“Hector Guzman: G-U-Z-M-A-N, a publisher in Gamla stan. The other one’s Aron Geisler.” Anders spelled out his surname as well, and could hear Leffe’s pen working hard against a piece of paper.
“Sorry, no idea … And, Ass?”
“Yes?”
“Go home and fuck your mother.”
“Okey-dokey.” Leffe ended the call.
Erik was feeling sad. That happened sometimes. Suddenly he would get quiet and introverted. Difficult to reach. Maybe it was a common way of handling sorrow at the approach of old age. But where Erik Strandberg was concerned, he had been sad like this ever since he was a child, since their parents died. He’d never really mourned them, probably hadn’t known how you did that. Gunilla hadn’t either, but she’d found something else to grab hold of. Something that kept her away from depression and other types of darkness. She didn’t know what it was, hadn’t felt any need to know, either. She was strong, and that was the way she wanted things to stay.
Gunilla looked at her brother as he sat in the gloomiest corner of the living room. The sun was shining outside, but he had found the darkness.
She went out into the kitchen and prepared a light lunch that she knew he’d appreciate. Herring and potatoes, flatbread, dark beer, and a small schnapps straight from the freezer compartment. Then coffee and a slice of tart, and, when he was depressed like he was today, a newspaper for him to pretend to read so he didn’t feel obliged to make conversation with her. She buttered the bread carefully and patiently so that it didn’t break into smaller pieces. Erik liked the butter to cover the whole thing, right up to every edge and corner. She put the herring plate, glass of beer, flatbread, and the ice-cold, syrupy schnapps on a tray and carried it into the living room, where she put it down beside Erik’s armchair. Gunilla patted her brother on the cheek. He grunted something.
The phone rang. Anders gave her a clear and concise update of the meeting between Zivkovic, Rydbäck, and Svante Carlgren. And told her about his blackmail theory, and the fact that he had called Leffe Rydbäck and leaked Hector and Aron’s names, and their location.
“We’ll have to wait and see if I was right,” he said, and ended the call.
She told her brother the news. He didn’t answer, just went on crunching the flatbread. Gunilla went over to the window. The world outside was green.
“We need to get ready,” she said.
She looked out across the garden.
“I’m going to miss the plants, Erik. The peonies, the roses … the whole garden.”
He’d just picked up the misted-up schnapps glass in his right hand.
“We need to pin the nurse down,” he said in a hoarse voice, and downed the schnapps in one gulp.
Her gaze was fixed on the roses over by the wooden fence.
“How?”
He put the glass down and answered gruffly.
“Make sure she doesn’t get any ideas, she needs to mind her own business until we’re completely ready to go.…”
Gunilla heard what he was saying and absorbed the idea as she walked across the living-room floor and out through the terrace door.
The strength of the sun blinded her when she emerged onto the veranda.
Lars had shaved, combed his hair, dressed properly. Everyday proper—neatly ironed and clean.
The microphone he had taken from Sophie’s living room was in a little sealed plastic bag. He put it carefully into his pocket, went into the bathroom, and loaded up with a perfect combination consisting of a powerful dose of Ketogan up the ass, a cocktail of benzo for his stomach, and Lyrica to swim through his nervous system. He was calm, cool, and clear. He leaned closer to his reflection, the coating on his teeth looked like recently shed snakeskin. He opened the bathroom cabinet, squeezed some toothpaste onto his toothbrush, and started to brush as the cocktail started to kick in seriously. The brush felt like cotton balls on his teeth, it was wonderful, everything was wonderful. Nasty feelings and problems were somewhere on the other side of the universe. He rinsed with lukewarm water, everything was perfect. The jar of Hibernal was there in front of him in the cabinet. He picked it up, looked at it, and shook it slightly. It sounded like maracas. He shook it a bit more, maybe this was what Cuba sounded like? He put it back.
Lars sailed down the stairs, then floated in the car to Brahegatan, where he slid through the police station, up the stairs, and into the office.
He nodded to everyone there, trying to read the mood of the room. He saw Hasse and Anders sitting on their chairs and waiting. Erik over at his desk looked tired, he had his eyes closed as he massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, possibly trying to ease a headache. Hasse and Anders … Lars looked at them again, they seemed tired as well, but in a different way. Hasse looked utterly shattered, empty, and vacant … his head was low. Anders was sitting with his arms folded, legs straight out, staring at some indeterminate point in front of him.
Lars sat down on a chair, the padding was soft. Eva Castroneves came over to him with a cup of coffee in her hand.
“I didn’t know if you wanted milk?”
He looked at her uncomprehendingly and she couldn’t be bothered getting into any sort of misunderstanding so just held the cup out to him.
“Here.”
He took it without saying thank you.
“You’re welcome,” she said quietly.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
She sat down on the chair next to him.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
He looked at her. Was she different? Happier? Why was she sitting next to him?
“Fine, I think. It’s going slowly, but well … It feels like we’re making progress now.”
She nodded.
“That’s what I think too.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She shuffled on her seat.
“I’ve changed my mind, I will have some milk,” he said, getting up and going to the kitchen.
Lars opened the fridge, took the little plastic bag out of his pocket, put the microphone between his thumb and index finger of the hand holding the coffee cup, added some milk, and walked back out again. He looked around the room: Erik had found an evening paper that he was idly leafing through, Eva was staring out in front of her, Anders and Hasse hadn’t moved, arms folded, pensive.
Lars went over to one of the movable investigation bulletin boards and pretended to read some documents as he let the threadlike microphone slip into the soft felt that covered the board. He turned and meandered around the room, looking at things, drinking his coffee—as if he wanted to stretch his legs before the meeting began.
Outside in Brahegatan, a few buildings farther down, Lars had parked a rental car. A Renault. Under a blanket in the baggage compartment lay the surveillance equipment.
The door opened, Gunilla frantically entered the room and apologized for being late. Eva Castroneves stood up, picked up her handbag, and went up to Gunilla. Lars watched them as they whispered to each other over by the door. He saw the smiles and then heard a laugh between the two women. He was surprised to see Eva lean forward and kiss Gunilla on both cheeks. Then she went over to Erik, smiled at him, patted him on the cheek. Erik said “Bon voyage” in a hoarse voice, and Eva left the office.
Gunilla gathered her thoughts.
“I’m going to split you into two teams. Anders and Hasse number one, Lars and Erik number two.”
Gunilla read from a sheet of paper.
“Erik and Lars, go and pay Carlos Fuentes a visit, you can set off at once. Anders, you and Hasse stay here.”
Erik got up with a groan and left, and Lars followed him, not quite sure what was going on.
Once Lars and Erik were out of the room Gunilla turned to the bulletin board and wrote Albert Brinkmann and Lars Vinge.
“Two topics for discussion.”
End of the school year. Sun, birch trees, no wind.
Thirty or so of his schoolmates had met up early that morning in a
park by the water. They had some sparkling wine. Everyone got a bit drunk, someone started crying, someone threw up.
They walked to school in a group. He had been walking with Anna. They split up before going into the hall. Now he felt like turning around and looking for her in the crowd of people, but didn’t. Instead he sat there on his bench listening to the singing and bad flute playing. The headmaster made a speech. He told them bullying, drugs, and racism were bad, then it was all over.
Albert and his friend Ludvig were crossing the schoolyard. The big, rust-red school building behind him with its two wings was beautiful, more so today seeing as it was the first day of summer vacation. He could see Anna a short way off in a group of girls, smiled at her, she smiled back.
There was a buzz from his pocket as he and Ludvig were unlocking their bicycles. He read the message. Tonight we can be together. xxx.
Albert looked around, Anna was gone. He put his cell back in his pocket, couldn’t stop smiling. Damn, life was good.
Albert and Ludvig cycled down the slope with the wind in their hair and summer everywhere. They lined up alongside each other, pedaling hard. Ludvig swung off in a wide arc, away from Albert and onto another road. He shouted something that Albert couldn’t hear properly, then something about Gustav providing food but not drink.
Albert waved and carried on straight ahead. He struggled to get up a hill, then slid into a narrow lane to get home faster. He heard the car behind him, and pulled over to the right to let it drive past. But it stayed behind him at the same low speed. Albert glanced over his shoulder. A Volvo, Hasse behind the wheel.
A mass of thoughts ran through his head. That he would miss the best evening of his life, and all that had happened the last time he encountered the man behind the wheel, that he should try to escape.…
And he did, he fled. He swung into the middle of the road and pedaled as fast as he could down the narrow slope. The cycle accelerated, the wind whistling in his ears together with the sound of the Volvo accelerating somewhere behind him.
He tried to figure out an escape route and realized the cycle wasn’t going to be any help. Halfway down the hill he slid sharply into someone’s garden. He let the bike carry him as far as possible over the lawn, leaped off it at speed, and started running, quickly looking back to see the car reversing back up the hill again. Albert took his chance and started running down the hill instead, as far away from the car as he could. The Volvo stopped reversing and headed back down the road at full speed.
Albert had gotten a head start. He ran for a while before swinging to the right. The whole time he was trying to fool the car. The Volvo seemed to hesitate. He heard it stop abruptly. A door opened, Albert glanced back, a man had jumped out of the passenger seat and started running after him. He didn’t recognize the man, but he was fast. Albert put his body into overdrive and ran for all he was worth. He could hear the Volvo again, parallel to him, somewhere below him. It was driving fast, in a high gear.
“Stop! Police!” the man behind him shouted as his swift steps got closer.
Albert took a leap and jumped over a fence into another garden. The lawn sloped downward. He let the gradient increase his speed. He ran past two children who were playing on a swing. A boy and girl of about five or so. They waved cheerily at him. He turned sharply. Ran back the way he had come, then right, continuing along another road, across another garden, across another road, then swerved left and ran off along a meadow. He kept going even though his lungs, legs, and heart were screaming for oxygen. He looked back, the man was gone. Albert saw a clump of trees in a garden and aimed for it. Lactic acid was pumping through him. He reached out with one arm to a fence and vaulted over it, and landed in something that looked like an arbor, then lay still, concentrating on not breathing too loudly.
The throbbing of his heartbeat in his ears and his heavy breathing shut out all other sounds. Albert closed his eyes, pressed his face against the soil. He tried to get back to normal by catching his breath. A car passed. He looked up cautiously. A Cherokee, a blond mom driving, she looked tired, a child was crying in the backseat. His breathing was getting back to normal. He listened for steps, the other man’s steps. He must have lost him somewhere. Albert was just about to get up when another car approached from the left. He raised his head slowly. The Volvo passed him out in the road. Hasse behind the wheel … then footsteps running down the road.
“He’s somewhere around here,” the other man shouted.
The Volvo disappeared with a roar. Albert kept his face down. What was he thinking? That he could run away from them?
The footsteps out on the street were close. Steps that didn’t seem to be able to make up their mind. Steps that hesitated, walked a little way, ran back, stopped, walked on again, stopped.
Albert was focusing intently with his ears, heard steps again, if only lightly, as the man walked up and down on the street in his rubber-soled cop shoes.
“Albert?”
A calm, low voice, nearby. Albert tried not to breathe.
“Albert, you’re here somewhere.… You can come out now. Your mom’s had an accident.… We’re here to pick you up. Don’t be scared. Just come out. You mom wants you with her. She needs you.”
Albert had his face to the ground. The man’s steps moved away slightly. The Volvo came back, stopped.
“Albert!” the man shouted.
“Come on, Anders …” Hasse’s voice.
“He can’t have had time to run across the meadow before I got here, that’s not possible, he’s here somewhere.”
“Get in!” Hasse was impatient.
A car door closed, the car disappeared. Albert lay still, they might come back. He was debating with himself whether to stay where he was or get up and find a new hiding place. Where had they gone? Just around the corner, ready to pick him up when he showed himself again? Or had they driven off, given up?
He decided to stay where he was. An eternity passed. There was no sound of the car. He looked up and checked his limited field of vision, then carefully pulled his cell phone out of his trouser pocket, put it on silent. He wrote a text message to Sophie with trembling fingers:
Police chasing me, hiding, same policeman as before.
And he sent it off, then felt like crying. He hadn’t been frightened during the chase itself, or while he was lying hidden, he’d just been driven by some sort of self-preservation impulse, a survival instinct. But now came the fear, the terror, and the sense of being all alone.
A car again. He tried to listen to the sound of the engine in case it was the Volvo, but he couldn’t tell. The car came closer. Albert looked at his cell: no message.
Erik had said they should stop for a hot dog before going to see Carlos. Which they did on Valhallavägen, near Eastern Station. Just the two of them, Erik and Lars. They had never been on their own together before, and certainly not while each of them was holding a hot dog.
Erik had asked a great deal of questions. The questions were about Lars. If he liked working with them, how he thought the investigation was going. Even camouflaged questions and a concealed attempt to find out how much Lars really knew about what they were doing. Lars could tell where Erik was going. He hated the bastard for it, hated them all for the way they’d treated him. Because he didn’t know anything for certain, he had no problem answering truthfully. But Erik didn’t seem happy with that. He wanted clear answers. Answers that could help him pin Lars down.
He threw the rest of his hot dog in the trash when Erik got back in the passenger seat again. Lars was driving the Volvo and turned left down Odengatan. Erik shut his eyes and massaged the same spot between his eyes. He seemed to be sighing out the pain, squinting against the daylight outside the car.
“And the nurse, how are things going with her? Do you think she knows anything?”
“No,” Lars replied.
“Why not?”
“Because there’s nothing to suggest that she does. I’ve spent a lifetime listening.�
� Not even a hint.”
“Does she know we’re listening to her?”
Lars turned toward Erik.
“Why would she?”
“I don’t know, but we’re not getting anything from her.”
“Maybe she hasn’t got anything to give us?”
Erik shrugged.
They pulled up in a no-parking zone outside Carlos’s apartment on Karlbergsvägen.
Before Erik opened the car door he turned to Lars and studied him for a moment. The study stretched into a silent, protracted stare.
“What is it?” Lars mumbled.
Erik didn’t seem to find the situation uncomfortable. On the contrary, he seemed to be enjoying it.
“You’re a fucking clown, Lars Vinge, you know that, don’t you?”
Lars didn’t answer. He was still going on prescription painkillers. That always made him more self-confident. He could maintain eye contact with Erik. But Erik snorted at that.
“You’re trying to outstare me?”
Lars looked away.
Erik cleared his throat. It sounded rough, and ended up as a series of coughs. He gasped for air.
“Gunilla said you wanted to widen your horizons a bit, get some different jobs. This is one of them, you ready for it?”
Lars nodded.
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“OK, watch and learn, and keep your mouth shut. That last point is the most important.”
He got out of the car. Lars didn’t move, took a deep breath, then followed him.
The elevator was out of order. Carlos lived on the fourth floor. They started to go up the stairs.
Erik was puffing and panting. On the third floor he stopped and grabbed hold of the handrail. His breathing was labored, his face bright red. With an irritated wave of the hand he gestured to Lars to keep on going.
Erik, headphones over his ears, was listening to the little box that Hasse and Anders had left behind on their previous visit.
“There’s nothing here. Just static and shit!”
The Andalucian Friend: A Novel Page 32