Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

“Not much. I think it’s outside England. Isn’t it one of those tax havens?”

“Yes, and more than that, it’s a secrecy haven too. Companies with accounts on the Isle of Man usually want to hide something. It’s difficult to find out who they belong to because there is complete bank secrecy.”

“Very suspicious.”

Hägerström kept on smiling. “You can say that again. But so far it’s not any shadier than a lot of the other stuff we’ve seen. But, later, Dolphin Leasing paid an invoice to a company registered in Sweden called Intelligal AB for the exact same sum of money as the payment from the Isle of Man. The account number on that invoice is an account with the Skandia Bank. I recognize those kinds of accounts. It’s a private account.”

He let his last word hang in the air.

Thomas got worked up. Analyzed, connected the dots in his head: a large sum is paid from a secret offshore account to a company in Sweden that then pays an invoice to another company whose account is actually held by a private person.

Thomas’s big question: “Whose Skandia Bank account is it?”

“Guess.”

Two hours later. Thomas called Åsa and apologized—he was going to be super late. He tried to explain. Something’d come up at work that was just too important. She said she understood, but still, she didn’t. You could tell by her voice.

He and Hägerström’d gone through as many documents as they’d had time for. Tried to find information about who or what company the account on the Isle of Man belonged to. They couldn’t find anything. They just had to accept it—the shit wasn’t here. They saw the payment, the connection to Rantzell. But the essential part was missing—who’d paid.

“What we should really do is search Bolinder’s house,” Hägerström said.

Thomas looked at him quizzically. “But we don’t have probable cause to believe that any crime was committed by him yet, do we?”

“No, but one of the auditors who I scared a little told me that Bolinder is a control freak. Apparently, he saves copies of everything at his house. And he meant everything: every single document that has been issued is, according to the auditor, filed in Bolinder’s private archive. That old fox doesn’t leave anything to chance.”

Thomas felt a lurch in his gut. He knew what he had to do.

Tonight.

Expressen —evening newspaper

December 30

MAN SUSPECTED OF MURDERING PALME WITNESS ESCAPED FROM DISTRICT COURT. The hearing in Stockholm’s District Court had to be cancelled. The 29-year-old man made an extraordinary escape from the District Court today by leaping through a window. The police are now issuing a warning to the public.

The man was detained with probable cause for the murder of Claes Rantzell, previously Cederholm, one of the key witnesses against Christer Pettersson in the Olof Palme trial. It was today, December 30, that the man was supposed to go to a hearing in the Stockholm District Court. He had been detained for about four weeks and the District Court was supposed to decide whether or not he would remain in custody.

No handcuffs

For some reason, the man was not forced to wear handcuffs in the courtroom. The hearing took place on the ground floor of the building.

When the spectators had left the room, the man rushed to his feet and broke a window in the courtroom. When the detention officers tried to stop the man, he stabbed one of the officers with a steel pen. He then disappeared in the direction of the Rådhuset subway station.

The detention staff is defending itself with the claim that suspects’ handcuffs are always taken off during hearings and that there did not appear to be a reason to make a different assessment for this man.

Expressen has tried to reach the District Court for comment as to why the hearing was held on the ground floor.

The police issue a warning

The county police are now issuing a warning to the public. The man is also suspected of two other murders. According to the police, he is armed and may be very dangerous.

The apartment felt overstuffed with people. But really, only Mahmud, Rob, Javier, Babak, and two of Javier’s buds were there. On the stereo: some monster hit by Akon. On the TV: MTV on mute. On the table: a bottle of bubbly in an ice bucket, a transparent baggie filled with weed, and Rizla papers.

Mahmud should have felt overjoyed—his boys, the music, the smokes, the champagne. The mood. New Year’s Eve was gonna be top of the line. They were hitting the town later, were gonna snort the snort, party the party, nail bitches—rock the piranha race straight up. Hump in the New Year so hard the chicks wouldn’t be able to walk till Saint Knut’s Day, or whatever that Sven shit was called.

Still: he’d wanted to do the hit against the Yugos and the old pervs. Jorge’s story’d got him going. Niklas’s planning’d felt legit, like a real war. There was gonna be an attack, a massive guerrilla ambush. A hard-core invasion—on Million Program terms.

But Niklas’d disappeared. Mahmud was angry as hell. The elite soldier guy could go fuck himself—he wasn’t so elite after all.

He went into the kitchen. Brought out the champagne glasses.

Babak smiled. “Ey, brother, you’re doing good. Not just an ice bucket, I see you got yourself real glasses now too.”

Mahmud popped a bottle. It was only seven o’clock, but he didn’t plan on waiting with the bubbly.

Rob laughed. “You stacking them bills, or what?”

Mahmud nodded. Poured for the guys.

“I’m working double. But fuck, man, not for much longer.”

“Why, man? You deal, you watch the whores. I think it sounds like a perfect combo, like Big Mac & Co.”

“Cut it, Twiggy. I’m gonna quit the whores. That shit’s wack. Skank wack, that’s all it is.”

Babak set his glass down. Looked at him.

“ Habibi, I don’t get you. You get to work with easy pussy all day. You can do whatever you want to them. Double team, triple team, hat trick.”

“Man, I don’t wanna hear it. Hookers, that’s some loser shit.”

Babak shook his head. Turned to Rob instead. Mahmud pretended like he didn’t hear—thought about Gabrielle instead, the chick he’d banged this fall when things’d gotten embarrassing. He was gonna forget that now. Party. Hopefully get between the sheets. With someone who wanted it.

The night rolled on. The clock struck eight. Babak was holding court. Bullshitting about new blow schemes, ideas for CIT robberies, bouncers he knew downtown, the new Audi R8 super car that he’d test-driven before Christmas.

Robert laughed louder and louder. The bubbles were starting to work their magic. Javier and his buddies were talking amongst themselves, half the time in Spanish.

Mahmud heard a sound that stood out from the general din. Not from the music. Not from anyone’s cell phone. Not from outside the window. He understood what it was: someone was ringing his doorbell. He got up.

The speakers were blasting top-shelf Timbaland.

Babak yelled over the music, “Who’s coming?”

Mahmud shrugged. “No idea. Maybe one of all those bitches you’re talkin’ about.”

He peered through the peephole. The hallway outside was dark. He couldn’t see shit.

It was eight o’clock on New Year’s Eve—who wouldn’t turn the lights on in the stairwell? He remembered how Wisam Jibril’d shown up at his dad’s apartment on that summer morning.