Stockholm Noir

by Nathan Larson

  After he was forced to the floor with two officers on top of him, one knee pressed up against his neck, they found a relatively new bottle of Kron in his coat pocket. They sent it to be analyzed. The old man got so scared he pissed his pants.

  Once I get there the whole scene is played out. The corridor is empty again other than a janitor mopping the floor. I get the whole story from the receptionists while offering them a cigarette out on the front steps.

  —The old man got the whole floor wet. With the officers on top of him.

  I start laughing. The girls stare at me.

  —It’s gross!

  I shrug.

  —Yeah, you can’t help wondering why you do this job sometimes.

  —Only druggies and psychos and idiots.

  Like the people who work here, I think to myself, and put the cigarette out.

  7

  —Linköping analyzed the vodka bottle. No prints, no hairs, no skin samples have been found. But when the content was analyzed there was organic waste with DNA that didn’t match the courier’s. It seems our murderer couldn’t actually keep from taking a sip. And when he or she did, there was apparently a little saliva or piece of skin from the lip that ended up inside the bottle. Not a huge amount, but the lab is still analyzing the DNA.

  —I wouldn’t mind a small one myself, I whisper to Gunnarsson who giggles.

  —Must have been a hell of a thirsty murderer. That was the first mistake, the superintendent whispers back, and rolls his eyes at me.

  —Who can blame the asshole? Thirst is thirst.

  He lets out a muffled laugh; the sound reminds me of a cat getting ready to fight. But this cat stopped fighting a long time ago.

  Holmén continues up on the platform:

  —And as many of you have heard, the thirteenth package arrived today by taxi. Despite all our measures the deliveries make it through every time. This time the bag contained a couple of . . . hrm . . . buttocks. A couple of hairy, I mean heavily hairy buttocks, if that can be of any help.

  Everyone in the room howls with laughter. Unfortunately, Holmén wasn’t trying to be funny this time.

  I squirm in my seat. I can’t wait to get to the restroom.

  6

  I go back out to the Slaughterhouse area. Last time I didn’t see anything of interest. Why would the murderer be here? Because he’s cutting up meat? Far-fetched. But I don’t have any better clues than the postcard.

  I park my Ford outside a lunch restaurant for slaughterhouse workers. Their white coats are stained in a range of colors, from bright red to brownish black.

  I go in and order a hamburger with fries and a local beer. I sit down next to three slaughterers of various ages eating away. I nod at them, they nod back.

  —A real beer would’ve been nice, I mutter mostly to myself.

  —That’d be a hell of a treat, the oldest of the slaughterers adds, and smiles like crazy.

  When I reach over the table to grab the ketchup I catch the same slaughterer staring at my breasts. The adrenaline hits my bloodstream like a firecracker; the speed has shaved off my impulse control.

  —What the hell you looking at? I hiss. Don’t you have a wife at home?

  —W-wife? he stutters, confused.

  —Get your eyes the hell away from my boobs, you goddamn buffoon.

  —I wasn’t . . .

  The two other slaughterers don’t know what to say. They stare at their plates with embarrassed looks on their faces and keep eating. I’m sweating nearly as much as when I was going through menopause; I’m completely soaked. Sweat, paranoia, it’s all because of the speed.

  —I wasn’t looking at your breasts, the guy manages to say.

  Suddenly I get it. I laugh.

  —Sorry. Police. Don’t worry.

  —Oh, Jesus fuck.

  He’s so relieved he almost screams.

  —I thought you were a thief.

  Everyone at the table laughs; I show my holster and the badge. The youngest of the slaughterers, he can hardly be more than twenty, straight out of some agricultural high school, looks at me with a pensive glance.

  —I think I know you, but I don’t know from where.

  —I’ve been on TV a few times lately.

  —Yeah, maybe. I’ve seen you somewhere. I’m pretty sure.

  The oldest one:

  —How come you been on TV?

  —The dismemberment case.

  Everyone around the table starts babbling at once. I interrupt them:

  —I got a tip that has to do with the Slaughterhouse area. If you hear of anything, call.

  They promise to do so. When I’m about to get up the youngest one asks:

  —Can’t be much left now?

  —Left of what?

  —Of the body.

  —Maybe not.

  —He’ll save the head for last, right?

  —Who the hell knows? And why would you think it’s a he? Why not a she? Or a whole gang of them?

  I speak with authority. The youngest one shrinks, impressed, but still asks:

  —What do you think will happen when all the pieces are sent?

  I shrug.

  —Hopefully nothing.

  —Are you sure we haven’t met somewhere? You look so familiar.

  —Are you hitting on me, punk?

  5

  —They said they would fire you if they could, that you’ve been wasting resources for years that should have been used for preventing crime.

  The memory of the blonde with the ponytail and pearl necklace causes me to jerk. I’m afraid I’ll bite through another crown, so I relax my jaw and take a deep breath.

  —I don’t give a shit. What’s your take?

  —You’re a good girl, Aggan. I like it when your lips are slightly parted like that. It’s sexy.

  —You’re twenty years late, asshole.

  Gunnarsson cackles and rubs the soles of his feet against the carpet. He circles the room before he sits back down. He’s just about to bend down to open the bottom drawer when the door is flung open and he sits back up. One of the secretaries is standing there looking at me.

  —There’s an important message for you.

  —Again?

  —It’s your ex-husband. He’s trying to reach you.

  —No news there.

  —He wanted me to let you know that your son still hasn’t come home.

  —That’s very nice of you, sweetheart.

  I glance at Gunnarsson; he rolls his eyes. The secretary leaves, the bottle is brought out.

  —What was today’s Christmas present?

  —Most of the left arm. No tattoos or visible scars. I can’t see why it’s so hard to find out who the victim is.

  —I suppose he’s not that greatly missed. Any news concerning the DNA from the bottle?

  Gunnarsson nods while pouring the glasses.

  —Sure, it’s almost complete. But no hits.

  * * *

  I slip my flannel nightgown over my head, swallow three Imovane with some cheap scotch blend, and get into bed. Suddenly my cell phone buzzes with an unknown caller.

  —Bengtsson. Who the hell is calling this late?

  —It’s Svante.

  —Svante who?

  —Svante Witha P.

  —The hell do you want?

  —I got a postcard. I think it’s for you.

  I sit up with a start. I’m dizzy.

  —There’s a picture of Globen on it.

  —I don’t care what the fucking picture is. What does it say?

  —It says, Kylhusgatan 19 pieces basement.

  —Kylhusgatan 19 pieces basement?

  —That’s what it says. And it’s addressed to you.

  —I’ll pick it up tomorrow.

  I end the call and put the phone down. Finally a concrete tip. I check the address: the Slaughterhouse area. It’ll be next day’s outing.

  The pills shut my head down; I drift off to sleep. If you can call it sleep. I wake up a
hundred times during the night and toss and turn, uneasy images and dreams.

  In the morning my nightgown is bunched in my armpits, and I find my sheet on the floor, twined like a rope, soaked in sweat.

  4

  There’s something unhealthy about the atmosphere when I force open the basement door at Kylhusgatan 19. I have strengthened my nerves with some nose candy and a few mouthfuls of whiskey, but my bowels keep rumbling and my heart beats a never-ending drumroll. The Slaughterhouse area is submerged in a brownish fog; each breath I take is like a little trickle of rain in my pipe.

  The few slaughterhouse workers I see are hurrying past to get inside. But around this house, which appears to be an abandoned old redbrick slaughterhouse with a broken sign on the façade spelling, MEAT SAUSAGE PATÉ, there’s no one.

  The lock is rusty, but finally I manage to get it open. Behind the green door there’s a concrete corridor; I turn the switch and one of the four fluorescent lamps in the ceiling flickers and starts glowing unevenly. I pull out my gun. I realize I’ve never pulled it out before while on duty, except a few times on the shooting range in the beginning of my career, but that doesn’t really count. At home I’ve done it a number of times, drunk, in front of the mirror, or while I’ve been watching a suspenseful action movie, pointing it at the bad guys on the screen.

  Now I can feel its weight in my hand. I cock and load it. I avoid putting my finger on the trigger; don’t want to shoot myself in the leg. I’m trembling like a motherfucker.

  It smells of old blood and rotten organic waste. At the far end of the dirty corridor there’s a steel door, it looks like an entrance to one of the old shelters from the Cold War. I unbolt the door and push the heavy thing open. It squeaks its way into the darkness.

  I avoid turning on the light, I don’t want anyone to see that there’s someone behind the dusty old cellar windows. I take out my penlight and turn it on. The beam slides over the interior of the room. In the middle there is a slaughtering block with legs of steel and a thick oak top. In the ceiling there are hooks. The once white tile floor is covered in black gore. It stinks. I gag a couple of times before I walk on in.

  I reach the table. There is a big scale on top of it. Alongside the longer wall there are a few refrigerators and freezers. I start walking toward them.

  Suddenly there’s a sound, a scraping as if someone is sneaking around. Between the rows of refrigerators and freezers there’s a doorway. I squint and glimpse someone coming toward me. I can’t make out any details, but it is a person without a doubt, and I’m sure it’s carrying a large butcher knife. I raise my gun and point it at the person’s legs. I’m trembling. The figure keeps bobbing and swaying before my eyes.

  —Stop. I’ll shoot. Lower your weapon.

  The person keeps walking toward me. It raises the hand carrying the knife. I am sweating so heavily I can hardly see, the stinging salty drops gather in my eyes. I put my finger on the trigger.

  —One more step and I’ll shoot.

  The person keeps walking and I fire. It bangs like hell. My ears are ringing. It’s the first time ever I’ve fired my gun on duty and it feels good, real good. I want to do it again.

  I take a few more steps toward the doorway but so does the other one. I shoot again, this time I’m aiming for the stomach. The figure keeps heading my way. I fire three more shots before I lower my gun. I wait; I can smell the gunpowder, mixed with blood. It’s completely silent except the ringing in my ears.

  I shine my flashlight but the beam finds no body on the floor. I take a few steps toward the doorway and realize there is no doorway.

  It’s the chromate freezer. There are five black holes in the steel. My face is there too; my eyes don’t look so well. I yank the door open.

  Peter stares back at me. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my son. Now I’ve found him all right. One of the bullets has gone through and entered his forehead. But there is no blood. His detached head had been emptied of blood long ago.

  —I had to, I tell him.

  He laughs. I laugh too.

  —That’s what happens to snitches—you know it and I know it, dear son. You said I was a bad mother and you were going to set me up. Even though I said I was sorry.

  I smile and shove my gun back into the holster before I walk over to the other side of the room. I take my coat off and put on the big plastic apron. I plug in the sabre saw and test-drive it for a while. The ten-centimeter blade glides speedily back and forth.

  I’m just about to put it on the slaughtering block and get the last few pieces of my son when the door is bashed in, a sharp light fills the room, and someone shouts, I’m sure I recognize the voice, it’s the bitch with the ponytail:

  —Agneta, you’re surrounded. Drop your weapon. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine. Just drop your weapon!

  I turn toward the cops. Their lights are so bright I can’t see them, but I’m guessing there are a bunch of them making their way into the room, my sanctuary.

  —Agneta, listen, take it easy now. Put your weapon down and we can talk about it.

  —This isn’t a weapon.

  —I can see that you’re carrying a weapon, Agneta. Now put it on the table slowly and we can talk later.

  —This isn’t a weapon. This is my Savior.

  I push the button again and start the saw. I lift my arm in a smooth arc and push the saw into my own throat. Dying doesn’t hurt. I get down on my knees, as if I’m praying, with blood whirling over my head like a halo.

  Death Star

  BY UNNI DROUGGE

  Hammarbyhamnen

  Translated by Rika Lesser

  Back then, gentrification hadn’t yet managed to destroy the aggregate of small-scale industries, warehouses, workshops, hovels, and shacks which characterized the area along the polluted Hammarby Canal. Nonetheless, a doomsday atmosphere pervaded the district, partly because the city was ready to level it to the ground, partly because executions regularly took place there. It was easy to dump bodies in the algae-green stream.

  It wasn’t the thought of bloated corpses amidst scrap iron and timber down at the swampy bottom that lured Berit Hård to take her daily walk along the water at dusk. Rather, it was a diffuse yet deep sense of solidarity with South Hammarby Harbor’s maladjusted elements. She found a certain beauty in this dilapidated marginal area that was teeming with life, where rats scurried through chemical spills, where she had to zigzag between mossy stacks of boards and rust-eaten machine parts, where filthy old men sat under moldy tarps and burned garbage, over which they would warm themselves or grill sausages.

  The smoke didn’t bother Berit; she was a smoker too and could easily find black-market cigarettes in the stalls near the approach to the main road. She could even get cheap bootleg liquor there.

  Her great love for these doomed surroundings, despite everything, had roots in a love of a more carnal sort: Rafel. The first time she’d seen him standing and welding sheet metal in a building that resembled a hangar, where the canal widened into a pool, her heart skipped a beat. When he took off the mask, his intense gaze hit her like sparks from the welding gun. Every late afternoon when Berit found her way to this place, she relished the opportunity to look into the mystical depth of Rafel’s eyes.

  She moved constantly in the daydream called “hope for the future,” for she was only twenty years old and had seen more life than death.

  But that evening in October, Hammarby Harbor’s silhouettes rose up above the fog banks like ghastly skeletons. Or maybe this was only how she remembered things afterward. For this was when she saw a young person lose her life.

  She’d witnessed this from a distance just as she was nearing a decommissioned lightbulb factory. The building’s functional architecture appeared like a cluster of wooden blocks, one of which stood on its end, crowned with something that resembled a glass booth on columns. As Berit examines the smashed windowpanes, a body came floating down from a high ledge and disappeared behind a clump
of trees. Berit expected to hear something when the body hit the ground, but there wasn’t a sound. She rushed up the grassy embankment, layers of thick fog drifting in front of her as she desperately searched for the body. The mangled form on the ground wasn’t visible until she reached the building.

  A slender girl with dark hair, scarcely older than eighteen, lay racked on a big chunk of concrete with protruding iron rods. Her eyes, framed with kohl, were open and her lips, painted black, vaguely stirred. Berit walked toward her and bent down over her body.

  —Cos . . . the girl panted. Cos . . . mo . . .

  —Cosmos? Berit repeated, as a nasty rattle came from the girl’s throat and she went silent.

  The girl’s pulse faded away under Berit’s thumb. Berit set off for the road just behind the factory. After staggering breathlessly for a few seconds, she pulled up her tight skirt above her hips, and once she reached the road, she tried to flag down the first oncoming car. When it emerged from the fog and slowed down, Rafel sat behind the steering wheel in a small olive-green Renault with a disproportionately big rear end he’d built himself, presumably to make room for all the junk he liked to tinker with. Rafel stopped the car and asked Berit what happened. She told him what she’d just witnessed.

  —Is she alive? Rafel asked in his deep bass while Berit plunked down into the seat beside him.

  —No, she died as I got there.

  —Did you see anything else? Rafel grumbled, as he crossed over toward a gas station near the bigger intersection, a frown on his face. His voice sounded harsh and hollow, as if he spoke through a pipe. And despite the seriousness of the moment, Berit felt a shockwave of desire when he turned his dark, inscrutable gaze toward her. Only then did she realize how obscene she must look with her skirt rolled up, revealing her lace panties and garter belt. She clumsily pulled her skirt down while she answered that she couldn’t see so clearly in the fog, but she repeated the word the girl’s lips had tried to utter: Cosmos.

  Rafel turned into the gas station and dropped her off. He’d been forbidden to drive and didn’t want the cops to find out, he explained sullenly before clattering away.

  Fifteen minutes later, in the din of shrieking sirens and the crackling of a police radio, Berit gave her minimal testimony at the gas station. A cop asked how she felt, would she need “crisis counseling”? But Berit was content to be dropped off on a side street that led down to a group of protected houses where she rented a room. It was a paradoxical idyll, wedged between the water and a forested hill, just below the constant stream of traffic on a nearby road that connected the southern part of the city and the many suburbs along the subway’s southbound Green Line. It was green too in Brovattnet—a lush garden of fruit trees and berry bushes, all well-maintained and yielding huge harvests.