THERE WAS A SMELL OF APPLES AND LEAVES, AND THE NIGHTS had become colder. In the old cabin, the cold made itself felt at nighttime. How much longer could they stay here and lie low? Anna-Greta glanced at her computer screen and read the latest email. Lawyer Hovberg had listed several transfers from the West Indies and the Swedish subsidiary company was now up and running. Very soon, the League of Pensioners would be in the field as the simplest of venture capitalists. No, it wouldn’t feel right until they had given the money away. It was high time to return! She closed her computer, changed her mind and opened it again. Venture capitalists, yes. What if Carl Bielke, their unpleasant neighbor, had come home? They ought to find out about that. Perhaps he was on Facebook? Then she could keep track of him. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
She entered her password and immediately could see files, pictures and documents on the computer screen again. She had recently joined Facebook, but didn’t dare use her own name, instead she called herself Eva von Adelsparre, which had a decidedly noble ring to it. While they had been staying in the community gardens, she had systematically made sure she became Facebook friends with her childhood friends in Djursholm as well as neighbors old and new. Almost everybody had accepted her and with a name like von Adelsparre most of them probably assumed she was an old classmate from the local school, one of those pupils whose name they had forgotten. Then she had spent an hour every day checking what her newly made friends busied themselves with nowadays. It was exciting to spy on how people lived, who their neighbors were and what their summer houses and boats looked like. Many of the Djursholm locals had fancy summer houses out in the Stockholm archipelago, but their villas in Spain or on the Riviera were even more luxurious. To think what a life they lived, those old classmates; they moved in entirely different circles than ordinary people!
Anna-Greta took a lemon wafer and clicked her way into Facebook. Many new entries had come in. Humming, she scrolled down the start page. Somebody had been out picking mushrooms, others had posted humorous articles and—no, she must concentrate! She wrote “Carl Bielke” in the search box and hoped for the best. There now, his page came up. Yes, that was their neighbor, the around-the-world sailor with a garbage truck in his swimming pool. She breathed faster. Could it really be true? Yes, a smiling Carl Bielke had posted a picture of himself standing on a fabulous motor yacht in the multi-millions. It was one of those huge motorboats that only royalty, sheikhs and billionaires were able to afford. And the water was not dark blue like in the Baltic, but rather a greener shade like in the Mediterranean.
Bielke had posted more pictures and soon she recognized the harbor in Saint-Tropez where she had been on a language course when she was young. In those days the French fishing village was not so well known, but now it had developed into a popular hang-out for jet-setters. But what in heaven’s name was Bielke doing there? Their neighbor was meant to be sailing around the world. The boat he was standing on was evidently his, because he called it “my motorboat.” She became curious and scrolled further. Bielke did seem to get about. The year before he had let himself be photographed on a sailing yacht in Cannes and even on a large motor yacht in Nice. One of those boats could be chartered and when she clicked on the link, she saw that it had a swimming pool and the most luxurious living room and bedroom. Ten thousand euro a week was the asking price! Good God!
On the deck you could see smiling young ladies and crew members in white uniforms. What if he had a blog too? Yes, indeed, after a few moments she found a blog where he boasted about his luxury boats and sailing tours. Anna-Greta became curious, wrote down what types of boats they were and googled their value. She gasped in astonishment. The motor yacht in Saint-Tropez was worth more than five hundred million kronor! How could he possibly afford that? She was so fascinated that she almost choked on the wafer, and not until she had recovered from the coughing could she gather her thoughts. Oh my God! She, Martha and the others in the gang were in fact the most amateurish of amateurs. The amount the League of Pensioners had gotten from the bank robbery was nothing in comparison to this.
Eagerly, she googled more motor yachts and luxury cruisers and discovered that some boats were for sale for more than seven hundred million kronor! And that was about seventy bank robberies at ten million a time! How could she and her friends have missed this? Now Anna-Greta’s need for order and her past as a bank official led her to wonder whether Bielke had declared his assets. She quickly clicked her way into the Swedish tax authority’s website, made a note of a telephone number she needed and then practiced a few minutes to disguise her voice before she phoned.
“I am sorry to disturb you, but the matter concerns Mr. Carl Bielke of Auroravägen four in Djursholm. I am intending to sell a house to him. Would you be so kind as to provide me with information about his income? It would be so dreadful to be cheated . . .”
Then she phoned the County Administration and the Enforcement Agency. While the telephone rang at the other end, she felt pleased with how well she was dealing with everything herself. Gunnar had taught her a lot and of course she missed his company sometimes. But everything was so quick and convenient now that she could handle the computer herself. In that way she could search for facts directly without having to ask nicely, to coax, to praise and put in a lot of effort in general! After just a few telephone calls she had found out what she wanted to know, and then she got up so quickly that she knocked over the coffee pot and the bowl of lemon wafers.
“My friends,” she called out into the cottage. “You know Bielke? You won’t believe what a shady character he turns out to be!”
And then she went and fetched Brains and Rake and said to Martha and Christina that she had something important to tell them. The friends gathered together in the cabin around the dining table, put their hands on their knees and listened. Proud and almost a little boastful, Anna-Greta told them what she had found on the Internet and then she described in detail tax evader Carl Bielke’s income and assets and yachts in the Mediterranean. The members of the League of Pensioners oohed and aahed and wondered how the man had managed to get so rich and avoid paying tax. Anna-Greta was in her element and gesticulated.
“He has assets by the billion but he has bypassed the Swedish state and most of it is formally owned somewhere on the Cayman Islands,” she explained.
“Disrespectful!” said Martha.
“Oh yes, I know some others who also—” mumbled Brains.
“Serves him right to get a garbage truck in his swimming pool,” Christina commented.
“If we can steal back those millions that the state never received in taxes, then we would be doing a good deed,” Rake pointed out. “Then we’ll have something to give to health care and all the rest. His assets are worth more than many bank robberies.”
“Yes, right, bank robberies are just pocket money,” said Anna-Greta.
“Bank robberies are for amateurs, hiding assets is for the professionals!” Christina added.
The League of Pensioners discussed this from various angles trying to work out what they should do, when they suddenly realized that they had missed the news on the radio. They were on the run and ought to keep themselves well informed. They all shook their heads at this carelessness, but when they turned on the radio in time for the twelve o’clock news, they didn’t know if they should be pleased or disappointed. There was nothing at all about the Nordea bank robbery.
SOME DAYS PASSED, AND MARTHA AND HER FRIENDS WANDERED around in the cramped cabin without being able to decide whether they should travel home or not. Rake went on a few walks among the properties and looked at the different gardens. He talked with the property owners and asked them about their plants and their borders. He had once again started to dream about a greenhouse of his own and wondered about erecting one in Djursholm in the spring. Besides, Martha had talked about that Vintage Village for the elderly. If they succeeded in creating one of those, perhaps he could get an active gardening club going with lots of members who could build their own greenhouses. That would be really awesome! Rake felt at home among these gardens and became all the more keen, but Brains for his part became gloomier. He had nowhere to work on his inventions and he thought that he had become distanced from Martha. On the few occasions when they had argued or had differences of opinion they had always been able to talk things over before they went to bed, but now that he was living in the storage shed they didn’t have that possibility. There hadn’t been time for those heart-to-heart conversations, nor had there been any opportunities to cuddle with her. He had recently asked her to marry him, and now here he was sitting on his own on a bed in a shed! No, he had had enough. The tiny cabin was too cramped for them, and continuing to stay there would be utterly crazy.
THE NEXT DAY, BRAINS ASKED FOR A MEETING. MARTHA FELT A little uneasy when she saw his face and realized that this was serious.
Somewhat nervous, she put out the coffee pot and cups together with Christina’s biscuits and turned on the news on the radio. Just as she was about to pour the coffee, there was knocking at the door. They all looked at one another worriedly and didn’t really know if they should dare to see who it was. Suddenly the door swung open and Nils strode in. His leather jacket was not buttoned and his eyes gleamed.
“Now hold on tight!” he exclaimed and spread his arms wide. “The police!”