boxes unceremoniously in a corner of the room.
Stretches his back.
Huffs and puffs, mutters something about needing a fag, then he sits down on one of the chairs around the table, and Johan sees the uncomfortable back of the chair bow under his colleague’s weight.
‘Christ, look at all this fucking work in here.’
‘If we’re lucky, something will come up to save us going through most of it,’ Johan Jakobsson says.
He remembers clearing out his parents’ flat four years ago, when Dad died just months after Mum. The way he had hunted through all their papers, looking for something that he reluctantly had to admit was probably money, a banker’s draft for a large sum of money, a lottery win, the only way his parents would ever have managed to get a large amount of money.
But there was no money. And he was ashamed.
‘Do you believe that?’ Waldemar says.
‘No.’
‘What’s to say that this Petersson wasn’t a fucking crook? He could have had contacts in the underworld. We ought to check. I could head out and make a few inquiries.’
‘We need to concentrate on the paperwork,’ Johan says wearily.
Waldemar pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and holds it towards Johan.
‘Want one? You don’t mind me smoking in here, do you?’
The room is full of retch-inducing cigarette smoke.
Smoking isn’t permitted anywhere in the police station, but Johan couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to look like an asthmatic weakling in front of the tough guy.
Why, Johan wonders, do I give a shit what he thinks?
But I do.
They leaf through a few files at random. They’ve ordered extra screens from the techs so they can go through the contents of Petersson’s hard-drives here in the room.
Where to begin?
No idea, and Waldemar seems to think the same, saying: ‘There’s so fucking much of it. We need help. And it’s all going to be financial stuff that I honestly won’t have a clue about. Do you know about stuff like that?’
Johan shakes his head. ‘Only a little.’
‘We need someone from Economic Crime.’
‘And it would make sense to do a serious search online first. See if we can find something that looks dodgy. Not least considering his dealings with Goldman.’
Then Waldemar drops a black folder on the floor. He swears as he picks it up and puts it on its own on the top shelf.
Paper, paper, paper, Johan thinks.
A life as a commercial lawyer, a solicitor.
A paper-producer.
As a surreptitious criminal? You don’t have friends like Goldman without being a bit suspect. Do you?
Jerry Petersson’s name produces 1,278,989 hits on Google. Maybe a thousand of them might be their Jerry Petersson. The name of his company in Stockholm appears in a few places. Petersson Legal Services Ltd.
Johan has checked the latest company results. Petersson seemed to have worked alone, not one single employee, not even a secretary. His accountants were named, but he needn’t necessarily even have had to meet them in person. No financial results for the company since Petersson bought Skogså, just a declaration that the company was dormant. But at the same time he had started a new business, Rom Productions, to manage Skogså. Nothing unusual anywhere, from what Johan could see at a quick glance, with his limited grasp of accounting.
There are still a fair number of hits, Johan thinks, trying to ignore the sour blast of coffee and smoke that hits him in the ear every time Waldemar breathes.
They’re sitting at Johan’s desk in the open-plan office, at his computer, keen to get out of the cell.
A lot of the hits seem to be about a seventeen-year-old golfer from Arboga.
Several of them link Petersson to Goldman. Articles in the main business dailies and magazines. It looks as if Petersson represented Goldman while he was on the run, acting as his intermediary in Goldman’s dealings with the authorities and media.
A few other hits concerned with business. But no juicy stories, only boring
Stretches his back.
Huffs and puffs, mutters something about needing a fag, then he sits down on one of the chairs around the table, and Johan sees the uncomfortable back of the chair bow under his colleague’s weight.
‘Christ, look at all this fucking work in here.’
‘If we’re lucky, something will come up to save us going through most of it,’ Johan Jakobsson says.
He remembers clearing out his parents’ flat four years ago, when Dad died just months after Mum. The way he had hunted through all their papers, looking for something that he reluctantly had to admit was probably money, a banker’s draft for a large sum of money, a lottery win, the only way his parents would ever have managed to get a large amount of money.
But there was no money. And he was ashamed.
‘Do you believe that?’ Waldemar says.
‘No.’
‘What’s to say that this Petersson wasn’t a fucking crook? He could have had contacts in the underworld. We ought to check. I could head out and make a few inquiries.’
‘We need to concentrate on the paperwork,’ Johan says wearily.
Waldemar pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and holds it towards Johan.
‘Want one? You don’t mind me smoking in here, do you?’
The room is full of retch-inducing cigarette smoke.
Smoking isn’t permitted anywhere in the police station, but Johan couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to look like an asthmatic weakling in front of the tough guy.
Why, Johan wonders, do I give a shit what he thinks?
But I do.
They leaf through a few files at random. They’ve ordered extra screens from the techs so they can go through the contents of Petersson’s hard-drives here in the room.
Where to begin?
No idea, and Waldemar seems to think the same, saying: ‘There’s so fucking much of it. We need help. And it’s all going to be financial stuff that I honestly won’t have a clue about. Do you know about stuff like that?’
Johan shakes his head. ‘Only a little.’
‘We need someone from Economic Crime.’
‘And it would make sense to do a serious search online first. See if we can find something that looks dodgy. Not least considering his dealings with Goldman.’
Then Waldemar drops a black folder on the floor. He swears as he picks it up and puts it on its own on the top shelf.
Paper, paper, paper, Johan thinks.
A life as a commercial lawyer, a solicitor.
A paper-producer.
As a surreptitious criminal? You don’t have friends like Goldman without being a bit suspect. Do you?
Jerry Petersson’s name produces 1,278,989 hits on Google. Maybe a thousand of them might be their Jerry Petersson. The name of his company in Stockholm appears in a few places. Petersson Legal Services Ltd.
Johan has checked the latest company results. Petersson seemed to have worked alone, not one single employee, not even a secretary. His accountants were named, but he needn’t necessarily even have had to meet them in person. No financial results for the company since Petersson bought Skogså, just a declaration that the company was dormant. But at the same time he had started a new business, Rom Productions, to manage Skogså. Nothing unusual anywhere, from what Johan could see at a quick glance, with his limited grasp of accounting.
There are still a fair number of hits, Johan thinks, trying to ignore the sour blast of coffee and smoke that hits him in the ear every time Waldemar breathes.
They’re sitting at Johan’s desk in the open-plan office, at his computer, keen to get out of the cell.
A lot of the hits seem to be about a seventeen-year-old golfer from Arboga.
Several of them link Petersson to Goldman. Articles in the main business dailies and magazines. It looks as if Petersson represented Goldman while he was on the run, acting as his intermediary in Goldman’s dealings with the authorities and media.
A few other hits concerned with business. But no juicy stories, only boring
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