Never Fuck Up: A Novel (75 page)

Mahmud got up. “I have something for you, Dad. Wait here.”

He went into the bedroom.

Crouched down. Peered in under the bed. Reached in.

Pushed some plastic bags to the side. Looked at them again. Recognized them. They were the bags that he’d taken from that basement when he’d been looking for traces of Wisam Jibril. There was just a bunch of documents in them. Looked like financial stuff. He didn’t even know why he’d saved them. Whatever—he’d clean up someday when he had the time. Throw out all the crap.

He reached farther in under the bed. Found what he was looking for—the small green box he’d bought on an auction site online. In silvery lettering:
SANTOS, CARTIER
.

It was a present for Dad.

The watch would look like new when it came in an original box.

He held it in his hand for a few seconds.

Dad’s idea wasn’t bad at all—disappearing to the home country for a while. Could be just what he needed.

*  *  *

The forest-lined cemetery felt enormous. Marie Brogren’d arrived too early, before the chapel’d even opened, so she went for a walk.

So many graves. Names of people and families who’d lived their lives. Maybe some in chaos, but most of them in relative peace. They didn’t harbor terrible secrets. Not like Niklas. Not like her.

The sky was gray, but she could glimpse the sun behind the trees—like a bright spot on a dull piece of fabric. She didn’t know if anyone would come. Maybe Viveca and Eva from work. Maybe the cousins: Johan and Carl-Fredrik and their wives. Maybe some other relative. Maybe Niklas’s old classmate Benjamin. But she hadn’t arranged anything after. There wasn’t enough money for that.

She thought about the time they’d had together since he’d come back. Even if things’d gotten weird a few months ago, she was still happy that he hadn’t died down there, in the sandbox, as he used to say.

Why was death what people feared most in life? Those who’d been
in her situation knew that was all backward. To live—to survive—was worse. Especially when it felt like it was your own fault that things ended up the way they did.

It was still unclear how it’d all happened. A policeman—Stig H. Ronander was his name—had come over to her house. Tried to tell her that Niklas’d committed some sort of robbery and that he’d been shot there, probably by his cronies. The policeman also explained that Niklas with all certainty would’ve been convicted of the murder of Claes Rantzell. He expressed his regrets for her loss, both of them.

Deep inside, she’d always known it would end in violence.

Marie approached the chapel. She could see Viveca and Eva from far away. It felt good that they’d come after all. She straightened her coat. It was cold out and it would be nice to go inside.

Three other women were standing a few yards from her colleagues. Marie didn’t recognize them. She came closer. Were they some distant relatives? No, she really didn’t recognize them. Maybe they were friends of Niklas’s.

They looked strange. Certainly not Swedish. Didn’t walk toward her like Viveca and Eva’d started doing. They must be in the wrong place. Because they couldn’t be people Niklas had known, could they?

Things went pretty much as she’d expected, with the exception of the three unknown women and without Benjamin. Her, Viveca, Eva, the cousins, and their wives. And then the priest, of course.

The priest talked about human vulnerability. How every person adds something to the world, no matter what. Marie thought about the last thing he’d said. To add something to the world. To contribute. She didn’t know what Niklas’d contributed, but she was sure it was something.

She knew what she herself had done. What was strange is that it’d taken the police several months to figure out that Claes was the one who’d been murdered down there. She’d never understood why. He couldn’t be unknown in their registries. The policeman, Ronander, had said something else strange: “We apologize that everything took so long. But Claes Rantzell was very difficult to identify—he didn’t have teeth or fingerprints, actually.”

The images haunted her thoughts. How she’d gone downstairs that night on her way to the laundry room. How he’d appeared, in the entryway, outside the elevator. Terribly high on something. Much worse than alcohol. More like he was sick. He’d asked her for help, told her that someone’d poisoned him. Someone who didn’t want it all to come out. Doing laundry wasn’t actually allowed this late, but she didn’t care. The building was quiet, except for his whining. They hadn’t seen each other in several years. What the hell was he doing here? Why was he coming to her? After everything he’d done. This was the only place he could flee to, he said. The only place where they wouldn’t find him. They’d managed to inject him with something. He needed her help. It was too much for her. She steered him out toward the entrance to the building. He staggered. Vomited. Fell toward the set of stairs leading to the basement. She opened the door. Tried to push him in front of her. He didn’t seem to understand what was happening. The door slammed shut behind them. The basement—where Niklas used to spend time as a child. Everything welled up in her. The memories, the pain, the humiliation. She was almost shocked by what she felt. She pushed him again.

Why hadn’t he had teeth or fingerprints? Now in retrospect, she thought that maybe “they,” the ones he’d been talking about, had found him in the end.

He’d swayed.

She’d kicked his shins. Punched him in the stomach.

He’d doubled over.

She’d kicked him again.

Punched, kicked.

The sequence was played over and over again in her head.

His face.

Her rage.

Hedda for being wonderful and for all your invaluable help.

Mamma for always telling me about the people you meet who like my writing.

Pappa and my bro, Jacob, for all the tips and support—without you this wouldn’t work. We support one another.

All my buds and family who read this book and made comments. Lasse M. for great information about the police. The boys in the jailhouse for facts. Mr. Eriksson for good details.

Annika, Pontus, and Anna-Karin at Wahlström & Widstrand for your phat support. Sorry if I’m stressed out sometimes—a lawyer’s duty calls.

Månpocket for doing fantastic work. Salomonsson Agency for doing a magical job—now we take the world.

Sören Bondesson for kicking me back into action once again.

All of you who read the last book and encouraged me to write another one.

Jack for being alive. The joy you bring to our lives defies description.

Jens Lapidus is a criminal defense lawyer who represents some of Sweden’s most notorious underworld criminals. He lives in Stockholm with his wife.

Also available in eBook format by Jens Lapidus

Easy Money
• 978-0-307-90682-3

Please stayed tuned for the third book in the Stockholm Noir Trilogy, due out in September 2014

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