In late-January 1971, he was summoned to Sivertsson’s room. As he stood in the doorway, Sivertsson looked up from the file that was almost as renowned as its owner: thick, leather-bound, and with an indexing system that people of average intelligence would never be able to decipher. The binder itself was said to be the only one of its kind in the building, and when it wasn’t on Sivertsson’s desk it was safely contained in his safe. Rumour had it that he collated the surveillance reports from the private detective he had employed to keep an eye on his wife and her alleged affairs. Other, more persistent, rumours claimed that the file contained intelligence collected in collaboration with the Security Police, SEPO — data so sensitive that only Sivertsson himself was allowed to handle it.
‘Isn’t it about time we sent you off on a conference trip?’ he asked.
Sivertsson’s voice was a lot like his personality — thin and sharp, and, since this was the way he would always give his orders, Charles simply asked where he was to go and when.
It took place from the twenty-eighth of February to the first of March, at a conference centre that had been hurriedly assembled in the no-man’s-land between Halmstad and the little settlement of Bruket, some eighty kilometres inland. The National Chief of Police himself, Carl Persson, was to attend the opening day.
The evening brought a choice between travelling into Halmstad for continued discussions or going to Bruket. The thought of Halmstad’s nightclubs held little appeal for him, so he went with Bruket. Abrahamsson and Knutsson, the colleagues Charles travelled down with, were both twice his age.
They took Abrahamsson’s car, and with each mile travelled the streetlights became fewer and further apart. By the time they arrived, it was already dark, so they had no idea of the look or feel of the place. That might also have contributed to what happened next, because the first four hours he spent there felt like being in a black bubble, another, separate, version of reality.
He wouldn’t even have been surprised if things had tasted different there: apples like pears, wine like blood. Something about the place made that seem perfectly plausible; it made everything seem slightly distorted. Or perhaps it wasn’t the place, but her.
And yes, that’s where she was, almost as though she’d been waiting for him.
The bar they went to was the only one in Bruket, down by the illuminated square. It was an old brick building, with a pavement terrace and a neon sign above the door.
‘I take it you’ve got some ID with you, Levin?’ Knutsson said as they got out of the car.
Knutsson was that type of Gothenburg man who, when he opens his mouth, always sounds as though he hasn’t quite made up his mind as to whether or not he is being serious. The corners of his mouth twitched, but it could just as easily have been an attempt to conceal his irritation as the beginnings of a smile.
Abrahamsson slapped Knutsson on the shoulder.
‘Stop winding him up. For that, you’re driving us home.’
‘I’m not winding him up,’ Knutsson replied, somewhat confused.
It was immediately obvious that the people spending that evening at Brukets Bar were the people who always did: lonely men with pinkish, swollen faces and a beer in front of them.
Behind the bar stood a man with a silver-flecked moustache and soft features, with notes in his hands and the till drawer open.
Charles and Abrahamsson ordered a beer each from the barman and sat down at one of the tables. Knutsson sipped on a soft drink, expressionless. They didn’t say much.
Four women came in, one after the other. She was last, and the other three were laughing at something she’d just said. They called the man behind the bar ‘Magnus’ when they ordered, and one of them asked if he’d fixed the sink in the toilet.
‘Do you think I’ve got time to be doing things like that?’ he sniggered.
From their seats, the three policemen watched the women making their way through the bar. They must have noticed, but didn’t seem bothered. Maybe they were used to it. The women sat down at a table behind the officers, and one of them said that they should’ve gone straight to Monica’s, and that they never should have come here. She slurred her words.
Charles soon felt woozy in the warm, heavy lighting, and he listened to their strange accents, their guttural Rs and their extended vowel sounds, and with a melody that would be very difficult to imitate.
‘That would do you, wouldn’t it Levin?’ said Abrahamsson.
‘Which one?’
‘He doesn’t get it,’ Knutsson said. ‘Leave him alone. You’re getting tipsy.’
‘So innocent,’ Abrahamsson said and cocked his head to the side, looking at Charles like you might look at a kitten. He shook his head. ‘So unspoilt.’
Behind the barman was a large wall clock. According to that, it was half-past six. Charles doubted its accuracy.
He went to the toilet, which, in a previous life, had served as a cloakroom. It was small and cramped, and smelt like an old man’s clothes. When Charles turned on the tap, it delivered nothing more than a foreboding creak, and he quickly turned it off again.
She was outside the toilet, with her arms folded across her chest. Shoulder-length blonde wavy hair, petite, half-a-head shorter than him, with narrow shoulders and fragile wrists. Her nails were unpainted and her eyes were inquisitive and alert. She was wearing a black dress that reached her thighs, and black stockings. A matching black lace rose was fastened in her hair.
He held the door open for her. She smiled. Her teeth were small and uneven, almost like a child’s.
Charles stood at the bar, which at that point was missing its barman. The man was outside with a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other, and all the time in the world.
‘You didn’t wash your hands.’
She was standing next to him, holding money. He could smell her hair, or her perfume. Maybe both.
‘The tap didn’t work.’
She laughed.
‘I know. I didn’t either.’ The notes rustled in her hands. ‘Where is he?’
‘Outside. Smoking.’
‘Of course.’ She glanced over her shoulder, through the door to where the barman was by now halfway through both the bottle and the cigarette. ‘I’m Eva.’
‘Charles.’
‘You’re not local.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Can tell by the way you talk.’
‘Where do you think I’m from then?’
‘Stockholm, I would guess,’ she said. ‘But that seems painfully predictable that someone like me would guess that. So I’ll say Uppsala.’
‘Stockholm,’ said Charles — and something in her deep-blue eyes made him smile — ‘I’m afraid.’
Her friends giggled. Charles blushed.
‘Stockholm,’ Eva said, seemingly testing the implications in her mouth. ‘What do you know! How have you ended up out here?’
‘We’re at a conference, half an hour away, towards Halmstad.’
‘So those are your colleagues?’
A man is defined by the company he keeps; his companions were a sneaky pisshead and a man who, above all else, was grey. Was this how it was going to be? Would he end up like them?
‘Yes,’ said Charles, reluctantly.
He stared at Eva’s mouth — it was only for a second, but he couldn’t help it.
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a policeman. What about you?’
‘I work at the supermarket on the other side of the square — the red neon sign, if you noticed that when you arrived. That’s where I work.’
The barman returned. The beer bottle in his hand was empty. Without looking at them, he went back behind the bar and put the music on, an antidote to silence rather than something you’d listen to. As he stood back up, he exhaled, as if it had been something of an effort, and the s
mell of beer and smoke hit Charles in the face.
‘Now then,’ he said.
‘Another one,’ Eva said, holding up her notes.
‘Same here,’ said Charles.
She told him that she was about to turn twenty-two. Charles said he was twenty-four. She’d never been to Stockholm, was born and raised here. He looked at her ring finger: nothing, just smooth skin and tiny downy hairs. They were heading to an old classmate’s, Monica’s, for dinner, but they’d wanted to wet their whistles first. Wet their whistles, that was the phrase she used, and Charles thought that was odd.
‘Do you like being a policeman?’
‘You get to come to places like Bruket, I’ll give it that,’ he said, which made her laugh and touch his arm.
Then one of her friends called over to her, asking if it wasn’t time for them to go.
‘How long are you around for?’ said Eva.
‘We leave the day after tomorrow.’
She looked at the barman, who was leaning against the wall, reading a newspaper. Charles was starting to feel intoxicated and had to squint to make sure: it was three days old.
‘Magnus, can I have a pen and paper?’ She wrote down a telephone number. ‘Call me if you’d like to meet up.’
Charles carefully folded the little scrap of paper and put it in his trouser pocket.
It wasn’t until they’d gone and he sat back down with Abrahamsson and Knutsson that he noticed the music and the lonely voice, deep yet twisted and sharp, and he remembers the lyrics to this day: I wasn’t sad, I was just dissatisfied.
He should have thrown her number away, thrown it away and forgotten about ever having met her.
FEBRUARY 1984
It smells bad in here, but perhaps it would’ve been naïve to expect anything else of a junkie’s home. Through the living-room window, the Sofia church tower and the dead treetops can be seen, the sky hanging low. A radio is playing ‘Love of the Common People’. Despite the austere furnishing, which consists of a simple table and chairs, a sofa and armchairs, the flat seems messy and grimy.
Jan Savolainen is shaky and fragile, smoking his cigarette. Sitting there opposite Charles, he looks even thinner than he did yesterday on their journey through Stockholm.
Charles picks up the cigarette packet from the table between them.
‘Okay if I take one?’
‘I suppose so.’ Savolainen taps his cigarette with his index finger, causing the ash to tumble into the ashtray. His gaze shifts from Charles to the door, and then back to Charles again. ‘What do important types like you want with me?’
Charles pulls a cigarette from the packet, and rolls it between his fingers. The tobacco crackles audibly in the silent room.
‘Sven-Olof Håkansson,’ he says. ‘How do you know each other?’
‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Sven-Olof Håkansson.’
‘How we know each other?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never heard that name before.’
‘How about Anette Håkansson?’
‘Who the hell is that then?’
‘His wife.’
‘Right. No, dunno.’
Charles lights the cigarette. Savolainen’s nails are long and black.
‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘What?’
Charles leans back in his chair and blows out smoke, watches it float out into the still air. When his eyes meet Savolainen’s, the junkie has had time to get a bit nervous. Charles pulls a photo from the inside pocket of his jacket, and slides it over to him.
‘Can you identify the man in the picture?’
Savolainen picks it up, squints at it. It’s a good image, and despite the man keeping his eyes on the ground, the profile is still clear and in focus.
‘That’s me.’
‘Do you know where the picture was taken?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t recognise it? Don’t you know where you’ve been?’
Savolainen clams up, so Charles keeps going, in the same monotone voice; he might as well have been reading from a page: ‘This is you leaving Håkansson’s place in Täby. Yesterday, after you’d been in his garage. I’m saying that’s unfortunate, because it must mean it was breaking and entering.’ Charles picks up the photo. ‘Shame.’
‘You threatening me?’
‘What I want to know is how you know Håkansson. That’s all.’
Savolainen gets up from his chair with such force that it topples over and hits the ground with a clatter, wood on wood. He puts his palms on the table and leans over Charles.
‘Get out of here before you need carrying out.’
Savolainen’s saliva flecks his face. Charles folds the photograph and puts it in his pocket.
‘Would you please sit down?’
Without waiting for the answer, Charles pulls out the next photograph and holds it up in front of him: Savolainen leaving the basement in Bagarmossen in a hurry.
‘Sit down. Now. We need to get to the bottom of this.’
Now he does as he was told. Charles leaves the picture on the table and gets out the little bag of speed from his trouser pocket, then places it next to the photo.
‘How do you know Sven-Olof Håkansson?’
Savolainen holds the bag between his thumb and forefinger, his lips tight as he admires it.
‘I don’t know him. I just got asked to do a job for him, that’s all.’
‘And what was that?’
‘It was for his company, Sunitron. I don’t know why. I was just told that I had to check that a delivery had been made.’
‘And where was it supposed to be? The delivery?’
Savolainen nods at the picture.
‘There.’
‘And was it?’
‘Eh?’
‘Had the delivery been made?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what where you doing in Täby then?’
‘I had to pick up the key to the cellar. She had it.’
‘Anette?’
‘That’s it. The wife.’
‘Sounds inconvenient, the only key to a cellar being on the other side of Stockholm.’
Savolainen fiddles with the bag of speed, opening it carefully before sprinkling a little pinch of the white powder onto the table. He shapes it into a thin line and pulls out a little metal tube, which he puts to his nostril and then bends over the table, hoovering the powder up his nose. He licks his index finger and dabs up the tiny remainder from the tabletop before rubbing it into his gums.
‘The key in Täby was a spare. I had to go and get it to make sure it didn’t go walkabout.’
‘On whose instructions?’
‘Who do you think? The guy whose basement it is.’
‘And who is that?’
Savolainen picks up the bag of amphetamine, folds it, and puts it in his jeans pocket.
‘Öberg.’
‘Jakob Öberg? Are you running errands for him?’
Savolainen rolls his eyes.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Charles says. ‘What kind of goods?’
‘I don’t know.’
Charles raises an eyebrow.
‘You don’t know?’
He shakes his head.
‘They were under a cover, a big tarpaulin. All I had to do was go in and have a peek under the tarp, check that they were there. They were meant to look a bit like drying cabinets, that was all I was told, and there they were, where they were meant to be.’
‘And you don’t know what these goods are?’
‘No. That’s what I’m saying.’
‘I know that you’ve worked out what they are, and that you know how much they’re worth.’ He throws up his arms in frustration. ‘Can’t y
ou just tell me what you actually know? Then I can get on with my stuff and you can get on with yours?’
‘Well, if you know so much, then you must know what those things are, too. What do you need me for?’
‘I want to hear you say it and …’
‘Not going to happen.’
‘… I want to avoid any unpleasantness.’
‘Get out of here now.’
Charles looks at the glowing cigarette between his fingers, how the paper slowly turns to ash. When he blinks, his eyelids feel heavy.
‘Don’t do this.’
‘Fuck off.’
Charles nods slowly and stands up.
It was never normally like this, not even when thoughts of Bruket were still raw, the misery was still burning away inside him, and he was the new boy at The Bureau. The Bureau, SEPO, the Security Police.
He remembers the early days, him and Paul sitting in armchairs in the cool foyer of the Grand Hôtel, the scent of expensive perfume and the discreet rustling coming from the men in the restaurant flipping through their newspapers, beautiful women passing them in tight-fitting skirts and plimsolls. A man with a diplomatic manner arrived by lift and shook their hands, addressing him by a name that wasn’t his: Guten Abend, Herr Möller. Wurden Sie bitte mitkommen? Wir müssen vieles besprechen.
They were close to history, could feel the wing beats from both East and West. It was crucially important work, and he learnt quickly, got good at it. He had no choice. One way of dealing with the past was to wallow in it now. Herr Möller, bitte, hören Sie mir zu …
The hours of surveillance in the car. The countless nights they spent sitting and going through registers, piecing things together, making connections between various snippets of intelligence. A meeting in a train compartment, two go-betweens briefly touching and exchanging discreet phrases. Salutations the moment before being left alone again: Grüße aus Berlin, Herr Möller. And it was never normally like this.
‘He knows that they’re VAX computers,’ Charles says once he’s slumped into the seat next to Paul and the car turns onto Folkungagatan. It’s icy, and the useless winter tyres on his Citroën are sliding around in the slush. ‘But he doesn’t know what they’re going to be used for.’
Master, Liar, Traitor, Friend: a Leo Junker case Page 6