Anders Roslund - Box 21 aka The Vault

I have to tell Lena.

Talk to me!

I have to do it.

I am still alive.

Dead!

You’re not alive.

You are dead!

Grens knew that he had kept them waiting for too long. Lang had to have a full body search. Every minute that ticked by reduced their chance of finding crucial remains of blood or DNA from Hilding Oldйus.

He had insisted on being present because he wanted to be in complete control until the man he hated was locked away. Ewert commandeered a patrol car, with blue light flashing. When he arrived at Berg Street, the building looked empty. He thanked the driver and took the lift to the cells. The surgery was at the end of the corridor and Ewert hurried past the rows of thick metal doors leading on to tiny cells; his limping footsteps echoed in the ugly, bleak place, where even the light seemed tired.

He had been to the surgery before to attend informal interrogations and meetings. It was properly equipped with a few impressive-looking pieces of electronic machinery, an examination bench pushed up against a wall, steel instruments lined up on a mobile table and a couple of electronic instruments; Grens had no idea what they were used for.

He scanned the room slowly.

All these people. He counted them. Ten.

Lang stood in the middle of the floor, his body lit by a powerful lamp. He was naked and handcuffed. Bulging muscles, shaved skull, oddly staring eyes. He looked up when Ewert entered the room.

‘You as well.’

‘What’s that, Lang?’

‘You want to see my dick too?’

Ewert just smiled. Trying to provoke me, are you? Can’t hear you. Not this time. My best friend just died.

He exchanged silent nods with the others. Four uniformed men, three guards and two technicians. All familiar faces.

He took note of the stuff on the bench, a pile of paper bags, one for each item of Lang’s clothing. One of the technicians, wearing transparent rubber gloves, was just putting a black sock in the last bag. His colleague was holding what looked like a tube-shaped lamp.

The forensic technician looked up. No more waiting about, Grens was here at last.

He turned on the lamp and directed it at Lang. Its blue light started a slow sweep from face to feet, but soon stopped at a possible spot of blood on the skin. The other technician picked up a sample on a cotton swab for later analysis. Carefully they went over the naked man’s big body, one part after another, looking for evidence that could make or break the case against him.

‘Hey, Grens. What do you think?’

Lang stuck his tongue out and thrust his pelvis backwards and forwards.

‘What d’you reckon? Every bloody time. Same thing. You all come over for a look.’

More action, faster now. Lang moaned and stuck his tongue out at the two nearest officers.

‘I mean, look at them. Not real policemen, are they? Grens, admit it. More like fucking Village People – be proud, boys. Be gay. Sing with me now, It’s fun to stay at the YMCA .’

Lang took a step forward, legs apart, still thrusting with his crotch. One of the two young policemen was thoroughly fed up by now. His breath came more quickly and he moved closer to Lang.

‘You there. Step back.’

Ewert stared angrily at the officer and didn’t look away until the man was back in his original position.

Then he turned to Lang.

‘You’re going down. For life this time. The sentence you should have had twenty-five years ago. We’ve got a witness.’

‘Life? For GBH? You’re kidding.’

One last pelvic thrust, another ‘Be proud, be gay’ and a smacking kiss.

‘Look, Grens. Fucking identity parades get you nowhere. You know that.’

‘And threatening behaviour.’

‘I’ve been cleared of that as well. Six times.’

‘Perverting the course of justice. That’s what we call it.’

Jochum Lang stood still again. The technicians glanced at Ewert, who nodded. Carry on. The bluish light started and stopped. Cotton swabs delicately mopping up DNA fragments in one of Lang’s armpits.

Ewert had seen what he came for. The lab report would be ready in another day or two.

He sighed.

What a bloody awful day.

He knew what he had to do next. He had to go, go to her, to Lena, bringing death to her home. For her, Bengt was still alive.

‘Hey, Grens.’

He turned. Jochum Lang was still standing there, stark naked in the middle of the room, while a technician prodded under his toenails.

‘Yes?’

Lang’s mouth pursed for a kiss.

‘So-o sad, Grens, about your old mate. I heard about the shoot-out in the mortuary. He isn’t with us any more, is he? Out cold on the floor? What a shame. You two got on so well. Just like you used to with that uniformed chick of yours. Life is tough, don’t you think? Eh, Grens?’

More smacking noises, little kisses in the air.

Ewert Grens stood very still, controlled his breathing, then turned on his heel and left.

It took them less than twenty-five minutes to reach Eriksberg, the suburb where Ewert had been only two days earlier. They were silent for the whole journey. Sven was sitting beside him, driving. He had phoned Anita and Jonas first to say he’d be even later than he had thought, so maybe they should have the birthday cake tomorrow instead. Ludwig Errfors was sitting in the back, as Ewert had asked him to bring tranquillisers and to be there, just in case. People react so differently when death knocks on their door.

Mentally, Ewert had still not left the police surgery. Lang had stood there naked and scornful, his mocking movements and all the rest taking him one step closer to a life sentence than before. Lang didn’t realise that if he continued behaving like all the other bloody thugs, that as long as he remained silent, and played the predictable interrogation game – denying everything or saying nothing whatsoever, lying – as long as he didn’t admit that he had at least roughed up Oldйus, he would be up for a murder as well. The bastard didn’t know that there was a witness who dared to speak up, threats or no threats. Ewert Grens was struck by how ironic it was that, right now, when they had finally found someone who was courageous enough to stand witness against Lang in connection with his violent crimes, he was on his way to tell Bengt’s wife about the death of her husband; another meaningless killing in the same building where Lang had been careless enough to be seen by the wrong person.

Anything. He would give anything not to be on his way to this person, who still didn’t know.

Ewert wasn’t really that close to her.

He had sat in their garden and their sitting room, talked and drunk coffee in their company once a week since they moved in, ever since Lena married his best friend. She had always been warm and friendly and he had responded in his way, as best he could, but they had never become close. It could be the age difference, or that they were simply too unlike one another. But they had both cared for Bengt, and shared love was perhaps enough.

When they pulled up outside Ewert sat in the car for a while and looked at the front of the house. Lights on in the kitchen and the hall, but the upstairs rooms were dark. She was probably downstairs then, waiting for her husband. Ewert knew that they usually had a late supper.

I can’t bear this.

Lena is in there and she knows nothing.

He is alive and well as far as she’s concerned.

As long as she doesn’t know, he’s still alive. He dies only when I tell her.

He knocked on the door. There were young children in the house and they might be asleep; with any luck they would be. When did children go to sleep? He waited on the gravel path, with Sven and Ludwig close behind him. She was slow in answering. He knocked again, a little harder, more persistently, heard her quick footsteps, saw her take a look through the kitchen window before coming to unlock the front door. He had been a messenger of death many times before, but never to someone he actually cared about.