by Jens Lapidus
He took a sip of wine.
“I know you worked for Dad before you disappeared for a few years,” Natalie went on. “I also know that you weren’t always on his good side. You made your mistake. But he let it slide, so you were able to help him with some of his finances. My dad understood people. He thought: you wouldn’t rip us off one more time. No one does that.”
The flame of the wax candle flickered gently.
She could tell by his eyes that he knew what she was talking about. Goran’d told her how JW’d become a kingpin in Dad’s dealer stable. But at the very end, he’d tried to pull a fast one—rigged a deal with some other guys. Things went to hell, and the cops arrested both JW and the other guys. All of them got locked away for years.
“Take it easy,” JW said. “That was a long time ago. But there’s a lot of talk going around now, you know. About Stefanovic, Goran. You. I helped your father. But now I want the cards on the table. What is it you want?”
Natalie raised her fork with the fish once again. Popped it into her mouth. She finished chewing before she spoke.
“It’s simple. I’m the one who’s controlling all the businesses my dad started. That goes for all his business partners too.”
JW’s hands were completely still on the table. The cufflinks gleamed. Natalie noticed his nails. Real Swedish fingernails: unnecessarily short, unfiled, unpolished. Dad’s fingers never would’ve looked like that.
JW leaned over. “You have to understand that I’m not like any other basement consultant. Normally when people want advice, they go see a more-or-less willing lawyer or accountant. Best-case scenario, they pretend they don’t really know what it’s all about. They’re trained to be blue-eyed, and then they construct some system that’s supposed to work. But things are different with me. My clients can speak openly with me, and my arrangements are designed with the specific intent of fulfilling my clients’ wishes.”
“But didn’t you understand what I just said? All business coming from my dad will be controlled by me. Not by anyone else. That includes Stefanovic.”
He understood—that much was obvious. But he explained that he didn’t exactly know what Stefanovic did. Just that he made sure money was moved back and forth in the correct way. He refused to name people or banks. But Natalie already knew the main player: that horndog politician Bengt Svelander. Still, JW was open enough for Natalie to get something out of the conversation—he didn’t deny his dealings with Stefanovic. The guy was a pro.
“You must also understand that I don’t want any problems,” JW said. “If I let you take this over, what do I tell your father’s former crony? That’s not how things work. The wheels have been set in motion, things are rolling along nicely right now. The current machinery works.”
Natalie turned her head. Looked JW straight in the face. Didn’t he understand? His head, that was what would be rolling if he didn’t do what she told him to do.
The next day. Natalie was sitting in her Golf. Heading south. She was driving—kind of a bizarre feeling: next to her, folded over in order to fit, was Goran. When she picked him up near Gullmarsplan, he’d insisted. “You drive. It’s your car, boss.”
The same clothes as always: tracksuit and sneakers. But today he’d rolled up his sleeves. His beefy forearms revealed him for who he was: pale green ink—the double eagle and the Serbian Republic of Krajina’s coat of arms. Natalie loved those arms—they’d held her that time down in the parking garage under the Globe Arena. When Dad’d been shot.
They turned off toward Huddinge. No traffic. Middle of the day, pre–rush hour. The person they were meeting should be home at this time. The person they were meeting should know certain important things.
The Golf was nice to drive. Not like one of Viktor’s massive showroom vehicles that she borrowed sometimes, where a toe-flirt on the gas pedal made the motor erupt like an Icelandic volcano. Still, the Golf was powerful. Spirited, somehow.
Goran and she were silent. Natalie was focusing on finding the way. The GPS signaled a crossroads.
“Natalie, you’re a good driver,” Goran said.
“Thanks. You know who was my driving teacher?”
“I know. Him. Izdanjik.”
“Yes, him. The traitor.”
“Your dad was also a good driver.”
“Maybe that is why he had way too many cars.”
Goran grinned. Natalie cracked a smile. It was the first time she’d joked about Dad since his murder.
They were quiet for a few minutes.
Then Goran said, “You’ve got a sense of humor. Just like your dad. And you understand people. Also just like your dad. I remember when he was going to hire me for his security guard company. Do you know what he did?”
“No.”
“He set out a packet of cigarettes and a jar of dip on the table in front of me without saying why. The interview began. I held my hands in my lap throughout the entire interview. Because I knew his trick, I already knew him from before. The ones who spun the snuffbox or the packet of cigarettes never got the job. Your dad tested people that way.”
“Why?”
“In the bars in Belgrade they sit all day, drinking, and smoking and spinning their packets of cigarettes. Unemployed, unwilling to work, lazy good-for-nothings. Your father didn’t want to hire men like that. He wanted to surround himself with active people.”
Natalie turned to him. “Goran, I’m glad I have you. I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for you. You can spin as many snuffboxes as you want with me.”
Finally: the residential area. Small, flat homes. On average, about half the size of the houses at home in Näsbypark. This: southern Stockholm—the mere fact that there were suburbs out here was contrary to logic, somehow. She’d thought these territories contained only massive housing projects.
They drove along one of the streets with one-family homes. Parked: Volvos, Saabs, and Japanese family cars. Again: an entirely different car park from Näsbypark. Except for the Volvos, of course: they were everywhere in this country—but where she came from she mostly saw the SUV models and the S60s. Natalie thought that some Swedes were so retarded—loved Volvo like they loved the royal family, even if the car company hadn’t had anything to do with Sweden for probably ten years.
Then she thought about the green Volvo that Thomas’d seen several times on the surveillance video footage from home. There’d been a huge mistake in the way the cameras’d been mounted: the area beyond the hedge and the road behind the hedge were clearly visible, but the lower part of the road was blocked. You couldn’t see the car’s license plate.
Thomas, Natalie, and Goran’d tried to make out other details that might lead them forward. It was an old S80, with normal wear, light-colored interior, no transponder by the rearview mirror. No car seats for kids, no junk on the instrument panel, tinted back windows with some kind of dark stain. It was like trying to identify a blade of grass on a soccer field.
Instead, they tried to make out who was sitting in it. It was a man, definitely. Pretty large build, with dark hair and deep-set eyes. And he was driving with gloves on. They couldn’t make out much more than that, the images were pixilated. Still: Natalie was certain. The person driving the Volvo had something to do with the murder.
But they would never be able to identify the car without the license plate number.
Thirty yards farther up: the house they were going to.
She parked the Golf.
They climbed out.
The sky was blue-gray. The house was yellow-gray—like a filthy wall next to a highway.
Established: there was a connection here to Melissa Cherkasova. Both Natalie and Thomas’d seen her come to this house on several occasions. Go inside, come out again a few hours later. Most often in the middle of the day, when only the woman in the house was home.
Established: the woman’s name was Martina Kjellson. Twenty-nine years old. On maternity leave with a one-year-old child. She ought to be home at thi
s hour.
Natalie rang the doorbell.
The door opened after a long while. The woman’s face was twisted into a question mark.
Natalie scanned her rapidly. Close-set eyes. Sweatpants. Peeling nail polish. A necklace around her neck: HOPE.
A baby on her arm.
Established: this was the right woman. The one that Cherkasova went to see.
Martina Kjellson raised her eyebrows.
“We were wondering if we might come in and speak with you for a minute,” Natalie said.
The entire time: her gaze glued on Martina. Natalie saw it in her eyes right away—the same expression Cherkasova had: worry. Or really: terror.
“And what do you want to speak to me about?”
Goran: six feet behind her. Maybe it’d been stupid to bring him.
Natalie cut right to the chase: “We want to talk about Melissa Cherkasova. And we would very much like to come in.”
Goran took a step forward.
The woman was gripping the front door. Obviously reluctant to open it any wider. Goran didn’t give a shit—took another step forward. Grabbed hold of the door. Pushed it open. Herded the woman in front of him into the foyer.
Natalie closed the door behind them.
“You can’t just come into my house like this. I don’t have anything to do with you.”
The foyer was tidy. A kitchen on the right. There were photos hanging on the walls: children and a sailboat. Natalie pointed toward the kitchen with a gesture of unquestionable authority. Martina went inside reluctantly.
“We just want to talk. We don’t want to hurt you. I promise.”
The woman remained standing where she was. Natalie asked her to sit down.
Martina set the baby down in a high chair standing beside the kitchen table. There was a clear plastic sheet under the chair—probably to protect the floor from the kid’s mess.
“I don’t have anything to do with you. I want you to leave,” she repeated.
Natalie felt tired. “We’re not going to leave until we’ve had a talk,” she said.
She sat down. The woman sat down. Goran remained standing in the doorway.
The kitchen was nice, renovated. Black-and-white-checked-tile floor. Tan cabinet doors. A PH-lamp hanging down over the kitchen table.
“Tell me about Melissa Cherkasova,” Natalie said.
“Why?”
“I know that you know her. We know that she’s been here.”
“So what do you want with her?”
Natalie felt the fatigue come over her again. Why was this woman making it so difficult for herself? She stood up—bumped into the table. An empty coffee cup trembled.
“I’m the one asking the questions today. If there’s anything you don’t understand, let me know. I just want you to tell me about this Cherkasova. And we don’t have all day.”
The baby was looking at her with wide eyes. Martina looked near tears.
“Promise you’ll leave after.”
Natalie sat back down. “Yes, yes.”
“I only know her superficially. We met at a bar one night, maybe a year ago. She is a friend of a friend. Since then she’s been here to have coffee with me, max three, four times. But that was a while ago now.”
Natalie felt irritation replace the feeling of fatigue. “If you don’t stop lying, things are going to get a whole lot less pleasant in here. I know that Cherkasova was here last week.”
“Yes, that’s possible. That might be true. We see each other now and then. She cares so much about little Tyra here. She loves kids.”
“And more? I want to know more. Who is she, what does she do?”
“I think she’s from Belarus, but she’s lived here for quite a few years. She speaks good Swedish. She’s studying Swedish and English, I think. Has had a few jobs here and there. She lives in Solna, so it takes a while for her to go through the entire city when she comes here.”
Natalie felt the irritation rise again—it was crossing a line now. She leaned over. Stared Martina straight in the eyes.
“This is the last time I’m going to say it.”
She took hold of Martina’s hand. Turned her gaze toward the baby in the high chair.
“If you don’t start talking now, something very, very unpleasant is going to happen. I like children too. I love cute little kids. But I also like people who cooperate. Those seem like conflicting interests here today. And now I want you to talk for real. Do you understand?”
Natalie looked at the woman again. What she saw in the woman’s eyes was something different from what she’d seen there before. Not fear. Not terror. But hate—hate so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Still, she started talking.
“Okay, I think I know who you are. You people’ve never sent a girl like you before, but I still know. I know your type. And I have nothing to hide. I’ve put that life behind me. So since you want to know so bad, I’ll tell you what I know about Melissa Cherkasova. And if you don’t leave me alone after that, I’m going straight to the police. I swear, I don’t care if you hurt me or my family. I’m going to make sure the police arrest you.”
Natalie was sitting in silence. Satisfied that the woman’d started talking.
“Melissa and I are the same. Do you understand? I used to be like Melissa. And I’ve pulled myself up outa there on my own. Look at what I have now—everything I ever dreamed of. I have a husband, a home, a child. We have a nice car that’s parked in the garage out there. I’m happy today. And Melissa could be here today too, but she wants to go further. I’m trying to make her understand that this life is enough. But you can never understand that kind of thing. You don’t know what it’s like to be at rock bottom.”
Martina gestured with her hands while she talked. Natalie thought, Maybe it’s good for this woman to have someone to tell her story to.
She wanted to appear understanding. “No, maybe not. But I’m a woman too. I respect what you’re saying.”
“I doubt that. And I doubt that you could ever truly understand. When I was seventeen years old, I’d gone through more than most people go through in their entire lives. I come from a shit family. I was beaten. Kicked out of the house. Put in a juvenile home. I’ve been used and tricked. I’ve tried every drug you can imagine, all but injecting heroin. I’ve been betrayed by everyone who I thought loved me. Finally I became what everyone already said I was. It started when I was studying for my GED. It was me and two other girls. We were invited to fancy places, got attention and drinks. But we were always expected to give something back, and it felt okay to do that. The sick thing was that it was one of the teachers who arranged everything. After that, it all just started spinning faster and faster, out of control. I could make three thousand kronor in a night, and sometimes I didn’t even have to do anything with those men. There were a few of us who were Swedish, but most of the girls were from the East. I did it for a few years, but I always knew that I would quit when I’d saved up enough. And then something happened that turned everything upside down.”
Natalie saw Goran moving out of the corner of her eye.
He took a step toward the kitchen table. Said, in Serbian, “She’s talking too much. This isn’t anything we should be listening to. Ask her to tell us about Cherkasova now.”
Natalie shook her head. “No, I want to hear this.”
“But I don’t think it’s a good idea. It might be things that’ll upset you unnecessarily.”
Natalie ignored him. Just nodded to Martina to keep going.
“One of the girls was from the north of the country, she tried to get smart. She started collecting information about the men we were seeing. We were the top chicks, the elite escort service. We were the ones they sent when the men paid real well. We saw clients who were powerful, and this girl made sure to know who they were. She hid digital recorders in the nightstands, she hid Web cameras among the knickknacks in hotel rooms, and then she got some sort of spy camera. It looked like a pen. Sh
e snapped pictures of all of them. But you people found out what she was doing. And you couldn’t tolerate that someone was trying to get ahead on their own. So you made sure she disappeared.”
Natalie interrupted. “What the fuck are you talking about? Who is this ‘you’ that you’re talking about?”
“Like I said: I don’t know who you are. But I know that it was your people. Radovan Kranjic’s people.”
“That’s enough,” Goran said in Swedish. “Tell us about Cherkasova, not a bunch of other bullshit.”
Natalie didn’t know what to say. She leaned forward. Put her weight on her arms against the table. The baby was calm, sitting in the high chair and waving a rattle. Natalie looked at Goran. His face was relaxed, revealing nothing about what he was really thinking.
Nothing.
Maybe everyone but her already knew what this Cherkasova business was all about. Maybe she’d misjudged Goran. But that was a question for later. She would bring it up with him after they were done here. What she had to do now was remain calm.
Not show any emotion.
The woman started talking again. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you about Cherkasova. But you’ve got to understand where I’m coming from. I met Melissa at an event a couple of years ago. A huge party in an enormous house a few miles south of Stockholm. We started talking for real. I quit a few weeks later. She’d just started. We saw each other a few times after the party. Then a few years passed when we didn’t talk at all. I met Magnus and started to live this life. But about a year ago, Melissa got in touch with me. She was still in that life, but she really wanted to quit. And the only thing I’ve done since is try to support her. Prepare her for getting out. She comes over now and then. We talk. I’m trying to guide her. She needs support. That’s the only thing I can give her.”
Natalie tried to concentrate. She said, “You mentioned Radovan Kranjic before. What is Melissa’s connection to him?”
Martina looked as if she were actually thinking, hard. “I have no idea. I don’t know if she’d ever even met Radovan. Most of us never met him. We just knew that he was someone everyone was worried about. We only met the guys who kept the operation running, so to speak. Other men. She’s never mentioned him. Anyway, I read that he’s dead now.”