“Do we know what Bobo was cooking up with the Hell’s Angels?”
“No. On Friday he bought a sleeping bag and headed out to the summer cottage. He probably knew we wanted to talk to him about the attack on Birgitta. We don’t know what he was up to on Saturday and Sunday. But on Monday morning, at six o’clock on the dot, he was blown to bits by a bomb in his car!”
Irene looked just as confused as she felt when she asked, “Fatso thought that Bobo had split with the bread! What bread, I have to ask. Then he got the idea that Bobo had squealed and set us on the trail out to Billdal. While they ‘sat and waited with their pants down,’ as he expressed it. What did he mean by that?”
Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “Good questions. I don’t have any good answers. We know that the biker gang hadn’t been at Bobo’s cottage for very long. At most a few hours. On the other hand, we found plenty of traces of them in the summer cabins a few hundred meters away. They obviously stayed there a few days. We’re still looking into things, although now Narcotics has taken over. But we do know one thing: how they knew that you were on the way.”
“I’d really like to know that!”
“They had set up an electric eye by the road, hidden in the lumber pile. When you crossed the beam an alarm went off inside the house.”
“But why?”
“My theory is that they wanted to be forewarned in case anyone showed up, because they were busy with things that absolutely could not be seen by strangers. Actually, I can’t imagine any activity of theirs that outsiders might see. Except when they ride around in big gangs on their choppers and look generally terrifying.”
So it hadn’t done them any good to turn off their flashlights and stumble blindly through the dark. Again the feeling of total helplessness came over her. She tried to control it and said matter-of-factly, “So we could have been struck down when we got to the summer cabins. Why weren’t we?”
“They must have wanted to know who you were.”
“I think I need some coffee before I look my Hell’s Angels in the eyes. Even if it’s only in mug shots.”
Irene and Tommy went to get three cups of coffee from the vending machine. Mainly to put off confronting the photos. Suddenly an idea occurred to her.
“Tommy, have you questioned Shorty about this?”
“Have I! Ask Andersson!”
His cheerful response provoked premonitions that were verified by the superintendent.
“That idiot is nuts! We took him in last night, three guys from Narcotics and Fredrik Stridh from our group. We had known for three hours Bobo Torsson had been blown up in the car at the golf course. When the guys rang Shorty’s doorbell he tore open the door as if he’d been standing there holding the knob! He yelled something like ‘You fucking photo queer . . .’ and then he shut up. Then that idiot started throwing punches! Since he was high on something, he mostly hit thin air. Which was damned lucky for our guys. Finally they got him on the floor and cuffed him. But they had a hell of a time getting him to the car! Right after we visited you in the hospital, I went to question the honorable tobacco dealer.”
Andersson paused and took a big gulp of his coffee. It wasn’t very fortifying, but he needed it before he could continue. “He refused to talk. Sat there staring into thin air. Finally I thought I’d better shake him up a little. ‘Listen, you scumbag, do you know that Bobo’s dead?’ I said. He just kept on staring. After at least two minutes, when I had repeated that Bobo was dead several times, the devil seized hold of him! He jumped me and tried to get me in a choke hold! Howling like a wounded gorilla! Luckily Tommy was with me in the interrogation room, along with Bertil from Narcotics. And a few more came rushing in. That was the end of the interview last night. This morning we tried again, with strange results.”
“What kind of strange results?” asked Irene.
“At nine-thirty this morning Tommy and I went to see him in the interrogation room. There sits Shorty Johannesson, public enemy number one, neat and dapper, newly showered and shaved. When we come in the shithead says, ‘Forgive me for yesterday, superintendent. But it was such a shock when you said that Bobo was dead. I couldn’t believe it.’ And he gives me the most angelic look in the world. I was completely at a loss. I probably said, ‘That’s quite all right’ or something of the sort. Then he says, ‘Pardon me, but how did Bobo die?’ And without thinking I told him about the bomb in the briefcase and all that. After that Shorty never opened his mouth.”
“Didn’t say a thing?”
“Not a damned word! We kept at him for several hours—nothing.”
“That’s weird.”
“Weird? You can bet your . . . boots!”
He changed the end of the sentence abruptly after a curt knock was followed by the door opening. Prosecutor Inez Collin made her entrance and filled the small room with her authority and the scent of Chloë. She was slim and almost as tall as Irene. Her long blond hair was worn in a tight French roll. The hairdo and the high-heeled pumps with the dark gray suit made her look even taller. Her makeup was discreet, but the bright red silk blouse and her manicured nails were the same color. She smiled and said, “Hello. Excuse me for interrupting, but there’s a little problem with Lasse Johannesson.”
Andersson nodded and said courteously, “Hello. There’s always been a problem with Lasse Johannesson.”
“No doubt. It has to do with his arrest. From what I understand, there are no grounds for requesting detention of Johannesson, correct?”
“It’s not so damned . . . not so easy to detain somebody when you don’t know what crime he’s committed. Just that he’s done something!”
“Correct. But admit that there would be problems if we began taking away the freedom of everyone who fulfilled that criterion. Unfortunately I couldn’t get away this morning when you were questioning Johannesson. I just went to talk with him. He didn’t answer. The only thing he said was, ‘You can’t keep me here. I haven’t committed any crime.’ My question is: Has he?”
“But it’s obvious that he has!”
“Then what? Do we have proof of any crime? Are there any grounds for detention?”
Andersson’s face slowly began to assume that unbecoming tomato-red shade. Controlling himself, he said, “He and his cousin Bobo Torsson were up to some monkey business!”
“What was it?”
“We don’t know! Something with the Hell’s Angels out in Billdal. Drug deals!”
Inez Collin raised one discreetly penciled eyebrow and asked, “Do we know whether Johannesson had anything to do with the motorcycle gang? Any evidence?”
“Bobo did.”
“But you don’t know whether Johannesson had any contact with them. No evidence, that is.”
“He was partial owner of the cottage! Along with Torsson!”
“That’s not much evidence. I’m waiting with the detention order. We’ll try to hold him for five days. ‘Interfering with a criminal investigation’ or ‘risk of removal of evidence,’ or the like. But if any legal representative starts yelling, I’ll have a hard time justifying it. Within ninety-six hours I want hard evidence of a crime committed by Lasse Johannesson. Otherwise we’ll have to release him. We have to try to keep in daily contact for a while now. I’m also dealing with the investigation of the bomb that killed Bo-Ivar Torsson. The top brass thought it would be practical. Now I won’t disturb you any longer. Excuse me for interrupting.”
She turned to go. At the door she stopped and turned back to the superintendent.
“Speaking of the top brass, Chief Bergström was chuckling about how well informed he was about the von Knecht case. I pressed him a bit to find out how that could be. It came out that he had asked you ‘to please submit ongoing confidential reports.’ I told him that all ‘confidential reports’ from here on have to come through me. Just so you know. See you later!”
She swept out leaving a cloud of Chloë.
Tommy sniffed the air and sighed, “What a woman!”
The superintendent sounded as if he agreed, but Irene could tell that their reasons were not the same. To hell with it; the point now was not to delay any longer. Reluctantly, she slid over the first folder and started to page through it. But the pictures began to blur before her eyes and without being able to stop herself she asked, “How long do you have?”
“What? Time? As long as you need,” the superintendent said generously.
Irene sounded like she was a crying for help. “No! Not the photo ID! How much time do you have from when the pin on a hand grenade is pulled until it detonates?”
The silence was intense and unpleasant. Finally Andersson said, “Don’t think about it. Everything turned out all right.”
“No! It did not turn out all right! I’ve been blown to bits! In my soul!”
Andersson gave her an uncertain look. Was she having a breakdown? Maybe women couldn’t stand such rough stuff. But Irene was a hardened cop who had been through plenty of trying situations. He had never seen this kind of reaction from her before. At a loss, he said, “What do you mean? Why?”
“Why? The feeling of being totally at the mercy of these shitbags! The helplessness! Knocked unconscious and disarmed, then attempted murder with a hand grenade! Pissed on and degraded! And we couldn’t do a thing. No, I did do one thing. I threw the grenade out the window. And that’s what keeps going through my mind. What would have happened if I’d missed? Imagine if I hadn’t grabbed it right away. Imagine if it had rolled away into the room. I know the answer to those questions, but I can’t let go of one thing: How long have you got?”
Tommy stood up and went over to Irene. To Andersson’s astonishment he bent over and put his arms around her. He leaned his head on hers and said, “Four seconds. He threw the grenade as soon as he pulled the pin, without holding on to it. They were in a hurry, he was probably stressed. That’s why you made it. The throw must have taken at least half a second. Subtract that from the original four and a half. You had four seconds max.”
“If he hadn’t thrown it right away I wouldn’t have made it!”
“No, Irene. You wouldn’t have made it.”
Tommy was still holding her, but she felt no comfort and warmth. An icy cold seeped up out of the black depths, and the voices echoed: You wouldn’t have made it! You would have died. Both of you ought to be dead! Nobody can make it in less than four seconds. Four seconds!
Andersson fidgeted uncomfortably. “Stop thinking about what didn’t happen. Don’t get hung up on it; we have to go on with the investigation. Damn it, Irene, you’re a hero who saved Jimmy’s life! And your own. That’s the sort of thing you get a medal for.”
He stood up. Tommy had let go of her. The superintendent aimed a clumsy little pat at her sore shoulder. She flinched but said nothing.
Tommy looked thoughtfully at his boss and said, “Sven, you were pals with Olle ‘Armstrong’ Olsson, weren’t you?”
“I sure was. We were partners for ten years on patrol. Then I went to inspector training and wound up with the Crime Police, while he went into the Canine Unit. He loved his animals—”
He broke off and looked at Tommy for a long time. “I know what you’re getting at,” he said curtly. He cleared his throat and turned to Irene. “Irene, this happened twenty years ago. My old pal Armstrong worked in the Canine Unit. Hell of a talented guy. He was called Armstrong because he loved jazz. But that’s not important. Olle and his dog were called to a burglary alarm at Obs, out in Hisings Backa. It’s a big department store, so Olle took the dog off the leash, as usual. The dog picked up a scent and ran off. There was a shot and when Olle without thinking rushed after the dog, he saw the animal lying on the floor bleeding. He stopped short, with his pistol drawn. Then he felt a gun barrel shoved into the back of his neck and heard the old cliché, ‘Drop the gun!’ He did as he was told. There were two thieves. One of them took his pistol and then they took off.”
The superintendent stopped and his expression turned grim. The words seemed to come from far away when he went on. “That’s all that happened. Except that the dog died and Olle left the force.”
He fell silent and Irene reluctantly felt that she wanted to know more. So she asked, “Quit the force? What did he do then?”
“Got divorced, moved to Örebro, and became a car salesman. He remarried a few years later.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“No. We exchange Christmas cards. It must be fifteen years since we last saw each other.”
Tommy eagerly leaned toward Irene. “It’s shattering to be disarmed and have to surrender. That’s true for everybody, no matter who you are. So don’t feel like you’re nuts or anything. It’s a natural reaction.”
Irene was still looking at Andersson when she asked, “Why didn’t the rest of you help him?”
He gave her a surprised look. “Help him? What do you mean?”
“Help him to stay on as a cop.”
“But what the . . . he had a breakdown! What were we supposed to do? He didn’t want to do it anymore!”
“That’s just what I mean. Why didn’t you help him so he’d want to come back?”
“He didn’t want any help! We’re not psychologists, you know!”
“No. But pals.”
He was speechless and glared at her angrily. What the hell had gotten into all the broads in this department? It didn’t make sense to continue this discussion. He tried to pull himself together and smooth it over. “I was only trying to say that we understand that it’s tough to be subjected to . . . something like you were subjected to. And you have pals and colleagues around you who are supporting you. You know that. Let’s get those fucking assholes identified so we can bring them in!”
He turned to Tommy and motioned toward the door. “We’ll go another round with Shorty. We’ll have to take turns, try to wear him out. One of us will be back in a while, Irene. Hopefully you’ll have some luck finding someone you recognize.”
Andersson opened up the first folder and tapped urgently on the photos on the first page. Irene sighed but reluctantly started to turn the pages.
Within an hour she had identified Fatso and the Thin Man.
SWEATY AND mad, Andersson came steaming into the room where Irene sat with two plastic photo sleeves before her on the desk. Her arms hung heavily at her sides and her gaze was directed at the dead lily in a pot hanging in the window. Outside it was dark; there was nothing to see. She nodded lamely at the two plastic sleeves on the desk. Her voice sounded toneless when she said, “Those two. The thin one is Paul John Svensson, born ’sixty-four, and Fatso is Glenn ‘Hoffa’ Strömberg, born ’fifty-nine. He’s called Hoffa because he’s vice president of the Hell’s Angels. Paul Svensson has no rank. But a thick rap sheet. Just like Hoffa.”
“We’re making progress on one front at least! That damned Shorty is driving me nuts! All he says is, ‘I haven’t committed any crime. You have to release me.’ But mostly he just sits there in silence and grins.”
He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. It must have hurt, because he didn’t do it again. Having let off steam, he sat in his desk chair, picked up the two plastic sleeves and scrutinized them. Pleased, he said, “Couple of ugly dudes. You couldn’t find the other two?”
She shook her head. “No. Now that I think about it, they didn’t say anything the whole time. Weird. I’m almost positive it was one of them who threw the grenade,” she said thoughtfully.
“You didn’t see any photo that reminded you of them?”
“No. Although I can’t really remember what they looked like. But Fatso and the Thin Man are etched into my brain. Paul John, born ’sixty-four. You think his mama dug the Beatles?”
There was a light knock at the door and Birgitta Moberg came in. She greeted Irene cheerfully, asked how she felt, and was generally sympathetic. Until her gaze fell on the photos. She snatched them up and laughed. “So little Paul shows up here too!”
Her co
lleagues looked astonished. Andersson recovered first. “Do you know this scumbag?”
“Not personally. But on paper. This is the guy who drove up on the traffic island in the aborted bank robbery in Kungsbacka.”
“In nineteen eighty-two? With Shorty!” Irene exclaimed.
“Precisely. And the one who missed the turnoff to . . .” She gave Irene a knowing glance. Both said in unison, “. . . the cottage in Billdal!”
The superintendent grabbed the plastic sleeve again. He stared irately at the cards, as if he were trying to hypnotize them into a confession. Angrily he hissed, “Now it stinks like shit again! This is a point of contact, a lead! We have to get the truth out of Shorty!”
“Confront him with this point of contact. Maybe he doesn’t think we can connect him to the Hell’s Angels,” Birgitta suggested.
“The worst thing is that we can’t! Not yet. We have to let Narcotics know. They’re out at Billdal questioning people in the vicinity to find possible witnesses who might have seen Shorty together with the swine from the Hell’s Angels. If we could just get hold of somebody, then the prosecutor can write a detention order. I want Shorty put under strict watch!”
“But we’ve been doing that since last Friday. According to our guys, he’s only been in the shop and around the neighborhood on Berzeliigatan. No trips out to Billdal,” Birgitta pointed out.
“That’s true. But he might have had telephone contact with them,” the superintendent ventured.
Birgitta had a hard time holding back a sigh when she replied, “It’s not something we can prove. There’s no phone at the cottage. No, we have to develop proof that Shorty is mixed up in all this. Otherwise we have to let him go on Friday.”
The other two knew she was right. Irene realized how terribly tired she was.
“I think I have to call Krister now. It’s almost five-thirty and my poor pummeled body and brain are crying for bed.”
Chapter Fourteen
KRISTER CAME TO PICK up Irene at headquarters. For a short time she managed to doze off in the car despite everything, but that was all the sleep she got. When they arrived home the girls swarmed over her with questions. Her answers were evasive. Finally she pleaded that she was too tired, just to get away from the topic. She went to bed before the ten o’clock news. She didn’t feel at all sleepy, but it was a way to flee from what she still couldn’t face talking about. Krister sensed this and crept in quietly next to her an hour later. He held her for a long time. She felt his warm body against hers. Normally, that would awaken desire and longing but now not even his warmth could thaw out the cold inside her. When he eventually rolled over into his side of the bed and fell asleep, she started sweating. It was impossible to lie still. The bottom sheet felt like a damp rope under her, and every muscle and joint in her body ached. Around four she gave up. Her brain was replaying the scenes from the barn, both those that really happened and those that could have. The scornful voices shrouded her brain in a thick gray spiderweb. It was impossible to find the Point, so the Light remained unattainable. There was an impenetrable obstacle in the way and she knew its components: terror and anxiety.
Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 Page 29
