The Tunnel

by Carl-Johan Vallgren

  Marlon had seemed more resigned than disappointed. But he had driven her back into the city again and told her to be in touch if she changed her mind, which she did not intend to do. She had even deleted the app.

  She didn’t hear the knock at her door, so she didn’t see him until he was standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee in hand.

  “Don’t you know the new rules, Eva? Twenty hours of overtime per month is the max.”

  He looked at her with concern. And she tried to figure out if she felt anything for him. Maybe, she thought, or maybe she was just confused.

  “Well, in case you were wondering, I’m doing flexitime; I had to take care of a few things this afternoon. And I’m trying to make up for lost time, see?”

  “The Bosnians hassling you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Come knock on my door if you take a break and want some company.”

  She knew next to nothing about his private life. Divorced, people said. But even that was an unsubstantiated rumor. Kids? She had never thought to ask.

  She noticed that her heart was beating faster. It was not possible, she thought. It was her imagination, autosuggestion; she wasn’t a teenager anymore.

  “I don’t think I’ll be that late,” she said in a neutral tone.

  “It’s almost the weekend. And there’s a nice place around the corner. They have music trivia on Fridays . . . and happy hour prices. I was thinking of going there with some old colleagues from the police station. Friendly souls, all of them. You’re more than welcome to come along.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, trying to sound as if she didn’t mean it.

  She wasn’t getting anywhere on her project and didn’t have anything better to do anyway. At least, that was her excuse for taking a seat among half a dozen men at a pub on Bergsgatan an hour later. Soccer on all the TV screens. On the other side of the pub was a separate room where music trivia had just ended. Sweaty waitresses were darting from table to table. Hoffman observed her over his Czech beer.

  “How are things?” he asked. “You look tired.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. But working in a headwind takes its toll.”

  He gave her a boyish smile.

  “I only heard half the talk a few weeks ago. Had to leave in the middle of it. Can’t you tell me a little more about it?”

  She gave him the short version of her project.

  “So money laundering and the Balkan mafia?”

  “Yes. Profits from all sorts of criminal enterprises. But for now the Bosnians aren’t investigating the serious crime, for tactical reasons. The organized-crime groups have contacts in administration down there. And the only department that isn’t corrupt is the economic crime unit . . . at least, according to them.”

  “So they’re trying to get at the mob the back way?”

  “They’re following bank transactions, tracing their accounts. Trying to nail them on crime-profiting grounds. That’s new down there, and, as you know, we’re at the forefront when it comes to seizing assets when their origins can’t be accounted for. They’re trying to do what the Americans did when they put Al Capone away for tax evasion because they couldn’t convict him of murder.”

  Hoffman nodded.

  “Do you need more resources? I can bring in a free auditor if you like. This seems like the sort of project we should prioritize.”

  “Maybe later. I have to find a thread to pull at first. There are a few new companies I need to check out.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. A few patrons from a bachelorette party were going nuts on the karaoke machine. Hoffman wasn’t that different from Katz, she thought. She hadn’t considered it earlier, but it was true: raven hair, brown eyes, but without that Keith Richards face that bore the traces of half a life on the streets. She could smell his scent, masculine and sweet at the same time. She had the sudden impulse to lean across the table and sniff him, and she almost started laughing at the thought.

  One more glass, she thought, and I might do something I regret.

  “Unfortunately I have to go,” she said. “I promised myself I would clean the kids’ room tomorrow. It looks like a battlefield in there.”

  “That sounds smart . . . Where do you live?”

  “In Vasastan, by Sankt Eriksplan.”

  Hoffman seemed to be pondering something.

  “How about a walk in your neighborhood tomorrow?”

  “You’re going to have to state your reasons!”

  Her response sounded more dismissive than she’d intended, but he just smiled at her, cheerfully immune to the possibility of being rejected.

  “Just regular old concern, and a tiny bit of curiosity about a damn competent colleague. You don’t have to take it so seriously, Eva. I like to take a walk in the city each weekend. A different neighborhood every time. Last week it was Sjöstaden. But I don’t mean to be forward.”

  Katz, she thought, but she could no longer picture his face. As if he and all his complicated baggage were drifting out of her horizon, and her image of him was being replaced by one of Hoffman. Was that what this was all about . . . trying to forget Katz?

  “Why not?” she said. “The truth is, I need to get out and get some exercise. Breathe some fresh air. Talk about whatever. And who knows, maybe I’ll make new inroads on my project.”

  The apartment building was at the end of a dead-end street, not far from Tensta city center. An abandoned scooter lay on the pavement. The cars in the car park, ten-year-old Mercedes, Audis, and BMWs, appeared to have been imported directly from shady dealers in Hamburg. Jorma was standing behind a bus shelter a hundred meters away, hesitating, unsure whether he had made the right decision . . .

  He had called Leyla the night before to tell her they needed to have a chat. He realized he had to take the chance and ignore the risk that her phone might be tapped.

  His situation had changed drastically. Hillerström had been executed when he was out for a jog in Judarskogen. Shot in the face at close range with a silenced weapon. According to the press, there were no witnesses. Would it be his turn next? If Hillerström had talked, it would.

  He peered at the building again. He’d always had a sixth sense for plainclothes cops, but none of his warning bells were going off.

  He took the long way round, through a grove of trees, and approached the back garden. If someone had been following him, he would have noticed.

  The door to the basement was open. He stood next to the stairs, which led to the ground floor. He listened for any sounds—breathing, the gentle rustle of clothes against a body—but heard nothing.

  The kids had hung drawings on the door. Welcome to the Abramovićs’ it said in messy letters. Two adult figures, and two children, in crayon, meant to be a family portrait. He felt a stab of pain in his chest.

  Leyla opened the door. She had dark circles under her eyes and short, graying hair. Ten years had passed since he’d last seen her. She had aged half a lifetime since then, or maybe it had all happened in the past few weeks.

  He caught a glimpse of the playroom on the other side of the hallway. The kids were on the sofa, watching the Disney Channel. A framed photo of Zoran stood on a bureau, lit candles on either side.

  The children came out to greet him. Jorma could barely look at the older boy, who had the same cautious expression as his father, the same shy demeanor. And he was so terribly vulnerable in this world he could no longer trust.

  “Are you sure no one followed you?” Leyla asked a few minutes later as they sat alone at the kitchen table.

  “Totally sure.”

  “The police must be looking for you.”

  “It doesn’t seem that any of the cameras caught me. And the others aren’t saying a word in interrogation.”

  She moved her head in a gesture that might have meant anything. She peered out through a gap in the blinds. Jorma didn’t know how much she knew, or how much she had managed to figure out on her own.

  “You ca
me here to ask me something?” she said.

  “I have to know why he decided to get involved in a robbery.”

  “Didn’t he tell you?” She fingered her wedding ring nervously, twisting it around and around, counter-clockwise. “I thought you knew . . .”

  A few months earlier, Zoran had been contacted by a Bosnian man who asked if he was interested in being the frontman for a new company. He would receive fifty thousand kronor for his trouble. Leyla had suspected money laundering, but she hadn’t wanted to ask. Zoran would only be listed as owner for a short time before the company was liquidated.

  “So we went along with it. And after a while, this guy came back and said that the people he worked for needed help with something else. Zoran would pick up a truck by the harbor, in Nynäshamn. Workers from the ferry from Poland would drive it off the boat, park it in a particular spot, and then Zoran would take it to a certain place in Stockholm. And get another fifty thousand for his trouble.”

  “Drugs?”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s what we thought at first. But we were wrong.”

  She started biting at a nail but stopped herself.

  “To tell you the truth, I looked the other way; I didn’t want one hand to know what the other was getting up to. And Zoran definitely knew something was fishy about this delivery. But we needed the money. I haven’t been able to work since our daughter was born. The anesthesiologist messed up my epidural . . . I have nerve damage. That was three years ago, and the pain still hasn’t gone away. And we had no idea what was going to happen, of course.”

  Her face was expressionless as she went on. “Zoran took the commuter train down to Nynäshamn and walked to the harbor. It was the middle of the night, and they’d made sure it was deserted. He picked up the vehicle—a black delivery truck—and started driving toward Stockholm.”

  She stopped talking and stared blankly at nothing.

  “Then what? What happened?”

  “He said he heard something . . . strange sounds. He stopped at a rest stop and opened the door, same key as the ignition. And there they were. Five terrified girls . . . He told me about it afterward, once he got home. The girls thought they were going to be sold to brothels. In the worst case, they would be sent to something they called ‘the tunnel.’ It was very clear they weren’t there voluntarily. They said that they had been accompanied by an armed man on the ferry, and he had returned to the boat after driving them off. Two of the girls spoke Serbian, so Zoran understood everything they said.”

  She took a deep breath before continuing.

  “So he let them go. There was nothing else he could do. He couldn’t handle the situation. He called his contact and told it like it was. And when he got home, he explained to me what a mess we were in.”

  “Who was his contact?”

  “I don’t know. I never met him. He lived in Sarajevo. Zoran had met him once in the nineties, when he lived in Sweden for a few months. He had come to get away from the war down there and went back again as soon as it was over, but back then he was just a small-time gangster. And afterward, when Zoran went underground, I thought it would be best to know as little as possible.”

  “But the police must have been here several times after the robbery. Didn’t you say anything to them?”

  She didn’t have to respond. He could tell that she hadn’t said a thing. That she was frightened to.

  “So Zoran decided to rob an armored truck to pay back what they claimed he owed them?”

  “They threatened him. They threatened to do something to the kids, too. They said they wanted at least five million, one million per woman. That was their market value, they claimed. The kids had to go and live with my sister. And Zoran was afraid to live at home. So he slept at friends’ houses while he tried to figure out what to do.”

  That added up with what Zoran had said before the robbery, that he had been staying with friends. And it matched Hillerström’s story, that the handler couldn’t find him. He had gone underground, just like Jorma was now.

  “Did they come here looking for him?”

  “I saw people sitting in a car outside the building several times. And they called and told me what they would do if he didn’t pay. That was all it took.”

  “After the robbery . . . after he was dead . . . did they stop showing up?”

  “Yes. I guess they were even.”

  She swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know if it’s important.”

  “Everything is important.”

  “Zoran went to the police first. He called a tip line and was transferred to a detective.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “To get help. We thought if he informed against the people he owed money to, maybe a witness protection program could help us. My sister knows another guy . . . an acquaintance who testified against a motorcycle gang. He was given a new identity.”

  “Did Zoran get the detective’s name?”

  “No. He used a pseudonym. And Zoran didn’t trust him. That was why he stopped trying and decided to go along with the robbery instead. The guy knew things he shouldn’t have known. He happened to overhear him talking to his boss on the phone. They were saying the wrong things.”

  “Did he meet the cop in person?”

  “Twice, before he got cold feet.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Yes, I do, actually. In Kungshallen, at an Indian restaurant. This guy was crazy about his food. He always ordered the same chicken dish.”

  She grew quiet. Her son was calling for her from the playroom. She went over to him and said something in a low voice, in Serbo-Croatian, before returning with a pair of urine-soaked pants, which she placed in a plastic bag.

  “This happens all the time. The school counselor says it’s not unusual in children who are dealing with grief.”

  She sat down again. She rubbed her fingers over her forehead.

  “The police said they shot him in self-defense. Do you think that’s true?”

  Jorma didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure how much she wanted to know, deep down.

  “It’s like I can’t get it into my head that he’s gone,” she continued. “I got the news at night. Two policemen showed up and told me what had happened. They comforted me when I broke down. I don’t know what happened after that. Time flattened out somehow. I remember people making food for me, taking care of the kids. They refused to believe that their dad was dead . . . they still are refusing to believe it in some ways. Every night when I put them to bed they ask when he’s coming back.”

  She looked at her hands. The nails were bitten to the quick. She placed them in her lap, as if they were strange objects she’d never seen before and she didn’t know what to do with them.

  “I have to put them to bed now,” she said. “They need all the sleep they can get. Maybe it’s best if you go.”

  She stopped him as he headed for the door.

  “You know . . . I’m proud of him. He freed those women. I just hope they made it home to wherever they came from.”

  Two colleagues on a stroll through autumnal Stockholm. She wasn’t going to sleep with him or try to start anything. She had made up her mind. She had nothing to worry about.

  “How did you end up becoming a prosecutor?” Hoffman asked as they walked through the park below Karlberg Palace. “Are there other lawyers in your family?”

  “My adviser in gymnasium said it would be a good fit for me. I applied out of the blue, and when I got in I took it as a sign that I had made the right choice.”

  “No moral compass to guide your way?”

  “That showed up after a while. The desire to do the right thing. Or to strive to, in any case.”

  The light of the pale autumn sun forced its way through the gaps in the clouds. A group of children in reflective vests was playing down by the canal.

  “Plus I wanted to live a life as different
from my parents’ as possible.”

  “That sounds so mysterious it demands an explanation.”

  She explained her parents briefly, the tame version: Jonas and Rita had gone wrong in life, had children far too early, hadn’t been able to leave their destructive lifestyle behind, and barely managed to retain custody of her. She said nothing about her disabled brother, who had been given away when he was ten, or about visiting her father at Österåker prison when she was seven, or cleaning up her mother’s vomit when she was nine years old. And nothing about herself in her dark teenage years, about her abuse of heroin, her gang involvement, her time with Katz and Jorma Hedlund, the terrible things that had happened that she couldn’t bear to think about, but which had at least brought her to the treatment facility in Vilhelmina where, against all odds, she got her life back on track.

  “What about you?” she asked. “How did you end up in law?”

  “My story is less dramatic than yours. Dad is a judge. His dad, too. My other grandpa was a police officer. My mum and little sister are the only black sheep. They’re child psychologists.”

  Maybe that was why he behaved so calmly, she thought. He was a friend to himself and worked on self-awareness, a trait which was always in short supply in the male half of the population.

  To her surprise, he had taken a plastic bag with pieces of bread from his jacket pocket. Like a retired person, she thought as he began to toss bits into the water, to feed a nearby flock of ducks. But she liked it.

  “And why did you leave the vice squad?”

  “It was so full of misery. And you get caught up in it, living day in and day out with a bunch of disgusting images in your head, listening to surveillance tapes where people talk about women like they’re discussing livestock. Trafficking rings and child prostitution. Pedophile crackdowns where you find ten thousand child-porn images on a hard drive, and the youngest victims aren’t even a year old. In the end you become numb. That’s when I realized it was time to change jobs.”