I despise her instantly. As if the hatred I feel for all of her partners isn’t enough: those petty, sly police officers that go after their own, leave the rough stuff on the streets, and think of themselves so goddamn highly, shining knights of morale and equality.
Besides, the bitch just glows Upper Östermalm snobbism. I give her the evil eye; her neatly plastered face doesn’t flinch.
— As Inspector Bengtsson is the addressee for all seven packages, we have started an internal investigation.
— What am I under suspicion of, officer?
They look at each other briefly. He clears his throat and continues:
— All day yesterday and most of today we have been going through your files — all documentation, your jobs, and so on. And, well...
He turns his head and looks at his colleague. She can’t help smiling, the spoiled bitch. He remains serious and keeps going:
— We haven’t found any serious incidents or complaints from the people you’ve investigated and interrogated. On that point you seem to be doing a good job. A very fine job, even. You haven’t been accused of violence or other violations more than a time or two, which is uncommon. Most other colleagues on the force tend to have some clients who find themselves treated badly during their early years. But you’ve made it through without incident.
— Is that bad?
— We’re looking for people from your past who might be holding a grudge, who might want revenge. But no matter where we look, we can’t find any obvious enemies. In fact...
He turns to his colleague again. She puts her hand over her mouth to cover up her smile. But her eyes are pearly with laughter. Those two have something going on. The hatred shoots up through my body. The man looks at me again.
— Like I said, the fact is, we haven’t found much at all. We can’t seem to find that you’ve achieved much of anything worth mentioning during your twenty-eight years on the force.
I clench my fist so tightly my nails dig deep into my palm.
— You’ve been part of a great deal of investigations, but we haven’t found anything that indicates you were instrumentally involved in any of them. You’ve solved a few cases, but they’ve been remarkably simple. It’s beyond both of us how you ever became an inspector, how you advanced from patrol lieutenant at all.
I clench my jaws so tight I can feel a tooth chip in the lower right side of my mouth. It feels like it cracks straight through to my jawbone. The pain shoots out from my forehead all the way down to my cunt and it’s so sharp I want to scream, but I don’t let out a sound. The man doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.
— So obviously we’re wondering if you yourself might have any clues that you could help us out with.
I manage to utter:
— I’ll think about it.
I get up so quickly my chair falls onto the floor with a loud bang. The two civilians jump up; the man makes a quick note. I march out into the hall, straight to the restroom, lock the door, and take out my wallet. My heart is racing, I’m so furious I almost don’t manage to get the zipper and the little bag open. But once I can taste the bitter powder that smells like detergent on my tongue, I say to myself: You’ve got to get through this, Bengtsson, you’ve got to get through this. But first: the dentist. Fucking lousy teeth.
12
New day, new flesh. Eight packages now. Many pounds of flesh for the Jew.
I’m called to the superintendent’s office again. He’s barefoot this time as well, rubbing his soles against the carpet like a cat with dirty paws. We share a drink, he pats me on the butt; I have no idea why he does this.
— Tell me again what we know, Aggan.
— Man. Dead a week or so. Dismembered and packaged in pieces of 3.2 kilos each. So far there are eight packages, all addressed to me for some goddamn reason. No tattoos, distinctive birth marks, or scars. Dismembered with a sabre saw, according to Linköping. Hardly a professional tooclass="underline" laciniated edges, torn-up veins and nerves, unraveled muscle fibers, splintery bones. No doctor or hunter, I’d say.
— No. So not a real pro, that is. Or maybe it’s a real pro who wants to hide it. I just wish we could smoke in here.
— Roof?
It’s raining. Those brownish-gray clouds are heavier than ever; the November air is hardly breathable, it’s too heavy and packed with darkness.
— They’re complaining, you know.
— The internals?
— A lot of talk. You’re a good lady, Aggan. Never disappointed me.
— What do they want?
— Yeah, well. I’ve asked myself that question many times. What do the internal investigators want?
— They have nothing on me.
— That’s the thing.
— You know I’ve worked hard all these years.
— Of course, Aggan.
— I can do this.
Superintendent Gunnarsson’s eyes usually look like two oysters rotting in their shells. But now they tremble and reveal something that could resemble life.
— You can do this?
— Trust me.
He takes a deep drag and waves his cigarette in front of my face. The bastard even smiles.
— I knew it!
A heavy drop of rain lands right on the ember and puts out the half-smoked cigarette with a quick fizz. Gunnarsson curses and laboriously lights it again.
— How did the dentist appointment go?
— He yanked it out. All junk. Glad to be rid of it.
— Hasn’t that happened before?
— Third tooth. He says it seems like I’m chewing.
— Chewing what?
— Chewing myself.
Gunnarsson shakes his head with a worried look.
— It’s a tough job, sweetheart.
— I guess so.
— You need to take care of yourself.
— Sure do.
Gunnarsson has one last drag.
— You have to take it easy.
— I will.
11
The ninth package arrives by taxi. The driver walks into the police station with it tucked under his arm. Within ten seconds he’s surrounded by police officers and searched.
There’s not much to say about the one who handed the package to the driver. The person was dressed in heavy clothing, the head wrapped in a large knitted scarf, big dark glasses. A couple of officers drag the taxi driver into an interrogation room, scold him, scare him to death, and let him go.
In the package there is a thigh.
10
I’m on a stakeout. Sitting in my Ford, smoking and sipping on a Pripps beer while watching the house across the street. Svante Witha P lives on the top floor; an old-time gangster in a dirty little pad used by anyone and everyone for crashing, drug use, and mail fraud. There are ten names on the door.
No one opened when I knocked half an hour ago. I’m about to give it another try. I have my expandable baton with me when I go panting up the stairs. I pound on the door and hear steps.
— Hell is it? someone mutters on the other side.
When the door opens I grab the knob and yank it toward me in one violent move. Svante Witha P falls out into the stairwell and tumbles against the wall on the other side. I grab his neck and yank him back into the apartment and slam the door shut. He seems to be home alone.
Svante Witha P is not in good shape. He’s a withered skeleton with skin hardened by alcohol. Nothing else. Everything about him trembles and quivers and chatters. He only has three teeth left, all of them in his bottom jaw. I’m guessing Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and the rest of those old farts all pounced him at once.