Box 21 (6 page)

 

This morning it was ‘Tunna skivor’ (1960), the Swedish version of ‘Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool’. He was always the first one in and turned the sound up as high as he liked. The odd bod might complain about the noise, but as long as he acted the sour old bugger they let him be, on the whole, left him to it. He kept life at bay behind his closed door, buried in his investigations while Siw belted out Sixties pop.

 

His mind was still caught up in yesterday. It had been good to see Anni in her crisply ironed dress, her hair neatly combed. She had looked at him more often than usual,
almost made contact. As if, for a few moments, he was more than just a stranger sitting beside her and holding her hand.

 

And later that morning, Bengt’s nice home, so full of life. Breakfast with messy kids and kind looks. As always, he had been full of gratitude. As always, he had nodded and smiled, while Bengt and Lena and the kids treated him like a member of the family, just as they always did. Yet he had felt lonelier than ever and that bloody awful feeling was still hanging around him now.

 

He turned up the volume and started pacing up and down on the worn linoleum. He had to think about something else. Anything but that. No doubting today, not any more. He had made a decision, chosen this place, this job. If the working life of a policeman meant missing out on some of the good things in life, so be it. That was how things had panned out. One day followed the other, making it thirty-three years in the end. No woman and no children and no real friends, just his long, devoted service, due to end in less than ten years from now. When it ended, he would cease to be.

 

Ewert looked around the room. The room was his only for as long as he put in the hours. When he retired this would become someone else’s office. On he paced. Limping, his large, heavy body turning at the bookshelf and then at the window. He was not good-looking, he knew that, but he had been powerful, intense and brooding. Now he was just angry most of the time. He pulled his fingers through what had once been hair and now was grey, cropped tufts.

 

That song.

 

The tears I cried for you could fill an ocean,

 

But you don’t care how many tears I cry.

 

And so, for a while, he forgot. It was morning now and his mind turned to the piles of documents on his desk, reports to be read and investigations to be completed. He had to deal with them, come what may.

 

A knock on the door. He ignored it. Too early.

 

Whoever it was opened the door.

 

‘Ewert?’

 

It was Sven.

 

Ewert didn’t say anything, he simply pointed at his visitor’s chair. Sven Sundkvist came in and sat down. He was one generation younger than his colleague, a slightly built, straight-backed man with pale, short hair. Apart from Bengt Nordwall, Sven was the only one in the police house whom Ewert didn’t detest. The lad had a good head on his shoulders.

 

Sven said nothing, because he had realised long ago that Siw’s songs were Ewert’s past, another, happier time that Sven knew nothing about. He sensed how powerful these memories were, though.

 

No one spoke. Only the music.

 

A buzzing noise as the tape came to an end and then the snap when the elderly machine’s Play button popped up.

 

Two and a half minutes.

 

Ewert stood still, cleared his throat and spoke for the first time that day.

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘Good morning.’

 

‘What?’

 

‘Good morning.’

 

‘Morning.’

 

Ewert walked over to his desk, his chair. He sat down, looked at Sven.

 

‘And what do you want? Apart from saying good morning?’

 

‘You know, don’t you, that Lang gets out as of today?’

 

Ewert made an irritated gesture.

 

‘Yep. I know.’

 

‘That’s all. I was actually on my way to an interrogation. The heroin addict who flogged washing powder.’

 

A second passed, maybe two. Ewert suddenly hit his desk with both hands. Sheets of paper showered on to the floor.

 

‘Twenty-five years.’

 

He hit the desk again. Now that the documents had scattered, his hands slapped against wood.

 

‘Twenty-five years, Sven.’

 

She was lying under the car.

 

He stopped, he jumped out, ran over to her motionless body, over to the blood that was gushing from somewhere in her head
.

 

The piles of papers were all over the floor. Sven could see that Ewert was clearly caught up in thoughts he had no intention of sharing with anyone. He bent down and randomly picked up a few of the scattered documents and read out loud.

 

‘“Trainee teacher, found naked in Rĺlambshov Park,”’ he read aloud. ‘“One leg broken below knee. Both thumbs broken.
Criminal Act Not Confirmed
.”’

 

He started on the next sheet of paper, his finger following the lines.

 

‘“Insurance office worker, found in Eriksdal Wood. Knifed in the chest, four times. Nine potential witnesses. No one noticed anything.
Criminal Act Not Confirmed
.”’

 

Ewert felt the anger, the rage. It started in his stomach and made his whole body ache. It had to be released. He waved at Sven, to make him move out of the way. Sven moved over. He knew.

 

Ewert took aim and kicked the waste-paper basket across the room. Its contents rained down everywhere. Silently and almost automatically, Sven started to make a pile of the empty tobacco tins and coffee-stained paper cups.

 

When he had finished he went on reading aloud.

 

‘“Suspected grievous bodily harm.
Criminal Act Not Confirmed
. Suspected manslaughter.
Criminal Act Not Confirmed
. Suspected murder.
Criminal Act Not Confirmed.
”’

 

Sven had interrogated Jochum Lang more times than he could remember. He had used every technique recommended in the college textbooks and quite a few others besides.
Once, a few years ago, he had almost managed, he had just about won his trust through showing him that he could cope with anything, no matter how shitty, if he wanted to open up. If Jochum talked, Sven would listen. Regardless. Jochum had taken this on board, but backed away just when he seemed ready and carried on as before, asking for fags, staring out the window. Later he clammed up totally, admitting nothing, not even to taking a dump now and then.

 

Sven turned to face his boss.

 

‘Ewert, these papers that you flung all over the floor – I could go on for ever.’

 

‘Enough.’

 

‘“Intimidation of court witnesses, aggravated abduction . . .” He’s under suspicion on twenty different counts.’

 

‘I said, enough.’

 

‘Found guilty on only three occasions. Short sentences. The first time . . . Let’s see. Yes, for “causing serious injury”.’

 

‘Shut the fuck up!’

 

Sven jumped, didn’t recognise the face of the man who was shouting at him. Ewert was often loud and aggressive in Sven’s presence, but his anger was normally directed at someone else. This time was different.

 

Ewert turned away, marched over to the cassette player. The ancient apparatus started up again, playing the same tape.

 

Yes, everybody’s somebody’s fool.

 

I told myself it’s best that I forget you.

 

Ewert listened and Siw’s voice cooled his rage. I can’t take much more, he thought. It could all end here and now. At this moment in time. Jochum Lang was one of those villains who had kept him at it for thirty-three years, nose to the grindstone and never a thought of stopping, of drawing breath, until the sentence had been pronounced. If he couldn’t nail scum like him by now, he might as well give up. Drop it, go home and dare to live. During the last year, thoughts of this kind had bothered him; he dismissed them, but they came back, more distinct, more often.

 

Sven sat down in front of him, touched his chin, pulled his fingers through his blond fringe.

 

‘Look, Grens . . .’

 

Ewert raised his finger.

 

‘Shush.’

 

Another minute.

 

And there are no exceptions to the rule.

 

Yes, everybody’s somebody’s fool.

 

Sven waited. Siw stopped singing. Ewert looked up.

 

Suddenly Ewert spoke.

 

‘What is it, then?’

 

‘Look, it’s just a thought. Aspsĺs prison. And Hilding Oldéus. You know who I mean, that emaciated junkie. The one I’m about to question.’

 

Ewert nodded. He knew exactly who Hilding Oldéus was.

 

‘We know Oldéus was inside at the same time as Lang,’ Sven went on. ‘And we know they got friendly, as friendly as anyone can get with a lunatic hard man like Lang. Hilding crawled to him, produced some home-brew early on; it had been hidden in a fire extinguisher. They were nearly put in the slammer at one point when a guard caught them at it, pissed out of their heads.’

 

‘Right. Hilding laid on the brew and Jochum gave him protection in return.’

 

‘Exactly.’

 

‘And what was your idea?’

 

‘After questioning Oldéus about the washing powder, then we’ll talk about Lang. Let him help us get him.’

 

The music had stopped. No more Siw. Ewert looked around the room, though there wasn’t much to see. It was small and, apart from the cassette player and the tape rack, totally impersonal. Everything was regulation issue. Pale wood furniture, bits and pieces identical to the furnishings in the Inland Revenue offices on Göt Street and the National Insurance building in Gustavsberg. Impersonal or not, he spent more time in the room than anywhere else, from dawn
to dusk, and later too. Quite often he didn’t go home at night, preferring to sleep on the sofa by the window. It was small in relation to his big body, but it didn’t matter. Oddly enough, he slept well here, much better than in his proper bed. Here he escaped the sleepless nights, the endless hours battling with the dark that plagued him in his own flat, where he could never find peace. Sometimes he didn’t go home for weeks on end, without understanding what kept him away.

 

‘Oldéus and Lang, eh? I don’t think so. They exist in parallel worlds. Oldéus is hooked on heroin. It’s all he wants. Lang is a criminal, not a junkie, even if he has pissed classified substances at Aspsĺs once or twice. And that’s that. They have nothing in common, not outside.’

 

Sven shifted about in the visitor’s chair, then leaned back and sighed. Suddenly he seemed tired.

 

Ewert looked intently at his friend.

 

He recognised what it was: resignation, hopelessness.

 

He thought about Oldéus. He had no time for people like that, small-time junkies who picked holes in their noses. Life was too short and there were too many idiots.

 

‘OK. What the fuck. One nutter more or less. We can always ask him about Lang. Can’t do any harm.’

 

 

 

 

 

A shiny brand-new car crept towards the large gate in the grey wall. The kind of car that would smell of leather upholstery and pristine wooden dashboard if you opened one of the front doors.

 

Jochum Lang spotted it as soon as he had passed through central security and started to cross the yard. He hadn’t talked to them and hadn’t asked for a car, but he understood all the same: they would be waiting outside, that was part of the deal.

 

He nodded a greeting and the man at the wheel nodded in response.

 

The engine ticked over while Jochum gave the finger to the security camera and pissed against the concrete wall. No hurry, the car was waiting and nothing disturbed his ritual. All the time in the world to finish having a piss, show the finger again and drop his trousers down, as the gate slowly swung shut behind him. Somehow, he wasn’t really free until he’d done it, pissed on the wall, shown the guards his arse. He knew it was childish and pointless, but with his freedom came the urge to prove that none of those bastards could humiliate him any more and that, after two years and four months, he was the one who’d do the humiliating.

 

He walked over to the car, opened the passenger door and got in. They stared at each other in silence, without knowing why.

 

Slobodan looked older. At thirty-five his long hair was already going grey at the temples, he’d grown a thin moustache that was also tinged with grey, and there were new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

 

Jochum tapped lightly on the windscreen.

 

‘New car. Traded up, I see.’

 

Slobodan looked pleased.

 

‘Sure thing. What do you think?’

 

‘Too flash.’

 

‘It’s not mine. It’s Mio’s.’

 

‘Last time you were driving one you’d just nicked. Started it up with a screwdriver. Suited you better.’

 

The car moved off smoothly, just light pressure on the gas.

 

Jochum Lang took the train ticket from his trouser pocket, tore it up and threw it out the window, shouting abuse loudly in a broad Uppsala dialect, roaring about what he thought of the prison service’s parting gifts, not fit to wipe the shit off your arse, and let the pieces blow away in the strong wind. Slobodan was talking on his mobile, which had been ringing for a while. He accelerated, leaving the gate and the high, grey wall behind them. Then, after a minute or two, the rain started up, the windscreen wipers going slowly at first, then faster.

 

‘I’m not picking you up because I wanted to. Mio asked me to do it.’

 

‘Ordered you.’

 

‘Whatever. He wants to see you as soon as.’

 

Jochum was a big man, broad-shouldered, who took up a lot of car space. Shaved head, a scar from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. Some poor sod had tried to defend himself with a razor. Jochum talked with his hands, waving them about when he was upset.

 

‘Look, last time I did something for him, I ended up here.’

 

They left the narrow prison drive and moved out on to a wider road that was quite busy already, people on the way to work.