‘Then they pick up Carlstedt; maybe they park their van outside the police station and wait for Paul and Kerstin to finish their interrogation. Maybe the six of them make off to their hiding place immediately, and go through their plan for the evening. They get to Sickla just before two, planting a micro-bomb on the way, and then they wait. At two, the Mercedes arrives. Somewhere nearby, the “policeman” is waiting. He probably hears the explosion. He realises it’s gone wrong and leaves. Lindberg, Bergwall, Carlstedt, Andersson, Sjöqvist and Kullberg go over to the blown-up car. Just like in Vukotic’s cell in Kumla, it’s a precisely measured explosion. It goes off right under the back seat of the car. There were three men talking to the “policeman” in Kvarnen, so they’re presuming it’ll just be those three coming again. One of them will be sitting in the back seat. He’ll probably have the briefcase, and since it’ll contain the money, it’s likely that it’ll be bombproof. And it is. The man in the back seat, 1A, is blown up. The two survivors are forced out of the car and placed either side of it, 1B by the passenger side, and the driver, 1C, by the driver’s seat. They’re frisked. Bergwall walks around the car and stands on the other side. Carlstedt takes the briefcase from the back seat and clips the chain with some bolt cutters which we’ve found, by the way. It gets messy here.
‘Something happens to make them lose their concentration. The weapons-fixated war criminals, 1B and 1C, have – and this has been confirmed by forensics – some kind of device in their jacket sleeves which means they can hide their Izh-70-300 pistols and whip them out in a flash. Like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. A firefight breaks out. 1B shoots over his shoulder and hits Bergwall in the eye. Carlstedt, who can’t get hold of his weapon because of the briefcase, chooses to run. 1C shoots him in the back. Carlstedt’s hit in the heart and dies at the very moment he reaches safety. 1C probably already had a number of bullets in him by that point. He keeps shooting anyway, and then drops down dead with five bullets in him. 1B is also on the floor, six bullets in him. Maybe dead, though probably still alive, since Niklas Lindberg (or maybe Sjöqvist or Kullberg) then goes over and puts eighteen bullets into him. A man wearing size 7 Reeboks takes the briefcase, and finds it covered in Carlstedt’s blood. It’s Kullberg, the smallest of them; he has size 7 feet. The one who’s shot and injured is Dan Andersson, Danne Blood Pudding, with AB negative blood. The amount of blood suggests it’s a serious injury, but he’s not in hospital anywhere, so if the group hasn’t split, if it’s planning something else, then Andersson’s still with them. If they didn’t just kill him, that is. Maybe he’s starting to be a burden by now.
‘So, the Sickla Slaughterers who are still fit and healthy are: Roger “Rogge” Sjöqvist, Agne “Bullet” Kullberg. And Niklas Lindberg, of course. What about on the other front, then? There are two other fronts. The “policeman” and Rajko Nedic. Will the “policeman” do anything? Most likely not. He’s probably waiting until Nedic’s got the money back, or maybe he’s demanding new, clean money. It’s not his fault that Nedic was careless, after all. Nedic isn’t careless. He hates the thought of being careless. He conducts his illegal business with clockwork precision. He manages to run an enormous drug business and seems to enjoy working openly as a legitimate restaurateur. Not much else can have gone wrong in his life. He’s probably fuming right now. But the situation isn’t the same any more, for Nedic or for the “policeman”. The “policeman” has ended up in a nightmare situation; he can hardly have predicted that five men would die for his money, and he can hardly be comfortable with the enormous police investigation focusing on his little transaction. Nothing can take place in secret any more. Nedic knows we’ve got him in our sights, too. He knows we know more than the media are claiming. He needs to find a solution which gets him his money back, punishes the bandits and makes the “policeman” happy. Otherwise, he could take out the “policeman”, who must realise that that risk has grown. He’s safest if he’s got a rock-solid insurance policy. Presumably he has. What must be happening right now is this: Gang Two is hiding from Nedic, he’s hunting flat out for them, and the “policeman” is nervous but passive. End of story.’
Hultin’s room. The high-school student, taken down a peg or two, facing his head teacher. And yet not quite. Not mutinous or career-driven. Nyet. A proud man. A proud man asserting his rights – actually, not even his rights – against supremacy.
Supremacy felt tired.
Jorge Chavez was Jan-Olov Hultin’s best find. His own, personal find. The rest of the A-Unit had been put together based on tips and advice from various quarters, but he had found Chavez himself. Working as Norrland’s only immigrant policeman, as he labelled himself, on a nightmare duty in Sundsvall. He had proved himself to be a real success. The most energetic policeman Hultin had ever come across. And now this – what was it? Insubordination. This direct refusal to obey orders. A fantastic find, the photographs, but then this incomprehensible refusal to reveal their source.
He looked at Chavez, waiting him out. Expecting him to talk any moment. Eventually, Chavez said: ‘It’s complicated.’
Nothing more. Hultin waited. It continued in the same fashion.
‘It’s a moral conflict. An ethical dilemma. The photos have helped us with the identification, we don’t need them any more. It’s a thing of the past.’