Gieger

by Gustaf Skördeman

  Some cars circled for hours without stopping. Either the drivers didn’t have the guts, or they got their kicks from looking and fantasising. Feeling dirty. Or feeling like the women here were dirty. And they were the men’s as soon as the men wanted them.

  While they waited for an opportunity to intervene in a clear-cut offence, Sara began checking number plates against the vehicle database. She then took the names she’d pulled up and checked them out online, discovering that more than half of the men driving back and forth had wives at home, and sometimes even adult children. The system didn’t show her children who were still minors, but some of the men probably had them, too.

  What did they say when they got home? Did they think about the shag they’d paid for when they sat down to dinner? When their kids wanted to play with them? What excuse did they give for being late? Did they blame work, or a beer with the guys? Or a trip to the gym?

  How did they justify paying for sex to themselves?

  Because their sex lives had died after they’d had kids?

  Because they just wanted some excitement?

  That it was a mistake?

  Just a stupid moment?

  She’d heard every answer in the book. Everything that came after the degradation, and anger towards the police who’d caught them in the act. ‘You’ve ruined my life,’ was the most common reaction.

  As if it was Sara and her colleagues who were forcing the men to break the law. As if it was the police force making them exploit Romanian women. Spit at them, strike them, rape them for money in the back seat of a car or against a gravestone in the Johannes cemetery.

  A brand-new Volvo V90 that had done five or six circuits suddenly made a move. The driver pulled over in the small lay-by beside the entrance to the metro station, diagonally across the street from Sara and David’s position in their car with its tinted windows.

  The Volvo stopped level with Jennifer, a slender North African woman whose real name was probably something completely different. Sara was able to keep good track of all the women up here. Jennifer had always dismissed all offers of help or contact with women’s groups, but without getting aggressive like some girls, who saw their income being threatened or who were worried what their pimp would do to them if they spent any time talking to social services. She usually took clients into her flat on Södermalm – a haunt that Sara assumed had been procured by a pimp. It was only when she needed cash desperately that Jennifer would head down to Malmskillnadsgatan.

  The man in the car lowered the passenger-side window and Jennifer approached, bent down and spoke to him. While they were negotiating, Sara ran the plates.

  Johan Holmberg, apartment in Vasastan. Wife and at least one child in their late teens. Maybe more younger ones, too. Sara googled him and pulled up his LinkedIn and Facebook profiles. He was a project manager for a construction firm. The coach of a junior boys’ football team – so he probably had a younger son.

  ‘We’ve got a sale.’

  Sara put down her mobile when she heard David’s voice. The Volvo was pulling back onto Malmskillnadsgatan, heading towards Brunkebergstorg where it turned right onto Mäster Samuelsgatan. David slowly followed while notifying colleagues that they were on the move. Pål and Jenny remained in position, ready to carry out their own arrest.

  Holmberg drove between the high-rises at Hötorget and turned right onto the narrow Slöjdgatan. He crept past Synsam, Lindex, the back door to the Sergel multiplex and then the Scandic hotel, before driving into the underground car park beneath Hötorget itself.

  ‘Surely he isn’t going to . . .?’ said Sara.

  ‘Maybe he’s just parking and taking her into the hotel,’ said David, reporting to their colleagues by radio.

  They followed into the car park but stopped one storey above when the Volvo drove all the way to the bottom floor. Then they got out of the car and split up. Sara took the stairs, while David went down the ramp for cars.

  She just had time to see the headlights turn off as she emerged from the stairwell. Holmberg had parked in the very far corner, which implied he was intending to make good on his purchase in the car park, rather than taking her into the hotel.

  Sara crouched and peered under the cars. She soon saw David’s feet approaching and she leaned forward between the cars to catch his attention, while still hunched down. She gestured towards the corner where the car had parked up, and pointed at her watch to suggest that they give Holmberg some time.

  It was unfortunately necessary to let the punters initiate their sex acts before they were interrupted – otherwise they would simply deny everything, and it was almost impossible to prosecute them. Sara and her colleagues needed watertight evidence, even if they would have preferred to stop the buyers from the very beginning.

  The car began to move, and Sara signalled to David that it was time. They crept towards the Volvo, peeked in and saw the man’s back in the rear seats. His hips were moving back and forth in rapid bumps and grinds.

  David took two steps away in order to cut off the escape route if the punter tried to run. A surprising number did leg it, leaving their cars in the hands of the police. Sketchy planning while panicking.

  Sara had the hammer for the window ready when she put her hand on the handle and pulled. The car door was unlocked, so she didn’t need to smash the window. Instead she yelled, ‘Police!’

  Holmberg stopped his grinding and half-turned towards her. Then Sara caught sight of Jennifer underneath him, pushed down on her stomach, with Holmberg’s hand tight around her throat and the side of her head pressed into a child’s booster seat on the far side.

  And she saw that it was the anus that he had been thrusting into so violently.

  He was a thin-haired fifty-year-old with watery, staring eyes that didn’t seem to grasp what was happening.

  Sara struggled to master herself. You couldn’t get emotionally affected – that might lead to a deterioration in the exercise of your duties. But she couldn’t keep it together.

  She pulled Holmberg out, dragged him onto the concrete floor and crashed her knee into his neck – guaranteed pain. Then David put him in handcuffs. Sara left Holmberg’s trousers down while she leaned into the car to check if Jennifer was all right.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. He was pretty violent, but I’m OK.’

  She pulled on her knickers and got out of the car and adjusted her clothes. She knew the drill. The police would take her witness statement and ask her to speak to a social worker, and when she declined their offer she was free to go.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ said Holmberg. ‘It’s not illegal to have sex in a car.’

  ‘It’s illegal to pay for sex.’

  ‘’I haven’t paid!’

  Sara looked at Jennifer.

  ‘Did he pay?’

  Jennifer didn’t answer. She merely pulled out three five-hundred-krona notes.

  ‘I borrowed the car,’ said Holmberg. ‘From a mate. My name’s Johansson.’

  ‘So it’s not your car?’ said Sara.

  ‘No.’

  Sara bent down and checked his pockets. In the back pocket of his chinos, she found a black wallet.

  ‘You can’t touch that!’ he shouted. ‘It’s not mine! I found it!’

  Sara pulled out a driver’s licence that belonged to one Bo Johan Holmberg, whose appearance was an identical match to the man under arrest. Sara showed the licence to the man, who sighed and appeared to give up.

  ‘Can I pull up my trousers now?’ he said in irritation.

  ‘Do you deny paying for sex?’

  ‘No,’ said Holmberg. ‘I confess. And I want the letter sent to my PO box.’

  ‘Not your home address?’ said Sara.

  It bothered her quite how many people got away with it – the habituated customers knew exactly what to do so that they could carry on. The letter from the police would be sent to their place of work at their request, or, as in this case, to a PO box that had pro
bably been procured precisely to receive this kind of letter. And then they paid their fines and they were soon back out on the streets again, ready to degrade yet another woman. Sara knew that it wasn’t her job to punish – she only carried out the arrest. That was important enough.

  But it bothered her.

  Beyond reason.

  After Holmberg’s confession and acceptance of his caution and on-the-spot fine, he was released.

  Yet another family man who went straight home from the red light district. Sara wondered whether he would think about Jennifer’s face pressed down into the booster seat the next time he was buckling his kid into it. Probably not.

  *

  At the end of their shift, they headed back to the station to change and try to wind down. Although the passing of the years had hardened them, they were never entirely desensitised. It was impossible.

  All these tragedies were far too dreadful to become routine.

  A feeling of powerlessness was always threatening to take over, but they tried to follow up on the women they helped. Sara needed to remind herself that their work really did matter, and they began discussing old cases – girls who’d actually accepted help from social services or one of the women’s groups that existed to assist victims of the sex trade. Sometimes they received letters from girls who’d got out of the world of prostitution – sometimes from minors, after their intervention had set them on the right track. Sara and David agreed they didn’t need any gratitude, but the reminder that their work wasn’t in vain was very valuable.

  It could have an impact.

  It could help the girls.

  Sometimes, anyway. And it was enough to carry on.

  ‘Cheers,’ said David, passing her a piping hot cup of coffee. Sara took it and touched it to David’s cup.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, actually receiving a small smile in response.

  It was weird drinking coffee in the middle of the night, but it had become their custom to round off the shift with a cup of hot coffee. It was almost a ritual – a caffeine kick to wake them up from a bad dream. At any rate, they did the same thing on this night.

  Perhaps he felt they’d done something good, and that was why David had relaxed a bit. They were essentially both as committed to their jobs – they just had rather different temperaments.

  ‘You were right,’ Sara began by saying, looking David in the eye. But she found it difficult to continue. She spent a long time looking for the words, and ended up being interrupted by a whirring sound.

  Her mobile was vibrating in her handbag, and Sara pulled it out. Had something happened to Pål and Jenny?

  No.

  It was Hannah. Last name unknown.

  The number was saved on her mobile, and belonged to one of the more down-and-out girls on Malmskillnadsgatan. Hannah often plied her trade in the doorways and side streets in order not to waste time having to move around. That allowed her to compensate for her poor rates through higher volume.

  Sara had seen the men who bought Hannah. Fat, old, dirty, brutal and evil. The very lowest of lowlifes. She’d tried to help her, or even just sit down for a chat, but Hannah had always refused.

  And now her name had appeared on the caller display. For the first time ever.

  ‘You knew that bastard, too, didn’t you?’ was the first thing Hannah said. ‘Who was it that murdered him?’

  ‘Who?’ said Sara.

  ‘The TV bastard. Uncle Stellan. I want to thank the person who shot him. And you should know who it was, being a pig and all.’

  ‘Why do you want to thank them?’

  ‘Why do you think? Surely you know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘What he did,’ said Hannah curtly.

  ‘Stellan?’ said Sara. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What he did to young girls. What the fuck else?’

  Sara recollected that she’d once long ago talked about herself in order to try and get closer to Hannah. It had gone well until she mentioned that she’d spent her childhood at the Bromans’ house. Hannah had spat on the ground and left.

  ‘Can we meet?’ said Sara.

  ‘No. I’m working.’

  ‘I’ll pay. Five hundred kronor for half an hour’s chat with you.’

  ‘Five hundred? For half an hour?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Ten. Where?’

  ‘Golden arches on Vasagatan in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  *

  ‘What did he do?’

  Sara had started by passing over the banknote after they’d both sat down with a plastic tray of industrial fast food. The patrons around them took no notice of them whatsoever. They were all too drunk, too horny, too thirsty for blood. Fully occupied consoling themselves with trans fats, because yet another night appeared to be ending in solitude.

  Hannah chewed on a few fries and looked at Sara.

  ‘So you don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you really friends with the family?’

  ‘I was there all the time. I lived in the house next door.’

  ‘Yes, you said. But you also said you’re from the hood. Which one’s true?’

  ‘We moved away from Bromma when I was thirteen. To Vällingby.’

  ‘So you’re the pretty girl from the suburbs,’ said Hannah, giving her a wry smile. ‘And I’m the ugly girl from the pretty neighbourhood.’

  ‘The pretty neighbourhood?’

  ‘I’m from Nockeby. Didn’t I mention that? No, well, it’s not something I bring up.’

  Sara digested Hannah’s words. Nothing about her exterior divulged a background like that.

  ‘That’s how he came to fuck me over,’ Hannah said before falling silent.

  ‘Explain,’ said Sara. ‘I’ve paid.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘Fuck me, it’s time someone knew. I was only thirteen years old. Thirteen. I met him by the square one day. I’d bought flowers, and he told me that he had lots of different flowers in his garden. And obviously I was impressed. It was bloody Uncle Stellan. He’d talked to me. We bumped into each other a few times and he invited me home. Said he had two daughters the same age as me. But when I got there, they weren’t in. It was just him.’

  Hannah paused.

  ‘Fuck, just think what would have happened if I hadn’t gone there. One single, stupid decision . . .’

  ‘Carry on,’ said Sara.

  ‘I was a good girl. From a very proper, old-fashioned home. Didn’t know shit about the world. I’d always been good at school. Bad at sport, good at Swedish and geography. You know. I wanted to be a teacher or a diplomat.’ She laughed. ‘Diplomat . . . Maybe I should send my application to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs . . .’

  Sara contemplated Hannah’s furrowed face, her arms covered in bruises, her mouth missing several teeth. The absent gaze of the heroin addict.

  ‘What happened at Stellan’s?’

  Hannah stopped chewing and pushed the tray of food away.

  ‘He raped me.’

  Raped?

  Uncle Stellan?

  Malin and Lotta’s dad?

  Sara didn’t know what to think.

  ‘He showed me his fucking garden and told me the name of every shitting flower. Hollyhock and amaryllis and fuck knows what else. Then we sat down in the sunshine and it was hot as hell, so he asked me if I wanted something to drink. But there must have been some shit in that, because I felt all groggy. He said we should go into the shade, and he led me into some shed. Then he pulled out a fucking cine camera and undressed me. I felt his disgusting hands all over my body and his fingers inside me, and then he took my clothes off and . . . raped me. I can still feel his skinny, white dick in my mouth, and how much it hurt when he pushed it into my cunt. I was bleeding and crying, but he didn’t stop.’

  ‘And he filmed it?’

  ‘The whole thing. With one of those fucking home camcorders. Super 8, or whatever they
’re called. And the thought of that film was almost the worst bit. In the early years, I was so scared the film would surface that I came close to killing myself. But when I starting smoking and drinking to numb the fear that my parents would find out, it mostly felt disgusting. For him to be there, jerking off to his own rape of a child.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell anyone about it?’

  ‘What the fuck do you think? I was ashamed. Felt disgusting. Worthless. My parents would never have believed me. Nor the cops, either.’

  Hannah spat a couple of chewed-up fries onto the floor.

  ‘And afterwards . . .’ she added, ‘when he was done, he just got dressed and left. I was lying there, crying and throwing up. Completely bloodied. My whole fucking world ruined. He ruined everything. I just wanted to die. When I eventually got my clothes back on and crept out, he was on his knees in his bloody vegetable patch planting some onions. He even smiled and waved and said I should visit again. I should have taken that fucking hoe and put it through his head. Then I would at least have had a bit of self-respect left. Jesus – thirteen years old. I wasn’t even old enough to be held criminally responsible. I wouldn’t have gone to prison.’

  She paused.

  ‘I left my new pink bike there. It hurt too much to sit on the saddle. And I didn’t think I deserved it any longer after what I’d done.’

  ‘After what he’d done,’ said Sara, and Hannah gave her a quick glance. ‘Do you know whether he did that with anyone else?’

  ‘No fucking way was it his first time. I can promise you that. I’ve been walking the streets for three decades and I’ve seen how horny old men behave. That was not his first time. What the fuck are you looking at?’