The Little Old Lady Who Struck Lucky Again!

by Ingelman-Sundberg, Catharina

  He walked round the minibus and set to work on the wheel on the driver’s side. For some reason, the bolts here were even rustier and he had to really exert himself to loosen them. He panted. No, never again would he set his foot inside the Employment Office, he was too proud for that, he must get a job some other way. But there was no need to panic, he was fully occupied with doing little jobs for his mum. And Christina gave him a handful of thousand-kronor notes now and then as if they were merely a carton of tissues. He couldn’t deny that it was hard to explain to his wife and mates what he actually did, and he was afraid that the bubble would burst. If only he could get a bit more cash, he could perhaps start a private home-care service. Nowadays the local councils used consultants who taught the municipal home-care departments how to cut down on service for local clients. Yes, indeed, that was what they called them nowadays – people who needed care were called clients. But with his own home-care service he wanted to give them all friendly and generous care. He certainly wouldn’t turn it all into a question of trying to cut costs as much as possible, like the councils did now. But until he had gathered together enough capital to start up, he would have to go on helping with crimes. Anders got up and rubbed his back. Two wheels to go. The next time, he would take the minibus to a garage.

  The lamp on the desk next to the computer was still turned on, but Chief Inspector Blomberg was sleeping deeply. During the night he had done so many searches on the Internet that he had eventually nodded off to sleep at his desk. His cat, Einstein, had then jumped up from his basket and laid down on the keyboard, where he had spent the rest of the night. Now the black-and-white cat arched its back and stretched out so that yet another row of Zs showed up on the screen. After many hours of delightful sleep and licking of paws and fur, there were also several hundred Xs, Qs and semi-colons, although Z was, for some reason, the letter that occurred the most. Einstein’s favourite position was to lie down with his tummy on all the letters including the full stop and semicolon, and comfortably park his tail on Enter. This could cause a lot of problems for the chief inspector but Blomberg had such a soft spot for the animal that he allowed it to keep him company while he worked. Blomberg was usually very careful to keep the cat away from the desk and close the computer room before he went to bed, something he had made a habit of since the cat on one occasion had put his left paw on the letter Ö and then, purring, pressed the key thousands of times. But that evening, the cat had been free to do what it wanted. Einstein yawned widely, stretched out so that the letters Å, Ä and Ö were all pressed at the same time, and then jumped down onto the chief inspector’s stomach and then to the floor. Blomberg woke up with a start.

  With wide-open eyes he stared at the computer screen and tried to interpret the secret codes before he fathomed that it was Einstein who was responsible. Swearing, he got up, let the cat out and then spent a long while tidying up before he could get back to his own notes. Blomberg rubbed his eyes. Now, what had he been busy doing? Yes, some time ago he had of course transferred money from the Police Pension Fund to his own shadow Environment and Senior Service Fund. There was almost two hundred million in his fund now, but even so he wanted more. The trouble was that there had been no activity at all for quite a while in that Las Vegas account. Could it be a mafia account that was only activated after they carried out a crime? Something that the mafia used? He must have stumbled across some sort of criminal activity. After all, who could lay their hands on so much money?

  Blomberg started to sweat. What would happen when they started to look for their missing money? They would, of course, trace it to his computer, seek him out and then . . . Bang! He must get rid of his MacBook immediately and transform the stolen, black money into white money as quickly as possible – because white money was legal, while black money was dirty, even though it kept the economy running. Blomberg shuddered at his own thoughts. He was heading at high speed straight into the shady underworld.

  Blomberg thought about it. As soon as possible, he ought to place those stolen millions somewhere sensible. Shares or horses? He had already sent some of the millions to Beylings, the lawyers, to get help with his tax debts. But the rest? The chief inspector got up and started to walk round the room, stopped at the bookcase and ran his fingers over the files. This was where he kept secret copies of the criminal cases he had been involved in. He saw the investigations as trophies from his successful life fighting crime. Absentmindedly, he picked up one of the files and started thumbing through it. Without thinking he sifted through all the old reports, letters and invitations. There were the stylish invitation cards that invited him to parties and fancy dinners at Beylings. Yes, the legal firm’s logo with the star and the scales of justice turned up several times. His tired brain tried to make the connection. Of course, he had often been invited there during the years he worked on economic crime. They had tried to bribe him many times. The legal firm didn’t just work with tax questions, they were also those people who stretched the law and helped finance sharks to turn black and grey money white. How many swindlers had the Beylings lawyers helped to escape justice? The firm now had even more work as the state had sold off the taxpayers’ assets. Housing, retirement homes, schools, dispensing chemists and so on. Cunning mercenary types had bought up some state-run facility for 600,000 or 800,000 kronor and then in turn resold it for millions more. The profit had to be hidden away so that it wasn’t too blatant. The lawyers knew how to do that.

  Blomberg immediately felt much brighter. His Las Vegas money would not be a problem for the Beylings specialists. He got up, fetched a tin of cat food and called to Einstein. His life as a pensioner would perhaps not be so lonely and boring as he had feared.

  The entire day, everybody at the Karlberg barracks was very angry. Because even though the ambulance bus looked its usual self on the outside, the fuel tank was almost empty and inside was a dreadful mess. Not only were there lots of empty bottles everywhere, the drunken idiots hadn’t even tried to cover their tracks. The officers interrogated people, but, despite their efforts, didn’t manage to get any confessions. None of the cadets would admit to having been drunk and borrowing the army ambulance bus to use for purposes that it was most definitely not intended for. At a quickly convened meeting, it was decided to punish all the recruits: fifty extra push-ups and confinement to barracks for one week.

  20

  A real Harley-Davidson! Of course he ought to be more careful, but Brains was attracted by the Bandangels’ motorbikes in the same way that a gang of businessmen were attracted by a red-light district. The Bandangels gang kept their brightly polished Harley-Davidsons inside the big old shed over by the neighbouring house, and Brains longed to be there. The bank robbery was over and the ‘girls’ had bossed him around long enough. It was high time for him to think about himself.

  Brains put on his knitted cap and gloves and walked up the slope, fully determined to get a look at the motorbikes. He was going to ring their doorbell, ask if could borrow a screwdriver and then start talking about the bikes. But when nobody answered the doorbell, he was disappointed. It had been an effort to walk all the way up the slope. Mind you, as he was already here . . . Brains was a man who liked to improvise and follow his own impulses. He glanced up at the house to make sure there was no sign of either of the bikers, but the whole house was as dead as before. Then he went up to the shed and felt the door. It was locked, but there was nothing special about the lock, he noted. He pushed in the blade of his Swiss knife and carefully opened the door.

  Four brightly polished Harley-Davidson motorbikes were parked by the wall and a bit further in he glimpsed a half-open door to another room. His heart was pounding, but he simply must go inside and touch the beauties. There was a Street Glider. He took a deep breath and caressed the shining metal. His gaze wandered over the engine, the back axel and the handlebars, bringing a sparkle to his eyes. And there was a Sportster 1200 with its engine suspended by rubber, and a Harley-Davidson Fatboy – not to mention that
motorbike that Marlon Brando had in The Wild One. Tears welled up in Brains’s eyes. He closed them and remembered the wind in his face when he had driven around on his Harley-Davidson in his youth. Devotedly he patted the motorbikes as if they were dear pets. No doubt about it, beauty was not only lovely women and sunsets.

  For quite a while he looked at the highly polished bikes and completely forgot that he was trespassing. Perhaps there was more to see further in, in the next room? To quell his curiosity he pushed open the door, and as he did the smell of paint filled his nostrils. My God, the lads had their own club premises in here! The walls were painted red and the long bar was made of polished black oak. The floor wasn’t of wood or linoleum, but had light-grey quarry tiles. There was a bunch of bar stools in the middle of the room and framed photos of old superbikes were spread out below the bar counter. He gave a start. In a broken frame with cracked glass there was a picture of a genuine Harley Rider – his absolute favourite – discarded by a bin. The bike he had when he’d met Lisbeth, the first love of his life. He remembered that particular summer as one of the best of his life and no bike he had owned since then came anywhere near it. For ages he had wished for a picture of that bike, but had never managed to get hold of one. Now here it was, in a broken frame and about to be thrown away. He kept on looking at the photo and was soon lost in a reverie. There were lots of photos here. Nobody would notice if he borrowed this particular one. He battled with his conscience for a moment, but then his emotions got the upper hand and he let the photo disappear inside his overcoat.

  Then he moved further inside the room. In the far corner he caught sight of empty tins of paint and buckets. The bikers were evidently busy decorating. For a moment, Brains recalled his youth at the bar in Sundbyberg. They were a great gang that met there. Those were the days. They had worked on their bikes and dreamed of the fanciest superbikes and women. Brains would have liked to have a beer with the boys in the bar now too, but perhaps two men wanting to join Mad Angels were not really his type. A lot of them were involved in extortion and black market stuff, and he’d even heard that they were into drugs too. No, it was probably best to get out of here before the lads caught sight of him. Brains backed up, closed the door and hurried out the same way that he had come in. On his way home, the thoughts whirled around inside his head. If the Bandangels fitted out a new clubhouse then they would soon attract Mad Angels and lots of other biker gangs. The quiet and peaceful pensioner’s life he had imagined was evidently about to turn into something very different.

  21

  ‘I’ve latched on to Martha’s money-bombing idea.’ Anna-Greta spoke so loudly that they all gave a start and found themselves thinking about exploding bombs instead of giving to charity.

  ‘I think we should call our latest idea the Gift Drop Project,’ she went on and nodded to Gunnar to start up the computer. The League of Pensioners were gathered in the library and they were now curious to see what Anna-Greta and Gunnar had concocted. Ever since the pair had been reunited, Gunnar had come to visit them several times a week. Recently he had even spent the night in the guest room. And now he was involved in the Gift Drop Project. Gunnar pressed an icon on the computer labelled ‘Gift Drop’ and an aerial image of Stockholm, complete with street names and the locations of various retirement homes, appeared.

  For several days, Anna-Greta and Gunnar had been sitting in front of the computer, planning. In Gunnar’s company, Anna-Greta had picked up even more computer skills and the others had been able to hear her chuckles of contentment as she worked with Gunnar. Now she was standing in front of the screen with a pointer in her hand, waiting for her friends to be quiet.

  ‘It’s one thing to rob a bank, but quite another to deal with the loot,’ Anna-Greta explained, as though she was giving a lecture. ‘We must ensure that the money doesn’t end up in the wrong hands.’

  ‘Well, I’ve thought that for a long time,’ Rake said with a grin on his face.

  Anna-Greta pretended not to hear him.

  ‘Internet shopping has progressed so enormously lately that we can order anything we want,’ she went on and pointed at pictures of mobile phones, cameras and furniture.

  ‘We pay over the Internet, store the goods here and then we can hand out the gifts after that. When we want to deliver something we simply use the services of a transport firm. And some suppliers will even deliver goods directly to the customer; it’s amazing how modern it has become.’

  ‘But the stolen money is in banknotes and those numbers will be known. How can we pay with that?’ Christina wondered.

  ‘Now listen! There is something called laundering money,’ said Anna-Greta with burning cheeks, her gazed fixed upon the floor. For her, former bank-employee that she was, it didn’t feel right to say this, but needs must.

  ‘Launder money? I know. The race tracks and casinos . . .’ began Rake, sounding like a man of the world.

  ‘Not exactly; in fact, it is better to use exchange bureaus. The staff have a duty to find out where the money comes from and what it is going to be used for. But that doesn’t work in practice. Nobody cares. If we set our minds to it, we ought to be able to deposit around two hundred thousand kronor a day.’

  ‘Deposit?’ Brains asked.

  ‘Yes; we’ve got those fake personal identity numbers – you know, the temporary numbers that all people who move to Sweden get. I have opened some new accounts,’ said Anna-Greta slapping her pointer against her hand like a real teacher. That is, like the teachers used to do in the old days.

  ‘It’s fantastic. You’ve done a really good job there. That sounds excellent,’ said Martha, as she got up and then returned a few moments later with the gang’s newly purchased dining trolley. On it, there was a coffee pot, coffee cups and a bowl of wafer biscuits. While the precocious pensioner-villains drank their coffee, they concocted their very special laundering plans, which had nothing to do with dirty clothes.

  The next day, the League of Pensioners travelled into Stockholm to change the stolen money into foreign currency. They split up and went to different parts of the city. Martha chose the Forex exchange office in Östermalm, Rake went to an office on Söder Island, Christina to an office in Vasastan, and Brains walked to Kungsholmen with two paper carrier bags full of banknotes. Anna-Greta took the Roslag local train out to the fancy suburb of Djursholm to change her stolen money there. It was a setting in which she knew how to behave, and with a proud posture, elegant fur coat and an authoritative voice, she asked to exchange her money for dollars, but it wasn’t so easy. The rules were a lot stricter than she remembered and it wasn’t until she told them of her imminent journey to Florida and her plan to buy a plot of land in Gran Canaria, that finally they relented and agreed to change the money.

  In the days that followed, they went to a whole number of exchange offices but their plan wasn’t working. The staff had been given newer, stricter instructions. So in the end, Anna-Greta decided that they would have to go to the Solvalla horse races after all.

  Anna-Greta really wanted to go on her own and fly under the radar as much as possible because, with her professional background, she was slightly ashamed of being seen at such a place. But when she told Gunnar, he looked at her with such sad eyes that she understood – being in a relationship, or, at any rate, almost in a relationship, meant certain commitments – and if she didn’t take him with her, he would be deeply offended.

  One late sunny afternoon, Anna-Greta and Gunnar set off for the Solvalla racecourse. They took the underground to Rissne and decided to walk the last bit. Anna-Greta pushed the Zimmer frame in front of her. They had Martha’s floral cloth bag filled with cash so Gunnar kept a watchful eye on the treasure in the basket.

  ‘The old guys with the hottest tips are the ones sitting over there, I’ve heard,’ said Gunnar, nodding in the direction of a cluster of men standing outside the racecourse.

  ‘But the basket is full of money, I don’t know if we dare go over there.’ Anna-Greta hesi
tated.

  Betting on the horses and handling large amounts of cash was actually a bit scary. The banknotes from the Handelsbanken robbery were red-hot in the floral bag. Now that she thought about it, they ought to have hidden the money in a simple sports bag, or indeed anything other than Martha’s floral cloth bag. It attracted too much attention. Her hands squeezed the handles of the Zimmer frame. Gunnar noticed and stretched out a hand.

  ‘You know what, this is nothing compared to our Internet transfers. Now we’re dealing in small change.’