MemoRandom Page 13

  The last time he had met Bakshi, he had been a slimy little rat who scuttled along close to walls. Now he had been upgraded and cleaned up. A silk shirt, not tucked into his designer jeans, his hair greased and combed back, and his pale pink hairline had to be several inches closer to his brow than before. Bakshi evidently noticed him looking.

  “Nice, eh?” He pointed to his hair. “Had it done a month ago. They take hairs from your neck, roots and all, and transplant them into tiny holes in your forehead, one at a time. Hurt like hell and cost a fortune. But it was worth it. The girls love it.” He grinned at Atif, but he didn’t smile back. The two men stared at each other.

  “Jesus, it’s been a while, Ati,” Bakshi said, thumbing the screen of his cell phone again. The screen was locked, but Bakshi tapped in the code almost without looking. “How long has it been, six, seven years?”

  “Something like that,” Atif said.

  “Fuck, time flies, man. Back then I was just small-time. A bit of a difference now, eh?” Bakshi gestured toward the overfurnished apartment. “I run a couple of beauty parlors: nails, bikini waxing, spray tanning, the whole works. I’ve got sixteen Thai girls working for me, and there’s more on the way. Thai girls are clever, hardworking. No Swedes, too much like hard work, you know?” Bakshi grinned, and his fingers reached toward his phone again.

  But you’re still a little shit with big ears and an even bigger mouth, Atif thought.

  “So, what can I do for you, Atif?” Bakshi repeated the trick with his phone a third time as he leaned back into the sofa. He adjusted his position slightly before spreading his legs, as if something was pressing against the small of his back. Knife or pistol, Atif thought. Probably the latter. One way of greeting an old friend. And probably the reason why it had taken him a while to open the door.

  “Adnan,” Atif said bluntly. “I want to know who ratted on him.”

  Bakshi pulled a face. “Yeah, awful, what happened to your brother.” He scratched his head with exaggerated caution.

  “But as far as I know, the boys were just unlucky. They ran into some plainclothes cops.” He smiled, trying to look like he was being completely honest. He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Atif.

  “Who talked?” Atif asked again. His voice harsher this time. “Who’s Janus?”

  He could see the cogs turning in Bakshi’s head. He was still fiddling with his cell phone, although he hardly seemed aware he was doing it. His fingers were tapping the code almost of their own accord, like a tic: 2558.

  “Janus is a ghost,” Bakshi said. “Everyone’s scared of him, no one even likes saying his name out loud. A lot of people have been put away because of him, and he’s probably sent a few to their graves as well.”

  “Adnan?” Atif wondered.

  “That’s one of the rumors,” Bakshi said. “But I don’t know any more than anyone else.”

  “So what do you know about Janus?”

  Bakshi revealed his freshly whitened teeth again. “Janus has a price on his head. If I knew anything about him, I’d have said so long ago. And bought a house in Thailand, where it’s always summer.”

  Bakshi paused, evidently detecting that Atif didn’t believe him. He changed strategy and went on the offensive instead.

  “Anyway, what makes you think you can just march into my home and start asking a load of questions, just like that? You clearly have no idea who I work for! The last things I heard about you really weren’t very flattering. You fell out with Sasha and fled abroad with your tail between your legs.”

  Bakshi grabbed the pack of cigarettes that was lying next to his phone, tapped out a Marlboro, and lit it. He took a couple of deep drags, blowing the smoke out toward Atif as his other hand went back to fiddling with his cell phone.

  “Everyone said you’d changed, that you’d lost your edge. Even your little brother joined in.” The man was staring at him, waiting for his reaction.

  Atif got up slowly from the armchair. Bakshi was on his feet fast. He dropped the cigarette on the table and fumbled at the small of his back with his other hand. His put-on self-confidence crumbled and fear oozed from every pore.

  “I see. Sorry you weren’t able to help me, but thanks for your time.” Atif stood there looking at the little man. He waited until Bakshi began to grin uncertainly before calmly walking toward the door.

  “No problem, sorry I couldn’t help,” Bakshi said nonchalantly as Atif pulled on his coat and boots. “But you know how it is. Times have changed.”

  “Yes, so they say.”

  Atif left the apartment and walked down the stairs. He heard Bakshi lock the door behind him. He glanced at his watch and stood for a while in the hallway. Outside the door a little orange tractor was busy clearing the snow from the pavement.

  Atif thought about his house, and the fragrant old mulberry tree in the back garden. He shut his eyes and tried to imagine the starry sky above him, but didn’t really succeed. Precisely ten minutes later he went back up to the apartment and rang the doorbell.

  “Sorry, forgot my hat. My ears are cold as hell,” he muttered when Bakshi opened the door in some surprise.

  “Sure.” He turned around to check the hat rack and Atif took the chance to slip into the hall. The hairless cat was sitting in the middle of the marble floor next to its food bowl, licking its paws. When it noticed Atif it looked up, curled its top lip slightly, and showed its teeth.

  Atif took two quick strides, grabbed the cat by the back of the neck, and held it up in the air. The animal spat and stuck its claws out.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” Bakshi said behind his back. Atif turned around.

  “Now, listen very carefully, Bakshi. This cat is considerably smarter than you are.” Atif could tell his voice had changed and had a completely different resonance now.

  “W-what? What the hell are you talking about?” Bakshi looked confused. One hand was fumbling behind his back again.

  “Do you know what sets cats apart from other hunters, Bakshi?” Atif didn’t wait for an answer and lowered the cat until it was level with his face.

  The animal was still hissing, trying in vain to reach him with its razor-sharp claws.

  “Catch!” He threw the cat right in Bakshi’s face. The man raised his hands in reflex. But not fast enough. The animal clawed frantically for a foothold, digging its claws into Bakshi’s face and pink hairline. The man howled with pain but fell silent instantly when Atif kicked him in the groin.

  Bakshi collapsed and ended up lying in a fetal position on the shiny hall floor. One foot was twitching spasmodically. Atif leaned over him and pulled out the pistol that was tucked into the waistband of his trousers. A rusty old Zastava with duct tape wrapped around its handle, probably an import from the Balkans. There had to be at least a twenty percent chance that it would explode in your hand if you fired it. Atif pulled out the cartridge, then slid the gun away across the floor. Then he discovered a clip sticking out of one of Bakshi’s trouser pockets and fished out a dangerous-looking switchblade. A pistol and a knife. It was no wonder that the little rat dared to be a bit cocky.

  “You see, Bakshi,” he said, standing astride him, “sometimes cats kill just for the fun of it, because they enjoy it. Same thing with some people.”

  He grabbed hold of Bakshi’s thin hair and opened the long, curved blade.

  “That’s just how they are. It’s in their nature.”

  He shook the man’s head, waiting for him to come around. But instead Bakshi started shaking. His eyes were rolling, his jaw cramping. Shit! He’d seen it happen a couple of times before. Perfectly healthy people who suffer severe pain or shock could end up having something like an epileptic fit. Atif let Bakshi’s head drop to the floor. He used his pink shirt to wipe the blood and strands of hair from his fingers. He watched for a few seconds as the attack got steadily worse and Bakshi’s body began bouncing about on the marble floor. Then he went back into the living room.

  The cell phone was in the s
ame place as before. He tapped in the number 2558 and looked up the most recently called numbers. If Bakshi knew anything about Adnan’s death, he was bound to have called his contact and told him about Atif’s visit, boasting about how he had coolly stared down Adnan’s big brother. How tough he’d been when it came to protecting their secret.

  The number at the top of the list belonged to someone Bakshi had named E.J. He had called the number just three minutes ago. In fact, Bakshi had tried to call the same number several times in a row during the past ten minutes. When Atif pressed Redial, he realized why.

  “Hello, you have reached Erik Johansson’s cell phone, please leave your name and number . . .”

  So E.J. was Erik Johansson. Sounded like a perfectly ordinary guy.

  Atif scrolled through the address book and soon realized that almost all the contacts were listed by their initials. None of them meant anything to him. So he had a look at Bakshi’s e-mails instead and read the last few messages. Most of them were from various women and were about practical matters concerning the beauty parlors. But there were a couple of exchanges with different girlfriends that consisted mainly of sexual innuendo. He typed in the name Erik Johansson and got one result immediately. An e-mail sent two days ago to the address Pitbull8U.

  Yo Pasi

  Hope the girls in Patpong are looking after you Say hi from me.

  I had a bit of a look and what Erik J’s mate told you is right. False alarm, in other words, so you’re okay to come back home.

  Business as usual.

  Bfn,

  B

  Atif pulled out paper and pen from one of his coat pockets and wrote down Erik Johansson’s phone number and the address of the e-mail in which his name had cropped up. Then he deleted all traces of his activity from the cell phone, put it back on the table, and went back out into the hall.

  Bakshi was still lying on the floor. His body was still shaking, but not as violently as before. Little trickles of blood had run down over his face from his hairline, and the hairless cat was slowly and happily licking them off. The animal was so absorbed in its meal that it barely looked up when the front door closed behind Atif.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Mr. Thorning the lawyer is here to see you.”

  “Okay, thanks, Jeanette! Ask him to wait a couple of minutes, then show him in.”

  Jesper Stenberg got up from his chair, took his jacket off the coat stand behind the door, and pulled it on. Time to get this out of the way. He had already got Jeanette to cancel his last two meetings with John Thorning. Playing at power politics, to show him that their roles had switched.

  The day had started well, an interview with a lifestyle magazine about the challenge of combining life as a father, husband, and Minister of Justice. About Karolina’s duties as the supporting wife. He always felt rather guilty whenever her career was mentioned. Or rather, the career she had given up for his sake. So that he could make their dreams come true.

  Then, after the interview, a meeting with his press secretary and an update about social media. More than a hundred new followers every day, and more on the days when he posted or tweeted something. He needed to get better at that.

  After that he was straight back to the Stone Age with a meeting with the National Head of Police. He hadn’t even had to try. Old Rosengren wasn’t stupid. He had realized long ago that his term wasn’t going to be extended next year. He was already muttering about wanting to cut down on his workload. Spend more time with his grandchildren, go fishing, play a bit of golf, blah, blah, blah . . . Stenberg felt inclined to let the old man get away with it and couldn’t see any immediate advantage in leaking the fact that Rosengren was actually being given the sack. Either way, next year he would be able to appoint someone of his own choosing to the top post within the national police force. Someone who, unlike Rosengren, had what was needed.

  Well, one thing at a time. For the next half an hour, he had to concentrate on his meeting with John Thorning. His old boss and mentor seemed to have got over the tragedy of his daughter’s suicide. Time for the obligatory visit where John Thorning would tactfully imply the importance of keeping on good terms with old friends, and offer him the benefit of his knowledge, experience, and contacts.

  There was a short knock, then his secretary walked in.

  “Mr. Thorning, Minister.” She smiled and held the door open for the older man.

  “John, good to see you! How are you?” Stenberg smiled his broadest heartfelt-but-still-professional smile. All of a sudden he felt inexplicably elated.

  “Jesper. Karolina and the children are well, I hope?” The handshake was dry and firm, as always. But the expensive suit didn’t fit as well as usual. John Thorning had lost weight, fast, and not in a good way. His shirt collar was loose, revealing folds of skin, his face was gray, and there were dark bags beneath his thin, rimless glasses. His steel-gray hair could have done with a trim a few weeks ago as well. The difference from the man’s usually imposing appearance was striking.

  “Sit yourself down, John!” He gestured to one of the armchairs on the other side of the desk. “So, how are you and Margareta?” Stenberg opened, in his most sympathetic tone of voice. But John merely shook his head.

  “You’re a busy man, Jesper, so we can skip the small talk and get straight down to business.”

  Stenberg was taken aback. “Er . . . of course, by all means.”

  “I want the investigation reopened.”

  “I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t follow you, John.”

  John Thorning grimaced irritably. “The police investigation into Sophie’s death. I want it reopened, as soon as possible.”

  Stenberg cleared his throat, trying to buy himself a couple of more seconds’ thinking time. His brain had shifted into top gear.

  “W-well, John, you know as well as I do that it doesn’t work like that,” he began. “A Swedish government minister can’t simply—”

  “With respect, Jesper, that’s complete bullshit!”

  John Thorning leaned over Stenberg’s desk and jabbed a bony index finger at the polished mahogany. “You’re the most senior lawyer in the country, Jesper. Head of the entire justice system. Do you mean to say that you can’t get a tiny little police investigation reopened, without a lot of fuss about exceeding your authority?”

  “Erm, well . . .” Stenberg was perfectly aware of how uncertain he sounded. Damn, this discussion really wasn’t turning out the way he had expected. But he was saved by the gong.

  “I’ve brought you some coffee,” his secretary twittered with exaggerated cheeriness as she slowly put the tray down on the desk.

  “Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Thorning?”

  The lawyer muttered something in response, clearly annoyed at the interruption. Then he leaned back in his chair and took the cup from her.

  Stenberg shot Jeanette a look of gratitude. Her timing was perfect, as always. Almost as if she could hear the discussions going on in his office.

  Jeanette handed him his coffee. Black, with just a teaspoon of milk, exactly the way he liked it.

  “The cake is homemade,” she added. “I hope you like it. If you need anything else, I’ll be right outside.” She addressed this last remark to Stenberg. He gave a short nod of thanks.

  “I apologize for my little outburst, Jesper,” John Thorning said the moment the door was closed. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Margareta is down in Marbella with some friends. The house is far too quiet.”

  He took a sip of coffee, then put the cup down on the delicate saucer.

  “It’s like this, Jesper.” John Thorning took a deep breath. “The police officer who investigated Sophie’s death made things very easy for himself. He got the prosecutor on his side early on—agreeing that they were dealing with a clear case of suicide. But there were several lines of inquiry that were never investigated properly. A neighbor heard raised voices earlier that evening, for instance.”

  John Thorning leaned forward sl
ightly. “Not to mention the suicide note that was sent to me from her iPad. I must have read it a thousand times, and I can’t escape the feeling that it was written by someone else. Little things, words that Sophie wouldn’t have used. And the fact that she called me John rather than Daddy in the e-mail.”

  Stenberg was fighting hard to look neutral and even managed to squeeze out a couple of sympathetic nods. That fucking e-mail, he had sensed it was a step too far when he read the police report.

  “But in spite of that,” John Thorning said, tapping on the desk again, “the whole thing was written off as suicide. It’s eating me up from inside, Jesper.” He threw his arms out. “You knew Sophie, you worked together for years. She could certainly be a bit unstable. But suicidal?”

  Stenberg realized he was expected to say something here. His old mentor was clearly in complete denial. Time for a small, tentative reality check. He took a deep breath and made an effort to sound thoughtful and sympathetic. It took a lot of work.

  “John, obviously you have my very deepest sympathies. But, as you once said to me, it’s never a good idea to let your feelings get in the way of your judgment. Sophie had problems, we both know that. All the facts indicate that—”

  “Stop it, Jesper!” The older man held up his hand. “You forget who you’re talking to, so stop tilting your head to one side and pretending to quote me. You’re a father too, try to imagine if something happened to one of your girls. Wouldn’t you do anything to make sure that justice was done?”

  It was a clever trap, one that Stenberg had used many times in court. No matter how you answered, you were caught, so it was better not to say anything. Which was exactly what he did.

  After a few endless seconds John Thorning stood up, put his hands on the desk, and leaned forward.

  “You’re clearly not going to make things easy for me, Jesper. Well, there are obviously other ways to get some clarity in this matter. I know a former police officer who runs his own security company. I could ask him to investigate the case for me. But then an interesting little problem arises.”