‘D’you know what?’ she went on. ‘Let’s go to sleep now, and we’ll do the other stuff in the morning. It’s not the end of the world.’ I wonder how many times that’s ever been said, she thought.
Axel had only pretended to sleep, and as soon as Hanna had fallen asleep he crept up, got dressed, and slunk out the front door.
Maybe that was for the best, Hanna thought, as she heard the door click shut. Life would go on, with or without Axel, and she had school to think about in just a few hours’ time.
Must remember to call Magda, she thought before she fell asleep. To talk about that debriefing she wanted me to go to.
40.
On Thursday morning, eight days after the murder of Karl Danielsson, Lars ‘Sneaker’ Dolmander got in touch with his confessor, Superintendent Toivonen.
Sneaker had appeared in person in the police station. He refused to talk to anyone apart from ‘my old friend Toivonen.’ He had a hot tip to pass on about the armed raid out at Bromma, and Toivonen was the only officer in the entire force whom he trusted.
During the past ten years of the life of an addict in free fall, Sneaker had supported himself as an informant. There wasn’t a single criminal in the whole Western District that Sneaker hadn’t grassed up more than once, and with that in mind it was fortunate for him that he had taken an early decision not to deal with anyone but Toivonen.
These days he was too run-down to make a living from his own crimes. His pension was usually gone the day after he got it, and if he was going to survive until the next one, he had to sell out other people. New, and always ‘hot,’ tips, and since some of them really were as hot as Sneaker claimed they all were, he still had Toivonen’s confidence.
‘You’re looking lively, Sneaker,’ Toivonen said. Tattooed like a Brussels rug over his whole body. Thirty-three years old, and the fact that he was still alive was a minor miracle, Toivonen thought.
‘I’ve left off the heavy stuff,’ Sneaker said. ‘For the past year or so I’ve done nothing but smoke. Well, that and the drink, of course, but that counts as health food compared to all the shit I’ve put in my system over the years.’
‘Is that so,’ said Toivonen, who mainly subsisted on meat, fruit, and vegetables. When he and Niemi and the other blokes in the Finnish cavalry weren’t out asserting their roots, of course. Mind you, that was a while ago now, he thought.
‘I’ll keep it short,’ Sneaker said, with a businesslike nod. ‘You know that raid at Bromma? On Monday last week when they took out those two Securitas blokes?’
‘I’ve heard of it, yes,’ Toivonen said with a wry smile.
‘That evening someone killed Kari Viirtanen out in Bergshamra. Mad Kari, or Tokarev, as he was known. You know, after that Russian gun, Tokarev. The ten-millimeter automatic pistol he was always waving about.’
‘We have many names for the things we love,’ Toivonen said.
‘Anyway,’ Sneaker said, ‘there’s a link between Viirtanen’s murder and the raid out at Bromma.’
‘I’ve heard that too,’ Toivonen said with a smile. ‘Come on, Sneaker. Haven’t you got anything new for me?’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ Sneaker said, not about to give up. ‘Viirtanen was involved in the robbery out at Bromma. When the blokes from the security firm let off the dye capsules in the bag, he went mad. He told the driver to go back, then he gunned the guards down. Then him and the driver took off, abandoned the car and the money. No red notes to fuck up their lives. The heavies, the ones behind the raid, get mad at Tokarev and get rid of him that same evening. The driver’s probably joined him by now, and if I was you I’d have a look at that colored bloke you fished out of Ulvsundasjön last night.’
‘Yesterday’s news, Sneaker,’ Toivonen said, looking pointedly at the time. And he probably hasn’t got a clue who Akofeli was, he thought.
‘I thought as much,’ Sneaker said. ‘But now I’m getting to the point.’
‘I can hardly contain myself.’ Toivonen sighed.
‘You know that old accountant who lived on Hasselstigen? Danielsson, that was his name, Karl Danielsson, the one they did the saucepan dance with last Wednesday. There’s a connection between his murder and the raid out at Bromma.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Toivonen said. ‘Anyway, how come you know Danielsson?’
‘Met him out at Valla,’ Sneaker said. ‘He used to hang out with Roly Stålhammar. Stolly, you know. Your old colleague.’
‘So you know him?’ Toivonen said.
‘Do bears fuck in the woods?’ Sneaker snorted. ‘The first time he arrested me I was fourteen years old. I was dealing up on Karlavägen in the middle of town. Suddenly a car stops. And out pops a man big as a house. Grabs fourteen-year-old Sneaker by the ear and chucks me in the car. Ten minutes later I’m sat in Crime in Stockholm waiting for the old hag from Social to come and get me out. Fuck, I had an unlocked car waiting for me out in Östermalm. Mind you, I’d lost my stash, but that was easy enough for someone like me to sort out.’
‘So you remember Roly Stålhammar?’ Toivonen said.
‘One of the most decent cops I ever ran into. He even took me boxing a couple times when I was a lad. But that got all fucked up as well,’ Sneaker said with a shrug.
‘So you met Stålhammar and Danielsson out at Solvalla,’ Toivonen prompted.
‘That’s right,’ Sneaker said. ‘Last Wednesday. At about six o’clock or so. Just a few hours before Danielsson had a close encounter of the third kind with his own saucepan. Stolly told me I looked like shit. That I looked so bad that he didn’t even want to introduce me to an old school friend. That was Danielsson, of course. But even then he had a twinkle in his eye. The way he said it, I mean. Stolly and Danielsson seemed to be pretty cheerful, and Danielsson held out his hand and introduced himself.
‘ “Kalle Danielsson,” the old boy said, and it was pretty obvious that he’d had a few over the course of the day. If I’d been on the wagon myself, I would have fallen off just from him breathing on me. There was a lot of drink inside that man.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘ “Sneaker,” ’ Sneaker said. ‘What the fuck would you have said? If you were me, I mean?’
‘Sorry, stupid question,’ Toivonen said. ‘But what’s this got to do with the armed raid on the security van? What’s the connection between Danielsson and the raid?’
‘The blokes behind the raid. I don’t mean Tokarev and the one who did the driving. I mean the heavies. The ones who’ve already got rid of Tokarev and the driver because they fucked up so badly. Have you got any idea who they are?’
‘Yes, I daresay we’ve all got our ideas of who they might be,’ Toivonen said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Farshad Ibrahim,’ Sneaker said.
Right, Toivonen thought.
‘His crazy little brother, Afsan Ibrahim.’
Right again, Toivonen thought.
‘And then their fucking nasty cousin. That big bastard, Hassan Talib,’ Sneaker said. ‘Farshad Ibrahim, Afsan Ibrahim, Hassan Talib,’ he repeated.
Three out of three correct, Toivonen thought.
‘What makes you think they were behind the raid?’ he asked.
‘There’s talk,’ Sneaker said. ‘There’s talk, if you’re prepared to listen,’ he clarified, cupping his hand behind his ear.
There’s talk, Toivonen thought. He had already heard the same voices and could also work out one or two things for himself.
‘I still don’t get where Danielsson comes into the picture,’ he said.