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Seventeen

On her way to the police headquarters in Salagatan, Ann Lindell walked past what was to be her new workplace come fall. A giant of a building was rising up at the end of Kungsgatan and it was already giving the city a new skyline.

It was not only a geographic shift. It also accorded police authority a more central position from a purely psychological standpoint. The building on Salagatan gave an uninspired and mundane impression. The first time she laid eyes on it, it made Ann think of disconsolate individuals at an unemployment agency. In contrast, the new creation with its provocative façade of glass and plaster promoted the position of the police in the city, gave them a more contemporary flair. Someone had compared it to a palatial bank or the offices of an insurance company.

Ann thought about the police headquarters in Malaga that she had visited on the job a few years back, an enormous building with an imposing exterior, but still with a relaxed atmosphere in the airy entrance, despite its location in an area with chaotic traffic.

In front of Uppsala’s new police station the motorists now wound their way rather gingerly around the newly constructed and, according to many, unnecessarily complicated roundabout. Several accidents had already occurred there and letters to the editor called it a new traffic disaster.

Several of Ann’s colleagues had been by on study trips and admired the view of the city they were there to protect. Sammy Nilsson said something about Uppsala being enjoyed best from above and that the uppermost floor was most likely reserved for the senior administration. From there they could both look down on their fellow citizens and be close to heaven.

“The higher up you get, the smaller the problem looks,” Sammy said.

“We’re already cramped,” Ola Haver filled in, “even before moving in. The Recovered Goods department is moving to the Fyrislund industrial area.”

“That’s only so people won’t be able to find it,” Sammy said. “Then we can sell the loot and throw parties for the police club.”

Ann Lindell smiled as she traced her way around the roundabout and was still in a good mood when she turned onto Väderkvarnsgatan. She was looking forward to leaving Salagatan. It would be a fresh start, she imagined, kind of like leaving a rundown rental in some far-flung suburb to a centrally located, sophisticated loft.

Whether their crime-fighting efforts would become more effective was not as certain. She recalled Sammy’s comment that it would be better to have ten, fifteen smaller stations scattered over town. That was his alternative to “the fortress” as he called the new structure.

“And anyway it’s built on such slippery ground that we’re probably going to sink into the Uppsala clay.”

Sammy’s brother, who worked in construction, had told them about all of the problems with the foundation. Marked heights changed from one day to the next as if the ground was playing tricks on the workers.

“But they used piles,” Haver objected.

“Piles,” Sammy said with a snort. “Nature has her own laws.”

Ann drove into the parking garage, parked the car, and took the elevator up to Violent Crimes, where things were almost completely quiet. A copier was spitting out paper, someone shut a door, and another colleague was whistling the theme song from the movie Titanic, another colossus that nature had taken care of.

She wondered who the building’s Celine Dion was and deduced that it had to be Asplund, the new recruit, a young man who seemed as if he had recently stepped into the big world outside his boyhood bedroom. They should talk but he would have to wait. The work on the passenger lists was probably not done yet.

Ann Lindell knew that the investigation of the two murders was floundering. The conditions were not ideal. They had not found anything to lead them forward. Ottosson would talk about the “blindness of a lack of imagination.” A good criminal investigator, or technician, had to have the ability to read