— Remember me?
— Shit, leave me alone.
— Inspector Bengtsson. Remember me? You don’t look too good, Svante.
— Leave me alone.
I’ve pushed his skinny body onto a brownish-orange couch covered with the black traces of cigarette butts.
— How come they call you Svante Witha P?
— Leave me alone.
— Is your real name Pante?
— Stop it.
— You hang out in all the right crowds, Svante.
— Leave me alone.
— And you hear things. Maybe you’ve heard something about the cut-up body.
The old man’s face is completely motionless with its countless wrinkles, but the trembling and the scratchy record that seems to be spinning inside his chest let me know he is still alive.
— Leave me alone.
— Someone has been cut up with a sabre saw and the pieces are sent to the cops, three kilos at a time. Whaddya say, Svante! You have a lot of good friends: I’m sure someone knows something.
— Leave me alone.
I write Dismemberment, Bengtsson, and my phone number on a piece of paper and throw it onto the coffee table. The old man watches me as I leave the apartment.
In the car I fold down the shade and look at myself in the mirror. Jesus Christ, what a joke. You’re so incredibly fucking useless. Now take some more, get your head going, come on!
The bitterness in my gums starts a shiver that makes the hairs on my arms and legs stand straight up. I swig some more Pripps and get going.
9
— I might have something for you, Inspector,” Branco says, and pouts his lips while scratching his bare head.
— You have something for me? Are you coming on to me, you goddamn thug?
I teasingly lift my glass and throw back some beer. The ice-cold liquid cools my whistle, in a moment my tremor will calm down, I wish I had benzos, more speed, anything. The bartender mutters and shakes his head.
— Something about the meat.
— What?
— I got a postcard.
— What are you jabbering about?
He crouches down and gets something from under the bar and hands it over to me. I turn it over. The postcard has a picture of Globen and the new arena on it. It’s addressed to Branco at Brother Tuck. The only message is written in block letters: 19 PIECES. SLAUGHTERHOUSE AREA.
— What the fuck does this mean?
— You’ll have to answer that yourself.
— Someone must have heard you asking around.
— That’s possible.
I stick the postcard in my purse and take a few more sips. Branco turns around and counts the cash in the register. The coins trickle out from between his fat fingers while he counts out loud in Serbian. Those fingers have carried many beer kegs, frying pans, pieces of meat, and, considering the shape of the knuckles, they have done some fighting. Maybe killing?
— Maybe not a great lead, he says after counting the coins.
I smile.
— Better than nothing. Let me know if you hear anything else.
— Are you going to show your colleagues?
— No way. I’m solving this alone.
He shrugs. I grab a cigarette from my purse, go back to the Ford, make a U-turn on Götgatan, and head toward Slakthusområdet, the Slaughterhouse area.
8
The twelfth package is sent with a drunk. He slipped a few times in the rain on the way to the precinct, so the wrapping paper is soaked in gray water. The receptionists sounded the alarm as soon as they see him walk through the door with the package in his arms.
After he was forced to the floor with two officers on top of him, one knee pressed up against his neck, they found a relatively new bottle of Kron in his coat pocket. They sent it to be analyzed. The old man got so scared he pissed his pants.
Once I get there the whole scene is played out. The corridor is empty again other than a janitor mopping the floor. I get the whole story from the receptionists while offering them a cigarette out on the front steps.
— The old man got the whole floor wet. With the officers on top of him.
I start laughing. The girls stare at me.
— It’s gross!
I shrug.
— Yeah, you can’t help wondering why you do this job sometimes.
— Only druggies and psychos and idiots.
Like the people who work here, I think to myself, and put the cigarette out.
7
— Linköping analyzed the vodka bottle. No prints, no hairs, no skin samples have been found. But when the content was analyzed there was organic waste with DNA that didn’t match the courier’s. It seems our murderer couldn’t actually keep from taking a sip. And when he or she did, there was apparently a little saliva or piece of skin from the lip that ended up inside the bottle. Not a huge amount, but the lab is still analyzing the DNA.
— I wouldn’t mind a small one myself, I whisper to Gunnarsson who giggles.
— Must have been a hell of a thirsty murderer. That was the first mistake, the superintendent whispers back, and rolls his eyes at me.
— Who can blame the asshole? Thirst is thirst.
He lets out a muffled laugh; the sound reminds me of a cat getting ready to fight. But this cat stopped fighting a long time ago.
Holmén continues up on the platform:
— And as many of you have heard, the thirteenth package arrived today by taxi. Despite all our measures the deliveries make it through every time. This time the bag contained a couple of... hrm... buttocks. A couple of hairy, I mean heavily hairy buttocks, if that can be of any help.
Everyone in the room howls with laughter. Unfortunately, Holmén wasn’t trying to be funny this time.
I squirm in my seat. I can’t wait to get to the restroom.
6
I go back out to the Slaughterhouse area. Last time I didn’t see anything of interest. Why would the murderer be here? Because he’s cutting up meat? Far-fetched. But I don’t have any better clues than the postcard.
I park my Ford outside a lunch restaurant for slaughterhouse workers. Their white coats are stained in a range of colors, from bright red to brownish black.
I go in and order a hamburger with fries and a local beer. I sit down next to three slaughterers of various ages eating away. I nod at them, they nod back.
— A real beer would’ve been nice, I mutter mostly to myself.
— That’d be a hell of a treat, the oldest of the slaughterers adds, and smiles like crazy.
When I reach over the table to grab the ketchup I catch the same slaughterer staring at my breasts. The adrenaline hits my bloodstream like a firecracker; the speed has shaved off my impulse control.
— What the hell you looking at? I hiss. Don’t you have a wife at home?
— W-wife? he stutters, confused.
— Get your eyes the hell away from my boobs, you goddamn buffoon.
— I wasn’t...
The two other slaughterers don’t know what to say. They stare at their plates with embarrassed looks on their faces and keep eating. I’m sweating nearly as much as when I was going through menopause; I’m completely soaked. Sweat, paranoia, it’s all because of the speed.
— I wasn’t looking at your breasts, the guy manages to say.