Читать книгу MemoRandom - Литагент HarperCollins USD, Anders de la Motte - Страница 14

‘We now commit Adnan Kassab’s remains to eternal rest.’

The funeral director knelt on the mat surrounding the little hole and carefully placed the urn inside it. Down there threads of roots stuck out here and there, like narrow hairy fingers groping out of the earth and reaching toward the weak winter light.

They must have used a digger to break through the frozen ground, Atif thought. One single scoop in the ground, that was all it would have taken. Adnan had hardly been of a religious persuasion, so using a priest or an imam would have felt strange. Better like this. Cremation, a short ceremony, and then down with the urn. He glanced toward Cassandra, who was standing next to him. She hadn’t wanted Tindra to attend the funeral, said she was too young. A six-year-old shouldn’t have to confront death, at least not yet. There hadn’t been much he could say to that. But one thing he definitely didn’t agree with was the large wreath on the other side of the grave. An overblown affair, presumably the largest you could order, and it made all the others look insignificant.

Never forgive, never forget written in ornate golden letters on the silk ribbon. The men who had in all likelihood sent the wreath were all standing in the group just behind Atif. A couple of dozen people, almost all men. Most of them were wearing sunglasses even though the sun had barely risen above the pine trees. Several of the men had nodded to Atif as he and Cassandra hurried past in the chapel. There were a few familiar faces, but most of them were unknown. In Adnan’s world, friendship was often a perishable commodity.

In a short while he would have no choice but to talk to them. Shake their hands, accept their condolences. He wondered whether any of them drove a large Audi with shiny wheel trim. But that was really none of his business. Cassandra wasn’t the sort who liked living alone; she needed a benefactor. Someone to take care of her. Her and Tindra, he corrected himself. The thought of the little girl made him feel slightly brighter. But the feeling vanished when he looked down into the grave again.

He was hardly in any position to stand in judgement over Cassandra. If it hadn’t been for him, Adnan might have stood a chance. Might not have ended up as a couple of kilos of ash in a cheap urn before he had even turned thirty-five.

Money, respect, recognition – that was what it was all about. Adnan had followed in Atif’s footsteps, the way he used to in winter when he was little. Adnan had followed the path marked out for him, not reflecting on where it was going to take him. Or on the fact that he was actually walking around in a large circle and would end up back where he started sooner or later. Atif had tried to make his little brother understand – at least that was what he tried to tell himself afterward. Had tried to persuade him that the only way to get anywhere in life was to dare to take a step into unknown territory. But clearly he hadn’t sounded convincing enough.

After the move to Iraq they only spoke a few times a year. Christmas and birthdays, little more than that. They had mostly talked about Tindra or their mother, never about work – his own or Adnan’s. But Atif had still got the impression that Adnan knew he had changed sides. Maybe their mother had mentioned it, before she disappeared into her own memories. She and Adnan had always been close. He was the youngest, Mommy’s little boy.

During the early years there had been vague talk of Adnan moving down to join them. They talked about setting up their own business, a security firm, something like that. When their mother got worse Atif even bought a plane ticket for his brother. But a week before he was due to leave, Adnan was arrested for taking part in the robbery of a security van and locked up for two months. The trip was never mentioned again after that. It had never been more than idle talk, Atif thought. Adnan would never have left Tindra. The same would have applied to him if it had been his daughter.

Atif looked around at the rows of snow-covered gravestones. He hated Swedish cemeteries. He hated the smell of box hedging, which even the snow was unable to hide. The day after tomorrow he would be leaving and going back to the heat, to his house and garden. Leaving all this behind him, for good.

A gust of wind caught the dark pines, making a dull, rumbling sound that drowned out the funeral director’s concluding words. Beside Atif, Cassandra shivered and pulled her coat tighter.

Sleep well, little brother, Atif thought.

‘So, how are you feeling, David?’

Sarac gave a little shrug. ‘Bruised, sore, a bit confused. Apart from that, not bad.’ He was clutching the piece of paper in one hand, keeping it under the covers, out of sight of the thin-haired man in the visitor’s chair.

‘The doctor said something about gaps in your memory?’

Sarac tried to force a smile, then glanced down at the note that the nurse had written for him.

You’ve had a mild stroke.

You were involved in a car accident in the Söderleden Tunnel on November 23, 2013.

Your doctor’s name is Jill Vestman.

The gaps in your memory are …

‘Temporary,’ he said quickly. ‘That’ll improve as soon as the swelling goes down a bit.’

At least Sarac had no trouble remembering Kjell Bergh. He had recognized his balding, overweight boss the moment he walked through the door. Bergh was the sort of man who could never be taken for anything but a police officer, even though he didn’t wear a uniform. There was something about the way he held himself and his weary but watchful eyes. Almost forty years in the force had left their mark.

‘So how much do you remember?’ Bergh adjusted the vase of flowers he had just put on the bedside table. There was a note of tension in his voice.

‘The accident and the days leading up to it are a bit of a jumble,’ Sarac said. ‘The weeks before too. But all that’s only—’

‘Temporary.’ Bergh nodded. ‘Yes, you said.’

‘The car accident. Can you tell me what happened?’ Sarac said.

Bergh shrugged his shoulders and pushed his thin glasses up onto his forehead.

‘You drove straight into one of the concrete barriers in the Söderleden Tunnel. Next to the exit for Skanstull. Head-on, no rubber on the road to suggest that you braked, according to the traffic unit. Molnar’s group got there just after the accident and managed to put the fire out. I heard that a couple of the guys were in tears, it looked so bad.’

Sarac nodded and gulped.

Bergh leaned closer to the bed. Sarac suddenly noticed the dark patches under the man’s eyes.

‘We had to open the safe,’ Bergh said in a low voice. ‘It’s standard procedure when a handler … I mean, we weren’t sure if you were going to make it.’

Sarac nodded, trying to work out why he didn’t want to tell his boss the truth about the gaps in his memory. His sense of unease began to grow again. It made him clutch the piece of paper even tighter.

‘Kollander was there, as head of Regional Crime. He and I used our codes, all according to protocol,’ Bergh went on, pulling a face. Sarac’s heart immediately began to beat faster. ‘Your envelope was empty, David.’ Bergh’s voice was so low now that it was almost a whisper. ‘No backup list, no names, nothing.’

Sarac slowly shook his head. He could feel the headache gathering strength in his temples. Suddenly there was the sound of voices out in the corridor and Bergh glanced quickly over his shoulder. Then he leaned even closer to Sarac, so close that it was possible to smell the garlic on his breath.

‘I managed to get the head of Regional Crime to hold back on filing an official complaint. Or at least wait a few days, until we’d had a chance to talk to you. None of us want Dreyer and the Internal Investigation team snooping about the department again.’ Bergh licked his lips. ‘Kollander’s wetting himself. Says we might have a mole in the department. Someone selling information. It’s only a matter of time before he goes running to the district commissioner, and you know what that would lead to.’

Sarac gulped again and tried to moisten his lips. But his tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of his mouth.

‘Forty years in the force, only three left to retirement. None of that would count for anything when it comes to Operation Clean Threshold. Just look at what they did with the Duke. The district commissioner has set her sights on becoming the next national police chief, and nothing’s allowed to spoil her pitch. Nothing!’ Bergh’s face was now bright red, and his tired eyes looked worried. Almost frightened.

‘Well, I, er …’ Sarac tried to say something but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, once, then several more times. He suddenly noticed that his right hand was cramping. He slowly forced it open and glanced down at the crumpled piece of paper.

‘I trusted you, David,’ Bergh said. ‘I didn’t ask any questions, I let you run your own race.’ A little drop of saliva flew out of his mouth and landed in front of Sarac. ‘Up to now the results have been fantastic, but now you’ve got to explain what’s going on. The missing list, and your crash. That can’t be a coincidence. Someone’s after you, David. And after your informant.’

Sarac swallowed again, trying in vain to moisten his mouth and lips.

‘Do you remember what job you were working on?’ Bergh hissed. ‘Was it weapons, drugs? What instructions had you given your informant? Who was he targeting? For Christ sake, you must remember something!’

More voices in the corridor, closer this time. Bergh spun around toward the door.

The scrap of paper in Sarac’s hand gradually unfurled. He could see some of the writing. But it wasn’t the nurse’s even handwriting he could see. There was something written on the back of the paper. Jagged capitals that looked as if they had been written with a lot of effort.

EVERYONE IS LYING

DON’T TRUST ANYONE!

Bergh turned back to Sarac, who quickly slid his hand back under the covers. The voices in the corridor were clearly audible now. One of them belonged to Dr Vestman.

‘You have to hand him over, David,’ Bergh hissed in his ear. ‘I can protect him, you – the whole department. But you have to give me Janus!’