Box 21 (38 page)

He’d start with the one in Grajauskas’s room. She looked a bit like her and he had put her there deliberately; it was easier on the old customers. She was tarting herself up, as she should, and putting on the bra and panties her client wanted her to wear. So far, so good.

 

A knock on the door. She looked at herself in the mirror. The locks were disabled now that he was keeping an eye, so she could open the door and greet the man outside with a smile. The client wore a grey suit of some kind of shiny material, pale blue shirt and black tie.

 

She kept smiling, used her smile even when he spat or, more like, let the gob just fall to the floor in front of her feet in their high-heeled black shoes.

 

He pointed.

 

His finger was straight, pointing downwards.

 

She bent down, still smiling as she had been told. Then down on her hands and knees, almost folding double as her nose touched the floor. Her tongue came out to take the spit into her mouth and she swallowed.

 

Then she stood up straight, her eyes shut.

 

The client slapped her with his open hand. She smiled and smiled at him, just as he had taught her.

 

Dimitri liked what he saw, gave the thumbs-up to the man in the grey suit, got thumbs-up in return.

 

She had passed.

 

He would book her up now.

 

Lydia Grajauskas didn’t exist any more, not even here.

 

He always felt a pang of fear when a plane touched down and the ground came into clear view, the snap when the wheels were released and the thump when they made contact. And it never got easier; rather his fear seemed to increase the more he travelled. In little planes like this one, only thirty-five seats and so cramped that you couldn’t stand up straight, take-off and landing were especially scary. He kept worrying until the bouncing changed into a smooth forward movement.

 

Sven Sundkvist breathed out again and went to find his car. If the traffic was reasonably light it took only half an hour to drive from Arlanda to central Stockholm.

 

Anywhere, just anywhere not to think about Ewert.

 

He was sixteen for a while and with Anita who he had just met and held naked for the first time and he was with Jochum Lang who stood at the top of a staircase in Söder Hospital and beat the life out of Hilding Oldéus and with Lydia Grajauskas lying on the floor in the mortuary next to the man she had hated and with one-year-old Jonas in Phnom Penh saying Dad just two weeks later and with Alena Sljusareva sitting in a Chinese restaurant in Klaipeda in her big red sweater telling him the story of a three-year-long humiliation and with . . .

 

With anyone at all, in order to avoid thinking about Ewert.

 

Roadworks outside Sollentuna meant that the cars were confined to one lane and there was a long queue. He inched forward in low gear, sped up a bit, slowed again, came to a halt. Everyone else was doing the same, sitting and waiting for the time to pass, staring blankly ahead. They probably had their own Ewerts to think about.

 

He gave an involuntary shudder, as you often do when you’re tense.

 

Then he decided to take the long way round by keeping south, via Eriksberg, where she lived. Lena Nordwall.

 

He needed more time to think.

 

The wooden bench was hard. In his time, he had sat on it for hours on end, enduring pointless court cases against refusenik villains. They were alone in the back row and the tired room was silent. Ewert Grens quite liked the old high-security court in the Town Hall, despite the hard seats and the chattering lawyers, because coming here was a kind of settlement, confirmation that his investigation had led to something concrete and the case could be closed.

 

He looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. Then the guards would open the doors, escort Lang into the room and tell him where to sit during the remand proceedings, the lead-in to a long prison sentence.

 

Grens turned to Hermansson, who was sitting next to him.

 

‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’

 

He had asked her to come along. Sven had disappeared without a trace, refusing to answer the phone; Bengt had been found dead on a floor, and he couldn’t offer Lena any comfort. He had wanted to be here with someone and that someone turned out to be Hermansson. He had to admit it, he really liked her. Her barbed comments about him and policewomen, or all women, should have infuriated him, but she had sounded so down-to-earth and calm, maybe because she was right. He would ask her to consider staying with the City force when her locum came to an end; he’d like to work with her again and perhaps talk to her more. She was so young that he didn’t want to come across as a dirty old man, because what he felt had nothing to do with the beauty of a younger woman, it was more a kind of surprise that there were still people around whom he wanted to get to know better.

 

‘Yes, it does. It feels good. I know what we’ve achieved,
what with Lang and the hospital hostages and everything. Makes my time to Stockholm worthwhile.’

 

A courtroom is a bare, dull place without judges, magistrates, prosecutors, lawyers, accused and accuser and, of course, a curious public. The drama of a crime needs to be articulated, in terms of interference and vulnerability, a process in which every word adds to the act of recognising and then measuring the offence.

 

Without all that, no heart.

 

Grens looked around at the dark wooden panelling, the large filthy windows facing Scheele Street, the far-too-beautiful chandelier, inhaled the smell of an old legal tome.

 

‘It’s strange, Hermansson. Dealing with professional criminals like Lang is my job, I’ve done it all my life, but I still don’t understand any more now than I did when I started. Take the way they act up under interrogation or in court. Well, clam up. Whatever we say or ask, they ignore it.
Don’t know. Never heard of it
. They deny everything. I can see some point in their strategy, of course. For a start, it leaves it up to us to prove that they’ve done whatever we say they’ve done.’

 

Ewert Grens raised his arm, pointing at the wall opposite, at a door made of the same heavy, dark wood as the panelling.

 

‘In a few minutes Lang will come in through that door. And he’ll play the same lousy old game. He’ll say nothing, deny, mumble
I don’t know
, and that is, Hermansson, that is exactly why he’ll lose this time. This time that game will be the biggest mistake in his life. You see, I think he’s innocent. Of murder, that is.’

 

She looked surprised, and he was just about to explain when the door opened and four guards came in, followed by a uniformed and armed constable on either side of Jochum Lang, who was handcuffed and dressed in prison-issue clothing, blue and baggy. He looked up, Ewert Grens smiled and waved.

 

Then he turned to speak to Hermansson, lowering his voice.

 

‘You see, I have read the technical report and what Errfors has to say in the autopsy report. Oldéus wasn’t murdered. Lang broke five of his fingers and crushed one kneecap, as he was instructed. But no one had ordered and paid for death. I think Oldéus lost it and the wheelchair careered down the stairs and into the wall.’

 

Ewert pointed ostentatiously at Lang.

 

‘Watch him. There he sits, the stupid bastard. Today he’ll get himself ten years in the jug for keeping his mouth shut. He’ll receive a sentence for murder when he could have talked himself into two and a half years for GBH.’

 

Grens waved again, in the direction of his hate. Lang stared, as forcefully as the day before when they had confronted each other in his cell, before turning away. Behind him, behind his shaved skull, people were filing into the room.

 

Ĺgestam came in last. He and Grens nodded at each other.

 

Briefly, the policeman’s thoughts touched on their last meeting and he wondered what the prosecutor had made of it and of the lies he had dished out.

 

He dismissed the thought – he had to – and leaned towards Hermansson, whispering: ‘I know that’s what happened. It wasn’t murder. But believe you me, I’m not going to say a word. Lang is going down. Boy, is he going down!’

 

Dimitri was pleased. Both girls were young, nice smooth skin, fucked like rabbits. He had bought them on credit and decided from the outset that if they were no good he wouldn’t pay.

 

But they worked. He’d pay up.

 

The cop wasn’t around any more, of course, but the woman he worked with had done a good job without him. She had delivered two new whores, as agreed. She was waiting for him now. Time for his second payment, one third of the total cost: three thousand euros for each girl.

 

He opened the door to Eden. A naked woman on the stage, her tits against an inflated doll, making provocative thrusts and groans, whining a bit. Everyone at the tables, all men without exception, had their hands down their trousers.

 

She was sitting in her usual place, in a far corner near the fire exit.

 

He went over to her table and they nodded at each other.

 

She always wore the same tracksuit. Always, with the hood pulled down around her face.

 

She wanted him to call her Ilona, and he did, even though it annoyed him. It wasn’t her name, he knew that.

 

They didn’t talk much, never did. A few polite phrases in Russian, that was all.

 

He gave her the envelope. She didn’t bother to check the money, just put it away in her bag. Agreed to meet next month.

 

One more month, one more payment and then the girls would be his. His property, both of them.

 

Ewert Grens got up and waved at Hermansson that she was to follow him. They left just as the remand procedure was concluded. He hurried down the three flights of stairs to the basement and along the corridor to the underground car park. Hermansson asked where they were going, and he replied that she would soon see.

 

This haste had made him gasp for breath, but he didn’t stop until he was almost suffocated by the stuffy underground dust. He looked around, saw what he wanted and then walked towards a metal door which led to the lifts that went all the way up to the cells.

 

He planted himself in front of the door, knowing that Jochum Lang would be brought here on the way back to his cell.

 

He only needed to wait for a minute or so before the four guards, two policemen and Lang came into view, heading towards the metal door.

 

Ewert Grens went to meet them and asked the officers to wait a few metres away while he had a word with Lang. The officer in charge of the prisoner wasn’t best pleased, but agreed. Grens normally got what he wanted in the end anyway.

 

They glared at each other, as they always did. Grens waited for Lang to react, but he just stood there, handcuffed, his large frame swaying as if he couldn’t decide whether to hit Ewert or not.

 

‘You stupid bastard.’ They were standing so close, Grens need do no more than whisper for Lang to hear. ‘You kept your mouth shut, as you always do. But you were remanded and you’ll be sentenced later. I know you didn’t kill Oldéus. But what are people to believe? As long as you behave like a villain, refusing to say anything, only to deny everything, I’ll tell you what they’ll do. They will make you pay. It will cost you six or seven years, on top of what you might have got regardless. Enjoy!’

 

Ewert Grens turned and called the guards back.

 

‘That’s all, Lang.’

 

Jochum Lang didn’t say a word, didn’t move, didn’t even turn to look at Grens when he was moved on by the guards.

 

Not until the guards had opened the door and he was on his way through and Grens shouted for him to turn round. Then Lang turned and spat on the ground as the superintendent shouted at the top of his voice, reminding Lang about the body scan session, the way he had taunted him about his dead colleague and made kissing noises. Grens screamed,
Do you remember?
And the kisses were returned, flying through the air. Grens stood with pursed lips and made loud smacking sounds as Lang was led back to the lift and the cells.

 

Sven Sundkvist parked in a street of terraced houses, crowded with kids playing hockey in between two home-made goals that blocked the traffic. They had noticed the car, but didn’t
bother about it at first. He had to wait until two nine-year-olds finally moved the cages, sighing loudly about the old fart who was messing things up.

 

He knew now. Knew that Lydia had already decided to kill Bengt and then herself. She had wanted to tell the truth, give voice to her shame. Ewert had denied her that.

 

What gave him the right to do that?

 

Lena Nordwall was sitting in the garden. Her eyes closed, she listened to the radio, a commercial station of the kind that interrupts the music with jingles about its name and frequency.

 

He hadn’t seen her since the evening they came to tell her about Bengt’s death.

 

Ewert wanted to protect a friend’s wife and children.

 

But by doing so, he denied a dead woman the right to speak out.

 

‘Hello.’

 

It was a warm day and he was sweating, but she had greeted the sun in trousers and a denim jacket over a long-sleeved sweater. She hadn’t heard him arrive, and when he went closer, she jumped.

 

‘Oh. You startled me.’

 

‘I apologise.’

 

She made a gesture inviting him to sit down. He moved the chair, now sitting facing her, the sun burning his back.

 

They looked at each other. He had phoned and asked if he could come. It was up to him to start talking.

 

He found it hard. He didn’t really know her. They had of course met on birthdays and so on, but always in the company of Bengt and Ewert. She was one of those women who made him fumble for words, feeling inadequate and too old. He didn’t know why. She was beautiful, true, but beauty didn’t usually affect him. It was her poise that made him insecure, like some people do.

 

‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’

 

‘Well, you’re here now.’

 

He looked around. The only other time he had been in this garden was some five, six years earlier, on Ewert’s fiftieth birthday, when Bengt and Lena had had a dinner for their friend. It was the only celebration Ewert had ever permitted. Sven and Anita had sat on either side of him at the table. Jonas had been a toddler then and had run around on the grass with the Nordwall children. There were no other guests. Ewert had been unusually quiet all evening; Sven had thought he was happy, just uncomfortable about being celebrated.