Chapter Twelve
SOME MONDAY MORNINGS WERE more “Monday” than others. Feeling tired and heavy-headed, Irene Huss entered her office at police headquarters just before seven-thirty. The night had been largely sleepless.
Tommy Persson came through the doors at the same moment and started pulling off his old leather jacket. He greeted her hastily, “’Morning!”
“Hi, Tommy,” said Irene, grumpily.
Tommy gave her a searching look. It wasn’t necessary to have known Irene for seventeen years to see that something was wrong. He waved his hands dismissively.
“Don’t tell me! Krister took off with that delicious little blond waitress!”
Irene reluctantly managed a smile before she sighed, “No, but Jenny shaved off her hair. She’s a skinhead, but ‘only because she likes the music.’ We had a fight, spent all day yesterday arguing and pleading. But it just made her more stubborn. She’s a skinhead because her boyfriend is. And because they play in the same skinhead band. Oh Tommy, she doesn’t understand!”
Irene sank down on her desk chair and hid her face in her hands. Neither of them said a word. When she finally removed her hands she glanced up at him. She had never seen him look so serious. In a sharp voice he said, “She has to understand. If she’s shaved off her hair and claims that she’s a skinhead, she’ll also have to take the consequences. You can’t be a little bit skinhead. You have to make it clear to her what the shaved head stands for!”
“We tried! But whenever we mention Nazism and racism, she denies that the Holocaust ever happened. And according to her we’re racists ourselves. It’s true that both Krister and I have griped about certain immigrants who come here and live off our taxes. And as a cop I’ve seen a lot of felonies committed by immigrants.”
“But how do you think these young criminal immigrants are supposed to have any feeling of solidarity with Swedish society? They’re consistently locked out of everything! They live in suburban ghettos, they’re outsiders at school and outsiders in terms of the language. Many of them can’t speak either Swedish or their native language correctly. And they’re outsiders in the job market too. If an employer sees that someone has a name he can’t pronounce, that person isn’t even called for an interview. It doesn’t matter how good an education he has. Under-the-table cleaning jobs are the only thing they seem to be good for in Sweden!”
“Like Pirjo Larsson.
“Like Pirjo. The only thing that gives many immigrant kids a sense of security and belonging is the gang. We’ve both seen what a lot of these gangs get up to. We don’t see the ones who aren’t criminals, just the ones who are. I’m never astonished by what kids are doing. I’m just terrified at what kind of society we’re creating for our kids. And now I’m thinking about our own kids! It’s our kids who are shaving their heads. It’s our kids who get into fights with immigrant kids. Often they’re injured, and sometimes, somebody dies. Our kids don’t feel any sense of belonging in Swedish society either; they just cling to ready-made, cheap solutions. ‘March with us, for a pure Aryan society!’ ‘Throw out all the niggers and Northern Europe will become the eternally happy thousand-year Reich! Sieg Heil!’ And so our kids put on their boots and go marching off to Hell!”
Speechless, she stared at him. She had never heard him react so powerfully. To her he was even-keeled Tommy, the calm, secure father of three and also her oldest friend from the police academy. He was so worked up that he was pacing around their little office and stomping as he gave Hitler salutes to underscore his meaning.
“And because they’re our kids,” Tommy went on, “we have to take responsibility. We can’t abdicate it! You have two kids, I have three. But those skinheads who will be gathering around statues of King Karl the Twelfth all over the country in a few days are our kids too!”
She felt confused and tired, wanted to protest, but her weary brain couldn’t formulate her thoughts. She made a vague attempt anyway. “I don’t think that just because Jenny shaved her head, all skinheads are kids like mine.”
“If you deny that, you also deny the society that has hired you to protect it! These skinheads are part of Swedish society. We all have a responsibility. But above all, they’re a symptom of our society’s ills.”
“A symptom?”
“Of alienation! Swedish society forces people outside! And once you’re outside you’re damned well never going to be let back in!”
“But why do you think young people are voluntarily choosing to join groups of outsiders?”
“Young people have always done that. In our day we wore FNL buttons and Palestinian scarves; we talked about solidarity with the Third World and all that stuff. Many of us were swept along with the Green Wave, the ecology movement. We had correct opinions and views!”
“But everybody was politically Red in the seventies!”
“Young people were, sure. We belonged to the progressive youth generation. We weren’t like them—I mean our parents. No, we stood for something different, something better. The only correct path for the future.”
“Is what we’re seeing with neo-Nazis and skinheads the same thing? Is that what you think?”
“Yep. They’ve given up trying to get into our restrictive society before they even make an attempt. It’s better to give up voluntarily than to be locked out. So they feel solidarity with groups of outsiders. They look for strength in the group. It’s easy to blend in and acquire an identity, since all of them look the same in their boots, military clothes, and bald heads. They inspire fear in other people by their very appearance. Young people learn prefabricated arguments and seek support from them. Their leaders make such a cocksure impression when they stand up and scream their slogans with electric guitars and heavy drums thundering in the background. How beautiful to avoid thinking for yourself! Just march along!”
Why was Tommy so agitated and impassioned? Irene was astonished but didn’t get the chance to ask him, since the intercom beeped and called them to “morning prayers.” Tommy took a deep breath and appeared to made a quick decision. He blurted out, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen Jenny. I think you should invite me over tomorrow or the next day.”
Irene was confused by his abrupt change of subject, but said at once, “You know you’re welcome anytime. As always! Krister and I have been talking about a little Lucia party, and of course you and Agneta will—”
“That’ll be cool. Although that’s not what I was thinking of,” said Tommy. His voice was very serious.
Irene also understood that he wasn’t talking about a pleasant evening. Right off she made up her mind and said, “Let’s make it Wednesday night. Krister can fix dinner for us. I know what you think of my cooking.”
“It’s just as high-class as my own, although mine is a tiny bit better. Wednesday will be fine. Make sure Jenny’s home.”
Just as Irene was about to enter the conference room, a secretary showed up and handed her a brown interdepartmental envelope. With a quick glance she noticed the name “Bo-Ivan Torsson” in the text.
Superintendent Andersson cleared his throat and called for silence. “Okay. We’re all here. The techs are coming later. They’re working on a car bomb that went off this morning. Have you all heard about that?”
The majority of the group looked surprised and shook their heads. Apparently the explosion was the top story on the seven-thirty news, but most of them had been busy getting ready for “morning prayers” at the time.
Andersson went on, “Damned strange. A car exploded in the parking lot at Delsjön golf course at six o’clock this morning. Nobody was in the vicinity except for the driver of the car, who was much too close. He was literally vaporized to atoms! The theory is that some kind of terrorist set off the bomb by mistake. IRA or Hamas or something. Or maybe old shit from the former Yugoslavia. I remember what a hell of a mess we had with Ustasha in the seventies . . . Well, someone else will have to take care of that investigation. Now let’s go over what we’ve found out since Friday.”
He continued by informing them that the charred body in Pathology was probably Pirjo’s. They would have definite word that afternoon, when the forensic odontologist looked at the X rays and compared them with the corpse’s teeth. He provoked even greater interest when he mentioned the cut on the head of von Knecht’s penis. Stridner’s assumption that he had had sex the day before he died prompted many questions and speculations. Irene recounted that she had checked out Jonas and Mona Söder. Without going into detail, she said that they should be left out of the investigation for the time being. Their alibis for Tuesday were impeccable. She quickly moved on to the theory that there was an extra set of keys to the two apartments, but also emphasized that so far it was only a theory; it would be important to follow up on what had happened to Richard von Knecht’s spare-key ring for the Porsche and the garage. She recounted Saturday’s conversation with Sylvia and the subsequent surveillance. When she revealed that it was Ivan Viktors who was the “boyfriend,” Jonny couldn’t hold himself back. Maliciously he hooted, “I knew it! There was something that smarmy customer was hiding. He may be a celebrity and a stuck-up fart, but we’ve got him now!”
Irene was unusually grumpy on this Monday morning of all Mondays. She couldn’t hold back her acid comment, “Got him for what? That he’s screwing Sylvia von Knecht? There’s no law against that. They’re both grown-ups, that’s for sure.”
Jonny scowled at her but couldn’t come up with any deadly repartee. Instead he told the others about Friday’s interview with Viktors. Then he went over what he and Hans Borg had found out during the stakeout of the parking garage on Kapellgatan on Friday. It didn’t take long. The results were zip.
Andersson shrugged. “Okay, that was a dud. We’ll skip the parking garage for now. Evidently, in the crappy weather, our killer was on foot. Birgitta, tell us about our charming photographer, Bobo.”
Birgitta told the story of what had happened on Friday afternoon, without giving a single hint about her own feelings. Relieved, Andersson saw that she seemed to be her normal self again. He hoped he wouldn’t have to get any more involved in what had happened between her and Jonny later that day. Damned unpleasant.
The only thing Fredrik and Hannu had to report was that Bobo hadn’t shown up on Berzeliigatan over the weekend. After comparing his description with Birgitta’s account of his appearance and clothing during the interview, they were positive that he was the one who had picked up a large bag on Friday afternoon. The search of Shorty’s apartment had apparently been a regular circus. Tommy tried to stay in the background to record whether there was anything of interest in the apartment. It was a large two-room place, but filthy and messy like the crash pad it probably was. Shorty was totally infuriated at the encroachment by the police, and got himself so worked up that he started smashing his own furniture. He didn’t threaten the police directly, but watching the way he slammed his fist straight through the seat of a chair was “a tad unsettling,” as Tommy put it.
“Actually we should have had a narcotics dog with us. But we were looking for Bobo Torsson, not drugs. And he wasn’t in the apartment. We had to go back to basics. Shorty didn’t know where Bobo was, but he told us repeatedly where he thought we ought to go. I wouldn’t want to run into him alone on a dark night.”
No one else looked particularly fond of the idea either. They all agreed with the superintendent that the presence of Shorty and Bobo in the investigation was troubling.
Birgitta interjected a question, “Did he seem to be on drugs?”
“Quite possible. But that guy is notorious for his bad temper, so it’s hard to say for sure,” said Tommy.
“Could there be some connection between von Knecht and those rotten eggs? Could our respectable millionaire have been on drugs too?” It was Birgitta who posed this question, and all of them took time to think about it.
Finally Jonny replied, “Nothing we have discovered so far indicates it. Like all big businessmen he had a little shit on his fingers, but it was mostly irregularities with foreign stock deals. Not the kind of thing Bobo and Shorty are into. No, the only point of contact is Berzeliigatan. The fact that they lived close to each other, Torsson above von Knecht’s apartment and Shorty across the street.”
Fredrik took over. “We checked out Shorty. He was released from Kumla prison in August, after serving six of his eight years. He was convicted of a felony narcotics offense, felony assault, and attempted murder. ‘Good social prognosis, because Lasse Johannesson has been allowed to take over an apartment and small business from an elderly relative,’ it says in the documents. This elderly relative is an unmarried aunt of Bobo and Shorty. She had a cerebral embolism in June this year and lies paralyzed in Vasa Hospital. Apparently she’s doing better, but she can’t take care of herself in the apartment on Berzeliigatan. The old woman is supposed to get a place at a nursing home. According to Kumla it was Bobo Torsson who arranged all the practical matters involving the takeover of the apartment and the business. Everything was ready and waiting when Shorty got out.”
Irene remembered the interdepartmental envelope she had received before the morning meeting. After quickly glancing through the text, she asked to speak. “Last Saturday I asked Narcotics for any information they might have about Bobo Torsson. This morning I got a report from them. He’s been convicted three times for possession of narcotics. Each time he was caught in raids on various clubs and discos. The first time was 1983, the second time 1985, and the third time 1989. He got suspended sentences the first two times, since he only had small amounts on him. In 1989 he was sentenced to four months in prison. He was nabbed at the same club where Shorty was so dramatically apprehended! Torsson was in the crowd when the police stormed in, and he had ten grams of cocaine on him. A little too much for his personal use, the court thought. Shorty and another big drug kingpin, Tony Larsson, were in the club’s office and didn’t even manage to hide the drugs that were in a bag on the desk. They were literally caught with their fingers in the cookie jar. Both of them had snorted cocaine and were extremely loaded. Both were armed. A violent shootout followed. Tony was shot in the shoulder by one of our colleagues, which provoked great discussion in the media,” Irene concluded her hasty summation.
Andersson broke the silence that followed.
“So-o-o, Bobo was already mixed up in Shorty’s circle back then. Of course, both of them have continued to do drugs the whole time, although Shorty has been more visible. He’s more brutal and loves weapons and bang-bang! Naturally, he’s been sent up numerous times. But the slippery Bobo Torsson has maintained a lower profile. ‘Fashion photographer’—I don’t think so! He’s been moving in the right inner circles, and it was easy for him to deal undisturbed. Something tells me that it’s time to call in the Narcs.”
They all nodded in agreement. First of all, it would take a load off their own already overworked investigative group, but above all the narcotic investigators knew so much more about current conditions inside Göteborg’s drug scene.
Satisfied with this decision, the superintendent said, “Let’s take ten minutes for a coffee break while we wait for Pelle, the arson tech.”
Gratefully, they all took advantage of the chance to stretch their legs and try to spark some life into their weary brain cells with a little caffeine. Some poisons are required by the body in order to function better, Mona Söder had said. Irene had a vague notion that she was turning into a caffeine addict. But in that case it should probably be viewed as an old dependence, since she had been drinking her daily dose of at least ten cups of coffee for more than ten years now. With slightly shaky hands she downed cups number four and five for the day.
WHEN ANDERSSON emerged from the rest room, Birgitta Moberg was standing a few meters away. He could tell that she was waiting for him. She walked right up to him and said, “Could I have a few words with you? I’ll make it fast.”
His stomach knotted. Was she going to start harping again on the fact that Jonny had sexually harassed her? Reluctantly, he ushered her into his office. Without any hemming and hawing, she got right to the point.
“It was a good idea you suggested on Friday, that I should stay at Mamma’s over the weekend. I didn’t want to say anything in the meeting, but it was probably Bobo Torsson who came by and rang my doorbell several times this weekend.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, not at all! That’s why I wanted to cool it and not say anything in front of the others. As you know, I have a studio apartment in Högsbo. My closest neighbor on the same floor is a sweet little old lady. She’s eighty-three, but sharp as a tack. It was late before I got home last night. It was almost eleven-thirty. When I put my key in the lock my little neighbor opened her door. She had stayed up waiting for me and was very upset. We have an intercom at the street door. If you don’t have your key, you have to ring someone from the street and ask them to open it. Sometimes kids ring as a prank, but what happened on Saturday and Sunday went well beyond the usual. Someone stood there and pressed all the doorbells at once out of sheer rage. When my neighbors answered their intercoms they got an earful of swearing and abusive language! My neighbor heard several times that the voice wanted to get hold of ‘that fucking whore who calls herself a cop.’ She quite correctly drew the conclusion that it had something to do with me, since I’m the only cop in the building. This occurred around seven on Saturday morning and at nine on Sunday night.”
“Did anyone see the ‘voice’?”
“No, that’s just it. He drove his car right up to the front door. Above it there’s a little roof to protect you from the rain and snow. I live on the third floor. That’s why my neighbor never managed to see more than a brief glimpse of a man climbing into his car and screeching off down the street. He was tall and thin. The car was big and red, she was sure of that.”
“And now you want us to check whether Torsson has a red car?”
“Right.”
“Why couldn’t you mention this in the conference room?”
She avoided looking at him directly and shifted her gaze around the room before she replied. “Because there’s someone in our department who’s tall and thin and has a red Volvo.”
He knew at once who she meant, and he wished he could break out in a hearty yet indulgent laugh and give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. But the laugh froze in his throat because he couldn’t rule it out as completely impossible.
“Jonny. You mean Jonny,” he said glumly.
“Yes.”
There was a long silence. Finally she took a deep breath and said, “That’s why I’m staying with Mamma for a while longer. But you’re the only one I’m telling. Nobody else. You have the address.”
She turned on her heel and strode out. He nodded to the closed door. THE ARSON technician and the others had already taken their seats when the superintendent came in. He pretended not to notice their inquiring glances, but signaled to Pelle to get started.
Pelle began by telling them that the theory about the devil bomb was stronger than ever. It had been a real charge with explosives in an iron pipe, blasting cap, pentyl fuse, and gasoline containers, just as he originally suspected. The bomb was placed on top of a bureau in the entryway to von Knecht’s office. The reason they knew this was partially due to Sylvia von Knecht. Before she drove up to Marstrand on Friday night, she had helped Pelle make a rough sketch of the apartment and its furnishings.
Tommy raised his hand before he asked his question. “A bomb like that, is it hard to make? Does it take a long time?”
“For someone who knows how, it goes pretty fast. No more than an hour. The problem is getting hold of all the components. You can’t just go into Domus department store and buy blasting caps, plastique explosive, and pentyl fuses. The other stuff is easier to get hold of. To continue with what happened Wednesday night, I have to explain more about the detonator mechanism. The outer door to the office apartment was really solid. It opened outward. A thin steel wire was stretched between the handle on the door and a pin on the spring of the blasting cap. When the door was pulled open by the person we first thought was a young man, but we now know was a woman, the pin was pulled out and the spring struck the blasting cap. Boom! We know the result. It’s only thanks to the solid outer door that there was anything left of the body at all. She was flung backward and was probably knocked unconscious instantly. The reason she was lying in a semiprone position when we found her is probably because she slipped down when the door swung back. We found this in the outer door.”
You could hear a pin drop when the arson technician pulled a thick plastic bag from his pocket. There was a blackened key ring inside.
“And yesterday I found this, at the spot where the body was found.”
Like a magician he pulled another bag out of his pocket. It also contained a key ring, but it was much smaller with only three keys on it. He shook the smaller ring.
“Two of these are car keys. To a Porsche. The third fits a garage door on Molinsgatan, where the von Knecht family keeps their cars.”
They all felt the draft as the phantom passed by. His breath stank of death and ashes when he laughed right in their faces.
Andersson’s eyes were popping out of their sockets like red Ping-Pong balls. His face was turning purple and his breathing was labored as he wheezed. Nobody moved. They all prayed silently that the superintendent wouldn’t have a stroke.
Pelle was disconcerted. He could sense the charged atmosphere, but he wasn’t quite sure what the cause was. So he kept silent and waited for Andersson’s comments on the discovery of the keys.
Andersson tried hard to pull himself together. It wasn’t easy, since even he realized that all the hypotheses and theories he had been working on had dissolved at a single blow. Finally he wheezed resolutely, “Somebody is screwing with us. Have you managed to indentify where the other keys on the ring go?” He asked even though, inside, he already knew the answer.
The arson tech nodded. “Yes. Two of them are to the office door on Berzeliigatan. Two are to von Knecht’s apartment on Molinsgatan, and the last two are to the summerhouse at Marstrand. Three are deadbolt keys and three are a normal Yale type. Each door has a Yale lock and a deadbolt.”
“We’ve always said that both these sets of keys had to be somewhere. And now they’ve both been found at the same impossible place, for Christ’s sake!”
Andersson put into words what everyone was feeling. The arson tech looked bewildered, but decided to go on with his report. He turned a page in his notebook and continued, “The problem right now is to get into a safe that’s set inside the wall. It’s not that large, but it’s in a tricky location, since there’s no floor to stand on. We’re trying to do it by standing on a skylift. We’ll have to drill around the safe and try to lift it out with a standalone.”
Several of the group said simultaneously, “A what?”
Pelle grinned and explained, “A standalone. To put it simply, it’s a big forklift truck on which you can raise the lifting fork very high while the truck stands ‘alone’ on the ground, so to speak.”
A weighty silence descended. It was Irene who finally broke it.
“So the situation is apparently as follows: Pirjo had the keys to von Knecht’s two apartments and to his car. Why in the world would he give her these keys? Sylvia told me that Pirjo didn’t have any keys, that she was always let in to the apartments by someone in the family. And as far as the car is concerned, I wonder whether Pirjo even had a driver’s license. We’ll have to check on that. We know she didn’t have a car. She always took the bus or streetcar. If the car keys were lying where we found Pirjo’s body, did it mean that she had the keys on her? In her pocket, for instance?”
“Yes,” the technician said, “unless someone dropped the keys outside the door and they wound up underneath . . . what was her name? ... Pirjo, when she was knocked unconscious by the blast. But it doesn’t seem very likely.”
The superintendent recalled what Hannu had said a couple of days earlier and put in, “How could she have gotten the keys?”
Irene tried to think clearly before she replied. “On Monday she was at Molinsgatan with her daughter. She could have taken them then. In that case, I wonder where she found them. After all, Sylvia von Knecht denied the existence of a fourth key ring. Although then the question is, why did she wait until Wednesday evening? Why not Monday or Tuesday evening?”
“Her kids got sick and had a high fever,” said Hannu.
“You might be right about that. A mother has plenty to do when her kids get the flu. And two of Pirjo’s kids had it. But Marjatta was home and could take care of her sick brothers when Pirjo was away for a few hours. On the other hand, maybe they were so sick that they took priority over her little break-in.”
None of them thought that really jibed with the picture they had of Pirjo. Tommy thought out loud, “It doesn’t make sense. On Monday evening Pirjo could have been quite sure that Richard von Knecht wouldn’t be at his office apartment. He had a cold, which she had seen for herself when she was there cleaning that day. On Tuesday evening she wouldn’t have been as sure. No, from a logical standpoint she should have chosen Monday evening. Keep in mind that she didn’t know von Knecht was dead until Wednesday morning!”
Irene nodded agreement and went on, “Maybe she stole the keys, but she chickened out. Not until she found out that von Knecht was dead did she think it was risk-free. Sylvia told me that Pirjo thought her pay was too low. Maybe she was thinking of taking some items and selling them, because she needed money. Although I doubt that Pirjo knew where to go to sell antiques and art. Richard von Knecht didn’t surround himself with off-the-shelf items.”
Fredrik had a suggestion. “Could it have been a put-up job? Let’s say that somebody knows that von Knecht has a particularly valuable item in his apartment, so he asks Pirjo to steal the keys. And then to go into the apartment and steal the thing.”
After not saying a word for a long time, Birgitta broke her silence. “Imagine if someone gave the keys to Pirjo so, unsuspecting, she would go over there and trigger the bomb.”
Irene felt an icy chill even though the air in the room was heavy and stuffy. Slowly she said, “It would be terrible to deliberately send a mother of three to certain death. And to risk the lives of the other renters in the building.”
Andersson couldn’t drop the matter of the keys, but kept on working at it. “But what about the car keys! Explain those God damn car keys! Why give the keys to a Porsche to someone who probably can’t drive?”
Nobody had a good explanation, so he continued, “Do we have any witness who saw Pirjo arrive at Berzeliigatan?”
Tommy tried to hide his embarrassment when he answered the question. “No, we didn’t know we were supposed to ask if anyone had seen a fat little woman arrive at the building. The whole time we assumed it was a time bomb, with the perpetrator sitting in safety far from the site. I’m going to meet the woman who has the hair salon on the ground floor today, and the woman who lives with her daughter in Mölndal. I’ll probably have to wait a while to talk to her husband.”
“Okay,” Andersson said. “That will be your assignment for today. Hannu, you check on whether Pirjo had a driver’s license. See if you can get anything else out of the daughter. Keep in touch with Pathology and contact me as soon as the forensic odontologists are done with their examination.”
He looked around and his gaze fell on Hans Borg, who true to habit was sitting dozing in his chair.
“Borg!”
Everyone in the room jumped, especially Borg.
“Wake up! You have to go out and do some legwork. Go around to all the key makers downtown and try to find out where and when the keys were made. I want to know everything about those keys! Also find out whether this is the only spare key to the car and the garage.”
Borg nodded and stifled a yawn.
“Fredrik and Jonny, you go and stake out Shorty, at least until we nab Bobo Torsson. Is anyone on Berzeliigatan right now?”
Fredrik nodded. “An old lady from General Investigations, Eva Nyström. Hannu arranged for her.”
Irene’s first reaction was surprise and then indignation. Eva Nyström was the same age she was. Old lady, my foot!
Andersson gave Hannu an approving nod. “Fredrik and Jonny, take over from Eva Nyström and organize the search. So far it’s been quiet down there at the smoke shop, but I have a hunch that some kind of monkey business might be going on. Irene, you’ve already been in contact with the Narcs. You and I will go over there in an official capacity and inform them about our dear cousins. In other words, tell them we need help to figure out what those two are up to! Birgitta, dig into all the files we have on Bobo and Shorty. Somewhere there’s got to be a clue to where Torsson might be hiding out. We’ll all meet back here at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”
THINGS DID not go smoothly between Superintendent Andersson and Assistant Superintendent Annika Nilsén in the International Narcotics Division. In vain she tried to explain that they didn’t have any personnel to spare for what in her eyes wasn’t a lead for Narcotics, but part of the investigation into the von Knecht case.
The superintendent, puffing up his cheeks, gave her a riveting glare, explaining without trying to conceal his anger that this was a matter of homicide, homicidal arson, and assault on a police officer. And since it all had to do with a known criminal who was previously mixed up in narcotics cases along with his small-time drug addict pal and cousin, it was definitely a matter for Narcotics!
An expression of infinite indulgence and patience came over Annika Nilsén’s weary face. “If all the crimes involving drugs and drug addicts were automatically assigned to us, you could rename the entire Göteborg Police Headquarters ‘the Narcs,’” she said quietly.
This wasn’t completely true, but close enough. Andersson knew it, but still was so furious that he looked like he was going to fling himself at the poor assistant superintendent. Into this charged atmosphere came the same young colleague who had helped Irene over the weekend with the information on Bobo Torsson.
Irene turned to him with a happy smile. “Well, hi there! And thanks for the help with Torsson.”
“Oh, don’t mention it.”
She extended her hand and he shook it without hesitation. A dry, warm handshake. Irene had found the person she needed.
“Irene Huss. I think I forgot to ask for your name.”
“Jimmy Olsson. Assistant.”
With a radiant smile and a gleam in her eyes, Irene leaned toward Annika Nilsén and turned on her most charming manner. At least she hoped so as she chirped, “I’m sure you’ve already thought of the fact that Jimmy here knows a little about what we’re investigating. I wonder if you would possibly consider lending him to us?”
The assistant superintendent, puzzled, ran her fingers through her salt-and-pepper pageboy haircut. “I suppose it would be all right,” she said vaguely.
A quick glance at Andersson revealed that he wanted something more concrete. Two or three inspectors would do. Annika Nilsén saw her chance. She stretched a little in her unbecoming navy-blue jacket and looked at Jimmy Olsson.
“Have you ever been in the Violent Crimes Division?” she asked.
“Well, as a rookie I was in the Criminal Department for eight weeks. In the Burglary Division, not Violent Crimes.”
“Then this is an excellent opportunity for you to broaden your knowledge and network of contacts. You will assist Violent Crimes in the von Knecht case. But I want you back again!”
With this last remark she jokingly shook her finger at him while giving Irene a knowing smile. It was her way of telling them that Jimmy was a very good choice. And nobody could come and say that Narcotics never helped out!
IRENE SPENT a few hours bringing Jimmy up to speed. She had no complaints about his interest. He hung on every word she said. It couldn’t be denied that she envied him his enthusiasm faced with this intricate mystery. His puppylike eagerness was surely due to his youth, but his questions were intelligent. Her instinct had been correct. These days, the more complicated things got, the more tired she felt. But she remembered how it had been the first few years. The excitement, the aroused hunting instincts, and the feeling of triumph when the case was solved. Of course she still had these feelings, but noticeably attenuated. Far too many cases had not left behind the sweetness of victory, but rather a bitter aftertaste. You become jaded and cynical in this profession, she thought in her darker moments. But she didn’t want to become either jaded or cynical! You had to go on, keep moving forward. You couldn’t stop and dig yourself a hole. The job she had chosen was not without its dangers, but she had never wanted to do anything else and had always enjoyed her work. The past few years she had begun to notice an insidious feeling that hadn’t existed before. Only recently had she been able to identify it. Terror. Terror of people’s indifference to the human values of others and terror of the ever-increasing violence.
She must have sighed out loud, because Jimmy Olsson glanced up in surprise from the papers on the desk. In front of him lay the sketches of Marstrand. Not because it was necessary, but because he was interested. To cover her sigh she said, “Well, it’s high time we got something to eat. I wonder what delicacies the cafeteria has to offer today.”
Jimmy made an eloquent grimace. They decided to take a quick break in town and try to find a decent “special of the day.”
On the way out they stopped by Birgitta Moberg’s office. She was deeply ensconced in her papers and data files, but agreed to accompany them. It was almost one o’clock, and her stomach was rumbling.
THEY HURRIED along, their shoulders hunched against the biting wind. The sky was overcast, and rain was threatening. The wind tore angrily at the branches of the newly erected Christmas tree in Drottning Square. It didn’t succeed in eliciting any great Christmas spirit in the passersby. Everyone was huddled up and wanted only to get indoors. Only three dumb cops would come up with the idea of trudging more than a kilometer in this kind of weather, just to have lunch. But both Irene and Birgitta had the same need to put some distance between themselves and headquarters, to be able to relax. It wasn’t anything they had discussed, just a shared feeling. And all the rookie Jimmy had to do was tag along. Even if he had any opinion about their lunch excursion, he didn’t feel it was his place to say anything. He held his tongue, like the smart young police assistant he was.
They plodded across Brunnsparken and along the Great Harbor Canal. There were white geese on the canal; the water level was high. This usually presaged a storm. With a feeling of salvation from hunger and cold they walked through the doors to the Golden Days. An abundance of shining, polished wood and red plush, a dark and cozy English pub atmosphere enveloped them. It seemed totally natural to order beer by the pint.
They gorged at the salad bar and ate creamed hash. It was getting on toward two o’clock. They were almost alone in the restaurant. Not until the coffee arrived did they begin discussing their ongoing research. After offering cigarettes to the other two, who declined, Birgitta lit one for herself. Irene was surprised; she thought Birgitta had quit smoking. After gracefully blowing a smoke ring, Birgitta told them, “I have a little idea about where we could look for Bobo Torsson. While reading through Shorty’s thick file, I found a report about his arrest, along with two pals, following an armed bank robbery in Kungsbacka in nineteen eighty-two. They got around eight hundred thousand, but their luck ran out during the getaway. The driver was a nervous guy, barely eighteen, who drove the stolen car onto a traffic island and crashed into a signpost. There was no time to arrange for a new car, so they chugged off in their damaged car. At the old northern turnoff to Kungsbacka there’s a big kiosk. That’s where they turned in and forced a newspaper deliveryman to hand over his car. But it took time. There was a classic car chase along the coast, with our colleagues from Kungsbacka hot on the tail of the Honda. At Billdal Church they ran into a police road-block, and the chase was over. But at the end of the report our colleague writes something interesting. He mentions that Shorty was mad as hell at the poor eighteen-year-old and screamed, ‘How the hell could you miss the turnoff?’ In the interrogation our colleagues put extra pressure on the kid. Finally he spilled the beans and told them he was supposed to turn down a little cow path before Lindås, but he was so jumpy he just stomped on the gas and missed the turnoff that led to their planned hideout, a cottage belonging to Shorty’s grandparents, where both his mother and Bobo’s mother had grown up. Today it’s a summerhouse.”
Irene leaned across the table and said excitedly, “That’s one more point of contact between Bobo and Shorty! Do their mothers use it as a summerhouse?”
“Not Shorty’s mother—she died five years ago. His father is unknown, according to the file. I know a little more about Bobo’s parents: they’re divorced. The mother is remarried and lives in Vänersborg. I just tracked down her address today and asked our colleagues up there to check it out, so that little Bobo won’t hide out at his mamma’s place. But she said she didn’t know where he was living. She was extremely upset. Claimed that the whole thing had to be a mistake: her Bobo was the most conscientious boy you could imagine. I don’t know where his father is. He’s a set designer who took early retirement, but I can’t find either an address or phone number for him.”
Jimmy raised his eyebrows and said, “Sounds like a great place to hide out. With Daddy, I mean.”
“Well, he’s sixty-three and was pensioned off early because of mental problems ten years ago. A serious alcoholic. According to what I found out, he’s homeless.”
There was a moment of reflection. Finally Irene said, “I think Billdal might be worth investigating. It’s the closest thing to a lead we have. Jimmy and I will drive out there and scout about. You’ll have to hold down the fort and keep looking for possible hideouts for Torsson.”
“That sounds good. By now I’m so familiar with Bobo’s and Shorty’s files that I’m probably the best qualified to keep on trying to track him down,” said Birgitta.
They quickly paid the check and ran out into the rain that had just started to fall. The planets were favorable today. The number seven streetcar came just as they reached the stop. They took it to Lilla Stampgatan. From there it was still a way to police headquarters. Soaking wet, they went through the doors, leaving small puddles behind them like a trail of bread crumbs leading to the elevator.
THEY TOOK out maps of the area mentioned in the report from the 1982 arrest. It took a while before they located the cottage. The “cow path” that the eighteen-year-old had missed was no more; a large row-house development had grown up where it had been. All the streets were redrawn. And at first they were searching much too close to the coast. But finally Irene succeeded in finding the little property, less than a hectare in size, on the border of the Sandsjöbacka nature preserve. In the report the cottage was called “Solhem,” and its location was marked on the detailed map.
Irene exclaimed, “What a fantastic setup! Not a house within sight of the farm. Perfect for someone who wants to hide out. Dense forest toward the nature preserve, hills on the north side, and open fields to the south and west. And no buildings in any direction.”
She stopped and continued with less enthusiasm, “There will be problems. How can we reach the house without being seen?”
Jimmy and Irene bent their heads over the map. Irene finally found a possible route.
“We’ll have to drive in via the Lindås interchange and then take the back roads toward Sandsjöbacka until we can’t go any farther. There are some small residential areas, but we’ll have to park out of view. We don’t want anyone getting worried and calling the police. Somewhere around here I think would be good. We’ll have to stay in the woods and head along the edge of the forest to the north.”
She made an “X” with her index fingernail on the map and Jimmy nodded, Yes.
His eyes followed the line that Irene drew with her fingernail. He was vibrating with excitement, although he was unaware of it. But it had an effect on Irene, who felt like an army commander before a battle. Yet she knew it was one thing to go over the route on the map and another thing entirely to stumble across rugged terrain in the rain and the dark.
Birgitta asked, “Do you have a chance to put on dry clothes before you take off? If you have to stand still outdoors to keep watch you’ll be frozen stiff.”
She gave their wet jeans and shoes a critical look. Irene remembered the box with her jogging outfit in the car and said, “I have my workout clothes in the car.”
“You can’t go roaming around the woods in judo pajamas!”
“No, not the judo clothes. A jogging suit. Tommy and I were going jogging Tuesday evening. But Tuesday was a washout, as you know. Jimmy, do you have any dry clothes?”
“Oh, I’ll be all right. But I have to go get a cool gadget we might need.”
He vanished out the door. Irene went down to her car. It was very windy, and the ice-cold rain whipped at her face. It was dark as night. Maybe it wasn’t necessary to drive out to Billdal in this sort of weather. Now, now—that was just thinking of her own comfort, because the cottage did seem like a credible option. And credible options had to be examined. If for no other reason than to be dropped so the investigation could proceed.
Up in Birgitta’s office Jimmy was showing off his gadget. It looked like the result of a fusion between a diver’s face mask, a little tube telescope, and a gas mask. His whole face radiated enchantment as he demonstrated all the features.
“You can see them as clear as day! When people look in your direction you can’t believe they can’t see you!”
“What in the world is that?” Birgitta wondered.
“A night-vision telescope, actually an electronic light amplifier. It can amplify the existing light up to ten thousand times.”
It was high time they got going, so Irene interrupted, “I’m putting on dry socks and my jogging pants under my jeans. Do you want to borrow my sweater?”
At first he looked dubious, but after glancing out the window at the rain being flung against the panes by the fierce wind, he nodded.
Birgitta turned energetic and practical. It was actually her plan they were following. “It’s quarter past three now. We have to allow at least half an hour for you to drive out to Billdal in weather like this. How far do you have to walk through the woods?” she asked.
Irene measured on the map before she answered. “About five or six hundred meters. It’s dark, the terrain is unfamiliar, and the weather is bad. Add on another fifteen minutes.”
“You won’t be in place until four at the earliest. When and how do we contact each other?”
Irene thought for a moment. “I’ll take my cell phone but turn it off. I wouldn’t want it to start ringing at an unlucky moment. Let’s say this: I’ll call you at five o’clock on the dot. If you don’t hear anything within half an hour after that, send backup.”
Jimmy gave her an astonished look and said, “Don’t you think the two of us can take care of one guy?”
“Sure, Bobo we can take care of, but his cousin and his playmates might be on the way. Keep in mind that we’re just doing recon. If Bobo is alone we’ll take him. But if there are other people there, we’ll withdraw discreetly and wait for the cavalry. Shorty’s friends are always heavily armed. These guys feel naked without something heavier than an Uzi.”
For anyone who’s ever been in Narcotics, this wasn’t news. Jimmy looked thoughtful. Finally he nodded at Irene and said, “Should we take Sigge along?”
Birgitta was only listening with half an ear, but reacted to the name. She asked, “There’s nobody in the group named Sigge. Do you mean Tommy?”
“No. SIG Sauer, nicknamed Sigge. Our service weapons!”
They laughed, which relieved the tension a bit. Was their hunting instinct coming to life? Jimmy’s visible enthusiasm at going out on a manhunt was infectious. Imagine if it turned out to be an anticlimax. He would be incredibly disappointed. Irene nodded. “Sure, we’ll take our Sigges.”
They stopped by the weapons case, got out their pistols, and loaded them with nine-millimeter ammunition. The SIG Sauer is a powerful weapon, far superior to the old peashooter—the Walther 7.65—that Irene had once used in training. But Jimmy had never had to retrain. The Sigge was his weapon, the one he was trained to use. A bit nonchalant, he loaded the pistol and stuffed it in his holster. Irene wasn’t used to the holster since she seldom went armed. But she and everyone else had to use one when they went out with a Sigge. The weapon is heavy and can’t be stuck in a jacket pocket, no more than a Walther can. From a purely practical standpoint, it’s impossible to keep a gun in your pocket. There’s no room in a pants pocket, and it’s too heavy for a jacket pocket. An investigator who goes around in a jacket with one pocket hanging down to his knees might as well put a rotating blue light on top of his head. The holster is essential. The advantages of the SIG Sauer compared to the Walther are a larger caliber and a more powerful effect. The drawbacks are its weight and the sluggishness of the spring when cocking the weapon. It requires a good deal of strength to handle this pistol, a heavy weapon for the heavy boys. Simply put, the Sigge is macho. Irene preferred the Walther. Even though, according to Tommy, you had to aim the barrel down when you fired it so that the bullet would roll out.
THEY BUMPED along the country roads toward Sandsjöbacka. The wind took hold of the car and shook it angrily. The rain poured down. It was impossible to see where they were. They had to orient themselves by the road signs they passed. Irene drove and Jimmy read the map in the flickering light of his flashlight. He folded up the map and said, “We should park somewhere around here.”
She almost missed the small forest road, had to brake sharply and back up. She parked the car precariously close to a big ditch in which water was gushing wildly. But there was probably no danger, because they wouldn’t be staying long; they’d be back before the ditch overflowed. Irene took the map and checked their route one last time.
“We have to follow this gravel road to the end. Then we’ll pass some small houses, I think summer cabins. Then we go into the trees and follow the edge of the woods about four hundred meters.”
Jimmy nodded, and again she sensed his exuberance.
They started walking, the beams of their flashlights pointing down. There were no streetlights here. In order to see where the road went and to avoid stepping into hollows and pits, they had to use their flash-lights. They could only hope that the howling storm and dense forest would hide them.
At the end of the road were two small summer cabins. There was a light on in one of them, but they couldn’t see anyone inside or hear anything. To the left Irene discovered a big pile of lumber. She cautiously shone her flashlight around it and for a fraction of a second had a hard time comprehending what she saw. The beam fell on a big black motorcycle, half concealed behind the stack of boards. A Harley-Davidson chopper. On the back was a big Tour-Pak, on which a sign said in English: THIS BIKE BELONGS TO A HELL’S ANGEL—IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE IT, JUST TRY TO MESS WITH MY BIKE! This hog could be left unlocked even in the most notorious slums. It would be completely safe. Most people have some instinct for self-preservation.
Like lightning Irene turned off her flashlight, and Jimmy did the same a fraction of a second later. They stood motionless and listened to the darkness. There was no sound from the houses. Carefully they crept past and moved as quietly as they could into the woods. For the first time they were thankful for the furious storm roaring in the treetops. It became an ally when they stepped awkwardly on fallen twigs or tripped over treacherous roots and slippery rocks. Finally they could no longer see the light from the cabin and dared to stop and turn on their flashlights.
Jimmy looked pale and grim. The rain had plastered his short hair flat to his head. Irene was grateful that she had put on Katarina’s baseball cap before they left the car. He sounded excited when he whispered, “Holy shit, what does this mean? A Hell’s Angels’ nest! Out here in the woods!”
He was obviously shaken. She was too, but tried not to show it.
“I guess they rent one of the cabins during the winter,” she said, feigning nonchalance.
She turned around and continued stumbling onward. But she had a hard time concentrating on what lay before them. What they had just left behind felt like an unpleasant threat. Even if it could hardly have anything to do with Shorty and Bobo’s cottage, Hell’s Angels could never be ignored. Finally she forced herself to focus her attention on what lay ahead. A faint light winked among the trees. Jimmy took her arm and silently mapped out a route at an angle along the edge of the woods. They were completely agreed. A high cairn of stones rose at the side of the clearing and would give them perfect cover, while also allowing them to get up a bit higher and have a better view.
Their fingers were numb from the cold. When they tried to climb up the cairn, Irene lost her grip and slid down. Her knee was banged up and her palms were torn, but her body was so stiff from the cold that she hardly noticed. When she climbed back, Jimmy was already crouched down, gazing through his night-vision telescope. Irene was grateful he had brought it along. Without it they would have had to crawl all the way up to the house. Now they could stay about fifty meters away. She peered into the distance toward the point of light and saw that it was an outside lamp attached to a little building that looked like a barn. Faint light was coming from some small windows.
Jimmy lay motionless so long that she started to grow impatient. She also wanted to look through the funny gadget. But his tense whisper when he handed the telescope to her filled her with foreboding. “You won’t believe it. Look at the outer edge of the circle of light coming from the outside lamp.”
The bill of her cap was in the way, so she turned it resolutely backward. It prevented the ice-cold rain from running down her neck.
Fumbling, she put the telescope up to her eye, strapped it on, and saw instantly what he meant. A large motorcycle stood parked by the wall of the barn. When she pointed the telescope toward one of the small illuminated windows, she could see a big fat man with long curly hair. He stood talking and gesticulating to someone hidden from view. Even though no one could hear them, she whispered, “I can only see one guy, fat with long hair. But it isn’t Bobo Torsson. Did you see anybody else?”
“No. Just Fatso. And the bike! Did you see it? Hell’s Angels again!”
“It’s not the same one we saw at the summer cabin?”
“No, this one doesn’t have a Tour-Pak on the back.”
He was right. This one had two smaller boxes on each side of the rear wheel. The fat, longhaired man walked around talking to his invisible audience. For a split second Irene thought she saw the head of a much shorter person, but it happened so fast that she wasn’t sure. She whispered to Jimmy without taking the telescope from her eye, “I think there are at least two of them. But what are they up to?”
“No idea.”
A movement on the far right edge of her vision made her point the telescope in that direction. Excitedly she whispered, “Somebody is coming out of the house next door! That must be the house they actually live in. It’s not Bobo Torsson. This one’s a longhaired guy dressed in leather too, but tall and thin.”
“Funny that he doesn’t turn on the outside light. I can’t see anybody.”
“You can’t?”
Irene put down the telescope and looked toward the house. It was dark. Only the lights in the barn were visible. The man was walking in the dark. He was invisible to anyone without night-vision equipment. She put the telescope up to her eyes, only to see the thin man disappear behind the barn. She quickly aimed it at the barn window. The big man stopped short and turned with his back to the window. She understood that the other one was talking now, because suddenly the massive man was quite motionless and seemed to be listening intently. She almost dropped the telescope out of sheer fright when he suddenly turned on his heel and gazed out the window. Reason told her that he couldn’t see them, but the expression on his face said it all. Fear drove its stiff fingers into her body and she couldn’t even hide it from Jimmy. Her voice almost cracked when she whispered with frozen lips, “Jimmy, they know we’re here!”
“That’s impossible. How could they . . . ?”
The thought struck them both simultaneously. The summer cabins. The motorcycle behind the pile of lumber. They had been seen.
Irene asked, “What time is it?”
He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket and looked at the glowing watch face. “Ten past five. It’s time to get out of here.”
They crawled down from the cairn. Irene started to pull her cell phone from her pocket. She turned it on but slipped it back into her pocket. Her subconscious had heard a sound, but her conscious mind registered it too late. The forest around her exploded like a shooting star in a thousandth of a second, then closed around her in impenetrable darkness.
HER HEAD was swinging from side to side and she couldn’t do anything about it. Powerless, she tried to raise herself to throw up, but realized groggily that it was impossible. Her head was hanging down. A strong smell of leather and sweat stung her nostrils and increased her nausea. Instinctively she kept her body limp, as she desperately tried to fight against the dizziness and reenter consciousness. After a while she realized that a hefty man in leather, a Hell’s Angel, was carrying her slung over his shoulder, like a butcher carries a dead carcass. His long wet hair slapped against the side of her face. Cautiously she tried opening her eyelids. She heard panting and labored breathing to her left. There were at least two other people, and it dawned on her that they were carrying something between them. Jimmy. Was he alive? Good God, make him be alive! Never before in her life had she experienced such a pure and unadulterated fear of death. She didn’t have to pretend that she was incapable of movement. She was totally paralyzed.
A crystal-clear voice suddenly spoke through the panic inside her. To her surprise she recognized the voice of her old judo trainer, dead almost ten years now. Despite his forty years in Sweden, he had retained a very pronounced American accent. In his dry, calm voice he said, “Don’t let them know that you’re awake. Play possum. Sonomama. Remember ukemi-waza. Keep your head in so you don’t hit it. Mokuso.”
Mokuso? Why should she meditate now, of all times? Then she understood. She needed to go outside her body to release herself from the paralyzing fear. And her body would have to take care of itself for a while; it would still be unconscious. She looked into her whirling brain, found the Point, and was sucked softly up into Yawara and the Light.
HALF OF her face lay in mud and ice-cold water. One of her nostrils bubbled when she breathed, but she didn’t move her head. Her body had remembered ukemi-waza and fallen into a semiprone position. She sensed that there were several people around her. It took an incredible effort of will to concentrate on what they were saying and still pretend that she was unconscious.
“What the hell are we going to do with them? Who are these fucks?”
“SIG Sauer. And the telescope and phone. Great equipment. I think they’re cops. Why the hell did you have to hit them so hard? We could have gotten something out of the girl at least.”
“Don’t tell the guys that it was a chick! She’s tall as hell and she had a cap on.”
“Fuck them, God damn it!”
The last voice came as a shock to Irene. A young girl. In a confused moment Irene imagined that it was one of her own daughters. The illusion passed and she managed to lie still.
“Shut up, you whore! If we’re going to fuck anybody, it’s you!”
Irene could hear at least three different laughs. Maybe four.
“Should we take them inside? It’s pissing wet out here.”
“Take them to the barn.”
It took all the will in the world for her to hang limply between two Hell’s Angels. They dragged her rather than carried her, and she banged her hip on the high threshold. She let her head hang down and tried not to allow even a quiver of her eyelids. She could hear the thud when they dropped Jimmy next to her. Presumably he was alive, since they took the trouble to bring him inside. Here it was dry but the floor was ice cold. To her horror she couldn’t conceal the cold shivers that ran through her body. Stopping the occasional tremor was beyond her control, but she still pretended to be unconscious.
“Wake them up.”
A swift kick in the side. She couldn’t hold back a whimper, so she masked it with a low mumble. Dull thuds were heard as they kicked Jimmy, but not a sound came from him. After another kick she felt it was time to change the scenario. Whimpering, she moved her head and mumbled something incoherent.
“The broad is coming to!”
Twitch the eyelids, look confused and groggy. Be careful to survey the surroundings. Four leather-clad guys and a little blond girl, also in leathers. Jimmy lay next to her, less than a meter away. He was unrecognizable, covered with mud, his face swollen. At least he was alive. His chest heaved up and down.
“What were you and the shithead doing here on our property?”
It was the tall, thin one who was aggressively leaning over Irene. Safer not to lie. Not too much. She was very dizzy and had a hard time finding the words, but she did her best. She slurred, “We were on a stakeout . . . narcotics . . . police.”
She closed her eyes and pretended to pass out again. Then the telephone rang. Squinting through half-closed eyes she saw the fat leader, bewildered, looking at the phone he was holding in his right hand. The thin one snatched it from him and unfolded it.
They could all hear a worried female voice say, “Irene? It’s Birgitta. What’s going on?”
At first he cast a dubious glance at Irene, but suddenly he raised the phone to his mouth.
“Fuck you!” he yelled.
Then he folded it up and broke into a contented grin. “That’ll give the bitch something to think about!” he said happily.
The leader reared back and took a powerful swing. The blow from his fist landed squarely on the other man’s chin. From Irene’s perspective it looked as if he jumped straight up in the air and simply vanished. But from the thud that followed she knew that he had landed against the door.
The powerful leader massaged his knuckles as he screamed, “You stupid fuck! If a cop’s phone rings, you ought to know there’s another fucking cop on the other end!”
Another one of the gang could be counted out. At least for a while.
“Shit! She said it was the Narcs! God damn it!”
The fat one went over and stuck a heavy motorcycle boot into the left side of her ribs. There was a dry crack—at least one rib had gone. There was nothing feigned about the moan that came from her lips.
“Answer, you fucking slut! How long have you known about this place?”
“Don’t remember . . . got a tip . . . a tip.”
“Was it that shithead Bobo who tipped you? Answer!”
At first she was so surprised that she almost opened her eyes. There it was! A connection! But she quickly regained her composure. “Don’t know . . . I didn’t . . . answer.”
“Did the tip come by phone?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
Good heavens! When? When would be logical? She had to trust her intuition.
“This morning.”
The leader took a deep breath before he screamed furiously, “That fucking asshole! He split with the bread. Then he sets the cops on us while we sit here with our pants down! I knew we couldn’t trust that miserable shit!”
He paused to ponder the new facts that Irene had served up to him. It seemed to ring true to him.
“You should be damned glad that we don’t have a lot of time. But . . .” He turned to his pals. Even the thin one was now up on wobbly legs, staggering toward them. A malicious grin slid across his flabby face when the leader continued, “What does a Hell’s Angel do with the fucking cops? Right! Like this!”
All four of them lined up in a row. They pulled down the zippers on their leather pants, pulled out their dicks, and started to piss, on Irene and Jimmy. The little blond laughed so hard she howled, slapped her knees, and had to lean against the wall.
It’s nothing dangerous. It’s only urine. This can’t be happening! We won’t die of it. Good God, let it be over soon. Silently Irene repeated this incantation to keep her hysteria in check. The stench of the hot piss on her face made her start to vomit.
Then it was over. The light was switched off and they went out, laughing. Before he slammed the door, the leader turned and said, “Don’t you dare open the door if you want to live. Besides I’m putting on the padlock.”
The way Irene was feeling, she wouldn’t be able to move for quite a while. Her first reaction when the door closed behind the gang was an incredible sense of relief. They were gone. She could hear the heavy motorcycles in the sea of mud outside. They had been parked along the front of the barn.
Suddenly, she was aware that it was completely quiet outside. With all her senses on full alert, she sat up. Her rib hurt but she hardly noticed it. Carefully she stood. Stooping, half crawling, she moved over to the window by the door. Cautiously, she peered out from a corner of the broken windowpane.
The lamp attached to the wall outside cast a faint circle of light, and at the very edge she could discern the contours of four motorcycles and the gleam of leather overalls. On command they all started their machines at once. Three of them drove off, but the fourth lingered. Irene could see him make a throwing motion with his arm before he too took off. He had tossed something in through the broken window and instinctively she wanted to take cover. But several years of experience as a goalie on the police women’s handball team now served her well. The little ball was surprisingly heavy. A Hell’s Angel had thrown it, so it must be a hand grenade. The deep grooves in it confirmed what her intuition had told her. Without a conscious thought she flung it back out the window.
The hot pressure wave of the explosion seared her face. A magnesium-white light set fire to the darkness and arced out in all directions. The blinding light sucked away all sensory impressions and left her for a second in a cold, dark vacuum. The blast deafened her. Soon the total silence was replaced by a powerful pain and a shrill whistling sound that tore at her ears. Spots danced before her eyes in all the colors of the rainbow. Her field of vision was constricted from the sides, and a new wave of nausea rose up from her diaphragm. Her sight vanished; she was blind. The uncontrolled shaking returned, but it wasn’t because of the cold. She sank down with her back to the wall. Whimpering, she slowly began to move toward where she thought the door was. Finally she felt the dry planks of the old stable door under her lacerated fingertips. She got it open by flinging herself desperately against the wood with her full weight, breaking off the rotten hasp. She staggered out into the rain and sank down on her knees, sat back on her heels, let her hands rest lightly on the tops of her thighs, and closed her eyes. She went into Mokuso while the rain rinsed away the piss.
That was the position they found her in.