Caroline Åberg - Stockholm Noir

I’m the only one who laughs. I don’t understand why the embarrassing fuck doesn’t give up. Same thing every time: I’m the only one who laughs.

When the sixth package arrives the whole headquarters takes on a half-heated, half-exhilarated atmosphere. And I’m at the center of it. I don’t like it. Wherever I go to get some peace and quiet, I am assaulted, everyone from Kling and Klang to little gay investigators from the sex division who want the dirt on the investigation. I almost avoid powdering my nose or having a beer altogether since all eyes seem to be on me.

I can’t get away either. Gunnarsson calls me into his office from time to time to ask me this or that, urges me to solve the case, looking for company over his gloomy bottle, wanting to share a cigarette on the roof. Holmén bustles about, trying to get the investigation’s sluggish, unruly team to cooperate.

No one has a clue what they’re doing.

There is surveillance on all post offices in the county. It’s expensive as hell. But the sixth package, which contains a big fat piece of a right leg, from the toes all the way up to a few centimeters over the knee, is delivered by hand. The interrogations with the delivery guy don’t amount to anything either.

They establish that each package weighs exactly 3.2 kilos. The murderer, if it is a murderer, is careful about the weight. I was the one who opened the first brown box in my office. It was wrapped in ordinary brown paper, with a hemp string tied around it. Inside the package there was a plastic grocery bag from Lidl, sealed with silver tape. Within that bag there was another clear plastic bag, containing the meat. There was hardly any blood; the body must have been thoroughly drained before it was dismembered.

The rest have looked the same. The ladies down at the post office are scared out of their minds. The most recent packages haven’t been opened here, they’ve been sent directly to Linköping.

This case could be an opportunity for me to show my colleagues that I’m not as useless as they often imply. It could give me a little shine before my retirement; not many years left. I can see the headlines: She Solved the Case of the Three-Kilo Murderer: Aftonbladet Has Het With Inspector Agneta Bengtsson.

I adjust my stockings, fiddle with the butt of my pistol in its holster, and leave my office, headed back to Tucken to see if Branco has found anything.

— Let’s see what we’ve got.

The man from internal investigations is small and thin and clean-shaven. He is dressed in a tight navy suit and a light blue shirt without a tie. His colleague is a younger woman, blond with a ponytail, navy wool sweater, pearl earrings.

I despise her instantly. As if the hatred I feel for all of her partners isn’t enough: those petty, sly police officers that go after their own, leave the rough stuff on the streets, and think of themselves so goddamn highly, shining knights of morale and equality.

Besides, the bitch just glows Upper Östermalm snobbism. I give her the evil eye; her neatly plastered face doesn’t flinch.

— As Inspector Bengtsson is the addressee for all seven packages, we have started an internal investigation.

— What am I under suspicion of, officer?

They look at each other briefly. He clears his throat and continues:

— All day yesterday and most of today we have been going through your files — all documentation, your jobs, and so on. And, well...

He turns his head and looks at his colleague. She can’t help smiling, the spoiled bitch. He remains serious and keeps going:

— We haven’t found any serious incidents or complaints from the people you’ve investigated and interrogated. On that point you seem to be doing a good job. A very fine job, even. You haven’t been accused of violence or other violations more than a time or two, which is uncommon. Most other colleagues on the force tend to have some clients who find themselves treated badly during their early years. But you’ve made it through without incident.

— Is that bad?

— We’re looking for people from your past who might be holding a grudge, who might want revenge. But no matter where we look, we can’t find any obvious enemies. In fact...

He turns to his colleague again. She puts her hand over her mouth to cover up her smile. But her eyes are pearly with laughter. Those two have something going on. The hatred shoots up through my body. The man looks at me again.

— Like I said, the fact is, we haven’t found much at all. We can’t seem to find that you’ve achieved much of anything worth mentioning during your twenty-eight years on the force.

I clench my fist so tightly my nails dig deep into my palm.

— You’ve been part of a great deal of investigations, but we haven’t found anything that indicates you were instrumentally involved in any of them. You’ve solved a few cases, but they’ve been remarkably simple. It’s beyond both of us how you ever became an inspector, how you advanced from patrol lieutenant at all.

I clench my jaws so tight I can feel a tooth chip in the lower right side of my mouth. It feels like it cracks straight through to my jawbone. The pain shoots out from my forehead all the way down to my cunt and it’s so sharp I want to scream, but I don’t let out a sound. The man doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.

— So obviously we’re wondering if you yourself might have any clues that you could help us out with.

I manage to utter:

— I’ll think about it.

I get up so quickly my chair falls onto the floor with a loud bang. The two civilians jump up; the man makes a quick note. I march out into the hall, straight to the restroom, lock the door, and take out my wallet. My heart is racing, I’m so furious I almost don’t manage to get the zipper and the little bag open. But once I can taste the bitter powder that smells like detergent on my tongue, I say to myself: You’ve got to get through this, Bengtsson, you’ve got to get through this. But first: the dentist. Fucking lousy teeth.

New day, new flesh. Eight packages now. Many pounds of flesh for the Jew.

I’m called to the superintendent’s office again. He’s barefoot this time as well, rubbing his soles against the carpet like a cat with dirty paws. We share a drink, he pats me on the butt; I have no idea why he does this.

— Tell me again what we know, Aggan.

— Man. Dead a week or so. Dismembered and packaged in pieces of 3.2 kilos each. So far there are eight packages, all addressed to me for some goddamn reason. No tattoos, distinctive birth marks, or scars. Dismembered with a sabre saw, according to Linköping. Hardly a professional tool: laciniated edges, torn-up veins and nerves, unraveled muscle fibers, splintery bones. No doctor or hunter, I’d say.

— No. So not a real pro, that is. Or maybe it’s a real pro who wants to hide it. I just wish we could smoke in here.

— Roof?

It’s raining. Those brownish-gray clouds are heavier than ever; the November air is hardly breathable, it’s too heavy and packed with darkness.

— They’re complaining, you know.

— The internals?

— A lot of talk. You’re a good lady, Aggan. Never disappointed me.

— What do they want?

— Yeah, well. I’ve asked myself that question many times. What do the internal investigators want?

— They have nothing on me.

— That’s the thing.

— You know I’ve worked hard all these years.

— Of course, Aggan.

— I can do this.

Superintendent Gunnarsson’s eyes usually look like two oysters rotting in their shells. But now they tremble and reveal something that could resemble life.