Inertia, page 4
I glance at him.
His beard is grey and straggly. The eyelids so heavy that they must obscure his sight behind those thin, wire-rimmed glasses. He has a potbelly beneath his short-sleeved shirt, and his polyester trousers are a little too short and expose his sock-less, slightly swollen ankles, above a pair of worn-out brown sandals.
Gunnar is a legend. He came from a real police family, a family that paid a high price for working on the force. But he’s best known for being the biggest Casanova the Stockholm Police ever saw. An accomplished womaniser, who, it is generally agreed, could seduce anything with a pulse. And just as he was facing the moment of truth, when he was about to overcome the last resistance, he would deliver his widely known line: Let it happen.
Of course, it didn’t take long for Gunnar’s modus operandi to become known, and shortly after that, the jokers on the force had renamed him Let-it-happen. As the years went by, the nickname was shortened into the catchier Let-it, which over time became Letit.
I greet him. We haven’t worked together before, but of course we know each other, though superficially.
He’s actually supposed to be a decent cop, even if he’s got a little grumpy with age. Those who know him best say he is at his most moody when not in the midst of a romance.
‘What do we have?’ I ask.
‘A man in his twenties,’ Letit says, stroking a hand over his beard. ‘Found by a recreational fisherman yesterday.’
‘And why are we here?’
The question is relevant. Suspicious deaths aren’t usually investigated by the NOU – National Operations Unit.
‘We believe the dead person may be connected to an ongoing investigation,’ Malin says. ‘In addition, the Stockholm Police are low on staff. They asked for assistance.’
‘Do we know who the victim is?’
‘Not sure,’ she says while shading her eyes from the sun.
Her eyes slide over me.
I must look terrible. Unshowered, unshaven and unprepared. I’m as different from the old Manfred as it’s possible to be.
He never would have shown up to work like this.
The old Manfred would have worn a dress shirt and a suit jacket with a vest. He would have a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket and smell like a perfume department.
The old Manfred would have worn polished Italian calfskin shoes and an exclusive, but not too eye-catching, Rolex watch from the early ’50s.
But the old Manfred is gone.
‘Shall we?’ Malin says and heads towards the entrance.
*
The medical examiner, Samira Khan, hugs me when she meets us at reception. Her body is so small and dainty it could belong to a child. Her long, shiny plait rests heavily between her shoulder blades.
‘Look how skinny you’ve got,’ she says and grabs onto my forearm.
And then, in a quieter voice:
‘How is she?’
‘They’re keeping her sedated.’
Samira nods, smoothing the top of her green surgical scrubs.
‘That’s so the brain can heal in peace,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Listen. At that age children have an amazing ability to recover. And their brains are able compensate for loss of function in an incredible way.’
I nod. I’ve heard it all before.
We walk along the corridor towards the autopsy rooms.
‘So you think you know who the dead man is?’ Samira asks, looking up at Malin.
‘We think it could be a Johannes Ahonen,’ Letit says then stuffs snus under his upper lip. ‘But that conclusion is based on Ahonen having the same tattoo as the one found on the body.’
Samira nods and says:
‘We’ll have to wait for the forensic odontologist’s report and the DNA results before we can make a positive identification.’
Then she opens the door for us. The unmistakable, suffocating smell of death hits me, and I can see Malin grimace before she enters. Letit’s expression, on the other hand, doesn’t change a bit as he ambles into the room with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
‘Shall we take a look?’ Samira says, putting on a pair of glasses and a plastic apron and then leading us over to an autopsy table.
On the shiny, stainless steel surface lies the body of a man. It is bloated and discoloured. The skin has come loose in several places and looks more like thin grey-green plastic loosely draped over the bloated, whitish tissue.
Maybe it’s because of my emotional imbalance – I’m not usually so affected by seeing dead people – but something inside me is tying itself into knots as I near the table. It is as if a cold hand is rooting around inside my chest in search of my heart. I think about how Nadja might end up on just such a table one day. And a second later – that the man on the table is actually someone’s child too.
I close my eyes tightly.
‘We’re going to conduct the post-mortem this afternoon,’ Samira says, spreading her fingers and snapping her gloves into place. ‘But I thought you might want to take a look. Before, that is.’
She continues:
‘As you probably know, the body was found wrapped neatly in a blanket, which was wrapped in an iron chain. When the tissues break down, gases, including methane and carbon dioxide, form in the abdomen and chest. This is why drowned bodies often float to the surface. In this case, the body had obviously been dumped deliberately, and someone tried to prevent it from floating up. But that doesn’t automatically mean that he was killed. I cannot make a pronouncement on the cause of death until after the autopsy. But I can say that the body was subjected to severe external trauma and that both legs, the pelvis and the back have fractures and contusions.’
‘And someone has cut off a hand,’ Malin says, nodding to the body, which was missing the left hand.
‘Can’t be certain,’ she says. ‘Hands and feet tend to loosen on bodies that are in water for a long time. It could be spontaneous, caused by animals, or some other type of mechanical damage; for example, a boat propeller.’
Letit nods and wrinkles his bushy eyebrows.
‘What is that white goo?’ Malin asks.
Samira runs a finger over the waxy substance that covers parts of the body. Then rubs her fingers against each other.
‘Adipocere, or wax. It’s formed by the hydrolysis of fat when the body is in cold water for a long time.’
‘Jesus,’ Malin mumbles and squirms a little, but falls silent when she sees Letit’s expression.
‘When did he die?’ Letit asks, making notes in his notebook.
‘I’ll get back to you on that,’ says Samira, hesitating. ‘There are many factors that affect how quickly a body breaks down in water: temperature, salinity and oxygen content, just to name a few. But my preliminary guess would be between one and two months ago. It takes a few weeks for the wax to start forming.’
‘And the reason we think this is Johannes . . . ?’ I ask.
‘Ahonen,’ Letit fills in.
Samira lifts one forearm so that a darker area on the skin becomes visible.
‘Look here,’ she says.
Letit leans forward. Malin does the same, but I can see that her eyes are on the door and her face paler than usual.
‘A tattoo?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ Samira says.
‘I can barely make out what it is,’ Malin says.
‘Don’t you have eyes?’ snorts Letit, who is still bent over the body, wiping a thumb and forefinger up and down his big nose. ‘It’s a bird.’
Samira nods.
‘It’s an eagle. Probably a white-tailed eagle, but could be a golden eagle. They are similar. Apparently, Johannes Ahonen has a tattoo like it.’
She goes to her desk, takes off her gloves and throws them in a yellow rubbish bin labelled HAZARDOUS WASTE. Then she flips through a folder of papers.
‘Here,’ she says, returning with a stack of photographs that she hands to me.
The first image depicts a tattoo of an eagle with the characteristic curved beak and wings extended backwards, as if it were just about to land or catch prey in its claws. The other shows a body wrapped in a chequered blanket. Round and round the blanket runs a heavy, rusty chain. Here and there seaweed hangs from the metal links.
‘The image of the tattoo is an enlargement of a photo from Ahonen’s Facebook profile,’ Samira says.
‘These days tattoos are like arseholes,’ Letit mumbles, and shoves his chin forward so that his beard becomes even more prominent. ‘Every bastard has one. Who knows how many have got this birdie on their arms?’
‘Absolutely,’ Samira says. ‘That’s your job to figure out. You can keep the pictures. I printed them out for you.’
‘What do we know about Ahonen?’ I ask.
‘From Haninge,’ Malin says. ‘Twenty years old. Reported missing by his mother in March. Sentenced for possession of illegal weapons, drug possession and theft. The reason we are here today is that he’s popped up in the investigation of Igor Ivanov, a thirty-year-old Swedish citizen, born in Kiev, Ukraine and living in Älvsjö. He’s believed to control a large part of drug sales on the south side of the city. He’s a bit of a legend, apparently. We have never succeeded in pinning anything on him, despite rumours saying he runs his organisation with an iron fist and actually killed some guys who tricked him out of money. But that could be bullshit, of course.’
I let out a low whistle.
‘Igor Ivanov,’ I say. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
At the same time, Malin puts a hand to her mouth, turns around and rushes from the room.
‘Oh,’ Samira says, glances at me quickly, then follows her.
Letit looks at me and pushes his glasses higher up his nose with his index finger.
‘I was wondering how long it would take,’ he says with poorly disguised triumph in his voice. ‘Where do they find the investigators they send us these days? Pregnant women who are just a blink of an eye from giving birth probably shouldn’t be dealing with autopsies.’
Samuel
T
he forest is submerged in darkness, but the summer sky is still light. The smell of wet soil and foliage rises from the narrow footpath.
My head is throbbing, and my body aches. I slept on the night bus, though I didn’t end up getting much sleep. I mostly sat there wondering how the hell I was going to get Igor’s package back, and at Hökarängen the bitch driving the bus threw me off.
I don’t even dare contemplate what Igor is going to say when I tell him that his samples drove off in a rubbish truck.
I pull my phone out to distract myself.
No messages from Mum.
I feel a twinge in my chest.
She’s never been pleased with me.
It doesn’t matter what I do. She wasn’t even happy the time I got an A in maths. Instead she started bitching about how I failed almost all of the other subjects. And once, when I gave her a Hermès bracelet, she went crazy and started screaming about how she had no intention of taking any stolen goods, and it was a deadly sin to steal, even though I had actually bought it.
I sigh and return to my mobile. Send a text to Jeanette, Alexandra’s best friend.
She’s so damn hot.
Long blonde hair and small firm breasts. Big mouth and tanned skin that looks soft. And it is soft, that much I know.
We’ve got something going on, Jeanette and I. What it is, I’m not really sure.
I really should stop it – she is Alexandra’s friend after all. But on the other hand, I never promised Alexandra eternal faithfulness. On the contrary, I’ve explained to her that I’m not ready to be in a real relationship. That I’m not there, basically, as if love were a station that I haven’t yet arrived at.
And Alexandra said that was OK, that she didn’t want any commitment either.
So we meet and sleep with each other and sometimes it’s really good. Almost like a porno or like we’re in love for real.
I speed up and hear my phone ding.
It’s Jeanette.
No messages now, it says on the display. I’m just about to text her back and ask why she’s playing hard to get when I hear it: a branch snaps somewhere behind me in the woods.
I stop and turn, peer into the darkness between the slender birches, but see nothing but the light, spotted tree trunks and the outlines of bushes behind.
It must have been an animal.
Even though we only live nineteen minutes from the city, there are deer in this forest. Not to mention all the dog owners who walk here.
I keep going.
The woods thin out and I see low, box-shaped buildings built of concrete and corrugated metal spread out in front of me. I crawl through the hole in the fence and walk towards the old garage, which is at the edge of the industrial area.
In the dimness at the entrance I can just make out two figures: one broad and large, one long and lean.
Igor and Malte.
My stomach drops as I cross the tarmac area in front of the auto repair shop.
Igor nods briefly, and Malte grins, flashing his gold teeth in the dim light.
‘Yo,’ I say. ‘Something happened. That package . . .’
I don’t make it any further before Igor raises a hand as if he wants to push the words back into my mouth. Then he takes a few steps away to an old container covered with tags and graffiti dicks.
‘Hello,’ he says, smiling, but not at me.
I turn around and see two more guys approaching.
One is short and a bit chubby, looks he might be Latino, and is wearing a biker jacket and jeans. The other is as pale as an albino, with white hair, wearing a hoodie and jeans. He is carrying a duffle bag with ‘Just do it’ written on the side.
I sidle over to Malte, trying to get his attention, but he hushes me.
‘The package,’ I hiss. ‘The product samples. They’re gone.’
Malte freezes and slowly turns to face me. I see the terror in his eyes.
‘What the hell?’ he whispers.
‘My mum took them.’
‘Seriously?’
I look over at Igor and the two guys he’s talking to. Igor gestures and the guys laugh out loud as if he just said something really funny. A second later, all three start walking towards me and Malte.
Sweat pours off my forehead and from my armpits, even though the evening air is cool and humid. I try thinking of Malte as Igor’s butt boy to make myself less scared, but even that doesn’t work.
‘Fucking. Loser,’ Malte whispers between his teeth and spits.
Igor’s leather jacket squeaks as he approaches, and the light of a street lamp bounces off his shaved head.
‘Samuel,’ he says. ‘Take the bag.’
The albino guy throws the bag at me, and I catch it. I don’t know what it contains, but I assume it’s not product, because Igor said we were meeting a buyer, a distributor.
It could be money, though Malte says Igor usually uses bitcoin when large sums are involved.
Igor meets my gaze. His eyes look like black marbles and his expression is unreadable.
‘The samples,’ he says briefly.
‘I-I tried to tell you,’ I stammer. ‘They’re gone. My mum took them.’ For a moment there’s silence.
Igor looks like he can’t understand what I just said, as if I were speaking in a foreign language.
‘What the fuck?’ he says finally.
‘And then she put them in the rubbish chute, and the truck left before I could fish them out and . . . But I thought I had to come anyway. And of course I will pay you back.’
I realise that I sound just like my mum and decide to shut up.
Anything is better than sounding like Mum.
But that mean voice, the one that sometimes chatters in my head, wakes up.
You’re toast, you fucking loser.
Igor takes a few steps towards me and his jaw tightens, as if he’s biting onto something that’s hard and maybe a little bitter.
‘No samples, no advance,’ says the Latino guy and shrugs indifferently.
And just then, when everything is as fucked up as it can get, a text message dings in my pocket.
Igor fixes me with his eyes and closes his big hands into fists.
‘Didn’t I tell you to turn off your phone, you fucking retard?’
I close my eyes and wait for the blow, while holding the sports bag tightly. Then I hear a voice roaring behind me.
‘Police! Hands up! Get down!’
When I open my eyes again, Igor and Malte are squatting down, as if they actually plan to do what the cops say.
The other guys are running towards the forest.
I don’t know why, it’s not some well-thought-out tactic or anything like that, but I start running in the opposite direction, along the bike path towards the old plant nursery. I run as fast as I can, still gripping the bag tightly; shame burning my skin like scalding water.
How could I be so fucking stupid?
Because you’re a fucking idiot.
Igor asked me to do two things: bring the package and switch off my mobile.
I failed at both.
I truly am worthless. Everyone who has told me so – and many have – was obviously right.
Shots echo in the darkness, and I speed up. My legs dash forward with my heart slamming in my chest. I’m suddenly overcome by nausea shooting out of the pit of my stomach, and I have to stop. I grab a lamppost and am sick on the tarmac. Panting in exhaustion, then I turn around.
The forest behind me lies quiet and deserted.
I see no one approaching from any direction, no police, no dogs. And most importantly no Igor or Malte.
Is it possible? Could I have escaped?
I realise I should step out of the revealing light of the street lamp and I take a few steps into the woods. My chest aches, and I have a bitter taste in my mouth from the vomit.
Somewhere in the darkness I can just make out a familiar shape – the big boulder where Liam and I used to hide secret messages, pornographic pictures and sweets when we were little.
I go over to it. Lay the bag on top of the damp granite and open the zipper. Blink a few times while my eyes adjust to the darkness.
Rolls of hundred-kronor bills are scattered around inside the bag. It’s impossible to say how much money it is, but it must be hundreds of thousands of kronor. Maybe more. There are at least twenty-five very thick rolls.
