by Jens Lapidus
She continued: “It was two men I saw. And now that you ask…there was something about them, even though I was so far away, I just got a feeling of…that they were really different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. I just had the feeling they were from different planets, if you get what I mean.”
“Not really.”
“I mean, as far as I remember, they were dressed differently, their hair, builds—all different. Everything. Their style, you know, they had completely different styles. That’s what I mean.”
Again, Emelie had no idea whether she’d just moved even an inch closer to something. All the same, she’d confirmed Jan’s theory. No one lived in the house, at least not permanently. But someone, maybe several people, visited every now and then. People who were very different, whatever that meant.
Emelie had also asked to see all the papers Cecilia had left from her time as Mats’s wife. She wanted to try to understand him. Deeds, documents—her specialty. Cecilia didn’t have all that much left. Emelie called banks, the Tax Agency, other authorities: with power of attorney from Benjamin, she could get access to all kinds of additional documents.
She studied declarations, tax statements, loan agreements, and fund reports. The Emanuelssons had lived in Kungsholmen and then bought a house in Älvsjö. They’d borrowed money like everyone else. She checked the land registry records again, looked into pension statements, insurance letters. She didn’t find anything strange, so she checked everything through again. The second time around, she started to see things.
Roughly a year before the kidnapping, Mats had taken out new mortgages on the family properties, and he’d taken out huge personal loans, too. Then, a few years before he killed himself, he’d started earning less money; his declared income had sunk to practically nothing. She called to ask Cecilia.
“I have no idea,” she said, “but all that stuff with the loans, our bank manager told me about that much later, once we were already divorced and Mats had paid them back. And his job, I mean, I thought he was working full-time, but what do I know. I realize now how trusting I was. Poker was his second life.”
Emelie thought: declaring almost nothing and simultaneously paying off massive loans. Just how good had Mats been at poker, exactly?
17
Teddy wanted quick answers. He called Nikola. They’d seen each other properly only once since Spillersboda.
Nikola and a friend. Teddy had met the guy before. Chamon. That time, things had gone a bit crazy, but today the kid was cool. They met in the Espresso House on Hamngatan. Teddy thought back to Fredric McLoud: that a place like this had been his downfall.
Inside, it was like they’d put a library in a jungle, though everything just screamed fake. Wooden tiles on the floor, a load of plastic plants everywhere, pretend books on pretend bookcases. The leather armchairs were nice, though. Teddy thought about how places like this had invaded Stockholm. Again, there’d been cafés before he was sent down, of course there had, but they’d all been independent, unique. Now there was hardly a single one that wasn’t part of a chain. It was like people were too insecure to drink any other coffee or eat any other brownies than the exact same kind they could get three blocks down the street in the next branch.
Chamon and Nikola were talking about things close to home. Linda’s nagging. Bojan’s talk about going to church with him.
Teddy said: “Nikola, you’ve gotta understand how Linda feels. Right? You’re a grown man now—behave like one.”
It was a shame his nephew had brought Chamon along—he talked with so much more attitude when he was there. Plus: there was something else going on with Nikola; Teddy could see it in his face. But since his friend had come along, it never came up.
Chamon and Nikola wanted to talk about the olden days. Hear stories from back then. When Teddy and Dejan grabbed five hundred bottles of luxury bubbly from a conference center in Vallentuna. When Teddy more or less singlehandedly chased the Screwbacks out of Södertälje.
After a while, Teddy brought up the pack of cards they’d found under Benjamin’s bed. “Any ideas? Topstar. Gambling club, I think. Five to nine years ago. You know if it’s still around today? Maybe under a different name?”
They stared at him. “You serious? We were eleven then,” said Nikola. “I can check with Yusuf, though, he might know something. He goes in for a bit of that, like, every night. We had to rescue him the other day—some small fry went apeshit.”
They came out into the fresh air.
Chamon and Nikola were heading into town.
“He’s gonna look at a watch,” Nikola said with a wink. “Bling bling.”
Teddy thought back. The car. The chain. The watch. What the hell was the point of having a place of your own and getting sick pay if you didn’t have a proper ride? And a fat watch on your wrist.
He hugged Nikola. His nephew smelled like he always did. Flashback: the first time he’d babysat. Nikola must’ve been three. In bed: Nikola had wanted Teddy to lie next to him until he fell asleep. So Teddy lay down, squashed up next to him so he didn’t fall out. Bent his neck as best he could—breathed gently, calmly—afraid he’d take all the air Nikola needed otherwise.
He turned around. The guy in the Windbreaker was there again. Teddy was sure—the exact same dude who’d tried to shadow him by Zinkensdamm.
Teddy said: “By the way, Nikola, I need your help with something.”
He saw Nikola stand up straight. Chamon, too. Finally: an opportunity for them to step up for the guy who’d once been one of Isak’s closest.
“I’ve got a pig tailing me, or whoever the fuck he is. See that guy over there?”
—
They started to walk toward Norrmalmstorg. Reverse game: Teddy was normally the one tailing and watching out for people.
They passed Kungsträdgården. The cherry blossoms around the fountains were in bloom. Still: Stockholm’s shabbiest park, which was dumb because it really could’ve been the city’s crowning glory. For some reason, whoever was in charge chose to fill it with temporary tents full of candy canes and beer in plastic cups. As though Stockholmers needed any more unoriginal places to eat.
The man kept his distance: he was good—but not that good. Gallerian, the classic shopping center, was a little farther up the street on the left.
Teddy turned off onto Regeringsgatan. Nikola and Chamon looked at him. “What you gonna do?”
“Just have a chat,” Teddy replied.
The Parkaden parking garage was a block away. When they reached it, he stopped at the elevator doors. Turned to his nephew and his friend. Gave them instructions.
Then took the elevator up.
He heard the man’s footsteps in the stairwell. The guy was probably trying to listen for which floor Teddy got out on.
The doors of the elevator squeaked. The place was full of cars.
He stopped by the side of the stairwell.
Six seconds later, Mr. Windbreaker opened the door—what an idiot.
He jumped when he saw Teddy so close to him, their faces only about a foot apart. The guy had long eyelashes, cropped hair, and a crooked nose.
There was no one else in the garage. Teddy: “What the fuck do you want?”
The man’s eyes were wide. The material on his jacket rustled.
“Ehh…”
And then he turned on his heel. Opened the door, started to run back down the stairs.
Shit, now Teddy was the idiot.
He rushed after him.
The guy was clearly in good shape. Teddy was taking four steps at a time and still didn’t catch up to him. He was already out of breath. Saw the guy a few feet ahead of him in the stairwell. Concrete gray walls.
He picked up the pace. Still wasn’t enough. The man kept his distance. Teddy was worried about falling. Rolling down the stairs. Breaking his neck.
He was taking five steps at a time now.
They would be out on the street soon.
Then: Teddy changed tack. Stopped. Panting as loud as a hundred-meter runner.
Heard the guy’s footsteps disappearing.
Maybe it would work anyway. He’d given clear instructions to Nikola and Chamon. “Wait down here. If he comes out and goes back to his post, office, or wherever the hell he’s come from, you guys follow him, okay?”
“Got it.”
“You’ll have to take turns tailing him. So he doesn’t spot you. Right?”
Nikola’s smile had practically reached his ears. So happy.
The guy in the Windbreaker should be opening the door down there in exactly seven seconds.
18
She’d made it to Jönköping. Emelie and her mom ate dinner in silence. Strange: her mother was usually full of questions, loved to talk. Emelie normally made conversation, too. If for no other reason than to keep her parents happy.
But not today. His absence reminded them of before.
Her mom served cod with boiled potatoes, horseradish, and melted butter. It was delicious. The kitchen looked like it always had. If the average Stockholmer renovated their kitchen every third year, her mother and father were the exact opposite: “No point changing a winning design,” her father normally said with a chuckle. “I built this kitchen with my bare hands.”
Wooden panels and stainless steel work surfaces. Terracotta tiles behind the stove and the sink. Kitchen anno 1995. Emelie had been nine then.
Dessert: chocolate fondant with raspberry coulis. Her mom really had made an effort. Emelie couldn’t bear any more of it: “Okay, enough, tell me what’s going on.”
Her mother put down her spoon.
“You’ve hardly shown much interest this past week.”
“I’ve been snowed under at work. You know what it’s like there sometimes.”
“A phone call takes five minutes. You could do that when you go to the bathroom. Or don’t they let you pee there?”
“I don’t, anyway. It takes too long.” Emelie hoped her mom would laugh. Instead, she picked up the plates and started loading them into the dishwasher, her face stony.
“I’m going to go and look for him,” Emelie said, getting up.
—
Jönköping by night.
It was late May. The sky was still light.
She cycled along Huskvarnavägen toward the center. The huge windows in Kinnarps Arena looked like they’d just been polished. She thought back to all the ice hockey games she’d watched there with her dad. They’d had season tickets: standing in the cheapest area, the blue section. When he’d been in a good mood.
The bike was hers, a relic from her school days. It rattled and clanked, but after she pumped up the tires, it went like a racer.
The waterslide outside the swimming pool was deserted. One spring night in high school: they’d climbed over the fence and swum in the outdoor pool. Drunk. Ecstatic. Enthusiastic about the future that awaited them. Though Emelie had known even then that she wanted to get away.
Lake Vättern lay like a gray blanket to one side of Strandgatan. On the other side, the waters of Munksjön bobbed in the evening breeze. It was mysterious: why was the huge lake still, while the little pond glittered?
She started at the Bishop’s Arms. Hundreds of different beers, Irish-themed interior, checked tablecloths. The place was half-empty. Still, she went from table to table just to be on the safe side. He wasn’t there.
She cycled to Juneporten and Murphy’s. People seemed to be having a good time. She saw an old classmate, but turned away. Her dad wasn’t there, either.
She checked a few more places. Dive bars, pubs, licensed pizzerias. Sports bars, Thai restaurants, lunch places that were still open. Most were virtually empty. And he wasn’t in any of them. She knew he sometimes went to his friends’ places, but she didn’t know where they lived.
Finally: One Thousand and One Nights. The place inside the market hall. She hadn’t thought of it at first, assumed it would be closed. She stepped inside. Brown interiors, small black tables. A bar that looked like it was covered in tiles.
There he was. By the far wall. With two other men she didn’t recognize.
Though in a way, she did: their scruffy clothes, unshaven cheeks, lumpy red noses. They seemed calm, not rough, but the volume of their conversation showed just how drunk they were.
It was eleven o’clock. Her father had been home only sporadically the past ten days.
She moved slowly.
Thought about her movements. Tried to stay calm.
The pub was half-full. Low music coming from the speakers, considerably higher average age than the places she usually went when she came back home.
She stopped at their table. The coasters were advertising Mariestads Beer. Hands in pockets. She was steady.
“Dad,” she said with a clear voice.
No reaction.
Again: “Dad.”
One of the men looked up. Red eyes. Rotten teeth. He elbowed her father.
Emelie’s dad leaned back and met her eye. She’d seen it so many times before: the bad conscience, the self-pity, the shame. The glassy eyes. And also: the anger. That someone was interrupting him. That they couldn’t just accept his weakness.
“It’s time to come home now,” Emelie said.
All she could think: I never want to be like you.
The two other men started to mumble: “She’s right, Lars.” They knew who she was, though she hadn’t introduced herself. The similarities in their appearance were striking, as Dad himself often pointed out, but maybe they remembered her from when she was young.
He started looking for something in his pants pockets. He still hadn’t said a word to her.
Eventually he took out a wad of bills with an elastic band wrapped around them.
She wasn’t used to seeing money like that: it was so unsophisticated. Old-fashioned. She’d read somewhere that Swedes used bank cards more than any other country on earth.
He peeled off a couple of hundred-krona bills. Emelie realized that he must keep his money like that to hide just how much he spent in places like this from her mother.
He got up. “Okay, then. Taxi?”
He held out the wad of bills to her.
“No, I biked. But I’ll push it. We can walk.”
Two thoughts ran through her mind: Mom’ll be happy. Also: they’ll fight.
And a third: the wad of bills.
More common in the past.
Mats Emanuelsson: a gambler, Cecilia had said.
Maybe his accounts and fund reports were the wrong place to look? Maybe Mats had been more of a cash man?
19
From: Loke Odensson
All right, cutie, done some poking about. Was a place called Topstar until 2008. New address and name now, called Star Gamers. But it’s the same club. Same people in charge. Old foxes, been involved for more than 15 years. Address: Döbelnsgatan 34. Gotta register to get in, I can help with that. Drink mead soon?
Kisses / LO
Star Gamers. The logo: glamour, a sense of luxury. The “a” in the word “Star” swapped for a spade. The edges of the letters: golden. And underneath, in glittering text, The club where anything is possible. Sitting outside the place, a beggar missing a leg. And when Teddy went down the stairs and into the club, the feeling was anything but luxurious. He’d already been there once before, the same day he’d received the text from Loke—just to make his face known, otherwise keeping a low profile. Tonight: the second time—he’d need to stay on the ball.
Even more snus and chewing gum than normal. He had to keep his focus. Things should be at their peak down there now.
Star Gamers was one big basement room. The walls were covered with posters advertising different gaming sites and web casinos, and there was a bar at one side of the room. Four big tables covered in green felt dotted the place, and some booths along the other wall: probably meant for drinking beer or playing smaller games, one-on-one. They also had a few slot machine
s here and there.
Ninety percent male. Teddy had clocked the atmosphere last time. Gambling-mad Swedes, occupational criminals, Asians. They were making bets at the bar: the club staff acting as bookmakers. The odds of AIK winning the league were four to five. And the tables were all full: focused, silent men, cards facedown on the table in front of them—this was the kind of place you just lifted one corner to check what was what. Teddy thought back to the games they’d played in the slammer.
Star Gamers did everything it could to keep people there, get them to play for hours, and at high stakes. Lots of the people there seemed to be able to get credit at the bar. There was beer, cola, Red Bull, speed…coke for those who really needed to keep going. Teddy could see people handing out toothbrushes and cold hand towels for putting on your head. There was a room where you could sleep and another with two of those massage chairs you always saw in airports. A woman was walking around, giving people neck massages for a hundred kronor. For five times that, you could get a little extra in a back room.
Teddy thought about Nikola. He and Chamon had tailed the man in the Windbreaker. Just like Teddy had hoped, the man had rushed out of the car park, stopped to look around like a crazy person, and then jogged quickly along the street and down the escalator to the subway.
He’d gotten off at Fridhemsplan: Nikola and Chamon watched him go into a house on Sankt Eriksgatan. That was enough for Teddy—he’d checked the address. On the third floor: Swedish Premium Security, a private security firm, something like Redwood, where Jan worked.
He tried to find out who worked for the company, but that wasn’t exactly something they shouted about. So he’d asked Loke to help again: “I’ll find out somehow. I promise, snuggle muffin.”
Otherwise, no news. Teddy had called Mats’s old boss; Niklas was his name. Niklas remembered Mats, but he didn’t have much to say.
“It’s a shame,” he’d said. “Mats was ill a lot. He wasn’t well, especially after what happened.”