Anders Roslund - Box 21 aka The Vault

He had turned on his heels, phoned Sven who was already sitting in there waiting, and walked to a place he knew a few blocks away where he had sheltered before when someone’s death had caused excited headlines and words. Here he would be left in peace to consume the foul food.

He picked up a newspaper someone had left behind, opening to a six-page news feature about the hostage drama at Söder Hospital.

‘I had just been served, you know.’ Sven patted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s sixty-five kronors’ worth down the drain.’

He sat down, looked around and shook his head.

‘And for what? Great place you’ve chosen.’

‘At least nobody hangs around asking questions here.’

‘I can see why.’

They ordered beef stew, Skеne style. Served with pickled beetroot.

‘How is she?’

‘Lena?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s grieving.’

‘She needs you to be with her.’

Ewert sighed, shifted about restlessly on his chair and put the paper down.

‘Sven, I have no idea what you’re supposed to do or say. I’m no good at things like that. Take this morning. Lena wanted to see what Grajauskas looked like and I showed her the photo.’

‘If that’s what she wanted.’

‘I’m not sure. It didn’t feel right. Her reaction was odd, as if she didn’t… almost as if she recognized Grajauskas. She looked at the picture, touched it and tried to say something, but didn’t.’

‘She is still in shock.’

‘She doesn’t need to know what her husband’s dead killer looked like. I felt like I was rubbing it in her face.’

A few pieces of meat, swimming in gravy. They ate because they had to.

‘Ewert.’

‘What?’

‘This morning was a complete disaster.’

Ewert chased a slice of beetroot across his plate, but gave up when it sank in a pool of brown gravy-powder sludge.

‘Do I want to know this?’

‘Not really.’

‘Tell me, all the same.’

Sven relived the morning.

He had sensed Lisa Öhrström’s fear and unwillingness from the moment they met, he said, and went on to describe the line-up, her first negative and his request that she should observe the men moving. All the time, he was aware that she neither dared nor wanted to engage with what she was shown. Then her give-away plea that she loved her nephew and niece, his own anger when he realised that she had been intimidated and her refusal to substantiate her earlier statement. Finally her shame, and the lawyer who insisted that Lang should be released.

Sven knew what would happen next.

Putting down his knife and fork, Ewert went bright red in the face, his eyes narrowed, a blood vessel began to pulsate at his temple. He was just about to thump the table when Sven grabbed his arm.

‘Ewert. Not here. We don’t want to attract attention.’

Grens’s breathing was ragged and sheer rage made his voice fall into a low register.

‘What the hell are you saying, Sven?’

He got up and walked round the table, kicking each one of its legs.

‘Ewert, I’m just as mad as you are. But pack it in now, we’re not in the office.’

He remained standing.

‘Intimidation! Lang threatened the doctor! Threatened the kids!’

Sven hesitated before he continued. The strange morning replayed in his mind. He took a small audio recorder from his jacket pocket and put it on the table between their half-eaten platefuls.

‘I questioned Lang afterwards. Listen to this.’

Two voices.

One wanting to talk. The other determined to end the conversation.

Ewert listened with concentrated attention, his every muscle tensing when Jochum Lang spoke. When it was all over and Sven switched the tape recorder off, Ewert came to life.

‘Play that again. Only the last bit.’

Sounds, a chair scraping on the floor, someone breathing. Then Lang’s voice.

‘Sundkvist, get off my back. You’d better return me to the fucking cells! Or else I might do something that I could be charged for.’

This time Ewert howled, and every one of the few remaining customers turned to stare at the big man in the far corner standing by a table waving his fist in the air.

‘Ewert! For Christ’s sake! Sit down.’

‘That’s it! There’s no way I’ll let Lang decide any more. He’ll stay put in the cells and I don’t give a rat’s ass about the consequences.’

He was still standing. He pointed at Sven. ‘Her telephone number. Lisa Öhrström’s.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you have it or don’t you? Give me her number! We’re going to do some real police work, you and I, right here in the restaurant.’

The waitress, a girl rather than a woman, approached their table timidly and appealed to Sven, ignoring Ewert. It took great effort for her to tell them to please be quieter, show some respect for the other guests or she would have to call the police. Sven apologised and promised it wouldn’t happen again. They were just about to leave, could they have the bill?

‘Here.’ He handed Ewert his opened pocket diary. Dr Öhrström’s phone number was neatly written down. Ewert smiled. All the case contact names were ordered alphabetically. That was how he operated, this young colleague of his.

He got out his mobile phone and dialled her number. He caught her somewhere on the ward. She had gone in to work immediately after the identity parade.

‘Dr Öhrström? DSI Ewert Grens speaking. In an hour I’ll fax you some photographs. I want you to have a good look at them.’

She paused, as if she was trying to work out what he had said.

‘Please explain. What is this about?’

‘Robbery, grievous bodily harm and murder.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘What’s your fax number?’

Another pause. She wanted nothing to do with whatever it was. ‘Why do I have to see these pictures of yours?’

‘You’ll understand when you see them in an hour’s time. I’ll ring you back.’

Ewert waited impatiently while Sven finished his half of lager and fumbled for the money he said he knew he had somewhere. Ewert waved this away. No problem, he’d pay for both of them. He handed over a larger tip than the food had deserved.

They were just about to step out from the smell of stew into the snarled-up traffic on St Erik’s Street when Ewert spied two journalists of the kind he definitely wanted to avoid. He pushed Sven back into the restaurant, kept the door ajar and waited until they passed and disappeared down the street.

Back in his room, Ewert picked up a couple of black-and-white photographs and went off to find the fax machine.

‘Sir?’

There she was. She had laughed at him earlier on that morning.

‘Hermansson. You promised me a report after lunch. It’s after lunch now.’

He wondered if he sounded brusque. He hadn’t meant to.

‘It’s done.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve gone through all the statements now. Quite a few interesting points have turned up.’

Ewert was holding the photos and she gestured to him, Fax them, of course, I’ll wait, but he put them down and asked her to elaborate.

‘Take the hospital guard’s account. He mentions a woman who walked past and went into the toilet at the end of the corridor just before Grajauskas went in. From his description, I’m sure it was her friend Alena Sljusareva.’

He listened to her and remembered this morning, when he had praised her and then felt awkward, weak and exposed. He hadn’t quite understood why, still didn’t. He wasn’t normally laughed at by young women.

‘The next statement I read was given by the two lads who were sitting next to Grajauskas, watching the lunchtime news. One of them remembers the same woman going by and his description is identical to that of the guard. A perfect description of Alena Sljusareva again. I’m positive.’