Anger Mode

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  Coughing violently, Martin took hold of the man’s legs and dragged him through the door, into the fresh air. He dragged him across the tarmac until he had no strength left.

  He bent over with his hands on his knees, gulped in some air, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the fresh air filling his lungs.

  The pain in his arm was becoming unbearable. It felt as if it was going to explode with each new heartbeat. Dragging the man out had not done it any good, but he hoped that it was worth the suffering. He gritted his teeth from the pain. Now it was time for this chicken to sing like a canary.

  “Okay,” Martin said and took out his Sig Sauer. “What did you want to tell me?” He pressed the mouth of the gun against the side of the man’s chin.

  The man stopped coughing. He turned to face Martin and saw the muzzle of the Sig Sauer staring him in the face.

  “Well then?” The pain in Martin’s arm was taking its toll on his patience.

  “My hand doesn’t hurt anymore,” the man said, examining the bundle around his hand.

  “Of course you don’t feel anything. You don’t have a hand left to feel any pain,” Martin said.

  “I have a proposal,” the man quickly responded.

  Martin stared at Ove Jernberg’s murderer. Was he losing his grip on the situation? It was as if he no longer made the decisions. He could not lose his temper. Control was his signature and had made him successful. If it had not been for that equal opportunities cunt, he would have been section leader by now. She had fewer years, was less deserving and, to top it all, was half-coon. There was that shit about a multicultural perspective, new gender directives applauded by Agency Director Anders Holmberg and others to look good for the politicians. Martin had to suffer for that. Who knew if he would ever get another fucking chance? Everyone was so fucking afraid of being politically incorrect in every situation. Bloody closet commies.

  “If you promise not to top me, then I swear you’ll get everything I know about Omar and that fucking trannie cop.”

  “Trannie cop?” Martin’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

  “Yeah, the bloke who double-crossed us on the contract to snuff out that fucking journalist.”

  “Journalist?”

  “Yeah, he’d been blackmailing the trannie with photos of them shafting each other in the arse, dressed in latex and leather. You know him; he’s a fucking high-roller police commissioner.” The man forced a grin.

  “Wipe that grin off your face,” Martin growled and pushed his pistol harder into the man’s face.

  “That faggot cop gave the job to Haxhi instead. The Albanians tried to waste me, Jerry and the journalist queer in the middle of town, but we shot our way out,” the man rambled on.

  Martin took the gun away from the man’s face. “That’s a little too much bullshit for me.”

  Martin already knew about the recent gun battle in central Stockholm, but so did anybody who watched the news or read the newspapers.

  “What do you mean?” The man looked serious. “What I’m telling you is as fucking true as … as cows are vegetarians!”

  “Now shut it!” Martin yelled. “I’ll tell you when you can talk. I’m getting tired of your blabbing. Start by telling me your name; why you and the scumbag who shot my partner came here; why there’s a fire; and why you were so fucking stupid that you opened fire on two police officers.”

  The man did not answer.

  “Maybe too many questions at once?” Martin said sarcastically while grimacing at the dreadful pain in his arm. “Answer my questions!” he yelled and gingerly rubbed his arm in an attempt to ease the pain.

  “My name is Tor Hedman, but they call med Headcase.”

  “What’s your business with Omar?” Martin asked.

  “Me and Jerry got jobs from Omar.”

  “Jerry? Is that the pile of coals on the stairs?” Martin looked at the burning building.

  “Yes,” Tor answered and shrugged. “We used to steal cars and rob upmarket houses before we met Omar.”

  “What sorts of job did Omar fix you up with?” Martin repeated, irritated.

  “Things like debt collection or eviction of tenants from different properties. Sometimes it could be both collection and eviction at the same time. See, first you take the cash, then …”

  “Yeah, I get it. Keep going.”

  “Me and Jerry formed a gang we called the Original Fuckers. We shortened it to OF.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Have you heard of OF?”

  “No, can’t say I have.”

  “Whatever, so …” Tor lost his focus. “Fuck, we even tattooed OF on our backs. We were going to expand, Jerry said. OF would be just as big as the Albanians or even the Yugoslavs. But Jerry’s dead now. So what am I supposed to do?” Tor lowered his eyes again.

  Martin looked at Headcase, mildly amused. “You’ll have to rename the gang OL.”

  “OL?”

  “Original Losers,” Martin laughed.

  “Bloody hell!” Tor suddenly burst out. “Why did you have to come and fuck everything up?”

  He flinched, touching his wrapped bundle.

  “We put out some feelers and, after a while, Omar contacted us. Among other things, we got the job to turn that faggot inside out. At first, we didn’t know what we were supposed to grab from him, except that it was some type of multimedia evidence. We went to his flat, but the bastard messed it up and said that he stashed the shit in some fucking safety deposit box. In the end, we were forced to take him with us. When we got to the street, those bloody Albanians jumped us. They were going to cheat us out of the job and snuff out me and Jerry. You know, two birds with one stone. The client grassed us up to Haxhi.”

  “Why would the client give the job to someone else?” Martin asked, wondering why he was even listening to the man.

  “Haxhi had told the client they would do the job for free as long as they were given OF. The Albanians didn’t like that we started our own crew and were pinching their clients. They wanted to waste us for good.”

  “Haxhi, is that Albanian?”

  “Yes, he’s their boss.”

  “How do you know that Haxhi made this offer to the client?”

  “Omar had made notes about everything in his laptop. Names of all the clients, how the job went and so on. Everything was on it.”

  “Did Omar show it to you?”

  “Not directly. Jerry found it out after we whacked Omar. He had his laptop in the desk drawer.”

  “You got into Omar’s computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could you get into the computer without a password?”

  “Jerry searched Omar’s mobile first. He had written the password on his speed-dial list. It said ‘Mhamuth’ and then a load of letters and numbers. People usually store their passwords and card codes in their contacts list as fake names. Even a bloke like Omar did it.”

  Martin’s mouth tightened. He used the last four numbers of his social security number as the code for his cash card. The complex but foolproof password for his laptop was stored as a fake SMS on his mobile phone. Maybe it’s time to change that habit, he thought.

  “Omar didn’t want to help us get in touch with the client. We just wanted to know how Haxhi knew that we were in the flat. But it was against his policy, he said – although he gave the name to Haxhi who in turn offered to do the job for free. But he wouldn’t tell shit to us. So we were forced to take Omar down as payback and to set an example. Well, actually, the gun went off by mistake. Shit happens. To cover our tracks, we torched the whole place.”

  “But before that, you hacked his computer?” Martin asked, interested now.

  “No, first we rang the client. Jerry found the number on Omar’s mobile and called the bloke. He said that Omar had given him the number and that he, Haxhi, and that journalist were all sitting in the same room like one big, happy family. Jerry lied that we had all joined forces against him. Jerry pressured him for cash, and he said tha
t he knew where he lived and worked and that Haxhi had changed his mind about working for free. The bloke finally got really pissed off and said that he was a high-ranking police chief and that he was sick of the blackmail and all the bullshit. He was going to send some special task-force characters after us if we didn’t stop fucking with him. Jerry told him to go to hell.

  “What a genius,” Martin sighed.

  “But I know his name.”

  “How do you know that? Did he say his name?”

  “Nope, but we found out later because it was in Omar’s computer. Omar had everything on that computer, a shitload of contact names. Quite a few dirty cops were on there.”

  “So, what was his name?” Martin was eager to know.

  “Who?”

  “The police chief, of course.”

  “It was Folke Ugglestag, or something like that,” Tor answered.

  “Uddestad?”

  “Yes,” Tor replied.

  Martin shook his head. “Unbelievable. Totally, fucking unbelievable,” he said aloud. “This can’t possibly be true!”

  “Why not?” Tor asked.

  “Who else knows about it?”

  “Knows what?”

  “That he’s a high-ranking county police chief called Folke Uddestad.”

  “Well …” Tor said, dragging out the word while he thought. “Omar, me and Jerry. Don’t know if Haxhi knows that he’s a cop boss. He probably only has the top-up card number, but doesn’t know his name. And, of course, the journalist, who was obviously blackmailing the cop about something. Anyhow, he’s the one with the photos and the sex video in the safety deposit box. I …”

  “How do you know it’s a sex video and photographs?” Martin interrupted.

  “Omar had written in the computer that the video and photos showed the journalist and the cop shafting each other in latex gear. Two gay bastards fucking each other. Disgusting!”

  Martin pushed out his lower lip, making popping sounds like a fish while he mulled things over. “I think I understand now,” he said thoughtfully. Something interesting was beginning to take shape.

  “That they’re both poofters?” Tor wondered.

  “How did Omar know what was in the photos unless Uddestad told him about them?”

  “I don’t bloody know.”

  “But why did he tell Omar? The less known about what the photos show, the better for Mister Police Commissioner.”

  “How am I supposed to know that? Do I look like a fucking fortune teller or something?”

  Martin rubbed his chin. “Where’s the computer and Omar’s phone now?”

  “I have the mobile in my pocket,” Tor said triumphantly. “But the computer is still in the warehouse.”

  “Bloody hell,” Martin swore. “That computer was worth its weight in gold.”

  “But I have the hard drive thingy. It’s in my other pocket,” Tor smirked.

  “You do?” Martin looked astonished at the prize idiot, who nodded, confirming that he had the hard drive. How the hell had he missed both the hard drive and the mobile phone when he frisked him for weapons earlier? That oversight could have cost him his life.

  “Was it Jerry who removed it?”

  “Yes, he was a smart guy,” Headcase smiled.

  “A regular hero,” Martin said, stretching out his hand. “Give me the mobile and the hard drive.”

  Tor shook his head in refusal. “No, then you’ll just finish me off here.”

  “I could do that right now if I wanted to.”

  With the gun pushed in his face once again, Tor had no alternative but to give up Omar’s mobile phone and hard drive. Martin stuffed the phone and the small hard drive in his jacket pocket.

  “What happens now?” Tor asked anxiously. Without the hard drive and mobile phone, he felt naked. He had lost his trump card.

  “Well, then,” Martin said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He stood up and felt his arm, which made him groan with pain. “Logic dictates that I should finish you off.”

  Tor lowered his eyes from Martin and tried to stand up, but was unable to get further than all fours. His muscles quivered and would not carry him.

  Martin shook his head and, with his left arm, took hold of Tor’s jacket. He pulled him up until he could stand by himself on wobbly legs.

  Events and people had come together to suddenly conjure weaknesses and opportunities out of thin air. Martin saw them all clearly. To have the County Police Commissioner, Folke Uddestad, by the balls was almost too good to be true – especially since he had already proven susceptible to blackmail. Hardly surprising, considering what the photographs showed. He wondered what the journalist had been given to keep quiet.

  Things would be so much easier with a police commissioner in his pocket. It would improve Martin’s career prospects significantly and, of course, simplify his campaign against the enemies of democracy. A winning lottery ticket.

  In addition to Martin and Headcase, the only one who had any knowledge of this was that journalist. It was important to steer this ship carefully and avoid any rocks. He was already sailing in dangerous waters.

  Martin considered Tor, who had now taken a few stumbling steps. To shoot him here and now would only give him a shitload of problems. Where would he hide the corpse? He couldn’t transport it in the car that he and Jernberg had arrived in, since it was a police vehicle and would be the subject of an internal investigation, with Forensics all over it. Besides, he would have to stay and wait for his colleagues, with whom he would soon have to raise the alert. Perhaps it was not that risky to let the fool walk away. He was, after all, party to a cop killing so he would keep his mouth shut until Martin, or someone else, arrested him for that crime. But this was not the time to take risks; he did not know anything about this Headcase. He could not know how trustworthy he would be in the long term.

  “Okay, this is what we do,” Martin said. “You’ll get your deal.”

  Tor looked disbelievingly at Martin, who had put his gun back in his shoulder holster.

  “You’re going to start working for me.”

  “Me working for the cops?” Tor asked, surprised.

  “Yes and no,” Martin said, trying to find an example that the genius in front of him would understand. “Imagine that I’m running a small shop in a shopping centre. And you’re going to start working for me in the shop.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You’ll be working for me and not officially for the police. Do you understand?” Mentioning the Security Service was irrelevant right now.

  “I will be your personal snitch?”

  “Yes, but more than that. You’ll be my right-hand man and do what I tell you to do without questioning or moaning about it. But if you play silly games or run your mouth off or work for someone else, then I’ll pull the plug on you faster than you can shift into first gear.”

  Tor looked thoughtful. “Do I have any choice?”

  “You can say no and be dead in five minutes. Or take a percentage of what we make. Shall we say twenty?”

  “What are we going to make money from?”

  “You’ll find out later,” Martin lied. The idiot really believed that Martin was teaming up with him.

  “First things first: we have a few other things to take care of. We both need to get to a hospital. But not the same hospital, for obvious reasons.”

  Martin wiped more sweat from his brow, feeling his arm. He was starting to get feverish.

  “Can you drive a car?” Martin asked.

  “I should be able to manage. I have Omar’s car keys and it’s an automatic.”

  “Excellent,” Martin said. “Omar’s car is also not on the stolen car list like your Saab is now. Do you have anything in the Saab that can lead back to you?”

  Tor thought for a brief moment, then shook his head. The only thing he had in the car was the toolbox, and that could not be traced to him personally. It had been stolen from a cellar in Sundsvall three years ago.

  �
��Good,” Martin said. “Take Omar’s Mercedes and drive to the A&E at Stockholm Söder hospital. Tell them that you were working on your summer cabin and that you accidentally shot yourself in the hand with a nail gun. Meanwhile, I’ll torch the Saab to destroy your DNA and fingerprints.”

  “Will they believe me?” Tor asked, stressed. “The hospitals have to report all gunshot wounds immediately to the cops. Everyone knows that.”

  “As long as there’s no bullet, then there’s no risk of that. By the way, what was the name of the journalist?”

  “Jörgen Blad,” Tor said. “A short, dark-haired fatty. Didn’t understand much of what he said. He talks faster than fucking Bugs Bunny.”

  “Never heard the name. It will be interesting getting to know him a little better.”

  “Do we waste him before or after we have grabbed what he has in the safety deposit box?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Give me your mobile number and get going to Casualty. Park Omar’s car a few blocks away and don’t fucking park illegally. We will have to torch that one too, later on. You know what the score is. No fuck-ups or it’s bye bye, Tor. It doesn’t matter where you hide, I’ll find you regardless. Understood?”

  Tor gave Martin his mobile-phone number and staggered off towards Omar’s Mercedes-Benz GL450.

  Martin watched the car drive off and, for a split second, wondered if he really should let Tor get away. But as an accomplice in a police murder, he would probably not be a problem. A life sentence behind bars was not something to look forward to.

  Martin contacted the duty officer at SÄPO who, in turn, alerted the county communications centre, who then requested

  police, fire engines and ambulances. SÄPO also sent the on-duty unit from Stockholm, consisting of five men, two of whom were forensic technicians. While waiting for the cavalry to arrive, he memorized the story he had invented. Everything had to be airtight. Every detail of the story would be scrutinized by Internal Affairs and they were not easily fooled, especially when it came to a cop killing. The sky was going to fall in on Martin in the coming days. Thus far, however, he felt he had control over the situation.

  A small distance into the forest, he hid Tor’s and Jerry’s guns and Omar’s mobile phone and hard drive under a rock. For safety’s sake, he sprinkled petrol from the police vehicle’s spare tank to disguise the scent from any sniffer dogs. He washed clean the blood trail left by Tor on the tarmac with washer fluid from the Saab, which he then set on fire with the remainder of the petrol from the spare tank. The practical cover-up was ready and the story nicely tied up any loose ends.