Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1

by Helen Tursten

  “What were you and the shithead doing here on our property?”

  It was the tall, thin one who was aggressively leaning over Irene. Safer not to lie. Not too much. She was very dizzy and had a hard time finding the words, but she did her best. She slurred, “We were on a stakeout . . . narcotics . . . police.”

  She closed her eyes and pretended to pass out again. Then the telephone rang. Squinting through half-closed eyes she saw the fat leader, bewildered, looking at the phone he was holding in his right hand. The thin one snatched it from him and unfolded it.

  They could all hear a worried female voice say, “Irene? It’s Birgitta. What’s going on?”

  At first he cast a dubious glance at Irene, but suddenly he raised the phone to his mouth.

  “Fuck you!” he yelled.

  Then he folded it up and broke into a contented grin. “That’ll give the bitch something to think about!” he said happily.

  The leader reared back and took a powerful swing. The blow from his fist landed squarely on the other man’s chin. From Irene’s perspective it looked as if he jumped straight up in the air and simply vanished. But from the thud that followed she knew that he had landed against the door.

  The powerful leader massaged his knuckles as he screamed, “You stupid fuck! If a cop’s phone rings, you ought to know there’s another fucking cop on the other end!”

  Another one of the gang could be counted out. At least for a while.

  “Shit! She said it was the Narcs! God damn it!”

  The fat one went over and stuck a heavy motorcycle boot into the left side of her ribs. There was a dry crack—at least one rib had gone. There was nothing feigned about the moan that came from her lips.

  “Answer, you fucking slut! How long have you known about this place?”

  “Don’t remember . . . got a tip . . . a tip.”

  “Was it that shithead Bobo who tipped you? Answer!”

  At first she was so surprised that she almost opened her eyes. There it was! A connection! But she quickly regained her composure. “Don’t know . . . I didn’t . . . answer.”

  “Did the tip come by phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  Good heavens! When? When would be logical? She had to trust her intuition.

  “This morning.”

  The leader took a deep breath before he screamed furiously, “That fucking asshole! He split with the bread. Then he sets the cops on us while we sit here with our pants down! I knew we couldn’t trust that miserable shit!”

  He paused to ponder the new facts that Irene had served up to him. It seemed to ring true to him.

  “You should be damned glad that we don’t have a lot of time. But . . .” He turned to his pals. Even the thin one was now up on wobbly legs, staggering toward them. A malicious grin slid across his flabby face when the leader continued, “What does a Hell’s Angel do with the fucking cops? Right! Like this!”

  All four of them lined up in a row. They pulled down the zippers on their leather pants, pulled out their dicks, and started to piss, on Irene and Jimmy. The little blond laughed so hard she howled, slapped her knees, and had to lean against the wall.

  It’s nothing dangerous. It’s only urine. This can’t be happening! We won’t die of it. Good God, let it be over soon. Silently Irene repeated this incantation to keep her hysteria in check. The stench of the hot piss on her face made her start to vomit.

  Then it was over. The light was switched off and they went out, laughing. Before he slammed the door, the leader turned and said, “Don’t you dare open the door if you want to live. Besides I’m putting on the padlock.”

  The way Irene was feeling, she wouldn’t be able to move for quite a while. Her first reaction when the door closed behind the gang was an incredible sense of relief. They were gone. She could hear the heavy motorcycles in the sea of mud outside. They had been parked along the front of the barn.

  Suddenly, she was aware that it was completely quiet outside. With all her senses on full alert, she sat up. Her rib hurt but she hardly noticed it. Carefully she stood. Stooping, half crawling, she moved over to the window by the door. Cautiously, she peered out from a corner of the broken windowpane.

  The lamp attached to the wall outside cast a faint circle of light, and at the very edge she could discern the contours of four motorcycles and the gleam of leather overalls. On command they all started their machines at once. Three of them drove off, but the fourth lingered. Irene could see him make a throwing motion with his arm before he too took off. He had tossed something in through the broken window and instinctively she wanted to take cover. But several years of experience as a goalie on the police women’s handball team now served her well. The little ball was surprisingly heavy. A Hell’s Angel had thrown it, so it must be a hand grenade. The deep grooves in it confirmed what her intuition had told her. Without a conscious thought she flung it back out the window.

  The hot pressure wave of the explosion seared her face. A magnesium-white light set fire to the darkness and arced out in all directions. The blinding light sucked away all sensory impressions and left her for a second in a cold, dark vacuum. The blast deafened her. Soon the total silence was replaced by a powerful pain and a shrill whistling sound that tore at her ears. Spots danced before her eyes in all the colors of the rainbow. Her field of vision was constricted from the sides, and a new wave of nausea rose up from her diaphragm. Her sight vanished; she was blind. The uncontrolled shaking returned, but it wasn’t because of the cold. She sank down with her back to the wall. Whimpering, she slowly began to move toward where she thought the door was. Finally she felt the dry planks of the old stable door under her lacerated fingertips. She got it open by flinging herself desperately against the wood with her full weight, breaking off the rotten hasp. She staggered out into the rain and sank down on her knees, sat back on her heels, let her hands rest lightly on the tops of her thighs, and closed her eyes. She went into Mokuso while the rain rinsed away the piss.

  That was the position they found her in.

  Chapter Thirteen

  SHE HADN’T BEEN IN the hospital since she had the twins. At first she protested at being kept overnight, but a determined and motherly nurse explained to her calmly and objectively, “You’ve had a blow to the back of your neck, which could cause bleeding and breathing paralysis. You could die before you got back to the hospital! And we don’t want that. Here we can check you during the night and see right away if any complications arise. Agreed?”

  A little upset, Irene agreed. She had a sharp pain in her neck all of a sudden. She carefully lifted the ice pack and touched the swollen area. As big as a small hen’s egg. Sore. She was feeling dizzy and a bit nauseated. Most of all, she was tired and wanted to sleep. But it would have to wait. After a hot shower she had to put on a clean hospital gown, which was about as sexy as a garbage bag. Doctors and nurses ran in and out of the room. They talked to her to check that she wasn’t about to slip into unconsciousness, took her blood pressure, and shone flash-lights into her eyes to check the size of her pupils. When she ventured to ask a pimply youth why, he replied glibly, “If one pupil gets bigger than the other, it’s all over!”

  Fortified with this information, she decided to surrender. If only she could be left in peace! But it took several hours before she was allowed, exhausted, to sink into a light and restless slumber. She was constantly awakened by people who came in to check something or other.

  Before this, Sven Andersson and Tommy Persson had been in to talk to her. Neither of them could hide his concern or relief. Tommy gave her a big hug. She shrieked, but excused herself, “Sorry, Tommy, but I’m black and blue all over. Look!”

  Like a little kid she exhibited a bruised shoulder and hip, abraded hands and knees. She ended by saying, “The doctor thought that my rib down here is crushed but not broken. I have to take it easy for a while. How’s Jimmy doing?”

  Tommy replied somberly, “He’s awake, but he too
k much harder blows to the skull than you did. How did that happen? Did they see that you were a girl, or what?”

  “No, hardly! My baseball cap cushioned the blow. I had turned it backward so that the bill lay over my turned-up jacket collar. They probably didn’t see it in the dark. He also took a few kicks to the head when we were inside the barn,” Irene said glumly.

  A busy time followed when she had to try to remember everything that happened and what was said. The superintendent was obviously interested when she told him that Bobo’s name had been mentioned.

  “‘He split with the bread. Then he sets the cops on us while we sit here with our pants down!’ The fat guy said something like that.”

  She had a feeling that Andersson was about to explode with secrets he was holding on to, but he was stopped by Tommy’s sharp look. Who cared? She’d find out soon enough. Sleep. To be allowed to go to sleep and not have to think. Then the twins and Krister came in, in a flurry of tears and hugs. The motherly nurse who was evidently her personal Guardian Angel had promised them ten minutes, even though the doctor had advised against all visits and strong emotions. Irene tried to sound tough. “Ha! Strong emotions! After what I’ve been through today, I’d consider anything under seven-point-five on the Richter scale peaceful!”

  Andersson winked at Krister. “She’s getting better.”

  Irene saw Tommy give Jenny’s head, clad in a cap, a long look. When Krister carefully hugged Irene and kissed her on the cheek, she whispered in his ear, “On Wednesday Tommy is coming to dinner. See that Jenny is home.”

  Krister looked astonished, but just nodded. Katarina gave her parents a suspicious look.

  “What are you whispering about?” she asked.

  “About how happy I am to have you all here. And that I’m coming home tomorrow.”

  Krister smiled, but the worried furrow in his brow was unusually deep.

  “The nurse said that you probably can go home tomorrow. I’ll come and get you. I’m taking the whole day off. I’ve switched with Sverker. And by then they’ll probably have the car out of the ditch.”

  “The ditch? The car?”

  “It sank into the dune by the ditch where you parked it. But the tow truck will pull it out. Everything’s under control. Sammie sends plenty of licks. And we do too.”

  There was more hugging and kissing, and then the Guardian Angel came and shooed them all out. Exhaustion flooded over Irene; she wanted only to sink down into the depths and rest. But her sleep was shallow and restless.

  BEFORE IRENE left the hospital she had to see to Jimmy Olsson. Krister had brought her some clean clothes; she was greatly relieved that she wouldn’t have to pay a visit in her hospital gown. Jimmy was in the same ward. The Guardian Angel showed her to the right room.

  She knocked softly and opened the door a crack. Jimmy looked like a cartoon character, but the situation was anything but funny, and Irene felt her throat tighten with sympathy. She limped into the room. Jimmy was awake, and his one visible eye lit up when he saw her. The other was hidden behind a compress. His head was wrapped in an elastic bandage, which held a plastic splint in place. There was an IV in his left arm. What she could see of his face was swollen and purple. But his voice sounded happy.

  “Hello, Irene!”

  “Hello yourself.”

  She placed her hand over his uninjured left hand and patted it a little in awkward encouragement. She had a big lump in her throat that refused to be dislodged. She managed to say in a light voice, “Now you know what it’s like to go on a stakeout with someone from Violent Crimes. Talk about expanding your horizons and your contact network. A close contact with Hell’s Angels!”

  He started to laugh, just as she had hoped. “Damn! It hurts when I laugh,” he said with a grimace.

  Contritely, she patted his hand again and asked, “How’s the concussion?”

  “It’s okay. Now I’ll have something to blame in the future. But seriously, I don’t feel too bad. Just a headache. I’ll probably have to stay here a few days. Do you know if anything happened out in Billdal?”

  “No. All I know is they had to pull my car out of the ditch. But it went okay. If I can, I’ll go downtown and look at mug shots this afternoon.”

  “Of Hell’s Angels?”

  “Exactly. Can’t say that I’m looking forward to seeing their lovely mugs again, but I’ve got to bring them in!”

  “Wait for me, because I’ve got some scores to settle too.”

  Now a red flame glowed in the depths of his one visible eye. The effect was weird against the surrounding purple swelling. She understood him. There was a black depth within her from which voices whispered, Revenge! Murder! Retribution! Forbidden and meaningless thoughts. She straightened up and forced a smile.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow and tell you what’s going on with the investigation. Take care of yourself.”

  AT HOME there were wild scenes of joy with Sammie, and he was also given a brief stroll to pee while Krister fixed lunch. She was allowed to pick anything she wanted. It was pasta with Gorgonzola sauce and a tomato and basil salad. They spoke about everything except yesterday’s events. She couldn’t face it. The black hole was too big, the voices too insistent. Krister understood and talked about other things.

  “What was that about Tommy having dinner here tomorrow?”

  “He had such a strong reaction when I told him about Jenny. He wants to talk to her. He went on and on about it being everyone’s responsibility and that all skinheads are our children. Krister, I think we should let him take this up with Jenny! It can’t do any harm, anyway. He’s the only cop I know who works actively for Amnesty International. He’s so involved.”

  He nodded, noticing that she was eating unusually little. He secretly scrutinized her. Normally she pulsated with energy, but now her vitality and power seemed diminished. They had known each other for sixteen years, but he had never seen her like this before.

  The telephone rang. It was Sven Andersson. He wondered how she was feeling and whether she was able to come down to headquarters.

  “I’ll drive you, dear. Then call me when you’re ready to come home and I’ll pick you up,” said Krister. It would be good for her to have something else to think about. Although sitting and looking at photos of the ones who had beat her up less than twenty-four hours earlier was probably not the best distraction, of course.

  THE SUPERINTENDENT and Tommy were waiting for her. Before them on the table lay closed folders of criminal records. Andersson patted one and said, “We’ll talk first. A lot has happened in the past twenty-four hours. Especially for you. How are you doing?”

  “Well, so-so,” Irene replied. “I was lucky. It’s worse for Jimmy.”

  “I talked to the hospital an hour ago. He has to stay there at least another night. But we have to talk about this damned mess of an investigation. As I said, a lot has happened. We’ve got Narcotics involved with Billdal. First they give us a lousy little assistant, and then the whole division comes and takes over!”

  “Sven, please. Don’t call Jimmy ‘a lousy little assistant.’”

  “Hmm. It turns out that International has had a motorcycle gang on the west side of Göteborg under surveillance for several months. They’re suspected of smuggling in large quantities of narcotics via Holland and Denmark. These scumbags are connected to the Hell’s Angels, the gang that you and Jimmy ran into. They call themselves ... ‘Ded skvadron n-o one.’”

  She understood that he meant “Death Squadron No. 1.” Without laughing she said, “I wonder if they can spell it. What did the Narcs find out at the cottage in Billdal?”

  Tommy took over. “Actually quite a bit. The grenade you talked about yesterday left a small crater. The door of the cottage was broken in. We found some pizza boxes and empty beer cans in the kitchen. In the little bedroom there was a bed, and on it was a brand-new down sleeping bag. On the floor was a plastic box and a receipt from Allsport on Södra Vägen dated last Friday. Today we ch
ecked with the staff at the sporting goods store and it turned out that Bobo Torsson bought it.”

  “Excellent! But you’ll have to excuse someone who was just hit hard on the head—what does this all mean? Von Knecht? Pirjo and the murder bomb? Shorty, Bobo, and Hell’s Angels?”

  Both the superintendent and Tommy stared at her for a long time. Finally Tommy said, “And it gets even messier. We knew about it yesterday, but didn’t want to tell you. We didn’t want to upset you. Bobo Torsson is dead.”

  “Torsson is dead? Keep going, before I fall over!”

  “Remember the car bomb in the parking lot at the Delsjön golf course early yesterday morning?”

  Was it really only yesterday? It felt like several years ago, but she nodded to show that she was following. She began to understand the reason for Andersson’s restrained agitation when he’d come to see her at the hospital.

  Tommy said dramatically, “The techs found parts of a body, including a finger. The fingerprint shows that it was Bobo Torsson who was blown sky-high! And the car turned out to be Torsson’s.”

  She wondered vaguely why the superintendent quickly interjected, “A red Toyota Corolla.”

  “Give me strength!” was Irene’s only, but spontaneous, comment.

  Andersson took over and nodded in assent. “Yeah, that’s what I said too. ‘Holy shit,’ I said. How are we going to make any sense of this? But now the Narcs have agreed to join the investigation. Which in all honesty is lucky for us, because this is starting to get out of control!”

  “What kind of bomb was it?” Irene asked.

  Tommy gave her a rundown of the details. “A pipe bomb. In a briefcase that exploded when the briefcase was opened. The iron pipe was the same type used on Berzeliigatan, but much smaller. Svante thinks the type of pipe is interesting. They’re old threaded drainpipes of different diameters. Modern ones are made of plastic, so they’re no good for making bombs.”