Life Deluxe (60 page)

Fuck that shit
.

Jorge set his backpack down on the floor. In it: a passport and twelve hundred five-hundred-kronor bills. He had to give JW the cash so he could exchange them. Then he had to get a ticket back to Thailand.

He was tired.

Called Paola from the pay phone. Gave her his new number. Didn’t tell her anything about what’d happened. Just couldn’t muster the energy for that right now.

He called Mahmud in Thailand. His buddy already knew J-boy’d picked up the six hundred Gs. He explained everything that’d happened the night before. Javier arrested. The Hägerström Sven maybe arrested too. Everything fucked all to hell.

Mahmud bitched: “Babak’s gonna rat you out, man. Maybe me too. What the fuck you gonna do about it?” And: “You can’t just leave Javier there.” And: “Can’t you help them escape?”

Jorge: didn’t have any answers. They ended the call.

He sat down again.

What the fuck was he gonna do?

He leaned back.

One of the dudes in the common room looked like Björn, his old teacher in the after-school program when he was a kid.

Gray beard. Bald on top of his head. White hairs on the side. Kind eyes.

Jorge: maybe eight years old. Björn: the teacher who was a God at drawing. All the boys asked him to draw things for them. Submarines, camels, Ferrari cars. Björn blinked. The wrinkles near his eyes spread all over his face. He looked like Santa Claus.

Jorge and his crew beat up the weaker kids. Explained to the girls who talked back that they were whores. Ran amok in the nap room: glued the pillows to the floor with Super Glue they’d swiped from shop class. Pooped in buckets that they set out in the air vents so the place reeked for a week. Teachers and after-school people tried to get them in line. Talk to them. Yell at them. Write made-up contracts for how they were supposed to behave.

No one gave a shit. The Sven staff were like yappy poodles. All the boys had to put up with real fists at home anyway. The after-school people’s attempts at disciplining them were just pathetic.

The only one they respected was Björn. They remained cool with him. And if he told them off, they obeyed immediately.

Björn: like a wise old man.

Jorge wished he could be here now. To draw something for him.

Just a submarine.

That would’ve been enough.

They had released Hägerström right after the interrogation. Naturally. They couldn’t have anything on him, except possibly that he had lost control on Östermalmstorg. But they didn’t ask any questions about that little blunder.

Maybe they would call him in for questioning again. Maybe they would put a tail on him. He had to be careful. Had to talk to Inspector Torsfjäll.

As soon as he turned his phone on, it beeped. Missed calls. New voicemails. Message icons popped up on the screen.

JW and Torsfjäll had both tried to reach him. Both with about the same questions:
What the fuck happened? How did Jorge get away?

Hägerström arranged a time to meet JW at Sturehof. He walked there from home. It was cold outside. On the way, he bought a new phone with a new plan—his old one would most probably be tapped soon. He called Torsfjäll.

At first, the inspector didn’t want to talk. Hägerström told him he was calling from a new SIM card. Torsfjäll made a one-eighty. Instead of being monosyllabic, reluctant: the inspector became half-crazed.

“How the fuck could this happen?”

Hägerström tried to respond.

Torsfjäll screamed, “Have you seen the headlines today? Have you seen that the online papers are mentioning you by name?”

Hägerström tried to say something.

“It’s damn fucking lucky that our little operation is really UC,” Torsfjäll went on, “or else I’d be drowning in phone calls today, like some fucking press secretary. Fuck these Commie journalists—they’re totally consequence neutral. They don’t give a fuck about what they might be messing up.”

Hägerström tired to calm the inspector down. There were good aspects to the whole thing.

Torsfjäll wouldn’t let up. “I’m getting pretty fucking tired of this operation. I’m considering dropping it. We managed to cuff this Javier guy. Our economic crime investigator might have enough pinned on JW. I’m so fucking tired today. What kind of fucking cop clowns do we have in this country anyway? Huh? They act like fucking fairies. They can’t go into a regular café and arrest two people? How hard can it be? Fucking fags.”

Hägerström counted. Torsfjäll’d managed to say
fuck
ten times in less than thirty seconds. He tried to get some calming words in edgewise.

Finally the inspector settled down.

“In one way, it’s good the papers are writing what they’re writing,” Hägerström said. “It’ll raise my credibility with Jorge and JW’s people. They’ll see that I’m involved for real. We’ll get Jorge, I’m sure of it. Don’t worry.”

“But that little nigger could go back to Thailand any minute. He obviously has a passport.”

“Yes, but his bills are dyed. And JW’s supposed to help him with that. Do you understand? He’s going to be in touch with JW. And I’ve got eyes on JW. We’re going to be able to cuff Jorge. And maybe JW too, at least for attempted money laundering.”

Torsfjäll sounded a little pleased. “Okay, you have a point. But this playboy isn’t going to get convicted just for money laundering—we’re going to get him for heavier shit. You just have to find out where they keep their material.”

“Believe me, I’m trying. And there’s one more thing. I’ve got a little surprise for JW today. Something he’s been nagging me about. Something that might make him use me even more.”

Two days later. The second Monday in October. Always. Anyone serious would be out in the woods today. The offices downtown were half-empty. The rutting season for moose was over. Meaning: moose hunt time.

Hägerström’s surprise: he had arranged for JW to be invited to a moose hunt, followed by dinner at Carl’s estate, Avesjö.

A beautiful fall day. A long day in the woods. Meet-up at eight in the morning. There were twelve of them, in total. They were hunting with dogs. Two hired dog handlers flushed through the stand. The hunters were posted in elevated blinds surrounding the area. Three stands during
the day: three times three hours. Early lunch in the hunting lodge. They ate goulash soup in plastic cans, standing up. A recap between every stand. Some of them smoked cigarettes. Most drank coffee. The dog handlers gave them a rundown, discussed the best car route to the next place, prepped the rifles. They talked hunting, mutual acquaintances, and business throughout.

By the end of the day, a bull moose and two calves had been taken down—Hägerström was one of the heroes. He was the one who’d shot the young bull.

For Hägerström, the hunt meant another kind of victory. He and JW had sat together in a blind all day. JW was carrying his own class-one rifle that he had borrowed from Hägerström’s brother. A Blaser R93 with a luxury riflescope: Swarovski Z6.

JW was in seventh heaven.

Hägerström saw that he was struggling not to appear too impressed.

But he was even more exhilarated than when he had gated out.

And above all: these were JW hunting grounds, business-wise.

That night there was a dinner at Avesjö. Hägerström, Carl, JW, and nine of Carl’s friends. Hägerström recognized most of them. Carl lived according to the principle that new friends are not real friends. Fredric Adlercreutz was there, of course. He acted normal toward Hägerström.
Maybe
, Hägerström thought,
he is also gay
.

There were three new faces that Hägerström didn’t know. Carl’s business contacts—they were exempt from his rule.

This was the first time Hägerström had brought a friend. JW was more than ten years younger than he, but Carl was a few years younger than Hägerström, so the age difference between the two was not as great.

Catering staff prepared the meal. The dog handlers were sent home. Dinner was served. The appetizer: potato pancakes with sour cream and bleak roe.

Only the gentlemen remained. Carl’s closest friends. All lawyers, finance guys, real estate moguls.

They had all made the same life choice: career was number one.

They all had the same background.

They were all sitting on inherited money or had wives with even more inherited money.

Hägerström eyed JW.

The others were wearing jeans and French-cuff shirts. Some had blazers on. Loafers or brown boat shoes on their feet. All were well dressed and yet relaxed. Ten years ago these boys used to be the biggest playboys in town; now they didn’t need to prove anything to each other anymore. They were adults.

JW, on the other hand, was sporting a pair of red chinos with knife-sharp creases and a white shirt with a dark blue blazer. Berluti shoes flown in from Paris. He topped it all off with gold cufflinks with the Swedish royal crowns on a red background.

Might just be superficial details. After all, the basic foundation was the same. But Hägerström saw it. And he knew that Carl saw it. JW was just a little
too much
. He wondered if JW himself perceived the difference.

The others had well-cut manes, but their hair was casually tousled after an entire day under a hunter’s hat in a moose blind.

JW, on the other hand, had obviously been to the bathroom and groomed himself. His hair was slicked back like a helmet.

They were sitting on refurbished rococo chairs covered in zebra skin. Carl’s wife had an interest in interior decorating. There was a white tablecloth on the table. Above the plates were three different crystal glasses from Orrefors that Hägerström recognized. They had been his and Tin-Tin’s wedding present to Carl when he got married six years ago. Real silver cutlery, plates and napkins that Carl’s wife had inherited from her grandmother—the Fogelklou family crest was embroidered on them in curlicue lettering. There were huge candelabras with lit candles placed on the table. Hägerström recognized them too. They were from his maternal grandmother, Countess Cronhielm af Hakunge.

JW’s eyes were as large as the gold-rimmed saucers on the table.

Hägerström thought the guy had to learn to play it cool.

Carl welcomed everyone. “I want us to raise our glasses and toast a successful hunt today. Even if I didn’t manage to take anything down this year. Ha ha.”

Everyone raised their glasses, sipped the wine that was served with the appetizer: Chablis Cuvée Tour du Roy Vieilles Vignes.

Hägerström continued to study JW.

He fumbled for his knife and fork. Glanced around the table to see
which bread plate was his. Wiped his mouth too frequently with the linen napkin.

The guy sitting on JW’s other side, Hugo Murray, raised his glass to Hägerström.

“Cheers to you, Martin. You’re the only damn one who shot something worthwhile today.”

Martin raised his glass. Looked Hugo in the eyes. Nodded. Smiled. Said, “And who shot the raghorn last year?”

Hugo laughed. Nodded. Tilted his glass toward Hägerström. Looked around. The others also raised their glasses. Everyone allowed their gaze to travel around the table, meeting each person’s eyes the correct Swedish way. Then they set their glasses down again. No clinking when you toasted—that was gauche.

Paintings hung on the walls. Count Gustaf Cronhielm af Hakunge, the original. The same old guy that Hägerström had on the wall at home. Except that in this painting, he was holding up two pheasants that he had shot. Portraits of his three sons, one of them Hägerström’s grandfather. The old man had died when Hägerström was four years old. A new photo was hanging on one short end of the room: a photo of Father in the motorboat with Vreta Bay in the background.

Hägerström thought of what Father would have said if he’d seen him and Javier hand in hand in Bangkok.

They continued eating. Hägerström pricked up his ears. He heard Hugo talking to JW.

“So what do you do when you’re not hiding out next to Martin in a blind?”

“I manage my money, like everyone else.”

Hugo laughed politely. JW laughed painfully.

“Sure, right. And what do you do when you’re not managing your money?”

“I work in asset management.”

Hugo was less polite, more interested for real. “Oh really? You run solo, or what?”

“Yes, you could say that. I work with a guy down in Liechtenstein, Gustaf Hansén. Do you know him?”

“No, I don’t think so. How old is he?”

“Around forty-five.”

“Was he at SEB before?”

“No, Danske Bank.”

“Okay. He might be Carl-Johan’s uncle. Do you know Carl-Johan Hansén?”

The waitresses served the main course. Boeuf bourguignon with moose and almond potatoes. The meat had been shot at Avesjö last year, of course. The wine: Chambolle-Musigny 2006, straight from Carl’s wine cellar.

JW and Hugo kept the conversation going.

Hägerström continued to listen in.

“So what do you do?” JW asked.

“I’m at Invest Capital. I keep myself busy there.”

“Okay. What division?”

“Trading.”

JW tried to play right back at him: “So do you know Nippe Creutz? His sister’s boyfriend’s at Invest Capital, I think.”