Zack

by Mons Kallentoft

  “He goes on the defensive whenever we mention Sten Westberg. Maybe they belong to the same golf club. And I think Westberg called Douglas yesterday to complain about me getting his suit dirty out in Farsta.”

  “Yes, speaking of your adventures in Farsta . . .” Deniz says.

  “I know,” Zack says. “I’ve got loads I need to explain. I’ll do it when this is over, okay?”

  Deniz says nothing for a few moments. They drive past the trees of Berzelii Park. Some of the branches hang out across the street, shading it with their leaves.

  “Okay, we’ll take that up later.”

  She does a sharp left turn in front of the Royal Dramatic Theatre and heads up Birger Jarlsgatan. She swears when she realizes she can’t turn right past Humlegården because Engelbrektsgatan is a one-way street.

  She carries on and takes the next right, into the narrow Eriksbergsgatan, then turns right into Engelbrektsgatan from the other direction.

  “There it is,” Zack says, pointing at a flashy building overlooking Humlegården.

  Deniz looks up at the turn-of-the-century building.

  “Douglas really isn’t going to be happy with us bringing in Sten Westberg without telling him first.”

  “I’ll say I thought Sirpa had informed him. It’ll be fine.”

  Deniz looks at him and smiles.

  “What?” Zack says.

  “Nothing. You just seem on the ball today.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs.

  * * *

  THE RECEPTION area of the property company has white paneled walls and framed black-and-white photographs of old building sites and construction workers in white T-shirts, smoking. Zack guesses they depict the early history of Merkantus.

  The reception desk is staffed by a smiling woman in late middle age, dressed in a white blouse and dark blue jacket with outsized shoulder pads.

  “Good morning, how can I help you?” she says in a pronounced Östermalm accent, her gaze focused on Zack.

  “Good morning, we’re here to see Sten Westberg.”

  “I’m afraid he isn’t in the office.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No, I saw him leave in a hurry about fifteen minutes ago, but he hasn’t logged out,” the receptionist says. “That’s odd, he usually does. Can I give him a message?”

  Zack shows her his police ID.

  “It’s extremely important that we get hold of him as soon as possible. Can you put us through to his secretary?”

  “By all means,” the woman says, trying in vain to hide her curiosity. “Hold on a moment.”

  She dials an internal number.

  “Hello, Jeanette, this is Agneta. I’ve got a police officer down here who’d like to speak to Sten. Can you talk to him? Thanks. Here he is.”

  She passes the phone to Zack.

  “I’m sorry,” Jeanette says in answer to Zack’s questions. “I don’t know when he’ll be back. He didn’t say where he was going. The only thing on the calendar for today is a meeting with representatives of a foreign client. He’s supposed to be showing them some premises at noon, but I don’t know what he’s got planned until then. I’ve just tried to get hold of him myself, but his cell is switched off.”

  “Okay, thanks for your help.”

  A foreign client, Zack thinks as they leave the building. From Turkey? Another massage parlor, perhaps.

  He’s about to open the car door when Sirpa calls again.

  “I’ve just found them, the last two women. Their names are Nang Mon and Ah Noh. They sound pretty Burmese to me. Sten Westberg mentions their names in one of the Dirty Sanchez emails. He wrote to ask when they were going to be working.”

  “Where do they work?”

  “At Eastern Massage in Skärholmen, and guess what? It’s on the list of massage parlors with suspected links to Yildizyeli.”

  “Sirpa, you’re the best.”

  “There’s something else it could be useful to know. When the human trafficking unit visited that parlor, it was closed and the women weren’t there. That was the day after the murders at City Thai Massage. But I’ve just called, and a woman with a strong Asian accent said they’d been open for the past hour or so.”

  Zack feels a chill run through his body.

  “Sirpa, can you get some backup out there? I think Sten Westberg’s on his way there now.”

  Deniz sets off at speed and pulls out onto Birger Jarlsgatan, but gets stuck almost at once behind a courier van in a traffic jam.

  Zack gets the revolving light out of the pocket in the door, winds the window down, and sticks it into the magnetized socket on the roof.

  “Get the siren on, that’ll shift them,” he says.

  She does as he says and the road ahead clears.

  “Do you really think he’s planning to shoot them now, in full daylight?” she asks.

  “He’s desperate. I just read an article about how badly his company is doing, and how precarious the position of its managers is. And after Farsta he knows we’re onto him, and he may have worked out that the Turks are starting to get suspicious. I think he’s planning to get rid of the last of the blackmailers, then leave the country.”

  “But why wouldn’t he have killed the women earlier, last night, for instance?”

  “Sirpa said the parlor has been closed, and that there was no sign of the women. If our colleagues couldn’t find them, maybe Sten Westberg couldn’t either. He’s probably been calling to check several times a day. Sirpa said they only opened up again an hour or so ago. If he was lucky, he might have called as soon as they were open.”

  Zack looks at the time.

  Fuck!

  If Westberg set off for the massage parlor more than quarter of an hour ago, then he’s got quite a head start on them. They aren’t going to get there in time.

  He tries to contact the duty officer to see if they’ve managed to send a patrol car, but Rakel, the police radio system, is completely dead.

  Useless damned system. It was supposed to be idiot proof, but it’s caused nothing but problems.

  He calls the duty officer’s phone instead.

  Engaged.

  He calls Abdula. He lives at the south end of Bredäng, just a few minutes’ drive from the massage parlor.

  No answer. Zack sends a text:

  Eastern Massage on Äspholmsvägen. Man in suit on his way to take out two masseuses. Must be stopped. I’ll be there in 12 mins.

  * * *

  STEN WESTBERG parks his Mercedes CL600 outside the massage parlor in Skärholmen, and looks up at the seven-story building. The pale yellow façade is peeling, and the balconies have been covered with dark blue panels in a vain attempt to make the place look more appealing.

  The pistol hangs heavy in his suit pocket.

  At first it scared him, but now he knows what it can do. And he likes it. The way it puts those fucking whores in their place.

  Who do those cunts think they are?

  When he got the first message from them he almost felt pleased that they had the ingenuity to try something like that.

  He knows you have to help yourself if you’re going to get where you want to go. But not everyone has it in them. The necessary ruthlessness. Only a small number of people have the strength required.

  I’m one of them, and I’m going to make sure that carries on being the case.

  I could have turned Merkantus around, he thinks, I could have been a hero to Olympia Karlsson and the whole of the Heraldus empire. And then she’d have made me a seriously wealthy man.

  But those ungrateful whores got in the way. I’ve made a lot of money from the Turks. But now everything’s gone to hell.

  And it’s all the fault of those fucking whores.

  I’ll put a stop to them. They deserve no better. I’m going to wipe them out.

  By this time tomorrow I’ll be leaning back and gazing out at a completely different view. Palm trees on a Filipino island. A twenty-two-hour flight, a bit of money
stashed away in various pockets, and I’m gone for good.

  Cunts.

  There are plenty of those in the Philippines. Fresh ones too.

  He fingers the Beretta. Feels a tingle in his crotch as his hand touches the metal.

  One last time. Then order will be restored.

  He still can’t understand how those ungrateful whores could be so stupid. He’s been good to them, after all. Helped their employers find premises, made sure they had the chance to make a bit of extra money. Let them have sex with him. Hell, he even paid them, even though they liked it and the Turks had promised to let him have free access to the meat.

  Then they complained that he was a bit rough with them.

  Crybabies.

  It wasn’t that bad, surely? A bit of light whipping, a couple of slaps. The occasional fist when things got a bit too exciting.

  Right up inside them.

  All the way in.

  They screamed with pleasure, and then claimed they were screaming in pain.

  So what? Life must be a hell of a lot worse in the brothels of Bangkok. Or in Doha, where Asian whores have to take twenty Arab cocks at the same time.

  They should have stayed at home, if things were so fucking great in the refugee camps. They shouldn’t have come over here to tempt people. Who can resist a tight Asian cunt? Tighter than any Western cunt could ever be.

  If they hadn’t come here, they’d still be stuck over there. That’s all there is to it.

  He feels his stomach clench. How could they treat him like this? When it comes down to it, he’s always been kind, has always meant them well. But if you show them a bit of love, they let you down. I always end up getting betrayed, he thinks.

  And now the Turks seem to have worked out that I’m the man behind the murders. Presumably because of that fucking little bastard out in Farsta.

  They called Jeanette yesterday morning and asked to postpone yesterday’s meeting until noon today.

  He guesses the call came from Tuncay Çelik. It’s usually him.

  But he never postpones meetings. And he’s never called his secretary before.

  That means they’re after me.

  With their wolves.

  Like that Thai bitch at Hornstull.

  He can see Ösgür Thrakya’s back framed in his mind’s eye.

  He’s never seen his face, but he’s heard his voice. Strangely thin and squeaky, but full of latent violence.

  “If you let us down,” he once said, “I’ll boil you alive.”

  Westberg tries to stop his hands shaking.

  He squeezes the pistol in his pocket, feels his hands become steadier.

  He gets out of the car and adjusts his suit.

  Whores.

  If anyone’s been made to suffer in all this, it’s him.

  54

  OUT ONTO the E20. Sticking in the outside lane.

  Deniz is driving fast but steadily. Not getting carried away.

  The various districts of the city pass by quickly. Concrete rises up on either side of them. Stockholm gets more ugly with each mile they drive farther south.

  “Feeling homesick?” Deniz says as she sees Zack gaze out at the looming gray skyline of Bredäng.

  “Not much.”

  He’d like to explain how he feels. That home for him is more a state of mind. And, ideally, a state of motion.

  Like now. Sitting in a car with Deniz. That’s home.

  But he’s not sure she’d understand.

  That anyone could understand.

  And it doesn’t matter.

  “Is there a shortcut if I turn off here?” Deniz asks as she pulls into the right-hand lane.

  “No, take the next one. It’s quicker.”

  She pulls back into the outside lane and overtakes a truck and two cars.

  Zack looks at the clock on the dashboard, and imagines he can hear it ticking. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Far too fast.

  He tries calling Abdula again. Still no answer. And no reply to the text he sent.

  Deniz turns off toward Skärholmen.

  They’ve stopped talking now. Sinking into themselves, aware that what happens next could be crucial.

  They circle the center of Skärholmen, drive up a small slope, and turn in among the seven-story apartment blocks.

  A police car is parked outside the massage parlor and Zack feels relief spread through his chest. A patrol from Årsta, he guesses. Good.

  They jump out of the car and run across the street toward Eastern Massage. A graphite-gray Mercedes CL600 is parked beyond the patrol car. Sten Westberg’s? Zack curses himself for not finding out what other vehicles were registered in his name when he was checking the ownership of the Chevrolet.

  A gust of wind blows down the street, and Zack looks up to see dark clouds building in the sky to the east.

  More rain on its way.

  He pulls the door to the massage parlor. Locked.

  Through a gap between two curtains across the window in the door he can see a flashing light from some neon-colored LED lights. He peers in and stops breathing.

  There’s a female police officer with dark hair and open eyes lying on the floor. In front of her lies another officer. It looks like a man, but Zack can only see legs and a pair of boots. As the lighting switches from pink to yellow, the bodies seem to glow, and the blood looks green.

  Blood seeping from the policewoman’s head and neck.

  A lake of blood.

  Maybe I should be feeling scared, Zack thinks. But the blood makes him calm, almost alarmingly focused. How can I be like this? he thinks fleetingly, then swats such thoughts aside.

  He quickly pulls back from the door and gestures to Deniz to do the same.

  “There are two officers shot in there.”

  “Shit. I’ll call for backup.”

  Zack quickly runs through the options in his head. The killer could still be on the premises. So should they be cautious and wait for reinforcements? No, the women could still be alive, and if they are, they need help. And they need it now.

  Deniz ends the call, and Zack says:

  “We’re going in.”

  She nods and draws her pistol.

  Zack quickly examines the door. It looks just as flimsy as the one he forced at Sukayana Prikon’s parlor. He kicks it with a hard sokuto kick just below the handle.

  Splinters fly through the air.

  The door hits the wall with a crash.

  Zack throws himself to the side, expecting a hail of bullets to come through the doorway.

  But nothing happens.

  Absolutely nothing.

  He glances inside quickly, then turns to Deniz.

  “It looks empty.”

  Holding his Sig Sauer in front of him, he darts inside the premises.

  White wallpaper with a red floral pattern. A huge poster of a golden Buddha. A worn pine reception desk. A closed door.

  Deniz comes in behind him and they check for signs of life in the police officers on the floor.

  Deniz puts her fingers to the woman’s neck.

  “No pulse,” she says.

  “Same here,” Zack says, kneeling by the other officer, an almost bald man with a red beard and bushy eyebrows. He has a hole in one breast pocket, and around the hole a large stain is spreading out.

  Zack averts his eyes from the woman.

  From her neck.

  A faint sound, footsteps, perhaps, from the other side of the closed door.

  Zack and Deniz get up cautiously and stand on either side of it.

  Another sound. Sobbing?

  Are they lying on the floor wounded?

  Zack pushes the handle down and shoves the door open, then snatches his hand back. His temples are pounding and the butt of his pistol is wet with sweat.

  The sobbing is louder now. And someone’s heavy breathing.

  Zack tries to slow his own heartbeat. He takes a few deep, silent breaths, and peers quickly inside the room.

  Sten Westberg.r />
  Dressed in a dark blue sweater and jeans, with a black baseball cap on his head. With a pistol in one hand and the other arm around the neck of a young Burmese woman in a silk kimono. Where’s the other woman? Already dead, perhaps?

  Zack has gestured to let Deniz know what he’s seen, when Westberg says:

  “Drop your gun, or the bitch dies.”

  Has he seen Deniz, or can I go in on my own?

  Zack looks at the time. They can’t count on backup arriving for several more minutes.

  “Throw your guns in, then come out where I can see you both. With your hands above your heads.”

  Shit.

  Zack and Deniz look at each other, trying to work out what to do.

  They’re both good shots, but from their respective positions there’s no way they can rush in and shoot Westberg without running the risk of harming the woman he’s holding. Or getting shot themselves.

  Try to persuade him to surrender? Out of the question. Westberg has come here to kill. He knows it’s all over if he leaves anyone alive.

  “I’m going to count to three,” he calls out. “One . . .”

  Damn. Why haven’t I got two pistols?

  Deniz holds her arms out, as if to say: we’ve got to do as he says. What else can we do?

  “Two . . .”

  “Okay, okay,” Zack shouts. “We’ll do as you say.”

  He puts the safety catch back on the Sig Sauer, crouches down, and carefully slides it in through the doorway.

  “That was a fucking pathetic little throw,” Westberg says.

  Then Deniz tosses her own pistol in, slightly farther than Zack’s.

  “Now come out with your hands up,” Westberg repeats.

  Zack puts his hands behind his head and steps into the doorway.

  He’s expecting to be shot in the face, and has to fight an instinct to close his eyes.

  But nothing happens. He takes a step into the room, and sees Westberg aiming a nine-millimeter Beretta at him.

  “Now you too,” Westberg says, waving his pistol toward Deniz, who’s standing right behind Zack.

  Deniz takes a couple of steps and stands beside Zack. She too has her hands behind her head.

  “That’s better,” Westberg says, and smiles at them.

  Only now does Zack notice the second woman.