Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

“Okay, Andrén, I’ll be brief.”

Thomas was tense as hell, ready for anything.

“What happened out there was a tad too much for little old Sweden.”

Thomas maintained his calm.

“Above all, it was a tad too much for you.”

One of the grandchildren in the photos looked like Sander.

“If it ever comes out that you were there in connection with some rogue investigation, or that you were the one who killed that crazy hostage-taker Brogren, you won’t be allowed to keep your job, not even part-time. And you’ll be charged with gross professional misconduct or something else bad.”

Thomas continued to sit in silence.

“You’ll be kicked out. Hägerström will be kicked out. A lot of other fucking good police officers will risk getting kicked out. You understand that, of course.”

Thomas leaned forward in his chair. “You don’t have to tell me things I already know. And there’s nothing that can be done about it, right?”

Ronander smiled. “There might be. I have a little suggestion. Why don’t we forget about the fact that you fired the shots? Most of the men who were out there are going to be very tight-lipped about what was going on, it was tumultuous, and no one actually saw you shoot, if I’ve understood things correctly. What’s more, two unknown perps were able to get away. So it can be arranged. We’ve arranged things like this before. And you’ll be the one gaining from it. You’ll get to keep your job. Not just that, we’ll make sure you get back to the Southern District, to your regular position. Hägerström will be happy too—he’ll stay at his job.”

Thomas understood that there was something more. “What’s the catch?”

Ronander’s smile broadened. “The catch? I don’t want to call it that. It’s more of an agreement. The preliminary investigation into the murder of Rantzell has really already been completed. Niklas Brogren’s alibi for the night of the murder was a bluff. What’s more, now his mother’s given us some new information, that Brogren came home drunk and was babbling about Claes Rantzell on the night of the murder. And we’ve analyzed the films, the photos, and the other documentation that we found at his house. It’s completely clear that Brogren was the one who murdered those other men this fall—Mats Strömberg and Roger Jonsson. They were regular, honest family men. Innocent. And this maniac killed them. And do you know what he did in his previous life?”

Thomas shook his head.

“He was a mercenary soldier. Contracted by one of those American private military companies. But that might not be of much interest. Anyway, everything points to the fact that Niklas Brogren killed Claes Rantzell. On top of that, add Mats Strömberg, Roger Jonsson, and Sven Bolinder. Four ordinary Swedish men. So, to put it simply, the preliminary investigation would’ve led to a prosecution, which would’ve led to a guilty verdict—another Swedish serial killer. So there really isn’t a catch. You don’t need to dig any deeper, you don’t need to continue your own little investigation. The case is closed. You get your job back and don’t have to face any consequences. Hägerström gets to keep his job. You stop poking around, because there’s nothing more to poke around in.”

There it was—the catch.

Back in the squad car. He tried to wrap his head around it all. Rantzell must’ve threatened to reveal the truth. That his testimony about the Palme murder weapon’d been a lie. That someone was behind it, someone who’d made sure he dreamed up that story about the weapon. Someone who now, many years later, had paid him hush money. But maybe Rantzell’d wanted more, or meddled in some other way. They were forced to get rid of him. The link was in the payment—and that was the one document he didn’t have. Possibly it’d been at Bolinder’s house. But Thomas was certain—it wasn’t there anymore. So, he’d accepted. Not right away, but after a few days. Not so much for his own sake as for Åsa’s and Hägerström’s. He needed his job in order to be happy, but he could’ve let it go all the same. He wasn’t going to say anything to Hägerström—he never had to know. What’s more, there was something to what Ronander’d said: everything did point to the fact that Niklas Brogren killed Rantzell. The thought settled after a few weeks—maybe there wasn’t a group behind it all, maybe there wasn’t any conspiracy.

That’s how it must be.

That was the logical answer. It was a relief.

Thomas looked at Ljunggren. Everything almost felt like normal.

He opened the door to his house. Heard Sander’s cooing from the living room. Felt joy. There was a letter on the doormat. He picked it up. Broke the seal with his finger. It was a picture of Sander. It looked like it’d been taken through one of the windows of their house. The boy was lying on a blanket on the floor. A huge smile on his face. Thomas turned the photo over. A short message on the back: Stop poking around.

Beshar was in Mahmud’s apartment for the first time. Rays of sun danced on the table in the kitchen. Beshar was preparing coffee. He’d brought the pot himself. With the coffee powder and lots of sugar. Stirred while it boiled. Always clockwise. Beshar always wanted to explain how he made coffee. Probably saw it as some sort of child-rearing principle.

He poured the coffee into the tiny cups.

“Wait, Mahmud. Always wait for the grounds to settle.”

There was a picture of Mom hanging on the wall.

Mahmud thought about the attack. Niklas’d gone berserk. Totally flipped out, started lining up the whores next to the johns. Then the first shot was fired. He didn’t have time to grasp what was happening. Babak started to pull Niklas down to the floor. Another shot rang out. Niklas crumpled. Mahmud and Babak ran. Through the house. Weird rooms. Paintings and carpets like in a fucking museum. He held the Glock tight. Hauled ass outta there. Heard the explosion. Hoped it wasn’t the man that Niklas’d strapped his bomb to.

Room after room. Paintings of fat ladies. Paintings of cities. Paintings that looked like nothing more than a few black streaks.

They reached the kitchen. The hole in the wall was black like the night outside. They could feel the cold wafting in. They stepped out. Niklas was still in there. It was his own fault.

Mahmud was panting like an idiot. His shoes felt like they were about to fall off.

The bulletproof vest weighed hundreds of tons.

He saw Babak four yards in front of him. Out in the snow. Back through his own tracks.

The hole in the fence. They crawled through. Mahmud was careful not to leave any evidence on the jagged wire.

Through the snow on the other side of the fence.

Down to the road.

Mahmud groped for the walkie-talkie in his pocket.

Got ahold of it.

Kept running.

He almost screamed to Robert and Javier. “It’s time to go. We’ve got the gear, but shit got crazy.”

Dad looked at him. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about how I could help Jamila buy the tanning salon. I’ve made some money lately.”

“I hope you did so legally.”

“No innocent people have suffered, Dad. I promise.”

Beshar said nothing. Just shook his head.

They were having a fika, as the Svens liked to say. Drinking coffee together. Mahmud thought the coffee was too sweet, but he didn’t say anything, Dad would take it personally. Beshar said that he’d been thinking about going to Iraq for a few weeks to visit family. Maybe Mahmud could come along. Just for a few weeks.

Mahmud got up. “I have something for you, Dad. Wait here.”

He went into the bedroom.

Crouched down. Peered in under the bed. Reached in.