had a police criminal record, and using Google, LinkedIn and the online phone book, she was able to determine that all of them appeared to be retired. Bo Enberg had previously been a lecturer in political science and had headed up a number of major inquiries on behalf of parliament. Marita Leander had been a journalist at Radio Sweden, as well as both of the broadsheets, and now had a column on balcony gardening published in a pensioners’ magazine. Günther Dorch had worked for many years at Saab and had been an active trade unionist.
And now she remembered where she had seen Günther Dorch’s name before. It had been amongst those who had been affected by Geiger’s reports to the Stasi about East German refugees. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it when Sara had called, which she had interpreted to mean the memories were too painful. But there was perhaps an altogether different explanation. Why would a dissident pay money to a spy, or an informal collaborator – an IM as they were known? She couldn’t figure out the logic as far as Dorch went, but she thought paying him a visit might help set her on the right track. She found mobile numbers for all three of them online, but resolved to speak with Hedin first.
‘I’ve got three names,’ she said, when the old woman answered. ‘Are you at home?’
‘No, I’m out for a walk. And I don’t need any names from you. You’ve got some names from me, that’s more than enough.’
‘I need to brainstorm with you. Where are you?’
‘Ringvägen.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘The crossroads with Södermannagatan, but I’m on the move.’
‘Just keep going on Ringvägen and I’ll find you.’
Sara drove across to Södermalm through the tunnel and took a right to the end of Ringvägen, where she did a U-turn before slowly driving along the street, keeping a lookout for Hedin.
She caught sight of the familiar figure outside the Ringen shopping centre and pulled over by the kerb, despite the fact that it was a bus stop. Hedin threw something in a bin and turned around when Sara honked at her. She waved to Hedin to jump in but it took the academic a while to understand what Sara meant and in the meantime a bus pulled up behind her car and honked at the moron who had stopped at the bus stop. Shrugging, Sara switched on her blue lights. Then she wound down the passenger-side window and shouted to Hedin:
‘Get in!’
Hedin looked at Sara, turned around and stared into the bin before sauntering over and getting into the car. Her plastic carrier bag rattled as she got in: the sound of empty cans.
‘You off to return your empties?’ said Sara.
‘Yes, once I’ve collected enough.’
Sara digested her answer for a moment.
‘You’re collecting empty cans?’
‘Yes, you wouldn’t believe what people throw away. Money in can form.’
‘But I . . .’ Sara didn’t know what to say. She had seen people who had seemed to be neither beggars nor homeless collecting cans, but had assumed they were a mixture of weirdos and poverty-stricken pensioners. Hedin was perhaps a bit of both.
‘What were those names you wanted to tell me about? Is this to do with Stellan Broman?’
‘Yes. Because it’s to do with Jürgen Stiller.’
‘And?’
Hedin kept her gaze fixed on the pavement as they drove down Ringvägen past Tanto and towards Zinkensdamm, probably keeping an eye out for more deposit cans. Like a buzzard on the hunt for field voles, thought Sara.
‘Bo Enberg, Günther Dorch and Marita Leander,’ said Sara.
‘Who are they?’
‘Three people who paid money to Stiller. One hundred thousand each. So I assume those are the former terrorists’ new names. But if they’re false identities then it should be easy to unmask them.’
‘Drive back to Tanto,’ said Hedin when they reached Hornsgatan. Sara did a U-turn when the lights turned green and three other motorists honked at her. But she wanted to stay in Hedin’s good books.
‘Drive down towards the youth hostel. Along Zinkens väg.’
Sara indicated right and turned down the narrow road that ran down towards the large open expanse of the Tantolunden park.
‘Haven’t you read my books?’ Hedin asked when she stopped at the end of the road.
‘Yes . . .’ Sara said slowly. ‘Well, skimmed them. I was kind of busy for a while, if you remember.’
‘You only have to read the tabloids, if you feel more comfortable with that. Aftonbladet picked up on stuff from my books about the priest, Stiller, and how he had been involved in the production of fake IDs for spies and illegals from the eastern bloc. Given them new identities.’
Agneta Broman too, Sara remembered. What a fool she had been not to think of that connection sooner.
‘What? So Gerlach and the others . . .’
Instead of answering, the academic opened the car door and began to stroll towards the grassy expanse. Sara folded down the sun shade so that the police emblem on the back was visible. She left the car in the turning circle and hurried after Hedin, who was peering in bins and at the ground.
‘So Gerlach and the others have completely watertight new names?’ said Sara when she had caught up.
‘Can I have this?’ Hedin said to a family picnicking on a tartan blanket, pointing to an empty beer can lying on the ground beside them. The father, a bearded wannabe hipster, made a waving gesture that she clearly regarded as affirmative.
After a few minutes, Hedin noticed that Sara was following her, so she stopped for a brief moment before continuing to plough across the grass.
‘Not just new names. New identities. The anti-terrorism legislation introduced in 1973 meant that foreign citizens who were considered to pose a risk to national security could be deported without being suspected of any crime.’
‘But as Swedish citizens they were protected from that?’
‘Exactly. With a little help from a priest and an absolutely genuine birth certificate, they were home and dry – impossible to trace. They could live quite openly in Swedish society without any risk of being discovered. This was back before the Tax Agency took over the population register. No one ever doubted church-issued papers, and if they had done so then Stiller would have been able to personally testify that they were genuine.’
‘Why did they come to Sweden in particular then? Was it to do something here, or just to keep out of the way?’
Hedin shrugged, seemingly uninterested by the question. Sara thought for a moment.
‘And given that they paid using Swedish bank accounts, they must still be in the country. But why?’
‘Perhaps they haven’t dared go home. Out of fear of being recognised. Their crimes aren’t subject to statutes of limitations, and with facial recognition technology these days they’re probably worried. Either that or the comfort factor.’
‘Comfort?’
‘Yes, they may simply have made new lives for themselves here that they’re happy with. Married, had children. Found their dream home. My God, how stupid!’
Hedin had come to a halt. She fished a crumpled energy drink can off the ground and tried to smooth it out.
‘So the money they paid to Stiller . . . ?’
‘Well, who knows? Funding for a new operation years and years after the fact? Maybe as revenge for Geiger’s plans being stopped?’
‘Or extortion?’
‘Yes. Stiller undeniably knew some serious details about them all. But on the other hand, they knew something about him too.’
‘But you had already blown his identity.’
‘Yes. True. Anything is possible, I suppose,’ said the researcher, looking at the now-smoothed-out can with satisfaction.
‘Do you really think that one of them killed him? They must all be over seventy by now.’
‘Former terrorists schooled by the Stasi, trained by the PFLP, with blood on their hands and everything to lose – yes, I think it was one of them. Or someone they reported to.’
‘Stasi?’
‘Yes, they were decidedly active sponsors of western terrorism.’
Sara took all of this in. It might add up. But how to determine which cover name belonged to which terrorist?
‘The one with the woman’s name is presumably a match,’ said Hedin when Sara asked. ‘And at a guess, Marita Werner is Lorelei. The Stasi sometimes gave their operatives code names that were from a different gender, but usually not. But it’s hard to know who’s who out of the others.’
‘And who the fourth one is – the one that hasn’t paid.’
‘I suppose you’ll have to ask them.’