‘I’ll be out for the rest of the day,’ he told the receptionist on his way out.
When he was going uphill on Östra Ekuddsgatan it occurred to him that he had no idea where the debt-enforcement agency could be in Sollentuna. He had to go back home and look it up in the phone book. Tingsvägen 7, where the hell was that? He tore page twenty out of the map section of the
Yellow Pages
and ran over to his car.
The traffic increased as soon as Thomas reached the E18. Route 262 was at a standstill by the time he reached Edsbyn, due to some sort of accident. In frustration, he slammed the steering wheel. Finally managing to get downtown by way of Sollentunavägen, he found that the offices were right behind the Convention Centre, in a yellowish high-rise complex that the debt-enforcement people shared with the police and other legal authorities. He parked in a reserved space and took the elevator to the sixth floor.
Annika Bengtzon was already there, seated at a table in a reception room with a stack of printouts in front of her, her hair all wavy as if it had dried without being combed first. She pointed with a quick gesture at the chair beside her.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ she said. ‘If that personal ID number is correct, out friend here hasn’t paid a single bill for the past five years. Probably didn’t do it before that either, but debt records don’t go back further than five years. They’d be on microfilm.’
Thomas stared at the piles of printouts.
‘What’s this?’
Annika got up.
‘Rebecka Björkstig’s files from the Swedish Debt Enforcement Agency,’ she said. ‘One hundred and seven complaints. Like some coffee?’
He nodded and removed his overcoat and his scarf.
‘With milk, please.’
Thomas sat down and began to leaf aimlessly through the printouts. He couldn’t tell who had incurred the debts, all it said in the ‘name’ box was ‘ID safeguarded’. But the debt records themselves weren’t confidential, they were listed in long columns; public and private, from authorities, private companies, private citizens. Unpaid back taxes. Parking tickets. Citations for using a vehicle without lawful authority. Unpaid IKEA furniture, rental cars, vacations, bank loans, credit-card debts to Konsum, Visa, Ellos, Eurocard . . .
Jesus!
He continued to wade through the pile.
. . . unpaid student loans, unpaid TV licences, a loan made by a private individual called Andersson, arrears on a rental TV from Thorn . . .
‘There wasn’t any milk,’ Annika said, and set down a brown plastic cup on top of the printout that he was reading. She had removed the white bandage from her finger and had replaced it with a Band-Aid.
‘Christ,’ he remarked. ‘When did you find all this out?’
She sat down next to him and sighed.
‘This morning. A source of mine gave me a personal ID number that presumably belongs to Rebecka. I can’t swear that it is hers, since Rebecka has a protected identity, but for the time being I assume that it is. She’s only thirty years old, but she’s been busy getting into debt. And this is only the beginning. The receptionist is looking into any bankruptcy proceedings that she may be involved in. Do you have that corporate ID number?’
Thomas pulled out his wallet and handed her the Post-it.
‘I’ll be right back,’ Annika said.
He sipped his coffee. It was pretty weak and went down okay without milk. Then he made an attempt at sorting out his thoughts.
What did it all mean? The fact that this lady was lousy at paying her bills wasn’t really the point. She could still be good at wiping people off public records. But the total picture, the sheer bulk of the unpaid bills, smacked of a strategy and hinted at what was in store.
He finished the coffee, tossed the cup in the trash and went on leafing through the material.
. . . Unpaid American Express bills, a Finax telephone service loan, unpaid speeding tickets, unpaid Folksam insurance premiums, unpaid utility bills, telephone bills, road taxes . . .
Most of the debts were no longer current; they had been regulated in some way, either by docking her pay or her assets, or due to bankruptcy proceedings.
Where was Annika Bengtzon?
Thomas left the room. As he rounded a corner by the front desk he walked right into her. He could feel her breasts.
‘Shit,’ she exclaimed, tripping and dropping a sheaf of papers on the floor. He caught hold of her and helped her to her feet again. Blushing.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’
Annika kneeled down and picked up the papers.
‘Take a look at this,’ she said. “This gal has gone bankrupt in every way imaginable: personal bankruptcy, twice in the past four years; she’s put a stock corporation into receivership as well as a partnership and a limited partnership. The Paradise Foundation is deep in debt for cars, TV sets, two houses on instalment plans where not a penny has been paid . . .’
Walking ahead of him, Annika entered the room again.
“The trick is to figure out what it all means,’ she said, sitting down. ‘It doesn’t have to mean that Rebecka Björkstig is a crook, but the vibes aren’t exactly good.’
Thomas stared at her: the exact same thought had crossed his mind a few minutes ago. So he sat down next to her and picked up the printouts from the Patent and Registration Office, observing the dates when debts and bankruptcy proceedings were recorded, when new companies were registered and when they were dissolved.
‘I think I detect a pattern,’ he said. ‘Look – she starts up a company, buys a whole lot of stuff, applies for huge loans and goes bankrupt. Over and over again. Declares personal bankruptcy, again and again. Finally, it won’t work any more. No one will lend her a dime. So she creates a foundation. It can’t be traced to her. The other people listed as co-founders may not even exist.’
Annika followed his index finger as it indicated item after item.
‘And then it was shop till you drop again,’ she said, holding up the sheet with the debts incurred by the Paradise Foundation. ‘Look at this, she started to default on her loans four months ago.’
‘My guess is that the foundation isn’t any older than that,’ Thomas said.
‘So much for those three years and sixty cases,’ Annika said drily.
They sat next to each other in silence, reading and leafing through the material. Then Annika got up and started stacking the printouts.
‘I’ve got to go talk to the senior enforcement officer again before he leaves for the day,’ she said. ‘Do you have time to join me?’
Thomas glanced at his watch. The third missed meeting of the day was about to begin.
‘Yeah, no problem.’
They went down a long departmental hallway, the dark blue carpeting absorbing dust and sound. Annika Bengtzon walked in front of Thomas and headed for the next to last door.
‘Hi,’ she said as she entered the office. ‘It’s me again. This is Thomas Samuelsson, chief accountant with the Social Services in Vaxholm.’
The senior enforcement officer sat at his desk with a pile of loose-leaf notebooks in front of him.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ he asked.
Annika sighed. ‘I found
more
than I was looking for. Have you possibly come across this woman, Rebecka Björkstig, before?’
The enforcement officer shook his head. ‘I’ve given it some thought,’ he said. ‘But no, it doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘How about this?’ she asked, handing him the printouts about the debts incurred by the Paradise Foundation.
The man put on his glasses and ran his gaze over the page.
‘Here,’ he said, pointing at an item further down on the page. ‘This looks familiar. I spoke to the company that owns these vehicles last week, and they were very upset. They haven’t been able to contact the person who had leased the cars, and they haven’t received a down payment of any kind.’
‘How could they let anyone take the cars without making a down payment?’ Thomas asked.
The senior enforcement officer glanced at him over the rims of his glasses. ‘They told me that the woman appeared to be trustworthy. Would you happen to know the whereabouts of the person in charge of the Paradise Foundation?’ The last question was levelled at Annika.
‘No,’ she replied truthfully. ‘I do have the address to one of the houses used by the foundation, but she doesn’t live there. That information ought to be listed on the mortgages that she’s been granted.’
Annika Bengtzon handed over the printouts.
‘What do you make of all these debts?’
The officer sighed. ‘Times are tougher,’ he said. ‘Our workload has increased while our staff has been cut back time and time again. But this lady doesn’t belong to the newly impoverished classes, one of your regular Joes or Janes who has got behind with their payments. She dodges her obligations in a typically pathological way.’
‘You recognize the type?’ Annika asked.
The man sighed again. They thanked him for his time and went back down the corridor again.
‘I’m calling it a day,’ Annika said as she headed for the front desk, yawning and stretching her arms in the air. ‘I’ve got to go home and call my grandmother.’
Thomas looked at her, the wavy hair and the smooth brow.
‘So soon?’
She smiled. ‘Time flies,’ she said. ‘Would you like to make copies of the material?’
She walked over to the front desk. He remained were he was, with a blank mind and a hard-on.
‘Need a ride?’ he called after her.
She glanced over her shoulder at him.
‘That would be great.’
Thomas went to the lavatory, washed his face and hands and tried to relax.
Annika was waiting for him by the front desk, holding his copies in a plastic folder.
‘Gee,’ he said. ‘You sure are efficient.’
‘Not me, my new friend.’
He didn’t quite catch on. ‘Who?’
‘The receptionist. Now, where’s your car?’
It was a fairly new Toyota Corolla, green, nicely waxed, and equipped with alarm and central locking systems, blip-blip. Thomas had parked in someone else’s slot and that someone had left an angry note on the windshield which he yanked out, crumpled up and tossed in a waste-paper basket three metres away, sinking it. His hair flopped into his face, and he raked it back absentmindedly. Dark grey overcoat, expensive suit and a tie.
Out of the corner of her eye, Annika studied him. Broad shoulders, quick and agile. It hadn’t struck her earlier – he had either been hidden behind a desk or had been seated, so she hadn’t noticed how he moved with authority and grace.
Bet he was into sports at some point
, she thought.
Lots of money. Used to being taken seriously.
Thomas tossed his briefcase into the back seat.
‘Door’s open,’ he said.
Glancing over at the back seat as she sat down in front, Annika didn’t see any kiddy seats even though he was wearing a wedding band. She stuffed her bag down by her feet. He started the car and the fan went on.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Right smack in the middle of town. Hantverkaregatan.’
As he was backing out the car, he put his arm along the headrest behind her. Annika felt her mouth going dry.
“The Klarastrand thoroughfare is usually a pain in the ass at this hour,’ she said. ‘The best option is to drive by way of Hornsberg . . .’
They sat beside each other in silence, and she noticed that a new feeling had evolved, a different kind of silence. Thomas had slender, strong hands, shifted gears often and drove pretty fast. That hair of his wouldn’t stay slicked back, the blond, shiny mass flopping into his eyes.
‘Have you lived in the Kungsholmen neighbourhood for long?’ he asked, glancing at Annika with a certain look that she could feel herself responding to.
‘It’s been two years now,’ she replied, her cheeks suddenly growing hot. ‘I have a two-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a building facing the courtyard.’
‘Was it expensive?’ he asked.
She started laughing. In his circles people bought their apartments.
‘No, the place is going to be torn down, so it’s a short-term lease,’ she explained. ‘There’s no central heating, no hot water, no elevator and no toilet in the flat.’
Thomas shot her a quick glance. ‘Are you serious?’
She laughed some more, all warm inside.
‘What about TV reception?’
‘Well, there’s no cable access.’
‘Did you watch the debate on Channel Two yesterday?’
Annika looked at him carefully. Why had his voice gone strident all of a sudden?
‘I saw a few minutes,’ she said slowly. ‘To be honest, I turned it off. I know the work those women do is important, but they’re so damned categorical. Anything that isn’t awfully pretentious or elitist is crap. I can’t stand that kind of attitude, as if they’re superior beings.’
Thomas nodded enthusiastically.
‘Did you see the literary-journal woman? The one with the endless stream of garbage?’
‘Old pear-face? I certainly heard her.’
They laughed a little together.
‘So you don’t belong to any cultural societies?’ he asked, glancing over at her, his hair in his eyes again.
‘I go to see Djurgården play ice hockey,’ Annika said, ‘if you could call that culture.’
Thomas took his gaze off the road and stared at her.
‘You like hockey?’
She looked down at her hands.
‘I went to see bandy games on a weekly basis for years, it was fun, but it’s damn cold being outdoors like that. Hockey is better, you don’t get cold. It’s easy to get tickets while the series is under way – only the finals at the Globe Arena are sold out.’
‘Did you catch the finals last spring?’ he asked.
‘I was right in there with the supporters,’ she said, making a fist and raising her left hand and chanting: ‘Hardy Nilsson’s iron men! Hardy Nilsson’s iron men!’
Thomas laughed, a laugh that dwindled wistfully. Annika looked at him, surprised to see the sadness on his face.
‘Are you a Djurgården fan?’
He overtook an airport shuttle.
‘I played hockey until I was eighteen. Österskär was my team,’ he said. ‘I quit because Coach and I had a falling out, and I also wanted to concentrate on school.’