Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

  “Have you thought of anything since the last time we saw each other? Anything you want to bring up with the interrogator?”

  Niklas said what he was thinking. “I don’t want to talk about the way Claes treated Mom and me. That’s none of the police’s business.”

  “Then I suggest that you breathe through your nose and keep your mouth shut,” Burtig said. “Do you understand? Legally, you don’t have to answer any questions about that.”

  Niklas understood. Burtig was good, but would that be enough?

  The chief interrogator, Stig Ronander, came in. Gray hair and a spider’s web of wrinkles around his eyes. The old guy exuded experience and calm: a relaxed style, composed movements. Above all: a gleam in his eye and a sense of humor that allowed the interrogations to be punctuated by a laugh now and then. It was smart, nasty smart.

  The other cop was named Ingrid Johansson. She was the same age as Ronander, but more quiet, watchful, on her guard. She brought a tray with coffee and cinnamon buns.

  Niklas’d spent a few hours in his cell trying to analyze their interrogation technique. It was significantly more subtle than his and Collin’s methods in the heat, down in the sand. An interpreter, the butt of a gun, a boot: that was usually enough to get the information you needed. Ronander/Johansson rocked the opposite style: pleasantness attack. Self-controlled and thoughtful, tried to create a connection, trust. Force more details out of him by asking the same things over and over again. Good cop/bad cop—seemed to belong to the old school. Both oozed trust, consideration. But Niklas was on to them. They were slippery.

  The first real question came after ten minutes of coffee sipping and small talk. “You wouldn’t mind telling us about your childhood, would you? Your mom already has.”

  “No comment.”

  “Why no comment? Come on.”

  “No comment.”

  “But Niklas, be nice. We’re just talking here. Do you remember a lot from your childhood?”

  Silence.

  “Did you like sports?”

  Silence.

  “Did you used to play outdoors?”

  Silence.

  “Did you read books?”

  Even more silence.

  “Niklas, I understand if this is difficult to talk about. But it could be worth it, for your own sake.”

  “I said, no comment.”

  “Your mom worked as a cashier, right?”

  Niklas drew a line through the crumbs on the table.

  “That’s private.”

  “But why is it private? She told us so herself. So it can’t be private.”

  Silence.

  “Is it true that she worked as a cashier?” Ronander’s eyes darted quickly to the right, toward Ingrid Johansson. Niklas didn’t respond.

  And that’s how it went. Repetition, gentle questioning, repetition. The lawyer couldn’t do much, they had every right to ask questions. Two hours went by. More repetition. Wasted time. His childhood was an important subject, he’d give them that. But they didn’t know how important. They didn’t understand what ought to be done to stop people like Claes Rantzell.

  He wasn’t guilty of this.

  Only two days left till New Year’s Eve. Niklas thought about Mahmud and their preparations. Wondered if a haji like him would’ve gotten his shit done: the weapons, the foot soldiers, the bolt cutters. Niklas himself’d done everything before he was arrested. But now: time was running out. He hoped the Arab would sit tight on the gear for a later occasion.

  He tried to work out in his cell. Push-ups, sit-ups, triceps exercises, back, legs, shoulders. He brainstormed, planned, organized. There had to be a solution. A way out. At night, other, darker thoughts visited him. The face of the prostitute. Images of how they would assault, beat, and rape her. Glimpses of her vulnerability: the girl crying in a bed, pleading for help. Where was help? Where was freedom? And other images: Nina Glavmo-Svensén in the idyllic suburb. The child on her arm. The locked doors of the house. He didn’t know if he was dreaming or imagining things.

  It was almost time for another hearing. They’d already had two, without success. His lawyer, Burtig, explained, “First, they weren’t allowed to hold you for more than four days without the court making a decision about the charges brought against you. After that, they have to hold a hearing every other week in order to continue to coop you up like this. But I think we have a pretty good case. You have an alibi. There are no witnesses. No technical evidence so far; they haven’t found anything on you through the forensic lab database. The question is just what your mom is actually saying. And what they’ve found on your computer about those other guys.”

  Niklas already knew what to answer: “I want a hearing. As soon as possible.”

  The lawyer took notes.

  Niklas had a plan.

  * * *

  THE NATIONAL POLICE

  The National Bureau of Investigation’s Palme Group

  Date: December 29 APAL—2478/07

  MEMORANDUM

  (Confidential according to Chapter 9 § 12 of the Secrecy Act)

  Regarding the murder of Claes Rantzell (previous name: Claes Cederholm, Reg. nr 24.555)

  The investigation of the murder of Claes Rantzell

  The preliminary investigation of the murder of Claes Rantzell (previously named Claes Cederholm) is led by Detective Inspector Stig H. Ronander of the Southern District in Stockholm. Ronander is reporting personally to the Palme Group.

  Fredrik Särholm, the Palme Group’s specially appointed investigator, as designated on September 12, has compiled a report regarding Rantzell (Attachment 1).

  In a previous memo from October 28 (APAL—2459/07), the Palme Group described the advances in the investigation regarding the murder of Rantzell.

  In this memo, certain recent developments are detailed. In summary, the following:

  1. A man named Niklas Brogren has been arrested for the murder of Rantzell (further details in the Detention Hearing Memo, Attachment 2). Niklas Brogren is the son of Marie Brogren, who, during the end of the eighties and the beginning of the 1990s, periodically lived with Rantzell. She has informed the investigators that, during this time period, she was assaulted by Rantzell on a number of occasions. Several people connected with Marie Brogren have confirmed that Rantzell abused her during this time (Interrogation Notes, Attachments 3-6). Therefore, there appears to be a motive to kill Rantzell.

  2. During a search of Niklas Brogren’s residence, a computer, notebooks, certain surveillance equipment, and a number of knives were found. The computer’s hard drive has been searched by the police’s IT unit. It contains information that suggests that Niklas Brogren may be involved in the murder of two men in Stockholm on the 4th and the 25th of November of this year. A preliminary investigation has been commenced. (Further details: crime reports etc., Attachment 7).

  3. Within the framework of the investigation, information has been gathered from a man named John Ballénius, 521203-0135, who was supposedly a close friend of Rantzell’s. John Ballénius is well known to the police as a front man in a number of companies suspected of white-collar crime. During the 1980s and 1990s, he frequently socialized with Claes Rantzell. According to the information that has been gathered, he apparently did not want to be interrogated in connection with the investigation. A certain level of suspicion can therefore be directed at Ballénius, either for involvement in the murder or for harboring knowledge of relevant information (Interrogation, Attachment 8).

  4. Rantzell’s apartment has been searched by the police’s technicians (Lokus), and tests have been sent to SKL (the National Laboratory of Forensic Science). The following conclusions can be drawn from SKL’s DNA analysis: the apartment has been visited by persons who are not Rantzell or close relatives of Rantzell. There are traces of DNA from at least three such people. It cannot be ruled out that the persons have been present in the apartment during the time after the murder of Rantzell (SKL’s statement, Attachment 9).

 
5. The police’s technicians further suspect that an unknown person, who is not Rantzell, has seized objects from a basement storage unit that was very probably used by Rantzell. The seized objects probably consisted of plastic bags with unknown contents.

  Suggested measures to be taken

  Based on the above, the following measures are suggested:

  1. The Palme Group is to be given permission to attend interrogations with Niklas Brogren.

  2. The Palme Group orders Fredrik Särholm to investigate all the suspicions directed at Niklas Brogren parallel with the police’s regular investigation.

  3. The Palme Group is to be given permission to allocate resources toward the search for John Ballénius.

  We request that decisions regarding these questions be reached at a meeting on December 30 of this year.

  Stockholm

  Detective Inspector Lars Stenås

  57

  They were sitting at Thomas’s house, on the ground floor. If Åsa’d been there, she would’ve been watching TV upstairs. Thomas felt as though deep inside, she’d understood him. That made him feel warm. But his fear of the people he was searching for made him colder.

  There was an illuminated Christmas star hanging in one of the windows. Even if Åsa’d decorated more than usual this year, they hadn’t gotten a Christmas tree or an Advent candelabra. But when Sander came they were going to decorate so damn much for the holidays that even the window displays at the NK department store would seem un-Christmassy in comparison.

  Hägerström was sitting in an armchair that Thomas’d inherited from his dad. The frame was in cherrywood. Worn red seat cushion and backrest. Maybe it wasn’t the most stylish chair in the world, but it meant a lot. If you smelled closely: the old man’s cigarillo smell still clung to it. Thomas thought, I ought to reupholster it. Someday.

  On the coffee table and on the floor: papers, documents, files spread out. They’d eliminated a certain amount through their point system. For an outside observer, it would’ve looked like chaos. For the cop duo, it was chronology, order, structure.

  The mission: to sift through the material and find information that could lead them to Ballénius. They’d been naïve; thought if only they went to Solvalla, Ballénius would be sitting there, waiting, just like the last time. But the old fox wasn’t dumb: he understood that something was going on. He knew that Rantzell was dead.

  The Wisam Jibril trail obviously pointed toward some form of crime. But they weren’t able to complete the puzzle, didn’t see how that part fit in. Jibril’d been some kind of robber king, a professional criminal, but nothing seemed to indicate that he’d had any kind of personal contact with Rantzell. When it came to Adamsson’s death, it probably meant something, but it could be a coincidence, too. Hägerström’d asked around. Thomas’d made the rounds. No one believed the man’d lost his life through foul play. Everything pointed to the car accident being as normal as a car accident can be. What was left were a few members of the Troop, all the documents, the companies, the front men, the transactions, the more or less shady businesses. What was left was Ballénius, who knew something. And what was left was Bolinder’s party that the Yugos were arranging on New Year’s Eve. Thomas hadn’t told Hägerström about that yet.

  Through Jasmine, Thomas’d found out some more information about the party at Bolinder’s. They didn’t try to hide what they were up to from Thomas—but this, the fact that they were going to do an event at Bolinder’s right now, wasn’t just crazy. It was insane. He had to tell Hägerström, he might make something of it. Still, he was reluctant. He didn’t want to advertise his side job. Even if Hägerström was smart—he’d already understood that Thomas was involved with something sort of shady—he didn’t know how deep it was. Telling him could wait.

  Hägerström’d brought a large bar of chocolate that he’d put on the table. He broke pieces through the foil. “Dark chocolate is still damn good. And healthy, they say.” He grinned. The chocolate was like a brown film over his teeth.

  Thomas laughed. “I’m not going to say what it looks like you’re eating.” He got up. Went to the kitchen. Got two beers. Handed one to Hägerström. “Here, have something manly instead.”

  They continued to go through the piles of paper. Company by company. Year by year. It all went so much better when Hägerström was there. They’d looked up the addresses where Ballénius’d been registered. Fourteen different street addresses and P.O. boxes over the years. Other people in the companies: he mostly served on boards alone. Sometimes he was an alternate. Often with Claes Rantzell. Sometimes with someone named Lars Ove Nilsson. Sometimes with someone named Eva-Lena Holmstrand. In older documents, he was often on the board with some other guys whom Thomas’d looked up—they’d all passed away. He ordered printouts from the national criminal records: a few convictions for white-collar crime and many for drunk driving. Typical alcoholic front men.

  Lars Ove Nilsson and Eva-Lena Holmstrand weren’t impossible to get ahold of. Hägerström’d talked to the man. Thomas’d interrogated the woman. They didn’t know anything. One’d taken early retirement and the other was living on welfare. Both’d applied for debt relief orders. They said they recognized the names—both Claes Rantzell and John Ballénius—but claimed that they’d never met them. That they’d agreed to have their names on the paperwork in exchange for a few grand. Maybe they were lying, maybe it was the truth. Thomas’d still applied quite a bit of pressure. The woman’d cried like a child. Hägerström’d rocked the same tactic—if they knew anything, it would’ve come out.

  Furthermore: they’d looked up the auditors in a couple of the companies. Hägerström’d talked to them. In some cases, he’d done regular interrogations, according to the rules. Or as close to the rules as you could get in an investigation that was being carried out completely outside the rules. The most important part: he got them sufficiently scared. They didn’t want to be involved in any illegalities, blamed everything on the bookkeepers. And the bookkeepers—the companies all used the same accounting firm—had gone bankrupt. The two owners, who were also the only employees, lived in Spain. Maybe Thomas and Hägerström would be able to find them—further down the line.

  More: the apartment on Tegnérgatan was empty. Ballénius was really lying low. Thomas dug up two acquaintances of Ballénius and Rantzell’s, from recent years. They said they didn’t have a clue. They were probably lying too—but no one really seemed to know too much about Rantzell’s last months alive.

  The day after the fiasco at Solvalla, Thomas and Hägerström went to see Ballénius’s daughter, Kristina Swegfors-Ballénius, in Huddinge. She was younger than Thomas’d imagined when they’d spoken on the phone. Kicki knew right away that they were cops. Thomas thought, How come people always know?

  “Are you the one who called me this summer?” she asked before they’d even introduced themselves.

  They pressured her like crazy—ran over her whole story with a fine-toothed comb. She worked off the books as a waitress at a restaurant in the city. Still, she reacted just like the two old front men. Thomas told her how it was. “We’re going to make sure you lose your job and are reported to the tax authorities if you don’t tell us how we can get ahold of your father.” But she held firm to the same story the whole time: “I don’t know where he is; it’s been a long time since I heard from him.”

  They gave her a day to get back to them with instructions on how to find him.

  They could look up places where the companies’d had their business. Check if there were people there who knew Ballénius. They ought to talk to the banks, check if there was a specific bank office that usually made payments to him. Maybe look up the customers—see if anyone’d ever met the people who supposedly ran the company they were doing business with. There was a lot left to do and it would take time. Thomas couldn’t drop the thought: on New Year’s Eve, that Bolinder character was going to have a party that Ratko and the other Yugos were helping to organize. He must be able to ma
ke use of that somehow. There must be some way.

  Hägerström was chugging beer and chewing chocolate. Dropping lame jokes that Thomas grinned at. Even if the guy was a quisling, he was pretty fun, after all. Sharp, a good investigator. He was sitting bent over a pile of paperwork when he suddenly looked up.

  “I don’t think Kicki will get back to us.”

  “Why?” Thomas asked.

  “I could just see it in her face. My unfailing instinct.”

  “What do you mean, unfailing instinct? I didn’t think cops had anything like that.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But I let a colleague get ears on Kicki Swegfors-Ballénius’s cell phone. We’ve been tapping it since our little visit yesterday. She called him.”

  “You’re kidding? So we’ve got a number.”

  “We’ve got a number, but he killed it right after that call. It doesn’t exist anymore. And she told him that someone was looking for him and that he shouldn’t call her for a while. She’s protecting him.”

  Thomas felt angry, at the same time, mystified—why hadn’t Hägerström told him earlier? “That’s fucked up,” he said. “What a cunt.”

  “You can put it that way. Basically, I don’t think the Kicki trail is going to lead anywhere. That’s why I didn’t say anything at first. But I have another idea.”

  Thomas leaned forward from the couch.

  “I’ve looked up the addresses that Ballénius has had over the years. There’s a pattern with those P.O. boxes. For all the companies that are still alive, he still uses or recently used a P.O. box in Hallunda.”

  “And?”

  “And that means that address is probably still in use. Which is to say, that he still uses it to pick up mail.”

  “Let’s go there right now.”

  They reached Hallunda an hour later. Thomas’d driven carefully. He was thinking about all the chaos in the city. A huge snowstorm was blowing in over Stockholm like a premonition: the citizens needed to be protected in the face of a catastrophe. Soon a new year would begin—with plenty of white snow, for once. Without there being time for it to be soiled and turn the usual color of snow in Stockholm: grayish-brown, full of gravel, dirt, and the inhabitants’ melted expectations.