The Beige Man

T
HE NEW MOON
and the stars shone as brightly as diamonds in the blue-black January sky. Their reflection glittered in the rime covering Gotebörg. The car’s external thermometer was already showing minus fifteen degrees. The temperature would probably drop even further during the night. The harsh cold had managed to maintain its iron grip on the country for almost two weeks now, although no snow had yet fallen in the west of Sweden.

Officer Stefan Eriksson was yawning in the pleasant warmth of the patrol car. The engine was idling, and he didn’t give a thought to any environmental concerns. When the weather was like this, the important thing was not to let the icy cold come creeping in. He stole a glance at the brightly lit hatch of the kiosk that served food. Petrén, his colleague, was at the front of the queue and was just paying. A cup of hot coffee and a cheeseburger with all the extras would definitely hit the spot right now, an hour before the end of their shift. A loud rumble from Eriksson’s stomach confirmed that it was high time he got something inside him. Neither of them had eaten since they came on duty at four o’clock in the afternoon—not because the evening had been unusually busy, but because they had been called to deal with a fight at a pizzeria in the Old Town just as they were due to go back to the station for their meal break.

Without bothering to rush, they had headed north to the
address they had been given. The arrival of the patrol car had had a calming effect on the three guys involved in the fight, and Eriksson and Petrén had soon had the situation under control. Nobody wanted to make a formal complaint; suddenly all three men were in total agreement that they had been engaged in nothing more than a lively discussion. The fact that one of them had a broken nose and was bleeding so profusely he had to be taken to Östra Hospital by ambulance was merely a regrettable accident. As were the red marks on the faces of the other two. All three of them would be sporting impressive bruises in various shades of blue and purple in a few hours. Since no one wanted the police to take any further action, Eriksson and Petrén left the pizzeria as soon as the man with the broken nose had been taken away. A report on the incident would be sufficient.

After that the officers had agreed they weren’t in the mood for pizza, so they had driven to the kiosk on Delsjövägen. It was easy to park there, and the fast food was supposed to be pretty good—at least according to Petrén. He was a single guy, and more or less lived off that kind of stuff.

Eriksson was roused from his thoughts as the radio burst into life:

Skånegatan, heading toward Liseberg. That meant they would be driving past the police station. The nerve of the bastards, Eriksson thought.

Petrén hurried toward the car with a bag of cheeseburgers in one hand and their cups of coffee in the other. He was wearing gloves, and it looked like a pretty risky balancing act; Eriksson reached across and opened the passenger door for his colleague. Petrén slid his hip into the car and bent his knee, then suddenly stopped with one foot on the floor of the car and the other on the tarmac.

Eriksson could feel the cold quickly spreading through the warm interior, and said crossly, “Get your ass in here before …” He broke off in the middle of the sentence and sat there open-mouthed. A car was speeding toward them along Delsjövägen, its high beams on and its engine racing. As the car passed beneath a street lamp just a few meters away, Eriksson registered the fact that it was light colored, probably silver—definitely a large BMW. It skidded sharply as the driver put his foot down and slid past the patrol car with screeching tires.

“Jesus Christ, it’s the stolen BMW!” Eriksson shouted.

“What stolen BMW?” Petrén asked as he carefully slid into the passenger seat.

“The one we had a call about just now! Get on the radio and tell them we’re after the bastard!”

“Can’t.”

“What do you mean,
can’t
?”

“Hands full.” Petrén held up the coffee cups and the bag by way of explanation.

“For Christ’s sake, just get rid of it!” Eriksson roared.

Without a word, Petrén pushed the button to open the window with his right elbow. The discreet hum as the window slid down was drowned out by the sound of the patrol car’s tires as they spun on the tarmac. Without further ado, Petrén threw out their coffee and burgers, and as the window began to close, he grabbed the microphone and called control.

“S-H-O eleven zero one by the kiosk on Delsjövägen. The
stolen BMW has just driven past us heading in the direction of Kålltorp, traveling at high speed. In pursuit. Over.”

“Thank you, eleven zero one. I’ll call for assistance from other patrols. Thirteen zero four is on the way from Östra Hospital and can cut across from the opposite direction. Backup is on the way.”

Eriksson drove as fast as he dared. He could see the rear lights of the BMW disappearing in the direction of Swedish Television’s brightly lit, box-shaped building. He put his foot down hard, and suddenly the lights in front of him glowed as brightly as two red fireworks. The BMW was swerving all over the place and looked as if it might actually go off the road.

The two police officers saw something fly up in the air, then land to one side of the car. Whatever it was, it lay motionless on the tarmac next to the sidewalk. When the driver had regained control, the BMW immediately took off again.

The patrol car slowed down and stopped.

“Shit! It’s a person! Call it in!” Eriksson shouted, frantic.

Petrén once again seized the microphone with a steady hand and spoke to control in a voice that was significantly less steady, “Eleven zero one here. The BMW has hit a pedestrian outside Swedish Television. Send an ambulance and backup. We need to remain at the scene. Over.”

“Understood. We’ll send an ambulance and another patrol. Other teams will continue to pursue the BMW.”

Stefan Eriksson was already out of the car and didn’t hear the response. He reached the motionless body in a few long strides.

There was a lot of blood, and the dark pool was growing with terrifying speed. No human being could lose this much blood and survive. Deep down, Eriksson knew this person was already dead, but he cautiously moved closer to the victim’s head to check for a carotid pulse. He changed his mind, however, when he saw the state of the head. In order for a person
to survive, the brain needs to be inside the skull. This brain wasn’t.

Eriksson had seen many traffic accident casualties during his years of service, but this one looked particularly gruesome. Because the car had been traveling so fast, the victim’s unprotected limbs and head had been crushed with immense force. It wouldn’t be easy to identify this person, he thought. He could hear the sound of approaching sirens in the distance. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his colleague setting out the reflective plastic screens marked
POLICE
. The blue flashing lights of the patrol car cast an eerie glow over the scene of the accident. A few cars had pulled up, but Petrén was managing to keep the occupants away.

The body was lying on its back, with both legs twisted in an unnatural position. The lower half of the left leg appeared to have snapped off completely, given the way it was lying in relation to the thighbone. The left arm was flung straight out to the side, but the hand was missing. When Eriksson looked around, he spotted a lump on the sidewalk that was probably the severed hand. The clothing suggested the victim was male. He was wearing some kind of black or dark blue tracksuit. His right hand lay limply on his chest. Somehow the mangled body gave an impression of peace, as if the man had realized he was going to die and had instinctively placed his hand upon his heart to feel its final beat.

The second patrol car arrived, closely followed by the ambulance. Illuminated by the flashing blue lights, something shone faintly next to the dead man’s hand, just above the heart. Eriksson was careful to avoid stepping in the blood as he moved closer to take a look.

At first his brain refused to accept what he was seeing. He recognized it instantly because he had seen it countless times before. When Petrén and their newly arrived colleagues came over, Eriksson pointed at the victim’s chest with a shaking hand.

A few minutes after the hit-and-run outside the TV studios, a report came in from someone who had been standing at the Lilla Torp tram stop. According to the caller, a car had turned onto Töpelsgatan and continued toward the Delsjö area at high speed. The witness thought the windshield was broken because he had seen a young man hanging out of the window on the passenger side, apparently shouting directions to the driver.

Several patrol cars had been dispatched immediately to follow up on this information. There were many, many smaller roads leading off the main route up toward the recreation and bathing area at Delsjö, and the holiday village had to be taken into account, with its countless minor roads and parking lots. There was also a chance that the car thieves had turned onto one of the bridle paths. It wouldn’t be too difficult to hide a car among the trees in the darkness. The deciduous trees were bare in January, but there were dense thickets of conifers along both sides of the road.

After only ten minutes, a patrol found the abandoned BMW; the glow of the fire through the trees led them straight to it. The thieves had torched the car before taking off. The officers managed to put out the flames using the fire extinguisher in their car; the damage to the interior of the BMW was not severe, but would of course hamper the search for any traces of the perpetrators. The windshield was still in place and holding together, but had shattered into milky opaqueness. The car was parked in front of a sturdy barrier.