by Jens Lapidus
“I hope you get the way things work now, my friend.”
There was something off with him. I knew Sebbe well enough by now to know that when he was mad, his voice didn’t sound anywhere near as calm. And he didn’t use words like “my friend.”
He said: “Didn’t you hear?”
“No, what?”
“Michaela explained it all to me. Some players with a company called Indap AB, it’s owned by Investor and EQT, they made an offer on your little Gambro today. One hundred and fifteen kronor per share. Which means that thing you bought, the option or whatever it’s called, it’s worth six million. You’re a fucking genius. It’s fantastično.”
I felt lighter than a cloud. Lighter than smoke, even.
Sebbe said: “I’ll forget your little mistake if you keep your mouth shut about the fire. Deal?”
Cecilia was back the next day. But I started to realize exactly what she’d seen on the computer. She wanted to know how the photos and films had ended up there. She thought I needed help, that I was some kind of disgusting pedophile. It wasn’t just crazy, it was really lonely.
She sat on the edge of my bed, talking at me in that subtle way of hers.
“When?” she would ask. Or sometimes just: “Mats?”
But I couldn’t talk to her about it; it was impossible. The hours passed. Someone had the TV or radio on in the room next door.
A nurse came in to check on me. Once she left, Cecilia leaned down and whispered: “I’m going to hand that computer over to the police if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was sleeping. I’m sure she knew I was awake.
Memo continued on separate sheet.
36
The cell walls: the moment Nikola touched them, it felt like his body was going to shatter. The cell floor: even colder. He was curled up in the fetal position on the green vinyl-clad mattress. Icy feeling in his stomach. Sick feeling in his throat. The polar opposite of Hästens’s fanciest model: the mattress from hell was only two inches thick.
Plastic: made it easier to rinse off the sick and blood spatters after each inmate moved on. But the state’s generosity was limited: the blanket was thin, and he hadn’t been given a pillow.
Graffiti-covered cement walls and a concrete floor that stank of piss. No toilet, no TV, no phone; nothing to read but the scrawls on the walls. No pen or paper. Not even anything to kill himself with. If he wanted to go to the toilet, he had to let them know at least half an hour in advance: none of the staff seemed overworked. And to those who thought it might look like one of the cells from a Swedish crime drama: a little bulb hanging from the ceiling, a microphone, too—forget it. The light was screwed in so high up that not even LeBron James would’ve been able to reach it with a thirty-foot run-up.
Nikola had been held in custody before, but never for this long. It was almost three days since the tracker dog had sunk its teeth into him in that meadow. They hadn’t said a single sodding word so far. Nothing. All that’d happened was that two cops had interviewed him immediately after he got booked at the station. “We’ll do this without a lawyer so maybe you’ll get out of here quicker.”
Nikola hadn’t had the energy to argue. His arm looked like finely ground mince. The Alsatian had bitten deep. They’d promised a doctor would look at it as soon as possible, but so far they’d just put some fucking liquid on it and taped a sterile dressing over the wound.
They hadn’t found jack shit on him when they booked him, but they’d still made him sit for more than three hours on the troublemakers’ bench, as they called it, in nothing but his boxers. It was a worse display of power than Putin flying over Swedish airspace.
“You’re being held on suspicion of aggravated theft…” He could barely bring himself to listen. It was all so boring somehow.
“No comment,” was all he said. “I deny everything.”
The cops looked like sad little puppies—disappointed. Like they’d expected him to lie down on his stomach, let them fuck him from behind. Both of them.
They came back a few hours later. “Come on, Nicko. Just admit it, and you can get out of here. You’re not so old, this isn’t the place for you. Just tell us, and you can go. You can talk to your mom. We’ll give you a lift wherever you want.”
All he answered: “Get me a doctor.”
—
He hadn’t been able to sleep. Or eat. He missed his smokes. Was desperate for a Coke. Despite the pills they’d given him, his arm hurt.
He didn’t know how much they knew. He tried to go through all the different possibilities. All the different versions he could tell—what evidence they’d left. On door handles, on the safe, on the motorbike, on CCTV. He didn’t even know how dog tracking worked. Where had the dog picked up his scent? Could it be wrong?
The cops still weren’t telling him what they had. Just repeating the same old mantra: “Spill, and you’ll get out of here sooner.”
He cried as soon as they closed the door.
They should be interviewing him properly, he knew that much. Knew they couldn’t keep him here longer than four days without first trying to remand him in custody. That’s what had happened to Chamon and a bunch of the guys from Spillersboda. He’d heard the talk: custodial prison was better than the police station cells—at least they had radiators in the cells there, proper beds and TVs. Not like here: cold storage, mini Guantánamo.
He needed a lawyer. But who should he choose? The problem was that Hans Svenberg, the dude he’d had last time, right before he ended up in Spillersboda, was half-senile. Plus he’d retired.
But anyway: there was talk in the hood. Chamon had a lawyer he always used, Erik Johansson—but Nikola couldn’t ask for him. If they’d arrested Chamon, Erik J would already be busy. And if there was a God and they hadn’t arrested him, he couldn’t take Johansson anyway. There was still a risk they’d pick up his friend.
He thought back to other names he’d heard: Tobias Sandin, Clea Holmgren, Björn Fälth. The cream of the crop—the best of the best, according to everyone. But on the other side: Nikola had never met any of them. He didn’t know them. And right now, he needed someone who felt familiar and safe. He wanted his mom.
There was a knock at the door. The hatch moved to one side.
“Visitor.”
Nikola rubbed his face. “Who?”
The door opened. Light burned his eyes. The guard wrinkled his nose, maybe at the smell in the room.
“Police.”
“Who?”
“Can’t remember the name. He’s waiting for you in the interview room.”
Nikola got up. Shivered. Put on his slippers: the prison service’s very own—no one was allowed their own shoes here. He shuffled out into the corridor, the guard behind him. Each door had a slot for an information card. Most were empty, but several contained information for the staff.
Diabetes.
No pork.
Suicidal.
Simon Murray got to his feet when Nikola entered the room.
“All right, Nikola. How’re things?”
The guy tried to hug him. Nikola backed away. This man wasn’t his friend.
They sat down.
“Look, Nikola, I just wanted to come over and talk a little. How’re you doing?”
“Not so good. It’s so fucking cold in that cell. They won’t give me another blanket or jumper. Seriously, I’m gonna get pneumonia.”
“I’ll see if I can do anything. Want me to talk to the guard?”
“Yeah, if you want.”
“Sure, no one wants you to freeze to death in here.”
Simon riffled around in his bag. “Want one?” He held up a jar of snus and a cookie.
Nikola pushed a piece of snus under his lip.
“What’ve you been up to now, then? You’ve only been out a month.” Simon Murray tried to smile.
Nikola was thinking: you’ve got a messed-up, false, cuntish smile.
�
�Nothing. This is all a fucking mistake. I didn’t blow up any ICA shop, like they’re saying I did. They haven’t even interviewed me. And I haven’t seen a lawyer.”
“I can talk to them about that, too. Which lawyer have you asked for?”
“None yet. I was thinking about it.”
“Well, that explains why you haven’t seen one yet. How’s your mom? Have you been able to speak to her?”
“Nope, haven’t done that, either.”
“I can probably work on all this stuff.”
“That’d be great.”
“But listen, I want to talk about something else.”
Nikola focused.
“They’ve got Chamon, too,” Simon said. “But they put him in another hallway so you two couldn’t do any knocking on the wall crap or talk through the hatches.”
Nikola felt the chill return to his body.
Simon continued: “But that’s not the important thing. You’ll have to sort that out with the detectives on this case. It’s out of my hands. What I want to know is if you’ll talk about the trial. Isak’s trial.”
Too many thoughts at once. They had Chamon. Nikola tried to work out how they’d caught him. What he’d said.
“Hello, Nicko, anyone home?” Simon poked him in the arm.
“I’m here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know that you do. We’ve got another investigation under way, one with phone tapping. So we know you were involved. And we know you were talking about the war between the Tasdemir and Bar-Sawme families. They’re tearing the whole of Södertälje apart. We need help stopping that crap. So just tell me what you know. That’s all I want. You don’t need to talk about Chamon or any of your friends—I’m not asking for that. Just that you tell me what happened.”
“No idea.”
“Come on, Nikola. I just told you, I know you and Chamon helped out at Isak’s trial. Surely it’s not so bad to confirm a few things? I’ll figure out the blankets, a call to Linda; I’ll bring some nice food tomorrow, some more snus.”
“I told you already, I don’t know anything.”
Simon drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay, okay, I hear you. Look, I’m going to suggest something I’ve never done before. And it’s just because I like you. You don’t belong in this world. Your mom works hard, your uncle Teddy seems to have straightened himself out. And I can see it in you, Nikola, you don’t want this, not really. So look, it’s like this: I promise I’ll help you get out of this mess. I’ll fix things for you. Understand?”
“How?”
“I can’t go into that, I’m afraid.”
Brain ache. Breakdown. Whirring in his head.
Simon wanted him to inform.
Inform, inform, inform. The sin of all sins. Number one no-no in the code of thieves. A man’s strongest principle: loyalty.
But all the same: if they convicted him now, he could look forward to at least two years inside, probably more. And this time, it’d be the real slammer. Plus, Simon wasn’t even asking him to talk about his guys. Just those other idiots. And the Tasdemirs had tried to screw Isak over. They fucking deserved it.
Still: a memory.
Nikola: somewhere around seven, meaning Teddy must’ve been about twenty. He’d picked him up from nursery one day. It was raining. A birthday present: Teddy had promised they’d go to the football match. Assyriska had a good chance of making it into the Allsvenskan league. Game against Örgryte IS at home, at Bårsta IP. Everyone was talking about it—even the teachers at school.
His friends moved slowly around Teddy, waiting for Nikola to get his coat on. No one said anything, but everyone knew it, even back then: no messing around with Nicko’s uncle.
They walked hand in hand toward the bus that would take them down to the stadium. Nikola’s fist like a little mouse, calm and safe in its nest. Protected from the raindrops.
“How was school today?” Teddy had asked.
“Good.”
“What lessons did you have?”
“The usual.”
Sometimes, Teddy acted just like Mom and Grandpa. The same questions, the same nagging. Couldn’t they talk about something exciting instead?
“Teddy, who’s the world’s strongest man? Have you met him?”
Teddy laughed. “It’s me, didn’t you know?”
“No, but really.”
“I dunno, but there’s a really strong guy called Magnus Samuelsson. Saw him on TV yesterday. He was pulling a train. But come on, tell me now. How was school today?”
“Good, but there was a fight during break.”
“Why?”
“Nino and Marwan went out onto the big road and were doing some stuff, and then they were mad at me.”
“I don’t get it, why were they angry with you?”
“ ’Cause I went to the teacher and told her.”
“You snitched?”
“Well, our teacher said it’s really dangerous to go on the big road, that we had to say if anyone did it because you might die if you get run over and—”
“You snitched on your friends?”
“But it was dangerous. Shouldn’t you tell?”
They continued toward the bus station. Teddy’s hand felt tense somehow.
Later on, during the match: Nikola’s favorite, Andreas Haddad, was playing like a god, like always. Everyone dressed in the red-and-white Assyriska kit. “We’re AFF,” people were singing. Nikola had heard Teddy mention the supporters to some other guy: “Even though I’m a Slav, I’ve gotta say, it’s pretty sweet here: tons of girls and families.” His friend had put an arm around him: “This is Södertälje. You’re with us, we’re with you. We’re going up to the box now.”
The rest of the match, Nikola and Teddy had shouted along with the fans: “We’re Suryoye.”
At halftime, they went to buy hot dogs. Teddy said: “Nicko, I’ve been thinking. What you said, about it being dangerous for your friends on the road. It was good that you said something. But it was also wrong.”
“Why?”
“You did the right thing, talking to the teacher, because you were worried your friends would get hurt. But it was wrong, too.”
“How can it be wrong and right?”
“I don’t know, that’s just how it is. It’s a principle, you don’t snitch. You know what a principle is?”
“No.”
“A rule. Something you just don’t do. You understand? Never snitch. Never, ever tattle.”
Simon Murray’s smile had vanished. The room stank of damp cement.
He wanted an answer.
True, the Tasdemirs were the enemy. They’d made sure the guys with the balaclavas got into the room, waved their fucking guns in the air, almost clipped Isak. Grabbed the money. Shot a guy in the leg.
But still.
“Nikola,” said Simon. “I know it feels shady. But let me say this: they’re already on the way out, I think. You might as well start something new, something honorable.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“The Syrians. Since that huge trial, so many of them are inside. You know that. And that means new guys are taking over. Isak isn’t the only king anymore.”
“What’re you getting at?”
“It’s simple. I’ll help you—in every sense. I’m giving you a way out of something that’s turning bad anyway. All I want is a tiny, tiny bit of information.”
Nikola’s thoughts turned to Teddy again. To what he did these days. All the crap that happened a year ago, before Spillersboda. That lawyer woman Teddy worked with.
He said: “Simon, maybe you should go home to your wife.”
“What?”
“I think Isak’s probably over there, fucking her right now.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“That I’m not gonna snitch. Never. Oh, and one more thing…”
He got up—their meeting was over.
“Tell the cops I want a lawyer. Her na
me’s Emelie Jansson.”
37
Emelie had called his assistants, secretaries, and subordinates first—there was no direct line to Stig Erhardsson himself. The MD of Forum Exchange. Clearly: a very busy man. His assistants told her a meeting might be possible sometime after summer, would the middle of October be okay? That was four months away—not a good joke.
Eventually she tried a dirty trick. She sent an email from her Leijon address and wrote that she represented a big player within money transfer and banking, a client who wanted to discuss the possibility of starting a conversation about FE’s activities in Germany. Erhardsson replied a day later. “My office, tomorrow, 4 p.m.”
Stig Erhardsson received her in a visitor’s room. The head office was on the top floor of the same building as the branch she’d visited earlier. It had a great view, the church spires of Gamla stan rising up in the distance, but there was no comparison with the views from the Leijon offices.
When Emelie entered the room, she realized this might not be as simple as she’d assumed. Beside Stig Erhardsson was another man, who introduced himself as Forum Exchange’s lawyer, from the Welanders law firm. Emelie knew of the company—it was the fifth or sixth biggest in Sweden. It was okay, definitely played in the big leagues, but it didn’t come close to Leijon in terms of sophistication.
“Is it just you coming, or…?” the lawyer wondered. “You aren’t a partner, are you?” He’d done his homework, in any case.
“No, not yet….” Emelie sat down. “I’ll get straight to it,” she said. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I’m not here representing a bank. I’m not even here as a representative of Leijon. I’m here as the defense counsel for a man being held on suspicion of murder.”
She paused for effect, waited for a reaction. The lawyer quickly straightened his tie. “This is remarkable. You made an appointment with Stig Erhardsson without stating what it was about?”
“It’s important.”
“That may be, but I think we’re done here.”
The lawyer got up. His cuff links glittered in the light from the window.
Emelie remained sitting. “My client’s name is Benjamin Emanuelsson. Mats Emanuelsson’s son.”