A fake Rolex, a roll of ten-kronor coins, a key. The key seemed very new. He turned it over and over.
It was a pretty substantial door key. Its lock must be more massive than you would find on a regular door, a safety lock of some sort; but it was hardly possible to say more than that. The key said “CEA” and “Made in Italy” and could have been made in any shoe repair shop anywhere.
But did shoe repair shops really manufacture such large safety keys?
Somewhere in the back of his head, a diligent brain cell went on the loose. Hadn’t he, at some point during this case, run into this very thing, just in passing, something that flickered in the corner of his eye? On one of the dunce jobs, perhaps? Yes, sure as hell, at the very beginning of the case, he had been in charge of all the idiotic reports of “crimes committed by Americans in Sweden.” One American had exposed himself and got beaten up by the women’s soccer team, another had copied thousand-kronor notes in Xerox machines-and another had copied a forbidden key at a shoe repair shop. Could that incident be connected with this key?
Norlander turned to the computer with an intensity that made Söderstedt look up in surprise. He dug into his archive, feeling like a hacker. He found the case, with a reference to the fraud squad of the Stockholm police. Why the fraud squad? After enough hard work to put an end to any hacker aspirations he harbored, he came to a minuscule document from the uniformed police. There it was. It had been the fourth of September. A little shoe repair shop on Rindögatan in Gärdet. The owner, Christo Kavafis, had copied an illegal key from a Plasticine original, was seized with remorse, and was then stupid enough to report the whole thing to the police. He was arrested, but the case was dropped for lack of priority.
Norlander didn’t have all the threads clear in his mind, but it was time for action. He grabbed his leather jacket and rushed out into the corridor. As he passed Gunnar Nyberg’s door, another stubborn brain cell in the back of his head started to dance. He stopped. That computer company-what was it called? And the key-weren’t they connected? He approached the door and took it right to the head.
Nyberg came out and stared at the crouching, swearing Norlander.
“Just the man I was hoping to run into,” said Nyberg, perhaps unaware of the double meaning of this expression. “Didn’t your John Doe have a key on him? I wonder if we should test it out down at LinkCoop’s warehouse. Something about that break-in still seems mysterious.”
Norlander forgot his pain in a flash and held the key up to Nyberg’s face, as though he were trying to hypnotize him. Nyberg let himself be hypnotized.
“I’ll drive,” said Norlander.
Nyberg followed him willingly. The two stout men half-jogged through the corridors, and the local seismograph registered an unexpectedly high reading on the Richter scale.
They reached the basement and drove out in Norlander’s service Volvo, which he had been refusing to return for four years, and set out for Frihamnen.
That was the planned destination, anyway. But they got stuck in traffic as soon as they got down onto Scheelegatan. It was the middle of rush hour, and it seemed to get worse every day. Shouldn’t the sky-high unemployment levels mean that fewer people had reason to come to the city at five-thirty, the time when they gave up?
“Let’s stop and eat,” said Nyberg.
“Weren’t you on a diet?” said Norlander.
“Yes. Past tense,” said Nyberg.
Norlander parked in a highly illegal spot on Kungsbroplan. They ran through cascades of rain into the closest restaurant. It was called the Andalusian Dog and was so pleasant that they nearly forgot their urgent business. Norlander dug in to some Mexican fucking sludge. Nyberg gulped down four baked potatoes with skagenröra.
“You could diversify a little, you know,” said Norlander.
“It’s skinny food,” Nyberg said, with half of his fourth portion in his jaws.
By six-thirty they were full, and the traffic had become a bit lighter.
“Damn it, he’s probably closed by now,” Norlander exclaimed, standing.
“Who?” said Nyberg.
“The shoe repair. On Rindögatan.”
“We’ll take our chances and drive by. It’s on the way, after all.”
They took their chances and drove by. Kungsgatan to Stureplan, Sturegatan to Valhallavägen, Erik Dahlbergsgatan to Rindögatan.
“Lidingövägen would have been better,” said Nyberg.
“Lay off,” said Norlander. “But umbrellas would have been good.”
It was pitch black, as if it were the middle of the night; actually it was only quarter to seven. The shoe repair shop was a short way up the long hill of Rindögatan. There was a faint light coming from the little workshop. They hurried out into the pouring rain and pounded on the window, where old soles and keys from the 1960s were lying and collecting dust.
A small Greek man in his sixties peeked discreetly out the window. He gaped in fear at the dripping, pounding Nordic giants. Polyphemus, he appeared to be thinking. Two of them.
“Police,” Norlander mimed, showing his ID. “Can we come in for a minute?”
The Greek opened the door and, with a small gesture, let the cop-Cyclopes in. On the ancient worktable lay an open book under a small, weak shoemaker’s lamp. The man walked over to it and held it up. It was in Greek.
“Have you heard of Konstantin Kavafis?” he asked.
They stared at him like idiots.
“Never has the modern Greek language sounded so sweet,” he said, stroking the cover of the book. “He lifted us up to the level of the ancients. I always sit here for a while after closing time and read him. A poem a day keeps senility away. He was my grandfather’s uncle.”
“So you’re Christo Kavafis?” Norlander said briskly.
“That’s right,” said Kavafis. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“A few weeks ago you copied a key from a Plasticine original, right?”
Kavafis turned pale. “I thought I was free.” He felt the threat of grievous bodily harm nibble at the back of his neck. My name is No One, he seemed to be thinking.
“Yeah, yeah, you are free, don’t worry. Tell us about it.”
“I have already told about it.”
“Do it again.”
“A young man who spoke English with an American accent came in and asked to get a key made from a clay impression. I knew it wasn’t legal, but it was such a challenge. I don’t come across that many challenges in my work, so I couldn’t resist. Then I regretted it and called the police, and they came and arrested me. I was in jail for the night. I haven’t been that scared since the civil war. All my memories came back.”
“What did he look like? The American?”
Kavafis shook his head. “It was a long time ago. Ordinary. Normal. Young. Pretty blond.”
“Clothes?”
“I don’t remember. Gray jacket, I think. Tennis shoes. I don’t know.”
Norlander took out the key and held it up to Kavafis, who was not hypnotized.
“Is this the key?”
The Greek took it and turned it over. “This might be it. It was one like this.”
“Can you come up to see us tomorrow and help us try to get a picture of him? It’s very important.”
Kavafis nodded.
Norlander fished out his wallet and took out a dirty business card, which he gave to the Greek. Then they said goodbye.
Kavafis looked hesitant. “I wonder,” he said, “if I don’t remember one more thing. He paid in ten-kronor coins. Out of a long roll.”
Nyberg and Norlander exchanged glances. They had been right. John Doe was an American. He had made a clay impression of a security lock. He had gone to a shoe repair shop in Gärdet to get a key made. Then he had been shot in the heart. Why? Where? In the rush to get going, they couldn’t really get all the threads to come together, but they had to get to Frihamnen; they knew that much.