“It’s just a fucking photograph,” Petter says with a sigh.
“Seven people died because of it,” Joona says gravely. “And more are going to die if we don’t…”
Joona falls silent as he still looks out through the window.
“Maybe the photograph is a lock and we must hunt for the key,” he says.
“What key?” asks Petter.
“The photographer,” says Saga.
“Isn’t Penelope Fernandez the photographer?” says Pollock.
“Perhaps,” says Saga, drawing out the word.
“But?” asks Carlos.
“Where’s any evidence for someone else?” Benny demands.
“Joona doesn’t believe Penelope took that picture,” Saga says.
“What the fuck!” Petter almost screams.
Carlos shuts his mouth firmly. He looks at the table and is smart enough to keep quiet.
“Penelope is still in a state of shock and we do not yet know her role in this,” Saga says.
Nathan Pollock clears his throat and distributes copies of Carl Palmcrona’s will across the table.
“Palmcrona has a bank account on the island of Jersey,” he says.
“That wonderful tax haven.” Petter Naslund nods. He takes his snuff out from beneath his lip. He wipes his thumb on the table without noticing Carlos’s glance.
“Can we find out how much money he has in that account?” Verner asks.
“Officially, no,” Joona says. “However, according to this will, he estimates he has nine million euros.”
“His personal assets have taken a nosedive lately. It’s hard to understand how he managed to accumulate so much lawfully in such a short time,” Pollock states.
“Transparency International, the global agency fighting corruption, tells us they have nothing on Carl Palmcrona or anyone else in the ISP. Not even a rumor.
“Palmcrona’s fortune was willed to a sixteen-year-old boy by the name of Stefan Bergkvist. As it turns out, he is Palmcrona’s son. A son he’d never met in person-and a son who died in a freakish fire only three days after Palmcrona’s suicide.”
“The boy never knew who his father was,” Saga adds.
“According to the preliminary police report, it is an accidental death,” Carlos says.
“Of course. Accidental. But is there anyone in this room who believes it’s just a coincidence that Palmcrona’s son dies three days after Palmcrona’s suicide?”
“No, a coincidence it is not,” Carlos says.
“But that’s just sick,” Pollock exclaims. His cheeks flare red. “What motive would anyone have to murder a son Palmcrona never actually met?”
“What the hell is this all about?” Verner asks, rubbing his hands through his hair.
“Palmcrona keeps popping up again and again,” Joona says. He taps the photograph on the face of the smiling man. “He’s in the photograph. He’s been blackmailed. He’s found hanged. His son dies. He has nine million euros in the bank.”
“The money is interesting,” Saga says.
“We’ve looked at his life,” Pollock says. “He has no other family, no other interests, doesn’t invest in anything like stocks or-”
“So this accumulation of money in his bank account, it has to be connected in some way to his position as the general director of ISP,” Joona says.
“Maybe he was involved in insider trading using a dummy front,” Verner says.
“Or he took bribes,” Saga says.
“Follow the money,” Pollock whispers in English.
“Let’s have a chat with his successor, Axel Riessen,” Joona says, and gets ready to leave. “Anything odd or out of the way might be obvious to Riessen by now.”
68
Joona Linna and Saga Bauer hear whistles shriek and the insistent beating of drums when they reach the Royal Institute of Technology. A demonstration is heading down Odengatan. It seems to be about seventy young people carrying antifascist symbols and signs protesting Sapo’s treatment of the Brigade’s members. “Sapo reeks of fascism, the state supports fascism! ” they chant in their bright young voices.
But the angry sounds disappear as Joona and Saga walk along idyllic Bragevagen, a gentle curve heading up to Engelbrekt Church. They’d contacted ISP to find that the general director was working from home that morning.
On the left side of the street, they soon see the Riessens’ private palace. The facade is powerful with its dark, handcrafted brickwork, lead-lined windowpanes, carved woodwork, and the dull green of copper around the bay and chimney.
The outer door is equally imposing. A bronze plaque is affixed to the dark, shining wood to announce AXEL RIESSEN. Saga rings the doorbell. After a short time, a tall, tanned man opens the door. He has a friendly expression on his face.
Saga identifies herself as an inspector for the Security Service and explains their errand as briefly as possible while Axel Riessen examines her ID thoroughly. Then he looks up and says, “I doubt that I could be of much help to you, but-”
“It is always a pleasure to drop by,” Joona says with courteous formality.
Axel gives him a surprised look, then smiles at Joona’s pleasantry, appreciative of the joke. Dressed casually in dark blue trousers, a light blue shirt buttoned to the neck, and slippers, he shows them into the high-ceilinged entryway. It is filled with light.
“I suggest that we sit in the orangery. It’s somewhat cooler there.”
They find the apartment immense as they follow Axel past a mahogany staircase with dark wainscoting. They pass through two more large salons in a row to get to the orangery.
It is a glass room between the house and the garden. The high hedge right outside creates green shadows and a wall of flickering leaves. Scented herbs and scentless orchids fill copper pots lined up on benches and tiled surfaces.
“Please, make yourselves at home,” Axel says, and gestures toward chairs around a table. “I was just about to take tea and crumpets and it would be pleasant to have some company.”
“I haven’t had crumpets since I was an exchange student in Edinburgh.” Saga smiles.
“Well, then,” Axel says contentedly, and leaves the room.
A few minutes later, he returns with a tray. He places the teapot, the napkins, the lemon wedges, and the sugar bowl in the middle of the table. The warm crumpets are covered by a linen cloth with a generous amount of butter nearby in a butter dish. Axel takes his time setting the table for them with care. He places teacups and saucers in front of them along with a linen napkin. Then he pours the tea.
They can hear soft violin music filtering through doors and walls.
“So tell me, what can I do for you?” Axel asks.
Saga carefully sets her cup and saucer down, clears her throat. “We have to ask you a few questions about ISP and we hope you’ll be able to help us.”
“Absolutely, but I must clear this first with a phone call,” he says as he picks up his cell phone.
“Of course,” Saga says.
“Please excuse me, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Saga Bauer.”
“May I please see your ID again, Saga Bauer?”
Saga hands it to him and he stands up and leaves the room. They can hear him speak for a few seconds, and
