Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  Jonna rolled her eyes. Was it so difficult to say “prostitute”?

  “You heard wrong,” Ricki said, lighting a cigarette. She took a few deep drags and blew smoke in Walter’s face.

  Jonna studied the woman’s swollen face.

  “Do you know what I spotted in the hallway?” Walter asked from within the cloud of smoke.

  Ricki did not answer.

  “Well, I saw a pair of size 48s.”

  “Forty-eights?”

  “Yes, huge shoes in other words. Two really big Jimmy Choos.”

  Ricki took another drag.

  “I think those shoes belong to your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” she cried and crushed the cigarette into a small ashtray that resembled a pair of lungs. “I’m going to kill the fucking bastard if he ever dares to come here.”

  “Is he the one who hit hit you?” Jonna asked.

  Ricki did not answer.

  “That’s probably it,” Walter declared, pushing out his lower lip. “The way you look, there won’t be any customers around for a while.”

  “Go to hell,” Ricki snarled.

  “Do you know where we can find Hedman?” Jonna sat down beside the woman and tried to make eye contact. She was attempting to win her trust, although there was not much time to waste.

  Ricki shrugged. “I’ve no fucking clue where he is now.”

  “Not even a guess?” Jonna tried again, smiling sym-

  pathetically.

  “No,” she said, crossing her legs. Her foot twitched nervously in the air.

  “Have you filed a police complaint?”

  Ricki smiled sweetly at Jonna. “Yeah, sure thing.”

  Walter shot Jonna a resigned look, so that she could tell he wanted her to give up.

  Jonna could not understand what was wrong with her question. Why was it taboo to report a boyfriend for abuse? She felt frustration growing towards all three. Walter, the woman, and that damned Headcase.

  “OK,” Walter said, impatiently, and stood up from the sofa. “Let’s skip the chitchat and get down to business, like your clients. We know that Headcase has been here, so you don’t have to rat on him. Just shake your head if you don’t know where he is, and we’ll leave you alone. But . . .” Walter held up a finger, “If we find out you are lying, our friends at Vice will tell everyone that you have HIV and then you can shut up shop for good. That’s not a threat, that’s a promise.”

  Jonna was just about to intervene when Ricki opened her mouth. “He clobbered me outside the Hut’s,” she said.

  “The Hut?” Jonna repeated. “Which Hut?”

  “Pekka Hyttinen,” Walter explained. “A fence in Kungs-

  holmen that villains sell stolen goods to. He has a real pawn shop as a front, but he actually resells stolen jewellery.”

  “Tor was going to sell him a ring because he owes me money,” Ricki began, “but the Hut didn’t want to buy it. Instead, he started babbling about Omar and how the ring was his.”

  “Omar’s ring?” Walter repeated.

  “He started asking lots of questions and then he threw us out like fucking gypsies.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I took the ring to try and sell it somewhere else, but Tor walloped me and took off with it. That’s all there is to tell.”

  “What was the ring like?” Jonna asked. “What did it look like?”

  Ricki said nothing and lit another cigarette instead.

  “Was there anything special about the ring?” Jonna repeated.

  Ricki glared at Jonna with contempt. “You talk like one of those snotty, upper-class bitches. Did you know that?”

  Jonna was thrown by the sudden attack. “Actually, I didn’t know that,” she said, trying to make light of the insult.

  “Well, now you do,” Ricki said, flicking ash into one of her lung-shaped ashtrays.

  Walter pushed the green button. The lift shuddered and started to move downwards. The walls were spattered with spit that had run down and then dried. Jonna could not understand the motive behind destroying one’s own, and others’, environment. This was a foreign world, far removed from the one she returned to after work. Yet, they lived in the same country, the same city. Only a few kilometres from affluent, suburban homes.

  “It’s almost time,” Walter said.

  “Time for what?”

  “For a chat with SÄPO.”

  “About Hedman’s possible involvement in Gnesta?”

  Walter nodded. “I just can’t make sense of all the loose ends. Usually, the answers are the most obvious ones, so I think we’ll have to question Martin Borg, even if I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “What do we do with the Hut?”

  “Nothing,” Walter said, leaving the lift.

  “Aren’t we going to pay him a visit? To find out if he knows something?”

  “No,” Walter said. “Then he’ll know that Ricki has grassed on him and I don’t want to put her in harm’s way. Grasses are not appreciated. Besides, I always keep my word. Even to a tart.”

  “It could’ve been Hedman that shopped him,” Jonna protested.

  “For now, we’ll do it my way,” Walter finished up and tossed the car keys to Jonna.

  “So what’s next?” she asked, starting the car.

  “Lilja is going to set up a meeting with SÄPO.” Walter took out his mobile phone and pressed the number for Chief Inspector David Lilja.

  Chapter 5

  In a few short hours, Tor Hedman had attacked two women. His latest victim lay on the floor behind the reception desk, bleeding from a deep cut in her skull after flying headfirst into the bookshelf. Tor was relieved that he had not hit her any harder. That would have put her to sleep permanently.

  There were no rooms available and, in an instant of sudden fury, he had struck her. Unfortunately, he’d used his right hand. His hand had been wrapped in a resin cast after his operation and had already been painful before he clobbered her. The pain was now shooting through his hand like knives and he was having difficulty moving his fingers. Soon, he would have to get to a hospital.

  He looked at the unconscious woman, who obviously would have serious concussion. The last thing he needed right now was to be wanted for a mugging. There was no one about inside or outside the building, but he still needed to get as far away from this place as possible. His only option was to take the lodge’s van, which was parked outside the entrance.

  Tor opened a door and quickly looked inside the small office behind the reception desk. A ski jacket was hanging just inside the door. He rummaged through the pockets, but found only small coins and tampons. Tor threw the useless items on the floor and angrily kicked over a wastepaper basket. His eyes scanned over the desk one more time. No sign of the fucking van keys. Maybe she had them on her? He ran back to the unconscious woman and, after some prodding, dug out the van keys from her trouser pocket.

  Tor jumped into the van and its engine roared into life. The van would soon be on the wanted list and he had to get into town before the fuzz put up any roadblocks between Dalarö and Stockholm. As he approached Farsta, his adrenaline level dropped. He began to feel that his run of bad luck had finally ended and that finding the van keys had been a turning point.

  The sign for the Farsta exit drew closer. Tor was not far from the garage that he and Jerry had rented. One hundred square metres of space where they used to stash their stolen goods. He would be able to hide out in the garage until everything had calmed down. He would first have to find the caretaker so that he could ask him for the keys. The guy would definitely remember Tor.

  After a little thought, he changed his mind. The fuzz probably already had the garage under surveillance. Not my best idea, he thought. Per
haps he could try another fence. Radovan would buy pretty much anything that he could resell. But he was also not to be trusted and was tight with cash. Omar’s ring was unique and could get him into even more trouble. He had plenty of problems already.

  He dismissed the idea and considered another possibility instead. He could call that psycho cop. Perhaps Tor had over-reacted that day in the woods on Ekerö island. The notion of a bent copper as a partner was perhaps not such a bad idea. When he had been sitting in the car in the woods, his reaction had seemed so logical. Tor had been convinced that he was facing certain death after outliving his usefulness as a stooge. But that had been his gut feeling, and he had been mistaken about that before.

  Tor was confused as he turned off Ringvägen and parked the van on a poorly lit sidestreet. After over an hour of indecision, he made up his mind. He took out his mobile phone and punched the psycho cop’s number. All things considered, he didn’t have any other options.

  Martin Borg’s personal mobile phone rang. He fished it out from his jacket and read the number on the display. The caller’s number was withheld and he hesitated for a moment. At the fourth ring, he accepted the call and left the room. The Mentor and Eng were attempting to bring Leo Brageler back to consciousness. Martin had nothing to contribute to the current situation.

  “It’s me,” the voice on the phone declared.

  At first, Martin was confused, then a crooked smile spread across his face as he realized to whom the voice belonged.

  “Not a day too soon,” he answered. Tor Hedman was back on the hook and under no circumstances would Martin lose him again.

  “I’ve had stuff to do since the Gnesta job,” Tor apologized. Hedman’s voice sounded anxious. Martin suddenly wondered if he was being bugged. Perhaps the National Bureau of Investigation had finally caught Hedman and the moron was trying to cut a deal by throwing Martin under a bus. If Martin continued the conversation, his mobile would soon be traced and the area would be crawling with his colleagues within the hour.

  “You must have the wrong number,” Martin excused himself and turned his phone off.

  Martin felt sweat forming in his pores despite the fact that it was freezing inside the building. He pulled down the zipper on his ski jacket and brushed back his short hair. If Stockholm County CID or some other agency had arrested Hedman, this meant trouble. If he was still at large, then an opportunity had presented itself. Whatever the reason, Hedman wanted to talk with Martin. Martin needed to consult the Mentor first.

  The old man looked thoughtfully at Martin after he had recounted the news of the telephone call and his first reaction to the call. The Mentor put his palms together like a church steeple and let his fingers slowly rest on his pencil-thin lips. If Martin had not known that the old man was an atheist, he would have believed that he was carrying out a form of ritual prayer.

  “It is exactly as I feared,” he said, sitting down on his stool. With his talon-like hands, he started to unbutton his coat. Martin was apparently not the only one feeling the heat in this icy house.

  “We have to find out if it’s a trap,” Martin said. “Perhaps Thomas Kokk is pulling the strings after all.”

  The old man shook his head in disagreement. “No,” he said. “I find that most improbable. Even in the unlikely event that Hedman has been able to give our colleagues any useful information, the leaders of the investigation won’t use it without corroborating evidence. If they get it wrong and allow themselves to be conned by a known criminal trying to save his own neck, then heads will roll. Trust me, no one is going to take that risk. Not even Thomas Kokk.”

  “Kokk doesn’t trust me any more,” Martin argued.

  “He has some suspicions about you after the Gnesta incident, but I don’t think that he is using Hedman to set a trap for you. You’ve been cleared of any charges, which in itself is a miracle. To try to pin that on you again with nothing more than the word of a talkative villain would be professional suicide.

  “It’s good that you are so paranoid, Martin,” the old man continued, “but right now, I don’t think we need to worry ourselves. But it would be best if Hedman is deprived of the ability to spill the beans in the future.”

  Despite the clear logic in the Mentor’s reasoning, Martin’s doubts were not completely banished. He had to find out what Hedman really was up to. The best solution was to get rid of him once and for all. In fact, Hedman had suddenly become his most urgent problem. Leo Brageler and the Diaxtropyl-3S would just have to wait.

  “We must set up a meeting with Hedman,” Martin said. “We now have a chance to take him out permanently. Before Gröhn and Stockholm County CID arrest him.”

  The old man stood up from his stool. “Fight fire with fire,” he suggested.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I seem to remember you telling me that an Albanian was after Hedman.”

  “Haxhi Osmanaj,” said Martin.

  “That’s the name,” the old man smiled. “Lead that Osmanaj fellow to him and let him finish the job for us.”

  Martin thought it over for a short while. The Mentor’s suggestion was not such a bad idea. That method was used often by the South African police to reduce the rising number of street gangs. They let the gang members decimate each other. Furthermore, they arranged for the gang killings to take place in isolated locations away from the civilian population. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said.

  “As for Leo Brageler: well, he has two days to start talking,” the Mentor continued. “After that, he has to disappear. We are exposing ourselves too much, considering all that is happening to you.”

  “That’s too soon,” Martin protested. “We need more time with him.” Getting rid of Brageler now was like giving up just before the finishing line.

  “Each day that we have Brageler increases the risk. We should have broken him in a week. Instead, it has been almost four months without a breakthrough. Except for today’s conversation.

  “Omar’s death has proved to be a significant set-back for the organization and it will take time to build up an equivalent network of contacts. His absence will hamper us for some time to come.”

  “Two days, or even two weeks, won’t make it worse,” Martin protested.

  The old man’s eyes hardened. “Even if I don’t think that Kokk or anyone else is after you, I want to cover any tracks that might lead to us. As soon as possible.”

  Martin still did not agree with the Mentor. He needed more time to procure the Diaxtropyl-3S. He had to go through the phone list on the hard drive to get his hands on more of the truth serum. Even then, there was no guarantee that he would be successful.

  Using a voice changer and a pay-as-you-go phone, Eng was going to call Hedman and set up a meeting. Martin was to stay at home and avoid attracting attention, just in case he was being bugged. As soon as the meeting was set up, Osmanaj would receive a tip on Hedman’s whereabouts. If the Albanian was still after Hedman – as Martin was convinced he was – then that problem solved itself. If the meeting was a trap set by Kokk or County CID, then Osmanaj would take the fall, not Martin. The plan was straightforward and without any risk.

  The Mentor turned towards Brageler. “We will resume his interrogation tomorrow. I will arrange for someone with medical skills to examine him later tonight. He will hopefully be in better shape tomorrow.”

  Leo Brageler heard the echo of distant voices. For a brief moment, he did not know if he still lived or if he had finally passed over to the other side. But then he detected the sharp scent of smelling salts and immediately understood. They were never going to stop. The voices became fainter and soon completely disappeared. He opened his eyes and found himself once again in darkness.

  Walter’s phone rang just as Jonna was driving onto the E4 motorway. After a short conversation, he asked Jonna to drive towards Dalarö.

&nb
sp; “What are we going to do in Dalarö?” she wondered.

  “Tor Hedman is now wanted for assault and robbery,” Walter said, taking a cough drop from his jacket pocket. The landlady of the Dalarö tourist lodge is in the A&E with serious head injuries.”

  “How do we know that it’s Tor?”

  “There’s CCTV at the reception desk and a witness saw the same person drive off in the tourist lodge’s van.”

  “What’s he doing at Dalarö? Stealing from the tourist lodge?”

  “Hardly,” said Walter. “They don’t handle much cash.”

  “Maybe he was staying there?”

  “Nothing suggests that either. But it could mean something.”

  “Such as?” Jonna asked, increasing speed. She turned on the blue lights, but left the siren turned off.

  “That he’s looking for a weapon or has just acquired one.”

  “A weapon? Why do you suspect that?”

  “Hugo Stridh,” replied Walter, sucking loudly on his cough drop.

  “Who is that?” asked Jonna, becoming increasingly irritated at having constantly to tease information out of Walter.

  “An old military veteran,” said Walter. “He’s been under investigation by County CID on many occasions, but we’ve never been able to make anything stick. He’s an arms dealer and supplies Stockholm’s thugs with all sorts of goodies. He always uses a go-between and no one knows how he smuggles the weapons into the country. Some rumours suggest that he has contacts within the military, but there’s nothing we can prove. A few years ago, we had him under surveillance around the clock. We monitored everything he did for over a year. Even so, the bastard managed to do business as usual and we couldn’t charge him with anything, except that he had tampered with his electricity meter.”

  “So Hugo Stridh lives in Dalarö?”

  “A few kilometres from the tourist lodge. We’re going to pay him a visit. It’s unlikely that Tor would be in this area and not visit Stridh.”

  Thirty minutes later, they parked the car outside a red farmhouse with white woodwork. Two tethered dogs barked angrily as Walter and Jonna got out of the car. Before they got to the steps leading up to the front door, it opened.