Box 21 (12 page)

 

The men in the car didn’t stir, just sat and watched her walk past.

 

Alena opened the door, stepped inside. Waited.

 

Nothing.

 

They must still be sitting there. She counted to sixty. One minute. One minute more and then she would make for the stairs to the cellar.

 

She had prepared herself for the heavy footfalls and a voice ordering her to turn round, get into the back of the police car.

 

Nothing. Not a sound.

 

She shook herself free of the command that was never made and started down the two flights of stone stairs at a measured pace. She had to be quiet, mustn’t get out of breath. She thought about the door on the fifth floor, that gaping hole. It had offered a kind of freedom.

 

She closed her eyes for a second; she could still hear the blows from the fireman’s axe on the door panel, a uniformed policeman outside was hammering the wood to splinters. Then a thud when Dimitri let go of Lydia’s body, and his footsteps as he ran towards the man who was entering the flat.

 

Alena had to stop to calm her breathing.

 

She had waited behind that door for almost a year.

 

It was beyond all comprehension.

 

Twenty-four hours of freedom to wander round the city was all it took to make a whole year seem strange and distant. If only she could make up her mind that none of it had happened, then she would never have been in that flat with its two large beds, she would never have stood in the hall staring at the electronic locks.

 

She carried on down to the landing outside the cellar door. Stopping, she turned to face the broken-down door up there and stuck a finger in the air, for the men who would no longer come and ring the doorbell.

 

The door in front of her was locked and covered in cold, grey, sheet metal. She wasn’t very strong, but could manage to open it with a crowbar. She had done it once in Klaipeda. At the time it had been an awful night, but now she thought of the whole episode as a bit of distant fun and games.

 

She put her shoulder bag on the floor and unpacked the things from box 21: the dresses, the plastic boxes with necklaces and earrings, the video, the ball of string. She placed them side by side on the floor. The crowbar was buried underneath it all.

 

The man in the hardware store had laughed.
A crowbar and string, well I never. Planning a bit of break-in, eh? You don’t look like a burglar!
She had laughed too, and spoken in English.

 

I live in an old house. What I need is a strong man with some good tools
. She had looked at him the way she looked
at her clients, the way she knew they liked to be looked at. The hardware store man had given her the ball of string for free and wished her good luck with her large house and strong man.

 

It was the smallest crowbar in the shop and quite easy to handle. She jammed the teeth into the lock and pushed, putting her whole weight on it once, twice, three times. Nothing budged.

 

She didn’t dare to try harder in case she made a noise.

 

But she had no choice.

 

Once more she inserted the two prongs of the crowbar, jiggled it backwards and forwards against the door frame, tested and then pushed, using all her weight and all her strength.

 

The lock gave way with a loud crack. The sound travelled up the stairwell. Every tenant who was in could have heard it.

 

She curled up on the floor, as if it would make her less visible.

 

She waited. She counted to sixty again.

 

Her wrist ached. She must have pushed harder than her body could take.

 

The silence continued.

 

Then she counted to sixty again.

 

No doors opened, no one came downstairs to find out what the noise was.

 

She got up, packed her things.

 

The cellar door swung open easily. Ahead was a long corridor. Its lime-washed walls seemed to lean in over her. At the far end of the corridor was another door, leading into four passages, with the storage rooms belonging to the flats.

 

Supporting herself with one hand resting on the metal panel, and clutching the crowbar in her other hand, she steeled herself to break the lock until she suddenly realised
that the second door was open. Someone had unlocked it. That someone must be in there and would come back out, lock up and leave.

 

She stepped inside. The air was stale and smelt of damp carpets.

 

Her eyes slowly got used to the dark.

 

There was another smell. Aftershave and sweat. Dimitri smelt like that, and the customers, some of them anyway. She stood very still. It was hard to breathe, the air she inhaled didn’t seem enough.

 

Somebody was in there.

 

Alena remembered the ferry and her ticket and looking down into the water.

 

Steps on the rough brick floor. Someone was walking about in there.

 

She was crying, the tears trickling down her cheeks as she felt her way forward, following the wall into the nearest passage and then along to a pen that stuck out a bit. She closed her eyes and sat down. She would not look until later.

 

She sat there for so long, she lost all sense of time. The person was wandering about, opening and closing doors, lifting things and putting them down, some must have been heavy. The noises tugged her thoughts this way and that.

 

Then she heard nothing more. The silence was almost worse.

 

She was shaking and weeping, hyperventilating, until she dared let herself believe that she had been left alone.

 

Standing up, her legs felt weak and her head ached. She didn’t turn on the light, no need to check the number on the door. She knew exactly where it was.

 

They had been left in the damp underground darkness for two days and two nights.

 

Their storeroom was in one of the middle passages. The walls were made of wood, painted brown, with a narrow opening at the top of the door that was too small for her
to climb through, more of a ventilation space. A simple small padlock. She weighed it in her hand and took a deep breath.

 

The crowbar fitted in under the hasp hammered into the board nearest the door. She pushed as she had done before and stared in surprise at the padlock and hasp dangling free.

 

She stepped inside.

 

 

 

 

 

It was not yet midday on Wednesday 5 June. The sky was as dark as on a drowsy night in November and the rain, which had dominated the day since dawn, was still dancing on the tarmac.

 

Ewert Grens, who had asked for one of the plain cars from the police pool, opened the passenger door and got in. He wanted Sven to drive, as he did more and more often. Ewert found concentrating on the road tiring; the light irritated him and made his eyes run. He was ageing quickly and hated it, though the swift decline of his body didn’t matter much; he had lost his woman long ago. No need to look good for anyone else. But his failing strength and energy – that was something else. He used to be able to cope with everything. The engine inside him never stopped, forcing his body to keep up with his restless mind. Fifty-six years old and lonely. What use is the past then?

 

They were late and Sven drove quickly towards the Arlanda Airport exit. It had been an odd morning. A job that should have been over in a few minutes had turned into a couple of hours spent holed up in Terminal Five. The man, whom they knew as Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp, had been scheduled to board a white and blue Finnair plane to Vilnius,
flight time less than an hour. Their idea had been to see him leave and conclude the report on his activities that afternoon.

 

Ewert stared at the dual carriageway ahead and didn’t register the irritation in Sven’s voice.

 

‘Got to hurry.’

 

‘What?’

 

‘I have to go faster. Any colleagues out and about?’

 

‘Not as far as I know.’

 

The Arlanda slip road was practically empty and Sven was driving well above the speed limit. He longed for home and was determined to get there in time.

 

Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp had been dispatched as effectively as they could have wished.

 

They first saw him walking towards Departures, accompanied by two heavies. As he queued for security control, Ewert and Sven had been near the check-in counter, just a little bit away, noting his nervous head movements as he rooted through his jacket pockets for the boarding pass. He was still at it when a short, sturdy man in his sixties approached and started to shout at him, gesticulating energetically and at one point slapping Dimitri’s cheek. The scene caught everybody’s attention. The man, smartly dressed in a suit and a hat, went on shouting at Dimitri, who seemed to shrink and crumble as they watched. Another slap and then the older man pushed him in the back to propel him through the electronic gateway, past the conveyor belt and the X-ray camera, on into the departure hall.

 

Ewert and Sven didn’t intervene. They had wanted to reassure themselves that they’d never have to clap eyes again on the man who beat up young women. That was all. The airport guards could handle anything out of order.

 

When the man in the suit had stopped shouting and turned away from the departing Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp, he walked briskly towards Ewert and Sven, not hesitating for a moment,
as if he had known all along that they were there, keeping an eye.

 

Surprisingly light of foot, carrying a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other, he had approached them and greeted them politely, doffing his hat and shaking their hands.

 

Now the car had left the airport area and swung out into the southbound E4 motorway to Stockholm. Visibility was poor, and Sven had to slow down even with the windscreen wipers going at top speed.

 

Ewert sighed loudly and turned on the car radio.

 

The suit-and-hat man had introduced himself, though Ewert had forgotten his name instantly, and then stayed where he was, calmly chatting to them while late travellers hurried and elbowed their way past, swearing at them in the passing. He had started talking the moment Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp had vanished out of sight and began by explaining that he was on the Lithuanian diplomatic staff, the head of embassy security in Sweden, and invited them for a drink. Ewert had said thanks, but no thanks. Actually, he could’ve done with a drop of something alcoholic. It was early but he was tired and thirsty. It wouldn’t do, though, not with Sven standing next to him. The security boss insisted. A coffee perhaps, in the upstairs café?

 

They hesitated for a little too long. Their host had found a table with a view of the runway, brought them all cups of coffee and greasy Danish pastries, then sat down facing them and sipped his drink.

 

He had been silent at first, but soon started speaking in heavily accented but fluent English, better than either Ewert’s or Sven’s. He apologised for his behaviour earlier, declaring that he disapproved of raised voices and violence, but sometimes it was necessary, as indeed it had been this time.

 

Then he launched into a long and complicated thank-you speech, addressing them on behalf of the Lithuanian people.

 

After a longish pause while he watched them, he explained
how upset he had been when informed of the activities of his embassy colleague, Dimitri Simait, and how embarrassing such revelations were for a country that was trying to recover its reputation after decades of oppression. He was fishing for an agreement to keep the whole thing quiet. They themselves had seen that Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp had left the country and could leave it at that.

 

Ewert and Sven had thanked him politely for the coffee, got up and, before they left, told him with some asperity that the investigation could not be hushed up, indeed should not be, if they had anything to do with it, that human trafficking seldom was.

 

The music that rolled out from the car radio was like a wallpaper of sound. Ewert had long since tired of it, it all sounded the same. He produced one of his own tapes.

 

‘Hey, Sven?’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘You listening to this?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘It isn’t up to much, is it?’

 

‘I want the traffic info; we’re getting closer to the northern access.’

 

‘I’ll put this one on.’

 

Ewert cut the Radio Stockholm talk of vehicle collisions and put in his own home-mixed Siw Malmkvist tape. Her voice. He closed his eyes. He could think now.

 

When they had suddenly got up from the café table with the runway view, the Lithuanian official had turned pink in the face and asked them to stay and listen to him for just a little longer. Ewert and Sven had exchanged a glance and sat down again. The man’s voice had sounded tired. Strands of his thin hair were dangling on his forehead, he was sweating profusely, and his skin shone in the harsh glare of the strip lighting. His hands sought something to hold on to, found one each of their hands and clasped them with his stumpy, sticky fingers.

 

Several thousand young women, he said. From Eastern Europe. Hundreds of thousands of lives! That was the extent of it, the illegal sex trade with the West. Bought and sold as we speak. More and more. Our girls! Our women!

 

He squeezed their hands, his voice desperate now.

 

It’s the unemployment, he continued. Persuading the girls is easy. Don’t you see? They’re young, looking for a job, waiting, hoping for an income. A future. And the men who offer the world on a plate, they’re so clever, they promise and threaten until they’re ready to sell the goods, kept in rooms with electronic locks, like the two girls you found in the Völund Street flat. That was the address, wasn’t it? And when the deal is done, when the cajoling, menacing men have got their bundles of bank notes – then they disappear. You know it’s true. No responsibility, no investment, no risk. Cash in hand! Cash in and vanish!

 

The embassy official had suddenly raised their hands; Ewert had stared angrily at Sven, been about to protest, but decided to stay put while the little man pressed their hands firmly against his cheeks.