A list of seven names.
People who were on the periphery of the preliminary investigation and who they had three days to investigate and who perhaps meant the difference between the case staying live or being scaled down-between a solved and an unsolved murder.
He divided them into three columns.
Drugs, thugs, Wojtek.
Sven was going to concentrate on the first column, on the known drug dealers who lived or operated in the vicinity of Västmannagatan 79: Jorge Hernandez on the second floor of the same building; Jorma Rantala in the block where a bloody shirt was found wrapped in a plastic bag in the garbage bin.
Hermansson chose the second column: Jan du Tobit and Nicholas Barlow, two international hitmen who according to the Swedish Security
Service were in Stockholm or the surrounding area at the time of the murder.
Ewert Grens was going to look after the last three names: three men who had previously worked with Wojtek International AB. A certain Maciej Bosacki, Piet Hoffmann, and Karl Lager. Each one the owner of a Swedish security firm, which-entirely legally-had been contracted for bodyguard services by Wojtek's head office when Polish officials were on state visits, the official business that any well-functioning and untouchable mafia organization is dependent on, a visible shell that both hides and hints at their business. Grens was one of the people in the Stockholm police who knew most about organized crime from the other side of the Baltic, and in this room, the only one who knew how to investigate whether any of the three could be linked to the other Wojtek, the unofficial organization, the real one, the one that was capable of carrying out assassinations in Swedish flats.
No one questioned him anymore.
No bastard sat too close or stared at him while he ate his meat and two veg. By lunch on the second day he was already someone but they didn't have a clue that very soon he would also be the one who decided everything, thanks to the power of drugs, and in two days he would control all supplies and sales and surpass even murderers in the prison hierarchy. Anyone who had killed someone was the most highly appreciated inside, got the most respect, then the big-time drug dealers and bank robbers and, at the bottom of the pile, pedophiles and rapists. But even the murderers bowed to whoever controlled the drugs and supplied the syringes.
Piet Hoffmann had followed close behind the principal prison officer in order to learn his new cleaning duties and had then waited on his bunk in his cell until the other men in the unit had come back from the workshop and classrooms for food that tasted of nothing. He had had eye contact with both Stefan and Karol Tomasz several times-they were impatient and waiting for instructions so he mouthed wieczorem at them until they understood.
This evening.
This evening they would knock out the three main dealers.
He offered to clear the table and wash up while the others smoked roll-your-owns with no filter out in the gravel yard or played stud poker for thousand-kronor toothpicks. Alone in the kitchen, there was no one who saw him wiping down the sink and worktop and stuffing two spoons and a knife into the front pockets of his trousers at the same time.
He walked over to the aquarium, the guards' glass box, knocked on the pane and got an irritated flick of the wrist back. He knocked again, a bit harder and a bit longer, making it clear that he had no intention of leaving.
"What the hell d'you want? It's lunchtime. Wasn't it you who was going to clean the kitchen?"
"Does it look like there's anything left to do out there?"
"That's not the point."
Hoffmann shrugged, he wasn't going to pursue it.
"My books?"
"What about them?"
"I ordered them yesterday. Six of them."
"Don't know anything about it."
"Well, then it might make sense to have a look, eh?"
He was an older warden, not one of the ones who had dealt with him yesterday. He waved his arm around in irritation, but after a while went into the glass box and looked on the desk.
"These ones?"
Hardbacks, library covers. A label stuck on the front of each one: STORE in blue typed letters.
"That's them."
The older guard glanced quickly at the author presentations on the back sleeve, leafed through some pages here and there without really concentrating and then handed them over.
"Nineteenth Century Stockholm. The Marionettes. What the hell is all that?" "Poetry."
"A bit gay, eh?"
"Maybe you should try reading some."
"Listen here, you prick, I don't read faggot books."
Piet Hoffmann closed his cell door enough so that no one could see, but nor so much that it would arouse suspicion. He put the six books on the small bedside table; titles that were seldom borrowed and which therefore had to be collected from the store in the basement of Aspsås library when the request from the large prison came through that morning, and that were then handed over to the driver of the library bus by an out-of-breath, single female librarian in her fifties.
The knife he had stolen from the kitchen had felt sharp enough when he had run his fingertips across the blade.
He pressed it hard down the hinge between the front board and the first page of Lord Byron's Don Juan. It loosened thread by thread and soon the front and the spine were hanging just as freely as they had thirteen days earlier when he had opened it at a desk on Vasagatan. He thumbed to page 90, took hold of all the pages and pulled them off in one go. In the left-hand margin of page 91, a hole that was fifteen centimeters long and one centimeter wide, with thin walls constructed of Rizla papers, three hundred pages deep. The contents lay there untouched, just as he had left them.
Yellowish-white, a little sticky, exactly fifteen grams.
Ten years earlier he had consumed most of what he smuggled in himself. Only occasionally when he had too much might he sell some on. On a couple of occasions he was so hard up that he used it as part payment for his most pressing debts. This time, it was going to be put to different use. Four books with a total of forty-two grams of 30 percent manufactured amphetamine was his weapon for squashing the competition and taking over himself.
Books, Blossom.
Small amounts, but he didn't need more right now. The tricks he had learned over the years were foolproof and wouldn't be discovered by prison routines.
Back then, he'd been sent to Österåker as soon as he'd come back from his first secure leave. Someone had tipped the guards off about drugs up his ass or in his belly, and he'd been put in the dry cell, with glass walls, a bunk to lie on and a toilet that was a closed system… that was it. He had stayed there for a week, naked twenty-four/seven, three guards watching him when he went for a dump, checking his shit, eyes staring at him through the glass as he slept, always without a blanket, an ass that couldn't be covered.
He had had no choice then, what with the debts and threats, he became just another dry celler. But now, he had a choice.
Every day in every prison, every waking hour was about drugs: how to get them in, and how to use them without it being discovered by the regular urine tests. A relative who came to visit was also a relative who could be forced to smuggle in some urine, their own, urine that was clean and would test negative. Once, in his first few weeks in Österåker, some mouthy Serb got his girlfriend to piss into a couple of mugs, the content of which was then sold for a great deal of money. None of them tested positive, despite the fact that more than half of them were under the influence, but the tests did show something else, and that was That every man in the unit was pregnant.
Don Juan, The Odyssey, My Life's Writings, French Landscape.
He emptied them one after the other, stopping every now and then when he heard steps passing his cell door or sounds that were unfamiliar-fortytwo grams of amphetamine in four books that not many people chose to read.
Two books left. Nineteenth Century Stockholm and The Marionettes. He left them on the bed, untouched, texts that he hoped he would never nee
d to read.
He looked at the yellowish-white substance that people killed for. Every gram would cost more in here.
Here demand was greater than supply. Here the risk of being caught was greater in a locked cell than when you were free. Here the judgment inside would be harsher than outside; the same amount would always give you a longer sentence.
Piet Hoffmann divided up the forty-two grams of amphetamine into three plastic bags. He would keep one himself for the Greek in Cell 2 and put the other two out for collection, for Block H where the two other major suppliers were, on the top and bottom floor. Three plastic bags with fourteen grams that would knock out all the competition in one go.
The spoons from the kitchen were still in one of his trouser pockets.
He took them out and felt them, then pressed them hard against the edge of the steel bunk until they were both bent to nearly right angles like two hooks; he checked them, they would do. His blue jogging pants with the Prison and Probation Service logo were lying on his bed. With the knife he cut the waistband, pulled the elastic out and then cut it again into two lengths.
The cell door ajar, he waited-the corridor was empty.
The bathroom was fifteen fast steps away.
He closed the door behind him, went into the toilet cubicle furthest to the right and made sure that the door was properly locked.
Ewert Grens had gone to get another plastic cup of black coffee and bought yet another crumbly almond slice with sickly icing on top. The handwritten list of seven names had acquired several more brown stains, but it was still legible and it would stay where it was on the table by the sofa until they had all been investigated and struck off one by one.
They had three days.
One of those handwritten, coffee-stained names held the key to keeping open the investigation into an execution carried our during the day at a rented flat in the middle of Stockholm. Or else, in three days, it would be scaled down to one of the thirty-seven preliminary investigations in thin files on his desk and would probably never amount to much more than that. There was always a new murder case, or an assault that would gobble up all the resources for a week or two until it was solved or left on a forgotten pile.
He studied the names. Maciej Bosacki, Piet Hoffmann, Karl Lager. All owners of security firms, which, like all other security firms, installed alarm systems, sold flak jackets, gave courses in self-defense, offered bodyguard services. But these three had all been used by Wojtek Security International in connection with Polish state visits. Official jobs with official invoices. Nothing strange about that, really. But it piqued his curiosity. Sometimes what was official concealed what was unofficial and he was looking for things that couldn't be seen, if they existed at all-links to another Wojtek, the real organization, the one that bought and sold drugs, weapons, people.
Ewert Grens got up and went out into the corridor.
The feeling that the truth was laughing at him got stronger. He tried to catch it and it just slipped through his fingers.
He had spent two hours studying three personal ID numbers in the Police Authority's databases-page after page with lists of ARREST WARRANT INFORMATION, IDENTIFICATION INFORMATION, CRIMINAL RECORDS, INTELLIGENCE INFORMATION, PERSONAL HEALTH-and he had got a number of hits. All three had previous convictions, all three names were in the criminal intelligence database and suspects' register, they had all given fingerprints, two were in the DNA register and had been wanted at some point, and at least one of them was a previously confirmed gang member. Grens hadn't been entirely surprised, as more and more people moved in a gray zone where knowledge of crime was a prerequisite for knowing about security.
He walked a couple of doors down the corridor. He should perhaps have knocked, but seldom did.
"I need your help."
The room was considerably bigger than his and he didn't come here very often.
"How can I help you?"
It wasn't something they'd ever talked about. But in some way they had just agreed. In order to work together, they made sure they never met. "Västmannagatan."
Chief Superintendent Göransson has no piles of paper on his desk, no empty paper cups, no crumbs from artificial cakes from the vending machine. "Västmannagatan?"
So he can't understand where it's coming from; this feeling of discomfort, that there's no room.
"That says nothing to me."
"The killing. I'm investigating the last names and want to check them against the firearms register."
Göransson nodded, turned to his computer and logged on to the register which only a few authorized people had access to, for security reasons. "You're standing too close, Ewert."
The discomfort.
"What do you mean?"
It came from inside.
"Can you move back a couple of steps?"
Whatever it was that demanded more space.
Göransson was looking at a person he didn't like and who didn't like him, so they seldom got in each other's way. That was all there was to it. "Personal ID?"
"721018-0010. 660531-2559. 580219-3672."
Three personal ID numbers. Three names on the screen.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
Västmannagatan.
Suddenly he understood.
"Göransson? Did you hear? I want everything."
That name.
"One of them has a license. For work, plus four hunting guns." "Guns for work?"
"Pistols."
"Make?"
"Radom."
"Caliber?"
"Nine millimeter."
The name that was still blinking on the screen.
"Damn it, Göransson. Damn it!"
The detective superintendent had gotten up quickly and was already halfway out the door.
"But we already have access to them, Ewert."
Grens stopped mid-step.
"What do you mean?"
"There's a memorandum here. All the weapons have been seized. Krantz has them, no doubt." "Why?"
"It doesn't say. You'll have to ask him."
The dull sound of a heavy body limping away down the corridor. Chief Superintendent Göransson didn't have the energy to fight the feeling that something was afoot, the dread that made him shrivel inside. He looked at the name on the screen for a long time.
Piet Hoffmann.
Ewert Grens would only have to press a few buttons and make a couple of phone calls to find the registered gun-owner's current domicile and then go to the small town with a big prison to the north of the city and he would question him until he got the answer he mustn't get.
What wasn't meant to happen had just happened.
Piet Hoffmann waited behind the locked toilet door until he was absolutely sure he was alone.
Elastic, spoon, plastic bag.
This was exactly how he had hidden drugs and syringes in Österåker. Lorentz had told him that it still worked despite the fact that it was so damn simple. Maybe that was why. No guard in any prison would search the actual toilet U-bend.
The cistern, the drains, the waste pipe under the sink, hiding places that you might as well forget these days. But the U-bend, after all these years, they still had no idea.
He put the elastic, the bent spoon, and the plastic bag full of amphetamine down on the filthy toilet floor. He attached the plastic bag to one end of the elastic and the spoon to the other, then got down on his knees beside the toilet bowl, holding the plastic bag in his hand and pushing it as far down the pipe as he could, stretching the elastic. His arm and sleeve were wet up to his shoulder when he flushed and the pressure of the water pushed the plastic bag even farther down the pipe, the bent spoon catching on the edge of the pipe. He waited, flushed again. The elastic should stretch even more and the plastic bag would be suspended at the other end somewhere far down the pipe.
You couldn't see the spoon that was hooked over the edge of the pipe, holding the plastic bag in place.
But i
t would be easy to get hold of next time.
Down on his knees, hand in the wet, carefully haul it in.
Ewert Grens had left Göransson and the Homicide offices, and the truth that he couldn't quite grasp wasn't laughing so loud now. Radom. For the first time since the preliminary investigation started he had a lead, a name. Nine millimeter. Someone who might be the link to an execution.
Pier Hoffmann.
A name he had never heard before.
But who owned a security firm that got official bodyguard jobs from Wojtek International when there were state visits. And who had a license for Polish-manufactured guns, for work purposes, despite having served a five-year sentence for aggravated assault. Guns which, according to the register, were already in the hands of the police. Seized two weeks ago.
Ewert Grens got out of the elevator on his way to the forensics unit.
He had a name.
Soon he would have more.
Piet Hoffmann had sore knees when he got up off the toiler floor and listened to the silence. He had flushed twice more, listened again, but there were still no other sounds when he unlocked the door and went out into the corridor, making it look like he'd been sitting in there for a while, dicky tummy that took its time. He went over to the TV corner, shuffled a pack of cards, made it look like he was entertaining himself for a few minutes, while he sneaked a look over at the wardens' office and the kitchen in order to locate the guards that ran around in the unit.
Faces that were turned away, uniformed backs doing something. He held up his middle finger, that usually got them moving.
Nothing. No one reacted, no one saw.
The others still had an hour left of their afternoon stint in the classroom and workshop, the corridor was empty, the screws were some place else. Now.
He walked toward the row of cells. A quick look back at nothing. He opened the door to number 2.
The Greek's cell.
It looked the same, the same damn bed and the same damn wardrobe and chair and bedside table. It smelled different, stuffy, maybe sour, but it was just as fucking warm and the air he breathed was just as dusty. A photo of a child on the wall, a girl with long dark hair, another photo of a woman, his daughter's mother, Hoffmann was convinced.
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