by Jens Lapidus
It sounded as though Emelie groaned. She said: “Imagine if he’s guilty.”
“You have no idea whether he is.”
Then he opened the door and stepped out into the night.
The fence was about six feet high. Plastic bag in his hand.
He stopped six feet from the fence: he would be difficult to see on camera from that distance—they were pointed at the area inside the fence, where they didn’t want any intruders.
He smacked his lips. “Here, boy.”
Nothing.
He whistled. Smacked his lips some more.
After a minute or two, the dogs appeared, glaring at him from inside the fence. Yellowish eyes.
They growled. He opened the bag and threw the pieces of meat he’d bought a few hours earlier over the fence. Entrecôte—fancy food. He’d cut the steaks in a few places and injected Propofol, the same crap he’d given to the man trailing him. Each steak: enough active substance to knock out a horse.
The two dogs were stock-still. Straight-legged, necks out. Nice animals—Teddy had nothing against them. They continued their glaring. Waited. Growled. The chunks of meat landed a few feet away from them. It seemed like they wanted to see what would happen. They continued to stand. Teddy took a few steps back, showed he wasn’t interested in them. Above all: that he wasn’t interested in getting in.
One of the dogs was bigger than the other. It seemed to be sniffing out the meat. Teddy could barely make them out. The smaller dog went over to one of the lumps of meat, sniffed at it, licked, but didn’t take a bite. Maybe it was waiting to see what the bigger dog did. A minute or two passed. Both dogs were stooped over their steaks, examining the meat. Teddy thought: this has to work—it’s a classic.
And right then, the bigger dog picked up the steak in its mouth. In under five seconds, it had vanished. The other dog followed its example. Now he just had to wait.
He thought about how he’d tried to help Nikola.
There was only one way, as Teddy saw it. According to his old ways.
Tagg had arranged a meeting with a black-market estate agent in a park by Liljeholmen—well-known: the rental market was run by guys Tagg knew from way back.
It was a weird place, all climbing frames and slides in the shape of pineapples, pears, and watermelons. A tropical explosion of color with plastic lawns that kept their chlorophyll green all year round.
“Sorry, I’m looking after the kid today. I thought the park might be a good place to meet.”
The man who came toward Teddy with his hand outstretched hadn’t looked at all like he’d imagined. His head was as smooth as a baby’s bottom, and he had no eyebrows. Maybe he was sick, undergoing some kind of treatment—it looked that way anyway. And the fact was, he was dressed almost identically to Teddy.
The agent had gestured to a small child climbing up a slide shaped like a banana.
Teddy tried to catch his attention, but the man’s gaze was constantly flitting back toward the slide.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“It’s for my nephew.”
“Okay, so what does he want?”
“He just needs somewhere to live, not too far from Södertälje—his mom’s there. It can be a studio.”
“The suburbs okay, then? Between Stockholm and Södertälje?”
“Yeah—south of Södermalm, Flemingsberg, Tumba.”
The agent had taken a step toward Teddy. His skin was unnaturally pale, and his neck was covered with small nicks, like he’d shaved badly. Maybe he wasn’t ill after all, he just chose to shave his beard and his head.
“The process is pretty simple, really. I look after everything,” he’d said. “We put him in the queue first, then assign him an apartment somewhere for a few weeks—Vällingby, for example, I’ve got good contacts with a few landlords there, and the housing wait list’s relatively short. Everything looks good and proper in the register. It’ll be his official, registered address, and since he’s been in the queue for a while, no one’s gonna wonder how he got it. Then after a few weeks, we switch to the apartment he’s going to buy. That way, it’s a completely clean swap. Whoever’s selling the place just needs to be registered in the apartment his was exchanged for, his fictitious apartment, in other words—and that’s for at least two months. Credibility’s everything in this branch, as I’m sure you can understand.”
“Okay. And how long does it take, in total?”
The agent showed his teeth.
“Hold your horses. If I’m even going to start the process, I want a hundred thou in an envelope.”
“What?”
He continued to grin. “You heard me. If I’m gonna help you, I need a hundred thousand kronor. U.T.T. Under the table, you know?”
Darkness. The smaller dog was lying down with its paws out in front of it. Its ears were still alert, but it didn’t make a sound when it saw Teddy on the other side of the fence. He waited for a few more minutes. The dog closed its eyes. It lay its head on the grass—asleep.
There was no sign of the bigger dog. Teddy started to make his way around the fence. Skirted the rear of the building. Then he saw it. Right by the entrance: it was lying down, too, but when it saw Teddy it started to growl again.
He took a few steps back, wanted to avoid causing any kind of scene the cameras might react to. Not that he had to wait long: three minutes later, the Doberman was out like a light.
Teddy went back to the car, opened the trunk, and took out his things.
“Are you done now?” Emelie asked.
“Just five more minutes.”
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer.
Emelie got out of the car and stood in front of him. “You need to tell me what you’re doing.”
There wasn’t much time. Teddy had to move fast. “No,” he said, trying to edge around her. “I’m doing this my way now.”
Back at the fence again. At the front. Bolt cutters.
He quickly clipped the fence—it was like cutting thread. He climbed through the hole—his eyes on the smaller dog the whole time. It was still lying there. Cute little doggy, that one.
Five minutes later, he was pulling the heavy sliding doors open.
He pulled out his flashlight. The beam of light hit metal.
He could see them in there. Ferrari California. Rolls-Royce Phantom. Vintage Porsches. Mercedes McLaren.
Kum’s babies.
Teddy went inside.
33
Emelie tried to make a midsummer promise to herself: never to drink while she was on antidepressants again. Her head was pounding and she felt drowsy. She wanted to grab a fistful of painkillers, curl up on the backseat, and go to sleep. She also realized she’d been slurring when she spoke to Teddy—it wasn’t the booze, she was sure of that. She hadn’t drunk that much, even if she could feel the shots and the wine.
Her thoughts drifted to what Teddy was doing. Maybe she should’ve followed him. But at the same time, it felt good to be in the warmth and quiet of the car, safe somehow. It was a beautiful midsummer’s night. Much more beautiful than the dinner at Josephine’s friend’s place.
She sent a few messages to Jossan.
You still at Calle’s?
Yeah, what an idiot, that Eugene guy
Seriously. Good job you said something.
Was that why you left?
Yeah, and work. I have to work.
Emelie, honestly: are you OK?
Jossan cared. Under all the emojis, the jokes, and talk about new antiaging creams, she never stopped asking how Emelie was really feeling. She wanted the best for her. But Emelie didn’t know what to say: it had been a long time since she’d had a close friend.
—
She’d contacted the ferry company to ask them for the date Mats Emanuelsson had bought the ticket for the ferry he’d jumped from. He hadn’t just made the journey once, it turned out, but five times in the space of a few weeks before he finally jumped ove
rboard. She wondered why.
She contacted the ferry company again. Asked about passenger lists for each of the journeys, but they refused to give out that kind of information. Instead, she began to match weather reports to the different days he’d traveled. The weather had been bad each time. It was understandable: he wanted to take his life—but then it made no sense that he’d eventually opted for a day when the water was as flat as a mirror.
The dashboard in the car suddenly looked orange. Flickering light. Something wasn’t right. Emelie looked up, out the windshield.
Shit: there was a fire outside. The flames were licking at the sky as though someone had just dropped a firebomb on the barn. Like it was made of paper. Like someone had poured petrol over it and thrown on a match.
She opened the car door and screamed: “Teddy?”
If he was inside, she would never hear from him again.
Jesus. She ran toward the flames. Felt the heat, despite the distance. “Teddy!” she wailed again.
And then she saw him, walking slowly toward her. It was like the ending of some Hollywood film: the hero avoiding the explosions, tongues of fire lapping at the screen in the background. What the hell was he dragging behind him?
Something bulky and dark in each hand.
And then she saw what it was: two huge dogs.
Teddy dropped them onto the ground and pulled open the driver’s-side door.
“Sorry that took a while,” he said. “I just didn’t want the dogs to fry.”
He was driving too fast.
After a couple of miles, she found her voice again; she’d needed a few minutes to take it all in.
“What was that? Are you crazy?”
Teddy’s face was calm. “Putting some pressure on him. He’ll want to talk soon.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. Know why? Because setting buildings on fire is against the law. Because it’s dangerous, too. And because this Kum guy’s probably going to want to kill you now.”
“I don’t care about that, don’t you get that? It’s my honor on the line here. Kum had something to do with the network that wanted Mats kidnapped, and they had something to do with the murder in Värmdö and with Benjamin. So if it’s legal or not, and if it makes Kum sweat, that doesn’t matter anymore. I want to get those bastards—I owe that much to the Emanuelssons, everyone whose lives they destroyed, and to myself. Kum needs to start talking, it’s that simple.”
“You’re insane.”
“I didn’t ask you to come out here.”
“No, but what were you planning on doing now, huh? Don’t you realize what you’ve just started?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got money. I’m going to send everyone I care about away until it’s over.”
“Where did you get the money from?”
Teddy told her how he’d handled McLoud.
Emelie said: “Jesus Christ, you’re actually insane.”
“You just don’t get it. I won’t be able to live with myself if I can’t fix this.”
Emelie grabbed the door handle. “Stop the car. I’ll make my own way home.”
34
Saman’s code had worked. They’d waited. The place seemed calm as anything. No guards had turned up after they broke in.
Now: back down by the same door again.
A dark hallway ahead of them. Lights on. Cool strip lights on the ceiling.
They moved quickly. The next door was locked, too. They got it open in under forty seconds.
Darted through the enormous shop. The bread shelf had to be at least sixty feet long.
Still complete silence: no alarms, no sirens. They knew the route: past the hams, the sausages, the feta cheese. Turn by the deli counter.
Nikola followed Chamon. His helmet bounced up and down like some character from Toy Story.
It wasn’t pitch-black inside: faint lighting from the ceiling. Maybe it was so the cameras could pick something like this up.
The cakes, jars of herring, bananas.
They rushed through the fruit and veg section, small clouds of vapor glittering like some kind of rain forest.
There: the door. By the apples. This one was heavier, they knew that already. But they had a solution for that, too: Saman had given them the code—his second biggest contribution to this little operation of theirs.
They entered the numbers, ripped it open. An office. Posters from different ad campaigns on the walls. Messy shelves. Huge computer screens on the desk. They hadn’t been able to scope this place out. From now on, they were running on insider information.
An alarm started to blare.
Shit. Nikola looked over at Chamon. They couldn’t see the other’s eyes through their visors. He thought they’d turned off all the alarms.
Nikola yelled, though they’d agreed not to talk inside: “Y’think we should get out of here?”
Chamon shook his head. “Never.”
Nikola grabbed a chair. Climbed up onto it and pulled out a can of black spray paint—neutralized the little all-seeing eye behind the ventilation grille. Saman’s third tip.
They took off their helmets—they didn’t need them in there anymore. They needed to do the trickier work now. He glanced at Chamon again: Were they really going to keep going? The alarm was about to burst his eardrums.
The safe was in one corner of the room.
Nikola took a screwdriver from his bag. Long, thin, stolen. Chamon was holding the crowbar.
Together: teamwork—Saman had told them roughly what the safe looked like.
After a few seconds, they’d managed to pull the handle off. Under it: a little hole. That was how it was meant to be. But seriously, that alarm, what a fucking racket: Nikola’s vision was blurred.
Semtex. He’d gotten it from Gabbe as thanks for helping with the Internet. He and Chamon had rolled the red dough into four-inch-long sausages, which they’d put into plastic bags and then wrapped in Bubble Wrap. It wasn’t dangerous as long as it wasn’t exposed to any kind of explosion—that’s what Chamon said, anyway. The guy claimed he’d done this twice before—maybe it was true: he’d been on a couple of big jobs with Yusuf.
Chamon pushed the first bit of explosive into the space where the handle had been. They’d practiced this, too—they were no amateurs. In the woods: a metal sheet they’d grabbed from a building site. Stuck the stuff onto it, damped it, and kaboom.
They added the detonator. Chamon had made it himself: gunpowder from cartridges and firecrackers that he’d shoved into a metal pipe.
He poked at it. Fixed it.
Then: backed up.
The first bang.
Boom.
The smell: smoke, burned paper, and metal.
They kept working: more explosives. The safe was about three feet high. They taped more of the stuff into the hole the first explosion had made. If they added too much putty, they’d blow the entire office to pieces: the money would go up in smoke—literally.
He saw the sweat on Chamon’s forehead. “Ajde, gonna try a bigger load this time,” he shouted above the alarm.
They pulled their helmets back on.
This time, Chamon connected the detonator to a socket on the wall.
They opened the door and went out.
Waited.
BOOM.
It was the loudest noise Nikola had ever heard. The jars of jam teetered on the shelves. The apples fell down from their trays, rolled across the floor like tennis balls. The alarm: like a gentle whisper in comparison.
Nikola couldn’t hear a thing. Just a ringing in his ears. He didn’t know if it was sirens or tinnitus.
They opened the door again.
Full of smoke, disgusting smell.
They couldn’t see a thing.
They waited a few seconds.
The door of the safe was hanging from its hinges; it looked like the front of a crashed car.
They ran over. Started grabbing the plastic pouches full of money and shoving them into their Ikea bags.
Thirty seconds later. Nikola jumped onto his 125cc.
In and out like pros: it had only been nine minutes since they first went in.
He tore off. Hoped Chamon had done the same; he couldn’t hear a thing. The ringing in his ears was getting louder and louder.
And then he saw it, the patrol car. G4S: security guards playing real cops. Motherfucker. He picked up speed. Realized the guards had spotted them.
Chamon was next to him now. His quad bike like some enormous wolf from the Hobbit films or something like that.
They saw the patrol car drive across the parking lot, toward the shop.
He didn’t get how they’d had enough time to get there.
Not that it mattered. The useless idiots were too late: Nikola and Chamon turned off onto the smaller road by the Shurgard complex. Floored it: Lewis Hamilton in Monza—stick that up your asses.
He turned around: no sign of the car anymore. They must’ve lost them.
He was grinning like the Joker. Chamon’s ride seemed quicker: he was in front of him. Hågelbyvägen up ahead. His ears were starting to work again.
He couldn’t see Chamon anymore. He was too far ahead. He turned left, onto a cycle path. It was dark and narrow. Why did the fucking kids smash up the lights like that? Hooligans.
Then he heard another sound. Checked behind him. Son of a bitch. Sirens from a police car in the distance. It couldn’t be.
He sped up even more. The bag on his shoulder was bouncing up and down—pretty unprofessional. He should’ve grabbed himself a quad bike, too.
But it was too late. Swaying even more. Too much. The motorbike started to wobble. He had to drop the fucking bag.
He was swaying even more now. Dropped the bag.
Everything tipped. The motorbike was fucked. He skidded on the gravel.
He flew through the air like a ball.
Now it’s over, he thought.
It was like he saw himself from above: head hitting the ground. Cracking his back. Breaking a rib.
Shock. He landed softly in the tall grass by the side of the track. Rolled over. Got to his feet.
Dazed. Confused. Screwed. But unhurt.
He heard the sirens again.
At first, he thought about just squatting down in the grass: something told him to keep going along the track.