Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

  He thought back on his time in Sweden since his return. The whole world was at war. The trick was to see where the front lines were drawn. People abroad thought that Sweden was so peaceful, happy, perfect. It was actually worse than that—even people in Sweden thought harmony reigned. That was bullshit. If you scratched the surface, it was rat shit through and through.

  He got on the highway at Handen. Not a lot of cars out. Maybe he should call Mom after all? Images flashed through his mind. Claes Rantzell. Mats Strömberg. Roger Jonsson. Sometimes the opposition was victorious after all.

  Nynäsvägen. Down to Södra Länken, the highway. Toward Årsta. There was some kind of artwork around the entrance to the tunnel. It almost felt magical. Like a blue light that lit up the entire upper part of the tunnel. Between the two entrances to the tunnel: lots of small lights, like stars with a large orb in the center. Maybe a celestial body. He thought, Yet another hole in life. He fell into his usual line of thought. The basic pillar of civilization was its cavities, the holes. It was strange. Society was dependent on its tunnels, pipes, garbage chutes, cables, holes. But all that just underscored the reality. No matter how good something looked on the surface, the truth was to be found in the holes.

  Niklas drove through Årsta. Turned on Hägerstensvägen. Almost home. He felt tired. But still not. His thoughts kept him awake. Like constant adrenaline kicks.

  He couldn’t find a parking spot near his building, had to park four blocks away. Left the duffel with the equipment in the car; he could leave it there until the next time he went out to Smådalarö. It would be soon.

  He slammed the car door shut. Walked toward his building.

  The glow from the streetlights made the tarmac glitter again. His breath was billowing like smoke.

  He pushed in the key code. Opened the door.

  Stepped inside. Flipped the light switch.

  He stared into the barrels of four MP5s.

  Someone yelled, “Hands up, Brogren! You’re under arrest!”

  Four cops from the SWAT team. Suited up like they were on the front line: black clothes, vests, helmets, visors—the whole shebang. Smaller-model police assault rifles, pointed at him. Behind him, more cops were pouring in. Snapped handcuffs on him. Pushed him to the ground. It was too late. Too late to think. He was arrested.

  He wondered what for.

  * * *

  K0202-2008-30493

  INTERROGATION OF NIKLAS BROGREN, NR 2

  December 7, 10:05–11:00

  Present: The suspect, Niklas Brogren (NB), Interrogator Stig H. Ronander (INT), Public Defender Jörn Burtig (JB)

  INT: Hi, Niklas. First, I want to inform you that we are recording this as usual. Just so you know.

  NB: Okay.

  INT: Good. Let’s get going, then. I will begin by informing you of the charges against you. You are suspected of murder, or, in the alternative, accessory to murder, on June 2 of this year.

  NB: I don’t know anything about that. I’m innocent.

  INT: Okay. Well then, maybe you can tell us a little bit about what you did that day?

  JB: Wait a minute. The suspected crime must be specified in order for my client to discuss the accusations against him.

  INT: What do you want specified?

  JB: It’s not enough for you just to name a type of crime. What is it exactly that you believe Niklas has done? And where?

  INT: Was that not clear by what I just said?

  JB: No. How is he expected to know what it is you think he did?

  INT: I think it’s pretty clear. But I’ll give it another try. Niklas Brogren, you are suspected of murdering or aiding in the murder of Claes Rantzell on the night of June 2 of this year, in a basement at 10 Gösta Ekman Road in Axelsberg. Is Mr. Burtig happy now?

  JB: Hm . . . (inaudible)

  INT: So, Niklas, what do you have to say?

  NB: I know who Claes Rantzell is. But I did not murder him. I wasn’t even at Gösta Ekman Road that night.

  INT: So, you are denying it?

  NB: I’m denying it.

  INT: Can you tell us what you were doing on June 2?

  NB: Yes, hm . . . (inaudible)

  INT: Perhaps you remember something, even though it was a long time ago. You said you weren’t at that address. That much you remember.

  NB: But I’ve already told you. I think I was at a job interview during the day. I had just arrived back in Sweden after a few years abroad. Then I met up with an old friend in the evening. His name is Benjamin Berg. I have his number in my phone. And I told you that too, the last time I was called in for questioning. Haven’t you talked to him?

  INT: That’s right, we have.

  NB: Okay. So, what else do you want to know?

  INT: Why don’t you keep telling us about what you did that night? In a little more detail.

  NB: It’s a while ago, so I probably can’t remember all the details. But we watched a movie. I think it was The Godfather. It’s pretty long, so we ate too. I got there at around seven o’clock, and that’s when we went and rented the movie. We started watching it pretty much right when we got back, I think. Watched the first two hours, or something. Then we ordered pizza that I went to pick up. We ate and finished watching the movie. That’s how it was.

  INT: Well, what did you do after watching the movie?

  NB: I stayed at Benjamin’s place for a few hours. We drank some beer and talked about old times. We’re friends from school. But you can check all that with him. Didn’t you already do that? He can confirm everything. Why exactly am I here?

  JB: Yes, that is a legitimate question. Niklas apparently has an alibi for the night in question.

  INT: We’ve brought Benjamin in for questioning before. But I don’t intend to recount that interrogation now. It is classified under pretrial confidentiality, as Mr. Burtig surely can explain to you.

  JB: Yes, but my client must have the opportunity to defend himself against your allegations. This is a question of very serious charges. If he is not permitted to know the information that Benjamin Berg has given, he doesn’t have a chance. He has an alibi.

  INT: I think he has had the opportunity to tell us about the night in question today. So that’s not what this is about. On the other hand, I wanted to tell you that we have interrogated your mother. Niklas, do you have anything to say about that?

  NB: No. She knows who Claes Rantzell is, too. He was her old boyfriend.

  INT: That’s right, she told us that. Do you think there is something else she might have told us—about that night this summer, so to speak?

  NB: No, not about this. What would that be?

  INT: I will make this brief. What she said does not correspond with what you have told me today.

  NB: Why not? In what way?

  INT: I am not going to go into that now. But the prosecutor will order you detained, just so you know. We believe we have enough information on you.

  NB: Then I have nothing more to say.

  INT: Nothing?

  NB: Absolutely nothing. I’m not going to say anything.

  PART 4

  (Three weeks later)

  54

  Three weeks’d passed since the attack in the parking garage—still, the thoughts revisited him at least once an hour. Not just because the attack itself’d been so scary—he’d experienced worse violence before—but because of how big this snowball he’d started’d grown. This wasn’t just about a threat against him, it wasn’t even just about Sweden’s most famous murder—it was about a goddamned conspiracy in the middle of his own home: the National Police. And he had no idea how to stop it.

  Months ago, when someone’d been standing outside his house that night, he’d been able to push his fear away into some corner of himself. Reacted like he always reacted: let the worry dissolve into cynicism and denial. His goals were more important. He was driven by anger. He was driven by the thought that reflection equaled capitulation. And when he’d begun to understand the connections to the
Palme murder, he was also driven by a strange feeling—some kind of duty to his old man and to Sweden. But now, after the assault, and after Hägerström’s phone call about Adamsson, he no longer knew if he should allow himself to be driven at all.

  Adamsson’d died in a car accident on the E18 highway, by the Stäket rest stop. According to Hägerström, the investigation showed that the guy’d driven into the middle divider and bounced back out into the lane. That’s when a forty-ton trailer truck made mush of Adamsson’s Land Rover. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it was part of something bigger.

  Something would happen to him, with all certainty. He could live with that thought. But the second thought was harder: it could happen to Åsa. The third thought almost crushed him: it could happen to the child that they still hadn’t been given, Sander.

  Still: let whatever was going to happen, happen. Thomas couldn’t think of any alternatives. He had to keep searching.

  He talked to his brother, Jan. They didn’t really have too great of a relationship. Worn down after too many years of silence. The only thing that still made it feel like they were brothers was the irritation: it was different from what you felt toward a stranger. But they still cared for each other, sent postcards from their vacations, Christmas greetings, and birthday cards. Thomas’d made sure that he and Åsa were invited over to Jan’s house for Christmas Eve.

  The next night, Christmas Day, he went up to speak with Åsa. The TV was on: some documentary about right-wing extremists in Russia. They looked fat and stupid, the lot of them. He wondered why they were showing such tragic shit today of all days.

  She was sitting with her legs pulled up on the couch. On the coffee table was the folder that was so often in front of her these days, the one with the pictures of Sander.

  The adoption agency’s final home visit a week ago’d gone well. It felt like the women who’d come by thought that Åsa and Thomas were well prepared to receive a small child. Åsa’d decorated the house more than usual for Christmas this year. Maybe to show off for the adoption agency women, maybe in preparation for the family life they would soon have.

  She looked up. The Russians on the TV show babbled on in the background about how the motherland’s property was being sold off to foreigners.

  “It was really very nice yesterday, at Jan’s,” Åsa said.

  Thomas took a deep breath. “Åsa, we have a difficult decision ahead of us.”

  She was breathing with her mouth open; it looked pretty dumb.

  Thomas went on, “Sander will be here soon. It’s going to be the best moment of our lives.”

  She smiled. Nodded. Continued to flip through the folder—uninterested in Thomas again. Almost as though she was trying to say, I agree with you, now leave.

  “I don’t want to ruin that moment,” Thomas said. “And I don’t want to jeopardize it either. So we have to make certain changes. Together.”

  Åsa’s smile faded.

  “I am in the middle of a bad situation right now. A dangerous situation. It’s an investigation I’m involved with. Do you remember that Internal Affairs guy I was complaining about before?”

  Åsa looked uncomprehending.

  Thomas felt himself twist uncomfortably. “He and I are mixed up in something that I can’t handle, and the National Police can’t either. There are people who are out to get me on a personal level. Who have threatened to hurt me and who have already attacked me.”

  “Why haven’t you said anything?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you. Not now when Sander is coming and everything. But it’s gone too far now. And I can’t stop. I have to keep going, get to the bottom of this thing. There is no one else who can take over.”

  “Can’t we get some sort of protection?”

  “We can’t get enough protection. This is the price you have to pay as a police officer. I am so damn sorry. If it’d just been about me it would’ve been okay, but now it involves you, too. It might involve Sander too, when he gets here.”

  “But there’s got to be some protection we can get. There’s got to be help for police officers involved in dangerous investigations. Right?”

  “I’m sure that exists, but it won’t help now.”

  “But it’s Christmastime!”

  “That’s never mattered less.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I said. The police can’t help us now. Christmas won’t stop anyone. No one can stop what I’m involved in.”

  She sat in silence. Thomas waited for her to say something. Instead, she flipped through the folder.

  “You can stay with Jan for a few weeks, until this is all over,” he said. “And if it isn’t over in two months, then we can’t bring Sander here. That would be too dangerous.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Åsa, I’m just as upset about this as you are. But there is no other solution.”

  The industrial area by Liljeholmen. Hägerström’s car was parked facing the water. Thomas’s car was parked next to him, but facing in the opposite direction. It was already dark out. Hägerström rolled down his window first.

  “So, how was Christmas Eve?”

  “We were at my brother’s place. They have a huge family. Tons of kids everywhere, dogs, cats, even a hamster. It was the first time I celebrated Christmas with him in more than fifteen years. How about you?”

  “I was at my parents’ place, then I went to Half Way Inn. You been there?”

  “Once or twice. It’s near the police station in Södermalm, right? The one that’s next door to that gay place?”

  “That’s right. My haunt. Not the gay place, that is.”

  “Maybe I should’ve come?”

  “You’re welcome next year.”

  “Next year I’ll have my own family. Hopefully no hamster, though.”

  Hägerström looked unhappy.

  “How long do we have to meet up like this?” he said. “We’d work better if we had some proper place to be.”

  Thomas nodded. “I’ve sent Åsa away now. So I feel better, safer.”

  “Damn, how’d it go?”

  “Felt like shit. But I think she understood. We can meet up at my house later.”

  “Good.”

  Thomas turned up the heat even more. There was half an inch of snow on the hood of the car.

  “So, what do we have to discuss today?”

  Hägerström leaned out through the open window. “I actually have a whole lot to tell you. I was at work today and heard some talk in the hallway. They’ve arrested someone for the murder of Rantzell.”

  Thomas felt himself stop breathing for a few seconds.

  “His name is Niklas Brogren, the one I brought in for informational questioning a few months ago. The guy had a good alibi then. But it’s starting to fall apart. He said he’d been at a friend’s house the entire night of the murder, until late. The friend’s been in for questioning and confirms that Brogren was there, but the investigator is skeptical about his testimony. Apparently, the guy seems disjointed and stressed out. But the most important part is that the mother has started talking. She says that Niklas Brogren came home pretty early that night and that he was drunk and in a bad mood. You know how it is with alibis, either you have one or else you’re really deep in the shit ’cause you tried to lie.”

  “Hm.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “That Niklas guy doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re looking at.”

  “No, but his mom had a long-term relationship with Rantzell at the end of the eighties and the beginning of the nineties. So there are some connections and possible motives.”

  “So, what’s the motive?”

  “Rantzell apparently beat the mother.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “I guess the investigators ordered old medical records and stuff like that, I know I would’ve. They say she had to go to the hospital several times, sometimes with fractures.”

  “Damn.�
�

  “You can say that again.”

  Thomas sighed. “Maybe I’m too set on our lead, but I don’t know. It just sounds too easy, that the son of an old battered woman is out for revenge. Like some pathetic crime thriller. The past visits the present, all that crap. But that’s never the way things are in reality.”

  “I’ve got the same gut feeling. But what the hell. There’s a lot pointing at this Niklas Brogren. Except the forensic lab hasn’t found any matches.”

  Thomas took a deep breath. “I don’t think we should end our project.”

  “Absolutely not. But what does it give us? Adamsson died, but there’s nothing pointing to anything shady about it. Wisam Jibril died and we can’t get any further there. We haven’t gotten hold of Ballénius. What do we have, exactly? You’ve got a bunch of documents at home that we haven’t been able to get anything substantial from. You’ve tricked and forced answers out of a few old cops that suggest they’re right-wing extremists. So? It doesn’t lead anywhere.”

  “Stop it, Martin. We have a lot. But so far, nothing that points to the actual murderer. But soon we’ll have gone through all the documents from Rantzell’s basement—I never would’ve been able to do it without you—and there are lots of weird things there. Lots of names of people to interrogate, companies to take a closer look at, payment streams to follow.”

  It was true. Thomas and Hägerström’d divided the document piles between them. Thomas’d already gone through a bunch of it, but there was still too much he didn’t understand. They had to do it together. Hägerström knew numbers and finance stuff—explained as well as he could, but it wasn’t enough. The sheer amount of information almost felt overwhelming. All the numbers, addresses, names. They worked methodically. Thomas sorted and structured the material, Hägerström analyzed it. They were using a point system of their own divising. Graded the level of suspicion for the information they were investigating. Made lists of people, telephone numbers, company names. Created an order of priority: everything that pointed to a connection between Rantzell and Bolinder’s company, everything that pointed to a connection between Skogsbacken AB and something illegal.