Caroline Åberg - Stockholm Noir

— Human?

— I hope not. Would make a nice Sunday roast. Three kilos.

— Three kilos. Big roast. Bring it here and I’ll give it to the chef.

I button my coat and use my cop voice, joking in yet another familiar way

— What’s going on here?

— Nothing much, Branco laughs, his fat head rolling on top of his shoulders.

I leave Tucken and step out onto Götgatan, get in my Ford, and head off, through the rain, to work. My jaws are tense. I pop a couple pieces of chewing gum in my mouth. The alcohol warms me up from the inside; the speed cools me down from the outside.

A thick, low blanket of clouds has been pushing down on the city for weeks. The light never makes it through. I pull out a cigarette and open the window, but change my mind as the raw air slaps me in the face; I roll it up and keep going through the fog.

Holmén meets me in the hallway outside my office, his face even more red than usual, one of the many drunks on force.

— You’re late, he says.

— I’ve been on a stakeout.

— There’s another package.

— For me?

— Pretty disgusting.

— Define disgusting.

— Intestines, a liver, kidneys. It’s all been sent down to Linköping.

I close my eyes and shake my head slightly.

— What kind of sick bastard is this?

— Maybe you should find out.

— Of course.

I open my eyes and stare at the tall, thin man.

— I’ll do it for the meat. I want to know where he gets meat so cheap he gives it away.

Lame joke.

Lame laughter from Holmén.

The news reaches me around three in the afternoon the next day. I’m close to solving the crossword puzzle in Expressen when I hear shouting in the hallway. I finish my bathroom business and go out to see what it’s all about.

Holmén, redder than usual, babbles.

— Linköping says human, no doubt about it.

Two older men yawn, a younger talent opens his eyes wide:

— Dismemberment!

Holmén continues:

— And the murderer sends it all to Inspector Bengtsson! The third package contains parts of the back muscles and the left arm.

I march over to them. My boot heels click on the dull linoleum floor. Holmén cackles:

— Who do you think’s been murdered, Bengtsson? And who’s the murderer?

— Your mom. Both of them.

The two pale ones giggle with a hissing sound. Holmén turns even redder, lowers his voice:

— The boss wants to talk to you.

— I’ve heard that one before.

When I enter Superintendent Gunnarsson’s office he’s looking fresh in a black suit and tie, with his bare feet up on the desk and a pained look on his blurred face. I close the door behind me.

— Your feet hurt, darling?

— You can’t imagine, Aggan. Sit down.

He lowers his feet, straightens up in his chair, turns his computer so I can see the screen. On it there are photos of the three packages, my name clearly visible in print, and as a colorful detail: their insides — red, white, and grayish.

— Why you?

— I guess I have a secret admirer.

— My feet hurt like hell.

— You question some poor runt again?

— Those where the days.

— Always the feet.

He stands up and paces around the room a couple of times. It looks like he’s trying to rub the soles of his feet against the carpet.

— Some bastard killed another bastard and sends the leftovers to you. At any moment now Expressen will be calling. Can we try and solve this shit right away?

I shrug.

— Want a nip?

I say nothing.

He pulls out the bottom drawer of his desk and removes a bottle and two glasses. We clink our glasses and empty them.

— That felt good.

— Roof?

— If you have some.

He puts the bottle and glasses back, stuffs his feet in a pair of rubber boots that are too big, then we take the fire escape to the roof. I give him a cigarette from my pack of red Prince, he coughs after his first drag, spits something inhuman onto the tar paper between his feet, and puffs on:

— They’re complaining about me drinking at work.

— People have always been drinking at work. How else would you stand it?

— I can count on you, Aggan.

— You can count on me, Gunnarsson.

We look out over Kungsholmen — it’s hazy and raw and cold, the city hall tower is lost in the fog; I’m not wearing a coat over my sweater, and I’m shivering.

— Who the hell would want to send you pieces of human flesh?

— Who wouldn’t?

The superintendent pats me on the ass and laughs. I laugh too. We finish our cigarettes in silence. When we are on our way down again he mutters:

— Try and fix this, will you?

My cell phone rings. The display shows The ex. I hesitate but answer. The old man snorts on the other end. I hiss at him to calm down.

— It’s Peter.

— Yes, I figured that out.

— He ran off again.

— That’s what you usually say. But he’s not a minor anymore.

— He hasn’t been doing well lately.

— What do you want me to do about it?

— Look around? Maybe he’s back with the druggies. He’s your son too.

— I’ll see what I can do.

— He’s your son too.

— I heard you the first time. But honestly, I don’t give a shit about him, the same way he doesn’t give a shit about me.

— The two of you should talk.

I’m about to say something nasty, but realize it could be the speed that’s making me irritable and so I clench my jaws. After a while I hear a sigh.

— Why are you so curt, Aggan? Why don’t you come over for a coffee or dinner? I have wine.

— I’ll get back to you.

I kill the image of his sheepish face on the display with the push of a button. I finish my beer. Branco offers to fill it again; I place my hand on top of the glass.

— Never more than two glasses when I’m driving.

— How’s your family?

I shake my head and take out a cigarette. The bar owner continues:

— And the flesh packages? All over the news this morning.

— There’s probably one waiting for me right now.

— How come you’re so popular?

— No idea. But you have some friends from back when. Maybe you can check and see if they know anything?

— Not many left. Most of them have moved back home.

— But you know people. You can ask.

— I’ll ask.

— Times like these make you miss the old post office. We’ve tracked the four packages; they were all mailed from various tobacco and grocery stores in Stockholm suburbs, no obvious patterns, and no one who was caught on camera, except possibly this anonymous person you can see here on this beautiful Hollywood-style footage.

Superintendent Gunnarsson fiddles with his computer; the projector comes to life and shows a grainy black-and-white surveillance video from a small corner shop, to judge by the looks of it. A person draped in a large coat, with a baggy, knitted hood pulled up over the head, and large sunglasses leaves a package, pays cash, and exits. The whole time the person’s head is carefully turned away from the camera.

— What does the salesperson say?

— She doesn’t remember anything. Package not so heavy is what can remember, is about all the inspectors got out of her.

Gunnarsson pronounces the testimony with a heavy immigrant accent, which makes some of our colleagues in the room laugh and other sigh irritably. No one has anything to say until Holmén raises his hand.

— Sex? Age?

— Nothing.

— Maybe it’s a queer, Holmén says jokingly, so nervous his voice almost cracks.