The Father: Made in Sweden Part I

by Anton Svensson

  ‘Now we’re going to move the boundaries a little further. Remake the rules again. So that by the time they discover the theft, we’ll have our own armoury.’

  He got down on his knees and, using a folding rule and a rough pencil, measured a rectangle in the middle of the floor, two metres long and 1.6 metres wide.

  ‘We have a head start. And we’re going to use it – we’re going to strike fast. We’ll hit the bank by the roundabout in thirteen days.’

  Then came the heavy jackhammer, as Leo looked up at them.

  ‘And if some cop is sitting in a patrol car nearby, they need to understand we won’t hesitate to use more violence than necessary.’

  26

  JOHN BRONCKS WASN’T sure he’d ever been here before. A church, a commuter train station, an indoor swimming pool, a library. The kind of suburb most people drove through without stopping. He rolled down the car’s side windows; it had warmed up and the rain had turned to mist, making it difficult to see out.

  Low buildings were surrounded by car parks, Ösmo Square, and right behind them, a two-storey brick house. That was his destination.

  Seventeen hits on the computer screen for seventeen violent crimes recorded in the archives held in the Kronoberg basement, all cases long since closed and prosecuted. John had carried the files up, sorted them out, put them in piles on the floor of his office.

  Two of the offenders had died. Three lived outside Stockholm – in Gothenburg, Berlin and on the Spanish Costa del Sol – and had alibis that were confirmed by local police. Four were in prison, behind bars when the robbery was committed. Five had been convicted of rape, aggravated rape and aggravated sexual abuse of children – acts that didn’t really match the profile of this violence.

  He slowed down next to a mailbox that the owner had clearly painted himself and parked in front of it. There was someone at the window watching him.

  Three preliminary investigations had remained. They were the ones that required dealing with face to face, and he’d taken the files along with him in the car on his way to meeting any ex-cons from the Sköndal area who might have been capable of such deeds.

  The first meeting was just two blocks from the police station, on St Erik Street. Convicted for serious drug offences, he was a forty-year-old man with the body of an octogenarian, stooped, with thin hair, sunken cheeks, eyes covered by a hazy film – Broncks had taken one look at the man and ruled him out as a suspect for a robbery that had taken nearly twenty minutes. He promptly left the inner city apartment overlooking the Karlberg canal, and only afterwards realised that they were around the same age and that, if they’d chosen each other’s paths, they might have swapped places. Time wasn’t only measured in hours and seconds.

  A brick house with a large garden. He guessed from the veranda and the windows that it must have been built in the 1920s. And he was sure of it now – a man was sitting behind one of those windows.

  He’d driven from St Erik Street and continued towards Jakobsberg and the second hit within the search area. Broncks ruled that one out, too. A 47-year-old convicted of manslaughter – at a time when he’d had functioning legs. The offender was an obese man who had retired early, with no hair, who talked quietly, almost whispering, and drank coffee in a terraced house. He’d had prosthetic legs attached at both knees after a methodical attack, reported as retaliation; the investigation had been abandoned after all the witnesses withdrew their testimony.

  One left. The one sitting behind a set of ragged curtains.

  Broncks opened a folder that had sat in the police station’s archives for fifteen years. It described a 51-year-old man who had emigrated from Yugoslavia in the 1960s and had been to prison several times, the last time for aggravated assault, for which he served eighteen months in the Norrtälje Institution. There were photographs of a woman standing in front of a blue background as if for a school photo, her blonde hair held up in a ponytail so that her injuries were visible. There was severe swelling around her eye, and she had a pronounced fracture on the anterior frontal bone of her skull, the forehead, which a forensic technician had washed clean of blood so the deep gash there could be seen. The rest of her face was even worse – skin turned into one big hematoma, broken capillaries that shone blue and yellow. The last photos were taken further down and on the right side, showing pale skin around a white bra that intersected with a large blood blister covering the entire area between her armpit and hip. He had been methodical.

  Broncks turned over the pile of photographs. But too late. Suddenly, as so often happened, he was flooded by images of his own mother, and he wondered if this was how she would have stood in front of the forensic scientist’s searching lens – hair darker in its ponytail, different swellings and bruises – if she’d ever chosen to report it.

  The rain was back, not much more than drizzle, but enough to blur the house in front of him. He considered putting on the wipers, but refrained – if he couldn’t see out, neither could the man on the ground floor of the house.

  More investigations, more convictions. Always for assault, or aggravated assault. Served time at the Österåker detention centre, at the Asptuna and Gävle correctional facilities. Assault on the construction manager of a renovation project in Huddinge, aggravated assault on a ticket inspector on the ferry between Slussen and Djurgården, aggravated assault on two men at a club on Regering Street, which led to attacks on two police officers who arrived at the scene to arrest him. Despite the hellish images of a woman’s shattered body, this was not just a wife beater – this was a man who attacked other people, indiscriminately.

  One document remained in the folder. The investigation the computer had signalled a match for.

  HANDEN’S DISTRICT COURT CASE NO 301-1

  DEFENDANT Dûvnjac, Ivan

  FELONY CHARGES Aggravated arson

  LAW 8 Ch. 6 § Brb

  SENTENCE Prison four (4) years

  Broncks flipped through densely written pages describing a completely different type of crime. Aggravated arson. Of a small house in Sköndal, just a few hundred metres from the swimming area and the jetty and the end of the trail, with a sentence served at Österåker detention centre.

  A convict who usually used assault as his method, and could be linked to the search area, might be Jafar or Gobakk.

  Broncks got out of the car and opened the gate.

  The man he’d glimpsed behind the curtains was still there.

  They’d reinforced and moulded a new tiled floor around the mouth of the well. They’d stacked breezeblocks against the mud walls, from floor to ceiling, and plastered them with cement. They’d installed a sump pump at the bottom of the well and connected it to a float switch programmed to signal if the water level rose too high.

  The first drawing, showing the construction of the Skull Cave’s floors and walls, was done.

  Leo folded it up, put it in his toolbox, took out the next. Hinges. Black velvet velour. The hadak. His design for an entrance through a completely ordinary floor safe, which no one else would ever be able to find. He left the room, in the middle of which was an excavation over two metres deep, and walked out across the yard towards the garage.

  He heard the whine of a metallic blade, and when he opened the door, he was met by the spray of sparks. Felix was bent over a heavy safe on a long workbench, a black mask of heat-resistant polyamide over his sweaty face.

  ‘Felix – I’ve set a date, a time and a place.’

  The last sparks, and the back plate of the safe came off completely.

  ‘A bank in Svedmyra, on December the eleventh, a Wednesday.’

  Leo turned the combination lock and opened the safe – and looked right through its now absent back at Felix.

  ‘And then two banks, simultaneously – on January the second, a Thursday.’

  Leo unfurled a sheet of black velvet across the other half of the workbench, measured, and marked it with white chalk on the back. Newly sharpened scissors in hand, he cut the cloth into p
ieces.

  ‘I’ve found the place. Two banks that share a wall. A small town with a small square in the middle, you can literally drive the car up to the entrance doors.’

  ‘Escape routes?’

  ‘You choose. The main road – Highway 73. Or a myriad of minor roads – all of which lead back here.’

  The top of the tube had dried out, so Leo scraped away the hardened gunk. Then, using a small roller, he spread milky fabric glue over the interior walls of the safe.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ösmo.’

  ‘Ösmo?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In that case … I say we take the myriad. Through Väggarö and Sunnerby. Or Sorunda. The minor roads to Tumba.’

  Velvet squares were laid onto the glue-smeared interior walls.

  ‘Ösmo, Leo? And … what the hell were you doing there?’

  They were sitting on either side of a large safe with no back, so it was difficult to avoid each other’s eyes.

  ‘A recce.’

  ‘You were there.’

  Felix searched the eyes he knew so well.

  ‘Leo?’

  Eyes that couldn’t quite meet his.

  ‘You were at his place. With that old bastard!’

  ‘Yeah. I was there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Money. I owed him. You know that, right? I paid him back. So I don’t have to hear it ever again.’

  ‘We don’t owe him shit, Leo, when will you ever get that! And you could have paid that money back any damn time you wanted to!’

  One piece of velvet left. Leo glued it onto the back of the safe.

  ‘It just happened.’

  ‘Like hell it just happened! You wanted to tell him!’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘Why? Why? I know you, Leo. I know how you two work. He sets off a load of crap inside your head, and it just keeps going.’

  ‘Damn, you’re getting so worked up. Forget it, Felix.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll forget the whole fucking thing. Forget fucking Svedmyra, bro. Forget fucking Ösmo. I’m out. Now.’

  Felix was halfway to the garage door when Leo grabbed hold of his shoulder.

  ‘Damn it, Felix, calm down.’

  ‘Leo, don’t you understand why I feel this way? Don’t you know that … it would never have happened if I hadn’t opened that door.’

  ‘What fucking door?’

  ‘I opened it. Then. When our fucking old man tried to kill our mother. I opened it. I let him in.’

  ‘You didn’t open it.’

  ‘I opened the door and—’

  ‘I opened the door.’

  ‘Leo, I’m not fucking joking.’

  ‘And I’m not joking either. Why the hell would you have opened the door for … him?’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t know it was him.’

  ‘You would never have opened the door. You were always so damn worried about what might happen. You remember wrong. I was the one who opened the door.’

  ‘You? You climbed onto his back like a fucking monkey. You stepped between them. But I … I opened the door and let him in! And I decided right then, Leo! Never again! You hear that? So promise me …’

  ‘Promise what?’

  ‘Promise me you won’t see him as long as I’m driving the getaway car!’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Promise me. Promise me!’

  They stood there mid-stride, staring at each other for a long time. Leo put a second hand on Felix’s other shoulder.

  ‘OK. I promise. Satisfied? I promise never to have any contact with the old man again.’

  Leo pulled gently on two shoulders that were slightly wider than his own, a faint smile on his lips.

  ‘OK, Felix? Satisfied? Never again.’

  ‘If we let him back in, Leo, he’ll destroy all of this – everything we’ve built.’

  Broncks rang a funny little doorbell that looked like a flower. He would do as he’d done with the fat man in Jakobsberg and the junkie on St Erik Street: ask questions that didn’t have much to do with his purpose, but that would give him the answers he was looking for: What sort of person are you now? What are you capable of doing? Where were you between 17.54 and 18.14 on October the nineteenth?

  Heavy steps. A shadow over the ribbed glass of the door’s windowpanes. And a lock being turned.

  ‘Hello, I—’

  ‘Steve isn’t home.’

  The man was much larger than John had expected. Not taller, not stronger, just bigger in the way some people are when you’re close to them. Dark hair combed back, unwashed, bushy sideburns, like a longhaired Elvis Presley.

  ‘He owns the place. I just rent a floor, so come back later.’

  The man’s rough hand grasped the brass doorknob ready to close the door, two of the knuckles clearly sunken, something common among those who’ve thrown a lot of punches.

  ‘I’m not looking for Steve. I’m here to speak to Ivan Dûvnjac.’

  Broncks flashed his leather police badge, and the burly man glanced fleetingly at it.

  ‘John Broncks, City Police.’

  He looked at the man and then nodded at the neighbouring houses on the left and right, which also had large gardens.

  ‘We’ve received several complaints about break-ins in this area in the last few weeks. Have you noticed anything unusual?’

  ‘So the cops are out knocking on doors?’

  The same tone of voice as the Junkie and the Fat Man. People who were used to opening their doors to the police, dealing with the judicial system in courtrooms, going to prison. Always suspicious, always the feeling of being accused, even before they were. Broncks hadn’t expected any other reaction.

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’

  ‘So what the hell do you want with me?’

  ‘I showed you my ID. Now I’d like to see yours.’

  ‘I don’t have any fucking ID.’

  ‘Not even a passport? Nothing?’

  ‘Why would I need any? Is that the law? Do I have to stand here and show my papers every time some cop bastard knocks on my door?’

  They stood close to each other on the narrow porch. Around this time, in his meetings with the Junkie and the Fat Man, they’d started answering his questions, found some ID. Even though they too had felt accused, they wanted to be written off.

  ‘Maybe in order to be part of society?’

  ‘I may rent a floor here. But I’m not part of any fucking society.’

  ‘And that car over there?’

  Broncks gestured towards the driveway and a rusty old Saab, a paint roller and a folded ladder sticking out of the back seat.

  ‘Is that yours? In that case, you must have a licence.’

  The man ran his hand through the Elvis hair.

  ‘You think I’m a fucking burglar? Really?’

  ‘I’d like to know where you were between the hours of five thirty and six thirty on the evening of October the nineteenth.’

  A short laugh landed between them.

  ‘And what kind of burglar does a break-in between five and seven?’

  The burly man, who took up so much space, now took half a step forward.

  ‘I’ve done what I’ve done. I’ve lost control. But a fucking thief … what the hell, is that what you think, that I sneak into other people’s homes and take their stuff? I don’t sneak. I fight. You can see that in your fucking papers too.’

  John Broncks didn’t move. Not before he’d seen some identification.

  You have abused your wife. Carried out violence in order to exert control. I don’t need any fucking papers, I know all about it.

  ‘OK. What the hell. But only if you go back to your bloody cop car afterwards.’

  The man left the door open and disappeared down the hall into what seemed to be the kitchen, a pile of Keno tickets spread out on the kitchen table alongside two bottles of wine. A grey jacket lay over one of the kitchen chairs, and inside the pocket was a worn wallet.
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  ‘Thank you.’

  Broncks took the plastic card. A driving licence. IVAN ZORAN DÛVNJAC. Issued seven years earlier, valid for another three. He handed it back.

  ‘You could have shown that to me right away.’

  ‘And why should I do that? You come here, to my house, with your prejudices. Even though you know I haven’t done a damn thing in a decade. And that I never sneaked around in other people’s homes like a fucking rat.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can confirm that?’

  They stood close to each other. But not close enough. Ivan Dûvnjac moved a step closer, tossed his head, thrust out his chin, stared. It had been a long time since Broncks had engaged in this sort of power game in the line of duty.

  ‘You come here trying to throw me off balance. Maybe you will. If you carry on.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘You can think whatever you want.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm your whereabouts on the afternoon and evening of October the nineteenth?’

  ‘Steve can.’

  ‘Steve?’

  ‘My landlord. He lives upstairs. He can confirm it. Call him. He’s working at … call the fucking Gotland ferry.’

  Down the stairs and the flagstone path to the gate and his car. Broncks didn’t need to turn round. He felt the eyes on his back peering through the curtains.

  He’d had seventeen hits, convicted and released, criminals and ex-criminals. He had checked them out and written them off one by one. This had been the last one. And he believed him. Ivan Dûvnjac hit people, but he wasn’t a thief.

  Jafar and Gobakk were elsewhere.

  The stairs always creaked when he walked up, but never for some reason when he went down. The newspapers lay on a stool next to the stove, a couple of days old, and Ivan picked them up, and the stack in the cabinet under the sink, and headed to the recycling.

  The bastard had stood outside his door. Jeans and a black leather jacket. Some idiot cop talking about petty criminals sneaking into other people’s homes like rats.