Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

  Early morning: Thomas out on his private beat again. This time, outside Torbjörn Jägerström’s house in Huddinge. He thought about his failure with Winge. The risk he’d taken. Again: What if Winge’d figured out who he was? He ought to make sure Åsa armed herself. Or even better, moved somewhere for a few months until this was all over and done with. Dammit, they were supposed to pick up Sander soon.

  Torbjörn Jägerström lived in a house that was the same size as Thomas’s own. Not in an upper-class neighborhood like Bromma, where Winge held court. Not a huge mansion like Runeby’s. Just normal. Jägerström was the youngest of the guys in the Troop, forty-seven. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five when he took up with those other old guys. Nowadays he was in charge of the task force in Norrmalm, the northern part of the inner city. Senior officer. He’d made something of himself.

  Thomas’d already spent three or four mornings sitting outside his house like this. Checked Jägerström and his wife’s morning routine. He knew it by now: the wife left a half hour before Jägerström went to work. The same morning routine should apply today.

  He checked the thermometer in the car. The cold’d come creeping. November was the worst month of the year. A whole winter stretched out ahead, no pleasure to await.

  Jägerström’s wife emerged from the front door of the house at exactly the same hour, down to the minute, as the last time he’d been out scouting. Stressed steps. A purse over her arm. Proper, business casual. He wondered what she did for a living.

  He waited a little while longer.

  Checked the contents of the small leather bag on the seat beside him one more time. An injection needle. An ampoule with Scopolamin. He opened the car door. Walked up to the house. Rang the doorbell.

  A long time passed before Torbjörn Jägerström opened the door. Burly guy. Shirt unbuttoned. Chinos. Thick gold chain with the hammer of Thor around his neck. His facial expression was stiffer than on a corpse.

  “Good morning,” Thomas said.

  “Good morning? And what do you want, if I may ask?”

  “I’m from Länsförsäkringar, the insurance company. We’re conducting a study in the area about what home insurance people have.”

  Jägerström stared. “I recognize you.”

  Fuck. Thomas’d actually thought the same thing when the door opened. He must’ve met Torbjörn Jägerström in some work context. But there was no time to lose. He shoved the Taser into Jägerström’s chest. Felt the vibrations all the way up his own arm, the muscles contracted involuntarily. Jägerström collapsed. Thomas closed the door behind them. Bent down, dug through his bag. Pulled out the rubber band, tightened it over one of Jägerström’s biceps. Ran his fingers over his forearm. Searched for a vein. Picked up the injection needle. Drove it in. Injected two full doses of Scopolamin.

  Waited. Thought about the drug. Morfin-Scopolamin: muscle relaxant with a calming effect. The drug was normally used as a painkiller before surgery. But also: the active substance in truth serum.

  Jägerström revived after half an hour. Thomas’d put him in an armchair in the living room. Taped his hands, just to be on the safe side. He was such a genius.

  The room reminded him of Runeby’s living room. The same dark-wood bookshelves with framed photos of family, an encyclopedia, Jan Guillou’s collected Hamilton books and a couple by John Grisham and Tom Clancy. The only thing that differed from Runeby’s living room was the absence of photographs on the walls. Instead, there was a large lithograph: two drummer boys marching beside each other on a snow-covered field. Thomas recognized the theme: Björneborgarna’s March. The two drummer boys dressed in old army uniforms were meant to represent Finland’s two peoples, Swedes and Finns, fighting together for their country’s independence. But this motif had another significance too: “Björneborgarna’s March” was a piece of music. The salute and parade march for the Finnish Defense Forces. But it was also the march the Troop used to sing when they did their so-called special operations on the street. Common knowledge in the police department: Björneborgarna’s March’d been hummed countless times while drunks, blattes, and bums were beaten to bits in the eighties. A war march. A call to arms.

  Thomas thought, Fuck you people.

  Jägerström was still groggy. Drooling like a baby. He was mumbling something.

  Showtime.

  Thomas had a seat in the armchair across from him.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Jägerström nodded, blinked. A strand of saliva hung from his chin. Thomas wiped it off with Jägerström’s shirt.

  “You’re going to tell me everything exactly the way it was. I thought I would begin by asking your name.”

  “Torbjörn Elias Jägerström.”

  “Good. What is your wife’s name?”

  “Eva Elisabeth Jägerström, maiden name Silverberg.”

  “Good. How is your sex life?” A control question.

  “It’s gotten better since our son moved out.”

  “Okay. And how was it before?”

  “Probably better than yours, anyway.” The guy’s great sense of humor didn’t seem to be suffering. Thomas couldn’t let the joke get to him. He had to concentrate on his interrogation.

  “Now I’m going to ask you some other questions about the old Troop. Were you a part of it?”

  “Absolutely. That was my best time on the force.”

  “Were you a part of the meetings that were organized by Lennart Edling in the eighties?”

  The left corner of Jägerström’s mouth made a jerking motion. Thomas put his hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy. It’s okay, you can tell me.”

  Jägerström leaned back in the armchair. He actually looked like he was relaxing further, if that was even possible.

  “Lennart Edling, that crazy old guy. He was a little extreme, but a man of honor.”

  “What do you mean by ‘a man of honor?’ ”

  “You know what I mean. There aren’t too damn many left in this country, but Edling is one of them. If he’s alive, that is.”

  “Yes, but what do you mean by that?”

  “I told you, you know what I mean. Men who care about Sweden’s future. Who stand up for who they are, who don’t let Arabs, Communist cunts, and Jew swine take over this country. Do you understand what I’m saying? Now when we’ve finally gotten a center-right-wing government, they make a fucking nigger minister. It’s a joke. I haven’t voted for those parties since ninety-four.”

  “Are you a man of honor?”

  “I do my best. Duty above all.”

  “Tell me about those meetings in Gamla Stan.”

  Jägerström explained slowly. He hadn’t been to every meeting—he was young, had just met his current wife, there wasn’t time for everything. But Malmström was a good boss and there was a lot to learn. For Jägerström, the meetings were mostly pleasant get-togethers, a way to network. But also: a way to safeguard the police department and Sweden. The Scopolamin was working better than expected—Jägerström kept on talking without pause.

  Thomas asked about Adamsson.

  “Adamsson? You can’t find a better guy. He’s done well, I think. Runs the Southern District like his own little platoon. A real patriot. An upright citizen.”

  “Were you a part of Adamsson’s Palme group?”

  Jägerström stopped. The corner of his mouth started jumping again. He brought his taped hands up to shield his face. Mumbled something again.

  “What did you say?” Thomas asked.

  “I can’t talk about that.”

  Thomas tried to cajole, to speak calmingly to him, to try to make him relax.

  His only answer: “I can’t. You have to understand that. I can’t.”

  This wouldn’t do. There was only one option left: Thomas brought out the injection needle again. Shot another ampoule of truth serum into Jägerström’s body. Waited fifteen minutes. Jägerström almost looked like he was sleepi
ng.

  Thomas tried again. “Were you a part of Adamsson’s Palme group?”

  Torbjörn Jägerström’s power of resistance was gone with the wind. It was almost funny. Jägerström: iron fist, macho man, super cop—babbled like a three-year-old. Still, his answer was razor sharp.

  “I was a part of it. It was necessary. Protecting Sweden, that’s the job assigned to the police and the secret service by the parliament, and that job had to be done no matter who was in power in the government. Since Palme was a threat to Sweden, we had to watch him the way we would any other potential national threat. Palme was too close with the Russians.”

  “So, what did you do, practically speaking?”

  “I was only twenty-five years old. I wasn’t a commanding officer or in a leadership position. So I don’t know too much, but we were divided into cells. The ones in my group didn’t know who was in the other groups. At least I didn’t. My area of responsibility was weapons. I made sure the group had access to a big enough arsenal and combat equipment. There was a coup in the air.”

  It was insane. Thomas could hardly believe what he was hearing. He felt like taking a break. Calling the evening newspapers or Hägerström. Doing something. But he had to keep asking questions, learn something tangible.

  “Tell me more.”

  Jägerström explained how often they’d met up. Who’d been a part of his group. What they’d discussed, how they’d organized themselves, planned. How they’d feared the Russians, Communist conspiracies, tried to recruit trusty senior police officers, naval officers, secret-service people. Still: Thomas couldn’t get anything out of him that pointed to Adamsson or anyone else being directly involved in the murder of Olof Palme. He had to make the pieces fit. There had to be a connection. What Adamsson’s men’d been doing then: attempted treason. What Adamsson was doing now: muddling the murder investigation of a key witness.

  “Are you at all in touch with Adamsson today?” he asked.

  “No, not with him.”

  “Why not?”

  “We just grew apart. Nothing more.”

  “And what about anyone else from that group?”

  “Yes, a few of us get together now and then, maybe twice a year. Me, Roger Wallén, a couple others. Sven Bolinder has even joined us a few times. When he does, things get a little fancier, some company picks up the bill.”

  Thomas tried to get Jägerström to say more. The clock was ticking. Jägerström’s cell phone was ringing nonstop. People were probably wondering where he was. Why he hadn’t showed up to work, called back, picked up. Thomas switched off the phone. But it was still dangerous. He couldn’t stay here much longer. Jägerström babbled on. About the meetings, about honorable men, about patriots. The Scopolamin made him too talkative. It was mostly nonsense. Rubbish that was difficult to understand. Disjointed slurring.

  Thomas had to bring this to an end. The question was if he’d even gotten any information of interest. Not really, but he had to leave. Someone might come by the house.

  He’d have to do his thinking at home.

  Jonas Nilsson called one night a few weeks later.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  Thomas sensed that he was calling for a reason.

  “Hey there, Nilsson. What’s up?”

  “Things’re swell, let me tell you. I just bought a new car.”

  “Nice, what kind is it?” Actually, Thomas just wanted him to get to the point. Did Nilsson know something about Jibril?

  “A Saab 9-5 Aero.” Right kind of car for a cop, Thomas thought. Cops didn’t drive super fly models, but they didn’t ride around in junk buckets either, no Japanese duds or Škodas.

  “Damn, that’s awesome. And have you heard anything about what we talked about?”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m calling. I met one of our informants today. A real hard-boiled guy who decided to straighten out. The guy got married and has a couple of kids, but sometimes he gives us a few leads to show his goodwill.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “Jibril is dead. Word on the street is the Yugos got him.”

  Dammit.

  Thomas tried to find out more. But Nilsson didn’t know anything. They ended the conversation. Thomas remained standing where he was. Suddenly, he grew worried. How dumb was it to have that conversation over the phone? For the thousandth time, he thought about the man outside his window. Winge. Jägerström. Bolinder. They were prepared to go far to stop him. Maybe they didn’t know who he was yet. But then, the man outside his window’d known.

  They’d gotten him kicked out of his job. Had threatened him and Åsa. Messed with his report. Murdered his father’s hero. Sweden’s morale was on the line. If even middle-aged Swedish police officers were rotten to the core—there was no hope. Fuck no, he wouldn’t let them succeed. This was his way back.

  Thomas picked up the phone again.

  When he punched in the numbers he felt an almost childish excitement. Nervousness paired with suspense.

  He didn’t like Hägerström. At the same time, he knew he should’ve made this call a long time ago.

  When the signal went through, he heard a short click on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Martin Hägerström. Please leave a message after the beep.”

  Fucking voice mail. Major letdown.

  Thomas kept the message short: “This is Andrén, call me.”

  49

  Mahmud was on his way home from the gym. In one hand, the wheel. In the other, a plastic container with the Lionhart mix: creatine and other dietary supplements. Sipping strawberry-flavored gunk with a straw, like a milkshake. The side effects of the last juice he’d been cranking were still making themselves known. He had to wait before he started up again. It was lame. But true.

  Right now, he was on his way to meet the Latino who’d called him. Jorge.

  The car stereo was blaring. Ragheb Alama was crooning like a god.

  He thought about Niklas, the commando guy, who’d come over to Mahmud’s house the other day. Asked for a favor. A very, very big favor. The guy wanted Mahmud to fuck up a friend of his. Mahmud didn’t give a shit about the details.

  Niklas really did seem crazy somehow. His eyes were always darting around. Above all, the guy was probably lethal—at least if you judged by what he’d done to Jamila’s ex. Why couldn’t he spook that Benjamin guy himself?

  “Habibi,” Niklas said in Arabic. “You really have to help me. I’m in a tight spot and I might get locked up. So this Benjamin has to understand that if he rats me out, there are others on the outside who’ll punish him. Do you understand?”

  Mahmud thought, Really, I shouldn’t bother with this. But honor was honor. Niklas’d helped his sister. And nothing in the world was more important than a sister. He owed Niklas.

  Mahmud nodded. “I’ll do it, buddy. Where does this pussy live?”

  Niklas seemed ecstatic.

  The rest was simple. Yesterday, before he went on whore guard duty, he drove out to the guy’s address. Niklas’d tipped him off that Benjamin was home. It didn’t take long for Mahmud to figure out where in the building the guy lived. Did a quick line in the entranceway. Took the elevator up. Hummed to himself, “Coke gives you wings.”

  Rang the doorbell. Felt angry as hell. Life was sour on him so now he’d get sour on this Benjamin chump.

  A bearded guy of average height opened the door. Looked surprised. Mahmud delivered a straight right cross. His brass knuckles were in place. The guy tumbled backward into the apartment. Bleeding from the nose. Tried to raise his guard, swung at Mahmud. But it wasn’t an even fight—Mahmud had brass knuckles, after all. He landed another punch. The guy fell over. Was lying down. Trying to shield his head while he yelled, “Who the fuck are you? Stop. My nose, man.”

  Mahmud pulled out a roll of electrical tape. Taped the guy’s hands and feet. Stared into panicked eyes. Felt powerful. It was like he was Gürhan now. Ey, whatcha say now? Not so cocky, huh? Snitching bitch.
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  Benjamin was lying completely still. Whimpering. Mahmud sat down on a stool.

  “Hey, Brillo-face.”

  Benjamin didn’t say a word.

  “If you rat my friend Niklas out, I’ll come get you for real. You feel me?”

  Benjamin closed his eyes.

  Mahmud didn’t wait for an answer. Opened the door, walked out. Thought, Shit, maybe I should become a bruiser after all. He had to work a full week to make thirty grand on blow. This had taken fifteen minutes, including the drive.

  Malmvägen. A black guy came toward him. Flow in his step. His walk was reminiscent of Robert’s. But more exaggerated. One of his legs jerked with every other step. Was he walking to the beat of some song in invisible earbuds? Dressed in a hoodie pulled up over his head and tucked behind his ears, which stood straight out like on Mickey Mouse. A down vest over the sweatshirt. Baggy camo pants. Around his neck: Africa’s silhouette in Rasta colors: green, yellow, and red. The grass, the sun, the blood.

  Walking toward Mahmud, without a doubt.

  He crossed his arms. This was definitely not Jorge.

  The Rasta guy tilted his head. Crap teeth—looked like they were gonna fall out of his mouth at any moment. Spoke English with a thick accent—sounded like Sean Paul, almost incomprehensible. “Hey you, Arab man. My friend wants to meet you.”

  Mahmud dropped his arms. Relaxed. The nigger was apparently Jorge’s messenger. Introduced himself as Elliot. Mahmud followed him. The jerk in his step. The flow in his walk.

  Malmvägen was big, spread out. Satellite dishes hung like ears off the high-rises. This was northern Stockholm’s Million district.

  Elliot didn’t look back.

  They walked into a building. Up the stairs.

  Elliot rang a doorbell. Music could be heard through the door: reggae rhythms.