Never Fuck Up sn-2

by Jens Lapidus

  Niklas woke up. Tried to calm down. His heart was beating like crazy. Thought about the dream he’d just had.

  He couldn’t fall back asleep. In today’s world, moral standards were served as a smorgasbord. You chose your ethical rules depending on your worldview. The bearded warriors down there chose their ethics based on their hate for the United States. Found support for their beliefs in the Koran and sunna. The Americans chose their rules based on their terror of no longer being the kings of the hill. But Niklas knew the important rules of the game. There was no right or wrong; there were no rules at all, really. Morality grew in the human mind. But there was still one rule: if you don’t act, you can’t change anything. You reach your goals through action. Morality was a human construct, it had no value. His mission was to create peace for women. No nightmares would stop him. Nothing in the real world would stop him.

  He stared straight into the wall. Dreary grayish color. The structure of the fibers in the wall were clearly visible.

  He thought about the two entry points in Strömberg’s back. Considered whom he should take next. Roger Jonsson or Patric Ngono? Niklas’d trailed both guys even more intensively over the past week, since taking care of Strömberg. Ngono was worse to his woman. But there was something about Roger Jonsson, too. Something that didn’t tally. Niklas’d seen him several times over the past few weeks. The guy checked out of his work. Took the car to Fruängen. Picked up a woman outside a mall. They drove home. Came out again after about an hour. Roger drove her back. Obvious: he was playing two hands. Classic infidelity. But who was the woman? A prostitute, of course. The guy visited prostitutes. Double trouble.

  But something else determined Niklas’s decision. He’d ordered as much public information as was available on the two assholes. Not much. Patric Ngono appeared in some old Immigration Services case, but the guy was on the safe side now. Had gotten permanent residency, lived here for more than eight years. Collected welfare at some point, but now he was working. Probably under the table, but still.

  There was nothing like that on Roger Jonsson. But there was something much worse. A conviction. Gross Violation of a Woman’s Integrity, between 1998 and 2002. And Aggravated Rape. Jonsson’d served three years. The sentence was public. Niklas ordered all the documents.

  The reading almost crushed him. No, never—nothing crushed an elite soldier, one who’d seen the real shit down in the sandbox. On the contrary: it made him stronger. More sure of Operation Magnum. Si vis pacem, para bellum.

  * * *

  STOCKHOLM SOUTHERN DISTRICT

  PUBLIC PROSECUTOR’s OFFICE

  LAWSUIT Nr: C-98-25587

  Defendant, full name: Roger Karl Jonsson

  Personal Identification Number: 671001-8573

  Telephone Number: 08-881 968

  Address: Gamla Södertäljevägen

  Public Defender: Tobias Åkermark, Esq.

  In custody: Arrested on March 3, 2002, placed in custody on March 5, 2002

  DEMAND FOR CONVICTION

  GROSS VIOLATION OF A WOMAN’s INTEGRITY

  Plaintiff

  Carin Engsäter, through the Plaintiff’s Counsel, Lina Eriksson

  Charges

  Roger Jonsson has, between March 1998 and January 2002, threatened and abused Carin Engsäter on numerous occasions. The actions, each of which formed part of a repeated violation of the Plaintiff’s integrity, have been aimed at severely harming her self-esteem. Thus, Roger Jonsson has:

  1. in April 2008, delivered several slaps to her face. Later the same day, in Tumba, he beat her several times with clenched fists over her upper arms. Finally, on the same day, he held her throat in a choke grip. The abuse caused the Plaintiff pain and a swollen eye as well as bruises on the throat;

  2. on one occasion at some point on October 14–15, 1998, in her residence in Stockholm, with the consequence of pain, he abused her by gripping her neck with his arm and pressing her down on her back. After she tried to break free, he beat her several times with clenched fists on her upper arms;

  3. on one occasion at the end of December 1998, in their residence, with the consequence of pain, he dealt her several blows with clenched fists on her thighs and back;

  4. on one occasion in June 1999, in their residence, he kicked her right knee, making her fall to the floor, after which he delivered another kick that struck her right thigh. The abuse led to pain and bruising;

  5. on one occasion in the middle of September 2000, in their residence, he dealt her several punches with clenched fists that struck her on the back. On the same occasion, he dealt her punches with clenched fists that struck her on her upper arms as well as slapped her head with an open palm. The abuse led to pain and bruising;

  6. on one occasion in October 2000, in their residence, he dealt several slaps with an open palm on the face and head with the consequence of pain and a bloody nose;

  7. on August 14, 2001, in their residence, he grabbed her face in his hand and squeezed, then threw her to the ground. He also pulled her hair. The abuse, which led to pain and bruising, took place in front of their four-year-old child;

  8. on one occasion in September, 2001, he called the Plaintiff at their residence and—in a way that was intended to make her seriously fear for her life—made remarks claiming that she would be hurt or killed.

  Finally, Roger Jonsson has, on multiple occasions, called the Plaintiff at her place of work and—in a way that was intended to make her seriously fear for her life—threatened her by saying that she would not get away from him alive, that he would dance on her grave, and that if he saw her with another man he would cut her head off.

  AGGRAVATED RAPE

  Plaintiff

  Carin Engsäter, through the Plaintiff’s Counsel, Lina Eriksson

  Charges

  Roger Jonsson has, on over fifty occasions between 1999 and 2001, forced Carin Engsäter to have intercourse with him, orally, vaginally, as well as anally, by forcing her, through the use of violence, down on the floor or bed, holding her wrists and pushing her face into a pillow or against the floor. He has also, on at least twenty occasions, forced objects—among other things, a dildo and pliers—into her vagina, with the consequence of pain and injuries.

  Section of the Penal Code

  Chapter 4, 4a § 2, Chapter 3 § 5, Chapter 4 § 5, and Chapter 6 § 1 of the Penal Code.

  42

  He’d driven out to the nursing home on a clear day in the middle of September. The surroundings were beautiful. Thomas could glimpse a lake behind the main brick building. The trees were still green, but you could sense that fall was on its way; there was a kind of damp in the air that snuck up on him when he climbed out of the car.

  Tallbygården: a private nursing home on the shore of Lake Mälaren. High standard of living and good care, that’s what it said on the place’s website. The home for your idyllic final years. The home where quality care was valued highest. The home where Leif Carlsson—former police inspector, SWAT team member, neo-Nazi—lived.

  Stig Adamsson’d claimed that he was going to start a right-wing group whose mission would be to keep an eye on Olof Palme. But what did that mean, really?

  Thomas’d tried to read up on the story. A couple of borrowed books and the Internet—it was almost too much for him. The murder of Olof Palme was Sweden’s equivalent of the Kennedy assassination twenty-three years earlier. A web of conspiracy theories that never seemed to end. He made a list of a couple of theories before he lost interest—they flourished like weeds. One basically amounted to: members of Augusto Pinochet’s feared death squads were in Stockholm the week of the murder, but since the intelligence chief, Holmér, thought the two professional Chilean assassins, Michael Canes and Robert Tartino, were one and the same person, the lead was never followed. Another theory claimed that Christer Pettersson’d made a mistake; he’d actually intended to shoot Rantzell—then known as Cederholm—but due to the clumsy work of the police, they were forced to cover up parts of the investigatio
n. Bullets were missing, phone-tapping transcripts were forged, the police authorities refused to explain what the two patrol cars that’d been parked outside the Grand Cinema on the night of the murder’d been doing, exactly. It was endless.

  Thomas needed real information. From people. Not from a bunch of circumstantial evidence, detail obsession, and conspiracy craziness. Above all: he needed to understand the connection to the present day—to Rantzell’s mangled body in the basement at Gösta Ekman Road.

  Runeby’d mentioned the SWAT team that Adamsson’d been a part of. That’s where Thomas had to begin. Among the people who knew Adamsson—who shared his views—during the time of the murder with a capital M. There’d been eight cops in total, of which Adamsson was one. Their boss, Malmström, was dead. Six people remained. It wasn’t too difficult to find information on them. Jonas Nilsson knew all of them well, most of them were still on the police force, but no longer in positions that were as conflict-ridden. The classic fate of a patrol officer: sit out your final fifteen years in a basement, registering bike thefts.

  He made up his mind easily: his first visit would be paid to Leif Carlsson. He was the oldest. He’d been an outspoken Nazi. Above all: the guy had Alzheimer’s—he was the perfect interrogation victim.

  Tallbygården appeared peaceful. He saw old people on a few of the balconies facing the greenery. Narrow walking paths wound their way through the trees. He walked into the entrance hall. Ficus trees, couches with Josef Frank fabric, and a message board with notices and information materials pinned up on it: Singing with Lave Lindér on Thursday. Trosa’s librarian will be here to speak about new books at the library on the 17th, at 8 a.m. Gentlemen’s Aerobics on Tuesday morning is canceled.

  Thomas waited awhile. There was no welcome desk. He thought about Runeby. The final thing the inspector’d told him was that he’d been the one to hold the lecture that time in Gamla Stan. Really, it wasn’t as strange as it sounded—the guy’d served two years in some kind of private army in South Africa in the late seventies. “For the battle’s sake,” as he’d said. “Not because I was a racist.” Thomas didn’t really care what his reasons were—but he had to watch out. How mixed up was Runeby really in that Gamla Stan organization?

  After a few minutes, a nurse came walking out through a glass door.

  “Is Leif Carlsson here?” Thomas asked.

  The nurse led him up one flight of stairs. Flowers in the windows, framed prints with Swedish art classics: Zorn, Carl Larsson, Jirlow. A TV room, a cafeteria, plenty of staff. The nurse knocked on a door. Never even asked who Thomas was.

  Leif Carlsson didn’t look as frail as Thomas’d imagined. Neatly combed side part. Blond hair that was going gray at the temples. A crooked smile, a glimmer of challenge in his blue eyes. Did he really have Alzheimer’s? Leif Carlsson was tall. Thomas could picture what he’d looked like thirty years ago, probably significantly bigger: a terrifying vision to the rabble on the street.

  The TV in the room was switched on. Carlsson seemed to have been sitting in a chair in front of it. He’d stood up when Thomas came in. The nurse left them alone. Closed the door.

  “Good morning. My name is Thomas Andersson, inspector, the Palme Group.”

  Carlsson dropped his hand. “So, you’re coming now?”

  Thomas couldn’t judge if it was an accusation or a fateful declaration.

  The old man sat down. It looked as though he was constantly tasting something in his mouth with his tongue. Probably a tic.

  Thomas sat down on a chair by a small desk. The assisted-living apartment was small: a bedroom with the door ajar and a living room, where they were sitting now. Carlsson’d furnished it like a real home. A Persian carpet on the floor, a couple of paintings on the walls, an armchair and a desk in rococo style.

  “I just want to ask you some questions. I hope that’s all right.”

  Apparently, Carlsson’d been seriously ill for five years. His resistance to an interrogation ought to be weaker than a kid’s.

  Carlsson nodded. “I have nothing to hide.”

  Thomas pressed record on an audio recorder he had in his pocket.

  “Tell me about the Troop.”

  “You mean the A-route?”

  “Yes, that’s the only group that’s ever been called the Troop, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, I think that’s what we called it.”

  “Who were ‘we’?”

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  Thomas responded calmly, “Thomas Andersson, the Palme Commission.” Well, the geezer sure had Alzheimer’s.

  Carlsson moved his tongue around in his mouth again. Repeated, “So, you’re coming now.”

  Thomas went on, “Tell me about the Troop, the A-route. Who was in it with you?”

  “In the Troop? It was Malmström, of course. Then it was Jägerström, Adamsson, Nilsson, Wallén. A couple more. I don’t remember.”

  “And Malmström, he was the boss?”

  “Oh yeah. Malmström. He was a real officer. The kind we need in the police force. But he quit. He lives out by Nykvarn nowadays.”

  “Malmström is dead.”

  “Really? That’s too bad. I haven’t seen him since I retired.”

  Thomas started thinking about ending the interrogation. Carlsson was obviously too confused. But the question was if his memory from the eighties was better than his memory from the present.

  “Who used to go to those meetings in Gamla Stan, in the EAP offices?”

  Leif Carlsson looked disoriented. “I was never there.”

  Thomas felt his surprise grow. The old guy wouldn’t lie, would he?

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes, it’s true. The guys who organized it, Ålander and Sjöqvist, didn’t invite me. Not because I had anything against them, or that they had anything against me. That wasn’t it. I shared their patriotism and worry in the face of the Red infiltration. But I was never invited. Maybe it wasn’t so strange, though. My father worked at one of the companies that Bolinder owned. So he was afraid to get me mixed up in it.”

  “What did you say?”

  “They were afraid to get me mixed up in it.”

  “But why?”

  “Dad worked at Bolinder’s company.”

  “And who was this Bolinder?”

  “The financier.”

  “The financier of what?”

  Suddenly Carlsson got that gleam in his eye again, tasted the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Then he said, “Bolinder. He was the one who funded those meetings, the organization, the project. All of it. But I think I was the only one who knew that.”

  “Why were you the only one who knew that?”

  Leif Carlsson started giggling. “Just because I’m sitting here talking a load of crap doesn’t mean I didn’t do my part for Sweden.”

  “I understand. But tell me more about Bolinder.”

  “I don’t remember Bolinder. But Bohman, he was too weak.”

  “Bohman who?”

  “Gösta Bohman, I mean. The head of the right-wing party. Are you too young to remember him?”

  Carlsson looked pleased.

  Gösta Bohman was the Moderate Party leader in the seventies. Leif Carlsson was confused. The Alzheimer’s made it difficult to know what was relevant and what wasn’t. Thomas tried to ask a few more questions, but was just given confused answers in response.

  He needed someone else.

  On his way home. Thomas’s thoughts were spinning. Bolinder—where’d he heard that name before? It didn’t fit. He wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t one of the security-service people that Runeby’d mentioned. Who was Bolinder?

  Then it clicked: he’d heard Ratko talking about planning “higher-class events” at some Bolinder’s place. Thomas’d even instructed a couple of gorillas how a set of walkie-talkies worked because they might be needed at one of those events—was it the same person?

  43

  He stayed in bed. His thoughts were churning around, ar
ound. In the same old tracks. He thought about the narc who’d approached him about a week ago. Maybe they tried that on others, too. Who could be trusted? Robert felt safe. Tom and Javier, too. But Babak? Fuck, man—he missed Babak.

  At around two o’clock, he got up. Made coffee. Dumped sugar into it. Perked up a little. Popped a Diazepam. Later, he’d need an upper to make it to the gym. Pressed play on a porno. Tried to jack off. He thought about the honey from last weekend. Gabrielle. The porno felt lame in comparison.

  Ratko called at three o’clock. Mahmud’d almost managed to forget his order. He got dressed. Jeans, a hoodie. Baseball jacket. Fall—the worst season. The weather needed to make up its mind. Not shilly-shally like some tranny.

  Ratko’d given him directions: “Go to Bigge’s Hot Dog Palace and wait.” Shit, they were really pushing him around. He was their bitch.

  A half hour later. Mahmud knew these projects like the back of his hand. Maybe he should check into the university. Honestly. Lecture on Shurgard storage facilities and housing project sociology. He knew why they built areas like this. They created a world where no one would get it into their minds to try to get ahead. Just stay down there in the shit, without getting too worked up about it. Society’d made him into what he was.

  The business signs didn’t even try to be sexy around here. State Dentistry, the library, the Coop Konsum grocery store, Swedbank, the accounting firm Håkansson & Hult, a barber, the Pasta House: Extra Much Extra Cheap, Svedin’s Shoes, a pizzeria, a pharmacy. And, finally: Bigge’s Hot Dog Palace. He sat down. Ordered a Diet Sprite. Tried to call some peeps. First Rob, then Tom, then Javier, then his sis. No one picked up. Time crawled slower than an old lady with a walker. He waited.

  After twenty minutes, Dejan walked in. The guy was a sly motherfucker. Rimmed Radovan for pennies. Talked smack about Arabs as soon as he got the chance. They shook hands.

  Mahmud climbed into his Benz. Followed Dejan’s car. First the high-rises. Then a couple of single-family homes. Then industrial buildings. A bunch of nature. The road was winding. Away from the concrete. After ten minutes: a sign. THE VIEW, CAMPGROUND—TRAILER AND RV.