One room and a kitchen, with a corner table, a small hallway, and an unexpectedly spacious bathroom with room for a toilet, shower, bathtub, washing machine, and tumble dryer. Sparsely furnished and kept clean.
In the single room, scarcely larger than an average student room, there was a bed, neatly made with a striped bedspread from IKEA, a wardrobe, a small sofa, a television and DVD player, a bookshelf that seemed to contain mainly university course books, a couple dozen paperbacks, DVDs and CDs, an exercise bench covered in green PVC, a barbell, a couple dumbbells, and a small stack of weights. But nothing to remind you of Akofeli’s African origins: no rugs, no leather, no tapestries, no statuettes, masks, or other ornaments. No posters or photographs on the walls.
Out in the kitchen was a table with two chairs. On the floor beneath the kitchen table was a computer printer, but no laptop, nor a standard PC either. The kitchen table was presumably where he worked, and bearing in mind that the flat was on the ground floor, it would have been stupid to leave the computer on the table when he wasn’t at home. The window facing onto the courtyard was at the same level as the table. The only problem was that the computer wasn’t there at all.
There had been no trace of a briefcase. Nor Akofeli’s phone. And a lot of the things that are usually missing when someone leaves in a hurry were missing. Clothes, shoes, keys to the apartment, money, ID, and credit cards. The only thing that spoiled that theory was that his passport was still there.
‘It was tucked behind the shoe rack in his wardrobe,’ Niemi said. ‘He evidently kept it hidden there, so he clearly considered it important.’
‘Do you think he’s disappeared of his own accord?’ Annika Carlsson asked.
‘Most of the evidence supports that,’ Peter Niemi said. ‘If anything has happened to him, it didn’t happen here. If it did, I’ll eat Chico’s cap,’ he added with a wide smile.
‘What about the passport, then? And his computer?’
‘The passport bothers me,’ Niemi conceded with a nod. ‘Of course, he could have had another passport — we’ll have to check if he still has his old Somali passport — but a Swedish passport would be worth its weight in gold if he’s headed off to Europe. The computer doesn’t worry me as much. It was probably a laptop, and he could easily take that with him.’
‘Say hi to Magda,’ Felicia said, flashing her eyes at Chico as she and Annika Carlsson left the flat. ‘Ask her if she fancies a night on the town with the girls.’
Chico contented himself with giving her the finger.
‘I think Chico’s a little bit stupid,’ Felicia said as they were sitting in the car on the way back. ‘He doesn’t seem to pick up the simplest things. He hasn’t got a clue that I’m hitting on him. I bet he thinks I’m a lesbian who’s after his sister.’
‘A lot of guys are like that,’ Annika Carlsson said with a smile. ‘Not just guys, come to think of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, you know, a bit slow like that. No radar, saying the wrong things, doing the wrong things. It’s so unnecessary.’
‘Hello, so who’s the world champion, then? Are we thinking of the same man, by any chance?’ Felicia said.
‘Well, I know who you’ve got in mind,’ Annika Carlsson said with a smirk.
‘I think he’s actually a bit scared of you,’ Felicia said. ‘He probably isn’t as tough as he tries to make out.’
‘You reckon?’
‘You only have to look at him and he straightens up, poor little fatso,’ Felicia said.
‘Remember that you’re talking about your boss,’ Annika said.
‘Yes, he should be grateful for that,’ Felicia said, and snorted. ‘Otherwise he’d hear a few hard truths.’
When Niemi returned to the station, Bäckström had evidently already gone home. So he talked to Toivonen instead and gave him a short summary.
‘So you found his passport,’ Toivonen said. ‘And his cell, computer, and all the usual are missing. Have I got that right?’
‘Yes,’ Niemi said. ‘And there are no traces of anything that might have belonged to Danielsson.’
‘What about his newspaper bag? Or the pushchair or whatever he uses when he’s delivering papers. The lad must have to deliver hundreds of papers each day. I presume he doesn’t carry them all under his arm?’
‘I didn’t think of that,’ Niemi said with a grin. ‘There was no bag of that sort, and no cart in the flat. Nor in his storage space either; we looked there and it was completely empty. It doesn’t look like he had his own bike. But now that you come to mention it, I do remember that when I spoke to him in Hasselstigen he had one of those cloth shoulder bags with a strap for his papers. And we haven’t found it anywhere. I suppose he could have used that as a kind of suitcase when he left. Doesn’t look like the lad had many possessions.’
‘And no larger case on wheels? No old stroller? No cart?’
‘No,’ Niemi said, shaking his head.
‘Now what the hell would he want to take that with him for?’ Toivonen said. ‘If he really is heading south, I mean.’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Niemi said.
34.
When Bäckström got home from work it was already eight o’clock in the evening. He was in an excellent mood and had with him a half-empty liter of the finest Russian vodka. He and Nadja had consumed the other half in his office, in pursuit of the truth that could be found only at the bottom of the bottle.
The search continues, Bäckström thought, and as a first gesture he had gone into the kitchen and poured another large shot, then took a pilsner out of the fridge and made himself a sandwich with a lot of liver pâté and gherkin mayonnaise. He prepared a tray that he placed on the coffee table in front of the television. I must tell the Russian to take some pilsners to work, he thought.
Then he took off all his clothes and took a shower, then put on some deodorant and brushed his teeth. Often when he brushed his teeth he thought about his mother. It happened again this time, and he never really understood why. Ah, well, Bäckström thought calmly. He went and settled down on the sofa, turned on the television news to enjoy all the domestic and foreign horrors that had occurred over the past twenty-four hours, while partaking of his simple repast.
Then he must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up it was already two o’clock in the morning and someone was ringing his doorbell.
It must be that damn neighbor, who had probably finished all the drink he tricked him out of last week, Bäckström thought. He already knew what he was going to say. He could forget about buying any more, and if he tried to touch his Russian vodka he was a dead man.
It was his colleague, Annika Carlsson. Fully dressed and wide-awake, apparently.
‘I’m sorry if I woke you, Bäckström,’ she said. ‘But your phone is off and we don’t have your home number at work, so I decided to risk it and came round.’
‘No problem,’ Bäckström said. ‘I was about to get up anyway. I usually go for a run early in the morning.’ But you haven’t come round to get my phone number, have you? he thought.
‘I realize that you must be wondering—’
‘Don’t say anything,’ Bäckström said, interrupting her, raising his hand just to make his point.
‘I’m not stupid,’ he added. ‘Let me put some clothes on.’
35.
Axel Stenberg was seventeen years old. He was 185 centimeters tall, well built, and in good shape. Stronger than most grown men and more agile than most, no matter what age they were. A sporting prodigy who was too lazy to train but still one of the best in his school at football, ice hockey, gymnastics, and swimming. All thanks to abilities he had been born with. He and his sports teacher had a complicated relationship. Why didn’t he do something with his great physical prowess and the talent that he had been born with?