— Why you?
— I guess I have a secret admirer.
— My feet hurt like hell.
— You question some poor runt again?
— Those where the days.
— Always the feet.
He stands up and paces around the room a couple of times. It looks like he’s trying to rub the soles of his feet against the carpet.
— Some bastard killed another bastard and sends the leftovers to you. At any moment now Expressen will be calling. Can we try and solve this shit right away?
I shrug.
— Want a nip?
I say nothing.
He pulls out the bottom drawer of his desk and removes a bottle and two glasses. We clink our glasses and empty them.
— That felt good.
— Roof?
— If you have some.
He puts the bottle and glasses back, stuffs his feet in a pair of rubber boots that are too big, then we take the fire escape to the roof. I give him a cigarette from my pack of red Prince, he coughs after his first drag, spits something inhuman onto the tar paper between his feet, and puffs on:
— They’re complaining about me drinking at work.
— People have always been drinking at work. How else would you stand it?
— I can count on you, Aggan.
— You can count on me, Gunnarsson.
We look out over Kungsholmen — it’s hazy and raw and cold, the city hall tower is lost in the fog; I’m not wearing a coat over my sweater, and I’m shivering.
— Who the hell would want to send you pieces of human flesh?
— Who wouldn’t?
The superintendent pats me on the ass and laughs. I laugh too. We finish our cigarettes in silence. When we are on our way down again he mutters:
— Try and fix this, will you?
16
My cell phone rings. The display shows The ex. I hesitate but answer. The old man snorts on the other end. I hiss at him to calm down.
— It’s Peter.
— Yes, I figured that out.
— He ran off again.
— That’s what you usually say. But he’s not a minor anymore.
— He hasn’t been doing well lately.
— What do you want me to do about it?
— Look around? Maybe he’s back with the druggies. He’s your son too.
— I’ll see what I can do.
— He’s your son too.
— I heard you the first time. But honestly, I don’t give a shit about him, the same way he doesn’t give a shit about me.
— The two of you should talk.
I’m about to say something nasty, but realize it could be the speed that’s making me irritable and so I clench my jaws. After a while I hear a sigh.
— Why are you so curt, Aggan? Why don’t you come over for a coffee or dinner? I have wine.
— I’ll get back to you.
I kill the image of his sheepish face on the display with the push of a button. I finish my beer. Branco offers to fill it again; I place my hand on top of the glass.
— Never more than two glasses when I’m driving.
— How’s your family?
I shake my head and take out a cigarette. The bar owner continues:
— And the flesh packages? All over the news this morning.
— There’s probably one waiting for me right now.
— How come you’re so popular?
— No idea. But you have some friends from back when. Maybe you can check and see if they know anything?
— Not many left. Most of them have moved back home.
— But you know people. You can ask.
— I’ll ask.
15
— Times like these make you miss the old post office. We’ve tracked the four packages; they were all mailed from various tobacco and grocery stores in Stockholm suburbs, no obvious patterns, and no one who was caught on camera, except possibly this anonymous person you can see here on this beautiful Hollywood-style footage.
Superintendent Gunnarsson fiddles with his computer; the projector comes to life and shows a grainy black-and-white surveillance video from a small corner shop, to judge by the looks of it. A person draped in a large coat, with a baggy, knitted hood pulled up over the head, and large sunglasses leaves a package, pays cash, and exits. The whole time the person’s head is carefully turned away from the camera.
— What does the salesperson say?
— She doesn’t remember anything. Package not so heavy is what can remember, is about all the inspectors got out of her.
Gunnarsson pronounces the testimony with a heavy immigrant accent, which makes some of our colleagues in the room laugh and other sigh irritably. No one has anything to say until Holmén raises his hand.
— Sex? Age?
— Nothing.
— Maybe it’s a queer, Holmén says jokingly, so nervous his voice almost cracks.
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.
14
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.
13
— 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.