The old man stood up and picked up his cane, which was resting against the table.
“Sorry to have to leave you, Danny, but the van is waiting outside.”
“Nice to run into you, David.”
“Yes, it really was! Shana tova . . . and I hope to see you at Kippur.”
It was approaching midnight, but the day’s warmth still hung in the air. It was unbelievable, Katz thought as he stood outside the door to Ramón’s building: his heroin craving was gone, as if it had never even been there.
He entered the stairwell. He heard the sound of a TV a few floors up. The door to the apartment was ajar.
It was dark in the hallway. He fumbled for the switch and turned on the lights. He called out, but there was no answer.
The coffee table in the living room had been cleaned up. The woman’s tools were gone, and so was the suitcase of her clothes and the drawings that had been on the floor. Katz just wanted to give the drugs back, as a symbolic gesture. Wish Ramón good luck and then vanish again, back to his life of sobriety, without extravagances, guided by routines—his only method of survival as a sober drug addict. But no one seemed to be home.
He heard laughter from the back courtyard. Teenagers, joking around about something. The kitchen fan was rattling in the distance.
“Ramón!” he called again, without receiving a response.
The door to Ramón’s room was closed; Katz opened it and turned on the light. He could barely take in the scene before him.
The body seemed relaxed, lying there on the mattress. One foot rested on the floor as if he had been trying to get up but suddenly changed his mind. He had used a nylon stocking as a tourniquet on his arm. The needle was still stuck in a vein, just above the crease of his left elbow. Katz noticed the burn marks between his index and middle fingers, the same kind he’d had once upon a time when he would fall asleep with a lit cigarette in hand, too high to even notice. Pink foam at the corners of his lips. His face was blue.
Katz absorbed the scene as if in small, unedited clips. The packs of heroin and the Pesola scale were missing, as was the stuff Ramón had been using to dilute the drugs. The snake was lying under the radiator by the window. Its body was crushed in three or four places.
Suicide? he thought as his eyes roved about the room. But Ramón had seemed normal when he’d been there earlier in the day.
Had he accidentally overdosed? From stress, as Katz himself had that time at Medborgarplatsen? Katz knew how it felt when withdrawal hit you suddenly, how the world seemed to narrow, your thoughts, your field of vision. Your whole existence became focused on one thing: getting the junk in your veins as quickly as possible. But Ramón had had plenty of time; he’d had everything he needed within reach.
He crouched beside him. He couldn’t look at the face; its bluish-purple hue made him feel sick. He felt the forehead. The body had only cooled a few degrees. He had died only a few hours ago at the most.
The cooking vessel was at the foot of the bed: half a Coke can. There was still solution in the bottom of it.
Jenny must have been in the apartment when it happened. Had she panicked? Grabbed all the drugs and her things, and taken off? Happened to trample the snake to death in the chaos?
Katz went out to the living room and dialed 112 on his mobile phone. He waited, listening to the dial tone, but hung up again. If he stayed, he would be dragged into this, and he had no desire to get involved. None of this had anything to do with him; this was part of his former life. He had returned by mistake.
He realized that there was a terrarium next to the wall. Jenny’s suitcase had been standing right in front of it, which was why he hadn’t noticed it before. Old rubbish was sticking up among the rocks on the bottom: receipts, tissues, one of her pencil drawings that might have fallen in by mistake as she was gathering her things.
Katz picked it up. It was a portrait of Ramón and Jenny in profile, arms around each other, smiling happily. The drawing had the precision of a photograph; she had probably based it on a photo, one that had been taken a few years earlier, before the drugs turned her face into a plaster mask.
He called the emergency number from a playground two blocks away and told them that there was a dead junkie in an apartment in Husby. He gave the address and explained that they could walk right in; the door was unlocked. When the woman at the dispatch center asked if he could stay there until the ambulance arrived, he hung up.
It took half an hour for them to arrive. Two men in yellow reflective vests carried the body out on a stretcher, covered by a county medical blanket. A cop car showed up, and the driver had a short talk with the ambulance guys through his window before the vehicle moved on. No fuss, no bevy of police. Just a suburb druggie who died of an overdose.
Once the ambulance was gone, he went back to the city center. The square was deserted. The apartment where he’d hunted Miro down was dark.
He took out the drawing and studied their loving smiles.
His subconscious was searching for something, but whatever it was slid out of reach. Something about the atmosphere in the apartment, he thought. And the fact that Ramón had too much experience to overdose.
He had to get hold of Jenny. Hear her version of what had happened. This wasn’t just the regular old death of a tragic junkie. It didn’t add up.
Ritorno, a cafe on Odengatan, had been there for as long as Katz could remember. He had gone there with his parents as a child and almost nothing had changed. It was like spending time in an old relative’s living room.
He paid for a cup of coffee and walked to a room at the very back.
Eva Westin was sitting at a corner table, flicking through a newspaper. Her hair was up in a messy bun. He observed her from a distance. Her eyes always seemed surprised, as if she was constantly discovering the world anew. She seemed restless as she flipped through the newspaper. They had been together when Katz was sixteen, back when her last name was Dahlman, but they broke up under dramatic circumstances and hadn’t seen each other again until the year before, in connection with the Klingberg Affair. They had embarked upon something like a relationship, but it had all fizzled out. Unmatched, he thought. That was the word that best described them.
She stood up and embraced him.
“Have you been standing there watching me for long, Katz?”
“A few seconds at the most. I’m glad you could come.”
“Well, I had nothing better to do. The kids are with Ola; it’s his week.”
“How are things on that front?”
“We have a truce for the time being. The fact is, we’re communicating better than we have for a long time. How about you?”
“Better than I deserve.”
They reminded each other of the past, Katz thought as he sat down on the chair across from her. Survivors, both of them. Eva had grown up with an addict mother and a father who spent most of her childhood years in institutions. It was incredible that she’d made it so far in life, getting a law degree and a job as a prosecutor with the Economic Crime Authority—and becoming one of the best ones, besides.
“You needed help?” she asked. “Shoot.”
He told her about Ramón and Jenny and what he had seen and heard in their apartment.
“So you’re bothered by the fact that he died of an overdose. Come on, Katz, that’s the kind of thing junkies die of. If you want, I can make a few calls and obtain a copy of the autopsy report. And if that’s not enough, maybe you should look up his girlfriend and ask her some questions about what happened.”
“That’s part of my plan. But the problem is, I don’t know her name, just that her first name is Jenny.”
Her handbag was open; its contents appeared subject to the laws of entropy. Katz saw a box of condoms sticking up in the mess. He felt a sting of pain, though he had no right to.
“If you could check the databases for me,” he said, “to see what Ramón’s been up to recently . . . there’s bound to be something there. Appa
rently he was bringing in money by selling horse. He was homeless until a year or so ago, until they finally came into some money to buy drugs. Ramón claimed that they were sitting on so much that he didn’t dare to keep it at home.”
“A full-blown junkie who suddenly becomes a heroin dealer?”
“I know, it sounds weird, and that’s only one of the things that’s bothering me. So if you could check and see if he’s in the crime information database. And see if his girlfriend is mentioned anywhere. In the best case scenario you would find a last name so I have something to go on.”
She looked at him intently. With a prosecutor’s eyes, Katz thought.
“Be honest. Why are you digging into this? Because he saved your life once? That’s not enough of a reason; there’s something else too.”
“Out of a junkie’s nine lives, Ramón had at least three left. I can’t explain it, but I don’t think his death was an accident.”
She looked at the clock on her phone and sighed.
“I’ll see what I can do. Do you have any idea where you’ll start your search for the girlfriend?”
“Shelters. Or else on the street. She’s a prostitute . . . or at least, she was until recently.”
The evening traffic rumbled in the distance. The contours of Vasaparken were visible through the door onto Odengatan. Eva lived just a few blocks away on Sankt Eriksplan.
She had kept the apartment after her divorce. It was only a twenty-minute ride by car to the suburb where they’d grown up, but the addresses might as well have been in two different universes.
“Are you on your way home?” he asked as she reached for her coat.
“To the office. We’re drowning in work. I’m doing overtime while I can, since Ola has the children.”
He didn’t know whether she was lying; maybe she actually did want him to come along. Sort out something physical between them, try to heal something she didn’t even know the name of, something that was probably best healed some other way.
As he remained at the cafe table and watched her move toward the exit, he happened to think of his father’s old friend, Epstein. He would look him up, try to fish around a little more in Benjamin’s life history, but that would have to wait until later.
The receptionist at the homelessness resource center on Östgötagatan gave him a list of current shelters that were known for having low expectations. Considering how deeply submerged Jenny was in her drug abuse, he imagined that this was the sort of place she would have lived, or in places that only accepted women. Or couples—after all, she had drifted around with Ramón for a while before they managed to get an apartment in Husby.
As Katz wrote down the addresses, his phone clamped between his ear and shoulder and the surprisingly friendly voice of the receptionist in the background, his memories came flooding back. The short-term shelter called Hvilan in Vanadislunden. Grimman, on Maria Prästgårdsgata. Hammarbybacken, where he had occasionally stayed after being kicked out of the military due to his drug use. Carema Care in Skarpnäck, the shelter in Västberga, and Supportive Living in Råcksta. Beyond these, there were the church-run institutions. Ersta Diakoni in Söder, Filadelfiakyrkan in Vasastan. And the City Mission in Kungsholmen.
He numbered them in geographical order, with the City Mission first because it was the closest to Husby on the Blue Line.
The City Mission’s day shelter was on the corner of Mariebergsgatan and Fleminggatan, in a drab building from the late 1800s with a clock tower on its roof. Its interior was fairly new. It had been remodeled since Katz’s time.
He rang the bell and was let in by a young male volunteer with a hipster beard who asked if he wanted to sign in. There were still beds available if he needed to sleep for a while. And the washing machines were free; a change of clothes was provided while waiting for the laundry.
It was plain to see on him, Katz thought as he explained his errand; his history was carved into his being. A leopard can’t change its spots.
“I apologize,” said the man, looking genuinely ashamed. “But all sorts of people find their way here, some in suits, others in rags. Come in! My name is Magnus.”
They walked up the half set of stairs to a common room. Colorful sofas lined the walls. Past that room was a kitchen. The odors transported Katz fifteen years back in time: the smell of industrial-scale cooking and dirty clothes, cleaning solution, detoxing bodies, when all sorts of shit removed itself from your metabolism . . . the faint odor of vomit and urine.
“So you’re looking for a woman you think might have sought help here,” the man said as they sat down at a table further inside the building. “Are you a police officer?”
“Do I look like one?”
“I thought it would be best to ask.”
“It’s a private matter. It’s about a friend of mine.” Katz took the drawing from his inner pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to the man.
“Do you recognize her? This is a self-portrait done a year or so ago. She calls herself Jenny.”
The man looked at the picture for a long time, then looked at Katz again and shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said. “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“How about the guy?”
“Unfortunately I can’t help you there either.”
The door to the day-sleeping room was open. A thin man in his fifties was sitting on a camp bed, rocking back and forth, obviously high. Katz could hear some people bickering about money in an adjacent room. Someone shouted the word “whore.”
The man with the hipster beard gave a guilty shrug.
“We’re not here to teach manners,” he said. “We’re here to support people. In the best case, we convince them to enter rehab, arrange supportive living, get them back into the system . . . If you’ll excuse me for just one second.”
He stopped a young black man who had just come through the door. He took a pharmacy bag from his pocket and handed it to him.
“For your scabies,” he said in English. “Apply twice a day where it itches, especially between your fingers. And I will see that you get some new clothes today.”
The man gave him a grateful smile before disappearing with the bag.
“A refugee from the Ivory Coast,” said the guy with the hipster beard. “Some people’s fates are extra painful. Abou is here illegally. He had just managed to turn eighteen before he came to Sweden, so he’s not protected by the Convention on the Rights of the Child. He knows he’ll be deported if the police catch him. The poor guy has been sleeping in parks all summer. And now he’s got scabies. We’re not technically allowed to hand out medication here. I had to buy the ointment myself at Apoteket.”
He looked sadly at Katz.
“Katja will be available soon. She might know who you’re looking for.”
“Katja?”
“A colleague. She’s the one who’s been here the longest. Her shift starts in a little bit. I’ll go knock on her door. Wait here.”
There were more people around now. Volunteers with name tags on their chests. Shadowy figures who’d come in from the street. Another couple of men with African backgrounds—Katz assumed they were also in Sweden illegally—were playing cards at one of the tables. Haggard people from the city’s junkie zones, from the outskirts of the city on the Blue Line, people who had fallen through every safety net, if they’d ever had any to start with. New recruits were scattered among survivors from his own generation, a time when people had dropped like flies because of the city’s restrictions on methadone and refusal to hand out free needles. Katz wondered if he would recognize anyone, or if anyone would recognize him. But his memory from those days was like a sieve—they were years of darkness with no chronology to hold them together—and anyway, most of those people were dead.
A young blond guy with odd red spots on his face was walking around and begging for money. Dirty hoodie, unwashed hair. His eyes flickered here and there around the room as if his gaze couldn’t stick to any one object. He was detoxi
ng, Katz thought, and was absolutely desperate.
A couple of older alcoholics were standing in a queue for food. A redheaded, rail-thin woman was sitting on a sofa outside the dormitory and talking to herself as she held a compact mirror up to her face and tried to put on an earring. The fight in the next room was still underway; someone gave an outright scream, a roar of undiluted despair from the very bottom of a life.
A little while later, he was let into a storeroom. A round middle-aged woman was standing at a work table and unpacking cans of food. Katz explained his errand once more.
“I can’t give out information about the people who find their way here,” she said as she looked at the drawing. “Unless they’re a suspect in a crime and the police are looking for them. People have to be able to trust us.”
She opened the perforated edge of another box, took out a few cans, and inspected their use-by dates before putting them down.
“So what is this all about, anyway?”
“The guy in the picture just died of an overdose. I knew him, and I thought I could help with the funeral costs. But I can’t get hold of his girlfriend, Jenny.”
The woman broke down the empty box and placed it in a plastic recycling bin.
“It must be six months since I last saw them. They used to come here sometimes. For a shower and some food. To do some laundry. Sometimes they picked up new clothes when the old ones were worn out. But I don’t know where they went after that; they just stopped showing up.”
Sounds from the cafeteria reached the room: the clatter of cutlery and plates, a forced laugh.
“Jenny?” said the woman. “Was that her name? I really don’t remember. And we only keep the check-in lists for three months.”
“Do you know anyone who could give me more information?”
“Ask one of the girls out there. They know each other from the street. It’s a hard life, not the kind of thing you’d wish even on your worst enemy. I think Jenny knows Mona. A skinny girl with lots of red hair. But be careful with her; she has a tendency to become aggressive if people get too close to her.”
The Tunnel Page 7