Stockholm Noir

by Nathan Larson

  I shrug.

  —Want a nip?

  I say nothing.

  He pulls out the bottom drawer of his desk and removes a bottle and two glasses. We clink our glasses and empty them.

  —That felt good.

  —Roof?

  —If you have some.

  He puts the bottle and glasses back, stuffs his feet in a pair of rubber boots that are too big, then we take the fire escape to the roof. I give him a cigarette from my pack of red Prince, he coughs after his first drag, spits something inhuman onto the tar paper between his feet, and puffs on:

  —They’re complaining about me drinking at work.

  —People have always been drinking at work. How else would you stand it?

  —I can count on you, Aggan.

  —You can count on me, Gunnarsson.

  We look out over Kungsholmen—it’s hazy and raw and cold, the city hall tower is lost in the fog; I’m not wearing a coat over my sweater, and I’m shivering.

  —Who the hell would want to send you pieces of human flesh?

  —Who wouldn’t?

  The superintendent pats me on the ass and laughs. I laugh too. We finish our cigarettes in silence. When we are on our way down again he mutters:

  —Try and fix this, will you?

  16

  My cell phone rings. The display shows The ex. I hesitate but answer. The old man snorts on the other end. I hiss at him to calm down.

  —It’s Peter.

  —Yes, I figured that out.

  —He ran off again.

  —That’s what you usually say. But he’s not a minor anymore.

  —He hasn’t been doing well lately.

  —What do you want me to do about it?

  —Look around? Maybe he’s back with the druggies. He’s your son too.

  —I’ll see what I can do.

  —He’s your son too.

  —I heard you the first time. But honestly, I don’t give a shit about him, the same way he doesn’t give a shit about me.

  —The two of you should talk.

  I’m about to say something nasty, but realize it could be the speed that’s making me irritable and so I clench my jaws. After a while I hear a sigh.

  —Why are you so curt, Aggan? Why don’t you come over for a coffee or dinner? I have wine.

  —I’ll get back to you.

  I kill the image of his sheepish face on the display with the push of a button. I finish my beer. Branco offers to fill it again; I place my hand on top of the glass.

  —Never more than two glasses when I’m driving.

  —How’s your family?

  I shake my head and take out a cigarette. The bar owner continues:

  —And the flesh packages? All over the news this morning.

  —There’s probably one waiting for me right now.

  —How come you’re so popular?

  —No idea. But you have some friends from back when. Maybe you can check and see if they know anything?

  —Not many left. Most of them have moved back home.

  —But you know people. You can ask.

  —I’ll ask.

  15

  —Times like these make you miss the old post office. We’ve tracked the four packages; they were all mailed from various tobacco and grocery stores in Stockholm suburbs, no obvious patterns, and no one who was caught on camera, except possibly this anonymous person you can see here on this beautiful Hollywood-style footage.

  Superintendent Gunnarsson fiddles with his computer; the projector comes to life and shows a grainy black-and-white surveillance video from a small corner shop, to judge by the looks of it. A person draped in a large coat, with a baggy, knitted hood pulled up over the head, and large sunglasses leaves a package, pays cash, and exits. The whole time the person’s head is carefully turned away from the camera.

  —What does the salesperson say?

  —She doesn’t remember anything. Package not so heavy is what can remember, is about all the inspectors got out of her.

  Gunnarsson pronounces the testimony with a heavy immigrant accent, which makes some of our colleagues in the room laugh and other sigh irritably. No one has anything to say until Holmén raises his hand.

  —Sex? Age?

  —Nothing.

  —Maybe it’s a queer, Holmén says jokingly, so nervous his voice almost cracks.

  I’m the only one who laughs. I don’t understand why the embarrassing fuck doesn’t give up. Same thing every time: I’m the only one who laughs.

  14

  When the sixth package arrives the whole headquarters takes on a half-heated, half-exhilarated atmosphere. And I’m at the center of it. I don’t like it. Wherever I go to get some peace and quiet, I am assaulted, everyone from Kling and Klang to little gay investigators from the sex division who want the dirt on the investigation. I almost avoid powdering my nose or having a beer altogether since all eyes seem to be on me.

  I can’t get away either. Gunnarsson calls me into his office from time to time to ask me this or that, urges me to solve the case, looking for company over his gloomy bottle, wanting to share a cigarette on the roof. Holmén bustles about, trying to get the investigation’s sluggish, unruly team to cooperate.

  No one has a clue what they’re doing.

  There is surveillance on all post offices in the county. It’s expensive as hell. But the sixth package, which contains a big fat piece of a right leg, from the toes all the way up to a few centimeters over the knee, is delivered by hand. The interrogations with the delivery guy don’t amount to anything either.

  They establish that each package weighs exactly 3.2 kilos. The murderer, if it is a murderer, is careful about the weight. I was the one who opened the first brown box in my office. It was wrapped in ordinary brown paper, with a hemp string tied around it. Inside the package there was a plastic grocery bag from Lidl, sealed with silver tape. Within that bag there was another clear plastic bag, containing the meat. There was hardly any blood; the body must have been thoroughly drained before it was dismembered.

  The rest have looked the same. The ladies down at the post office are scared out of their minds. The most recent packages haven’t been opened here, they’ve been sent directly to Linköping.

  This case could be an opportunity for me to show my colleagues that I’m not as useless as they often imply. It could give me a little shine before my retirement; not many years left. I can see the headlines: She Solved the Case of the Three-Kilo Murderer: Aftonbladet Has Het With Inspector Agneta Bengtsson.

  I adjust my stockings, fiddle with the butt of my pistol in its holster, and leave my office, headed back to Tucken to see if Branco has found anything.

  13

  —Let’s see what we’ve got.

  The man from internal investigations is small and thin and clean-shaven. He is dressed in a tight navy suit and a light blue shirt without a tie. His colleague is a younger woman, blond with a ponytail, navy wool sweater, pearl earrings.

  I despise her instantly. As if the hatred I feel for all of her partners isn’t enough: those petty, sly police officers that go after their own, leave the rough stuff on the streets, and think of themselves so goddamn highly, shining knights of morale and equality.

  Besides, the bitch just glows Upper Östermalm snobbism. I give her the evil eye; her neatly plastered face doesn’t flinch.

  —As Inspector Bengtsson is the addressee for all seven packages, we have started an internal investigation.

  —What am I under suspicion of, officer?

  They look at each other briefly. He clears his throat and continues:

  —All day yesterday and most of today we have been going through your files—all documentation, your jobs, and so on. And, well . . .

  He turns his head and looks at his colleague. She can’t help smiling, the spoiled bitch. He remains serious and keeps going:

  —We haven’t found any serious incidents or complaints from the people you’ve investigated and interrogated
. On that point you seem to be doing a good job. A very fine job, even. You haven’t been accused of violence or other violations more than a time or two, which is uncommon. Most other colleagues on the force tend to have some clients who find themselves treated badly during their early years. But you’ve made it through without incident.

  —Is that bad?

  —We’re looking for people from your past who might be holding a grudge, who might want revenge. But no matter where we look, we can’t find any obvious enemies. In fact . . .

  He turns to his colleague again. She puts her hand over her mouth to cover up her smile. But her eyes are pearly with laughter. Those two have something going on. The hatred shoots up through my body. The man looks at me again.

  —Like I said, the fact is, we haven’t found much at all. We can’t seem to find that you’ve achieved much of anything worth mentioning during your twenty-eight years on the force.

  I clench my fist so tightly my nails dig deep into my palm.

  —You’ve been part of a great deal of investigations, but we haven’t found anything that indicates you were instrumentally involved in any of them. You’ve solved a few cases, but they’ve been remarkably simple. It’s beyond both of us how you ever became an inspector, how you advanced from patrol lieutenant at all.

  I clench my jaws so tight I can feel a tooth chip in the lower right side of my mouth. It feels like it cracks straight through to my jawbone. The pain shoots out from my forehead all the way down to my cunt and it’s so sharp I want to scream, but I don’t let out a sound. The man doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.

  —So obviously we’re wondering if you yourself might have any clues that you could help us out with.

  I manage to utter:

  —I’ll think about it.

  I get up so quickly my chair falls onto the floor with a loud bang. The two civilians jump up; the man makes a quick note. I march out into the hall, straight to the restroom, lock the door, and take out my wallet. My heart is racing, I’m so furious I almost don’t manage to get the zipper and the little bag open. But once I can taste the bitter powder that smells like detergent on my tongue, I say to myself: You’ve got to get through this, Bengtsson, you’ve got to get through this. But first: the dentist. Fucking lousy teeth.

  12

  New day, new flesh. Eight packages now. Many pounds of flesh for the Jew.

  I’m called to the superintendent’s office again. He’s barefoot this time as well, rubbing his soles against the carpet like a cat with dirty paws. We share a drink, he pats me on the butt; I have no idea why he does this.

  —Tell me again what we know, Aggan.

  —Man. Dead a week or so. Dismembered and packaged in pieces of 3.2 kilos each. So far there are eight packages, all addressed to me for some goddamn reason. No tattoos, distinctive birth marks, or scars. Dismembered with a sabre saw, according to Linköping. Hardly a professional tool: laciniated edges, torn-up veins and nerves, unraveled muscle fibers, splintery bones. No doctor or hunter, I’d say.

  —No. So not a real pro, that is. Or maybe it’s a real pro who wants to hide it. I just wish we could smoke in here.

  —Roof?

  It’s raining. Those brownish-gray clouds are heavier than ever; the November air is hardly breathable, it’s too heavy and packed with darkness.

  —They’re complaining, you know.

  —The internals?

  —A lot of talk. You’re a good lady, Aggan. Never disappointed me.

  —What do they want?

  —Yeah, well. I’ve asked myself that question many times. What do the internal investigators want?

  —They have nothing on me.

  —That’s the thing.

  —You know I’ve worked hard all these years.

  —Of course, Aggan.

  —I can do this.

  Superintendent Gunnarsson’s eyes usually look like two oysters rotting in their shells. But now they tremble and reveal something that could resemble life.

  —You can do this?

  —Trust me.

  He takes a deep drag and waves his cigarette in front of my face. The bastard even smiles.

  —I knew it!

  A heavy drop of rain lands right on the ember and puts out the half-smoked cigarette with a quick fizz. Gunnarsson curses and laboriously lights it again.

  —How did the dentist appointment go?

  —He yanked it out. All junk. Glad to be rid of it.

  —Hasn’t that happened before?

  —Third tooth. He says it seems like I’m chewing.

  —Chewing what?

  —Chewing myself.

  Gunnarsson shakes his head with a worried look.

  —It’s a tough job, sweetheart.

  —I guess so.

  —You need to take care of yourself.

  —Sure do.

  Gunnarsson has one last drag.

  —You have to take it easy.

  —I will.

  11

  The ninth package arrives by taxi. The driver walks into the police station with it tucked under his arm. Within ten seconds he’s surrounded by police officers and searched.

  There’s not much to say about the one who handed the package to the driver. The person was dressed in heavy clothing, the head wrapped in a large knitted scarf, big dark glasses. A couple of officers drag the taxi driver into an interrogation room, scold him, scare him to death, and let him go.

  In the package there is a thigh.

  10

  I’m on a stakeout. Sitting in my Ford, smoking and sipping on a Pripps beer while watching the house across the street. Svante Witha P lives on the top floor; an old-time gangster in a dirty little pad used by anyone and everyone for crashing, drug use, and mail fraud. There are ten names on the door.

  No one opened when I knocked half an hour ago. I’m about to give it another try. I have my expandable baton with me when I go panting up the stairs. I pound on the door and hear steps.

  —Hell is it? someone mutters on the other side.

  When the door opens I grab the knob and yank it toward me in one violent move. Svante Witha P falls out into the stairwell and tumbles against the wall on the other side. I grab his neck and yank him back into the apartment and slam the door shut. He seems to be home alone.

  Svante Witha P is not in good shape. He’s a withered skeleton with skin hardened by alcohol. Nothing else. Everything about him trembles and quivers and chatters. He only has three teeth left, all of them in his bottom jaw. I’m guessing Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and the rest of those old farts all pounced him at once.

  —Remember me?

  —Shit, leave me alone.

  —Inspector Bengtsson. Remember me? You don’t look too good, Svante.

  —Leave me alone.

  I’ve pushed his skinny body onto a brownish-orange couch covered with the black traces of cigarette butts.

  —How come they call you Svante Witha P?

  —Leave me alone.

  —Is your real name Pante?

  —Stop it.

  —You hang out in all the right crowds, Svante.

  —Leave me alone.

  —And you hear things. Maybe you’ve heard something about the cut-up body.

  The old man’s face is completely motionless with its countless wrinkles, but the trembling and the scratchy record that seems to be spinning inside his chest let me know he is still alive.

  —Leave me alone.

  —Someone has been cut up with a sabre saw and the pieces are sent to the cops, three kilos at a time. Whaddya say, Svante! You have a lot of good friends: I’m sure someone knows something.

  —Leave me alone.

  I write Dismemberment, Bengtsson, and my phone number on a piece of paper and throw it onto the coffee table. The old man watches me as I leave the apartment.

  In the car I fold down the shade and look at myself in the mirror. Jesus Christ, what a joke. You’re so incredibly fucking useless. Now take some more, get yo
ur head going, come on!

  The bitterness in my gums starts a shiver that makes the hairs on my arms and legs stand straight up. I swig some more Pripps and get going.

  9

  —I might have something for you, Inspector,” Branco says, and pouts his lips while scratching his bare head.

  —You have something for me? Are you coming on to me, you goddamn thug?

  I teasingly lift my glass and throw back some beer. The ice-cold liquid cools my whistle, in a moment my tremor will calm down, I wish I had benzos, more speed, anything. The bartender mutters and shakes his head.

  —Something about the meat.

  —What?

  —I got a postcard.

  —What are you jabbering about?

  He crouches down and gets something from under the bar and hands it over to me. I turn it over. The postcard has a picture of Globen and the new arena on it. It’s addressed to Branco at Brother Tuck. The only message is written in block letters: 19 PIECES. SLAUGHTERHOUSE AREA.

  —What the fuck does this mean?

  —You’ll have to answer that yourself.

  —Someone must have heard you asking around.

  —That’s possible.

  I stick the postcard in my purse and take a few more sips. Branco turns around and counts the cash in the register. The coins trickle out from between his fat fingers while he counts out loud in Serbian. Those fingers have carried many beer kegs, frying pans, pieces of meat, and, considering the shape of the knuckles, they have done some fighting. Maybe killing?

  —Maybe not a great lead, he says after counting the coins.

  I smile.

  —Better than nothing. Let me know if you hear anything else.

  —Are you going to show your colleagues?

  —No way. I’m solving this alone.

  He shrugs. I grab a cigarette from my purse, go back to the Ford, make a U-turn on Götgatan, and head toward Slakthusområdet, the Slaughterhouse area.

  8

  The twelfth package is sent with a drunk. He slipped a few times in the rain on the way to the precinct, so the wrapping paper is soaked in gray water. The receptionists sounded the alarm as soon as they see him walk through the door with the package in his arms.