“Thank you,” Nyberg said, instead of saying what he bit away from his tongue. “Was anything stolen?”
“A great deal was destroyed. Nothing stolen. The door has to be replaced. Otherwise we came out relatively unscathed this time.”
“This time?”
“Our goods are so theft-prone that they’re hard to insure these days. We’ve had a few break-ins recently. The goods are sold to the east.”
Nyberg thought for a moment, then said, “So the guard ought to have been on alert?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Then how did it happen that he didn’t see the crime being committed on his monitors? Even your Betty out there could see me walk from reception up here to her custom-designed computer.”
Henrik Nilsson shook his head. “You’ll have to speak with our chief of security about that. It’s his responsibility.”
“I will. But first I’d like some information about the company. You buy computer equipment from west and east and sell it to east and west. Is that the business concept?”
“The best one there is today,” said Henrik Nilsson, not without pride. “As long as the trade routes between east and west are as blocked as they still are, the kind of link we provide plays a crucial role.”
“And when the blockade is lifted?”
Nilsson leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Nyberg. “It never will be. It’s a fluctuating branch of commerce. Old businesses collapse; new ones are always springing up. The only constant is us.”
“What kind of computer equipment is it?”
“Everything.”
“Even military?”
“Within the boundaries of the law, yes.”
“And was it military equipment that was in the warehouse that was broken into?”
“No, that was regular computers. Taiwanese WriteComs. I’ve compiled the information for you in this folder, a complete list of what was stored in that warehouse. As well as information about the company. You can get someone with experience to look at it, of course.”
Nyberg ignored the sarcasm and took the elegant, burgundy leather folder. The company logo that adorned the front was toned down into a single color-gold. “Thanks,” he said. “Then there isn’t much more to ask. I just want to speak to your chief of security.”
“Robert Mayer,” said Nilsson, who stood and extended his hand again. “He’s waiting for you. Betty will show you the way.”
Once again Betty popped in at exactly the right second, herded Nyberg out of the monumental CEO room and into the corridor, walked past a few doors, and stopped outside the farthest one. After a few seconds of embarrassing delay, a broad man in his fifties opened the door. He could probably be considered a rather typical chief of security at a high-risk company: former police or military, sunburned, weather-beaten face, close-cropped hair, sharp eyes, handshake as firm as a rock. Since the former Mr. Sweden had had enough of firm-as-a-rock handshakes, he answered with one that was even firmer; he couldn’t help it.
“Robert Mayer,” said Robert Mayer with slightly raised eyebrows and a slight accent. It wasn’t German, as Nyberg had expected, but Anglo-Saxon.
“Nyberg,” said Nyberg. “Are you an Englishman?”
The eyebrows went up a millimeter or so. “I’m originally from New Zealand, if that is of interest.” Mayer made a slight gesture, and they stepped into the first of the chief of security’s rooms: a relatively small nook where the walls were covered in monitors. They sat down at the desk.
Nyberg decided to skip all the chitchat. “How did it happen that the guard, Benny Lundberg, didn’t see the break-in happening on his monitors?”
Robert Mayer, behind the desk, didn’t seem to lack the ability to concentrate. “It’s simple,” he said. “All together, our storage at Frihamnen is made up of thirty-four buildings of various sizes. We have monitor coverage on only eight of them, the most important ones. Maintaining thirty-four monitors would require us to post at least two more guards, which, with around-the-clock observation, would involve at least six full-time positions, many of them with odd working hours. Along with the cost of materials and installation, the extra cost would far exceed the potential returns. The building where the break-in occurred, in other words, doesn’t have monitor coverage.”
A straight answer, Nyberg thought, and shifted tactics. “How well do you know Benny Lundberg?”
“I suppose I don’t really know him, exactly, but it’s hardly possible to find a more dedicated guard.”
“Mr. Nilsson pointed out that you’ve had a number of break-ins down there recently. What happened with those?”
“There have been eight break-ins in the last two years, which isn’t a catastrophe, but it isn’t acceptable, either. Three of them were stopped by our security guards, Lundberg among them; two failed for other reasons, while three were truly devastating pro jobs. It was after the last one that we got our own guards instead of relying on security companies. Since then we’ve done well.”
“So Lundberg has been on staff for-only one year?”
“A bit more than a year, yes. Since we switched over. And that’s another reason everyone’s thinking it was an inside job, if that’s what you’re fumbling for: not a single successful break-in has occurred since we got our own squad of guards. The boys do an excellent job.”
“What was stolen during the ‘successful’ break-ins?”
“I’ve put together a file.” Mayer handed him a folder bearing LinkCoop’s gold logo, which gave Nyberg a sense of déjà vu. “It contains copies of our police and insurance reports from all eight break-ins. All the information is there. You can get someone with experience to look at it, of course.”
Gunnar Nyberg observed the man in front of him. Robert Mayer was the perfect chief of security, a rock that a company could lean on, professional, clear-sighted, experienced, hard as nails, cold as ice. The steel-blue eyes met his, and he sensed that his body-builder handshake had not been forgotten. For a second he wondered what Mayer had actually done when he was in New Zealand.
Then he relaxed. There was nothing more to add.
He wondered what a chief of security earned.
The seduction of capitalism, he thought, and bade farewell to Robert Mayer.
15
When Jan-Olov Hultin returned on the well-worn path from the john, he found a nervously tramping man in his forties standing outside his door. His first thought was that the Kentucky Killer had quite coolly walked into police headquarters to stick his tongs into his neck. The man’s strangely clear, green eyes calmed him, however; he looked more like a humiliated high schooler outside the principal’s office.
Having realized this, Hultin could curse the security procedures down at reception a bit more levelheadedly.
“Can I help you?” he asked calmly.
The green-eyed man gave a start. His fingers fumbled along the knot of his tie as though they had a life of their own.
“I’m looking for someone who’s working on the murder in Frihamnen,” he said uncertainly. “I don’t know if I’m in the right place.”
“You are.” Hultin let the man into his office.
As the man sat down on the practically unused visitors’ sofa, Hultin waited for him to speak.
“My name is Mats Oskarsson,” he said. “From Nynäshamn. I called on the night of the murder.”
“At three thirty-seven from a telephone booth on Stureplan,” Hultin said neutrally.
Mats Oskarrson from Nynäshamn blinked a few times. His eyes looked like a starboard light with battery problems.
“I don’t really know when it was, but it was from Stureplan.”
“Get to the point,” said Hultin. “You’ve already done enough to obstruct our investigation.”
By this point, Oskarsson had been degraded to an elementary school student. “The others didn’t think I should call at all.”