by Jens Lapidus
“Have you heard from Adam since?” Teddy had eventually asked.
“I’m not stupid, you know? I’m aware that the police are looking for him. I don’t want to get mixed up in that. I just want Adam to come back to work and stop all this so we can pay the bills. I heard he stayed at a friend’s place for a few nights, but that guy’s already been interviewed by the police.” John had spun around in his chair and sneezed again. “And I don’t think he did what they’re saying, to Katja.” His eyebrow ring glittered faintly in the glow of the desk lamp. “He could be a bit rough with her sometimes, that’s true, but it was ’cause he loved her.”
Teddy had waited for some further explanation, but John seemed almost absent, his gaze unfocused. The buzzer had rung. John got up and Teddy heard him talking to someone in the hallway before he returned with a pizza box.
He cut the pizza into six equal slices. “All right, time for you to go. I need to eat in peace,” he had said.
“Just one last question. In what way was Adam rough with Katja?”
John had tipped the salad that came with the pizza onto one slice and shoved the whole thing into his mouth.
“You know,” he had said. “Some women just do that to a man. They bring out the worst in them.”
18
Sometimes, it felt like a year had passed. Sometimes, it was like everything with Chamon had happened only yesterday. The papers had written about the shooting two days later, but then there had been a triple murder in Malmö and that had taken over the headlines.
Nikola was sleeping like shit. Popping pills and smoking joints just so he felt calm enough to lie down in bed. The sun never rose: he was living in a world of shadowy rage. He didn’t have the energy to work out. When he went to buy food, he glanced over his shoulder every other minute, kept thinking he had seen the guys from the hospital. He listened to old music that Linda had given him a long time ago: REM—“Everybody Hurts”; Eric Clapton—“Tears in Heaven.”
I don’t belong in heaven, either, he thought. Not yet, anyway.
A path through the night. He had to find a path.
But he wasn’t planning to take it alone.
Yusuf and Bello rang him from time to time, checking how things were going. Above all, they helped him with what needed to happen. One single word flew through his mind: “revenge.”
* * *
—
The day after Isak decided they should get started, he and Yusuf had gone straight to Karolinska Hospital. They took the same route those bastards must have taken, with the difference that they kept looking upward. They immediately spotted the cameras in the entrance and along the hallways—thank God for the surveillance society. Nikola and Yusuf had drifted over to the information desk on the ground floor. Tried to talk to the guard. She had short hair, a nose ring, and a tattoo of Little My on her neck—but she refused to even discuss it with them. According to Yusuf: the guardwoman must be a massive dike. Nikola had asked her to call her manager. After a while, a thin man had come sauntering down the hallway: uniform, long hair, and crooked teeth. According to Yusuf: the hair-guard must be a massive poof.
The hair-guard had shaken his head and looked sad when they asked him the same question. They wanted to see the surveillance tapes from the day Chamon was killed. The guy had looked so distressed that Nicko thought he was about to start screaming—it was a joke, this kahbo had never even met Chamon, so what did he have to be upset about?
“I’m sorry, it’s against the rules. And it’s the police investigating everything,” the guard had said, adding: “Not you.”
* * *
—
They had waited outside the hospital all day, clocking the guy’s movements: when he ate lunch, what time he finished, which parking lot he used. They followed him and identified which car he drove—a worn-out old Fiat with rusty rims. The next day, they had broken into his car, and Yusuf had lain down on the backseat with a carbon fiber knife. Nikola had positioned himself fifty feet away and tried to see into the car. When the guard climbed in later that day, he had watched Yusuf rise up in the backseat like some kind of motherfucking zombie, balaclava covering his face, put the knife to the guy’s throat, and explain that they would follow him everywhere if he didn’t help. Thirty minutes later, the guard had uploaded fourteen films to a Dropbox account Nikola had just opened. Fourteen cameras. Fourteen angles. Fourteen different clips of the killers in sunglasses.
Nikola, Yusuf, and Bello had picked out the clearest sections of film. They were from the camera by the elevators. For roughly seven seconds, the two men had stood still and waited, the eye of the camera staring straight at them from one side, maybe five feet away. The bastard with what looked like a scorpion tattoo on his neck was clearest, though the image still wasn’t perfect: when they tried to zoom in, it was pixellated. Still: it was enough.
Every night for the past few weeks, Nikola, Yusuf, and Bello had gone to Gravediggers, O’Learys, Croc’s, Telgias, and every other dive bar in Södertälje. Showed the men from the film to bouncers, doormen, bartenders, and certain customers. “You recognize any of these guys?” The majority knew what it was about. Chamon’s murder wasn’t exactly a secret in Södertälje.
They had talked to people they knew, to people who knew people they knew. They showed the film around. Paused it right as the murdering bastards stepped into the elevator, when the guy with the tattoo was clearest. Asked the same question over and over again.
Everyone wanted to help. Everyone hoped for favors from Mr. One in return. Since they all wanted to do their bit for the big man, there was no trusting anyone.
Still, no one had recognized the killers.
* * *
—
A week ago, it had been time to report back. Yusuf had talked about needing to lie low for a while. When he came out onto the street from his apartment, a beat-up Toyota had driven by with its windows wound down and automatic weapons in its passengers’ outstretched hands. A drive-by, in broad daylight: this was the new Sweden. Yusuf had thrown himself inside—but still: south Stockholm really was transforming into the Wild West. And Murray and his cop friends were doing nada about it. Or rather: society was doing nothing—the brothers were crazy, but they were crazy for a reason.
Lunchtime. Isak was eating noisette. Wearing huge black headphones—all you could hear was the faint sound of the music. Bello had been playing with his fingers like some nervous schoolkid waiting to see the principal.
Isak: shaved head, stomach that pushed up against the table even though he had moved the chair back. The Syriac eagle tattooed on his forearm. Though, it wasn’t really an eagle, Chamon had once explained to Nikola; it was a torch, a sun, with wings. “It’s meant to be red, for all the blood that’s been spilled. We’ve been persecuted for centuries.” Chamon’s voice had been serious. But it was all just crap, Nikola thought. Chamon’s family had fled from repression in one place to experience violence in another. It was fundamentally fucked-up.
The boss had wiped his mouth and picked up his glass of cola. He hadn’t touched it while he ate. Now he downed its contents in one go.
He burped. Picked at his teeth.
“So,” he had said. “What’s going on?”
Nikola had summarized what little they had found out. Bello nodded every now and then. Nikola said: “But we don’t get how they could’ve known Chamon was meeting you and Yusuf at the gym, how they could’ve known where you were meeting, or how they could’ve known which ward he was on.”
“I have no idea,” Isak had replied, pushing back his chair even farther. “But I think they were out for me.”
“So why did they go to the hospital?”
“That’s a damn good question, maybe they wanted to send some pussy signal to me. But they can forget about me bending over.”
“We even went out west and showed people pictures
of the bastards. No one knows who they are.”
“I’m so upset, you know? I think about Chamon every day. And I’m always so depressed at this time of year as it is. Everything’s so gray. Plus, it’s almost always this time of year in Sweden.”
Isak had been cooler than when he gave his speech after the funeral. Maybe it was the weeks that had passed, or maybe it was just what it took to be who he was—keeping your cool even though they were trying to grind you down, even though they had managed to clip one of your own. Maybe that was how you had to act—if you wanted to be top dog.
Isak had said: “Keep checking in with Chamon’s crowd, the people he sold stuff to at the illegal clubs and all that. It might all be something to do with someone there.”
Nikola had already been asking around at those huge clubs, trying to find out if anyone knew anything about the murder. He thought back to one of the pushers he talked to a while back, at some party in an industrial estate. He had immediately recognized the way her vowel sounds were almost sucked when she talked, the way his grandfather often mentioned. She spoke perfect Swedish—but he had been able to hear that someone must have taught her Farsi, too. Roksana was her name—and for some reason, he remembered her especially well.
* * *
—
Back to the now. Boxer shorts. Stale taste in his mouth. Pain in his feet—he didn’t know why.
Someone rang the buzzer. Nikola pulled on a T-shirt and went to answer. Before he unlocked the door, he checked the spy hole. He had made a habit of doing it even before the whole Chamon incident—yet another aftereffect of the explosion.
But the person out in the stairwell wasn’t dangerous. It was his mother, holding two bags of food.
“It stinks in here, Nicko. I’ll do some cleaning,” was the first thing she said.
Nikola didn’t have the energy. He turned around and started to make his way back to bed. The clock on the microwave showed ten thirty. His mom took off her shoes—completely pointless, since the floor was definitely filthier than the street outside. “You have to stop turning your phone off, Nicko, I want to be able to call you, see how you’re doing.”
Nikola sat down on the bed, his head bowed.
“I know it’s not easy, love, but I think you should start working again.”
Nikola turned on his phone. He had a missed call from Bello.
“Did you just come here to nag?” he asked. “Or did you want something?”
“I came here to nag,” she said with a smirk.
She went out into the kitchen. Nikola heard her open the fridge and start loading the food into it. He knew there was nothing in there other than a couple of bottles of Coca-Cola and a pack of butter, which could probably crawl by this point. She started to make breakfast.
“Do you just lie around here all day, doing nothing?”
She had no idea, and it was best that way. Nikola had gone to two more raves last night, plus three clubs, trying to get ahold of people who had pushed for Chamon, who might know something. He wanted to track down the girl, too. Roksana. But she seemed to have done some kind of Stockholm delete on herself.
“Hello, Nicko? Anyone home?”
Nikola put down his sandwich, hadn’t even taken a bite of it. “Sorry. I’m just tired. I’m not sleeping well.”
“I understand that. But let’s agree to this: if I clean up here and cook you plenty of good food that you can freeze, you’ll at least give George Samuel a call and ask if you can work part-time again?”
Nikola didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have time for work. The only job he could do right now was try to find those whores.
* * *
—
The next day, he found himself standing outside Södertälje police station. A door in a gray building. Half a story down. Concrete walls, plastic floors, and visitor chairs in pale wood worn shiny from use. Simon Murray had called him in for another interview.
Reception was full of people, like always: the majority were probably there to sort out their passports, but others were there to report stolen cars or break-ins and other crap like that.
After five minutes, that pussy Murray appeared with a colleague in tow. The same black boots, the same sporty rubber watch on his wrist, but a grumpier expression. He didn’t say hello. “Let’s take it easy today.” Nikola knew why he hadn’t come alone: Murray wasn’t planning to let Nikola degrade him with saliva again.
Instead of an interview room, Murray took him up to a hallway. There were police officers everywhere, standing around and chatting. The walls were covered in old police posters that looked like they were from the eighties. Outside their little offices, some of the detectives had stuck up notes. Keep calm and stop the hooligans. I love my job…during lunch and coffee breaks. They were trying to be funny.
Murray’s room looked like it belonged to someone on amphetamines. He had a bookcase full of books, newspapers, and, above all, folders along one wall. Next to that were piles of jam-packed case files. The rest of the floor was covered in papers, some in plastic folders and others loose, probably all preliminary investigations. In the midst of the chaos was a framed picture of a kid, a boy with blond curly hair who looked about four. Nikola had never realized that Murray might have kids.
“Sit,” said Murray.
“Where?”
Murray moved a stack of papers, and a chair appeared. His colleague leaned against one wall with his arms crossed.
The officer started asking his questions, roughly the same ones as last time. Where did the first shooting take place? What did the shooters from the hospital look like? What were they wearing? Which weapons did you see? Nikola replied taciturnly, mostly that he couldn’t remember or didn’t know. And it was true; he had the images from the surveillance cameras at the hospital, but in his own mind he couldn’t see any faces, couldn’t hear any chatter. Still: maybe Nikola could get something out of this. He was going to interview the cops just as much as they were him.
“Did your technicians find anything? DNA, fingerprints, fibers?”
“Have you done any checks on the cell towers?”
“Have you found out which car they arrived in?”
“What’s your main line of inquiry?”
Murray shook his head. “I can’t divulge any of that.”
“But don’t you have a duty to inform the general public?”
The atmosphere was about as far from comfortable as it could be—though maybe that wasn’t so strange. Nikola almost regretted spitting in the racist bastard’s face.
“The general public—you almost sound like you’ve got an education,” said Murray. “It’s not often you find that in people from your domain.”
Nikola’s reply came as quick as an uppercut to the jaw. “Or yours.”
Murray smiled, but there wasn’t an ounce of fondness on his face.
“I think we’ll stop there for today. We’re not getting anywhere. You’re behaving just like last time. But there’s something you should know.” He paused. “We’ve arrested an acquaintance of yours. He’ll be remanded in custody tomorrow.”
“Who?”
“His name’s Isak. It’s usually enough just to give his first name.”
* * *
—
Nikola couldn’t find his way out. He followed Murray like a kelb on a lead. They didn’t say a word to one another.
Reception was still full. His head was spinning: Mr. One arrested. For what? Did it have something to do with the murder? Murray and his bastard colleague had refused to say.
He opened the door and went out onto the street. The sky was as gray as the concrete.
“Nikola.”
He turned around. It was Emanuel Hanna, Chamon’s father. He looked ten years older than he had when Nikola saw him at the funeral. They hugged. Still: Nikola couldn’t
bring himself to look him in the eye.
“How are you?”
“No one should have to go through what Ranya and I are going through.”
“I know.”
His shoulders looked stooped.
“But what are you doing here?” Nikola asked.
Emanuel held up a paper bag. “I came to collect Chamon’s belongings. His wallet, watch, cell phones.”
Nikola thought back to the questions he had asked Murray, questions the cop had refused to answer: technicians, car tracing, cell towers.
Cell towers.
“Emanuel, this might sound strange,” said Nikola, “but could I borrow Chamon’s phones? Just for a few days.”
Emanuel held out the bag. “Nikola, there’s almost nothing I would refuse you.”
19
Emelie was thinking about lying down on the floor in her office and taking a nap. She had slept like crap again last night, which probably wasn’t so surprising: Nina had called to say that they had finally arrested Adam Tagrin.
Now she was waiting for Teddy. She had finally decided to break the strange stalemate between them. They needed to talk now that Tagrin was in police custody.
The strange feeling from last night still lingered in her body. She had lain down on the edge of the bed and breathed—she didn’t want her face half-buried in a pillow. She needed space and room. But when she needed to think, the opposite was true—a strange truth: the way she lay in bed affected how she thought.
Marcus was working in his room, like usual. The door was open, and Emelie could hear him tapping away at the keyboard. Two of the old fogies—as Emelie and Marcus had secretly started calling the other lawyers—were drinking coffee in the kitchen. She really did have nothing against them—they were all competent lawyers who did their jobs, but they weren’t exactly in their prime, weren’t top of the line. “How do you know that?” Marcus had asked as he and Emelie were discussing them one lunch. “I mean, there aren’t any rankings like there are for corporate lawyers.” But Emelie knew. It was nothing to do with their shrewdness; it was to do with their lack of energy.