Never Fuck Up: A Novel (28 page)

This didn’t feel right. Perplexing. Confusing. Infuriating. She was turning him down again. What the fuck were they doing at Safe Haven? Here they had a golden opportunity and they didn’t even give a damn about it.

He raised his voice: “You’ve got to believe me. I just want to help you. Why don’t we get a beer somewhere so I can tell you more?”

“Sorry, I have to go home now. You’ll have to call us instead, during our open hours.”

“No, wait. I want to tell you here and now. I used to be a soldier.”

The woman started walking toward her bike, which was locked to the fence Niklas’d been leaning against earlier.

Niklas grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

She spun around. Eyes wide. “Please, let me go.” Her tone was sharp. She was a traitor. If she wasn’t going to make more of an effort for the cause, she might as well go fuck herself. If Safe Haven was going to turn down his services, they didn’t really want to fight.

He held on to her. “I’m only going to say this one more time. We are going to go talk about this right now.”

The woman started screaming. A few yards down the street, two
girls in their twenties stopped in their tracks. Niklas wondered where the hell they’d been three seconds ago. But now they were standing there like two idiots, staring. Fumbling for their cell phones.

Niklas made a grab for the woman’s shoulder bag. She screamed something about an assault. He tugged at the bag. He was going to get something out of this, goddammit.

Got ahold of it. Pulled. Ran.

The woman shrieked.

He ran down the hill. Heard yelling behind him. Was it the chicks with the cell phones? He headed for the subway. Almost fell down the escalator. It felt like people were hollering. Someone tried to stop him. He ran down the platform.

A train rolled into the station. He jumped on.

The doors closed.

Inside: almost empty. Serene. Stuffy. Still.

He was holding the woman’s shoulder bag in his hand.

Opened it.

Paper. A planner. A wallet. A hairbrush. Junk.

Looked again: documents. Information about Safe Haven. Suggested strategies for battered women. Drafts of texts for a website. And a list: women’s names and phone numbers. It could only be one thing: battered women. The woman he’d just grabbed the bag from was probably going to call them.

This was huge. An opening. The names of ten women whom Niklas could help. Behind the names: ten men who were going to get what was coming to them.

Two thoughts collided in his head: He was going to find them. He would do his thing to them.

Niklas’d found his calling. His mission. Everything had new meaning. The offensive had begun.

The big question: How dangerous could this get for Åsa? Thomas planned to act on his own. Screw the guy outside his window. Screw Adamsson’s recommendations—the old-timer was not on his side this time, that much was obvious. Fuck anyone who wanted to stop him. Move ahead with the search for the IMEI number and the prepaid card owner’s identity. Find the person who’d murdered a still unidentified man.

Today: Monday. The first day of his foray into the world of detectives. Kurt Wallander, you can hit the showers. Thomas Andrén’s in town.

Åsa left home early as usual. She’d wanted to make love again last night. Thomas felt stiffer than he’d felt in ages. Åsa massaged his back, rubbed massage oil on him. Slow motions over his shoulder blades. Hard, softening pinches over the shoulders. She ran the palms of her hands along his lower back. Exactly what he needed. The problem started when she began licking his earlobe. Thomas pulled his head away—it tickled. She wouldn’t leave him be. Åsa stroked the inside of his thigh. He settled one leg over the other. She stroked his chest. He lay still. Finally, she gave up. Rolled over to her side of the bed.

Thomas called Hägerström at ten o’clock that morning.

He sounded out of breath when he picked up.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Andrén, I think you’re bad luck.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I just got transferred. Cut off from the investigation.”

Thomas looked out the window. Didn’t see anyone on the street. What he’d just heard made him feel cold all over.

“What’re you talking about? That can’t be true. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m kidding about as little as the boys from Internal Affairs are
kidding about you right now. Got called into my boss’s office today. Apparently, it was inappropriate that I continue with the investigation on the grounds that you’d been involved and that you’re suspended now on suspicion of grave professional misconduct and assault. My boss said it was best that everyone involved was switched out.”

“But come on, that’s totally insane. It’s a conspiracy.”

“Yes, it is insane. I don’t know what to think. Why the hell did you have to beat up that drunk, anyway?”

“Hey, I don’t want to hear that crap. That guy was lethal and they’d paired me up with a hundred-thirty-pound girl. We were forced to use the batons. So you can back off.”

Hägerström’s shortness of breath seemed to increase on the other end of the line.

“I’m from IA, don’t you forget that. The kind of nauseating rationalization you’re pulling made my ears rot long ago. There are always excuses, blah, blah, blah. But it’s bullshit. You made a fool of yourself, used excessive force against a human being, which I know you’ve done many times before.”

“Hägerström, cut it out. Don’t be such a fucking cunt.”

“Apparently you think you can talk to me any way you like. It was nice getting to know you too. Good-bye.”

Hägerström slammed the phone down.

Thomas continued to stare out the window. Phone still in his hand. Even Hägerström refused to understand how the situation in Aspudden’d ended up the way it did. IA’s stained way of thinking ap-parently didn’t wash out too easily. What a fucking asshole. Impossible to understand how that man could’ve ever seemed even remotely pleasant.

Now he was alone. Alone against an unknown threat. Alone against an internal investigation. Alone in the hunt for a murderer.

He lay down on the bed. Didn’t even want to tinker with the car. Didn’t want to set his foot in the station. Get stared down, whispered about, gossiped over.

He tried to take a nap. Pointless—it was only ten-thirty. He wasn’t tired, but still completely beat.

His brain felt empty.

He remained lying where he was. Didn’t have the strength to get up.

He must’ve fallen asleep after all. His cell phone woke him. He felt groggy. Fumbled for the phone. Didn’t recognize the number. Tried to hide how confused and drowsy he was.

“Hello, this is Andrén.”

“Hi, my name is Stefan Rudjman. I don’t know if you know me?” Slight accent. Thomas didn’t recognize the voice. At the same time: the last name rang a bell.

“People also call me Stefanovic.”

Thomas was skeptical. Hostile attitude. Could this have something to do with the threat against him and Åsa the other night?

“Okay, what do you want?”

“I understand that you’ve gotten into some trouble at work. We have an offer for you that we think may be very attractive.”

“Know what? Your threats don’t bother me.”

Stefanovic was silent a second too long—was it genuine surprise or a threatening theatrical pause?

“I am afraid you misunderstand me. This is not a matter of threats at all. We think our offer may provide you with unforeseen possibilities. It’s regarding a job. Would you like to meet with us?”

Thomas didn’t understand what the guy was talking about. Cockiness mixed with a Slavic accent. Something wasn’t right.

“I don’t know who you are and I don’t understand what this is about. Would you please be so kind as to tell me what job it is you’re talking about?”

“With pleasure. But I think it’s better if we meet up. Then I can explain in more detail. The conditions may be advantageous for you. Why not give it a chance? Meet us and discuss it. When might you be available?”

Thomas didn’t know what to say. Was this some damn telemarketing scheme? Was it a practical joke? On the other hand: he didn’t have anything better to do. Everything’d gone to hell anyway. He might as well meet this guy, whoever he was.

“I’m available today.”

“That’s better than expected. We’ll pick you up. Shall we say four o’clock? Is that suitable?”

They took the tunnel under Södermalm, the south side of the city. Rush hour hadn’t started yet. Out on Sveavägen. Took a right toward
Roslagstull. And down Valhallavägen. Then Lidingövägen. Turned off toward Fiskartorpsvägen.

Thomas wondered where they were going. The man driving’d introduced himself as Slobodan and asked Thomas to get into the backseat of a Range Rover.

They drove in silence. Thomas wished he had his service weapon, but he’d been forced to turn it in once the internal investigation began.

Along the side of the road he could see the mixed vegetation in the Lill-Jansskogen forest.

They turned onto a narrow gravel road and up a hill.

Finally, the car stopped. Slobodan asked him to get out.

They were on a height. A building in front of him: a sixty-five-foot tower. It must be Lill-Jansskogen’s ski-jumping tower. Thomas remembered it from his childhood. He’d been there with his parents. The winters were so much more wintry back then. Someone appeared to have renovated the tower recently. The concrete was almost gleaming in the sunlight.

A burly man walked toward him. He looked to be in his thirties. Dressed in dark-blue pleated slacks and a well-ironed shirt.

The man extended his hand.

“Hi, Thomas. I’m glad you could come so soon. I’m Stefanovic.”

Stefanovic showed Thomas into the tower.

The bottom floor looked clean and new. An empty welcome desk with a computer screen mounted on it. There was a poster on the wall:
WELCOME TO FISKARTORPET
’
S CONFERENCE HALL. WE CAN ACCOMMODATE UP TO FIFTY GUESTS. PERFECT FOR YOUR KICK-OFF, COMPANY PARTY, OR CONFERENCE
. The floor looked like it’d recently been sanded and finished.

Thomas followed the Yugo up the stairs. Couldn’t be much of a conference center yet—it was empty everywhere.

At the top of the tower was a large room. Windows in three directions. Thomas looked out over the Lill-Jansskogen forest. Over Östermalm. Farther off, he could see City Hall, the church spires, and the high rises by Hötorget. The farthest he could see: a glimpse of the Globen arena. Stockholm was spread out before him.

A sofa group, a dining table with six chairs, a minibar against the one windowless wall, filled with bottles and stemware. In the sofa group: a man. He rose. Walked slowly over to Thomas. Shook his hand with a firm grip.

“Hi, Thomas. Thank you for coming on such short notice. It’s fantastic. My name is Radovan Kranjic. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me.” The man had the same Slavic accent as Stefanovic.

Thomas understood right away. The man in front of him wasn’t just anybody. Radovan Kranjic: alias the Yugo Boss, alias R., alias Stockholm’s Godfather. A man whom the little guys hardly dared mention by name. Whose reputation was harder than granite. A legend in Stockholm’s underworld. It felt bizarre. At the same time, exciting.

“Yes, I’ve heard of you. You have—how shall I put it?—a certain reputation in my line of work.”

Radovan smiled. The dude radiated authority like Marlon Brando.

“People talk a lot. But as far as I’ve understood it,
you
have a certain reputation as well.”

Normally, Thomas would’ve gotten defensive right away when someone implied something like that. But with this guy—in a way, they were cut from the same cloth; he could feel it instinctively. So instead, he laughed.

They took a seat on the couches. “May I offer you something strong?” Radovan asked.

Thomas said yes. Stefanovic poured two glasses of whiskey. Good stuff: Isle of Jura, aged sixteen years.

Radovan scratched his cheek with the back of his hand. Reminiscent of Don Corleone for real.

The Yugo boss began explaining. Outlined his business. He worked with horses, cars, boats, import/export. A lot from the former Soviet Union. Benzes driven up from Germany. Machine parts from retired Swedish factories to Polish coal plants. It was business development, expansion, and opportunities. Thomas listened. Wondered if Radovan actually believed his own spiel.