The Andalucian Friend

by Alexander Soderberg

  She thought. Trying to figure out what to say and what not to say.

  “Two men claiming to be policemen were in the house a few weeks ago. My cleaner caught them red-handed when she arrived. She’s got her own key. They threatened her, said she’d be in trouble if she told anyone.”

  Jens was sitting with his arms resting on his legs, looking down at his shoes.

  “How did they threaten her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why’s she telling you now? Why didn’t she tell you when it happened?”

  “She was scared.”

  He nodded to himself.

  “Did they take anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “So what were they doing there … what do you think?”

  Sophie thought for a moment, then looked at him.

  “I don’t know.”

  He tried to read in her eyes if she was telling the truth, but found nothing that could help him decide. Instead she looked the way he remembered her.

  “What?” she said.

  “Nothing.”

  She smoked the cigarette down to the filter, then crushed it under her shoe.

  “How do you know Hector?” he said.

  She knew the question would come.

  “He was in my ward … in the hospital. He’d been in a road accident. We became friends.”

  “Good friends?”

  “Fairly … fairly good friends.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Like I said, fairly.”

  They sat in silence, each of them aware that their first encounter at the restaurant concealed many more secrets than either of them was willing to reveal.

  “And this has got something to do with Hector?”

  “I think so,” she whispered, still thinking.

  Jens noticed and let her think in peace.

  “But I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  “What else is there in your life that could have led the police into your house, if we assume that they were from the police?”

  She kept pulling at the thoughts flying through her head, then got up from the bench and walked over to the edge of the quay.

  “Have you changed over the years, Jens?”

  He didn’t answer the question. She turned around and looked at him for a moment, then hugged herself, trying to find the right words.

  “There’s someone in the police who’s after Hector, he doesn’t know. She, the police officer, has asked me to give them information about him.…”

  Sophie looked at Jens with a look that said she hoped she hadn’t said too much.

  “Have you said anything about that night?” he asked.

  “Of course I haven’t,” she said quietly.

  “So what have you said, then?”

  She tried to gather her thoughts.

  “Little things … nothing much. Names, places, people. But she called and asked about that evening.… I don’t know if she knows something.”

  Jens’s surprise was genuine.

  “What did she ask?”

  “What I was doing that evening.”

  “And you said …?”

  “I said we were going to have dinner, but that Hector had to go to a meeting and I went home.”

  “Did she imply anything?”

  Sophie shook her head. Jens thought for a moment. Then he looked up.

  “What else?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Sophie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Go on.”

  She hesitated.

  “Aron told me …,” she continued.

  “Aron told you what?”

  “Something along the lines that I should keep my mouth shut.”

  “A threat?”

  She nodded.

  “And Hector? What does he say?”

  She sighed. Didn’t want to talk about Hector.

  “What else?”

  “No, that’s enough.”

  She looked pained. Her voice changed, its tone lower. Her whole being seemed to shrink.

  “I’m in the shit, Jens.… I don’t know what to do.”

  He was having trouble looking at her.

  “Can you help me?”

  He nodded curtly, as if he had already answered that question.

  “So, who was in your house? Hector’s gang or the cops?”

  She still had her arms wrapped around herself.

  “The police, if you ask me.”

  “Why?”

  Sophie shrugged. “I don’t know.…”

  She was pale and tired.

  “But you must have some idea?”

  “Maybe they were trying to find out something about Hector.… Something I haven’t told them …”

  “But something else has struck you, hasn’t it? The most likely explanation, assuming that they’re after information.”

  She looked at him.

  “Yes … But how am I supposed to know? Take the telephone apart, check the lampshades … is that how it works?”

  He nodded, even though she was being ironic.

  “That’s pretty much exactly how it works.”

  They tried to make sense of the conversation in their heads, then after a while he looked up.

  “Can you take the day off work tomorrow?”

  “Yes …”

  He could see how worried she was. Sophie turned and began to walk off toward Nybroplan.

  He watched her go from the bench, her walk hadn’t changed. He had been so fond of her back then … so long ago. He remembered it now, he remembered his suppressed feelings. How they met that summer a whole lifetime ago. How they found each other, how they talked about everything it was possible to talk about. How they got drunk, ate dinner late out on the terrace, and slept in every morning. How they would take his parents’ car and drive off to get breakfast. How he there and then decided for the first and only time in his life that he would be capable of mowing the lawn in the garden they shared until old age got the better of him. And how that feeling completely terrified him. How, against his will, he had managed to get rid of her.… And he couldn’t remember a thing about the period that followed.

  Jens took out his cell phone, selected a contact from the list, and called the number. An old man answered.

  “Hello, Harry, can you tell who this is?”

  “I certainly can, good to hear from you again.”

  “Are you busy first thing tomorrow?”

  “Nothing I can’t change.”

  “Come ’round my place at seven o’clock and I’ll make you breakfast; bring your equipment and some overalls. Have you still got the company van?”

  “Sure, it’s all just the same.”

  “Same here … Look forward to seeing you then.”

  Jens ended the call and looked out across the water of Nybroviken.

  Why had he been so quick to say he would help her? She was involved with Hector Guzman, she was being watched by the cops and had just witnessed an attempted murder where he himself had been present. Hector and his gang were ruthless when things heated up. They had powerful people, like the Hanke group, after them, they smuggled coke, and God only knew what else they were involved in—and there, in the middle of all that, Sophie.… Was that why he had agreed to help her, because he knew that world? Or was it because she was Sophie? Under normal circumstances he would have headed for the hills the moment he saw her. Run away, without really knowing why. That’s what he always did with women. But here he sat like a total idiot in his crappy tennis shirt, offering to help her.…

  Jens hid his face in his hands. Christ, he was tired. He leaned back on the bench, wishing things could be the way they used to be. It had all been easier then, easier to push his feelings aside, easier not to give a damn.… That was probably why everyone always said things were better before, because when they got older they couldn’t cope with the deluge of the past. Everything finds its way into the light sooner or later.<
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  His cell vibrated in his pocket. He took a deep breath to shake off the slight pressure in his chest.

  “Yes?”

  He listened to the soft voice at the other end. Hector Guzman sounded friendly as he asked if Jens was the sort who drank coffee in the evenings.

  Lars Vinge took forty or so photographs of Jens Vall as he was sitting on the bench by the water. When Jens got up he turned directly toward the telephoto lens, and Lars got some great, clear close-ups. He left his position in a doorway on Skeppargatan and hurried back toward the garage on David Bagares gata to get there ahead of Sophie.

  It was almost eleven o’clock, darkness had fallen. Jens went in through the front door and up the stairs. There was a sign on the door: THE ANDALUCIAN DOG PUBLISHING COMPANY LTD.

  Jens was sitting opposite Hector in his office. A window was open, the evening was still warm, and sounds rose up from the street below. Occasional laughter, noisy youngsters going past, “Volare” was playing in a nearby apartment.

  Hector’s desk looked rather old-fashioned, and his chair was a leather-clad ’50s design on wheels. It seemed very comfortable.

  Hector was thinking.

  “Before we talk, do you want anything? You look tired.”

  “You offered coffee on the phone.”

  Hector got up and left the office and Jens followed him, through a small conference room and a library packed full of books. Hector gestured as they passed through.

  “These are some of the books we publish. A lot of them are translations from Spanish, but there are some original Swedish titles.”

  Eventually they reached a kitchen.

  “The office is on this floor, and I live directly above.” He pointed to the ceiling.

  The kitchen was small but tastefully furnished, quality throughout. They stopped and looked at each other. Measuring each other. Jens was taller but he thought Hector felt bigger, as he somehow encompassed more than his physical body alone. If they had been younger they would have stood back to back.

  Hector looked away and started to set up the espresso machine.

  “What’s he like, Ralph Hanke?”

  “I don’t know.… Arrogant, theatrical …”

  Hector put two cups under the machine, pressed a button, and the contraption made an unpleasant noise as it began to grind coffee beans somewhere inside itself.

  “Milk?”

  “Just a little.”

  He poured a splash of milk into the two cups, then handed one to Jens.

  “So, tell me.”

  “I arrived at a nondescript house in some Munich suburb and found my goods in the cellar. They’d draped a dead body over the boxes.”

  Hector raised his eyebrows as he drank.

  “Then that big Russian, Mikhail, turned up with Ralph and his son, I don’t remember his name.”

  “Christian …,” Hector said.

  “Ralph wanted me to mediate between you and them.”

  “And what do you think about that? Being the go-between?”

  “I don’t think anything.”

  Hector nodded.

  “There won’t be any mediation. Those men have stolen our goods, tried to kill me twice, they’ve made threats and God knows what else.… Their main aim with all of this is to force us to become part of their organization.”

  “Yes, that’s pretty much how he put it,” Jens said.

  “OK. Go back to them and tell them to drop this whole business once and for all, and say that their failed attempts ought to have shown them what they’re up against. If they don’t back down now we’ll take it as a declaration of war.”

  Hector turned away and rinsed his espresso cup under the tap. He suddenly looked very dark, his anger had found its way out and settled in his furrowed brow. He turned off the water and looked at Jens once more. Hector’s darkness felt like a physical presence in the room.

  “Every time things have heated up recently you’ve popped up. And I’m supposed to think that’s coincidence? And now here you are, as some sort of go-between. That doesn’t seem very plausible, does it?”

  Jens didn’t answer. Hector looked at him, then shrugged.

  “But on the other hand you seem unassuming … calm.”

  Jens didn’t bother to contribute.

  “Get back to Hanke with our response.”

  Hector left the kitchen and went back to his office.

  “If you’re fucking with me, you’re a dead man,” he said without turning around.

  In the stairs on the way down to the street Jens dialed the number he had been given by Mikhail. Roland Gentz answered at the other end.

  “Yes.”

  “I was told to call this number and pass on a message from Stockholm. Have I reached the right person?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hector says that you’ve already gone too far, that you need to back down.… If you try anything else this will escalate beyond anyone’s control.”

  “I understand, thanks for calling.”

  The line went dead.

  Jens walked through Gamla stan, trying to get a grip on everything that was happening, trying to allocate scores, where one was biggest, most important for the things that had to be dealt with first, and ten was for things that could wait, things he could deal with later. He found that there were tons of ones and twos, but was unable to give them any sort of internal ranking. Jens shook off the idea and went to buy breakfast. He found an all-night store selling fresh bread, freshly ground coffee, and homemade marmalade. He bought the best of everything, wanted to be able to offer Harry a decent breakfast in a few hours’ time.

  Albert had gone to school. The doorbell rang at half past eight in the morning. She went and let in Jens and a man who introduced himself as Harry, both of them dressed as workmen.

  “Good morning, madam,” Jens said.

  He imagined that handymen were positive, decent, a bit rough around the edges, both feet on the ground—that was how they were depicted on television, at any rate.

  “Welcome, come in.”

  They went into the house. Jens played at being a handyman, Sophie a client. Harry kept quiet and made his way to a corner of the living room where he crouched down and opened his toolbox. Sophie was pointing randomly at things.

  “To start with, I’d like a door leading to the garden here, with a French door in place of that window, and steps down to the garden as well.”

  Jens was looking around.

  “Of course.”

  As they talked Harry held an oval plastic gadget to his eye and looked around the room. He got up and walked around, searching with the little gadget while simultaneously taking readings from a meter in his hand. Sophie and Jens carried on playacting.

  Harry wrote something down on a piece of paper. Jens took it, read it, and handed it to Sophie. No cameras. They went on, but Sophie’s imagination was starting to wear thin. She couldn’t very well pretend she wanted the whole house rebuilt. Jens took over and explained what could be done and what wouldn’t be possible. He kept using the wrong terminology; he wasn’t exactly a natural handyman, far from it.

  Harry searched again with a different instrument; he walked up to a lamp and the needle jumped. He had located a hidden microphone. He turned toward Jens, gave the thumbs-up, and took out a little Swedish flag on a stand and put it next to the lamp. He moved on, found another one in the kitchen, and left a flag there as well. Upstairs he found microphones in her bedroom, in Albert’s room, and on the landing. Little flags dotted all over the place. Harry checked the phones and found two more. Jens’s mouth was dry after all the talk of home improvements. Sophie’s face was pale.

  Harry pulled out a miniature camera. It looked like the clip of a ballpoint pen. He fastened it to an almost invisible electrical cable that he had placed around the edge of the ceiling, checked that it worked on a tiny television monitor no bigger than his hand. He saw himself on the gadget, backed away, and checked the image again. Harry passed the moni
tor to Sophie, who took it. He wrote on a piece of paper:

  Motion sensitive. The camera starts up if any movement is detected, check it every day, keep the monitor hidden, no more than eight yards from the camera.

  Before they left, Jens gave Sophie a pay-as-you-go cell phone and a handwritten note telling her to leave the house in half an hour and call him.

  Harry and Jens were driving in the van.

  “What do you think?” Jens asked.

  “I think that whoever’s bugging her isn’t short of resources. I saw microphones like that in London last year when I was over there buying supplies. They’re tiny, so small they’re almost invisible to the naked eye, and they’re fucking expensive. The downside is that you have to stay fairly close, the range is pretty limited, two hundred yards, I think. And considerably less in a residential area with trees and houses all ’round. The people using them probably have a receiver in a parked car, which they keep collecting recordings from.”

  Harry was driving and talking as he went.

  “Whoever installed this stuff knew what they were doing. There’s probably more there than what we found. Let her know that she needs to be careful when she uses her computer, her cell … pretty much everything, really.”

  “If you had to take a guess, who would do something like this?”

  Harry looked straight ahead.

  “No idea.”

  “Does it record?” Anders wondered.

  The caretaker shook his head.

  “No, but it takes pictures. Like I said, it’s old. The idea is that it takes photographs at thirty-second intervals when there’s an ambulance in the bay.”

  “Why?”

  The caretaker shrugged.

  “I suppose so reception can see when an ambulance arrives, but I don’t really know.…”

  Anders and the caretaker were sitting at his desk looking at the pictures from the night when the man with the gunshot wound was brought in. The photographs were crooked close-ups of the car’s windshield.

  “Why has it been set up like this?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Anders sighed. He could see the top part of a dark-colored car, half the windshield, and part of the roof. He could see an arm on the wheel, a grainy right arm, possibly a man about to get out of the car. Anders sighed again. No picture of the car as it was leaving the ambulance bay, and in the last photograph it was gone, empty.