Exactly three hundred and ten miles northeast of Hässleholm, a businessman in car sales was having a discussion with his girlfriend. Both of them—like the majority of the nation—had had the chance to read the articles about the hitman who had cheated the underworld out of money.
The car salesman and his lawfully unwedded were among those cheated. And possibly among the least forgiving. Partly because forgiving was not in their nature, and partly because, in addition to all the money they’d lost, they’d been robbed of a camper.
“What do you say we cut him up into pieces, a little at a time, starting from the bottom and working our way up?” said the man who, in criminal circles, was called the count.
“You mean we’ll, like, carve him up, just slowly enough, while he’s still alive?” said his countess.
“More or less.”
“Sounds good. As long I can do some of the carving.”
“Of course, my darling,” said the count. “All we have to do is find him.”