To the Top of the Mountain

by Arne Dahl

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ said Ljubomir.

  ‘You wanted one two hours ago, too. The same applies now: you can’t. The only thing you can do is look at these pictures. Your employer put them online. He’s the most careful leader there is when it comes to the drugs trade, but he’ll happily share pictures of his penis inside small children with the world. I’ve been working with paedophiles for a long time, much too long, but this strange, almost overpowering desire to share their perversions is something I’ll never understand. It undoes all their caution.’

  She pushed the pile of pictures towards him. He looked at it, and closed his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to.’

  She held up the first picture.

  It was her.

  Of course, it was her right away.

  It went on and on and on, and though he was crying, it went on and on. All were of her.

  He fell to pieces. He couldn’t do it. He slumped forward onto the interrogation-room table, his tears spilling onto the printouts, causing the colours to run onto the table in one big mess, covering his face. When he looked up he was a clown, a sobbing, colourful clown.

  ‘I could’ve stopped it,’ he wept. ‘She came to me each time. After every single time, she came to me, sat on my knee and called me “Uncle Jubbe”; crying and crying, beyond tears, just staring at me without tears, unable to say a word because she had no words for it, and every time, I thought: this has to be the last time, otherwise I’ll have to kill the bastard, but I didn’t do it, I didn’t do anything at all. I just looked away as she sat on my knee and said “Uncle Jubbe” but really meant “Help me, Uncle Jubbe, something’s happening and I don’t understand it and you’re so kind and you can help me.” But I wasn’t kind, I was the worst of the worst, because I turned a blind eye and saw nothing.’

  Sara Svenhagen closed her eyes for a moment, thinking wordlessly. She handed a tissue to Ljubomir Protic. He dried his eyes and looked down at the mix of colours on the paper. It looked like a paradise garden.

  ‘Who is “she”?’ asked Sara Svenhagen.

  Ljubomir looked at her through the haze, wronged.

  ‘Sonja, of course,’ he said. ‘My little Sonja.’

  ‘And Sonja is . . .?’

  ‘Rajko’s daughter. His daughter, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘And that’s her in these pictures?’

  Ljubomir grimaced. Then he nodded.

  ‘How old is Sonja Nedic now? Twenty?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ljubomir. ‘Exactly twenty.’

  ‘What kind of life does she live?’

  ‘She’s got her own car and her own flat. Studying maths at university. She tried to kill herself a year ago. Slashed her wrists. Lengthways. She almost died. But lately, whenever I’ve seen her in the house, she’s seemed happier. I remember thinking: I hope she’s found someone now, someone who can make her happy, who can give her a bit of the childhood she never had. I really hope so.’

  ‘Can you give us anything else?’

  ‘Rajko had the same childhood. I know, because I sat with him in the same way. As a child. In the little mountain village in eastern Serbia. Failed to comfort him in the same way. That’s why we left. To get away from it all. He thought he could leave his past behind and become someone else. But as soon as Sonja arrived, it returned. He started repeating his father’s actions. And I just sat there. Again. Jesus. Uncle Jubbe.’

  ‘What about the rest of the family?’

  ‘There are two children. He resisted temptation with the son. He’s three years older and involved in the organisation now. But he couldn’t resist Sonja. And the wife ignores it even more than I do. She shops her way out of reality, and Rajko cultivates his garden to create a paradise that he’s never understood.’

  ‘Other children?’

  ‘There have been others, too. I don’t know where he gets them from. Now that Sonja’s grown up, there are others. Maybe he buys them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘It’s too late now. I’ll tell you everything I know, Sara. You seem to be a capable woman, but I should tell you that I don’t actually know very much. I can start with his “security consultants”. Two disgusting Swedes, former policemen. From the Security Service. They’re called Gillis Döös and Max Grahn.’

  ‘You can tell the rest to the drugs squad. They’re waiting outside. What I want to know is where his paedophile den is. The flat with the soundproofed walls, covered in golden cushions.’

  Ljubomir smiled slightly behind his smeared, coloured mask.

  ‘He’s there now,’ he said. ‘In that place.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sara Svenhagen exclaimed. ‘And you didn’t say anything?!’

  ‘No, no,’ said Ljubomir. ‘It has another function now, that flat. Nothing to do with children.’

  Sara breathed out. She said: ‘And where is it?’

  ‘By Hornstull. Hornsgatan 131. Four flights up. It has the name Ahlström on the door. But he has at least five men with him, so be careful, Sara. They’ve got lots of weapons.’

  She nodded, looking at the man in front of her. Something had lit up in his eyes. Things which had been shut off and sealed up for years had been let out. Maybe he had, in some small way, repaid a tiny, tiny part of the debt to Sonja Nedic. His little Sonja.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Now Ljubomir could die in peace.

  He was Uncle Jubbe again.

  And now he was – finally – doing something about it.

  43

  PAUL HJELM HAD killed.

  He had been shot.

  Seeming to be at death’s door, Kerstin Holm had said that she loved him.

  Each of these things had been enough to change his life. He was forced to repress the whole lot in order to be able to take up the role of interrogator.

  Hultin had allocated the roles, after all.

  ‘Bloody typical that Kerstin should go and get shot just now,’ he said gruffly. ‘You can take Jorge with you. The two of you can look after the interrogations of Kullberg and Petrovic.’

  And so it came to pass that the former heroes became authorised interrogators.

  Jorge Chavez had panicked during the firefight.

  He had been given a slap by Hultin.

  He had built strange walls between him and the woman he had recently fallen in love with.

  These were also enough for a couple of metamorphoses. And these, too, had to be repressed.

  They entered the interrogation room in an isolated area of the police station. Inside, a short but broad man was sitting, a gap in his teeth, eyebrow taped up and bruises on his face. He smiled sardonically at them.

  ‘Look who it is,’ said Agne “Bullet” Kullberg. ‘The crybaby.’

  Chavez felt ill at ease. He sat down. Hjelm remained standing for a moment, looking at Kullberg. Trying to get a handle on him. Repressing the constant, nagging pain in his arm.

  ‘You’ve got a tough old bastard as a boss, though,’ Bullet continued.

  ‘Yup, Agne,’ said Hjelm. ‘We noticed that you were crying, that you were sick down the barrel of the gun. If we’re talking about crybabies.’

  He sat down. The opening had been equalised. Now it was what followed that counted. Bullet seemed slightly deflated. He looked down at the table.

  ‘We need to know what Niklas Lindberg is planning,’ said Hjelm calmly.

  ‘You’ve been going on about that for a while now,’ Bullet said to the table. ‘But I don’t bloody know. We were after the ten million kronor. That was the only plan I had in mind.’

  ‘So it was a normal robbery then, Agne? Without any ideological overtones?’

  ‘Yeah, it was about the money. Nothing else.’

  ‘Tell us about that tracking device, Agne.’

  ‘Don’t call me Agne all the time.’

  ‘I promise, Agne. Tell us now.’

  ‘Well, down in Sickl
a we got a quick look at the radio before the briefcase vanished. There was a piece of paper with the frequency on it. Using the type of radio and the frequency, I could put together a device to find the little tracking signal that kind of radio always puts out. We found a couple of signals early on and followed it along the E4. Then it disappeared. We kept driving down to Skåne anyway, ’til we realised that the briefcase must’ve disappeared somewhere on the way. Probably westwards. So we started making our way north. And in Trollhättan we found the signal again. And in Falköping. And then Skövde was logical. It was beeping the whole time there. We just had to follow it right into the hotel room.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you use your talents for something more sensible?’

  ‘I’m hoping to get the chance to do more training in Kumla. Then I’ll be really honourable.’

  ‘Why did you steal so much on your way through western Sweden?’

  ‘Why not? We stole everything we came across because it was there. No other reason. We’re robbers and we were looking for money – and as long as the briefcase was missing, we had to make do with small change. A man’s got to live, after all.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Lots of people died along the way, Agne. You don’t seem to be missing your mates.’

  ‘They weren’t my mates. They were colleagues.’

  ‘And Lindberg?’

  ‘A good leader. Nothing more. A hell of a physique on that man.’

  ‘Practically all of your colleagues in the gang were organised right-wing extremists. Are you telling us there was no ideological motive behind it?’

  ‘I’m not an organised right-wing extremist.’

  ‘But you’re a member of a shooting club with other, known right-wing extremists, Agne. Among them a couple of shady colleagues of ours. People who’ve attracted attention in connection with the Palme murder.’

  ‘Only by conspiracy theorists on TV. No, I’m a member because I like shooting. Fine motor skills are fascinating. Precision. And stop calling me Agne.’

  ‘I promise, Agne. We need two things: the make, colour and registration number of the van, and Niklas Lindberg’s current whereabouts.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea about any of that.’

  ‘You don’t know what type of van you were driving in, Agne?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten, unfortunately.’

  ‘Niklas Lindberg left just before we arrived at the hotel room. Why?’

  Bullet fell quiet. That wasn’t a common occurrence.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Chavez. ‘The picture’s quite clear. You’re trying your damnedest to make us think that you’re just a normal gang of robbers, interested only in money. Why’s it so important to make us think that? And why can’t you come up with any reasonable explanation as to why Niklas Lindberg wasn’t there when we arrived? Couldn’t he, I don’t know . . . have just gone out to take care of the money you’d left behind in the van?’

  ‘It was something like that,’ Bullet said apathetically. ‘The situation was under control. Danne and Rogge were going to have a bit of fun with the bird. That wasn’t Nicke’s style. He went out for a while to check everything was all right.’

  ‘Nice work, Agne,’ said Chavez. ‘So now we’ve got a reasonable explanation for that, too.’

  ‘Was it your style, Agne?’ asked Hjelm.

  ‘What?’ asked Bullet.

  ‘Having “a bit of fun with the bird”? A rape was actually taking place when we arrived.’

  ‘And you shot Danne in the back, yeah. Very brave. In the back. And then twice in the face while he was lying on the floor. He’d actually already been injured.’

  ‘I asked if it was your style, Agne.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t my style. I wasn’t planning on raping her. But someone has to be on guard.’

  ‘Do you know Risto Petrovic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That was quick. Don’t you think Agne answered really quickly, Jorge?’

  ‘Yup, it was an impressively quick answer from Agne. You must know that he was the one who leaked information about the Nedic handover to Lindberg in Kumla.’

  ‘Nicke was looking after all of that. I didn’t have anything to do with the Kumla part.’

  ‘Petrovic is a war criminal, organised fascist and Nicke’s friend from the Foreign Legion.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, that’s so, Agne. And it tells me that you weren’t a normal robber gang at all, but rather a fascist cadre on a task for some kind of international right-wing organisation, one which probably knows who murdered Olof Palme.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Yeah, I’m kidding, Agne. Danne Blood Pudding and apartheid South Africa’s still-strong security services don’t really go together.’

  ‘My name isn’t Agne.’

  ‘No, Agne. The attack you’re planning – and which Nicke surely hasn’t put on ice – is your own idea. But to get hold of that highly volatile liquid explosive, you need contacts within international groups. The problem is that they want to be paid. Don’t you get it, Agne, that you’re just small fry? They want money from you. They’ve got no intention of paying for your stupid little attack.’

  Chavez fell silent. They paused and observed Bullet Kullberg. It was here his facial expression should change slightly. It should say: ‘Just wait and see, idiots.’

  Bullet stared down at the table with a gaze that said: ‘Just wait and see, idiots.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hjelm and Chavez in unison.

  ‘For what?’ asked Bullet, staring at them with suspicion.

  ‘For the clue you just gave us, Agne,’ said Hjelm. ‘We’re really most grateful for it.’

  ‘What’re you up to, pea-brains?’

  Worry spread over Bullet’s face. His body began to tremble. Idiot, Chavez thought.

  ‘Why did you say your name wasn’t Agne, Agne?’

  ‘Was it because you aren’t called Agne, Agne?’

  ‘Because the person who is called Agne, Agne, is a little runt who was forced down into the dirt in the playground at Östra Real.’

  ‘And you’ve left Agne long behind you, Agne.’

  ‘Nerdy little Agne, smallest in the class, is so far away.’

  ‘So long since Agne got a thrashing from the big boys, Agne.’

  ‘So long since the girls walked past, one after one, giggling at little Agne’s hairless penis, Agne.’

  ‘So long since little Agne was throwing up down the barrel of a gun in Skövde, Agne.’

  ‘So long since Agne couldn’t get it up when he was trying to rape a little foreign bird in a hotel room in Skövde, Agne.’

  ‘You’re a bloody little shit, Agne.’

  ‘You’re an absolute zero, Agne. Nobody likes you, everybody hates you, because you’re just a worm.’

  ‘A devious little worm. Like your dick. A little worm with an even smaller worm. Agne Pagne.’

  Abrupt silence.

  They didn’t give a damn about Bullet now. Apathetic. Distant.

  ‘Should we go for a coffee?’ asked Chavez.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve got to pick Lotta up from nursery.’

  ‘Should we just leave this? It’s boring. He’s boring. What was he called again? Arne?’

  ‘Banarne.’

  They went to the door, talking among themselves.

  ‘What do Stockholmers and sperm have in common?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Not many of them ever become people.’

  ‘Gothenburg joke. Have you got one on Fulham–West Brom?’

  ‘Like hell I have. But I’ve got to go by the bottle shop. What time is it?’

  ‘Same as yesterday at the same time.’

  ‘Fuck off, you wog. Have you tried those new condoms with tees?’

  ‘Tees? Golf condoms for dense rough.’

  ‘On the other hand, Dame Edna’s running damn well at the minute. Sure bet in the seven at Valla.’

  ‘Benny Björn’s a hell of a name for a ho
rse.’

  They closed the door after them, and went over to look through the two-way mirror. Bullet looked completely out of balance. He was poking strangely at his forehead.

  ‘Pick Lotta up from nursery?’ asked Chavez, peeping through the window.

  ‘Or Benny Björn,’ said Hjelm, peeping. ‘That’s even.’

  They opened the door and went back into the room. Hjelm went straight up to Bullet and shouted, ten centimetres from his face: ‘World Police and Fire Games!’

  Bullet went stiff. It was utterly obvious.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he said weakly.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hjelm and Chavez in unison.

  ‘“Golf condoms for dense rough”?!’ exclaimed Ludvig Johnsson, reading from his computer screen.

  Gunnar Nyberg read his own. He laughed.

  ‘Jorge never censors his reports,’ he said.

  They read on. Once they were done, Johnsson said: ‘What a strange interrogation.’

  Nyberg bit into an ice-cold chicken leg, leaning back.

  ‘They’re damn reliable,’ he said. ‘A little unorthodox, but they know what they’re doing. I normally just heave myself over them like a grizzly bear.’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘They seem to have got it right. First they threw him off balance, knocked down the wall, then they gave him the shove. And it makes sense. The opening of the World Police and Fire Games is being held in Stockholm Stadium at three on Saturday. That doesn’t give us much time. I’ll be damned if Niklas Lindberg is going to blow policemen up in Stockholm Stadium!’

  They made their way to a little flat in the Stockholm suburb of Tumba, ringing Lars Viksjö from the car to let him know that they were coming. Viksjö, the stout policeman from Närke, had been abruptly transformed into Risto Petrovic’s personal babysitter.

  In the hall, three uniformed police assistants were sitting.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Chavez said smoothly to the porn police. ‘Have you caught any Mediterranean shrimps lately?’

  The porn police watched him sulkily.

  They entered the living room. Lars Viksjö was smoking a badly rolled cigarette which was spitting glowing flakes of tobacco out over the room, and Risto Petrovic was wolfing down spaghetti in front of the TV. Hjelm thought to himself that it reminded him of a film, but he couldn’t remember which. Several, probably.