Belzén laughs and throws out his hands. ‘You have to promise, Kvist, not to shoot your mouth off about it.’
‘Promises are a habit of the gentleman, and a necessity for the poor man.’
The girl’s heels echo between the walls when Belzén sends her over with a bottle.
‘Well?’
‘Zetterberg.’
‘What? You have to talk louder! I had scarlet fever when I was a kid, and I’m a bit hard of hearing.’
‘Zetterberg!’
‘Who?’
‘The Kungsgatan murder. I need to know if he was mixed up in anything.’
‘Kungsgatan?’
‘That’s it.’
‘We don’t have any Zetterberg in our little organisation. Do we, Hiccup?’
Hiccup. Something clicks into place. Ten years ago the giant behind Belzén shot three blokes in an argument about two litres of OP Anderson. As far as I’ve heard, there have been many others since then.
‘No.’ Hiccup gets out a metal box from his pocket and crumbles some tobacco into a paper. I can’t see that he has any reason to lie.
‘I need to find out if he was working for one of the others.’
Belzén shakes his head. ‘That would be hard for me to find out.’
‘I know that you make about thirty kronor for each litre. There must be thousands of litres brought into the quays here every week. Since you took control of Norran a couple of years ago it must have been full steam ahead, I imagine?’
‘There are a lot of costs, and Ma has ten per cent on everything.’
‘But still?’
Hiccup laughs and licks his cigarette paper.
‘Listen,’ Belzén goes on, ‘Ma and her sons have Östermalm and ten per cent on Kungsholmen, Ploman Vasastan and Piggen Söder. The boundaries haven’t changed in years.’
‘I know who’s got what.’
‘And certainly there can be… differences of opinion in the border areas but I can’t risk – I think you know, Kvisten, the way it used to be?’
‘I remember. And I could swear that somehow I became a pawn in the game when you took control of Kungsholmen.’ I hold up the stump of my little finger. Both Belzén and Hiccup grin. They exchange a glance.
‘With Ma, I could just ask her. With the other two it’ll be more difficult.’
‘But not impossible?’
The contents of my coffee cup are almost spilled when the old man behind me pokes the double-barrelled shotgun even harder into my back. Hiccup laughs again and lights the cigarette with a phosphor stick.
‘If against all expectations we get hold of any of them, we can’t let them run home afterwards and spill the beans,’ says Belzén.
‘That’s your business.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Of course!’
Belzén waves the hairy back of his hand. The gun disappears from my back, and the muted steps of the Wellington boots fade away. The woman slides off the desk and goes around it. She bends down and whispers something in Belzén’s ear, before disappearing through a side door. Belzén smiles again before he meets my eyes. I wonder if he heard what she said.
‘Is Kvist still living in Sibirien?’
‘It could be worse.’
‘I’ll give it one night. I’ll put one of my best lads on it. Meet them at the water castle in Vanadislunden at midnight, and then we’ll see.’
I nod.
‘So, Zettergren on Kungsgatan, is that right?’
‘Zetterberg.’
‘Zetterberg, Zetterberg, Zetterberg,’ mumbles Belzén and nods at Hiccup.
I touch the brim of my hat by way of thanks and stand up. Hiccup takes hold of my elbow with his massive hand. Belzén puts his hands together over his chin.
‘It’s a pity what happened to your finger, but business is business and Räpan got what he deserved, if I’m not mistaken.’
I stand up and put my coffee cup on the chair. Belzén looks through a few papers.
With one mitt on my shoulder, Hiccup escorts me through the warehouse and towards the door at the other end of the premises. My hand leaves a damp mark on the handle when I push the door open and walk out.
As the factory whistles announce the end of the working day, a heavy squall of rain comes down. I pick up my notepad, my hand still shaking, and check some addresses that are only a few blocks apart. The afternoon’s bicycles include a three-wheeler Monark and a Hermes gentlemen’s model.
I’m on the corner of Fleminggatan and St Eriksgatan. The shop owners are rolling down their metal awnings over the shop windows. From Separator, Karlsvik and Ekmans, a large group of workers come welling like a retreating army: first a vanguard of cyclists with empty lunch boxes on their racks, followed by wide columns of infantry. Some of them are holding newspapers over their heads like white parliamentary flags. One or two shirts sport gleaming oil stains. Cupped hands protect the glow of the evening’s first cigarette from the rain. From the dairy, woman run for home with cream and baskets of bread, which they try to keep out of the rain. A woman shielding her undulating blonde swell of hair with her handbag looks around hastily a few times before she blows a kiss at a tram speeding off towards Vasastan. A young man in a compartment window waves back. The streetlights buzz and turn themselves on. The din of hobnail boots and wooden soles drowns out the sound of the rain. Greetings criss-cross to the right and left, but no one stops to talk.
I wonder if Belzén’s blokes can give me the information I need tonight. For the first time since my release I feel I’m getting close to something.
I fight my way against the torrent moving down Fleminggatan. Petrol fumes and cooking smells blend with the tangy scent of wet harnesses and sweaty men. I pass the butcher’s on the corner. Outside, a bunch of dirty kids are waiting to beg for dog food at closing time. I suspect that far from all of them have dogs.
The crowd starts thinning out. With wet feet I jog along the street. The bolt cutters thump against my chest at every step. I pass the square lamp of Kungsholmen Fire Brigade, and then the children’s home. Not much longer now. I cough and spit.
On the other side of the street is a woodpile as high as a man, running along the entire façade. Some kids are playing awkwardly on top of it. I remember we passed the same woodpile on the way to the police station some four or five days ago. I wonder if the goons are aware of Zetterberg’s possible gangster connections. I smile under the brim of my hat; clearly I’m one step ahead of them. With so much money in the bank it could hardly be anything else. Five thousand kronor a month on the nail. Again my thoughts go back to the dangling hand of the corpse, the thin fingers and the expensive signet ring.
The courtyard on Fleminggatan 23 smells of printer’s ink and latrines. In one corner is a shack with a heavy leather drape behind the ajar door. Probably a drinking den. Behind the water pump in the yard is a three-wheeler with a box on the back. Just to be on the safe side, I take my notebook and check that the four-digit registration number under the saddle matches my information. The sturdy length of chain around the back wheel is heavy and mottled in my hand. It rattles when I let go of it.
The scratched mirrored door of the main house has rusty hinges, but it glides open without a sound. I remove my hat, shake the water off it and put it back. The stairwell is gloomy and smells of fried liver. I have to go all the way to the top again, and this time, unlike at Zetterberg’s place, there’s no elevator.
I find the door and bang on it. As soon as it opens I thunder into the flat with my arm raised.
It’s the very worst kind of attic. A border of black mould runs around the whole flat. The ceiling is insulated with curled, water-damaged cardboard. The roses risk being frozen off the wallpaper when the winter comes. As for the furniture, it consists of a discarded drop-leaf table, a commode with a dirty washbasin, and a pull-out sofa with a lumpy rag-stuffed mattress, lined with cut-open sugar sacks. In the middle of the ceramic stove are two black-painted rings, like weary eyes.
It mourns the absence of its hatches, which, presumably, the old bloke has sold.
The hallway lacks any light. A white pallor gleams like hoar frost on his throat and chin. He has a sunken chest, a grubby linen shirt lacking a collar, worn-out braces, and brown traces of lip snuff in the corners of his mouth. A pair of moist eyes flicker unsteadily at me. What was he ever going to do with a three-wheeler?
‘The Monark,’ I say.
He gives me a glance filled with anxiety, like the nervous eyes of a farmer’s wife when her husband gets out the liquor. I sometimes have that effect on people. But he summons a bit of courage.
‘That one down in the yard is mine.’
I glare at him. He presses himself against the wall. I clear my throat and fire off a decent gob over his shoulder, five centimetres from his face. He flinches and opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. He must have been one of those who were left out in the cold when they closed the General Care Home on Fleminggatan a couple of years ago.
‘The chain is my own,’ he mumbles at last.
I nod sharply. He takes the bunch of keys from a rusty nail inside the door and walks ahead of me into the stairwell. His hand is knotty and gouty.
A word and a gob. That’s all it takes.
I cycle down to the end of Fleminggatan, past the tall chimney stack of Separator, down towards Kungsbron. Dark has fallen completely now and the rain has cleared the street of people.
I find the address a few streets away, but there’s no sign of the bicycle anywhere and I don’t get an answer when I knock on the door. I stand in the doorway. There’s a lingering smell of evening coffee. I put my last Meteor in my mouth and manage to get it alight with a match. My feet have started going numb.
‘One cigar, no longer than that.’
To my right I see the long, electrically lit King’s Bridge reaching across Klara Sound and joining the slope known as Drunkard’s Hill. I hear the water sloshing against the bridge pillar. A thick-limbed horse pulls an open cart across it. The driver sits immobile in the seat. On the other side of the water, the flags of the boat masts poke holes in the darkness. A steam train whistles on its way into the station.
If I stick my head out I can see the wall-mounted billboards of the Central Market Hall over the huge windows of the brick building, but I can’t read what they say. It stops raining. A barge glides quietly under the bridge. In the distance, the barge pilot is ticking someone off.
Just as I’ve thrown away my cigar stub to pedal homewards, a young man arrives, cycling on a Hermes gentlemen’s bicycle. I pick up my notebook. He’s changed the registration plate but the colour, manufacturer and address are all correct. A boy of about twenty, he brakes just in front of me and gives me a nod. I nod back. He removes his cap and wipes the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket before getting off. The thighs of his trousers are dark with water, also his back and shoulders.
A locomotive howls again from the embankment. I take a step forwards but stop there. We have the bicycle between us. He looks at me with large, blue eyes. He has a thin mouth, his chin, a pit in the middle. He puts his cap on the frame and runs his hand through his thick mop of hair. He’s a fine young man. I let my eyes wander over him. A part of me wants to beat him to a pulp.
I put my hand on the bolt cutters in my inside pocket. Sometimes they try to cycle away, and it’s good to have something to hand to insert into the back tyre.
‘It’s about this,’ I say, and put my other hand on the handlebars.
The boy stiffens. I feel the entire weight of the bicycle in my hand when he lets go of it. He backs away a few steps into the street. I nod. Quite right.
‘I was going to pay…’
I shrug with my right shoulder. Everyone is always going to pay.
‘We’re on strike,’ he goes on. ‘I haven’t worked for months.’ He puts his hand on the bicycle. I give him a look. He lets go of it again. ‘Please…’
‘Get lost!’
‘Please, sir…’
I make a movement towards him with my upper body and growl. He bounces up and quickly darts around both me and the bicycle. The door closes behind him.
Easy jobs tonight. I fetch the three-wheeler and lead it back to the other bicycle. The cap hangs at the bottom of the frame, like a dropped flag. I hang it on the door handle.
My pocket watch reveals that I still have many hours before my meeting with Belzén’s boys in Vanadislunden. I’ll have time to take both bicycles to Wernersson, have dinner and a nap.
My knee clicks as I swing my leg over the frame of the black bicycle. I put my hand on the handlebar of the three-wheeler and start pedalling down Fleminggatan. One of the tyres screeches against a fork. A couple of seagulls are making a din, although it is now entirely dark. In a house at the bottom of the street, despite the rain, fire has taken hold in a sooty chimney. A cone of embers is flung up into the blackness, looking like fireflies.
Usually by this time I’m asleep. I yawn, a couple of raindrops and maybe a snowflake land on my tongue. The clouds hide the moon, and the park lies steeped in darkness. My lungs are smarting.
The pedestrian path curls off up the slope. It’s almost midnight and there’s not a person in sight. A coughing fit is lurking in my chest. Up on the ridge lies the large brick building like a medieval fort, four towers at the corners and thick walls sitting on a base of granite. In the summers, the kids often lie in wait up there and pepper passing people with their pea-shooters. The sleet forms a transparent, jellified layer over the lawns. The deciduous trees stand naked, frozen stiff in the December night.
The bells of Stefan’s church strike twelve times. It doesn’t take long before I hear the sound of a car approaching from below, past the workhouse buildings. With its headlights turned off, it passes the white, octagonal music pavilion a short distance below.
I light a cigar and hold the lit match in the air. The dark green paintwork of the vehicle almost merges with the night. It stops next to me. Hiccup is wearing a black raincoat, a stiff hat and rubber boots. He snivels with his broad nose. I can’t make out the driver.
Hiccup nods at me and opens the back door. He leans inside and grunts as he drags out a bloke with his hands bound at his back.
‘This is the heavyweight.’
He’s a large man in a green hunter’s coat. The jute sack over his head is red daubed. Around his neck is a neatly tied noose of hemp rope. Hiccup drops him on his stomach in the wet grass. He writhes in the snow gunk, sobbing. Another comes splashing into the slush behind him. He’s smaller, wearing a dark suit. He doesn’t move at all.
Hiccup gets hold of the shirt collar of the first one and pulls him to his knees. He grabs the other, who falls forwards again. Hiccup mutters something that can’t be heard. After another attempt he leaves him lying there. The rain splatters against the grass, against the roof of the car, and against Hiccup’s raincoat. For an instant, a match illuminates the face of the driver as he lights a cigarette. He has a straight, pointed nose and a big gold ring on his finger. His eyes are hidden by the brim of his hat. I stifle a yawn and pull down my neck between my shoulders.
Hiccup places himself behind the bound men. He’s holding a black, stub-nosed revolver. It looks like a little toy in his enormous hand. His little finger doesn’t even have space on the hilt; it sticks out as if he’s holding an elegant tea cup at a society gathering.
‘If it freezes over in the night it won’t be much fun getting in to work tomorrow.’ Hiccup looks up at the dark sky. He shakes his head. Then he nods at me.
I put my cigar in my mouth and walk over to the kneeling bloke. I pull at one of the rope ends and remove the sack. His face is a mess of compression wounds, swellings and blood.
I grab him by the shoulders and give him a shake. His body is utterly limp. I’ve seen it before among small-time gangsters who know they’ve done wrong and are going to be punished for it, or timorous women who have taken a beating too often from their men: they jus
t want to get it over with. With one hand on his collar and the other in his hair, I lift him up so that his knees are off the ground.
‘Zetterberg?’
He whimpers and shakes his head. His knees squelch back down into the grass. I take a few rapid puffs on my cigar as I turn my attention to the other one. I pull off his sack and grab his blond hair. I force his face up into the rain. He’s already out cold. There’s not a whole tooth left between his lacerated, gaping lips. A large part of his ear is missing. He wheezes with irregular breaths. He’s dying. I nod at Hiccup and gesture at the man in my grip.
‘Zetterberg?’
‘He’s never even heard the name,’ answers Hiccup.
I drop the man’s face back into the grass.
‘What sort of types are these?’
‘This one’s from Söder,’ says Hiccup and points limply with the revolver at the kneeling man. ‘The other one’s on his home turf. They’re not high up, but they’re not at the bottom either. They’d know.’
‘And Ma?’
‘Not involved.’
‘Is there anything here that could be traced back to us?’
‘No, damn it, nothing. You don’t want the Reaper on your heels, do you?’
He’s referring to Ploman’s weasel of a bodyguard. I nod, turn up my collar, and step aside. The man on his knees raises his face to the sky. The rain cuts pale grooves through his blood. The first four shots follow so closely that they almost sound like two. As if the Söder gangster has already figured out what’s about to happen, he tries to turn around and get back on his feet. Hiccup puts a few slugs in his body and he falls with his face looking up at the rain. The other one hardly moves as he takes two shots in his back. The report sounds even louder in the rain. My ears start ringing almost straightaway.
With his revolver smoking, Hiccup goes between the two bodies. He leans over the first one and squeezes another shot into his face at close range. I take another step back. He turns round, leans down and shoots the other one in the back of his head. The bullet makes a hole in his skull, and the rain makes holes in the gunpowder smoke that hangs motionless in the December night. Hiccup empties the chamber of the revolver and puts the empty cartridges in the pocket of his raincoat.
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