Tommy looked thoughtfully at his boss and said, “Sven, you were pals with Olle ‘Armstrong’ Olsson, weren’t you?”
“I sure was. We were partners for ten years on patrol. Then I went to inspector training and wound up with the Crime Police, while he went into the Canine Unit. He loved his animals—”
He broke off and looked at Tommy for a long time. “I know what you’re getting at,” he said curtly. He cleared his throat and turned to Irene. “Irene, this happened twenty years ago. My old pal Armstrong worked in the Canine Unit. Hell of a talented guy. He was called Armstrong because he loved jazz. But that’s not important. Olle and his dog were called to a burglary alarm at Obs, out in Hisings Backa. It’s a big department store, so Olle took the dog off the leash, as usual. The dog picked up a scent and ran off. There was a shot and when Olle without thinking rushed after the dog, he saw the animal lying on the floor bleeding. He stopped short, with his pistol drawn. Then he felt a gun barrel shoved into the back of his neck and heard the old cliché, ‘Drop the gun!’ He did as he was told. There were two thieves. One of them took his pistol and then they took off.”
The superintendent stopped and his expression turned grim. The words seemed to come from far away when he went on. “That’s all that happened. Except that the dog died and Olle left the force.”
He fell silent and Irene reluctantly felt that she wanted to know more. So she asked, “Quit the force? What did he do then?”
“Got divorced, moved to Örebro, and became a car salesman. He remarried a few years later.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“No. We exchange Christmas cards. It must be fifteen years since we last saw each other.”
Tommy eagerly leaned toward Irene. “It’s shattering to be disarmed and have to surrender. That’s true for everybody, no matter who you are. So don’t feel like you’re nuts or anything. It’s a natural reaction.”
Irene was still looking at Andersson when she asked, “Why didn’t the rest of you help him?”
He gave her a surprised look. “Help him? What do you mean?”
“Help him to stay on as a cop.”
“But what the . . . he had a breakdown! What were we supposed to do? He didn’t want to do it anymore!”
“That’s just what I mean. Why didn’t you help him so he’d want to come back?”
“He didn’t want any help! We’re not psychologists, you know!”
“No. But pals.”
He was speechless and glared at her angrily. What the hell had gotten into all the broads in this department? It didn’t make sense to continue this discussion. He tried to pull himself together and smooth it over. “I was only trying to say that we understand that it’s tough to be subjected to . . . something like you were subjected to. And you have pals and colleagues around you who are supporting you. You know that. Let’s get those fucking assholes identified so we can bring them in!”
He turned to Tommy and motioned toward the door. “We’ll go another round with Shorty. We’ll have to take turns, try to wear him out. One of us will be back in a while, Irene. Hopefully you’ll have some luck finding someone you recognize.”
Andersson opened up the first folder and tapped urgently on the photos on the first page. Irene sighed but reluctantly started to turn the pages.
Within an hour she had identified Fatso and the Thin Man.
SWEATY AND mad, Andersson came steaming into the room where Irene sat with two plastic photo sleeves before her on the desk. Her arms hung heavily at her sides and her gaze was directed at the dead lily in a pot hanging in the window. Outside it was dark; there was nothing to see. She nodded lamely at the two plastic sleeves on the desk. Her voice sounded toneless when she said, “Those two. The thin one is Paul John Svensson, born ’sixty-four, and Fatso is Glenn ‘Hoffa’ Strömberg, born ’fifty-nine. He’s called Hoffa because he’s vice president of the Hell’s Angels. Paul Svensson has no rank. But a thick rap sheet. Just like Hoffa.”
“We’re making progress on one front at least! That damned Shorty is driving me nuts! All he says is, ‘I haven’t committed any crime. You have to release me.’ But mostly he just sits there in silence and grins.”
He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. It must have hurt, because he didn’t do it again. Having let off steam, he sat in his desk chair, picked up the two plastic sleeves and scrutinized them. Pleased, he said, “Couple of ugly dudes. You couldn’t find the other two?”
She shook her head. “No. Now that I think about it, they didn’t say anything the whole time. Weird. I’m almost positive it was one of them who threw the grenade,” she said thoughtfully.
“You didn’t see any photo that reminded you of them?”
“No. Although I can’t really remember what they looked like. But Fatso and the Thin Man are etched into my brain. Paul John, born ’sixty-four. You think his mama dug the Beatles?”
There was a light knock at the door and Birgitta Moberg came in. She greeted Irene cheerfully, asked how she felt, and was generally sympathetic. Until her gaze fell on the photos. She snatched them up and laughed. “So little Paul shows up here too!”
Her colleagues looked astonished. Andersson recovered first. “Do you know this scumbag?”
“Not personally. But on paper. This is the guy who drove up on the traffic island in the aborted bank robbery in Kungsbacka.”
“In nineteen eighty-two? With Shorty!” Irene exclaimed.
“Precisely. And the one who missed the turnoff to . . .” She gave Irene a knowing glance. Both said in unison, “. . . the cottage in Billdal!”
The superintendent grabbed the plastic sleeve again. He stared irately at the cards, as if he were trying to hypnotize them into a confession. Angrily he hissed, “Now it stinks like shit again! This is a point of contact, a lead! We have to get the truth out of Shorty!”
“Confront him with this point of contact. Maybe he doesn’t think we can connect him to the Hell’s Angels,” Birgitta suggested.
“The worst thing is that we can’t! Not yet. We have to let Narcotics know. They’re out at Billdal questioning people in the vicinity to find possible witnesses who might have seen Shorty together with the swine from the Hell’s Angels. If we could just get hold of somebody, then the prosecutor can write a detention order. I want Shorty put under strict watch!”
“But we’ve been doing that since last Friday. According to our guys, he’s only been in the shop and around the neighborhood on Berzeliigatan. No trips out to Billdal,” Birgitta pointed out.
“That’s true. But he might have had telephone contact with them,” the superintendent ventured.
Birgitta had a hard time holding back a sigh when she replied, “It’s not something we can prove. There’s no phone at the cottage. No, we have to develop proof that Shorty is mixed up in all this. Otherwise we have to let him go on Friday.”
The other two knew she was right. Irene realized how terribly tired she was.
“I think I have to call Krister now. It’s almost five-thirty and my poor pummeled body and brain are crying for bed.”
Chapter Fourteen
KRISTER CAME TO PICK up Irene at headquarters. For a short time she managed to doze off in the car despite everything, but that was all the sleep she got. When they arrived home the girls swarmed over her with questions. Her answers were evasive. Finally she pleaded that she was too tired, just to get away from the topic. She went to bed before the ten o’clock news. She didn’t feel at all sleepy, but it was a way to flee from what she still couldn’t face talking about. Krister sensed this and crept in quietly next to her an hour later. He held her for a long time. She felt his warm body against hers. Normally, that would awaken desire and longing but now not even his warmth could thaw out the cold inside her. When he eventually rolled over into his side of the bed and fell asleep, she started sweating. It was impossible to lie still. The bottom sheet felt like a damp rope under her, and every muscle and joint in her body ached. Around four she gave up. Her brain was replaying the scenes from the barn, both those that really happened and those that could have. The scornful voices shrouded her brain in a thick gray spiderweb. It was impossible to find the Point, so the Light remained unattainable. There was an impenetrable obstacle in the way and she knew its components: terror and anxiety.
During the slowly crawling hours of the night she realized how impossible it is to run away from yourself. The black hole was about to swallow her up. She had to go into it and drive out the whispering voices. She had to fight her inner enemy. She was her own
uke.
IN THE big dark blue police bag Irene packed a thermos of coffee, three sandwiches, clean underwear, and a clean
gi.
The last item was important. No old, irrelevant smells could be allowed to distract her. The fresh sweat in her workout clothes would tell her what it cost to drive out her demons.
The bells in the German Church tolled five o’clock as she parked outside the gym by the Harbor Canal. It was dark and quiet. There was little traffic, and she heard the lonely, distant squeaking of a streetcar. She found the right key and unlocked the door.
She was met by the familiar smell of sweaty workout clothes and liniment, which sent a vague thrill of joy down her spine. A good sign. With determined steps she went into the locker room and changed, comforted by the rough cotton suit and black belt.
The dojo lay plunged in deep darkness. The windows up high on the walls let in a sparse glow from the streetlights outside. She had left the door to the locker room ajar so a little more light could come in. She didn’t turn on the ceiling light in the dojo itself but went at once to the middle of the mat and sat down on her heels, with her hands resting loosely on her thighs and her gaze straight ahead. When she felt
Mokuso
approaching, she closed her eyes and looked inward. It was empty and dark. The voices were whispering, but she could no longer hear as clearly what they were saying. She approached the Point, where Bruce’s calm voice with his American accent could be heard through the hiss of the demons. His voice flowed into her and she heard him say encouragingly, “Okay, baby. Your fantastic
kata,
when you made black belt, third
dan.”
She felt sorrow and grief for him, surprised at the strength of her feelings. What she thought she had gotten over was still there.
Mokuso
became deeper, and she continued to seek the Point. Her breath began to make contact; suddenly she felt filled with an effervescent warm power. She became weightless and was borne by the power up toward the Light. The power flushed through her sore muscles and joints, cleaning away fatigue and pain.
As if in a trance she stood, still with her eyes closed. At first she moved slowly, but as the rhythm of the
kata
seized her the movements became faster and stronger. She opened her eyes and saw
uke
—a semitransparent foggy form with long hair down the back of leather jacket and a scornful grin.
To a spectator it looked like ballet with incredibly advanced choreography. A knowledgeable viewer would see a skilled judo master who at a furious pace went through
Sandan-kata,
combinations with
uke, tski,
and
geri-waza.
An initiate would also wonder why she didn’t have an opponent. But she did have an opponent. Furiously she struck at
uke.
At first his laughter sounded derisive, but she had the Power and was filled by her proximity to the Light.
Exhausted, she sank down on the mat. Sweat was running down her whole body. She sensed its salty taste in her mouth and felt it trickling between her breasts and buttocks. Her rib cage heaved and she felt some discomfort from her crushed rib. But the Power and the Light flowed through her and so pain did not yet bother her.
Slowly the Power ebbed and she rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. Would the black hole open and the voices start whispering again?
All was silent. Only the Light remained, pulsating in her diaphragm, and she felt the stillness and peace. She had made it through.
IRENE FOUND them inside the conference room. It was just before eight o’clock, but she wasn’t the last to arrive. Jonny Blom was missing but expected at any minute. He had called to say he had a flat tire outside Åby. Superintendent Andersson began to speak.
“We’ll start without Jonny. Great to see that you’ve recovered, Irene. Damned if a good night’s sleep isn’t the best medicine!”
“I feel better. Just black and blue and stiff. And I didn’t get much sleep. Later this afternoon I’ll drive over to visit Jimmy, and then I’ll go home,” she replied firmly.
Andersson raised his eyebrow. He didn’t comment. “Okay. First I have to report that the body of the guy who was burned to death on Berzeliigatan has been found. They removed it with the help of the telescopic boom. Narcotics wants to have a meeting tomorrow at one. Evidently they have a bunch of investigations going simultaneously, but it seems as though some threads are connected with this Hell’s Angels crap. Hans, you had some luck with the keys?”
Borg nodded and tried without great success to stifle a yawn. In a tired voice he said, “Mister Minit at the Domus department store on Avenyn made a complete set of keys for Richard von Knecht in early August of this year. He ordered them himself and waited while they were made. That’s why the guy who made the keys remembered that it was von Knecht. He stood there for quite a while, plus he is . . . or was . . . a celebrity. But he didn’t have any extra key made for the garage or the car. Of course, he must have had a spare key to the Porsche. It’s not even a year old. He must have gotten a spare key with a Porsche! You know what one of those costs?”
Andersson sighed. “More than you or I will ever be able to afford. We have to find out more about these damned keys. Irene, get hold of Sylvia von Knecht and ask her why she thinks Richard would have an extra set of keys made. We know that he had a spare-key ring for the Porsche and the garage. He was looking for it the week before he was murdered. Maybe Henrik von Knecht knows more about it.”