He didn’t hear Nils coming up behind him, nor that he asked him to take the sealed plastic bag with the video in it. Nils tapped Ewert on the back, repeated what he had just said and held out the sealed plastic bag.
‘The video, Ewert. The video is all yours now.’
Ewert turned.
‘Right. OK. Good, Nils. Any prints?’
‘Same as on the bag and the rest. Two different people, probably women. Grajauskas and someone else.’
‘And it was with the ammunition?’
‘Yep. In that carrier bag.’
Nils made to go. Ewert called after him.
‘Do you need it back?’
‘Yes. Chain of custody. You know.’
Ewert watched Nils as he pulled on white fabric gloves and went off to investigate a door to some kind of equipment store. She had smeared pale brown dough around the frame.
‘Ewert?’
Sven Sundkvist was sitting on a stool by the wall-mounted telephone from which she had rung – the one they blocked for outgoing calls, and then unblocked. Ewert closed his eyes and tried to visualise her, gun pointing at the hostages, talking into the phone, threatening, but demanding nothing. A frail creature with one arm in plaster, who had forced them to evacuate one of the largest hospitals in the country and had practically every policeman and journalist in the city on the run. For a few hours that little whore had kept as many men busy as she had ever fucked.
‘Ewert.’
‘What is it?’
‘The widow. Remember.’
Ewert heard Bengt’s voice, the conversation they just had, when his old friend, his link with the past, was still alive. He had stood there in his underpants in that bloody corridor and asked Ewert to speak to Lena,
‘What’s that, Sven?’
Sven shrugged.
‘Just that you know her. You should go over there.’
He hadn’t noticed before, but now he registered that the pale body looked almost calm: hands resting close together on his belly, his legs straight, feet turned slightly outwards and no trace of the distress he must have felt when the gun was pressed to his forehead.
Grens knew that he had kept them waiting for too long. Lang had to have a full body search. Every minute that ticked by reduced their chance of finding crucial remains of blood or DNA from Hilding Oldйus.
He had insisted on being present because he wanted to be in complete control until the man he hated was locked away. Ewert commandeered a patrol car, with blue light flashing. When he arrived at Berg Street, the building looked empty. He thanked the driver and took the lift to the cells. The surgery was at the end of the corridor and Ewert hurried past the rows of thick metal doors leading on to tiny cells; his limping footsteps echoed in the ugly, bleak place, where even the light seemed tired.
He had been to the surgery before to attend informal interrogations and meetings. It was properly equipped with a few impressive-looking pieces of electronic machinery, an examination bench pushed up against a wall, steel instruments lined up on a mobile table and a couple of electronic instruments; Grens had no idea what they were used for.
He scanned the room slowly.
All these people. He counted them. Ten.
Lang stood in the middle of the floor, his body lit by a powerful lamp. He was naked and handcuffed. Bulging muscles, shaved skull, oddly staring eyes. He looked up when Ewert entered the room.
‘You as well.’
‘What’s that, Lang?’
‘You want to see my dick too?’
Ewert just smiled. Trying to provoke me, are you? Can’t hear you. Not this time. My best friend just died.
He exchanged silent nods with the others. Four uniformed men, three guards and two technicians. All familiar faces.
He took note of the stuff on the bench, a pile of paper bags, one for each item of Lang’s clothing. One of the technicians, wearing transparent rubber gloves, was just putting a black sock in the last bag. His colleague was holding what looked like a tube-shaped lamp.
The forensic technician looked up. No more waiting about, Grens was here at last.
He turned on the lamp and directed it at Lang. Its blue light started a slow sweep from face to feet, but soon stopped at a possible spot of blood on the skin. The other technician picked up a sample on a cotton swab for later analysis. Carefully they went over the naked man’s big body, one part after another, looking for evidence that could make or break the case against him.
‘Hey, Grens. What do you think?’
Lang stuck his tongue out and thrust his pelvis backwards and forwards.
‘What d’you reckon? Every bloody time. Same thing. You all come over for a look.’
More action, faster now. Lang moaned and stuck his tongue out at the two nearest officers.
‘I mean, look at them. Not real policemen, are they? Grens, admit it. More like fucking Village People – be proud, boys. Be gay. Sing with me now,
Lang took a step forward, legs apart, still thrusting with his crotch. One of the two young policemen was thoroughly fed up by now. His breath came more quickly and he moved closer to Lang.
‘You there. Step back.’
Ewert stared angrily at the officer and didn’t look away until the man was back in his original position.
Then he turned to Lang.
‘You’re going down. For life this time. The sentence you should have had twenty-five years ago. We’ve got a witness.’
‘Life? For GBH? You’re kidding.’
One last pelvic thrust, another ‘Be proud, be gay’ and a smacking kiss.
‘Look, Grens. Fucking identity parades get you nowhere. You know that.’
‘And threatening behaviour.’
‘I’ve been cleared of that as well. Six times.’
‘Perverting the course of justice. That’s what we call it.’
Jochum Lang stood still again. The technicians glanced at Ewert, who nodded. Carry on. The bluish light started and stopped. Cotton swabs delicately mopping up DNA fragments in one of Lang’s armpits.
Ewert had seen what he came for. The lab report would be ready in another day or two.
He sighed.
What a bloody awful day.
He knew what he had to do next. He had to go, go to her, to Lena, bringing death to her home. For her, Bengt was still alive.
‘Hey, Grens.’
He turned. Jochum Lang was still standing there, stark naked in the middle of the room, while a technician prodded under his toenails.
