by Jens Lapidus
The guys approached them. Blocked their path. Stopped.
One of them was slurring his words, “I recognize you. JW. Do you remember me?”
JW started walking around them. “No, I don’t know who you are. But have a nice rest of your night.”
The dude wasn’t satisfied with that. He took a step closer to JW, slammed into him with his shoulder. JW stumbled. The guys burst out in hyena laughter.
Hägerström took a step forward. JW took a step back, fished out his phone.
“Calm down,” Hägerström said.
The guy ignored him, turned to JW instead. “No normal person came to your little party tonight, did they?”
JW was standing three yards off to the side, talking quietly into his phone. Didn’t even react to the guys’ provocations.
“Go home and go to bed,” Hägerström said. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
The first guy turned to him. Got up close. Chest to chest. They were the same height.
“And who the fuck are you?”
Hägerström didn’t respond, but tensed his entire body.
The guy was spraying spit as he spoke. “Huh? Who the fuck are you, you fucking joke? Do you know who that guy is you’re hanging around with?”
Hägerström didn’t say much, just tried to calm the guy down. “We don’t want any trouble here tonight.”
The guy wouldn’t let up. They bickered back and forth for a while.
It was high time to get JW out of there. Hägerström began to walk backward, all the while keeping his eye on the guy.
It didn’t work. The guy followed him. Continued his spit: “You fucking clown.”
Meanwhile, in the corner of his eye, Hägerström saw guy number two readying himself to pounce. Shoved JW in the shoulder again.
Crossroads decision at lightning speed: either he took these guys down, or he and JW would be forced to bolt. The first alternative might get totally out of hand. The latter could equal a humiliation that JW would hate.
JW tumbled into a wall. Hägerström raised his voice: “I said, calm the fuck down.”
He tried to make eye contact with JW, gauge what he wanted to do.
The guy near Hägerström yelled, “You fucking fag, who do you think you are?”
The words provoked him. Hägerström looked over at JW once again.
But it was too late. He heard yelling.
Crazy Tim was running toward them.
At the same time, the guy near Hägerström threw his body at him. His jacket fluttered. The dude’s fist came flying. Just missed Hägerström’s ear.
Crazy Tim reached them. Hägerström saw that he was holding something in his hand.
A spring baton.
He whipped the weapon, striking the guy in the back of the head.
The dude collapsed onto the ground.
The other guy shoved JW again. Then tried to run over to his floored friend.
Hägerström’s thoughts were raging. What was happening right now was not okay, but these cocky motherfuckers were acting like pigs.
Hägerström grabbed the guy. Shoved him. He teetered backward.
Crazy Tim threw himself over him. Rapped his face with the baton.
The guy lying on the ground began to stand up. Was on all fours.
Hägerström went over to him. Held him down with his knees and arms.
The brat looked up at him with cloudy eyes.
He was bleeding from the nose. “You fucking psycho.”
Then he tried to knock Hägerström aside.
Oh, hell no. Hägerström felt the adrenaline begin to rush through his veins.
The guy tried to wrestle him to the ground.
Something in Hägerström snapped. He threw a punch in the guy’s face.
Hard.
Felt a nose breaking.
He struck again.
Felt lips tearing.
He struck again.
Finally the guy lay still. Curled into the fetal position, arms raised above his head.
Hägerström got up. He was out of breath.
The other guy was also lying still on the ground.
JW and Crazy Tim were looking at Hägerström approvingly.
30
Natalie stretched her arms out as far as she could. Tried to feel the muscles in her back. It wasn’t easy—the back’s musculature was particularly difficult to pinpoint. She tried to elongate them, limber them up. Stretch like a pro.
The instructor was playing a slow song: Michael Jackson’s “Heal the World.”
Everyone around her was lying on mats on the floor, just like Natalie. Stretching their bodies. Their muscles. They were girls her own age, one or two middle-aged women, but only three guys. Guys didn’t need classes at the gym the same way the girls did—they had their martial arts clubs, company soccer leagues, and floorball tournaments. They had more natural places where they got exercise than in front of a mirror in a windowless room. The whole gym thing was pretty crazy if you thought about it—a generation’s feeble attempt to live up to its own sick body ideal. A generation of people who’d learned to be dissatisfied with themselves no matter what they looked like. Who sought some sort of meaning in their lives.
Natalie let the neg thoughts go. She knew what had meaning in her life.
The body pump class’d been hard—she liked to push herself. She could still feel her heart beating fast. Her body was warm. The sweat rose like steam from her head and arms. In the mirror that covered one wall, she could see that her face was red.
She reflected about the summer. A difficult time, with so many sleepless, tear-filled nights that she’d almost lost control. She’d isolated herself—couldn’t deal with seeing Viktor too much, spent time with Louise and Tove only at her own house. She didn’t go along with them to Saint-Tropez or Gotland. She didn’t go along with them on their nighttime adventures around Stureplan. She didn’t even go along with their jokes and sense of humor. She just wanted to become grounded in herself—become stable enough to handle law school in the fall.
She didn’t want to involve them in what was truly important—finding out more about what happened to Dad. Who’d taken his life.
She’d called Goran in June, a few days after she’d trailed the Louis Vuitton chick to Solna.
They met up at Natalie’s house. Talked briefly in the hallway. Goran wanted them to take a walk in the neighborhood. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “For safety’s sake.”
Natalie understood. He was right. There was no reason to take risks.
She threaded her arms into her short leather jacket. They walked out.
The streets were empty. Summer vacations hadn’t started yet, so her neighbors were at work.
Goran asked how she was feeling. Then he said that everything about Dad’s death had been unnecessary. He said it in a different way than before. He didn’t use any clichés about Dad being up in heaven among the heroes and so on. He cared.
They walked up to a wooded area where she used to play as a kid. Natalie liked this place. The trees, the rocks, and the pinecones belonged to her. This was her world.
She turned to him. “Goran, I want to ask you a favor.”
They continued walking. Goran put some snuff under his lip.
“Like I said, I took those binders.”
Goran picked his nose.
“There was some information about a weird apartment.”
Goran scratched his ear.
“Don’t you care about what I’m telling you?”
Goran turned to her. The snuff was dripping down over his teeth. “I’ve already told you. You’re his daughter. I’ll support you and help you in whatever you do, you know that. But you’re the one who chooses the path. Not me.”
Flashback: Goran’s words in the parking lot outside the hospital after the meeting with Stefanovic. He’d promised her his loyalty. Promised to live according to promises made.
They talked for a while.
“T
he police aren’t doing their job,” Natalie said. “I don’t really give a shit how they treat me. But they don’t seem to have a clue who did this to Dad. So I want to deal with it now.”
They discussed different strategies for how Natalie could get hold of information about the police’s investigation. She’d recorded the most recent round of questioning. When she told Goran about that, he suggested she have a lawyer send a threatening letter to the police. And he would also see if he could help in other ways. Check with Thomas Andrén, the ex-cop who used to help Dad. He could put some hooks out among former colleagues. Pull some strings. Make it worth their while.
Natalie ruminated: she still hadn’t told him about the girl she’d trailed. Should she go that far? Either Goran didn’t know about the apartment, or no one wanted her to know about it. Still: she couldn’t be alone in this.
She went out on a limb, all the way. Told him how she’d found the apartment. That she’d tried but failed to find the keys. That she’d gone there. That she’d seen a girl her own age enter and exit the apartment.
That she’d trailed the chick to Råsundavägen.
They stopped walking. There was a pile of pinecones on a rock.
“I want you to find out who this girl is,” Natalie said. “And you need to be honest with me, even if it’s something embarrassing.”
Goran picked his nose again. He didn’t have any manners.
“If it’s embarrassing, let it be embarrassing. But I don’t want to speak badly about the dead. A man is a man, that’s all there is to it. And a man like your father probably needed places where he could be a man.”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
“But when it comes to this apartment, all I can say is that I didn’t know about it. I’ve never heard about it before.”
Natalie looked at Goran. He was unshaved. Dressed in his usual style. Poor posture. He said he didn’t know anything about the apartment. Still: she trusted this man. His entire being was radiating one and the same thing: I care.
Right now that felt so incredibly good.
“And the woman?” Natalie said.
“Not her either,” he responded. “But that’s no problem. I’ll find out all there is to know about her.”
Goran’d put Thomas on the case.
They installed Skype on their cell phones. Neither Goran nor Thomas was particularly good at computers, but they still knew about safety. The thing about Skype—the police couldn’t listen in even if they’d tapped one of their phones.
The ex-cop’d called her two weeks later. “Hi, it’s me. Thomas Andrén.”
“I can see that. Have you gotten anywhere yet?”
“Somewhere, anyway. Her name is Melissa Cherkasova, she’s originally from Belarus, but she’s lived here for five years. She speaks Swedish and lives alone in that place in Solna. She is twenty-five years old and doesn’t seem to have a regular job.”
“So who is she? What does she do?”
“Let me put it this way: she meets men at hotels.”
Natalie fell silent. Took a few breaths. “What men?”
“So far, I’ve seen her meet two different guys. Twice each. At the Sheraton Hotel.”
“Who are they?”
“One’s a Brit and just seems to come here on business. The other one is Swedish, middle-aged. I don’t know much more about him. They don’t come down to meet her, she goes up to their rooms. But I’ve got some photos of the old boys.”
Natalie took a few more breaths.
“Thomas, find out everything you can about them.”
* * *
K0202-2011-34445
INTERROGATION
Time: June 5, 0905-0916
Location: Södersjukhuset Hospital, Stockholm
Present: Stefan Rudjman Stefanovic (SR), Head Interrogator
Inger Dalén (HI)
HI: I will begin by explaining to you that you are not suspected of any crime. This interrogation is purely informational, and you have been informed of the reason for it. So, this is in regard to the incident that took place a while ago on Skeppargatan.
SR: Mm, I know what this is about.
HI: Okay, I’m wondering if you might tell me how you knew Radovan Kranjic.
SR: We were superficial acquaintances.
HI: But you were in the car too, weren’t you?
SR: Yes, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? That’s why I’m lying in a bed here right now.
HI: Right. How are you feeling, by the way?
SR: I’ve been better.
HI: Okay, so let me ask you this: Why were you riding in the car with Radovan?
SR: We were going to pick up his daughter.
HI: And how well did you know Radovan?
SR: I’ve already answered that, we were acquaintances. “Hey, how you doing?” You know—not much more than that. And I can tell you straight off the bat that I won’t have too many answers to your questions, because I don’t know anything about all this. I hardly knew Radovan, I don’t know anyone in his family, I don’t have any idea about anything.
HI: Okay, but how did you become acquainted with Radovan to begin with?
SR: I don’t remember.
HI: Was it many years ago or only a few months ago?
SR: I can’t really remember.
HI: Did you do any business together?
SR: I don’t think so.
HI: Have you been to his house?
SR: Once or twice.
HI: But do you know his daughter?
SR: I already told you, I don’t. Am I under suspicion for something, or what? You’re going on and on like I’m some fucking murderer. I was in the car, dammit, and I’ve been lying here in this place for over a week now. I’m the victim here, aren’t I?
HI: You’re right about that, formally you’re the plaintiff in this investigation. But I still have to ask a few questions, as I’m sure you understand. We want to know as much as possible about Radovan in order to get to the bottom of this incident.
SR: Okay, but I don’t remember any more. I’ve told you everything I know.
HI: All right, then I’ll ask about some other things. At what time did you get into the car?
SR: Don’t remember.
HI: Okay. But was Radovan already in the car when you got into it?
SR: Don’t remember.
HI: For how long were you riding in the car together?
SR: No idea.
HI: Had you ridden in that car before?
SR: No comment.
HI: What’d you done previously during the night?
(Silence.)
HI: Do you not want to answer?
SR: I don’t have anything more to say. We can end this now.
HI: Why? We’re just trying to do as good a job as we can.
SR: No comment.
HI: Don’t you want to help us solve this?
(Silence.)
HI: Well?
SR: No comment.
HI: Well, the fact that you don’t want to cooperate might be perceived as a little strange.
(Silence.)
HI: All right, okay, I am going to take it that you don’t want to say anything more. In that case, we’ll end this interrogation. The time is 9:16.
31
Thailand. Pattaya. Queen Hotel. A fully private bungalow with a pool.
Jorge was lounging in bed. Staring up at the ceiling. It was decorated with painted pussies.
The air conditioning was buzzing—it sounded like it was dripping.
Thailand. Pattaya. Queen Hotel—100 percent whore den: when Jorge’d booked the rooms, the hotel’d asked if they wanted a special reception. He knew that would make the boys happy.
Eleven hours to Bangkok—they flew two days after the heist.
Two hours to Pattaya—they took a minibus. Pattaya was the biggest tourist nest near Bang-cock—easy to disappear into the crowd. Perfect stopover for robbers on the run.
Many weeks at Queen Hotel—the restau
rant’s menus included prices for girls. Thailand hadn’t changed—the exact same feeling as the last time he’d been there, four years ago. The palm trees, the parasols, the pedophiles—everything a little too up close for comfort. The only difference: the last time he was here, they’d been playing the Police, Dire Straits, U2. Now: American R&B everywhere.
But the weather was sweet, and they were lying low.
Jorge turned over in bed. Grabbed the watch that was resting on the nightstand: it was heavy. An Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore. The face was forty-four millimeters in diameter, nineteen millimeters thick. He hadn’t been able to resist the temptation, despite the Finn’s mandamientos. The day after the heist, he went to Nymans Ur on Biblioteksgatan. Shelled out for the freshest, phattest model they had. He could’ve ordered it online or bought it in Bangkok. But that wasn’t the same—part of the thing: walking in and paying cash in the middle of Svenland’s swankest street. Floss, get a receipt, a guarantee, and a Sven who bowed to him, smiled, and brownnosed until the shit came out of his ears.
Mahmud, Jimmy, and Javier were sitting at their regular hangout: Pattaya Sun Club. Were stretched out down by the beach. Akon blasting in the background.
Babak wasn’t there—he was still sleeping.
Robert and Sergio hadn’t wanted to roll to Thailand. They’d gone to other countries.
Tom wasn’t there either—dude’d split for Bangkok to gamble. Jorge’d tried to forbid him to go—“You’re not gonna be able to keep it together, huevon. You’re gonna start betting higher and higher. I know you.”
Tom just grinned. Claimed he could increase his dough tenfold at the casinos in Bangkok. The fact that Lehtimäki’d been bitten by the gambling bug—an understatement. Over the past few weeks, the dude’d bet on everything. Who got the most hits off a joint. Who could chug a bottle of vino the fastest. Which cockroach would be first to make it to the sugar cube he’d put under the table.
Jorge sat down. Lanterns that were lit at night: suspended from the palm trees. The wicker chairs creaked.
He wasn’t hungry. Ordered a fresh-squeezed pineapple juice. Jimmy and Javier were chowing on breakfast. Mahmud claimed he was eating lunch. Jorge suspected he was doing all kinds of bullshit at night—peddling drugs to Brits, Germans, and Swedes who needed to escape their homelands in more ways than one.