‘I don’t believe in inbreeding,’ Chavez said darkly.
‘It doesn’t matter what you believe. It’s about passion that throws all common sense and principles out the window.’
‘Shut up and go on.’
‘I can’t do both,’ said Hjelm. ‘You’ll have to choose one.’
‘Go on,’ Chavez said even more darkly.
‘Carlstedt’s past is about as empty as his hard drive. Kerstin’s talking to his workmates at Kindwall’s in Hammarby harbour. He sold Fords. Used-car salesman. Especially used now.’
Chavez laughed, and said, in a silly voice: ‘“Would you buy a used car from this man?” I’m wondering most about Nedic myself. How the hell is it possible that he can live and work as an honest businessman when every single policeman in this country knows that he’s one of the leading drug dealers? Most of these dealers are underground, after all, but he’s playing a strangely precise double game. It seems to be built on an extreme, almost mafia-like loyalty. No one snitches on Rajko Nedic. That’s just how it is.’
‘What kind of legitimate business?’
‘Mmm,’ said Chavez knowingly. ‘A restaurant chain, for a change. Three restaurants. Great places to eat, apparently. One almost ended up in the Michelin guide. They’ve tried to go the Al Capone route, the back way, and do him for tax avoidance, but it doesn’t work. He runs that part of his business impeccably. The most law-abiding man in the restaurant world, according to the finance division.’
‘Could that be what this is about?’ said Hjelm, rubbing what he thought was the beginning of a bald patch.
‘You mean that some policeman has found a back route and is trying to get a little extra in their pocket? Yeah, sure. Except there doesn’t seem to be a back route. You said it yourself: what could one single policeman have found out that none of his colleagues have?’
‘What’s to say it’s a single policeman?’
‘The fact that a whole gang of criminal policemen sounds unlikely,’ said Chavez. ‘That’s it. It just doesn’t fit. Though it could be the porn police. That doesn’t sound unlikely. The whole Mediterranean shrimp thing was really ingenious. It’s an obvious lead.’
‘How’re the arms?’ Hjelm smiled evilly.
‘Both shoulders are out of joint, tibia’s cracked, spleen ruptured. They’re going to blow me up tomorrow morning. You can have the honour of scraping me from the walls of the station yourself.’
‘What a privilege. But does it really have to be one single policeman?’
‘Does it have to be a policeman?’ asked Chavez, standing up, stretching and walking over to the window which faced out onto the inner courtyard of the police station. ‘Maybe we’re focusing a bit too much on that. We shouldn’t let it blind us.’
‘No,’ Hjelm nodded, ‘no, of course not. But more? The weapons?’
‘Gang One had Russian Izh-70-300s. Do you want to hear the story about that pistol?’
‘No.’
‘After the Second World War,’ Chavez began, like a storyteller in front of a log fire, ‘the Red Army’s classic Tokarev pistols were changed. An engineer called Nikolai Makarov designed a pistol that was eventually accepted by Stalin. Still, production couldn’t start until after his death. In 1954, Izhevskij Mekhanikeskij Zavod started production of the apparently extraordinary Makarov pistol, which is still made today. After the Wall came down, the markets suddenly opened for the state-owned Izhevskij factory, and Russian pistols were hard currency. A new series, based on the Makarov, saw the light of day. The Izh-70 series. The Izh-70 and the Izh-70-100 use traditional Makarov ammunition, 9x18mm, with a magazine that holds eight and twelve bullets respectively. The Izh-70-200 and the Izh-70-300 are designed to use the more international Browning bullets, 9x17mm, eight and twelve respectively. In addition, there’s also the brand-new Izh-70-400, which has been specially made for the enormous American firearms market’s popular Parabellum ammunition.’
‘Unbelievably fascinating,’ Hjelm muttered. ‘Connection?’
‘Sure enough, it’s said to have turned up in the various Balkan wars. But, like I said, it’s… popular.’
‘The sub-machine guns then? Let me guess.’
‘No.’
‘Military arsenal?’
‘Yup,’ said Chavez, sitting down with a thud. ‘They’ve been traced back to a big arsenal in Boden where a great big break-in took place a year or two ago. Twenty-three standard-model sub-machine guns were stolen, as well as boxes and boxes of ammo. A feast for the eyes.’
‘Boden,’ Hjelm nodded. ‘I assume that Niklas Lindberg served there at some point during his military career.’
‘Both he and Bergwall did, actually. Bergwall did his service there. Lindberg was a cadet. If that’s what it’s called.’
‘No idea. More, more, more.’
‘Well,’ Chavez sighed deeply, ‘I’m going to work on the Nazi organisations. With Gunnar Nyberg as a backup, if it all works for him. Someone somewhere must know about this organisation, and someone somewhere must know what’s going to happen next. I don’t think this is the end. They’ve got the briefcase, they’ve got the money – or drugs, if that’s what this is about – but they’re going to do something particular with them, I’d bet my bloody life on it. So it’ll be like this: me and Gunnar working the Nazi racket, Arto and Viggo on Kumla, you and Kerstin the “policeman”. I don’t think it’s a good idea to go straight for Nedic, it’s never worked. Plus, it’s not him behind the Sickla Slaughter. It’s Niklas Lindberg and his gang. We’ve got to get them.’
‘Great,’ exclaimed Hjelm. ‘That’s that, then, Detective Superintendent. There’s just one thing missing. A pensioner by the name of Jan-Olov Hultin.’
‘Yeah, yeah. He can have some kind of therapeutic job. Basket weaving, maybe.’
18
JAN-OLOV HULTIN DIDN’T weave any baskets. He went straight for Nedic.
Why not? he thought as he parked the service Volvo he had just signed out on Granitvägen and strolled the last few metres through the most luxurious parts of a deserted, Midsummer Danderyd. The weather couldn’t make its mind up. At that moment, the threatening rain clouds had decided to take a break, drifted apart and exposed a confused sun which didn’t seem to know what it should do with its rays of light. They fell capriciously over the waters of the Edsviken inlet, glimmering sporadically, now here, now there, and this strange, unsteady sparkle had a hypnotic effect on the former pensioner. For a moment, he imagined that he was back on the other side of Edsviken, and that it was his lake, Ravalen, that was shimmering. He had once again failed to tell grass from weeds, made the customary arc around the innocent little plant with the lawnmower, and continued up the slope. No luxurious Saab had pulled up on the gravel driveway. No man, looking like a gravely criminal estate agent, had come to meet him. Life was as normal. A constant Sisyphean task.
The moment passed.
It wasn’t everyone who could call themselves a ‘former pensioner’. It struck him that it was probably one of the country’s most unusual titles. He would have to live up to it.
Why not? he thought, but not quite as recklessly as it might have seemed. The A-Unit had expressly left the question of Rajko Nedic open. Should they allow Nedic to remain ignorant of their knowledge of his involvement in the Sickla Slaughter? How would that make things better? Wouldn’t it be preferable to make sure that he toed the line and didn’t cause another, even worse slaughter? Wouldn’t it be better to show that they knew, so that he didn’t think he could do whatever he wanted?