Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

  A few minutes passed. The conversation seemed to dry up. The men in the pizzeria sat in silence. Sometimes the Serbian-speaking dudes exchanged a few remarks.

  For a short while, Niklas considered storming the place. Make it quick, put those assholes out of their misery. But alone against five men—could get difficult.

  Yeah, not now.

  Then he heard a gravelly new voice. First Serbian. Then Swedish with a heavy accent. He was able to pick out enough words to understand what was going on.

  The gravelly voice said, “Six fine things. Very fine.”

  “Is one styled the way I like it?”

  “Absolutely. I always keep my word.”

  Then a brief exchange followed that he couldn’t hear properly. But he picked up how it was concluded: “They are your very own white slaves.”

  The man with the accented Swedish went on, “They’re back here. As usual. Gentlemen. Have your pick.”

  The voices disappeared.

  Niklas remained sitting for a few minutes. His mind was exploding with thoughts. Maybe the chance of slaughtering the pigs’d increased now that their attention was so obviously directed elsewhere. Maybe it’d be enough if he took down two or three of them and then split? But no, now wasn’t the time. He needed to plan.

  They must’ve brought the women in through a back door or else they’d been there long before Roger arrived. He looked around. Deserted. The streetlights were illuminating small islands of asphalt. He walked up to the pizzeria again. It was empty in there. He peeled off the bug. Walked around the building. It was connected to the indoor mall. Seemed like there were offices on the second story. The street level contained restaurants, hair salons, a shoe shop, a bank. He walked in the other direction. The building ended after two hundred feet. In the back, he saw metal doors, loading docks, garage doors. Now he just had to figure out which door belonged to the pizzeria.

  He waited. A man and a woman came out from the door Niklas’d been betting on. It wasn’t Roger. Darker appearance, maybe Indian or Pakistani. The man was dressed in a brown leather jacket and baggy jeans. Almost looked like a bum. Worn down, unkempt hair, stubble. The girl looked young. Much too thinly dressed, she hugged herself as soon as they stepped outside.

  The man was holding an arm around her back. Niklas thought: As if they were a real couple. What a lie.

  They walked toward some parked cars. Niklas made up his mind: it wasn’t worth waiting for Roger. He was going to find out more about this guy. Now.

  He ran back to his car again. Panted so hard his lungs hurt. He couldn’t lose them. His pants were tight over the knees, his shoes felt heavy compared with his running gear. He didn’t give a shit about anything. Increased his pace. Jumped into the Ford. Stepped on the gas, drove to where he’d seen them. He just had time to spot a yellow Volvo driving off. He glimpsed the john’s curly hair in the driver’s seat.

  He followed the car. Southbound. Out on the highway.

  It stopped in Masmo. The man led the girl again. In through the entrance of a building. In the same calm, overly confident way. Like he owned her. Like he thought his behavior would go unpunished.

  Two hours later, the girl came out alone. She made a call on her cell phone. Leaned against the building’s façade. Lit a cigarette. Niklas thought he could smell the smoke, even though he was sitting in his car.

  She sat down on a low fence. Leaned her torso forward. Clasped her arms around her knees. Hung her head. She must be freezing. In both body and soul.

  Niklas got out of the car. Planned on offering her a ride away from there. Offering her a safe haven. To take her away from the war. The shit. The filth.

  THE FILTH.

  He walked up to her. The girl didn’t seem to hear him. He scraped his feet on the asphalt intentionally. No reaction. He was standing in front of her, tapped her on the shoulder.

  She looked up. She had a thin face, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and light-brown eyes that glittered in the light from the streetlamp. Her gaze: full of shame. At the same time, she looked indifferent.

  Niklas extended his hand.

  “My name is Niklas.”

  She shook her head. In poor Swedish, “I not understand Swedish so good.”

  Niklas repeated himself, in English. The girl continued to look surprised.

  “What do you want?”

  He hadn’t used his English in a long time, but it was still good.

  “I came to take you away from here.”

  The girl stood up. He saw her entire body up close for the first time. A short skirt and thick, nude-colored tights. Long legs. A leather jacket that didn’t appear to close. Under it, he glimpsed her pouting breasts. She stood in silence. Seemed to be reading him as much as he was checking her out. Niklas was ashamed: he’d just looked at her like she was a piece of meat. Just like it said in all those feminist books he’d read.

  Finally, she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I’m taking you away from here. You shouldn’t have to do what you do. And I’m going to punish them.”

  “You can take me away from here. But it cost. One thousand five hundred for one hour.”

  “No, no. You misunderstood. I don’t want to buy you. The opposite, I want you to stop with this. You’ll be free. And I’ll punish the ones who think you can be sold. I promise.”

  A dark blue Opel stopped on the street. The girl looked over at it. Then back at Niklas.

  “Now, I have to go.”

  “Don’t go. Come with me.”

  “No, I go.”

  Niklas glanced at the Opel. A man in the driver’s seat. Looking at them.

  Niklas said, “I’ll punish him too.”

  The girl started walking toward the car. Right before she climbed in the car, she turned around.

  “You can never punish them all.”

  Finally, it was time. Crouched as if in battle. Approaching the back of Roger Jonsson’s house. Because he knew that today the pig’s partner, Patricia Jacobs, was away at a conference. And he knew more: the asshole followed Swedish hockey finals like a well-trained dog follows its owner. Tonight at seven, Färjestad versus Linköping. Huge game between two fan favorites.

  He thought about the last thing the prostitute’d said. Tonight, he’d show her. Roger Jonsson—whore buyer, wife cheater, woman torturer. He was going to be punished so hard he’d wish he’d never been born.

  Niklas was dressed in dark, lightweight clothes that were made for winter runners: thick, tight leggings and a thin Gore-Tex windbreaker. On his head: a homemade balaclava, a hat that he’d cut eye and mouth holes out of. He was going to roll it down when it was time. A small backpack was strapped tightly to his back. The Beretta, in a holster.

  In front of him: a small lawn, a deck with a set of stairs, a balcony door onto the deck. He reached the house in five steps. The TV was in a room with a window overlooking the street, so there was no risk that Roger would discover anything. What’s more: it was the middle of the second period right now. The risk that the guy’d so much as leave to take a piss: less than zero.

  He picked the deck door. He’d already tried it out twice before while the couple was at work.

  He could hear the sounds from the game faintly. The applause from the audience, the worked up clichés from the commentators, the rapid sounds from the skate blades captured in a close-up.

  Niklas knew the layout of the house. Had sat outside and stared in for so many days. Had created a picture of how the rooms were laid out. If there was an alarm, where the wireless phone was usually kept, if they locked the front door, which way the hinges opened. And, again: he’d broken in twice before for a visit. Just to get a quick look around. To feel at home.

  He stopped. His heart was beating louder than the feet stomping in the bleachers from the cheering section on TV. A short second: he brought his hands into starting position for tanto dori. Took a deep breath. Let the air out through his mouth. Felt the calm wash over him.

&nb
sp; A few more steps. The sounds from the hockey battle were clearer now. He pulled out his gun. He was one with his weapon.

  Niklas could’ve gotten a sniper rifle. Camped out on some rooftop across the street. A single shot to the face—easy. Sprayed wife-beater brain matter on the wall of the house. He could’ve attached a bomb to the TV, blown up 430 square feet of the idyllic suburbs with the tap of a finger. Or why not simply poison Roger Jonsson? There were many easier ways than the one he’d chosen. But that wasn’t what it was about. Operation Magnum was a school. A pedagogical signal to all perpetrators. You will be punished. You will suffer.

  It was time. Niklas walked into the TV room. Striped wallpaper. A couch and two armchairs. Nasty wall-to-wall carpeting and a stereo console. On the couch: Roger Jonsson. Pudgy, pale, pathetic.

  Niklas pointed the Beretta at the guy’s head. Picked up the remote control, switched channels.

  “I don’t like hockey.”

  Roger Jonsson looked like he was going to shit his pants. If he’d been pale before, he was more green now. He tried to say something.

  Niklas shushed him.

  “Don’t say anything. Then I’ll have to shoot you.”

  There was a risk that someone would see them from the outside. The house across the street didn’t have a direct view into this room. But if someone drove past in a high car, like an SUV, for instance, they would be able to see in. Niklas brought out his backpack. Taped Roger’s mouth. Taped his hands, feet. Threw him on the floor.

  “I know you like eating carpet, you fucking pig.”

  Niklas was pleased with his comment. He’d thought it out way ahead of time.

  He sat down on the couch. Put the Beretta in his lap. Now no one could see them from the outside. Time for some action.

  He explained. Held a planned lecture. For at least ten minutes. The gender power structure was over. Everyone who beat, humiliated, exploited their physical strength would soon find out. Everyone who bought women, raped people, played with lives.

  He dealt Roger kicks with even intervals.

  The beads of sweat on the guy’s forehead must be stinging his eyes.

  Niklas unfolded a piece of paper. It was Roger Jonsson’s conviction. Gross Violation of a Woman’s Integrity and Aggravated Rape.

  Niklas dug around in his backpack. Fished out a small blowtorch. Roger’s eyes widened.

  Go time.

  Niklas read sections of the conviction aloud.

  A long night for a wife beater and whore buyer.

  Four hours later. Niklas left the same way he’d come. Through the garden. Out on the other side of the house. The rental car was parked around seven hundred feet farther away. Maybe someone would see him walk through the area. But they wouldn’t see his hair color or facial features. It was pitch-black outside and he’d broken the streetlights the night before.

  He fished out his cell phone. He’d prepared a prepaid card.

  He’d memorized the number of Patricia Jacobs.

  Loud music in the background. Disco at the company party? He hoped Patricia got to dance.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, can you hear me?”

  “Wait a sec, let me go somewhere quieter.”

  Seven seconds. The noise in the background diminished.

  “I think I can hear you better now. Who is this?”

  “You can call me Travis.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You can call me Travis.”

  “I don’t think I know you.”

  “You don’t need to. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve removed him. You don’t have to worry anymore. He’s not coming back.”

  “What do you mean? Who are you?”

  “Ask the police what it feels like to get your private parts treated with a blowtorch. I know what he’s done to you. I know what he did to his last woman.”

  48

  He thought about his private investigation over the past few weeks. Alf Winge hadn’t leaked shit. But the Bentley dealer was hiding something. Thomas wasn’t a seasoned detective. But his gut was speaking loud and clear. Shouldn’t he call one of his old colleagues after all? The answer to that question still hadn’t changed. The rest of the guys in the Southern District were too close to Adamsson. Should he be in touch with Hägerström? Nah, he didn’t need that piece of shit. Still: there was so much to dig deeper into. Runeby’s info about Adamsson’s project in the eighties. The impenetrable material he’d gotten from Rantzell’s basement. The Bentley kid’s insecurity.

  Thomas found out as much as he could about the guy in the store. Niklas Creutz. Didn’t show up in the criminal registry, no tax debt or late-payment notices. Came from an old banking family. Daddy probably still paid for the brat’s rent and the car he drove. Still: he got the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Could see Niklas Creutz’s face in front of him. Went over the sequence of events. The guy’s almost panicked expression.

  Thomas ran a search through the multiple databases on his own this time. Really didn’t give a shit if someone wondered why he’d done a search on Creutz. No hits on suspects or people with claims filed on them—but on people who’d filed claims, bingo: Niklas Creutz’d been subjected to some unpleasantness this summer. Thomas ordered the criminal report from the City District: aggravated assault in the dealership on Strandvägen. Perps unknown. The only thing the brat’d said in the report was that he remembered that the perps were dark, with a foreign appearance, one pretty short but hefty—very hefty. They’d forced their way into the small office. Given Creutz a real going over. The doctor’s certificate pointed to a broken rib, swelling and bruises on the face, as well as two lost teeth in the upper row. In the report taken at the scene of the crime, he’d explained why: They wanted to know if I’d sold a Continental GT to someone named Wisam. Then they wanted to see all the paperwork on the car. Then they called me a racist. Wisam Jibril, I think. I don’t understand why. Then they beat me up. I thought I was going to die.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. The last document that Rantzell’d signed: a contract of sale, Bentley Continental GT, 1.4 million kronor. And then this: someone’d beaten that poor sucker bloody. For the sake of the very same car. Why?

  He had to find Wisam Jibril. Ran the same searches on him as he’d done on the Bentley dealer. Got a hit right away. The guy had a solid criminal record: unlawful threats, assault, armed robbery, drug-related crimes, etc. A gangster, a robber, a guy who’d been around the block. Thomas ordered copies of court records, preliminary-investigation paperwork, surveillance notes, printouts from the general reconnaissance register. Worked like a maniac. The guy was a suspect in at least three big robberies, emphasis on big. A CIT robbery in Tumba in the spring of 2002 and one in the Norrtälje area in the fall of the same year. Total value: 1.5 million kronor. But even bigger: a robbery at Arlanda. Thomas remembered the newspaper articles vaguely. An airplane load of bills. Many, many million kronor. Wisam Jibril was definitely not some nobody.

  Horrendous sums. A legendary coup. Exquisitely elegant execution. But no one saw, heard, or knew shit. Still: the talk around town was buzzing according to the report that Thomas’d read: Wisam Jibril’d supposedly died in the tsunami catastrophe in Thailand. But, in reality, he’d been back in Sweden for a year or so. Jibril: king of robberies. Jibril: consumed his capitalist gains like crazy. Pimped apartment, flat-screen machines, a Bentley, a Porsche, a BMW. According to another report: the cars the suspect drove were actually leased from one and the same company—Dolphin Leasing AB.

  Jibril: a dude who wanted to hide that he was sitting on a pot of gold. A guy like that had every imaginable reason to get rid of a poor, run-down front man who might be a burden if he started letting his mouth run.

  Summa summarum: Thomas might’ve found a perp. There was a connection to Rantzell and, most important, there was a motive. The only puzzle piece that didn’t fit: how did Rantzell’s Palme connection come into the picture if Jibril was the one who snuffe
d him out? He couldn’t let it go. Something still wasn’t right.

  Despite that: Thomas had to get ahold of Wisam Jibril.

  Thomas got in touch with Jonas Nilsson again. Nilsson was a man of honor. His latest good deed: introducing Thomas to old Runeby.

  The days passed. Thomas kept working like crazy. Days at the traffic unit. Nights at the club. Him and Jasmine, Belinda, Ratko, a new guy named Kevin. His side gig felt normal. More than that, he actually dug the place. The camaraderie, the freedom.

  He needed to check off all the old-timers from the Troop. He ran through the list in his head again. Malmström, Adamsson, Carlsson, and Winge: nothing more he could do there. Left: Torbjörn Jägerström, Roger Wallén, Jan Nilsson, and Carl Johansson. Four former riot policemen. Someone ought to know more about Adamsson’s hatred of Palme. But Thomas’d rethought things—these guys appeared tougher than he’d initially anticipated. Winge’d proved as much. He needed to turn to other tactics.

  In one way, he was surprised the man hadn’t returned—the one who’d threatened him and Åsa from outside their house that time. He understood that his interrogation with Leif Carlsson might not’ve gone public—the guy was so far gone he probably didn’t even remember what he’d had for breakfast. But Winge—shouldn’t something happen soon? On the other hand: maybe Winge didn’t want to make a thing of it until he knew who Thomas was, and he couldn’t know that at this point. Thomas patted himself on the back: he hadn’t been driving his own car when he’d followed Winge.

  Thomas got the number of Kent Magnusson, the old junkie he and Ljunggren’d collared in the schoolyard in Skärholmen during the summer. Thomas knew a lot of deadbeats like him, but Kent was the one he’d done a favor for most recently.

  Thomas called him. The junkie didn’t understand whom he was talking to at first. Thomas asked what he’d called to ask. Kent didn’t sound like he was doing too well, but finally Thomas got a promise out of him: The junkie was going to check with his contacts. Ask if they could get Morfin-Scopolamin, for injection.