Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

Thomas was breathing through his nostrils. The winter cold pushed down into his lungs. Filled him even though it was still warm in the car. He wasn’t going to bother commenting on whether Brogren was the murderer or not.

“I’m going to keep at it, in any case. I believe in our lead, even if it seems fuzzy right now. And there’s a particular lead we have to follow up on. We have to find Ballénius. He knows something, I can feel it. An old fox like that wouldn’t have acted the way he did at Solvalla if not for something special. He knows something.”

The Stockholmers were running around, harried as they made exchanges, returned Christmas gifts, and did post-Christmas shopping while, at the same time, everyone was trying to rest up and be on vacation. Thomas talked to Åsa a million times a day. She was sitting at home at Jan’s house with all the animals, bored. She was maybe going to spend New Year’s Eve with some friends and wanted him to come. He couldn’t say no to everything. Thankfully: what Åsa was most worried about was how she would hide the fact that she was staying with her brother-in-law from her friends at the New Year’s party. That felt like the biggest triviality ever.

Thomas’d scaled back work at the club while still doing his utmost to find facts on Bolinder. He spoke with cop acquaintances. Searched on the Internet. Asked Jonas Nilsson for help again—he was going to ask his older colleagues. Went to a library and asked to look through the newspaper archive. He asked around at the club. “Bolinder,” Ratko said. “Why are you so interested in him all the time?” After that, Thomas lay low at the club for a few days.

It was Sunday. High, clear blue sky, for once. The air was crisp. Thomas and Hägerström were standing outside the entrance to Solvalla. The day’s race was called the Silver Horse. It was a high-class V75 championship with a trophy statuette shaped like a royal silver horse as icing on the cake. The place would be packed with people. Ballénius ought to be there. This time, they wouldn’t lose him.

Agria pet insurance was still dominating the ad space. The excitement in the air was almost as thick as the mashed potatoes on the old guys’ steak platters. But there were fewer people outside than the last time Thomas’d been there—the colder weather was sending people indoors.

They worked their way through the outdoor crowd. Even though Thomas was certain that Ballénius wouldn’t be there, he wanted to be sure.

Ballénius wasn’t there.

They went into Ströget, the sports bar. Pretty much the same crowd with their jackets still on, just like last time. Definitely the same bacon chips in the bar. Mostly younger dudes here, downing burgers and beer. They wouldn’t find Ballénius here, he was certain.

Thomas eyed Hägerström; he looked nervous. Or else he was just tense, on alert. Double emotions: Thomas was grateful that the ex-IA guy was with him. At the same time, he was ashamed—hoped no old colleagues would see them together.

They moved on, up to the Bistro. The entrance was crammed with Finnish gypsies. Thomas pushed his way through. Walked up to the bar. He recognized the Danish restaurant boss with the beer gut whom he’d talked to last time. It looked like the beer gut’d swelled somewhat. He got the Dane’s attention. Asked his questions. The Dane shook his head—sorry, he didn’t know anything. Thomas asked for Sami Kiviniemi, the man who’d pointed Thomas to the right floor last time. But the Finn wasn’t there. So far, their Solvalla lead was worthless.

Thomas and Hägerström took the escalator up toward the Congress. The names of the horses that’d won the big championship were printed on the wall, year by year. Gum Ball, Remington Crown, Gidde Palema.

Before they walked into the Congress, Hägerström looked at Thomas.

“Are you armed, Andrén?”

He patted the front of his jacket. Felt the SIG Sauer through the fabric.

“Even though I’m just a traffic cop these days, I’m still the best shot in the Southern District.”

Hägerström smiled a little. Then he said, “It’s probably best if I stay by the entrance, right? You go in, because you’ll recognize him. If the old guy tries the same thing as last time, I’ll be a brick wall up here.”

Thomas nodded.

Hägerström continued, “And you call my cell as soon as you go in. It’ll be our own little radio that no one will look twice at.”

Hägerström seemed competent. Thomas tried to relax, walked into the Congress Bar and Restaurant. He held the phone in his left hand. Positioned himself at the top of the room. Tried to see down into the bleachers. Looked around. All the tables looked completely booked. He reported to Hägerström, “I don’t see him. But it’s big in here. Probably four hundred people at the tables.”

He began walking along the top row. His head constantly turned toward the tables farther down. People were loving the race, their attention was directed fiercely on the track. The voice over the loudspeaker in the venue sounded worked up: a high-odds horse was apparently about to win. Eighty feet farther off, he saw Table 118. Ballénius’s favorite spot. The place where Thomas’d found the old guy last.

Four people were sitting at the table. He could only see two of them head-on: a woman with massive lips that had to be fake, and a man in his thirties who was almost standing up in excitement over the action on the track. Thomas only saw the backs of the two others at the table. One of them could be Ballénius. Tall, thin.

He took a step closer. It would make things easier if the man didn’t turn around.

Closer. Thirty feet left. Thin, gray hair—it could definitely be him.

Closer.

He spoke to Hägerström, “I’m twenty feet away from a man who could be him.”

Thomas approached the table. Saw the guy head on.

Reminded him of Mr. Bean, except with gray hair.

It was definitely not Ballénius.

There were three reasons Mahmud took the job seriously: Jorge was a cool cat—Mahmud could feel it in his entire body. He and the Latino shared the same attitude, the same agenda. On top of that: Mahmud really wanted to fuck those Yugo cunts, show them that they couldn’t just play an Arab with honor any which way. There were rules, even for those who stood outside the law. Finally: it was mad exciting—an ill special-ops gig that could lead to some sick cheddar.

He’d been to see Erika Ewaldsson for the last time today. She’d led him into her office as usual. The mess, the blinds, the coffee cups—everything was the same as always. Except for one thing: she was speaking more slowly than she normally did. And she almost looked a little angry. Not like her—a pissy Erika sat still and didn’t peep. Not like today: babbled on, but still looked unhappy.

Then he had a different thought. Maybe she wasn’t pissed off. Maybe she was sad. Motherfucker, it sounded shadyish, but maybe she was gonna miss him. The longer he sat there and listened to her drone, the more obvious it became. She didn’t like that this was their last meeting. But it was even stranger: Mahmud felt funny too, like sad or something. Shit, Erika was kinda okay after all. He beat the thought away. Tried to picture Erika in front of him naked instead, coax his inner chuckle. She always wore baggy clothes. She wasn’t thin, but was she really that chunky? Her tits might still be nice. Her ass was wide, but maybe it gave her sick curves. No laughs—the opposite. Didn’t suit a G like him. But finally, he grinned to himself. Between her legs: she just had to rock a crazy Queen of Spades, major bush. Sooo Suedi.