Read Online CELL 8 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström
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address.
She was worried. Which was rare.
This feeling, his face that had been so terrified and yet empty at the same time, it kept getting in the way—she wanted to move on, and fiddled with the tall pile of outstanding investigations.
But she had to do it.
On Ågestam’s orders, she called the Canadian embassy and inquired about the passport that was lying on a table in front of her. The clerk answered. Gave precisely the answers that she didn’t want to hear. She interrupted him, got up with the receiver still in her hand, told him that she was on her way over, that she would continue the conversation when she got there.
Hurried steps down the corridor, she was still buttoning her jacket when she passed Grens’s office.
He was there now, she knew before she even got there—you could hear the music playing loudly out in the corridor, something from a time before she was even born, Siw Malmkvist singing and Ewert moving to the rhythm on his chair. She had seen him dancing around the room on a couple of occasions when he thought no one was looking, in the middle of the floor to that empty music. She should ask him sometime, who it was he was actually holding, there, next to the desk, dancing to a Siw Malmkvist chorus.
She knocked on the open door. He looked up, irritated, as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of something important.
“Yes?”
She didn’t answer and instead walked in and sat down on the visitor’s chair. Grens stared at her, astonished, unused to people just coming into his room without permission.
Hermansson looked at him.
“I—”
Ewert Grens lifted a finger, put it to his mouth.
“In a moment. When she’s finished.”
He closed his eyes and listened to the voice that filled the room, the voice of the sixties and youth and the future. A minute, maybe two, until first of all the voice and then the band were silent.
Ewert looked her in the eye.
“Yes?”
Hermansson considered telling him what she thought about having to wait so he could listen to some music.
She decided not to, not this time.
“I went up to see Krantz this morning. He worked very late last night.”
Grens was impatient, indicated with his hands that he wanted to hear more. She continued, felt breathless without knowing why, as if she was hurrying more than she needed to.
“John Schwarz’s passport. It’s fake, Ewert. The photograph and the stamp, Krantz is convinced they’ve been manipulated.”
Ewert Grens gave a loud sigh. He was suddenly tired.
A fucking awful day.
Right from the start, as soon as he’d come into the building just after six this morning, the investigation gloom had dominated in the corridors. Idiots who reported on pointless interviews, came back after disastrous investigations, handed out autopsy reports that said nothing. He had let a couple of hours pass, then taken a walk in the small park that had no name, before coming back to an office that was just as empty as when he left it.
John Doe.
An unidentified foreign man in custody.
That was all they fucking needed.
“Excuse me.”
Grens stood up, left the room, and walked down the corridor. He stopped in front of the coffee machine, black with nothing in it, plastic cup burning the palm of his hand as he slowly walked back, and holding it steady as he walked over the carpet.
He blew on the liquid and put the cup down on his desk to cool.
“Thank you.”
He looked at her, surprised.
“Sorry?”
“For getting me one as well.”
“Did you want one?”
“Yes, please.”
Ewert Grens lifted the hot cup demonstratively to his lips, tasted the first drops.
“An unidentified foreigner. Do you know what a pain in the ass that can be?”
He’d understood and dismissed her sarcasm. She swallowed her rage, then spoke.
“I am of course new here. But I’m certain. Schwarz’s reaction. It stayed with me all of yesterday evening, all night, this morning. There’s something wrong, that’s all there is to
She was worried. Which was rare.
This feeling, his face that had been so terrified and yet empty at the same time, it kept getting in the way—she wanted to move on, and fiddled with the tall pile of outstanding investigations.
But she had to do it.
On Ågestam’s orders, she called the Canadian embassy and inquired about the passport that was lying on a table in front of her. The clerk answered. Gave precisely the answers that she didn’t want to hear. She interrupted him, got up with the receiver still in her hand, told him that she was on her way over, that she would continue the conversation when she got there.
Hurried steps down the corridor, she was still buttoning her jacket when she passed Grens’s office.
He was there now, she knew before she even got there—you could hear the music playing loudly out in the corridor, something from a time before she was even born, Siw Malmkvist singing and Ewert moving to the rhythm on his chair. She had seen him dancing around the room on a couple of occasions when he thought no one was looking, in the middle of the floor to that empty music. She should ask him sometime, who it was he was actually holding, there, next to the desk, dancing to a Siw Malmkvist chorus.
She knocked on the open door. He looked up, irritated, as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of something important.
“Yes?”
She didn’t answer and instead walked in and sat down on the visitor’s chair. Grens stared at her, astonished, unused to people just coming into his room without permission.
Hermansson looked at him.
“I—”
Ewert Grens lifted a finger, put it to his mouth.
“In a moment. When she’s finished.”
He closed his eyes and listened to the voice that filled the room, the voice of the sixties and youth and the future. A minute, maybe two, until first of all the voice and then the band were silent.
Ewert looked her in the eye.
“Yes?”
Hermansson considered telling him what she thought about having to wait so he could listen to some music.
She decided not to, not this time.
“I went up to see Krantz this morning. He worked very late last night.”
Grens was impatient, indicated with his hands that he wanted to hear more. She continued, felt breathless without knowing why, as if she was hurrying more than she needed to.
“John Schwarz’s passport. It’s fake, Ewert. The photograph and the stamp, Krantz is convinced they’ve been manipulated.”
Ewert Grens gave a loud sigh. He was suddenly tired.
A fucking awful day.
Right from the start, as soon as he’d come into the building just after six this morning, the investigation gloom had dominated in the corridors. Idiots who reported on pointless interviews, came back after disastrous investigations, handed out autopsy reports that said nothing. He had let a couple of hours pass, then taken a walk in the small park that had no name, before coming back to an office that was just as empty as when he left it.
John Doe.
An unidentified foreign man in custody.
That was all they fucking needed.
“Excuse me.”
Grens stood up, left the room, and walked down the corridor. He stopped in front of the coffee machine, black with nothing in it, plastic cup burning the palm of his hand as he slowly walked back, and holding it steady as he walked over the carpet.
He blew on the liquid and put the cup down on his desk to cool.
“Thank you.”
He looked at her, surprised.
“Sorry?”
“For getting me one as well.”
“Did you want one?”
“Yes, please.”
Ewert Grens lifted the hot cup demonstratively to his lips, tasted the first drops.
“An unidentified foreigner. Do you know what a pain in the ass that can be?”
He’d understood and dismissed her sarcasm. She swallowed her rage, then spoke.
“I am of course new here. But I’m certain. Schwarz’s reaction. It stayed with me all of yesterday evening, all night, this morning. There’s something wrong, that’s all there is to
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