by Jens Lapidus
“You saw something when you went into the apartment afterward, didn’t you?”
“Yes. There was a computer.”
“Exactly. And later, Mats was kidnapped. Do you remember that?”
“Do I remember? I’ll never forget.”
“And you handed the computer over to someone?”
“Yes, I put it in a locker in Central Station like they told me to.”
“Right. Now we’re starting to get to the main point. I’d like to know if you or Mats made a copy of the information on that computer before you handed it over?”
More silence. Cecilia’s jerky movements were back, her upper body moving back and forth.
The man with the scar was motionless.
Teddy thought about the aluminium foil the sandwich had been wrapped up in. He’d kept it. He had a plan, but no idea whether it would work.
Cecilia sounded like she was crying. “Ohh, what did we do to deserve this…Jesus.”
“Just answer the question now, please. Did you or Mats make a copy?”
Teddy got up. He went over to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it as hard as he could.
On the TV screen, he saw the man with the scar turn his head.
After a few seconds, the door opened and the guard was back.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve got a confession to make.”
“What?”
“Tell your colleague, or whoever the fuck he is, I can tell him about the copy, the hard drive.”
Teddy noticed the man’s reaction to the last words. The hard drive.
Five minutes later, the man with the scar was in Teddy’s interview room. Cecilia’s lie detector test had been put on hold. Instead, they were busy linking Teddy to the machine.
The chair creaked as the man sat down.
“So, a confession, you said?”
He turned on the lie detector. “Time to give a few questions.”
Teddy grinned, though it felt like his stomach wanted to eat itself. “It’s ask questions, actually.”
“You’re in that kind of mood, are you? Should we give Cecilia another go?”
“No, just get on with it.”
The policeman began with similar calibration questions to those he’d asked Cecilia. Then he moved on. He asked whether Teddy knew if Mats had really killed himself, if Teddy had met him. Whether Emelie had told him about Benjamin saying anything about what happened in the house in Värmdö. Teddy answered him honestly.
Eventually the man said: “So what is it you wanted to confess?”
He was Teddy “Björne” Maksumic. The guy who never snitched. The gangster. The living legend. He’d been through a lot of police interviews in his time, so many he’d lost count even before he turned eighteen. And when he was even younger: welfare officers, social services bitches, juvenile investigators. Teddy: a pro at this game. The experts’ expert. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to handle people trying to interview him. How to keep quiet about the truth. To lie. In other words: this bastard with the scar could take his lie detector and shove it right up his ass. Teddy was planning to trick the shit out of him—like he’d always done with cops.
He said: “I’ve got a copy of the contents from that computer.”
The policeman’s eyes were lifeless—still, Teddy saw something in there. Maybe: a glint of surprise. Then he looked down and studied his machine.
“What did you say? You’ve got a copy of the contents of the computer Mats Emanuelsson had nine years ago, when you kidnapped him?”
Teddy tried to wind down. Relax. Breathe Prozac. Pretend he was nineteen again, sitting in a cell for GBH, drugs, or some crap like that. Pretend he was back to where he was most used to being—in a fix with the law.
He didn’t know if he’d be able to pull it off. He had no idea how lie detectors worked. But he gave it a shot anyway. “I kidnapped Mats on the orders of a guy called Ivan; he’s dead now. I know they wanted the computer in exchange for releasing Mats. And when Ivan got hold of it, he made a copy on a hard drive. I’ve had that copy since he died.”
The policeman turned the dials on his lie detector again. “Just answer yes or no to my questions.”
“You didn’t ask that kind of question, you idiot.”
“Do you think you’re in a position to talk to me like that? Want one of the women to have another taste of the Taser?”
Teddy smiled tensely—even wider this time. He brushed aside all his worries, pushed back the fear. Owned the room. He’d gone back in time. A hundred fucking percent now.
“If you so much as breathe on Lillan or Cecilia, or carry on with your fucking lie detector tests, I swear on my mother’s grave my copy’ll be sent to the real police. I saved it in the cloud, so you can never get at it. Just so you know…”
Pause for effect.
“You son of a bitch.”
64
Nikola had never met this player before, just heard Teddy going on about him. But you could see it from a mile away: he was a genuine super nerd. Beard and a huge Thor’s hammer hanging around his neck, dark pants, big black boots, and a leather jacket that went all the way down to the ground—even though the weather was great. Ordinarily, Nikola would’ve thought the guy was just an old, hibernating lump, especially with the name he had. But he was one of Teddy’s closest friends—that was enough to convince him of anything.
The three of them met at the Bilia garage in Nacka—Emelie, Loke, and Nikola—but not right next to the car, there was no need for that. Instead, they were sitting in Emelie’s car. It was sweet, an X1. Nikola wondered where she’d managed to conjure it from.
Loke said: “They brought the Volvo in the day after Teddy got taken. It’s registered to the Stockholm Police Authority. I sent a picture of it to Matteo, too, and he confirmed the color and appearance looked familiar. I’d say the probability is good. I think it’s the right car.”
“Can we tell who was driving it?” Nikola asked.
“Unfortunately not. I even hacked into Bilia’s client database to see who dropped it off, but they’ve just put “Police Authority” and a reference number. I guess the undercover cops don’t want to give their names. They’re shy, y’know? But I had another idea.” Loke held up a black plastic cube, about as big as a matchbox. “GPS tracker. I thought I could stick it under the car. Then we can see where it goes when they pick it up.”
Emelie twisted in the front seat. “But it might be ages before they come to get the car—days, weeks maybe. It hasn’t even been fixed yet.”
No one said anything for a few minutes.
The mood: shitty.
Nikola tried to think of something smart. Outside, cars were moving around the premises: he didn’t know how there was room for them all in the already-full parking lot.
Maybe, he thought. Maybe he had an idea.
Now: five hours later. Seven in the evening. They’d gone with Nikola’s idea.
Emelie had buttered up one of the guys inside the garage, offered him ten thousand in cash if he started working on the dark blue Volvo right away. “And I mean right away, like now. Actually, it’d be great if it was done yesterday.”
Then they took a chance. Nikola called 11414.
“Hi, I’m calling from Bilia Nacka. It’s about one of your cars, license plate number NGF 239. It was brought in for bodywork the other day.”
“Aha.” The operator seemed to have limited interest.
“The person who brought it in, they left a reference number. Could you give me their name?”
“Sorry, no, but I can pass on a message.”
“You can’t just connect me to the right person?”
“No, I’m sorry, not without anything but a reference number.”
“Aha, Okay. Well, the car’s fixed. We did a premium assessment, so it was pretty quick. But it can’t stay here for long, because we’re starting work on remodeling the parking lot tomorrow morning. All the cars need to be gone before t
hat, and if it’s still here we’ll have to tow it. I’m sorry it’s such a rush.”
“Yes, I have to say, it is. If we don’t have time to pick it up, where will you take it?”
“I don’t actually know, I’m afraid. But we’ve got a warehouse north of Uppsala. We’re just hoping people will be able to come and pick them up in time.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll just have to try to find the right person.”
“If you could, thanks. As soon as possible.”
65
The next day. A man had picked up the Volvo early that morning. They hadn’t been able to see much of his face, he’d been wearing a cap and sunglasses, but it probably made no difference: they had something to go on now. Someone to follow.
The car drove into town first, to Kungsholmen. It pulled up outside the police station on Polhemsgatan. Emelie stayed in Jossan’s car. Waited. Nikola got out to check.
She felt hounded. The main trial in Benjamin’s case was starting in two days, and even though she’d spent last night going through the preliminary report, her power was starting to run out. She needed to find something—inaccuracies, or anything that went in Benjamin’s favor.
She missed the Stesolid. But the pills were down the drain now. She would have to make it through this without them; she’d made up her mind, even if she couldn’t quite remember why.
Nikola called a few hours later. He was in Kronobergspark, using binoculars to keep track of the car. “The same guy’s getting back into the car,” he said. “I’ll come down, and we can keep following it.”
They watched the Volvo drive along Drottningsholmsvägen, down toward Thorildsplan, and then up onto Essingeleden. A blinking blue dot on their GPS screen. They kept a distance of between a thousand and five thousand feet. Loke’s idea with the tracker: so easy to follow.
The highway, southwest. Past all the suburbs. Past Alby, Teddy’s apartment, and a robbed ICA Maxi. And then, a few miles before Södertälje, the car turned off and continued dead south.
Emelie wondered what they were heading toward. Maybe she should’ve asked Jan for help. But no—he was her consultant, not her soldier. Or maybe she should’ve called the police; they had to have some kind of special department for stuff like this. But that was risky, too: there were policemen involved, albeit on the wrong side, and they clearly had resources.
A country road, no. 225. South of Södertälje. Nikola was sitting with the GPS in his lap next to her, like some kind of rally navigator.
They saw the Volvo stop.
Håga, they read on a sign. It was one o’clock, the middle of the day. Deep green nature all around them. Summer would soon be entering its final phase.
Emelie and Nikola parked by a cluster of trees one thousand feet away from the Volvo. They were in the sticks now. Fields and farms all around them. Cornfields and cows lining the road. She looked at Nikola. He seemed much calmer than she felt.
“What d’you think?”
“Google it?”
Emelie took out her phone and searched the name of the place. The first hit was Wikipedia:
In 1943, the Prison and Probation Service opened a hospital for criminals in Håga. In 1970, the operation was wound down and reopened as a correctional facility. The prison closed in early 2015.
Nikola read over her shoulder. “What the hell? They’re keeping him locked up in an abandoned prison?”
“I hope they’re keeping him prisoner,” Emelie said quietly. “I hope he’s still alive.”
Nikola snorted. “This is completely messed up.”
Emelie felt like Jossan when she replied—someone who could make anyone laugh, no matter how tough the situation was; who managed to see the funny side of a situation, no matter how bad things were looking.
She said: “I’m your super lawyer. Just trust me.”
66
It was sick. Fucked-up in a completely batshit way.
All the same, Nikola loved it: he worked like crazy all afternoon. Barely had time to breathe. Rushed about like some manic nine-till-fiver with three jobs. The thing: for the first time in his life, he was fighting for a good cause somehow. He was going to save his uncle. Thousand percent.
Emelie bossed him about worse than Sandra in Spillersboda. She sent Loke out into the surroundings—but he didn’t even get out of his car. He just sat there with a laptop on his knee, working away. Nikola didn’t know what on. Emelie herself went back to Stockholm, to the City Planning Office, whatever that was. While she was gone, he trudged around the woods with his binoculars like a total forager.
There was a wall around the place, and outside that, a fence. Electrified, judging by the warning signs. He tried to see whether it was intact. It looked that way, unfortunately, and he could hear the low hum of the current flowing through the metal. Plus: someone had put up small cameras in a number of places on the fence. When he was done, he went back to Loke and told him what he’d seen.
Emelie came back two hours later, with sketches of the old Håga prison. “City Planning just lifted confidentiality on these drawings, because the place isn’t high security anymore.”
They could see it all: every old cell, the common areas, the stairwells and—above all—the entrances to the main building.
“You were on trial for blowing up an ICA, and I know you denied it—and got let off—but if, by any chance, you know how to get hold of some explosives…we need to go in here.”
Emelie pointed to a spot on the drawing.
—
Nikola went into Södertälje. It took less than fifteen minutes. It was four in the afternoon, and he was in luck: Gabbe was home. This time, Nikola paid for the explosives.
The old man said: “I’ve got myself Wi-Fi. You know what that is?”
Nikola thought on his feet. He replied: “Nah, sorry. Been in young offenders’ for ages.”
“Shame, you could’ve helped me set it up otherwise.”
Nikola promised to come back another day. He went straight to Chamon’s. “Hey, man, you here to drop off my ride?” his friend asked when he saw him in the doorway. “You know it’s not mine for real, but one day…walla.”
“Nah, habibi.” Nikola lowered his voice. “I want you to help me blow open a five-hundred-pound metal door.”
They spent a few hours working with the explosives. Chamon made a seven-foot-high, three-foot-wide frame, and they attached the plastic explosives and the detonator to it. Carefully, bit by bit, cautious. They listened to “King Kunta” on repeat, pushed snus under their lips, drank water.
“You can’t drink Coke or coffee or Monster or anything like that when you’re working on this stuff, man, makes your hands too shaky,” Chamon said. “And that’s not what you want. By the way, you need help with this later?”
Of course they needed help, but Nikola replied: “Nah, it’s cool.” Chamon had already done enough for him. Nikola was just happy his friend hadn’t asked what it was all about.
As the sun started to set, Nikola went out to a construction site he’d spotted in Norsborg. Block of apartments, huge cranes, foundations. Enormous stop signs: No unauthorized entry. Nikola pulled the feeble fence to one side and stepped in. After fifteen minutes, he left with what he needed: long cables.
Night now. They were all standing outside Loke’s car. The weather was still sweet. The stars glowing like planes up in the sky. The only other light was from Loke’s computer, whenever he sat down on a rock and started jabbing away at the keyboard like some hyper kid on speed.
Emelie held up a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”
Nikola lit hers first, then his own.
“Have you thought,” he said, “he might not even be in there?”
Emelie blew out smoke. She was standing up straight, and the dark T-shirt she was wearing was tight against her upper-arm muscles. But he could see lines around her eyes that he hadn’t noticed when she was his lawyer.
“No, you’re right,” she said. “But they’ve got something they do
n’t want anyone to get to in there. Just think about the cameras they’ve put up, the electric fence.”
Nikola thought about her answer. He didn’t know if it made him feel much better.
“Was your office happy you got me off?” he asked.
Loke looked up from his computer.
Emelie took a long drag. “I don’t know.”
It was time. Emelie and Nikola went toward the fence on the north side. The narrow end of the building jutted out there, and according to the plans they had, that was where the cells were—the risk that someone would be gazing out into the darkness at that end of the building was small.
Nikola had changed his clothes: dark Adidas pants and a black hoodie, hood up. He felt at home—the same dress code as when he’d robbed ICA.
They fixed two cables to the fence. It shook slightly, but not loudly enough that anyone in the building would hear it.
They laid them down on the ground: each was fifteen feet long.
Then they went to get Emelie’s car. Nikola drove silently over toward the cables. Headlights on the lowest setting, taped over. They got out. Fixed the cables to the X1.
Emelie called Loke. “You can turn off their cameras now.”
All according to plan. They weren’t using the old prison cameras anymore—those were gone. Someone, as Nikola had discovered, had replaced them with their own digital surveillance cameras instead. They were controlled wirelessly, according to Loke. A wireless network he was now going to switch off, using his own jamming equipment.
After a few seconds, Emelie held up her thumb.
“Okay, let’s go,” she said.
Nikola put his foot on the accelerator. He looked back, into the darkness. The cables were taut. He pressed his foot down harder. Felt the pull, how the car was fighting. A strange feeling: his foot was almost on the floor, but the car still wasn’t moving forward.
Their initial plan had been to cut the fence with bolt cutters—but the electric current was problematic. Plus they might’ve linked it to some kind of alarm in case someone tried to breach it, and if that was the case, it would take them too long to cut through—a little hole would be no good.