The Silenced

скачать книгу бесплатно


“My dad was in the police,” she said. “My grandfather too. They didn’t really talk that much about police work at home. Mom didn’t like it. She probably didn’t want me to hear their stories. But I still realized—worked out that what they did was something different, something you couldn’t really understand if you hadn’t experienced it yourself. That was probably what made me want to become a police officer. To start with, I thought it was all about adrenaline. About putting yourself in danger. It took me several years to realize that it was actually about something else entirely. About seeing people when they’re at their very worst. Drunk, distraught, furious, humiliated, beaten up, raped, or dead. About seeing that and trying to do something about it. About failing more often than succeeding, but still not giving up.”

She fell silent, thinking about Sarac’s mutilated body. And his distorted grimace.

Amante said nothing. But she was sure he was listening carefully—that he understood exactly what she meant. The light of the car’s headlights reflected off a pair of eyes at the side of the road. She noticed a fleeting movement and switched her foot from the accelerator to the brake, but the animal was gone. A cat, or maybe a fox?

“You said you didn’t know all the details about Skarpö,” she said. “There were two other people who were found out there with Sarac. Right beside him, to be more accurate.”

Amante turned to look at her. “Who were they?”

“The first one was a woman, Natalie Aden. She worked as Sarac’s personal assistant after his car accident. Her intervention saved Sarac’s life. We should at least talk to her. Show her Frank’s picture and see if she recognizes him. But I think we ought to start with the second person. If anyone can identify Frank, it’s probably him.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“Atif Kassab. Seven years ago he was a notorious member of the Stockholm underworld. A nasty bastard. He retired and left the country with his mother. Didn’t show up again until last winter, at his brother’s funeral. Looks like someone managed to persuade him to go back to work.” She dimmed the lights as a car came toward them. “Kassab blew Superintendent Peter Molnar’s brains out on Skarpö, along with another three people, and took a couple of bullets himself. It looked like he wasn’t going to make it for a while, but thanks to Natalie Aden’s actions he survived as well.”

Unfortunately, she added to herself.

“Kassab said nothing when he was questioned, and kept quiet all the way through his trial: never said a word about why he was on the island or who had hired his services. He was given a life sentence—didn’t even bother to appeal against it.”

“Strange.”

Julia nodded. “Very. But there are plenty of things about Skarpö that are strange. Atif Kassab is being held in one of the ‘phoenix’ high-security units south of the city. It’s a long shot, but I suggest we go and see him as soon as possible.”

“So we’re going to ask a cop killer for his help?”

“Yes, to track down another one,” Julia said. “What do you think?”

Amante didn’t answer, but from the corner of her eye Julia caught another glimpse of that cryptic smile.

Six (#ulink_8dcfce41-2375-5b3a-8153-e3ed3d257530)

Phoenix. The bird that catches fire, dies in the flames, and is then reborn out of its own ashes with shimmering new plumage.

The name couldn’t be more inappropriate. No one in the prison was transformed into a better version of himself and emerging as a new, well-adapted individual with sparkling new feathers, ready to be embraced by society. The majority would end up back behind bars within a couple of years, for crimes just as bad as the first time around.

Maybe that was the cycle of repetition that the name hinted at? A sort of ironic wink: We all know how this is going to turn out, don’t we?

Atif Kassab pushed his breakfast tray aside and laid three cards facedown on the table in front of him. He noticed himself looking up at the camera in the ceiling above him. One of several hundred. The phoenix units were built to house the most dangerous prisoners in the country, those deemed most likely to try to escape. No doors or gates led to the outside world; the only way out was through an underground tunnel that led to another unit. A prison inside a prison.

He looked at the men at the other tables in the dayroom. Fifteen of them in total, an interesting mix of murderers, drug dealers, and bank robbers. They weren’t all particularly dangerous or likely to abscond. The state had overestimated the capacity needed in the phoenix units and had had to dilute their occupants with ordinary criminals to keep the smart new facilities from sitting half-empty.

But a number of the men had no boundaries at all. In the wrong situation they could be lethal, both to themselves and those around them. The big, square guy at the table in the middle, the wall-eyed one called Rosco, was the current unofficial boss of the unit. Rosco had come over and introduced himself in the first few days. Shook hands gangster-style, spouted a load of names of people Atif didn’t know and gangs he’d never heard of. In here he was a cop killer, someone viewed with respect. But the conversation was about more than mere pleasantries. Rosco was evaluating him, trying to work out if he was a threat, if he was going to upset the balance of power.

Atif had no interest at all in prison politics. He kept himself to himself, read books, and worked out in the small gym. Rubber straps and Pilates balls. No weights, nothing that could, according to Prison Service regulations, turn already dangerous criminals into mountains of muscle. But the exercise on offer was enough for his body to recuperate gradually from its injuries. The doctors had removed four meters of gut, drained almost a liter of blood from his torso, and patched up a number of less serious injuries. He had survived, and he knew whom he had to thank for that. He hoped he would be able to convey his thanks in person one day.

Atif stared blankly at the cards in front of him, then closed his eyes. He tried to conjure up an image of his house back home in Iraq. The scent of the almond tree in the back garden. The starry sky up above. But in spite of the fact that he regularly tried to keep the memory alive, it was getting hazier, losing its color, like the old pictures in his mother’s well-thumbed photo albums. Pale imitations of what had once been. Something that was now lost. He wondered how she was. If she was still in the nursing home in Najaf, or if his aunt had moved her farther south, away from the fighting in the north. He’d written a couple of times, hoping to hear if the money was arriving each month. But he hadn’t yet received a reply.

Atif turned the first card over. The seven of hearts. Tindra had turned seven three weeks ago. He’d sent her a card. He came close to writing that he missed her, that he’d do anything to hear her voice, no matter how briefly. But he didn’t want her to come here. To have to go through all the security checks just so they could sit on opposite sides of a table. He still wouldn’t be able to hold her.

Besides, her mother would never let her visit him. Cassandra needed to keep him as far away from her as possible, a decision he couldn’t blame her for. He had wounded and killed people last winter, people who had families, friends, and business acquaintances outside the prison walls. People who were waiting for a chance to get their revenge. But as long as Abu Hamsa was protecting Cassandra and Tindra, no one would dare do anything. Which was rather ironic, to put it mildly, given that the old man was his worst enemy. Abu Hamsa had manipulated him, commissioned him to track down a ghost when it was actually the old man himself who had had Adnan killed, leaving Tindra without a father.

Abu Hamsa had sent him a message via Cassandra. Don’t tell the police anything, serve your sentence, follow my instructions. She hadn’t needed to say more than that. Didn’t have to utter the words that were hanging in the air.

Or else …

So Atif had played along. He followed Abu Hamsa’s instructions obediently, played patience and waited to be dealt the right cards. Something that changed the field of play.

Atif moved his hand to the card next to the seven of hearts. But before he could turn it over, the door of the dayroom opened and the head screw, Blom, walked in. He looked like a cover boy from Men’s Health. High cheekbones, spray tan, and short, tinted hair in a gentle wave across his forehead. Right behind him, between another two gym-pumped screws, Atif could just make out a birdlike little man in prison clothes that were too big for him.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the head screw said, as always slightly louder than necessary. “This is our latest resident. Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself, Gilsén?”

Blom stepped aside. The little man remained where he was between the two guards, clutching the paper bag he was holding in his hands. The smell of his fear managed to overpower Blom’s body lotion.

The senior guard waited another few seconds. Exchanged a malicious glance with his colleagues.

“Well, I daresay you’ll all have time to chew the fat later on. Follow me, Gilsén, and we’ll get you installed in your suite. It’s probably not quite up to the standard you’re used to.”

The guards lumbered out of the dayroom with Gilsén between them. Atif watched the men over at Rosco’s table lean closer to each other, covering their mouths so that the cameras and microphones wouldn’t pick up what they were saying.