The Little Old Lady Who Struck Lucky Again!

by Ingelman-Sundberg, Catharina

  ‘Now the thing is, as I said earlier, we don’t have much cash left and that rather restricts us.’

  ‘No wonder, the way we splash out! We either lose it or it gets stolen,’ Christina stated. ‘Our local fortune-teller, Lillemor, could perhaps find out where it’s all gone?’

  Rake pretended not to hear.

  ‘And, in fact, we’ve lost more than you think. That stuff that the Bandangels had in their raffle was from our latest order,’ said Anna-Greta. But instead of being angry, they all smiled. Rake and Brains had told them about the prizes and all that had happened with the bikers.

  ‘It’s strange that the driver muddled up our delivery with the one that should have gone to Diamond House. You should have seen when one of their leaders held up his Lady Wings and thought they were motor-cycle gloves!’

  A certain merriment spread round the table.

  ‘Considering how many of our millions have disappeared, then a few boxes are neither here nor there,’ Martha said. ‘But the mannequin is quite another matter.’

  ‘Quite unbelievable! We were just on our way out when a guy grabbed it off us. I’ve no idea how we can get it back now,’ Brains bemoaned the situation.

  Anna-Greta had been silent for a while, but couldn’t restrain herself any longer. She put her cup of hot chocolate down.

  ‘Never, in all my days at the bank, did I experience losses like this.’

  ‘But listen, during economic crises ten million times as much vanishes. What we’ve lost is nothing in comparison,’ Gunnar chipped in.

  ‘Yes, and banknotes have a tendency to fly off, while gold . . .’ began Martha, who was discreetly preparing them mentally for the next robbery.

  ‘Unless the money goes off on a motorbike, of course,’ Brains added.

  ‘Perhaps we should borrow some money?’ Anna-Greta suggested, her many years of service in the bank having left their mark. ‘With a low interest rate . . .’

  ‘Borrow! Are you out of your mind?’ Rake exclaimed. ‘That is pure ROBBERY! We could do with our own gold reserve!’

  ‘Exactly! And gold doesn’t so easily go astray like diamonds or money,’ said Martha and she glanced at the others to see their reaction. ‘I thought that—’

  ‘You’ve never thought of trading with oil, have you?’ Rake cut her off. ‘Then at least there’s time to relax between deliveries.’

  ‘Gold or oil. Same difference. Before we can retire properly, we must have five hundred million for the Robbery Fund. We all agreed on that. We’ll simply have to exert ourselves again. Ever since the bank robbery, I’ve actually been thinking about a new coup. And one that would outshine all others.’

  ‘Weren’t we going to sit here and relax?’ Christina interrupted her, licking a bit of whipped cream off the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Exactly! We can’t bloody well carry out a robbery every week!’ Rake added to the criticism.

  ‘Shush!’ Christina hissed anxiously, looking around, but luckily nobody had heard.

  ‘We still have money stuffed down the drainpipe at Grand Hotel? Can’t we try to get at that?’ Anna-Greta queried, being of the opinion that it was unforgivable to lose things through carelessness.

  ‘We’ll rescue that money when the time is right, but now we need much more than that. Several hundred million – and I have a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Oh no, not again!’ moaned Rake. Martha lowered her voice.

  ‘If we can pull this off, then we can relax permanently afterwards, and we will have helped society too.’

  ‘Don’t you think you take too much upon yourself, Martha dear?’ said Brains, patting her tenderly on the back of her hand. ‘I mean with all this social welfare . . .’

  ‘When the state forgets about people, then we must do our bit and intercede,’ Martha answered in a decisive tone. ‘We can actually help people in need, if only we put a bit of effort into it. And you know what? This new coup is going to be great fun to carry out too!’

  ‘I can only echo the words of Margaret Thatcher,’ said Christina. ‘Money doesn’t fall down from heaven, you have to earn it here on earth. You’re quite right, Martha, we must keep on working.’

  ‘Absolutely. Nobody feels good if they have too little to do, and since we will have to carry something heavy, we must increase our training sessions in the gym,’ Martha went on. ‘Besides, a bit of gymnastics will perk us up.’

  ‘A bit of whisky would, too,’ muttered Rake.

  ‘Oh goodness, you are a bit of a slave-driver, my dear,’ said Brains and he demonstratively put his hands on his tummy. ‘Gymnastics again. We’re all a bit tired you know.’

  ‘But, Brains, we talked about this only yesterday,’ Martha argued. She looked from one to the other. They were observing her closely and she noticed a dangerous feeling of rebellion in the air. She must not let it go any further.

  ‘We don’t have to do gymnastics and eat salad every day; we can come here and enjoy pastries a bit more often.’

  ‘Yes!’ they responded in unison and they each took yet another cake. Calm returned to the League of Pensioners. Martha looked thoughtfully down into her coffee cup and realized that from now on she must proceed very, very carefully if she was going to get them to go along with her. Because she was never going to give up. She must do her bit. Just when Martha had relaxed and was thinking of the journey home, and a relaxing evening which included a hot bath followed by a little rest on the sofa with a good book, Rake cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m going on robbery strike! Before I do anything else at all robbery related, I want to check that drainpipe,’ he said.

  The following day, it was windy and it rained hard too, but, even so, the whole gang travelled to the Grand Hotel in Stockholm. Rake was really keen on following up the drainpipe money, so they all went along with it as, when he was in a bad mood, everybody was affected. Christina phoned for a taxi and asked to be taken straight to the Grand Hotel. However, when they reached the Old Town, they encountered problems straight away. The driver slowed down.

  ‘Sorry, we can’t go any further,’ he told them.

  ‘What do you mean? Drive up to the entrance!’ Rake gave his orders.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t get any closer. They have cordoned it off,’ said the driver and he stopped at Karl XII Square.

  ‘But surely you can get a bit closer than this, can’t you? We don’t want to take part in a Stockholm Marathon just now,’ Rake barked.

  ‘Like I said, they’ve cordoned it off. State visit. But why not walk over to the hotel? A bit of exercise, perhaps?’

  ‘Exercise? No, not again!’ Rake climbed out of the taxi swearing loudly and clearly. He was not in a good mood. ‘Exercise freaks everywhere! Can we never have a bit of peace and quiet?’

  They started to walk in the direction of the hotel but didn’t get very far. When they approached the quayside, they noticed patrolling guards with bullet-proof vests and walkie-talkies.

  ‘What if one of those tough-looking guards finds the money?’ Christina said in a rather nervous tone.

  And my tights,’ whispered Anna-Greta. She remembered how she’d had to sacrifice a pair of good tights when they needed something to stuff the money into.

  Somewhat hesitantly, they walked a little closer and looked for a way to get round the taped-off area. But just as they plucked up the courage and worked out how to get past the guards, the entire facade of the building lit up. White spotlights illuminated the entire hotel and beams of light went from the top of the roof right down to the pavement, and even covered some of the next building – the National Museum.

  ‘Oops! Doesn’t look like this is a good day to go climbing up drainpipes,’ said Martha.

  ‘And we won’t be able to do it in secret, either,’ Christina pointed out.

  ‘Rake, you know what? I’ve bought a new computer game. Wouldn’t it be more fun if we went home and played that instead?’ Brains tried.

  None of the ladies protested against
this uncultural suggestion. They wanted to get Rake home. And Martha had to concentrate on the next robbery. The biggest ever.

  32

  Jörgen Smäck went out to the path with his garden shears. He wanted to trim the lilac hedge around the garden so that it would fill out nicely by the summer. Then it would prevent people from looking in, and that might well be necessary. Just as he was lifting the shears, he caught sight of Tompa, who looked cautiously in both directions before he hurriedly left Lillemor’s house and went out onto the road. Jörgen wrinkled his brow. What on earth was the nutter doing? He had been to see that fortune-teller several times lately and he always came out with a smile on his lips. But he had never mentioned these visits, not a word. No, of late he had been really weird.

  Jörgen thought about that crazy raffle and how his Tompa had made a fool of Mad Angels’ president Olle Marling. The shop dummy had saved the day. For some bizarre reason Olle had taken a liking to it, and if he hadn’t taken it with him that would probably have been the end of Bandangels’ chances of becoming full members. They were still in with a shot. But if they succeeded, then Tompa would have to look sharp and forget his fortune-teller lady. Jörgen went up to the gate.

  ‘Tompa! What the hell are you up to?’

  His mate came to an abrupt halt and his neck turned dark red. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You’re always round at that fortune-teller’s.’

  ‘So? She’s all right.’

  ‘Have you forgotten we’re Bandangels?’

  Tompa tried to look dignified but he felt as if he’d been caught out. Lillemor had tempted him into the mysterious world of Tarot cards. She listened to him, was friendly and attentive, and seemed to care about him. That meant a lot for somebody who had always had complicated relationships with women. He thought about Helena, he’d been so in love with her that he’d even had her name tattooed on his wrist, but the ink had hardly dried before she went off with some other guy. Sure, he liked girls, but they made him feel insecure. He got on best of all with older women like Lillemor. But of course he didn’t dare say that, that he, a member of Bandangels, got on so well with a sixty-year-old woman. She was old enough to be his mother. She had invited him in for coffee and cakes several times, laid out her cards and told his fortune, and it was so exciting to hear what she had to say about his future. She had even knitted him a pair of woollen gloves and given him small presents. But he couldn’t tell Jörgen any of this. Tompa scratched his neck and hummed a few times before finally he knew what he could say.

  ‘Jörgen, don’t you get it? At the party, Olle Marling said that Mad Angels needed more land for their stuff. You know, extortion and so on. If we can offer them a plot of land, then it will be easier for us to be accepted as members. So I’ve been trying to get on really good terms with Lillemor, as her plot could be divided.’

  ‘So that’s what you’ve been up to?’

  Tompa nodded. He had always been good at lying.

  ‘Of course. Thought it might be good if we show we’re ambitious.’

  ‘So how much would she want for the land, then?’

  ‘We should reckon on about seven million. If everyone in the gang coughs up with a bit of dough, it could work.’

  Jörgen worked with his garden shears back and forth. At the party, Olle Marling had made it clear that Bandangels must do a whole lot of work before they could count on becoming members of Mad Angels. Then he had asked for help. Some promised protection money hadn’t been paid, and now it was time to make up for it. Jörgen knew what that meant. Yet another extortion job besides the ones that were already waiting for them. At least it was smart of Tompa to think ahead.

  ‘We could buy out Lillemor, and the oldies in that big rambling house too? That might be even better,’ Tompa went on. ‘A bit of pressure on Super-Grandpa and his gang, and they’d soon sell up. Jörgen, all of this area could be ours, do you see?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s real smart. Let’s start with the oldies. They have a much bigger plot of land. And we can con them.’

  They were both silent for a few moments, then they looked at each other and grinned.

  33

  ‘Oh Jesus no, not somebody from Customs and Excise! I asked for reinforcement, not some ignorant bastard I’ll have to teach the job to.’ Chief Inspector Blomberg groaned and swept out his hands.

  ‘This will work out fine, just you wait and see,’ answered Strömqvist, his boss, and he disappeared out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him and Blomberg swore out loud. He had been so looking forward to getting help with the Handelsbanken robbery, and then they had gone and sent an out-of-work customs officer. An incompetent idiot who had been kicked out from the Arlanda Airport Customs & Excise after having nicked stuff that was meant for destruction. Strömqvist thought that the former customs officer could help them with new approaches to the investigation. This was a major bank robbery, not kids shoplifting sweets in a corner shop! Blomberg’s train of thought was interrupted by a firm knock on the door and before he had had the chance to say ‘Come in’, the door was opened. A well-dressed, slightly overweight middle-aged man with curly hair, a high nose and rosy cheeks entered the room.

  ‘Chief Inspector Blomberg, I understand. Sven Carlsson at your service!’ He then produced a high, jolly laugh.

  ‘Yes, right. We are going to work together, I believe.’ Blomberg nodded towards the empty chair on the other side of his desk and waited until Carlsson had sat down. ‘So you have applied to the police?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I wanted to develop my skills. At Arlanda Airport I saw everything from smugglers and drug pushers to fraudsters, and, well, I thought you might have a use for my knowledge.’

  ‘So you think we might have a use for your knowledge?’

  ‘Exactly, and since we’re going to share an office, I thought—’

  Are we going to share an office?’ Blomberg turned bright red in the face. Wouldn’t he have an office to himself any longer? What would he do about all his private financial affairs? Admittedly, no more money had come in from Las Vegas, but he still had all his dealings with Beylings. Blomberg pursed his lips.

  ‘Well, then, you’ll have to ask for your own computer and furniture and so on.’

  ‘Already done. It’ll be delightful to work together. Your superior said that you can teach me about police work.’

  ‘Oh, he did, did he?’ Blomberg was close to exploding. Not only had his early retirement been prevented, but now he would also be forced to teach police work. The intruder. There was only one thing to do. Give the guy a case to work on. He opened his file.

  ‘The bank robbery on Karlavägen, you know . . .’

  Carlsson lit up.

  ‘The Handelsbanken robbery, oh yes, that’s hot. Suits me fine.’

  ‘Read all the case notes. We need to know which types of fireworks the shops in Stockholm sold at New Year.’

  ‘Types of fireworks, no problem!’

  ‘Write a report about it. When you’ve finished that, I’ve got something else for you.’

  ‘Lovely!’

  Blomberg raised his eyebrows. Carlsson seemed to be as energetic as he was stupid. Perhaps even more of the dreary work could be passed on to him?

  ‘Oh yes, another thing, we want to know how many Oldvan shoes were sold in Stockholm the last six months.’

  ‘Lovely! I’ll sort that out!’

  ‘So you think its looovely?’

  ‘Yes, indeed it is, don’t you?’

  Blomberg leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips against one another. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to have this plump guy assisting him after all. The customs man could do all the boring work. Then he could devote his time to more important things such as filling Beylings’ storage facility in the docks.

  ‘Oh another thing, Carlsson, perhaps you’d like to make a cup of coffee? Then you can read the reports in peace and quiet before you do a round of the ironmongers’ shops.’

 
When Blomberg came to work the next day, he stumbled in and hung up his coat and hat. He wasn’t really properly awake. He had had a sleepless night during which he had tried to fathom how the bank robbery had been carried out, without success. Now he rubbed his eyes, yawned and, with his thoughts elsewhere, made his way to his office. He stopped in the doorway and opened and closed his eyes several times. At first he thought he was hallucinating. But no, this was real.

  Blomberg supported himself against the doorpost and made a rather pathetic gasping sound. His office had been refurnished. What had previously been an ordinary Swedish bureaucrat’s office had been transformed beyond recognition. His desk, his office chair and his simple visitor’s chair had been moved to the corner of the room, while that bumbler Carlsson had spread himself out over the rest of the space. The customs official sat there smiling in a comfortable purple armchair with a footstool under a pipe-shaped turquoise reading lamp. Next to him was a modern adjustable desk with a dark-blue top and, above that, hung a white rice-paper lamp. There was a grey and black mat with a blue-tulip pattern on the floor, and in the window hung curtains with a pattern of flowers and leaves in the same colours. Virtually every other surface was filled with plant pots.