Anders Roslund - Box 21 aka The Vault

She was crying.

That man. Then seven others. Four more later. Twelve a day. The last one was coming just after half past six.

One hour’s rest. She lay on the bed in the room she thought of as hers.

It was in a pleasant flat, on the fifth floor in a nice block.

A couple of the men had called her Lydia. She had told them that that wasn’t her name, but they insisted that for them, that was what she was called. She knew now that Lydia was the woman who had been there before her and a lot of the men had been Lydia’s customers. She had inherited them from her.

Dimitri didn’t beat her so much these days.

He had said she was learning the ropes, she had to make more noises, that was what was missing, she had to groan when they pushed inside her, and whimper a little, with pleasure, of course. The customers liked noises; it made them feel they weren’t paying her to do it.

She only cried when she was alone. He hit her more if he saw her cry.

One hour. She had closed the door and would cry in peace for an hour. Then she had to smarten up and smile in the mirror and cup her hand over her genitals, as the two o’clock man wanted.

Ewert Grens had been back in his office for only an hour or so, but already he felt restless. He couldn’t concentrate on anything. He went to the toilet, got a coffee from the machine and asked reception to fix a pizza delivery for him, but that was that. Now, all that was left to him was his office.

It was almost as if he were waiting.

He listened to Siw Malmkvist’s warm voice and held her close, dancing with her in the tight space between his desk and the sofa.

He had no idea where Sven was and Еgestam hadn’t been in touch.

He turned up the volume. Soon it would be evening once more and he could hardly figure out how. His room was warm after a day of summer sunshine and he sweated as he moved to the rhythms of the Sixties.

Bengt, I miss you.

You pulled a fast one on us.

You see that, don’t you?

Lena knows nothing.

Not a thing.

You, who had her.

You, who had the children.

You, who had something!

He switched off the tape recorder and put the tape back in its box.

He looked around. No, not this place, not tonight.

He left, walked along the empty corridors and stepped outside into the fresh air, to the car left unlocked as usual. Settling in the seat, he decided to go for a drive. He hadn’t done that for a long time.

It was half past six and she had spread her legs for the twelfth and last time today.

He had been quite quick and he hadn’t wanted to hit her or anything, and no spitting. He had only penetrated her anally, but barely, and told her to whisper that it turned her on, so it hadn’t hurt much at all.

She showered for a long time, even though she had washed several times already. It was the best time for crying, when the water was pouring over her.

Dimitri had told her that she was to be fully dressed and smiling by seven o’clock, sitting on her bed. The woman who called herself Ilona, the one who had met them when they came off the ferry, was coming to see them, to check that they were all right. Dimitri explained that the woman still owned a third share of them, so her approval was important. For another month, anyway.

The woman arrived punctually. The kitchen clock: thirty seconds to seven. She was wearing her tracksuit with the hood up, just as before. She didn’t take it down as she passed the electronic locks and came into the flat.

Dimitri said hello, asked if she wanted a drink. She shook her head. She was in a hurry, just wanted to give the girls a quick once-over. After all, she did still have a stake in them.

When the woman popped her head round the door, the girl looked as happy as she could, just as Dimitri had instructed her. The woman asked how many men she had seen today and she replied twelve. That pleased her and she said that was good going for such a young Baltic pussy.

She lay down on the bed and cried again. She knew that Dimitri didn’t allow it and that he would soon come in and hit her, but she couldn’t help it.

She thought of the men who had forced themselves on her, the woman with the hood and that Dimitri had said that they had to pack their bags again as they were moving to another flat in Copenhagen, and all she wanted to do was die.

Ewert Grens had been driving aimlessly for almost two hours. He had started in the centre of the city, navigating the most heavily congested streets with their traffic lights and jaywalkers and imbeciles who punished their car horns. Later, he crossed to Södermalm via Slussen, made his way along Horn Street and Göt Street; the south side, which was supposed to be so damn bohemian, but to him this looked like any sad provincial dump.

Back to the northern side again and past the soulless facades in posh Östermalm, a loop round the TV building at Gдrdet and then a run on Vдrta Road to the harbour, where large ships were arriving packed with Baltic whores. He yawned. Valhalla Road next, endless roundabouts as far as Roslag Junction.

All these people. All these people on their way somewhere.

Ewert Grens envied them. He had no idea where he going.

He was tired. Just a few minutes more.

He drove through the city centre to St Erik’s Square in the slowing evening traffic. After drifting on along the smaller streets for a while, he turned left, past the Bonnier building and into Atlas Street. Downhill, left again. He parked in front of the door, suddenly surprised at the thought that less than a week had passed since he had come here for the first time.

He turned the engine off. How silent it was, as silent as a big city can be when the working day is over. All those windows, all those fancy curtains and potted plants. Places where people lived.

He sat in the car and time passed. Maybe a minute. Or ten. Or sixty.

Her back had been torn and inflamed. She had lain naked and unconscious on the floor. Alena Sljusareva had been screaming in the next room, hurling abuse at the man she called Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp.

Bengt had been on the landing. He had been waiting there for almost an hour. Grens recalled the scene perfectly, where Bengt had stood.

You must have known even then .

Ewert Grens stayed where he was for a little longer. Not time to leave yet. Another minute, several minutes, whatever it took for him to calm down. He had to go to the place he still called home, although he often had no wish to be there.

Another couple of minutes.

Suddenly the heavy door opened.

Four people came out. He looked at them, recognised them.

Only a couple of days ago, he had taken Alena Sljusareva to the port to ensure that she boarded a ferry that would take her over the Baltic Sea, back to Lithuania and Klaipeda.

They had got off the ferry when it docked on Swedish soil. The man was wearing the same suit he had previously, another time in Völund Street. Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp. As soon as he had cleared passport control, he turned round and waited for two young women – girls, in fact, of sixteen or seventeen. He held out his hand and demanded to have their passports, their debt. A woman in a tracksuit, with the hood pulled up over her head, had come forward to meet them and kissed them lightly on each cheek, the way people from the Baltic states do.

Now, they filed out of the door in front of him: Dimitri first, followed by his two new girls with bags in hand, and the hooded woman.

Grens watched them walk away.

Then he phoned the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was put through to the person he wanted and asked a few questions about Dimitri Simait.

God knows he had enough on his plate, but never mind. He wanted to know if that fucking pimp still had the right to claim diplomatic immunity and asked to find out who his female contact was.