Box 21

by Anders Roslund

  She kept rubbing the sleeves of her jacket.

  ‘I’m so cold.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’ve felt frozen ever since you were here last, four days ago.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Please forgive me. I should have understood.’

  ‘I have to dress warmly even on a day like this, almost ninety degrees in the shade. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I think I can.’

  ‘I don’t want to be cold.’

  She stood up suddenly.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, you mustn’t trouble yourself.’

  ‘No trouble. Do you want one?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  She went in through the open French windows and he listened to the kitchen noises and the shouting of the hockey players. Maybe someone had scored a goal, or another boring old bloke was interfering with their game.

  She served the coffee in tall glasses, topped up with foaming hot milk, the way they served it in the cafés he never had time to go to.

  He drank a mouthful, then put the glass down.

  ‘How well do you know Ewert?’

  She studied him with that special look in her eyes, which made him feel awkward. ‘Is that why you’re here? To discuss Ewert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is this? Some kind of interrogation?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Not sure?’

  ‘No.’

  She rubbed her sleeves again in that chilly gesture.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I wish I could be more helpful, but I can’t. Please see it as me thinking aloud. As far from police work as you can get.’

  She sipped from her glass, finishing her coffee before she spoke.

  ‘What can I say? He was my husband’s oldest friend.’

  ‘I know. And you, how well do you know him?’

  ‘He isn’t an easy man to know.’

  She wanted Sven to go, didn’t like him. He was aware of her dislike.

  ‘Tell me something. Please try.’

  ‘Does Ewert know about this?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If he did, I wouldn’t need your answers.’

  It was hot, his back was soaking. It would have been better to sit somewhere else, but he felt he shouldn’t fuss, the situation was tense enough.

  ‘Has Ewert spoken to you about what happened? In the mortuary? About what happened to Bengt?’

  She wasn’t listening any longer. Sven could tell. She was pointing at him, holding her hand up for so long that he felt uncomfortable.

  ‘He was sitting there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bengt. When you lot called him in. To the mortuary.’

  He should not have come. He should have left her in peace with her grief. The trouble was that he was desperate to hear about another side of Ewert, the positive side, and surely Lena would be able to help him. He repeated his question.

  ‘What has Ewert said to you about that day? About what happened to Bengt?’

  ‘I asked my questions. He didn’t tell me anything I couldn’t have read in the papers.’

  ‘No? Nothing else?’

  ‘I don’t care for this conversation.’

  ‘For instance, you haven’t asked him why the prostitute chose to shoot Bengt?’

  She was quiet for a long time.

  He had put off asking the question, his real reason for being here. Now it was done.

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘I just wanted to know what Ewert might have said to explain why it was Bengt she killed.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘I asked you.’

  Her eyes were fixed on him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you never wondered?’

  Suddenly she burst into tears. She looked so small, curled up in the chair, shaking with grief.

  ‘Of course I’ve wondered. And asked. But he won’t say, he’s said nothing that makes sense. It was chance, that is all he says. It could’ve been anyone. It was Bengt.’

  Someone was standing behind him. Sven Sundkvist turned. A little girl of five or six, younger than Jonas, was dressed in white shorts and a pink T-shirt. She had come from the house, now stopped in front of her mother, observing how she was upset.

  ‘Mummy, what’s wrong?’

  Lena Nordwall leaned forwards and gave her a hug.

  ‘Nothing, sweetheart.’

  ‘You’re crying. Is it that man? Is he being horrid to you?’

  ‘No, no, he isn’t horrid at all. We’re just talking.’

  The little pink-and-white body swung round. Sven met her wide-open eyes.

  ‘You see, Mummy is very sad. My daddy is dead.’

  He swallowed, trying to look kind and serious at the same time.

  ‘I knew your daddy.’

  Sven Sundkvist looked at the woman who had been left a widow with two young children for four days now. He could sense her deep pain and realised why Ewert thought the last thing she needed was the truth and had chosen to protect her.

  Ewert Grens couldn’t wait until the next day. He longed to be with her.

  Sunday traffic meant that it was easy to cross the city and the Värta motorway was almost empty. He put on a tape and was singing along with Siw as he crossed Lidingö Bridge. The rain started up again, but he didn’t notice.

  He pulled into the usually empty car park and realised that it was full. He was baffled, thought for a moment that maybe he had taken a wrong turn, until he remembered that today was a Sunday, the most popular day for visiting the sick.

  The receptionist looked surprised. Mr Grens didn’t normally come on Sundays. He smiled at her surprise.

  She called out after him.

  ‘Mr Grens. She isn’t there.’

  He didn’t catch it.

  ‘She isn’t in her room.’

  He stopped. In the time it took for her to draw breath before continuing, he felt all that he had felt back then. He died. Again.

  ‘She’s with the others on the terrace for Sunday afternoon coffee. We try to get everyone outside in the summer. Even when it rains, the parasols are big enough.’

  He didn’t hear what she was saying. Her lips were moving, but he didn’t hear.

  ‘Go out and see her. She’ll be pleased.’

  ‘Why isn’t she in her room?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Why isn’t she in her room?’

  He felt dizzy. A chair. He took off his jacket and sat down.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The young woman knelt in front of him. He saw her now.

  ‘On the terrace?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Most of the decking outside was protected from the rain by four large parasols, emblazoned with an ice-cream manufacturer’s logo. Ewert recognised some of the staff and all of those who were sitting about in wheelchairs or with Zimmer frames parked next to their chairs.

  She was sitting in the middle of the group, with a cup of coffee beside her, a half-eaten cinnamon pastry in her hand. He heard her childish laugh above the patter of rain on the umbrellas and the sporadic singing. He waited until the group of singers had finished their tune and then joined the crowd on the terrace. His jacket was already wet.

  ‘Hello.’ He greeted one of the white-coated women, who had a familiar face.

  She smiled pleasantly.

  ‘Mr Grens, how nice to see you. And on a Sunday too!’

  She spoke to Anni, who stared blankly at them. ‘Anni, look! You’ve got a visitor.’

  Ewert went to her. As usual he put his hand on her cheek. He turned to the care assistant.

  ‘Do you mind if I take her inside? I’ve got something to tell her. Good news.’

  ‘Of course. We’ve been here for quite a while. Anyway, Anni, you don’t want all of us around when you have a gentleman visitor.’

  She released the brake on Anni’s wheelchair and he to
ok over.

  Anni was wearing a different dress today, a red one. He had bought it for her a long time ago. It was still raining, but only lightly, and she barely got wet as they dashed from the parasols to the side of the building. He steered the wheelchair in through the door and down the long corridor to her room.

  They sat as they always did. She in the middle of the room. He, on a chair at her side.

  He caressed her cheek again, kissed her forehead and took her hand in his. For a moment he thought she squeezed his hand in return.

  ‘Anni.’

  He tried to make sure that she was looking at him before continuing.

  ‘It’s over now.’

  It was one o’clock and Dimitri had promised her an hour’s rest. She had been working non-stop since the morning, since the first customer came and spat on the floor and she had to lick it up with a smile.

  She was crying.

  That man. Then seven others. Four more later. Twelve a day. The last one was coming just after half past six.

  One hour’s rest. She lay on the bed in the room she thought of as hers.

  It was in a pleasant flat, on the fifth floor in a nice block.

  A couple of the men had called her Lydia. She had told them that that wasn’t her name, but they insisted that for them, that was what she was called. She knew now that Lydia was the woman who had been there before her and a lot of the men had been Lydia’s customers. She had inherited them from her.

  Dimitri didn’t beat her so much these days.

  He had said she was learning the ropes, she had to make more noises, that was what was missing, she had to groan when they pushed inside her, and whimper a little, with pleasure, of course. The customers liked noises; it made them feel they weren’t paying her to do it.

  She only cried when she was alone. He hit her more if he saw her cry.

  One hour. She had closed the door and would cry in peace for an hour. Then she had to smarten up and smile in the mirror and cup her hand over her genitals, as the two o’clock man wanted.

  Ewert Grens had been back in his office for only an hour or so, but already he felt restless. He couldn’t concentrate on anything. He went to the toilet, got a coffee from the machine and asked reception to fix a pizza delivery for him, but that was that. Now, all that was left to him was his office.

  It was almost as if he were waiting.

  He listened to Siw Malmkvist’s warm voice and held her close, dancing with her in the tight space between his desk and the sofa.

  He had no idea where Sven was and Ĺgestam hadn’t been in touch.

  He turned up the volume. Soon it would be evening once more and he could hardly figure out how. His room was warm after a day of summer sunshine and he sweated as he moved to the rhythms of the Sixties.

  Bengt, I miss you.

  You pulled a fast one on us.

  You see that, don’t you?

  Lena knows nothing.

  Not a thing.

  You, who had her.

  You, who had the children.

  You, who had something!

  He switched off the tape recorder and put the tape back in its box.

  He looked around. No, not this place, not tonight.

  He left, walked along the empty corridors and stepped outside into the fresh air, to the car left unlocked as usual. Settling in the seat, he decided to go for a drive. He hadn’t done that for a long time.

  It was half past six and she had spread her legs for the twelfth and last time today.

  He had been quite quick and he hadn’t wanted to hit her or anything, and no spitting. He had only penetrated her anally, but barely, and told her to whisper that it turned her on, so it hadn’t hurt much at all.

  She showered for a long time, even though she had washed several times already. It was the best time for crying, when the water was pouring over her.

  Dimitri had told her that she was to be fully dressed and smiling by seven o’clock, sitting on her bed. The woman who called herself Ilona, the one who had met them when they came off the ferry, was coming to see them, to check that they were all right. Dimitri explained that the woman still owned a third share of them, so her approval was important. For another month, anyway.

  The woman arrived punctually. The kitchen clock: thirty seconds to seven. She was wearing her tracksuit with the hood up, just as before. She didn’t take it down as she passed the electronic locks and came into the flat.

  Dimitri said hello, asked if she wanted a drink. She shook her head. She was in a hurry, just wanted to give the girls a quick once-over. After all, she did still have a stake in them.

  When the woman popped her head round the door, the girl looked as happy as she could, just as Dimitri had instructed her. The woman asked how many men she had seen today and she replied twelve. That pleased her and she said that was good going for such a young Baltic pussy.

  She lay down on the bed and cried again. She knew that Dimitri didn’t allow it and that he would soon come in and hit her, but she couldn’t help it.

  She thought of the men who had forced themselves on her, the woman with the hood and that Dimitri had said that they had to pack their bags again as they were moving to another flat in Copenhagen, and all she wanted to do was die.

  Ewert Grens had been driving aimlessly for almost two hours. He had started in the centre of the city, navigating the most heavily congested streets with their traffic lights and jaywalkers and imbeciles who punished their car horns. Later, he crossed to Södermalm via Slussen, made his way along Horn Street and Göt Street; the south side, which was supposed to be so damn bohemian, but to him this looked like any sad provincial dump.

  Back to the northern side again and past the soulless facades in posh Östermalm, a loop round the TV building at Gärdet and then a run on Värta Road to the harbour, where large ships were arriving packed with Baltic whores. He yawned. Valhalla Road next, endless roundabouts as far as Roslag Junction.

  All these people. All these people on their way somewhere.

  Ewert Grens envied them. He had no idea where he going.

  He was tired. Just a few minutes more.

  He drove through the city centre to St Erik’s Square in the slowing evening traffic. After drifting on along the smaller streets for a while, he turned left, past the Bonnier building and into Atlas Street. Downhill, left again. He parked in front of the door, suddenly surprised at the thought that less than a week had passed since he had come here for the first time.

  He turned the engine off. How silent it was, as silent as a big city can be when the working day is over. All those windows, all those fancy curtains and potted plants. Places where people lived.

  He sat in the car and time passed. Maybe a minute. Or ten. Or sixty.

  Her back had been torn and inflamed. She had lain naked and unconscious on the floor. Alena Sljusareva had been screaming in the next room, hurling abuse at the man she called Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp.

  Bengt had been on the landing. He had been waiting there for almost an hour. Grens recalled the scene perfectly, where Bengt had stood.

  You must have known even then.

  Ewert Grens stayed where he was for a little longer. Not time to leave yet. Another minute, several minutes, whatever it took for him to calm down. He had to go to the place he still called home, although he often had no wish to be there.

  Another couple of minutes.

  Suddenly the heavy door opened.

  Four people came out. He looked at them, recognised them.

  Only a couple of days ago, he had taken Alena Sljusareva to the port to ensure that she boarded a ferry that would take her over the Baltic Sea, back to Lithuania and Klaipeda.

  They had got off the ferry when it docked on Swedish soil. The man was wearing the same suit he had previously, another time in Völund Street. Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp. As soon as he had cleared passport control, he turned round and waited for two young women – girls, in fact, of sixteen or seventeen. He held out his hand and demanded to have their p
assports, their debt. A woman in a tracksuit, with the hood pulled up over her head, had come forward to meet them and kissed them lightly on each cheek, the way people from the Baltic states do.

  Now, they filed out of the door in front of him: Dimitri first, followed by his two new girls with bags in hand, and the hooded woman.

  Grens watched them walk away.

  Then he phoned the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was put through to the person he wanted and asked a few questions about Dimitri Simait.

  God knows he had enough on his plate, but never mind. He wanted to know if that fucking pimp still had the right to claim diplomatic immunity and asked to find out who his female contact was.

  A little additional information and then he’d have both of them in the bag.

  When this was all over. When Lang was inside. When Bengt had been buried.

  When he was certain that Lena was able to go on, without the lie.

  The day had passed without him noticing.

  He had woken up in a narrow hotel bed, in Klaipeda, then driven from Arlanda to Lena Nordwall, where she sat freezing in the hot sun, then on to his Kronoberg office and from there to the Prosecution Service building, where Ĺgestam had been waiting, nearly at the end of his patience.

  Sven Sundkvist wanted to go home.

  He was tired, but the day that was almost done had not quite finished with him yet. Instead it seemed its longest hours were waiting for him.

  Lena Nordwall had run after him as he walked away from their futile talk in the garden, towards the hockey kids and his car. She had been short of breath when she grabbed his arm and asked if he knew about Anni. Sven had never heard the name before. He had known Ewert for ten years, had worked closely with him and come to regard him as a friend, but he had never heard the name before. Lena Nordwall told him about a time when Ewert had been in charge of a patrol van, a story about Anni and Bengt and Ewert and an arrest which had ended in tragedy.

  He tried to stand still, but wasn’t able to stop trembling.

  There was so much in life he didn’t understand.

  He had no idea where Ewert lived. He had never, not once visited him. Somewhere in the centre of Stockholm, that was all he knew.