by Lars Kepler
‘I thought you were here because of the advert … I’ve got five pallets of Polish Mr Muscle that I usually sell to a discount store, but they’ve cut their order …’
‘Do you live here?’
‘There’s a smaller cottage a little way away.’
‘And a garage,’ Margot adds.
He doesn’t answer, just prods a rusty pipe that’s been stuck into the ground.
‘Can we take a look?’ Adam asks.
‘No,’ Pasi leers.
‘We’ll have to ask you to come with us …’
‘I haven’t seen any ID,’ he says, almost in a whisper.
Adam holds his badge up in front of Pasi, but he barely looks at it. He just nods to himself and pulls the pipe from the ground.
‘Drop that now!’ Margot says.
Holding the pipe with both hands, Pasi walks slowly towards her. Adam moves aside and draws his Sig Sauer.
‘I have sinned,’ he says softly. ‘But I—’
‘Stop!’ Adam shouts.
Something lets go of Pasi’s tense frame. He stops and tosses the pipe into the grass.
‘I have actively sought out sin, but I am forgiven,’ he says wearily.
‘By God, maybe,’ Margot replies. ‘But I need to know where you’ve been for the past two weeks.’
‘I’ve been in Alabama,’ he explains calmly.
‘In the USA?’
‘We were visiting a church in Troy. We were there two months, I got home the day before yesterday … there was a revivalist meeting on a wooden bridge with a roof,’ Pasi smiles. ‘Like the barrel of a cannon filled with prayer and song, that in itself made the whole trip worthwhile.’
Margot and Adam keep hold of Pasi while they confirm what he says with the passport authority. It all checks out, and they apologise for troubling him, get back in the car and drive off through the dark forest.
‘So, did you see the light?’ Adam says after a while.
‘Almost.’
‘I need to go home.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘I can talk to Thomas Apel on my own.’
‘No,’ Adam says.
‘We know he isn’t violent.’
Thomas Apel is the stake president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, out in Jakobsberg. Of the five hundred names on their list, he’s the only one who has suffered from a borderline psychotic personality disorder.
‘Let’s do that tomorrow,’ Adam pleads.
‘OK,’ she lies.
He glances sideways at her.
‘It’s just that Katryna doesn’t like being at home on her own,’ he confesses.
‘Yes, you’ve been away a lot recently.’
‘It’s not that …’
She drives slowly along the winding forest track. The baby in her stomach moves and stretches out.
‘I could have a word with Jenny,’ Margot says. ‘I’m sure she could go and be with Katryna.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he says with a smile.
‘What?’ she laughs.
‘No, stop it …’
‘Are you worried Katryna might lose her virginity?’
‘Stop it,’ Adam says, squirming in his seat.
Margot picks up a biscuit and waits for him to say whatever he’s trying to say.
‘I know Katta, and she wouldn’t want me to arrange for someone to keep her company. She just wants me to prove that I care about our relationship … I’ll go home as soon as we’ve spoken to Thomas Apel.’
‘OK,’ Margot says, and can’t help feeling relieved that Jenny isn’t going to have to spend the night with Katryna.
83
The private limited company, Sofa Zone, turns out to be based on Kvicksundsvägen in Högdalen industrial estate, close to the railway depot.
Erik and Joona are driving along next to a barbed-wire fence, towards thirty or so parked dustbin lorries. Grey drizzle is falling, sparkling like sand.
The little monkey girl is swinging beneath the ignition key.
In the distance white smoke is billowing from a chimney on the far side of some tall electricity wires.
They pass wide, empty roads between low industrial buildings bearing corporate flags and signs about private security companies, alarms and camera surveillance.
Barbed-wire fences glint in front of car parks full of articulated lorries, vans and containers.
The windscreen wipers sweep the rain aside mechanically, leaving a dirty triangle beyond the reach of the blades.
‘Pull over,’ Joona says.
Erik drives round an old tyre by the side of the road, slows down and stops the car.
On the other side of the road weeds and dandelions are growing in front of a tall fence crowned with four rows of barbed wire.
They stare at the big, corrugated-metal building. Rust has trickled down from the screws holding up the large sign bearing the name: Sofa Zone.
‘This is the Zone, isn’t it?’ Erik says seriously.
‘Yes,’ Joona says, and drifts off in thought.
Rain covers the windscreen as soon as the wipers stop. The tiny drops quickly form little streams.
The Zone’s only window is in the office at the front; it’s grimy and covered with bars. In the parking spaces next to the fence stand nine private cars and two motorbikes.
‘What are we going to do?’ Erik says after a while.
‘If Rocky is here, we try to get him out,’ Joona says. ‘And if he doesn’t agree to that, you’ll have to question him here, but … it’s not enough for him to say that the preacher takes drugs, wears make-up and—’
‘I know, I know.’
‘We need an address, a name,’ he concludes.
‘So how do we get inside?’
Joona opens the door and cool air brings a smell of wet grass into the car. The noise of the huge railway yard can be heard over the sound of the worsening rain.
They leave the car and cross the road. The rain is cooling the ground and mist is rising from the tarmac.
‘How does your hip feel?’ Erik asks.
‘Fine.’
They go through the gates into the industrial estate. There’s wet cardboard on the ground, with disintegrating labels for three-seat sofas and double divans. Through the filthy window they can see that the office is dark.
A car stops in the car park and a man in a dark-grey suit gets out and walks round the far end of the building.
They wait a few moments, then follow him along the windowless façade. Joona takes out his phone and films the car’s registration number as he passes.
On the end of the warehouse is a concrete loading bay with metal steps. Beside the large, rolling door for goods is a smaller, buckled steel door.
They carry on to the end of the building, crossing the shimmering black tarmac, past a stack of wooden pallets.
The man has disappeared.
Erik and Joona exchange a glance, then continue round the corner.
Pieces of polystyrene packaging swirl across the wet ground.
At the back of the warehouse is a skip surrounded by bindweed and thistles. All the way to the fence are mounds of sand.
Their feet leave prints in the wet sand. The man they were following evidently didn’t come this way.
The steel door by the loading bay must be the entrance to the building.
They carry on along the rear of the building, across the sand, feeling the rain drip down their necks. Close to the far corner is another metal door at the bottom of a flight of steps, with metal rails to help move wheelie-bins up and down.
‘Give me the car keys.’
Erik hands them to him and he removes the metal ring, hands back the little monkey and key, straightens out the metal and makes a hook at the end, pulls a ballpoint pen from his pocket, snaps off the clip and sticks it into the lock, then inserts the straightened keyring, pushes the clip upwards and turns the lock.
84
The bulb hanging from the ceiling of the waste-
storage room is broken. The floor is stained from leaking rubbish, and four bins reek of rancid food. The tattered remnants of a list of rules and regulations hangs off the wall. In the weak light from outside, Joona can see another door at the far end of the room.
‘Come on,’ he says to Erik.
He cautiously opens the door and peers into a small kitchen with a buckled draining board. Rhythmic thuds echo through the walls. The ceiling lamp is on but there’s no one about. On a table there’s a chopping board with a grease-stained paper bag, surrounded by crumbs and sugar crystals.
There are two closed wooden doors in the far wall. The first is locked, but the second one has no lock.
Joona tries the handle, and they walk slowly into an empty changing room. They can hear music through the walls.
The door to the bathroom is closed.
They walk cautiously across the concrete floor, past three shower cubicles, a mirrored make-up table, and a row of clothes lockers.
Someone flushes the toilet, and they hurry through the room and find themselves in a narrow corridor lined with ten doors. The small rooms off the corridor have no windows, and are furnished with thin beds with shiny plastic mattresses.
Behind a closed door someone is moaning mechanically.
The only light comes from strings of fairy lights draped across the ceiling. Little hearts and flowers illuminate the bare walls in weak, flickering colours.
The corridor leads to a large storeroom with foil-covered ventilation pipes running across the ceiling.
In the flashing lights from a stage they can make out some thirty men and maybe ten women. There are sofas and armchairs everywhere. Along one wall is a row of plastic-wrapped pallets full of furniture.
It’s so dark that it’s difficult to discern any faces.
The throbbing music keeps repeating one particular musical phrase, over and over again.
On the stage a naked woman is dancing round a vertical metal pole.
Joona and Erik walk forward carefully in the weak light. The room smells of damp clothes and wet hair.
They keep an eye out for Rocky’s bulky frame. He ought to be visible against the light of the stage if he stands up.
They know this is a gamble. Rocky may already have been here and left. But if he managed to get hold of any money, he’s probably bought some heroin, in which case he could well still be here in the Zone.
A drunk is trying to negotiate a price with a woman, and one of the guards appears quickly and says something that leaves the man nodding.
The music changes, blending seamlessly into a different rhythm. The woman on the stage squats down with her thighs spread wide on either side of the pole.
A guard is standing by the bar, gazing out at the room with a motionless face.
Joona sees a black German Shepherd moving among the furniture; it looks accustomed to being there as it eats something from the floor, sniffs and moves on.
A large man emerges from the corridor. He blows his nose and heads towards the bar. Joona moves aside and tries to keep an eye on him.
‘It’s not him,’ Erik says.
They stop by the wall not far from the stage. It’s almost dark, but the reflected glow from the lights rigged up on the ceiling is illuminating an assortment of shirts and faces.
Right in front of the stage sits a man in black-rimmed glasses on a red armchair with a label hanging from its arm. On the back of the man’s hand is a tattoo of a cross with a shining star at its centre.
On a low table two bottles are clinking together with the rhythm of the bass. There are very few drugs in sight. Someone is snorting cocaine, a couple more slip pills between their lips, but sex is clearly the main commodity being traded here.
A young woman in a black latex bikini and a studded collar comes over to Erik, smiles and says something he can’t make out. She runs a hand through her short blonde hair as she bats her eyelids at him. When he shakes his head she moves on to the next man.
A film is showing on a television screen behind the bar: an aggressive man is walking round a room, hitting doors and pulling drawers open. A woman is shoved into the room, turns and tries to open the door again. The man goes over to her, pulls her backwards by her hair, and hits her face so hard that she falls to the floor.
Just off to one side of Erik and Joona stands a man with a coarse face and fleshy forehead. The shoulders of his grey jacket are wet with rain.
‘Anatoly? I handed my money over when I was searched,’ he says in a gruff voice.
‘I know, welcome,’ says a voice that sounds adolescent.
Joona moves sideways and sees that the voice belongs to a tall and very young man with yellowish skin and dark rings under his eyes.
‘I was thinking of going to the room – can I buy two wraps of brown?’
‘You can buy whatever you like,’ the young man replies. ‘We’ve got some top quality from southern Helmand, the usual from Iran, Tramadol, or …’
Their conversation tails off as they move away between the sofas and people.
The dog trots after them and licks the young man’s hand. Joona falls in behind them, and sees them turn off to the right at the side of the stage.
Erik manages to stumble into a low lounge table. A beer bottle topples over and rolls onto the floor. He goes a different way, stands on a wet umbrella and carries on round a leather sofa.
The guard by the stage watches him walk.
A young woman with round, pockmarked cheeks is sitting astride a man in a leather vest. He twines a lock of her dark hair around his index finger as he talks on his phone.
In the darkness Joona can no longer see the young man who was dealing heroin. There are too many people everywhere now. He looks round and sees the black dog slip through a swaying beaded curtain. The beads settle long enough to form the Mona Lisa’s face briefly before they part again and a young woman with bare breasts and a pair of tight leather trousers walks out.
85
The small beads tinkle as Erik and Joona pass through the Mona Lisa. The air is suddenly thick with sweet smoke, sweat and dirty clothes. All over the coarsely polished cement floor are worn and battered sofas and armchairs. The music from the stage is still audible, but only as the thud of the heavy bass.
Semi-naked people are sitting on the sofas or on the floor itself. Most of them look as though they’re asleep, while others move lethargically.
They’re all moving with ghostly slowness, drifting through the realm of the stoned.
They walk past a middle-aged woman sitting on a stained sofa with no cushions. She’s wearing jeans that are too big for her and a flesh-coloured bra.
Her face is thin and focused as she holds her lighter under a crumpled piece of tinfoil and then hurriedly inhales the smoke through a small plastic straw. A slender curl of smoke twines up towards the corrugated metal roof.
The cement floor is littered with cigarette butts, sweet wrappers, plastic bottles, syringes, condoms, empty packs of pills and a bundle of fabric samples.
Through the smoke Joona can see the man named Anatoly sitting with the new guest on a sofa that’s been sliced open, its stuffing hanging out.
Joona and Erik weave through the furniture.
A skinny man in his seventies is sitting on a stained flowery sofa with two young women.
On the floor behind it a man lies unconscious in just his underpants and white socks. He looks almost like a child, but his eyes and cheeks are sunken. The syringe is gone, leaving the needle with its little plastic end sticking out of a vein in the back of his hand. On an armchair beside him sits a woman with an apathetic expression on her face. After a while she bends forward and pulls the needle from his hand, but drops it on the floor.
Joona sees a guard dragging a man who has thrown up, and can’t help thinking that this place is the complete opposite of the rich kids’ saturnalias.
No wishes come true in the Zone. Here there are only prisoners and slaves, and the money only flows in
one direction. Everyone is alone in their addiction, drained of all they have until they die.
He glances behind him and sees Anatoly stand up and walk through the room. The black dog follows him.
A fat man in camouflage trousers and a black jacket pushes away a woman in pink underwear and high heels. She goes back and tries to kiss his hands as she begs him for a fix. The man is impatient, tells her to pull herself together, that she hasn’t earned enough.
‘I can’t, they hurt me, they—’
‘Shut up, I don’t give a fuck – you need to do three more customers,’ he says.
‘But, darling, I don’t feel good, I need—’
She tries to stroke his cheek, but he grabs hold of her hand, pulls her little finger and bends it sharply backwards. It happens so quickly that at first the woman doesn’t seem to realise what’s going on. She stares wide-eyed at her broken finger.
A man with a salt-and-pepper moustache walks over to them, exchanges a few words with the other man, then pulls the sobbing woman through the room towards the curtain. She stumbles and loses a shoe, then he hits her and she falls over, dragging a standard lamp down with her.
Joona and Erik move out of the way.
The man drags the woman to her feet, and the lamp rolls away and shines straight into the face of a large bearded man.
It’s Rocky Kyrklund.
He’s sitting completely naked in a red armchair, asleep. His head is leaning forward and his beard looks like it has grown into the hair on his chest. He’s injected himself in his right leg, and dark blood is trickling down his ankle.
Rocky isn’t alone. Beside him, on a sofa bed with no mattress, sits a woman with bleached-blonde hair, wearing a brown bra. Her pale blue panties are on the floor next to her. A plaster is hanging half off her knee.
She holds a lighter under a sooty spoon, and stares with glassy eyes at the small bubbles forming in the water. She licks her lips as she waits for the powder to dissolve, leaving the spoon full of pale yellow liquid.
Erik steps over a footstool and walks over to them, smelling the insipid aroma of heroin and hot metal as he comes to a halt.
‘Rocky?’ Erik says in a low voice.
