Never Fuck Up: A Novel (60 page)

Still: Thomas’d gotten certain information. Adamsson’s surveillance group’d met in Skogsbacken AB’s office space in the eighties. The company was owned by Sven Bolinder. The deal: in the bugs from Rantzell’s basement, Thomas’d found documents that had to do with none other than Skogsbacken AB—one annual report, a few payment orders and verifications. The conclusion was clear as day: there was a connection—past, present.

Sven Bolinder: well-known multimillionaire, finance shark, player on the black market. Maker of spare parts for the car industry, supplier of retail services. But apparently also a whore hound, a john shepherd, an arranger of so-called finer events. Bolinder was suspected of being the chief owner of a business empire that included over twenty-five companies in seven countries. And the white-collar-crime cops Thomas’d spoken to probably didn’t even know the half of it.

Thomas worked like a maniac. Continued to go to the traffic unit for show and for access to the databases. Continued to work nights at the club: with a new fire inside—there were connections to the investigation here as well. Thomas inquired, inspected, investigated Ratko without the Yugo understanding what he was doing. Apparently, Bolinder usually invited his friends to a party twice a year. Always when his wife was abroad. And it was the Yugos, along with some finer party boys, who arranged the revelry.

Thomas continued to try to work through the material from Rantzell’s
basement. Over and over again. With increased effort, concentration, organization. More focus on Skogsbacken AB. How long’d the company existed, what exactly did the business comprise, who was on the board, what did the ownership structure look like, where were the bank accounts? There was a lot that wasn’t in the bags, but he learned as he went along. The Swedish Companies Registration Office, the National Tax Authority, annual reports, details about the companies’ operations. He worked as methodically as he could. But really, he probably needed help. At the same time: something just had to surface soon.

He’d read a book about the Palme murder by a journalist, Lars Borgnäs. There was a connection, in theory. The investigators’ tunnel vision’d steered their view of the murderer and the murder of the prime minister. It’d also steered their vision of another important detail: the weapon.

Borgnäs described the theory in detail. In the same way that they’d gotten stuck on the idea that it’d been Christer Pettersson or possibly some other lone lunatic who snuffed out Palme, they’d zeroed in on a single hypothesis when it came to what kind of gun was used and, therefore, what kind of gun’d been sought. Things locked into place pretty much right after the murder. The national chief of police, Hans Holmér, appeared at a press conference where he held up a couple of guns. They were all the same caliber: .357 Magnums. “What we know now,” Holmér apparently said, “is that the murder weapon with all certainty was a Smith &Wesson revolver, .357 caliber.” There were a few other, less common makes that were also under consideration, the chief of police explained. But most likely, it was a Smith & Wesson. And it was completely clear that a Magnum revolver, .357 caliber, was what’d been used. After that, all investigative work regarding the weapon was carried out with the assumption that it had to be a .357 caliber Magnum. The Palme weapon became synonymous with a Magnum revolver. Thomas tried to remember. He and everyone he knew’d always assumed that the murder weapon was a Magnum.

But, according to Borgnäs, the truth was different. And it wasn’t only him—most weapons experts agreed with him. The murder weapon
could
have been of that caliber, but it
could also
have been of a completely different caliber. But no other type of weapon had been searched for, even though they were more common than the Magnum revolver.

The connection was in the murder weapon. Rantzell was the one who’d tied Christer Pettersson to a revolver that probably didn’t even
have anything to do with the Palme murder. Rantzell’d planted it all nicely. The revolver, the time, the opportunity. Framed Pettersson as the murderer. And now someone’d murdered Rantzell. Maybe someone who didn’t want the fake connection to come to light.

Åsa wondered what was going on. They saw less and less of each other. Thomas was always tired—the bags under his eyes looked like black bruises. The people from the adoption agency were coming for another home visit. The final one before Sander.

“We have to make things even cozier here so they can see that we care. That we’re nesting.”

Thomas sighed. “What does ‘nesting’ even mean?”

“You know, to prepare the nest for a child.”

“But we can’t set up the baby room before we actually get Sander, can we?”

“Yes, we have to take care of that now. So that they see that we know how and that we want a child here. We should buy a stroller and enroll in that parenting class, too.”

Thomas shook his head. Åsa turned her face away. Pulled her hair back in that way she always did when she was sad. They tried to talk it through. From Thomas’s perspective: he wanted nothing more than to bring the boy home, that was his dream. But right now he didn’t have time to really get involved.

The feeling lingered: this wasn’t good, this wasn’t good at all.

He went out to the garage. Glanced at the Cadillac. It’d been weeks since he’d even touched it. Same thing with the shooting club—he hadn’t been there since he’d seen Ljunggren. It was strange: as if his entire life’d been turned upside down. He’d dived into the investigation in a way that he’d never done before. It was scary. He climbed into his regular car. The garage door opened automatically.

He drove to the station. Listened to Springsteen. Tried to collect his thoughts.

He arrived. The garage in the police station. The only advantage of the traffic unit: your own garage.

Thomas climbed out of the car. Breathed in the smell of exhaust that never really aired out properly. The fluorescent lights gave off a pale glow. The concrete looked grainy, almost like wood. He heard his own footsteps. Eyed the parked cars: tried to calculate which of his colleagues’d already arrived at work.

He heard footsteps behind him. The door to the stairwell was sixty-five
feet farther off. Thomas began to search for the key card in his pocket.

The steps behind him sped up. Thomas slowed down, didn’t see a reason not to wait for a colleague who was clearly in a rush.

But something was wrong. The footsteps were too fast. Thomas turned around. Saw too late: a man with a ski mask over his face. He was wearing dark clothes. Thomas didn’t have time to react. The man came charging at him, holding something in his right hand. A gun. Thomas flash evaluated: maybe a Colt, maybe a Beretta.

“Stay where you are,” the man said in a clear voice.

Thomas tried to read the situation. There was nothing he could do. The muzzle of the gun, in a steady grip. This was a pro.

The man pointed him toward a darker corner of the garage. Where the overhead lights weren’t working.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“You know what I want. Stop snooping around.” The man’s low voice—he was almost whispering.

“Forget it. I’m not afraid of you. I’ve recorded the interrogations I’ve done with multiple people, just so you know.”

“Don’t talk so fucking much. If you’re not afraid now, you will be soon. Stop snooping. This is the last time you’ll be getting this message.”

“Fuck you.”

Thomas felt something hard hit him over the head. As he fell toward the concrete floor he had time to think: You shouldn’t hit someone with a weapon that nice. Weapons like that are made for shooting.

Then he hit the hardness below.

Thomas opened one eye. The other eye. Breathed in the smell of exhaust. The man was gone. He brought a hand to his forehead. The blood was sticky.

A vibration in his jacket pocket. Then the ringer on his cell phone. He just didn’t want to answer right now. But still: he had to get his phone out either way, in order to call for help.

A familiar voice on the other end of the line. It was Hägerström.

“Hiya Andrén, sorry for not calling you back.”

Thomas was completely taken aback. For a moment, he forgot his current situation.

“Hägerström. I’m glad you’re calling. Sorry for being such a dick last time.”

“No worries. How is everything?” Hägerström sounded happy.

Thomas considered. Should he tell him that he was lying beat up like an idiot in the police station garage? No. Yes. The answer: Yes—now was the time. He couldn’t continue working alone any longer.

“Not so good, actually,” he said. “I was just threatened and assaulted by a masked man.”

“You’re joking? Are you all right?”

“Yes, it’s true, and no, I’m not completely okay. But it’s nothing alarming, either.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“But why?”

“I’ll tell you later. We have to meet up. As soon as possible. When are you available?”

“Let’s say the day after tomorrow. But are you sure that you’re all right?”

Thomas tried to truly evaluate. His forehead was pounding, but it didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Nothing too serious. So, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. There’s just one more thing I want to tell you.”

“What?”

“Adamsson is dead.”

It’d been easy to rope Niklas into the job. Yeah, the dude was strange somehow, but Mahmud couldn’t think of a better partner for this gig.

A few days after Mahmud’d told him the address, Niklas’d already been out at the house on Smådalarö and done some reconnaissance. A real pro: he’d brought binoculars, a range finder, a camera with a serious lens. Taken photos of the house from all angles, zoomed in through the windows, snapped close-ups of the fence, the locks, the alarm systems, the gate, the distance from the windows to the ground.

According to Mahmud: the house was the perfect place to rob. It was just like when he, Babak, and Rob’d stormed that Ecstasy junkie’s apartment. Once they were inside, no one would bother them. No one would discover them from the outside. But this would be an even better home invasion: they’d be walking into a fucking prostitute party—no risk that anyone’d be calling the 5-0. It was genius.

The Yugos were gonna taste his fat cock. The nasty old johns were gonna get hit hard. Mahmud was gonna get the easiest money in town. Rastafari Jah! That little Sunny Sunday’d changed his life. Jorge was the king, man.

After this, all the running around to Shurgard storage units would be over, he wouldn’t have to poon-nanny anymore, wouldn’t have to sling any more shit. He was so fed up with Dejan, Ratko, Stefanovic, and the other cunts that just hearing their names made him feel sick. The hit against Smådalarö would be the last thing he did. Honest, he was gonna listen to Erika Ewaldsson, his dad, and his big sis. Use Jorge’s money to start something clean. Something honest. Something that fit into
Suedi
society.

He and Niklas’d met twice. Studied maps and floor plans that Niklas’d gotten ahold of. Dude had mad Tom Lehtimäki–style skillz. Actually,
more than that: hard-core Special Forces shit. Mahmud felt like fucking SEAL Team Six.

They studied the house from above. Checked out the roads, height differences in the terrain, the way the forest grew in the area. It was winter now: no dense trees would hide them. They analyzed where they could put out caltrops, if they’d need a distraction—maybe torch the garage or some other side building.

The architectural drawings of the house were even cooler. Niklas’d gotten them from the county offices. Sweden was weird—you could basically get anything out of a public institution. Magical transparency. The house was big, more than five thousand square feet. Massive kitchen, dining room, spa area in the basement, gym, living rooms, bedrooms, guest bedrooms, walk-in closets. Questions: What was the best way to get into the house? Where might there be surveillance or guards on duty? Which doors would be locked and which would be open? The biggest question of all: Which room would the pussy party be in? They compared the blueprints with the photos that Niklas’d snapped. Identified the rooms, saw the interiors through Niklas’s camera lens. Could cross some rooms off the list. The johns were not likely to be in the kitchen, not in the dining room. More likely: the big living room, the spa area, maybe the guest rooms. It depended on what kind of event this was really gonna be. Mahmud had to try to do some snooping on his end.

They discussed how many bodies they needed. Niklas wouldn’t budge: he and Mahmud would never pull it off alone. It messed with Mahmud’s line of thinking, but he didn’t protest. They evaluated alternatives for weapons. Niklas had sick know-how. It was almost scary—what’d this player done in his previous life? Assault weapons, laser sights, night vision. Maybe they would need a grenade, flak jackets, proper dark clothes that they could burn when it was all over. This was gonna be done right. Beautiful.

They planned, chatted, fantasized. Strategized, made lists, memorized the photos, the terrain, the maps. Tried to visualize the different stages of the attack, understand the dangers. Still: they knew too little. Mahmud also had to go out to the house and look around. Niklas wanted to go out there again too. At night.