Never Fuck Up: A Novel (53 page)

Claes Rantzell: drug dealer, front man, finally run down on booze and pills himself. In the fall of 1985, a few months before the murder, he said he’d lent Pettersson a Magnum revolver, make: Smith & Wesson, .357 caliber. Rantzell said he never got the revolver back. What’s more, Pettersson’d been over at Rantzell’s house on the night of the murder. Rantzell was the witness who’d been interrogated the most during the entire preliminary investigation, but his memories seemed to vary—Magnum delivery boy, ammunition Santa, canary. A perfect witness to identify Pettersson.

But the Supreme Court didn’t hear the case. The appeal collapsed. There was no new trial for Pettersson. No conviction for the legend from Sollentuna that time either. But in most people’s eyes, he was still guilty. Lisbet Palme’s poorly handled ID, along with Claes Rantzell’s claims about the Magnum revolver, sank him. The logic of the Swedish people was simple: Lisbeth somehow recognized Pettersson, he’d been near the scene of the crime, and he’d had access to a revolver of the same make as the murder weapon. On top of that: he was an aggressive, down-and-out drunk—that made it all easier, somehow.

And now Rantzell’d been killed. It might not to be so strange—men like Claes Rantzell died of cirrhosis or other diseases that took out people with crappy lifestyles. Or through violence.

But in this case: someone was trying to cover up the tracks in a much too sophisticated way.

This thing was ten times bigger than he’d thought before he knew who Rantzell was.

So much bigger that it gave him vertigo.

The two leads emerged slowly. Adamsson in the past. Rantzell in the present.

After the sloppy interrogation with Leif Carlsson, the Alzheimer’s patient, he needed to speak with someone else. He’d been thinking about calling Hägerström again. But no, not now.

Who of the other members of the Troop, the SWAT team that Adamsson’d been a part of, could he get something out of? Malmström was dead. Adamsson was the enemy. He’d already talked to Carlsson. Remaining: Torbjörn Jägerström, Roger Wallén, and Jan Nilsson, who were all still active-duty cops, and Carl Johansson and Alf Winge, one of whom was retired while the other ran a private security company. And he should do some more research about this Sven Bolinder guy, too.

Thomas decided to begin with Alf Winge: the guy seemed to live a calm life without needing to break too much of a sweat. What decided it: Winge wasn’t a cop anymore and Runeby’d mentioned him as one of the guys at the meetings in Gamla Stan. He’d been an insider.

Alf Winge walked out of 32 Sturegatan at five-thirty. The trees in the Humlegården park were almost bare of leaves. The offices of Alf Winge’s private security company, WIP—Winge International Protection AB—were situated on the third floor of the building. Thomas’d checked out the website. WIP detailed their services openly: they did specialized surveillance and protection assignments, as a complement to other actors on the surveillance and security market. The field’d grown like an avalanche since 9/11.

Alf Winge was around fifty years old. Still had a spring to his step that seemed powerful. Cop style: integrity, good posture, gaze fixed on something farther down the street. He had a shaved head, stern furrows along his cheeks, light-blue eyes that looked gray. He was dressed in a dark-blue coat, sturdy black shoes, a Bluetooth headset still in his ear even though he wasn’t using it right then.

Thomas saw him get into his car, an Aston Martin, real sports-car feel. WIP was apparently doing well. Thomas started the engine of his own car. Winge’s killer ride rolled down Sturegatan. Thomas followed. He knew where Winge lived. He knew the road Winge usually took home. He knew where on that road he was going to stop the old riot-squad cop.

Forty minutes later: Bromma, a luxury suburb where, probably, not too many cops could afford to live—except for the ones who abandoned the force and put their cards on something private instead. Kiselgränd: a day-care center surrounded by sparsely growing trees. It was deserted
now, after its six o’clock closing. The only movements were the cars that drove past, on their way home.

It didn’t look like Winge was reacting to being followed. Or else he saw, but didn’t give a shit. Maybe he was a real hardass.

Thomas stepped on the gas. Drove up alongside Winge’s super ride. He’d borrowed a blue light from the traffic unit. Put it on the dashboard. Flashed the lights. Saw Alf Winge turn his head to the side. Register that an undercover cop car was trying to get him to pull over.

Winge hit the brakes. Pulled over to the side of the road. Thomas turned in slowly. Parked diagonally in front of the Aston Martin. Was almost surprised that Winge’d stopped so easily.

Thomas flashed his police badge in front of Winge’s face. The guy didn’t move a muscle.

“What do you want?”

“License and registration, please.”

Winge extended his arm, showed his license. He looked young in the picture. Alf Rutger Winge.

“This is just a routine check. Would you mind stepping out of the car for a moment?”

Winge remained seated. “What is it you claim I’ve done?”

“Nothing. It’s just a routine check. We’re on the lookout for certain things in this area.” He added something that he thought Winge would like: “You know, there’s got to be limits for the rabble. We don’t want them here in Bromma.”

For a brief moment, Winge looked like he was thinking it over. Then he opened the car door. “Okay.” A car drove past on the road. Thomas waited, the baton in one hand. Then he went into action. Hit Winge in the kneecaps as hard as he could. The guy crumpled, sank slowly down to his knees. He didn’t even scream. Thomas was over him immediately. Slapped the cuffs around one wrist. Winge turned around, tried to hit back. Thomas was faster: sprayed him with pepper spray. At least he was screaming now. Thomas was acting as if in a trance—the other wrist in the handcuffs behind his back, dropped the spray, pulled out his gun, pressed it up against Winge’s side, and spoke in a clear voice, “Get up.”

Winge got up. Must think Thomas was some kind of road pirate who’d gotten his hands on a police badge. Thomas pushed him into his own car. Tears from Winge’s red eyes: blinked, blinked, blinked.

He started the car, secured Winge’s cuffed hands to the car door
with another pair of handcuffs. Pulled up in the empty yard of the day-care center. Away from the road. Away from where people could see them. Free to begin the interrogation.

Winge’d collected himself a little. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Thomas steeled himself. “Shut up.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I don’t give a shit who you are.”

“I don’t have any money on me and they’ll track the car down in five minutes; it’s got a built-in GPS. What do you want?”

“I said, shut up. I’m the one asking the questions.”

Winge stopped. Did he recognize the most hackneyed of cop interrogation phrases?—“I’m the one asking the questions.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Did you hear what I said? I’m asking the questions.”

Tears were still running from the old guy’s eyes.

“Alf Rutger Winge, this is not about your money or your car. This is about the Troop, the meetings in Gamla Stan, and Bolinder. We already know most of it, so I just need you to answer a few questions.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The Troop, that was ages ago.”

“Yes, you know what I’m talking about. Just answer the questions. Were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

“Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I will repeat what I said: Were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

Winge didn’t drop his gaze. But he didn’t say anything.

“I will only repeat the question one more time: Were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

Nothing.

Thomas knew what he was about to do now was the riskiest game he’d played so far. It was one thing to slap around drunks, junkies, and immigrant gangbangers. Another thing entirely to run that race with an ex-cop who knew his rights better than a fucking defense lawyer. Still, it was all or nothing.

He put his gloves on. Hit Winge right over the nose. It broke. Blood sprayed the inside of the windshield. Dammit—Thomas would have a whole bunch of cleaning up to do. He struck Winge over the ear. Then on the forehead, jaw, ear again. Alf Winge’s face in pieces.

“Were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

“Forget it.” Slurring mixed with bubbles of bloody spit.

Thomas hit him one more time on the nose.

“Where you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

Silence.

Winge’s head hung. Saliva, blood, snot, drool dripped down in his lap.

Thomas: felt like on the beat. Excitement. Adrenaline, the smell of blood, sweat. The combination was better than alcohol and Rohypnol. He wouldn’t let Alf Winge mess this up for him. He had to answer.

“For the last time, were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

No response.

Thomas hit him a third time on the nose. It would never heal properly.

Winge whimpered. Slowly raised his head. Stared straight into Thomas’s eyes. Thomas tried to read his gaze. It was completely blank, empty. Maybe there’d never been anything in it.

He said, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

After the incident with Alf Winge, Thomas’d taken it easy for a few days. Waited to see what would happen.

He’d released Winge. He couldn’t take it any further. If he beat him more there was a real risk of sustaining injuries, and that was a risk he couldn’t take. Dammit.

But there were other threads to tug at in order to try to unravel the knot. Right after he found them, Thomas’d started going through the bags he’d plucked from Rantzell’s storage unit. That was about eight weeks ago. Reading documents wasn’t his thing, but he tried. It felt insurmountable: contracts, records, registration documents, tax documents, certifications, receipts, bank notices, account details, paper. So much information that he didn’t understand. And so difficult to know what might be relevant.

Giving his nights to the Yugos and his days to the traffic unit took time. He felt like he was constantly jet-lagged. One night he worked until five in the morning. The next day he drank coffee and talked hybrid cars with the traffic cops in the afternoon. He didn’t have time to go through the documents. Still: after a few weeks, he began to get some sense of what was going on. It was obvious that Rantzell’d been busy lately: as a front man, or what they called a goalie, in eighteen companies over the past seven years. Thomas thought about the old
cops’ jokes about John Ballénius: “There’s just one goalie who can compete with him, and that’s Thomas Ravelli.” In about half of the companies where Rantzell was a board member, Ballénius was an alternate, and the other way around. A couple other old deadbeats showed up in some of the companies. Thomas made a note to look them up.

He couldn’t see any particular pattern for the companies where the fogies’d been active, except that a bunch of them were in the construction business, but that was pretty much always the case. Täby’s Chimney & Sheet Metal, Frenell’s VVS AB, Yellow Bend Building AB, Roaming GI AB, Skogsbacken AB, Stockholm’s Speedy Delivery AB, Dolphin Leasing AB, and so on. Eleven of the companies appeared to have gone bankrupt. Three were involved in disputes with the tax authorities. Seven of the companies’d spit out invoices like a fucking assault rifle—probably invoice fraud. Two had real boards with people who seemed to be a part of other legitimate companies as well. Five of the companies used the same auditor. One company sold porn films.

He didn’t know enough about this kind of stuff. Where should he begin looking?

Finally, he arranged the crap in chronological order. Thought, I’ll start with the most recent stuff. Maybe there’s someone there who’s met Rantzell alive, and the closer I can get to the deed itself, the closer I ought to get to the murderer.

The most recent document was a contract of sale between the company Dolphin Leasing AB and a car retailer. For a Bentley. It looked like it was signed by Rantzell, on the day before he was rubbed out.

The Bentley store was on Strandvägen. Stockholm’s sunny side, the classic address for the upper crust. Thomas thought about his dad’s exaggerated class contempt.

Thomas went to the store in the middle of November. The city was warmer than usual. As a rule Thomas didn’t give a shit about all the climate-change chatter, but today he actually thought about the weather. Warm summers with an excessive amount of rain, dams breaking in the Jönköping area, weird winters with too much snow and icicles that formed in the slushy weather and fell down on poor law-abiding souls walking on the sidewalk. Sometimes, it was like it was all going under, the whole shebang. The political clowns who tried to clean up the city, the climate, his life.

He walked in.

Spotlights gleamed on the six cars that were lined up on display. This wasn’t some ordinary Sven car dealership. Hell no. Instead: small, exclusive, disgustingly expensive.

A young brat was standing behind a counter, trying to look busy. Longish hair casually combed back, a suit jacket, the top buttons of his shirt undone like a fucking fag. Thomas wondered, Shouldn’t they have real men working with cars this powerful?

There were two other customers in the store. He waited till they left. Flashed his police badge for the shop kid.

“Hi, I’m from the police. May I ask you a few questions?”

Thomas purposely didn’t give his name.

Richie Rich looked surprised. He probably didn’t see too many cops in his store—an honest police salary even times ten wouldn’t be enough for the kinds of cars they were flipping here.

They stepped into a small office behind the counter. An oak desk, a computer, and a fountain pen in a marble holder. Elegant.

Thomas laid the contract of sale for the Bentley on the desk.

“Are you the one who signed this? Are you Niklas Creutz?”

The guy nodded. “But I don’t remember this contract.”

Thomas eyed him. How many cars could they sell a month in this store? Five, six? Maybe fewer. Every car sold ought to be a pretty big deal. Every car sold ought to equal a decent commission for this little brat. He ought to remember.