The Little Old Lady Behaving Badly

by Catharina Ingelman-Sundberg

  “Gymnastics? No, that’s the last straw!” said Brains and he took the pillow and whammed it into the wall.

  That night they slept in separate beds with their backs to each other and at midnight neither of them had fallen asleep. Martha cautiously stretched out her hand and took his hand in hers.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” she whispered in the dark.

  But Brains didn’t answer, he pulled his hand back and pretended to be asleep.

  TWO DAYS LATER, THE WEASEL YET AGAIN SOUGHT OUT MARTHA on board the restaurant barge and demanded protection money “so that nothing would happen to the restaurant.”

  Then Martha felt that discomfort in her heart. Fibrillation. It was beating irregularly and she got a little out of breath. But she pretended nothing had happened and that everything was as usual.

  35

  I’M FED UP WITH THAT DAMNED OLD LADY. HER AND HER GANG of seniors, they’ll have to go.” Kenta took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke. “I’d finally got my pizzeria going and then that riff-raff turn up. It’s wiped out my place.” He waved his cigarette in the direction of the empty pizzeria.

  He sat talking with the Weasel in a corner of the pizzeria in Hornsberg, Bella Capri. He had been able to take over the place when the former owner had become too old, and he had renovated the premises with money he had borrowed from his mother. At first, it all went well and he had had many customers, both young and old, but since the seniors had opened Silver Punk he had lost customers. Not only did they have good food there on the barge, but it was also cheap. It had become popular for younger people to hang around there. He sighed.

  “They’re on some damned health trend over there. What the fuck. I’ve tested vegetarian pizza but it doesn’t work.”

  “They’re earning money with that restaurant but refuse to fork out for protection money. Fucking riffraff!” The Weasel drummed with his fingers on the beer bottle. It would soon be opening time, but that didn’t make much difference. The pizzeria had almost no customers before six in the evening and only a few young people and down-and-outs later in the evening. The old women had said they were going to open a restaurant for retirees and neither of them had seen the place as a threat. But now everybody seemed to have found their way there. The Silver Punk restaurant, what a fucking name anyway.

  “Isn’t there a way to get someone committed to an old folk’s home?” Kenta went on. “Let’s send an SOS. That old lady fucking attacked us. And fucking hard too.”

  The Weasel couldn’t help smiling but he turned his head away so that his friend wouldn’t see. Kenta could hardly walk after the whacking from Martha, and had been obliged to abstain from women for a whole week.

  “Fucking unlucky. Wonder what she had in that waist bag?”

  “A fucking big wrench I’d say, or one of those boules cannon balls, it was third-degree,” said Kenta with a wry face. He remembered the quick hand movement and the hard blow that had made him back away so fast that he almost fell over. A fucking old lady had battered him! He had been so astonished that he’d almost lost it, and, with his hand raised to thump her, he had at the last second realized that he couldn’t beat up an old woman. Just one blow and she would have dropped down dead. No, luckily he had been able to restrain himself.

  “Like I said, that gang of seniors must be stopped! It’s bad enough that the old lady has figured out that we don’t own the barge. She refuses to use our cash-in-hand cleaners, she doesn’t get her food deliveries via us, she refuses to pay protection money and she’s thrown us out of the coatroom. Every damn thing has gone wrong!” Kenta flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the floor. His hands shook.

  “And now they want to buy another barge, I’ve heard,” sighed the Weasel. “Fucking assholes!”

  “Walker assholes!”

  “It’s time to put a stop to them once and for all. I’ve had enough.”

  “Yep. How shall we do it? The usual?”

  “Yeah, the same again.”

  FORMER CHIEF INSPECTOR BLOMBERG LIFTED UP EINSTEIN FROM the keyboard and put him down on the floor with a thud. Thank God the computer was turned off, otherwise it could have ended in disaster. The number of times the creature had laid on X and Z and had had his tail on ENTER meant that it could take at least half a day to clean the computer. The last time the damned cat had also managed to press the DELETE key too, so some of the files had disappeared. And however hard Blomberg had tried, he hadn’t been able to restore them. In his anger he had banged the hard drive on the table and in a flash had lost even more files. After that, it had taken him several weeks to collect the reports, camera images and important PMs from the police department again. Luckily, he still had access to their system. Now he had learned that he must have a backup on two hard drives—because he didn’t want to do without the cat. No, he loved Einstein. Cats were honest. They did what they wanted and not what somebody else wanted. They certainly didn’t wag their tails for just anybody, but chose their master with considerable care.

  Blomberg switched the computer on, and stretched out his hand for some chocolate. His fingers fumbled in the box of Aladdin chocolates until he noticed that it only contained sticky remains. Einstein was sitting on the floor licking his lips. Damn it! For a moment Blomberg considered throwing the creature out, but then he realized that it was his own fault for having left the box open on the table. And besides, perhaps it was just as well that the cat had gobbled up the chocolates. Since he had become a retiree, he had put on several kilos in weight. Perhaps it was his new sedentary life and the fact that he had started baking. He ought to stop baking those tasty pastries for a while.

  Blomberg put on his spectacles and peered at the computer screen, and while the cat washed his whiskers, he went through what had happened during the night. Nothing much, evidently. What about the Nordea bank robbery investigation? He scrolled down and peered. Nothing new there either. He had long since ruled out the Old Fellows Gang and the Gorbachev robbers, and Jöback and those amateurs at the Kungsholmen station could think what they wanted. No, he was looking for a completely new constellation, but hadn’t got anywhere yet. He was stuck. The talk with Eklund, the captain of one of the Waxholm ferry boats, hadn’t led to anything and the mysterious league had not yet carried out any new robberies that could give them away.

  And what about the camera images? Unfortunately, he had lost all the comparative material from earlier bank robberies in Stockholm in a virus attack, but a few sequences had for some reason survived in his iPad. He fetched the tablet and clicked his way to the valuable sequence. Yet again he watched how the old lady made several calls from her cell outside the Handelsbanken branch office the same day the bank was robbed. Something stirred in his memory. He had noticed an elderly lady with the same posture on the camera images from Drottninggatan right next to the Buttericks joke shop. He went across to his computer again and found the file. Yes, it was her, slightly hunchbacked, but still quite sprightly and wasn’t she wearing Ecco shoes? Buttericks was the only shop in Stockholm where you could buy masks of Margaret Thatcher and Pavarotti, and those were the masks used in the Nordea robbery. Blomberg’s hand dipped eagerly down into the box of Aladdin chocolates and he picked up some remains. He licked his fingers while he stared at the screen. Hmm . . . that Ecco old lady had actually visited the shop the week before the Nordea robbery and when she came out she was carrying a package.

  Blomberg looked at the images in slow motion this time, leaned back and whistled. Captain Eklund had mentioned an old lady outside the Grand Hotel. What if that was the same person? Perhaps it was a long shot, but nevertheless . . . He ought to take his iPad and show Eklund. Besides, now when he looked at her in slow motion it was as if the woman was somehow familiar, as if he had seen her before. Or was it simply that all old ladies looked the same? Ah, he didn’t really know; to be honest, he mainly noticed younger blondes. Blomberg yawned and scratched his neck.

  The police still hadn’t arrested anyb
ody for the bank robberies, or for that notorious theft of the paintings at the National Museum. But the crooks were out there somewhere. What if he could solve this? What a triumph it would be! It would be really great to put Jöback and his cronies in place. But if he was to succeed, he would have to get out and do some undercover work so that he could make some progress. Why not have a closer look at pensioners’ clubs, restaurants, bingo halls and old folk’s homes? That league with the seniors must, after all, be somewhere out there, because they wouldn’t be at nightclubs or punk places. Or was it hip flop nowadays? Blomberg yawned yet again, got up and went across to the fridge to get a cold beer. Or was it hip bop? He found a Carlsberg and with a noisy click followed by a slow hissing, he sank down into his favorite armchair. He would catch that League of Pensioners; he wasn’t going to give up. He had a short break, drank the beer and then rolled up his shirt sleeves. With determined steps, he returned to the computer. If there was to be any result, he must get to work.

  36

  CHRISTINA SAT WITH HER FEET ON THE TABLE IN THE VIP lounge with a large notepad in front of her. Her nails were freshly painted and she had just been to the hairdresser’s and had had her hair done. And in addition she had allowed herself the luxury of buying a lovely pantsuit in red with a matching blouse, an outfit that she thought would fit in well in the Jungle—which is what Rake had named the interior of the barge. Now her friends had spread themselves out on the soft plush sofas with notepads in their hands. The last few weeks’ local newspapers lay on the table. They were all poring over the personal ads in deep concentration. The League of Pensioners wanted to get a picture of single people who wished to enrich their lives with a partner, anything to help them to create a speed-dating system of the highest class. Rake opened the Östermalm News, the local paper in the poshest district of central Stockholm, and read out aloud in his Gothenburg dialect:

  “Here is a ‘solid, super guy looking for a plump woman, though not obligatory, aged fifty-five to eighty.’” He nodded toward Martha. “There, you see! No need for gymnastics! ‘Solid, super guy,’ how about that!”

  “But that’s what he’s written about himself, isn’t that obvious?” protested Martha.

  Brains grinned, scratched his beard (which was terribly itchy) and looked at Rake with approval.

  “Then listen to this,” Brains said in a rebellious tone, and he thumbed his way to the personal ads in the local paper from the southern part of the city. He held up the paper and read in a loud and affected voice:

  “‘Hello, out there in Stockholm. Is there a plump woman aged fifty-five to eighty who wants a solid, super guy for intimacy, tenderness, coziness etc . . .’” Brains turned toward Martha with a triumphant look on his face. “‘Plump woman.’ Ha ha. No more gymnastics. What did I say? Take it easy. Meditate!”

  “Solid, super guy, but for heaven’s sake that must be the same person, can’t you see!” sighed Anna-Greta.

  “Here is ‘a cozy, huggable and very large guy in his mid-forties who—,’” Rake went on.

  “Ah, women don’t want fat men who don’t care about their appearance,” Christina broke in.

  “Or ones with weird beards,” Martha added with a sharp glance at Brains’s unshaven cheeks. It must be Betty who was the reason for that; he was trying to be modern, she thought. “Rake at least had a trimmed chinstrap beard,” she added to be on the safe side.

  “Now listen, everybody, don’t bicker. We must work,” Anna-Greta called out. “How are we progressing with the dating?”

  Things went quiet because they all realized they were losing focus. Martha had given each of them a free hand to create a suitable “dating card” so that the right people would find each other at the dating table. By answering a list of questions, you would reveal your personality and thus it would allow singles to find one another. The League of Pensioners were searching among the dating sites on the Internet to find inspiration for suitable questions. The idea was to create the best dating questionnaire and not to make fun of personal ads.

  “‘Fat and poor guy, aged fifty-five, alcohol problems, looking for a cute and nice girl of suitable age, preferably twenty-five to thirty. Should also be youthful and slim,’” Rake went on. “What do you think, Christina?”

  “Order in the ranks!” Anna-Greta roared. “It’s important to have the right questions. What we want to do is to bring together widows and widowers and even people who have never been married before.”

  “The unmarried ones often remain unmarried,” Brains muttered with a glance at Martha.

  “I think appearance is important,” said Rake. “Height, weight, hair color and so on. Why not simply ask: Are you attractive, or do you look like something the cat brought in?”

  “You can’t write that!” protested Christina.

  “But you know how things are. At our age one isn’t exactly good-looking,” said Rake and suddenly he looked rather sullen.

  “Don’t forget inner beauty. That is more important than anything else,” Martha informed them. Rake gave her an appreciative look, while also understanding why she thought like that. His friend did admittedly try to be chic, but she didn’t always succeed. That waist bag, for example.

  “I think we ought to ask about religion,” said Christina. “That is an important part of many people’s lives.”

  “Religion? No. That would only lead to arguments,” Brains objected.

  “Or war,” said Rake.

  “I think we should concentrate on people’s qualities,” was Martha’s contribution. “I mean like if you love animals, do things you’ve planned, are considerate or mostly think about number one—you get the idea.”

  “Hmm,” said Brains and he put his hands on his stomach. “Personality, your character, and all that. It would be good if we could formulate suitable questions,” he said. “And don’t forget about the fact that women shouldn’t be hopeless when it comes to DIY.”

  “Then we really must include a question about whether you are thrifty or wasteful,” Anna-Greta pointed out.

  “Can’t they just check a box somewhere if they have debts registered with the national enforcement agency, or not? That ought to suffice,” Rake suggested.

  There was a scratching sound from their pens as they all made notes.

  “Can we ask if you are satisfied or dissatisfied, like challenges or prefer things to remain as they are?” Christina wondered and she waved her pen.

  “Absolutely,” Martha agreed.

  “Yes, or if you want peace and quiet or adventure. That says a lot about a person,” Brains chipped in.

  A murmur of approval went around the room and there was a little pause while everybody reflected.

  “But talking about personal qualities,” said Christina looking up from her notepad, “temperament is important. I mean, whether you are grumpy and irascible, sad or happy. Some people can easily get depressed, and others not at all. We should include that too.”

  Again a murmur of approval could be heard while they continued to make notes.

  “And if the person is happy or is—well, you know what I mean, an anxious type?” Anna-Greta added. “Some people can have a crisis but be optimists and ready to move on with life. Others just sort of collapse.”

  “Hell, this is like being on a therapist’s couch,” Rake broke in. “I know, let’s just keep it simple. Why not just fill in whether you are attractive or not, and of course whether you are sexy.”

  “Now listen, what we must do is have more lofty goals than that,” said Martha in such an acid tone that it would have corroded any frying pan.

  “No, you know what? We can make it even simpler,” Rake stubbornly went on. “The women can check whether they want you to be loving or if it’s just a question of getting down to it right away!”

  “Watch your mouth!” said Martha.

  “But for goodness’ sake, behave yourselves. ORDER IN THE RANKS!” Anna-Greta shouted this out so loud that Rake sat bolt upright on the sofa,
replied “Aye, aye, captain,” and then kept his mouth shut.

  THE MEETING LASTED ALL DAY LONG AND IT WAS NOT UNTIL THE following night, after they had slept on it, that they could agree on the contents of a questionnaire which filled an entire page—or the equivalent of a page on an iPad. When Anna-Greta realized this, she let out a cry of delight.

  “Now what about this? I’ve got an idea. We’ve got Internet in the restaurant, right? So why don’t we give each place at the dating table an iPad and every iPad an email address? We let the participants answer the questions in the questionnaire directly on the iPad and then they just have to send it off. So if, for example, you want a man who is intelligent and kind, then you’ll get an answer directly from the man at the table who fits the bill.”

  “But how?” wondered Christina.

  There was silence for a while and they all stared at Brains.

  “Why not install lamps at each place on the table. Then a little lamp would light up beside that particular iPad,” he reckoned. “The fastest dating in the world.”

  “Brilliant, you’re a genius, Brains,” Anna-Greta said. “But then we must chain the iPad to the place at the table or else there would be chaos.”

  “Another thing. What if lots of people are ‘kind’? Then many lamps would start flashing,” Rake objected.

  “How delightful! Then you’d have even more men to choose from,” Anna-Greta exclaimed. “Oh I do love iPads!”

  “If you kiss your iPad, then you’re sure to get your prince,” Rake said, grinning.

  “I know, we can create an app for princes, what about that, Rake?” Brains smiled and immediately suffered a prod to his ribs from Martha.

  “OK, then. The lamps are a first point of contact, but then you ought to take the flirtation up to the next level,” Brains said.

  “Mating!” declared Rake.