Knock Knock

by Anders Roslund

  There are different kinds of silence in a conversation. This one was longer than the usual, and more powerful than most Grens had experienced.

  “And . . . what does that mean?”

  “That your wife and your children are safe—right now they’re sitting on the sofa drinking water and eating biscuits with my colleagues. And Dusko Zaravic and his associates are dead in the room next door.”

  “How, Grens . . . if they’re dead, and if you were so late . . . who shot? Zofia? Was she the one . . . ?”

  “A very brave police cadet. The best officers are always the ones who ignore their bosses. And this young woman, she . . . without her, things would have ended differently.”

  “And without her, Paula wouldn’t be back either.”

  Grens spun around. Hermansson stood behind him, had come out on the balcony without him noticing it.

  “What?”

  “Sorry, Ewert, I didn’t mean to disturb you—but Paula, the secret documents about Hoffmann. All the original documents were in Zaravic’s car.”

  She handed him the folder.

  “Here. Take care of them. I mean, it might be a good thing if we look into these ourselves—so it doesn’t end up in the general evidence folder?”

  Ewert Grens didn’t like being interrupted. But this time he smiled warmly at Hermansson before returning to the phone.

  “You heard that, Hoffmann?”

  “I heard.”

  “For me, two mysteries remain to be solved—who executed three hit men in the inner city of Stockholm, and who leaked that information to the arms dealers in the first place. But for you this is over. They’re no longer going after your family.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Zaravic is dead and the original documents back. Don’t you trust me?”

  “I’m working on it, Grens, I promise. And in that case—I need to stay here for one more day.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  “If you say so.”

  “In the meantime—can you keep your eyes on Zofia and my kids?”

  “I’ll keep an eye on them. Since you trust me.”

  Before Grens could leave the balcony, Hermansson returned, and now she was the one who made sure the door was closed behind them.

  “I have something I need to talk to you about.”

  He knew her so well. That seriousness, it was real.

  “That sounds alarming.”

  He tried to smile. It didn’t go so well.

  “Ewert—I’ve made a decision.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “I was going to wait a little to tell you. But . . . well, it feels like this investigation is reaching a wrapping-up point, so now might be a good time.”

  She did it again. Took a deep breath. Then another.

  “I’m going to request a transfer.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not staying at City Police. I’m going to apply at another district.”

  That emptiness, or was it despair, that he’d just now felt flapping inside his chest when he thought of Anni or of Hoffmann’s children or losing people you care about and need, came back with full force. It ached right there where his breastbone covered his heart.

  “Is it because I—I’ll never question you again, Mariana! You know that!”

  “I know. That’s not why.”

  “For over ten years! I was the one who cleared your path through the bureaucracy so you could hop over people with more years under their belt because I knew how good you were, how important to us you would become. Mariana . . .”

  The big body. With a small detective superintendent inside.

  “. . . you can’t quit! Don’t you understand that? You . . . You!”

  He embraced her. He had never done that before, never wanted her to misunderstand what he felt. Now it didn’t matter.

  “You’ve been like my—I’ve never put it into words for you, but . . . I’ve thought of you as a daughter. The daughter I never had. And . . .”

  “I know, Ewert. You didn’t have to say it. But either Erik or I have to quit. It’s not about who’s the boss or not, man or woman—I’m going to transfer because he was here first, has been employed longer than me. Because it’s the right thing to do. That’s the only reason. And, of course, because I love him.”

  She managed to smile. It was lovely.

  “Don’t transfer! Don’t go to another department. Do you hear me? I’ve only got six months left—and I want you here, at my side!”

  Then she smiled again, more widely.

  “You have more than that, Ewert.”

  “Sixty-four and a half, today. Six months. Then I have to . . .”

  “I’ve been looking into what’s worrying you so much, and I was going to talk to you about it later, but feels like now might be a good time. Ewert—you can keep your job up to age sixty-seven. That’s how it works these days. Flexible upper limit. I’ve confirmed there are police officers who served up until sixty-nine and even seventy. The kind of knowledge you have doesn’t age just because you do.”

  He looked at her. The same silence as with Hoffmann earlier on the phone.

  What she’d just given him was the most beautiful gift in the world—he didn’t have to fall into that black fucking hole, not yet at least. The abyss would have to manage without him for a few more years. But it didn’t matter. One of the few people he cared about more than himself was telling him she was leaving him.

  “I can keep a secret, Mariana. I’m good at it. No one needs to know about your relationship with Wilson. Please—stay with me!”

  She put her hand on his cheek and he flinched, because he was so unused to it, but he didn’t pull away.

  “It doesn’t matter if you stay quiet, Ewert. We’ve decided—we don’t want to sneak around anymore. I requested the transfer yesterday. And you and I, just as I warned you if you continued to doubt and accuse me, will never see each other again.”

  She remained with him for a while on the windy balcony.

  Neither of them said anything.

  There was no more to say.

  As Gezim Latifi walked toward his office in the Shkodër police station, he met a man standing in the corridor waiting for him. On the younger side of middle age, sharp blue eyes in a slightly angular face, in good shape and with a close shave, wearing a T-shirt and cargo pants. Two fingers were missing on one hand, his only visible defect, and when he stood up, it was with smooth movements.

  “Latifi?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I would like to talk to you.”

  English. Strange days with so many foreign visitors.

  “About what?”

  “About what happened yesterday.”

  Latifi looked at his guest in confusion.

  “Yesterday?”

  “When you and I stopped at the gas station.”

  Another couple of seconds of feeling lost. And then—anger.

  “It was . . . you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You! Larsson!”

  “I look a little different and that’s not my name—and I’m not a police officer. If we’re starting over. But I am here on behalf of a Swedish police officer.”

  The large, honest man hesitated—studied Hoffmann for a long time, so deep in his own thoughts that he seemed unaware he’d taken off the police cap he always wore low on his forehead and exposed his large scar.

  “Go inside.”

  He nodded toward Hoffmann and the simple visitor’s chair, the only thing in that tiny office besides the desk itself.

  “As you may be aware, I’m pretty busy right now looking for whoever shot Hamid Cana in the chest and injured Vesa Lilaj.”

  Piet Hoffmann sat down, lookin
g for a place to stretch his legs. There wasn’t one.

  “You never got the whole truth.”

  “I was on your side. But I can’t sanction murder.”

  “And maybe I won’t be able to give you the whole truth now. But enough for you to understand why I chose to come back here.”

  “On the contrary, I lock up murderers, no matter their reasons. And I just decided—to call for reinforcements. You’re going to be arrested and put away.”

  Latifi reached toward the black, clumsy, old-fashioned Bakelite phone on his desk, lifting the handset and starting to dial some internal number on the round disc.

  “No.”

  Hoffmann put his hand over the telephone cradle and broke the connection.

  “You’re not gonna arrest me.”

  Gezim Latifi’s gun had been in one of the desk drawers. Now he pointed it at Piet Hoffmann’s head.

  “Please put your hands on my desk so I can cuff them.”

  Hoffmann kept his hand over the phone.

  “If I’d wanted to disappear I would have, and you never would have seen me again. You know after last night that I’m pretty good at it. But I came here voluntarily. And, unlike you, I’m unarmed.”

  Latifi looked at his visitor while moving the muzzle of his gun from head to chest, from chest to head.

  “If you arrest me now, Latifi, you’ll never know why I’m here. And why what I have to say might be crucial to you.”

  From head to chest.

  From the chest to the head.

  While the Albanian policeman silently tried to make up his mind.

  “If I choose to lower this gun. If I choose to wait to arrest you. What exactly is it that you want?”

  “Come with me on a little excursion.”

  “We did that yesterday. It didn’t end so well.”

  “And we’re going to use this.”

  Piet Hoffmann had a small backpack with him. Now he pulled out a laptop and held it up toward the gun.

  “There you go.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I grabbed it while you were sitting on the roof of a warehouse keeping watch for me. It belonged to Hamid Cana, and its information is only accessible with a twenty-character decryption code. But no one can keep track of that many letters and numbers, so it has to be written down and hidden. The code for this computer was in a safe behind a secret wall, and in order to get a hold of it I had to waste a hell of a lot of water. As you can see, the paper ended up a little wrinkled.”

  Hoffmann handed the Albanian policeman a folded sheet.

  “But the code is intact—we were lucky, he’d written it down with a regular ballpoint pen, waterproof. When you and I split up, you use this code and read all the text in its original form. This is my first repayment for your help. You’ll get the solution not only to what happened yesterday, you’ll have proof of several years of extensive organized weapons smuggling. The names of employees here in Shkodër and Tirana and Pristina. Their colleagues all along the entire Balkan route. My Swedish employer is content with just the Swedish names—you’ll have the honor of arresting the rest of them.”

  Latifi just sat there, without any hint of movement.

  “If what you have with you contains what you say it does, that’s good. But it changes nothing—you’re a murderer and murderers have to be arrested.”

  Hoffmann turned the computer screen toward the policeman, then unfolded the wrinkled piece of paper.

  “Latifi, take some time to look at this. Once you’ve done that, you’ll see that what I have to say is true. My small thanks to you. Then we’ll get up and head to your car parked behind the police station. And go on our excursion. We’ll drive to Lake Shkodër, and at a jetty quite far from the nearest house, we’ll find a simple motorboat. That will take us to repayment number two—and my much bigger thanks. You can take your gun with you, I’ll remain unarmed like now. Once we’re there you can decide if you want to arrest me or let me go.”

  Ewert Grens had no idea how long he lingered out there on the balcony. Long enough to make his legs feel much stiffer than usual. When he came back inside again, Sven was with the two patrol cars and Mariana was with the medical examiner and forensic technicians, while Amelia still sat with Zofia and the Hoffmann kids, speaking to them in her pleasant voice. He walked closer, listening. It felt so good to see them all safe and sound.

  “Ewert!”

  Rasmus had caught sight of him and patted the space next to him on the sofa.

  “Come and sit with me!”

  “It looks a little crowded.”

  “There’s room. If I squeeze closer to Hugo, and if Hugo gets closer to Mom, and if Mom . . . just sit down. Right here.”

  Rasmus’s eight-year-old voice was determined. Grens had no choice. He sank down between the Hoffmann boys, and it felt as natural as it did comfortable.

  “You saved us once, Ewert . . .”

  That determined eight-year-old voice was accompanied by a serious eight-year-old look.

  “Now Amelia did too.”

  They sat there, together. Without saying another word. Maybe they were all doing like Grens—letting what Rasmus had said sink in. What it means to save someone. Or be saved by someone. How it forever changes a relationship.

  Until the detective superintendent cleared his throat and turned to Zofia.

  “I’ve been thinking. And I don’t believe you can stay here any longer. This is a crime scene now. Just like your real home.”

  And then he turned to Hugo and Rasmus.

  “So . . . well . . . if you want to that is. Would you like to come stay with me? And live there. Until, well, things get figured out a little better.”

  “With you, Ewert?”

  Now it was Hugo who spoke, taking over for his little brother. That’s what it meant to be a big brother, taking responsibility for stuff.

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “Yes. A lot a lot a lot. But—is there room? For our whole family?”

  Grens smiled again.

  “Yes, Hugo. There’s room. I promise.”

  Zofia and the two boys seemed happy, relieved, and started to pack up what little they’d brought from home. While Grens and Amelia remained on the sofa, just the two of them. For a moment it felt a little strained, as they didn’t know each other, weren’t part of each other’s lives, but because standing up and leaving felt blunt and impolite, for the first time they were forced to meet without Hermansson or Lucas or anyone else to act as a bridge. Grens was older, so maybe that’s why he was the one to finally break that embarrassing silence.

  “I’d . . . just like to say once more. That I’m so grateful both as your temporary boss and on a personal level for what you did, Amelia. How you did it. You’re gonna make one hell of a police officer.”

  She looked down, almost seemed shy.

  “Thank you.”

  Then it became strained again. Small talk had never been Detective Superintendent Grens’s strong suit. They both smiled in embarrassment until he continued.

  “You said you had a gut feeling.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s what made you act?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “But, there must have been something more? There always is. You must have seen something we missed? Put together some information? I’m old, but I still like to improve.”

  It felt easier now. When they were talking police work.

  “So tell me. I’m curious! For real.”

  But the young cadet was just as reticent.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a better explanation. I knew Zaravic’s past from your briefing, and I knew Hoffmann must have been in the same world, and I knew his family was being threatened . . . it just added up. I was there. In the right plac
e. And I got lucky.”

  “You didn’t get lucky, Amelia. You were clever. Cleverer than any young officer I’ve ever encountered. You had presence of mind. You were able to shoot under pressure. You weren’t just in the right place, you made the right decisions under immense stress—not many people can do that.”

  Then they sat there again, wrestling with the silence, an old police officer on his way out and a young one on her way in. But just as the silence was becoming too awkward, Rasmus came running in with his red backpack and loudly proclaimed that they were ready to go now. Grens made sure that Mariana Hermansson and Sven Sundkvist had an overview and all the resources they needed, then left the apartment with two dead men in the bedroom and headed for his car, followed by a big brother, a little brother, and their little sister in her mother’s arms. Twenty minutes later, when they parked in front of his turn-of-the-century building on Svea Road, the whole family was now asleep. After several days of constant worry, they’d finally relaxed. The detective superintendent considered letting them rest, didn’t really have the heart to interrupt their deep breaths and loud snores, but finally he cautiously woke them up one by one. And just as they stepped out of the elevator and into his enormous apartment, the boys seemed to regain their energy and started running from room to room to room, and then said they were super-super-hungry and checkered pancakes—the kind they’d made together that first evening Grens had been their babysitter—were exactly what they needed in order to go to sleep. That’s why for the first time ever there was a search of Grens’s apartment for the ingredients to make pancake batter that would then be cooked in a waffle iron and not in the frying pan so as to get the right pattern. And maybe that’s also why all the children fell asleep so deeply in various sofas—a feeling of security, even in the shape of checkered pancakes, makes it easier to rest.

  “So . . . this is where Piet hid out? This was where he went?”

  It had been dark for a long time when Grens and Zofia sat down at the kitchen table, each with a glass of wine in their hands, far too sweet for this late hour, but the only alcohol he had at home. And Zofia couldn’t say exactly how she knew, but she just felt that this was where her husband went when he was in need. To the detective superintendent who had once been his greatest enemy.