Caroline Åberg - Stockholm Noir

Holmén continues up on the platform:

— And as many of you have heard, the thirteenth package arrived today by taxi. Despite all our measures the deliveries make it through every time. This time the bag contained a couple of... hrm... buttocks. A couple of hairy, I mean heavily hairy buttocks, if that can be of any help.

Everyone in the room howls with laughter. Unfortunately, Holmén wasn’t trying to be funny this time.

I squirm in my seat. I can’t wait to get to the restroom.

I go back out to the Slaughterhouse area. Last time I didn’t see anything of interest. Why would the murderer be here? Because he’s cutting up meat? Far-fetched. But I don’t have any better clues than the postcard.

I park my Ford outside a lunch restaurant for slaughterhouse workers. Their white coats are stained in a range of colors, from bright red to brownish black.

I go in and order a hamburger with fries and a local beer. I sit down next to three slaughterers of various ages eating away. I nod at them, they nod back.

— A real beer would’ve been nice, I mutter mostly to myself.

— That’d be a hell of a treat, the oldest of the slaughterers adds, and smiles like crazy.

When I reach over the table to grab the ketchup I catch the same slaughterer staring at my breasts. The adrenaline hits my bloodstream like a firecracker; the speed has shaved off my impulse control.

— What the hell you looking at? I hiss. Don’t you have a wife at home?

— W-wife? he stutters, confused.

— Get your eyes the hell away from my boobs, you goddamn buffoon.

— I wasn’t...

The two other slaughterers don’t know what to say. They stare at their plates with embarrassed looks on their faces and keep eating. I’m sweating nearly as much as when I was going through menopause; I’m completely soaked. Sweat, paranoia, it’s all because of the speed.

— I wasn’t looking at your breasts, the guy manages to say.

Suddenly I get it. I laugh.

— Sorry. Police. Don’t worry.

— Oh, Jesus fuck.

He’s so relieved he almost screams.

— I thought you were a thief.

Everyone at the table laughs; I show my holster and the badge. The youngest of the slaughterers, he can hardly be more than twenty, straight out of some agricultural high school, looks at me with a pensive glance.

— I think I know you, but I don’t know from where.

— I’ve been on TV a few times lately.

— Yeah, maybe. I’ve seen you somewhere. I’m pretty sure.

The oldest one:

— How come you been on TV?

— The dismemberment case.

Everyone around the table starts babbling at once. I interrupt them:

— I got a tip that has to do with the Slaughterhouse area. If you hear of anything, call.

They promise to do so. When I’m about to get up the youngest one asks:

— Can’t be much left now?

— Left of what?

— Of the body.

— Maybe not.

— He’ll save the head for last, right?

— Who the hell knows? And why would you think it’s a he? Why not a she? Or a whole gang of them?

I speak with authority. The youngest one shrinks, impressed, but still asks:

— What do you think will happen when all the pieces are sent?

I shrug.

— Hopefully nothing.

— Are you sure we haven’t met somewhere? You look so familiar.

— Are you hitting on me, punk?

— They said they would fire you if they could, that you’ve been wasting resources for years that should have been used for preventing crime.

The memory of the blonde with the ponytail and pearl necklace causes me to jerk. I’m afraid I’ll bite through another crown, so I relax my jaw and take a deep breath.

— I don’t give a shit. What’s your take?

— You’re a good girl, Aggan. I like it when your lips are slightly parted like that. It’s sexy.

— You’re twenty years late, asshole.

Gunnarsson cackles and rubs the soles of his feet against the carpet. He circles the room before he sits back down. He’s just about to bend down to open the bottom drawer when the door is flung open and he sits back up. One of the secretaries is standing there looking at me.

— There’s an important message for you.

— Again?

— It’s your ex-husband. He’s trying to reach you.

— No news there.

— He wanted me to let you know that your son still hasn’t come home.

— That’s very nice of you, sweetheart.

I glance at Gunnarsson; he rolls his eyes. The secretary leaves, the bottle is brought out.

— What was today’s Christmas present?

— Most of the left arm. No tattoos or visible scars. I can’t see why it’s so hard to find out who the victim is.

— I suppose he’s not that greatly missed. Any news concerning the DNA from the bottle?

Gunnarsson nods while pouring the glasses.

— Sure, it’s almost complete. But no hits.

I slip my flannel nightgown over my head, swallow three Imovane with some cheap scotch blend, and get into bed. Suddenly my cell phone buzzes with an unknown caller.

— Bengtsson. Who the hell is calling this late?

— It’s Svante.

— Svante who?

— Svante Witha P.

— The hell do you want?

— I got a postcard. I think it’s for you.

I sit up with a start. I’m dizzy.

— There’s a picture of Globen on it.

— I don’t care what the fucking picture is. What does it say?

— It says, Kylhusgatan 19 pieces basement .

— Kylhusgatan 19 pieces basement ?

— That’s what it says. And it’s addressed to you.

— I’ll pick it up tomorrow.

I end the call and put the phone down. Finally a concrete tip. I check the address: the Slaughterhouse area. It’ll be next day’s outing.

The pills shut my head down; I drift off to sleep. If you can call it sleep. I wake up a hundred times during the night and toss and turn, uneasy images and dreams.

In the morning my nightgown is bunched in my armpits, and I find my sheet on the floor, twined like a rope, soaked in sweat.

There’s something unhealthy about the atmosphere when I force open the basement door at Kylhusgatan 19. I have strengthened my nerves with some nose candy and a few mouthfuls of whiskey, but my bowels keep rumbling and my heart beats a never-ending drumroll. The Slaughterhouse area is submerged in a brownish fog; each breath I take is like a little trickle of rain in my pipe.

The few slaughterhouse workers I see are hurrying past to get inside. But around this house, which appears to be an abandoned old redbrick slaughterhouse with a broken sign on the façade spelling, MEAT SAUSAGE PATÉ , there’s no one.

The lock is rusty, but finally I manage to get it open. Behind the green door there’s a concrete corridor; I turn the switch and one of the four fluorescent lamps in the ceiling flickers and starts glowing unevenly. I pull out my gun. I realize I’ve never pulled it out before while on duty, except a few times on the shooting range in the beginning of my career, but that doesn’t really count. At home I’ve done it a number of times, drunk, in front of the mirror, or while I’ve been watching a suspenseful action movie, pointing it at the bad guys on the screen.

Now I can feel its weight in my hand. I cock and load it. I avoid putting my finger on the trigger; don’t want to shoot myself in the leg. I’m trembling like a motherfucker.

It smells of old blood and rotten organic waste. At the far end of the dirty corridor there’s a steel door, it looks like an entrance to one of the old shelters from the Cold War. I unbolt the door and push the heavy thing open. It squeaks its way into the darkness.