by Jens Lapidus
“Okay. Then let me try another tactic. I know that the victim had track marks on his right forearm. At least three of them, on the underside of the arm, about six inches from the wrist. My colleague, Hägerström, can also attest to the injection holes being there. I am now giving you a very simple chance to change your autopsy report so that you won’t get slammed with professional misconduct. Grave misconduct, too. What do you say? My suggestion is completely free of charge.”
It worked in a way. But not in the intended way.
The doctor breathed heavily. Lost his formal way of talking.
“No. What is it you don’t understand? My report was completely correct. There were no track marks. No signs of narcotic influence. Nothing like that. And spare me your insinuations that I’m guilty of some kind of professional misconduct.”
Thomas didn’t say anything.
“I am going to have to ask you to leave now. This is becoming highly unpleasant.”
All the warning bells were ringing. All the vibes were pointing to the same thing. More than ten years on the streets made him good at picking up on the signals when something wasn’t right. To read the atmosphere when someone pulled a fast one. The small signs that someone was lying. The movement of the eyes, the sweat on the forehead, the exaggerated emotional outbursts.
Gantz hadn’t shown a single physical sign of genuine agitation.
It was crystal clear: the doctor jerk was lying about something.
Thomas went out to his Cadillac as soon as he got home. Rolled into his own world. Tried to shut the thoughts out. There was too much shit.
But maybe that’s how it’d always been—full of shit, that is. Just that sometimes the shit all happened in one and the same month.
His thoughts drifted toward the investigation. Hägerström’d asked the National Laboratory of Forensic Science to try to decipher the last digit in the telephone number. Meanwhile, he’d looked up lists he’d gotten from the phone carriers Telenor and Telia for the two prepaid plans. Thomas hadn’t been able to resist, even though Hägerström was the enemy—he’d called him. Hägerström’d figured out who the Telenor card belonged to—Hanna Barani, nineteen years old, from Huddinge. The girl said she’d been at a graduation party on June 2, and that agreed with the coordinates. She’d been moving between a cell phone tower in Huddinge and one on Södermalm. Hägerström talked to the girl anyway, even though there was nothing that suggested she had anything to do with it.
But the Telia plan remained. Only three calls made, which was a strangely small number. Hägerström’d looked up the three numbers. They belonged to Frida Olsson, Ricardo’s Car Service, and Claes Rantzell.
He called them. Got ahold of Frida Olsson and the car guy. Neither of them had any idea who the prepaid number might belong to. Hägerström couldn’t get ahold of Claes Rantzell. They were back to square one.
Thomas tried to focus on the car. Toyed with the suspension. It had to be super comfortable, smoother driving than all the Citroëns in the world. But at the same time it had to exude vitality—couldn’t look like some fucking go-cart.
It worked. All the thoughts about the bullshit released their grip on him. He devoted his energy to the car.
Åsa came home two hours later. Went right into the kitchen. Started cooking. Thomas knew: he had to tell her soon. They ate while she talked about their garden and work colleagues who didn’t treat each other with respect. Then she went into their big project: adoption. They’d been in touch with an agency. Soon they were going to get a home inspection. Maybe, maybe joy would be theirs within a few months. Thomas couldn’t concentrate. He should—the adoption issue was important. Åsa was actually important too, though he often forgot that. But the only thing he was thinking about: why Hägerström didn’t call him back.
After dinner, they watched a movie together. Executive Protection, a Swedish flick. Åsa saw several movies a week so she had to compromise to lure him to the TV couch. The cop scenes were worthless. But the scenes with weapons were believable enough. For once, they seemed to get that a seasoned cop never shoots with a straight arm. The recoil is all wrong—you’ll give yourself a tennis elbow.
They went to bed early. It was only eleven o’clock. She rolled close to him. Åsa: who used to wake such feelings of lust in him. Now they could hardly carry on a conversation, they didn’t laugh together the way they used to, they didn’t have a normal sex life—he just wasn’t turned on anymore.
“I’m tired tonight. Sorry.”
Her sigh was deep. She knew that he knew how disappointed she was. It just made it worse.
They turned the lights out.
He couldn’t sleep. Thought everything through once more. It was too late to go out to the car; the tinkering was never good when he was too tired.
The room wasn’t completely dark. Light seeped through under the curtains. He opened his eyes. Could make out the chair where he always piled his clothes. Åsa’s face. He stared up at the ceiling. Tried to calm down.
The phone rang. A quick glance at the clock on the radio. Two-thirty. Who the hell was calling at this time? Thomas fumbled for the phone.
A calm male voice said, “Is this Thomas Andrén?”
Thomas didn’t recognize the voice. Åsa moved next to him.
“Yes,” he responded quietly.
“Go to the window.”
Thomas got up. He was dressed only in his boxers. Peeked through the curtain. The sky was brightening.
“I’m standing by the streetlamp across from your house. I’m here all the time. Even when Åsa is home alone.”
“What the hell do you want?”
Thomas saw a man in dark clothes on the other side of the street, about twenty yards away. It had to be him.
“Stop poking around in things that don’t concern you.”
“What? Who are you?”
“Stop poking around in what you found in Axelsberg.”
“Who are you?”
The silence on the line sliced through his ear.
Thomas looked over at the pile of clothes on the chair again. Was his service weapon there?
Then he looked out again. The man by the streetlamp was gone.
He knew there was no point in going out looking for him.
He knew he couldn’t leave Åsa alone right now.
19
Afterward, Mahmud felt more naïve than a two-year-old.
They’d met up at the McDonald’s in Sergelgången. Mahmud usually dug downtown. Remembered the years in junior high when him and his buds’d hung out there more than at home. The raids between the department stores: Åhléns, Intersport, and PUB. Pit stop at Mickey D’s to fuel up before they moved on to Kungsgatan. Down toward Stureplan. Scared the brat kids—stole their Canada Goose jackets, swiped their cell phones, boosted easy money. Carefree moments. They were kings then. When the tight-pants prepsters feared them. Back when the pen felt farther away than, like, Sundsvall up in the north.
But now, on his way to see Gürhan’s Born to Be Hated boys, he felt nauseous. Like a nasty punch to his stomach. Maybe an omen.
The cell phones, the video game, the bus passes, and the DVD films’d been sold at majorly discounted prices. Inshallah—he thanked the God he didn’t believe in for video game markets and Babak’s dad’s hole in the wall. Even so—the gear didn’t get him far. Nine G’s total. Fuck. Really couldn’t ask Abu about this. If only he’d had something to sell he would’ve: Dbols, hash, anything—even horse. But he didn’t have anything left: had even flipped his gym membership card, with nine months left on it, for one G. Lugged his TV and DVD player to Babak’s dad’s store. Pulled in another four thousand. Finally, violated his honor: pawned his necklace—it’d belonged to his mother. Made him two G’s. If he couldn’t buy it back his life wasn’t worth piss.
Still, there were four G’s missing. Whatever. He couldn’t get more paper now and time was running out like water in the desert. They just had to accept it.
He step
ped inside. Burger smell. Families with kids. Blattes behind the counter—half were probably engineers and the rest doctors. Sven Sweden would rather have them flipping burgers than using their real skills.
Daniel was sitting in the back of the place. Shoving food all over his face like a pig. Next to him: the two other blattes Mahmud’d seen at Hell’s Kitchen.
Daniel looked at him. “Hey, habibi, you don’t gotta look like I popped your sister’s cherry.”
Mahmud sat down.
“Funny.”
Daniel was taking big nasty bites out of a Big Mac.
Mahmud’s left leg started shaking uncontrollably under the table. He hoped no one saw. Focused—maintained his dignity. Would never let himself be humiliated in front of them again.
Daniel stared.
“Funny? Why aren’t you laughing, if you think it’s so funny?”
Mahmud didn’t have an answer.
They ignored him. Daniel kept buzzing with the other two dudes. In the middle of the chatter, he handed Mahmud an empty McDonald’s bag. Nodded. Gestured with his hand: put it under the table.
Mahmud fumbled with his hand in his inside pocket. Quickly shoved the bills in under the table and into the bag.
Daniel accepted the bag with a grin wider than the Joker’s in the Batman movies. Kept talking to the gorillas. Down with his hand under the table. A quick glance to check the bills’ denomination. Then—a classic: don’t look down again, count under the table while you keep conversing. Clean.
It took awhile. Daniel looked questioningly at him.
Mahmud leaned over.
“It’s only ninety-six. I couldn’t get more.”
Daniel hissed, “You cunt. Gürhan said one hundred. Take your dirty cash back. Next week, we want two hundred. No joke.”
The bag was back on the table again.
Daniel and the other two got up. Walked out.
The dad with his kids at the table next to theirs was staring.
Mahmud was left alone. Stared back.
“What the fuck you looking at, motherfucker?”
That night: slumped down in the leather couch at Babak’s place. Tried to tone the whole thing down. Babak was wondering: “Are they loco, or what? You give ’em ninety-six in two weeks and they’re not happy. What they got on you, man?”
Mahmud acted unperturbed. Almost grinned.
“Eh, you know. I don’t wanna get in trouble. You got weed, or what?”
Inside: he knew exactly what they had on him. They were ready to pop him at any time. And they’d seen him piss himself. All he wanted now was to forget the whole thing.
They watched a movie: Scarface, probably for the twentieth time. Mahmud’s dream: to be as crazy as Tony Montana. “You wanna play rough? Oookey.” Bam, bam, bam.
Babak kept talking about how sweet they’d been the other night.
“We juxed those little fags in their own crib. They just sat there. Didja see that bitch who was like in a trance or somethin’? And Simon, he’s never gonna mess with me again.”
Mahmud wanted to go home.
On the way. Took the train one stop to Fittja. His dad called his cell. Mahmud didn’t pick up. Didn’t have the energy to talk to him right then. Dad called again. Mahmud hit silent. Let all the signals go through without picking up. He was seeing him in fifteen minutes, anyway.
Across from him: a bleached blonde with long-ass nails. Mahmud liked the look: it was kinky somehow. He thought about his sister. She’d lent him five thousand. They mostly saw each other at Friday dinners at Dad’s house and with his little sister, Jivan, once every three months or something. After Beshar’d been to the mosque.
Jamila’s dude’d done time, too. At Österåker, for possession. Mahmud’d never liked him. He wasn’t good to Jamila. Some girls always seemed attracted to assholes, and Jamila was a girl like that. Something weird’d happened a few days ago: one of Jamila’s neighbors’d apparently stormed in during an argument. Beat her guy like he was a snotty schoolkid. And Jamila’s guy wasn’t the kind who usually took shit. Mahmud tried to understand what’d happened, asked Jamila for details. She just shook her head, didn’t want to talk more about it. “He knows Arabic,” she said. Maybe there were Svens with honor after all?
Mahmud was standing outside his front door. Dad opened it before he’d even rung the doorbell. Was he looking through the peephole, or what?
Mahmud could see right away: something was wrong. Dad in tears. Nervous. Scared. When he saw Mahmud he threw his arms around him. Cried. Howled.
“They can never take you away from me.”
Mahmud led him into the living room. Sat him down on the couch. Got him a cup of tea with mint leaves. Stroked his cheek. Held him tight. Like Abu’d done for Mahmud so many times before. Calmed him. Hugged him.
Dad told his story. With pauses. Disjointed. Broken.
Finally, Mahmud understood what’d happened.
They’d been there.
Three guys. Dad’d opened the door. They’d handed him a plastic bag. And they’d told him something like, “Your son’s in the shit. If he messes with us, we’ll crush you.”
In the bag: the head of a pig.
For his dad. A religious man.
Impossible to fall asleep. Mahmud was twisting and turning six million times. A single thought in his head: he had to find Wisam Jibril.
He opened his eyes. Stood in front of the window. Looked out at the street through the curtains. Remembered his first showdowns with spitballs when he was seven years old. Him, Babak, and another blatte soon figured out that spitballs were for wusses. Moved on to slingshots, blowguns, and throwing stars. Once, Babak accidentally blew a staple that hit a girl in his class in the eye. The chick lost sight in her left eye. The racist teachers put Babak in special ed.
It was two o’clock. The sky would brighten soon.
This wasn’t working. He had to do something.
An hour later, he was walking down Tegnérgatan. Hadn’t borrowed a car. Had ridden the night bus into the city, jazzed like a speed junkie. Was going to wake up John Ballénius—was gonna whip that fucker until he told him where he could find Jibril.
The entrance to the building was locked. Of course. Even though nothing dangerous happened downtown, all the Svens had to have key codes on their buildings. Why were they so fucking scared of everything?
He walked back and forth on the street for a while. Two people were winding their way home. He let them pass. Picked up a loose cobblestone. Like working out at Fitness Center. Dragged it over to the building’s entrance. Threw it through the glass. Damn, the crash was loud. Hoped he only woke up half the building. He reached his hand in, opened the door.
Walked up to Ballénius’s door. Rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. The old guy was obviously sleeping.
Rang the doorbell again. Silence. No rattling sound from a door chain. No one shuffling around in there.
Rang the bell for a third time. For a long time.
Totally dead.
Cunt Ballénius didn’t seem to be home.
Mahmud considered: pros versus cons. He could try to break in. See if he could find anything that might lead him to Jibril. On the other hand: if the Ballénius fucker was out at a bar and was planning on coming home soon, he’d see that his apartment had been broken in to. Could call the cops, who’d be there in two minutes.
That wouldn’t work. The risk of tripping up was too big.
But his next idea was better: the other front man never seemed to be home. Mahmud’d waited outside his house for almost a day and a half. Even paid some kids to ring the guy’s doorbell once an hour. Nada.
Sweet. He could do that. Break into Rantzell’s house. Pocket some leads.
This was the first time since they’d crashed the party that he’d felt okay. The king was on the move again. The Yugos’ new darling would make his grand entrance. He called for a cab—worth spending some of his hard-gathered stash. Had it drive him back to Fittja. Down in the bas
ement. Got his crowbar. Back to Elsa Brändströms Street in the same cab. Wham-bam.
The time: four-thirty. It was light out. Desolate. He tested the door to the building. It was open. What luck. Shouldn’t they be more scared about break-ins here in the crap suburbs than downtown on Tegnérgatan?
It said Rantzell on a paper slip on a door. Mahmud peeked in through the mail slot. Saw a hall. Should he ring the doorbell? No, others in the building might hear. Might get suspicious. He picked up the crowbar. Ran his hand along the door to find a good place to shove it in. The door moved. It was open. Weirdish.
Was Claes Rantzell at home? Didn’t he lock the door? Mahmud slid into the apartment.
Closed the door quickly behind him. Inside: the stench swept over him. Rotten meat. Shit. Junkie crash-pad fumes. He almost threw up. Pulled his sweatshirt up over his nose. Tried to breathe through his mouth. Who lived like this?
Enough light in the apartment so that he didn’t have to flip any switches. He called out. Not a sound in response.
In the hall: a couple of worn-out black shoes and two jackets. Flyers and mail on the floor. Mahmud remembered not to touch anything with his fingers. To the right was a kitchen, straight ahead was a living room, to the left a bedroom.
First the kitchen. Unwashed plates and cutlery, the sink brown with dirt. A packet of Jozo salt was standing next to an empty milk carton. The kitchen table was covered in bags, ravioli cans, beer bottles, and glasses. On the floor: old cigarette cartons, paper, a carpet that was so dirty that he couldn’t tell what color it really was. What kind of a pigsty was this, anyway? Dig the irony: the guy’s company was listed as the owner of a Bentley. Mahmud opened the cupboards. Almost empty, except for a few glasses and two pots.
Then the living room: a leather couch and a leather armchair. Kind of like Babak’s place. Two paintings on the wall. One was of a shorthaired boy with a tear in his eye. The other looked more like a photo: some army general or something. A couple of shelves filled with old encyclopedias, a dozen paperbacks, and velvet cushions with lots of medals pinned on them. Ugly. A TV, a VHS player, and a dried-up cactus in the window. The living room gave Claes Rantzell away: four or five beer bottles, two wine bottles, half a bottle of whiskey, a handle of vodka. The guy was a boozehound.