by Arne Dahl
Sara Svenhagen sent a message from Trollhättan, saying that she had coaxed three previously unknown Stockholm addresses out of Lindberg’s parents and ex-wife. Hultin and Norlander were talking to people who didn’t understand a thing, who had never heard of Niklas Lindberg, and who were openly unpleasant. These were two men who didn’t hesitate to get tough when they needed to, but that didn’t get them very far. The unpleasant people really did know nothing.
Söderstedt came up with a vague new idea for Petrovic. He found a web page for an international fascist organisation which seemed unexpectedly official. What if they threatened to say that Petrovic had squealed to the police? Hjelm and Chavez took the threat to Petrovic. He did seem slightly worried. But not enough. They tried everything they could think of, but it didn’t help. He remained silent.
Huge numbers of policemen were searching the stadium and the surrounding area. Lindberg wouldn’t dare be inside the stadium when the bomb went off. Still, he had to be somewhere with a view of it. This meant going to every building with a view into the stadium in Östermalm. There were a few of them, and Operation Door Knocking was in full swing. So far, they had been given a few tips, but nothing hot. People didn’t seem to like their neighbours.
The night passed. Hjelm and Chavez pressed Bullet again and again. It was hopeless. He wouldn’t talk.
They began to seriously discuss more illegal methods. Torture was on the table for a while. It was a deeply uncomfortable moment, although they didn’t realise this until afterwards. As though democracy had suddenly gone up in smoke. As though the Swedish flag had suddenly gone up with a bang.
Eventually, it was eleven o’clock. They were staring at one another. Bullet on the one side, Hjelm and Chavez on the other.
Deadlock.
‘Four hours left,’ Hjelm said stubbornly. ‘If an attack on Stockholm Stadium takes place, you’ll never see daylight again, other than through bars. It’ll be a long training stretch.’
Bullet peered at them.
‘Are you ready to throw your whole life away for this stupid attack?’ Chavez asked, equally stubbornly. ‘Is it really worth it, just to kill a few firemen from Venezuela?’
Bullet stared straight ahead.
‘Fucking hell!’ Chavez shouted, storming noisily out of Bullet’s cell.
Hjelm remained. His mobile was ringing.
‘One last chance,’ Hultin said in his ear. ‘One of those unpleasant people got in touch. She was talking about a possible girlfriend, Lindberg’s, in Gnesta. Are you two coming?’
‘Yes,’ said Hjelm without hesitation.
He called for the guard and made sure that the door was locked on Agne “Bullet” Kullberg. The guard was a faithful old servant, shuffling off back to his desk out at the entrance to the station’s cells. He watched Hjelm disappear. The whole night, he thought to himself, shaking his head. Don’t you have a life, boys? Don’t you have families? Friends? Look at me, I work nine to five and I’m doing fine. What’s the use of wearing yourselves out like this? Does it make you happier?
After a few minutes, a man walked up to his desk, held up his police ID and said: ‘Agne Kullberg, please.’
The guard shook his head and said: ‘You boys never give up, do you? Sign here, Detective Superintendent.’
He followed the man along the corridors, letting him into Agne Kullberg’s cell. A sought-after man.
The guard’s eyes followed the man for a few seconds. He had just noticed the smell of old, ingrained sweat. Couldn’t he at least have taken a shower first? And changed out of those old running clothes?
The guard shook his head and returned to the desk where he stood every weekday, nine to five. He had done what was expected of him.
Ludvig Johnsson moved towards Bullet and showed him his ID. Without a word, he stepped closer and pushed a needle into his arm.
Gunnar Nyberg came slowly back to life. A tiny square appeared somewhere and started to unfold, bit by bit, until his entire field of vision had returned. Though it didn’t look the same. His head throbbed violently, and when he tried to get to his feet, all 146 kilos slumped back into the plastic chair with a thud.
The computers had run out of power, their screens jet black. He tried the first of the mobile phones. It had run out, too. There was a hint of life in the second.
As he keyed in Hultin’s number, he tried to make sense of what had happened. He managed to raise his arm, looking at his watch. Christ, he thought. Twenty-five to four. It was all over.
Rather than growing desperate, he tried to think. There was one thing that Ludvig Johnsson had stressed during their attempt at a joint investigation, and one thing only. That Bullet Kullberg was the weak link.
‘Hultin,’ said a voice in his ear.
‘Where are you?’ asked Nyberg, not recognising his own voice. It was a feeling he knew well.
‘Gunnar? Where are you?’
‘Grillby. But to hell with that. This is important.’
‘We’re at the station. We just got back. We’ve been in Gnesta, talking to Lindberg’s girlfriend. They split up six months ago, and had only ever seen one another in Kumla. Didn’t give anything new.’
‘Ludvig’s gone after Bullet. Check.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ said Hultin. ‘Are you coming?’
‘As fast as I can,’ said Nyberg, hanging up.
He tried to get to his feet once again. It went better this time. Though God only knew if he could drive.
The only thing he knew was that he would never see Ludvig Johnsson again.
That was absolutely certain.
Sorrow coursed through him like hot lava.
Hultin, Hjelm and Chavez arrived at the desk by the cells in the police station in record time. The guard looked tired. Not again. Get a life, guys. Yes, Detective Superintendent Ludvig Johnsson had been there. In sweaty jogging clothes. Yes, he’d been in with Kullberg for almost an hour. No, no one had been there since.
They ran down the cell-lined corridor. The guard ran alongside them. It was a long time since his legs had done any running.
He let them in.
Bullet Kullberg was bound to the chair with four leather belts. His face was swollen and bruised, his nails sticking out at unnatural angles from his fingers. His trousers were around his ankles, his genitals black and blue. A strip of silver tape had been stuck over his mouth.
His eyes were closed.
Hultin tore the tape from his mouth. Bullet woke. He looked at them, alarmed.
‘Don’t kill me,’ he said faintly.
Hjelm looked into his eyes. His gaze had changed.
‘He’s been drugged,’ he said.
‘Christ,’ said Chavez.
‘Ludvig seems to have taken it personally,’ said Hultin. ‘OK, hello. Agne. We’re not going to kill you. Take it easy. Just tell us what you told Johnsson. Then we’ll save Lindberg.’
‘You were right,’ said Bullet, looking strangely at Hjelm and Chavez. ‘I was a nerd at school. Shitty Agne. I went by the name Shitty Agne the whole time I was at school. Always Shitty Agne. My name isn’t Agne, you bastards.’
‘What did you tell Ludvig Johnsson?’ asked Hjelm. ‘Come on, Bullet.’
‘I said that there’d never been any parade of girls looking at my hairless dick. Never. But I remember when they tied my hands behind my back with a towel and hit my dick until it was blue. Look how blue it is.’
‘That was Ludvig Johnsson who did that, Bullet,’ said Chavez. ‘No one’s calling you Agne any more.’
‘No,’ Bullet panted. ‘No. My name’s Bullet. I’m the toughest guy you’ll ever meet.’
‘Bullet!’ Hjelm shouted. ‘Focus! Where’s Nicke?’
‘Valhallavägen 88, obviously. What do you think, you arseholes? That’s it.’
They left. Running through the police station.
‘Time?’ asked Hultin.
‘Five past,’ said Chavez.
‘The National Task Force?’ asked Hjelm. ‘Where are they?’
>
‘The stadium,’ said Hultin, keying in a number. ‘Hello? Task Force? We’ve got an address. Valhallavägen 88. Top floor, probably. It’s vital that he doesn’t get a chance to press the detonator. Everything else is irrelevant.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Hjelm.
He was sitting on the balcony. In his hand lay the miniature calculator, one single red button. He ran his thumb gently down one side of it. All power gathered in a single point. That was how it should be. It was a simplification. People couldn’t cope with democracy. The democratic era had been the bloodiest in the history of mankind. That spoke for itself. A simple, pure way of life. That was all he wanted. But it meant breaking a few eggs.
He looked down towards Stockholm Stadium. A perfect view. They really did have resources. He was impressed, and that didn’t happen too often. Not since February ’86.
The ceremony began. It was a fine summer’s day, but rain clouds loomed in the distance. The weather would soon change.
It really would.
First the music – it was strangely distorted when it reached him. Then the procession. Presumably Sweden would be leading the other countries. The flag would explode. This had been in the works for so long. The flag would be torn to shreds. The proudest thing they had.
He felt a sharp pain in his hand. Like cramp. When he looked down, a wasp was hanging from his thumb. He put the detonator down on the table and squashed the wasp with his middle finger. The pain spread through his hand.
Ironic, he thought, hearing the click.
The click of a gun being taken off safety.
He turned, looking back towards the flat. In the doorway stood a bald man dressed in running clothes. He was pointing a gun at him.
‘I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes, waiting for you to put that thing down,’ said Ludvig Johnsson.
‘A wasp stung me,’ said Niklas Lindberg.
‘The police force, saved by a wasp. So ironic.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Move towards it and I’ll shoot. Come this way, slowly.’
Niklas Lindberg was motionless. His pistol was jammed into the top of his trousers. He wouldn’t have time to grab it. But the detonator? There would have to be a . . . victim. Posthumous recognition.
He tried. His hand moved quickly.
Ludvig Johnsson emptied the magazine into him. His hand reached the edge of the table but no further. It sank downwards.
Johnsson stood still, breathing heavily.
Hanna, Micke, Stefan – my gift to you.
He went out onto the balcony and carefully, carefully took hold of the little black device with the red button.
Just then, the door burst open. The National Task Force stormed in.
They saw the man on the balcony. In a flash, they saw the detonator in his hand. And they shot him.
They shot so many bullets into him that it would never be possible to count them. His body went limp, and they kept shooting. His body was thrown backwards towards the edge of the balcony, and they kept shooting. They kept shooting even as it floated down through the Stockholm air like a mediocre skydiver, hitting the pavement of Valhallavägen with a dull, inhuman thud.
On the table next to the dead Niklas Lindberg, the detonator lay.
It had fallen red side up.
Down in Stockholm Stadium, the opening ceremony was in full swing.
48
GUNNAR NYBERG SANG. He sang as though his life was at stake. He was standing at the edge of the choir in the beautiful Kungsholmen church, putting every ounce of his being into it. His bass tone risked overpowering the rest of the choir.
‘The Time of Blossoming Now Arrives’.
Simple as that.
At Ludvig Johnsson’s funeral, he had sung solo. A short Verdi aria. One of many songs at the hero’s funeral. Detective Superintendent Ragnar Hellberg had given a magnificent speech, and not a single irregularity was mentioned. On the contrary, the police corps had finally found its long-sought-after hero. The story was doctored to suit the tabloids, in firm control of the country’s dramaturgy. Johnsson had tracked down Lindberg himself, rendered him harmless and been shot by him in the process. He had died a hero’s death.
A hero who had tortured a suspect.
Two days after his death, the full material on Rajko Nedic’s crimes arrived from Ludvig’s childhood friend in Säffle.
As he sang, Nyberg imagined for a moment that he had caught sight of a family at the very back of the room. Two small boys, a mother and a father. The father had his arms around his family, laughing happily. At everything and at nothing.
On the other hand, he saw a lot while he sang.
As soon as this was all over, he would finally go on holiday. He would travel to Östhammar and descend upon his son’s family. For a long, long while.
In the extensive material from the investigation, there were no irregularities when it came to Gunnar Nyberg.
He sang for his life, glancing over to the other side of the large police choir. Kerstin Holm was there, a bandage wrapped around her head. She smiled at him as she sang. He smiled back.
Kerstin Holm was the choir’s second alto. She united the other voices even though what she was singing didn’t remotely resemble ‘The Time of Blossoming Now Arrives’.
She was singing for her life. Because several inexplicable millimetres had separated her from death. She sang and gave thanks, but she didn’t know who to thank. Not even here, in this room, did she know for sure who to thank. Or why.
She thought of Orpheus and Eurydice. She and Paul had visited Per Karlsson’s flat in Aspudden. No one had been there for quite some time. A layer of dust had started to gather on Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which lay open on the table, and in the disorder, they had found an old yearbook from the school in Danderyd. After a few moments of searching, they found Per Karlsson’s class photo. The seventh grade. He was small and pale, almost a head shorter than the second shortest in the class. He looked morose. And in the background, there was a tall, dark girl. She looked tough. Her name was Sonja Nedic.
Eurydice had checked into the hotel in Skövde under the name Sonja Karlsson. Afterwards, she became Baucis.
Rajko Nedic’s daughter must have taken the two mobile phones from her father’s restaurant in Stockholm; she must have found out, somehow, that her father was planning to make a large financial transaction and that the meeting place would be decided in Kvarnen on the evening of 23 June. So she sent her beloved Per Karlsson, the Orpheus who had brought her back from the underworld, the Philemon with whom she would grow old and would die alongside, and he found out that the meeting would take place in the Sickla industrial estate. The pair made their way there, and if they had tried to steal from her father’s ferocious gang of war criminals, then they would most likely have been slaughtered. But that didn’t happen. Instead, they were more or less handed the briefcase – by a gang of Nazi robbers, paradoxically enough. They took it and fled. But there was no money inside, only a key. Sonja tried to think of possible safe-deposit boxes. She had no idea, but she knew where her father sold his drugs. They split up, each looking in a different place. Two meandering routes across the map of Sweden.
Paul and Kerstin wandered on through Per Karlsson’s little flat. Strange wooden sculptures stood everywhere, shapes of all kinds, and a box room had been turned into a workshop. The floor was covered in iron filings, and in a rubbish bin there was a piece of sheet iron. From this, a key had been punched. A comparison with the safe-deposit-box key revealed identical teeth and notches.
And then, just over a week after the World Police and Fire Games began, a charity supporting the rights of children announced that a large sum of money had been deposited anonymously into their account. Five million kronor, to be precise. The money had been paid in from Paris.
Baucis and Philemon had found their safe-deposit box.
Kerstin Holm sang, thinking that for the first time in her life, justice had been done.
&nb
sp; She looked down to Jan-Olov Hultin, sitting with his wife in the front row, in the middle of the rowdy Chavez family. Pappa Chavez, Carlos, glanced suspiciously from time to time at the man with the enormous nose and owl-like glasses. Hadn’t someone very similar split his eyebrow during a veterans’ football match once?
Hultin was longing for his lawn. He was longing, like Sisyphus, to push his manual lawnmower up and down the slope, avoiding all weeds in accordance with the sadly neglected principle of ‘Live and let live’.
Then he would bathe in Ravalen, make a comeback in the Stockholm Police veterans’ football team, travel to Greece, and never, ever shoot another person. Enough was enough.
Still, he wouldn’t retire just yet.
And it was harder than ever to tell weeds from grass.
He glanced over the aisle to Viggo Norlander. He was sitting, dressed in a much-too-tight dress coat, next to Astrid. Little Charlotte, with her inward-backward-sloping mug, was hanging over his shoulder. From her mouth a chalk-white dribble of vomit ran like bird shit onto the shoulder of his jacket. Then she started to scream. Norlander patted her gently on the back, and didn’t say ‘shut up’ even once.
Norlander looked over the aisle towards a curious gathering of white heads. He had never seen the entire Söderstedt family gathered in one place before. Arto Söderstedt sat, hair slicked back like someone from the 1930s, following Norlander’s eyes as they moved, step by step, over five white-haired children’s heads, over a white-haired mother’s head, and on to the slicked-back white hair of the father’s. He saw these steps, laughed to himself, and pointed at his shoulder. Norlander prodded the mess with his finger and shook his head.
Söderstedt was thinking about the bank loan he had been forced to take out to pay for their brand-new family car, a Toyota Picnic. He knew that he should be thinking about lots of other things, but he didn’t have the energy. Not yet. He thought about how fun it would be, driving again. It was finally time for a holiday – the family had a car, but no money to go anywhere. He thought that he was nearing a fundamental societal paradox. But he didn’t have the energy to work it out. Not yet.
