‘Come on.’ She shot through the open-plan office at lightning speed.
‘Where did you see it?’
‘It’s in several papers.’
Eden found Sebastian and told him what Fredrika had read. He had no idea that the note had allegedly been taped to the toilet wall.
‘Which newspaper had the story first?’ Eden asked.
‘None of them. I think TT carried the news before anyone else.’
‘I’ll call SAS and see if they knew about this.’
Eden took out her mobile and disappeared, leaving Fredrika with Sebastian as he clicked through various newspapers on his computer.
‘Same everywhere,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t make sense.’
Eden came back; Fredrika could tell that she had received worrying news.
‘SAS were just as surprised as we were. They called the plane and received confirmation that the story is true; the stewardess found the note taped to the toilet wall. But at no point in their communication with the control tower has the crew said anything beyond the fact that it was found in the toilet.’
She fell silent as the import of what she was saying sank in: the only person who knew that the note had been taped to the wall was on board the plane.
‘Which means we know that the person who leaked the story to the media did not work for the police, the government or the airport authority,’ Eden concluded.
‘Are we saying that someone called from the plane and tipped off TT? That can’t be right,’ Sebastian said.
‘I agree, but let’s check it out,’ Eden said. ‘Because if it wasn’t someone on the plane, then it was someone on the ground. Which in turn means that that person is alarmingly well informed about details they couldn’t possibly know unless they had been in contact with a member of the crew, or were actually involved in putting the note in place.’
28 14:45
There were so many rules that suddenly seemed unimportant. Speed limits, for example. Alex Recht couldn’t ever remember driving as fast as he did on the way to Solna.
Could this be his hundredth house search? Or more? He wasn’t sure, but one thing he did know was that it was never pleasant, walking into the house of a person he didn’t know and turning the place upside down. With as little fuss as possible, he went round to see the neighbour he had spoken to earlier and borrowed the key. Later, he would call Karim’s wife and tell her what they had done so that she wouldn’t think they’d had burglars.
Alex and four officers from Säpo quickly went through the house, carefully and methodically. Wardrobes and chests of drawers, desk and kitchen. All the computers in the house were removed and would be sent to Kungsholmen, where the technicians were waiting for them. With practised hands Alex worked his way through one room after another. He didn’t know what he was looking for, just that when he saw it he would know immediately if it felt right.
He was alone in Karim Sassi’s bedroom. He looked under the bed and inside the wardrobes. Nothing. He yanked back the duvet and felt all over the sheets and mattress. Nothing.
‘Have you found anything?’ one of the Säpo officers shouted from downstairs.
‘Not a thing.’
He sat down on the bed. Looked around the room. It was cosy. Not smart or modern, just cosy. Soft colours for the curtains and cushions, toning in with the pale yellow walls. Almost like a summer cottage. A small number of pictures adorned the walls, and there were several family photos on a shelf.
Alex stood up to take a closer look. He recognised both Karim and his wife. The children were younger than he had thought. He picked up one of the framed photographs and held it for a moment. Several years ago, he and Fredrika had gone out to a deserted summer house on the island of Ekerö, searching for clues in a case that had proved to be one of the most complex they had ever faced. Framed family photographs had been a major element in solving the mystery.
Karim Sassi was also a mystery. Alex was becoming more and more convinced that he was a part of the problem rather than the solution, but for the life of him he couldn’t understand what could have motivated Karim to do what he was doing now.
Alex ran his fingers around the frame. Removed the back and took out the photograph. Nothing; no clues. He grabbed another photograph and repeated the same procedure. No joy. There was no stopping him now, he had to check every single one. But his efforts were in vain. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he put the photographs back on the shelf where he had found them and went downstairs.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked one of his colleagues. A police officer was a police officer and always a colleague. Even if he did work for Säpo.
‘We’ve found fuck all.’
Alex glanced over the floor and walls of the living room, his expression grim. There was nothing for them here. Feeling frustrated he went into the hallway, through the kitchen, and ended up back in the living room.
The family seemed to enjoy reading. Large bookcases ran from floor to ceiling, covering two entire walls. Two officers were busy going through them, checking to see if there was anything useful behind the long rows of books.
‘No secret compartment?’ Alex joked.
‘No.’
He went over to a section that the others hadn’t got around to yet. He pulled out a few of the books, peered behind them, put them back. He carried on systematically searching the rest of the shelf in the same way.
Suddenly he noticed a book that was lying on top of a row. It could be no more than a coincidence, but Alex no longer believed in that kind of thing. He picked it up and read the small gold lettering:
‘King Arthur – Idylls of the King by Alfred Lord Tennyson.’
The book weighed next to nothing, and he could feel his hands trembling.
Tennyson.
No way was this a coincidence.
Cautiously, he opened it and flicked through the first few pages. And discovered that someone had cut out a square hole inside the book. The most classic secret compartment of all. Alex looked with curiosity at what someone had hidden.
A photograph. It was obviously several years old, but Alex recognised both men. One was Karim Sassi, and he was with a man whose picture Alex had seen in the papers.
Zakaria Khelifi.
A small part of Eden Lundell was dubious as she headed back to the custody block to see Zakaria Khelifi, this time with a copy of the photograph that Alex had sent her from his phone. However, she was mostly sure she was doing the right thing. The fact that Flight 573 was speeding towards destruction simplified a decision that would otherwise have been difficult to make.
Zakaria was sitting on his bed reading when Eden walked in. She had the photograph in her hand, and no cigarettes this time. She didn’t bother pulling up a chair, but simply placed the picture on Zakaria’s knee.
‘I can see that the man on the left is you,’ she said. ‘Who’s the other guy?’
Zakaria picked it up and examined it carefully.
‘Where did you find this?’
He sounded bewildered, as if he couldn’t work out what he was looking at.
‘That’s irrelevant,’ Eden said. ‘Answer the question. Who is the man on the right?’
She knew it was Karim Sassi, but she wanted to hear Zakaria say it.
‘It was such a long time ago,’ he said.
He spoke quietly, unable to tear his eyes away from the picture.
‘When was it taken?’
‘It must have been 2002. I was here that summer.’
Eden couldn’t remember hearing that Zakaria had been in Sweden before he entered the country seeking asylum.
‘You were here in 2002?’
Zakaria would have been barely twenty back then.
He nodded.
‘I was granted a visa to visit my uncle. He was working at an Ericsson factory in Kista.’
That could be checked, but Eden had no reason to disbelieve what Zakaria said.