Suddenly I get it. I laugh.
— Sorry. Police. Don’t worry.
— Oh, Jesus fuck.
He’s so relieved he almost screams.
— I thought you were a thief.
Everyone at the table laughs; I show my holster and the badge. The youngest of the slaughterers, he can hardly be more than twenty, straight out of some agricultural high school, looks at me with a pensive glance.
— I think I know you, but I don’t know from where.
— I’ve been on TV a few times lately.
— Yeah, maybe. I’ve seen you somewhere. I’m pretty sure.
The oldest one:
— How come you been on TV?
— The dismemberment case.
Everyone around the table starts babbling at once. I interrupt them:
— I got a tip that has to do with the Slaughterhouse area. If you hear of anything, call.
They promise to do so. When I’m about to get up the youngest one asks:
— Can’t be much left now?
— Left of what?
— Of the body.
— Maybe not.
— He’ll save the head for last, right?
— Who the hell knows? And why would you think it’s a he? Why not a she? Or a whole gang of them?
I speak with authority. The youngest one shrinks, impressed, but still asks:
— What do you think will happen when all the pieces are sent?
I shrug.
— Hopefully nothing.
— Are you sure we haven’t met somewhere? You look so familiar.
— Are you hitting on me, punk?
5
— They said they would fire you if they could, that you’ve been wasting resources for years that should have been used for preventing crime.
The memory of the blonde with the ponytail and pearl necklace causes me to jerk. I’m afraid I’ll bite through another crown, so I relax my jaw and take a deep breath.
— I don’t give a shit. What’s your take?
— You’re a good girl, Aggan. I like it when your lips are slightly parted like that. It’s sexy.
— You’re twenty years late, asshole.
Gunnarsson cackles and rubs the soles of his feet against the carpet. He circles the room before he sits back down. He’s just about to bend down to open the bottom drawer when the door is flung open and he sits back up. One of the secretaries is standing there looking at me.
— There’s an important message for you.
— Again?
— It’s your ex-husband. He’s trying to reach you.
— No news there.
— He wanted me to let you know that your son still hasn’t come home.
— That’s very nice of you, sweetheart.
I glance at Gunnarsson; he rolls his eyes. The secretary leaves, the bottle is brought out.
— What was today’s Christmas present?
— Most of the left arm. No tattoos or visible scars. I can’t see why it’s so hard to find out who the victim is.
— I suppose he’s not that greatly missed. Any news concerning the DNA from the bottle?
Gunnarsson nods while pouring the glasses.
— Sure, it’s almost complete. But no hits.
I slip my flannel nightgown over my head, swallow three Imovane with some cheap scotch blend, and get into bed. Suddenly my cell phone buzzes with an unknown caller.
— Bengtsson. Who the hell is calling this late?
— It’s Svante.
— Svante who?
— Svante Witha P.
— The hell do you want?
— I got a postcard. I think it’s for you.
I sit up with a start. I’m dizzy.
— There’s a picture of Globen on it.
— I don’t care what the fucking picture is. What does it say?
— It says, Kylhusgatan 19 pieces basement.
— Kylhusgatan 19 pieces basement?
— That’s what it says. And it’s addressed to you.
— I’ll pick it up tomorrow.
I end the call and put the phone down. Finally a concrete tip. I check the address: the Slaughterhouse area. It’ll be next day’s outing.
The pills shut my head down; I drift off to sleep. If you can call it sleep. I wake up a hundred times during the night and toss and turn, uneasy images and dreams.
In the morning my nightgown is bunched in my armpits, and I find my sheet on the floor, twined like a rope, soaked in sweat.
4
There’s something unhealthy about the atmosphere when I force open the basement door at Kylhusgatan 19. I have strengthened my nerves with some nose candy and a few mouthfuls of whiskey, but my bowels keep rumbling and my heart beats a never-ending drumroll. The Slaughterhouse area is submerged in a brownish fog; each breath I take is like a little trickle of rain in my pipe.
The few slaughterhouse workers I see are hurrying past to get inside. But around this house, which appears to be an abandoned old redbrick slaughterhouse with a broken sign on the façade spelling, MEAT SAUSAGE PATÉ, there’s no one.
The lock is rusty, but finally I manage to get it open. Behind the green door there’s a concrete corridor; I turn the switch and one of the four fluorescent lamps in the ceiling flickers and starts glowing unevenly. I pull out my gun. I realize I’ve never pulled it out before while on duty, except a few times on the shooting range in the beginning of my career, but that doesn’t really count. At home I’ve done it a number of times, drunk, in front of the mirror, or while I’ve been watching a suspenseful action movie, pointing it at the bad guys on the screen.
Now I can feel its weight in my hand. I cock and load it. I avoid putting my finger on the trigger; don’t want to shoot myself in the leg. I’m trembling like a motherfucker.
It smells of old blood and rotten organic waste. At the far end of the dirty corridor there’s a steel door, it looks like an entrance to one of the old shelters from the Cold War. I unbolt the door and push the heavy thing open. It squeaks its way into the darkness.
I avoid turning on the light, I don’t want anyone to see that there’s someone behind the dusty old cellar windows. I take out my penlight and turn it on. The beam slides over the interior of the room. In the middle there is a slaughtering block with legs of steel and a thick oak top. In the ceiling there are hooks. The once white tile floor is covered in black gore. It stinks. I gag a couple of times before I walk on in.
I reach the table. There is a big scale on top of it. Alongside the longer wall there are a few refrigerators and freezers. I start walking toward them.
Suddenly there’s a sound, a scraping as if someone is sneaking around. Between the rows of refrigerators and freezers there’s a doorway. I squint and glimpse someone coming toward me. I can’t make out any details, but it is a person without a doubt, and I’m sure it’s carrying a large butcher knife. I raise my gun and point it at the person’s legs. I’m trembling. The figure keeps bobbing and swaying before my eyes.
— Stop. I’ll shoot. Lower your weapon.
The person keeps walking toward me. It raises the hand carrying the knife. I am sweating so heavily I can hardly see, the stinging salty drops gather in my eyes. I put my finger on the trigger.
— One more step and I’ll shoot.
The person keeps walking and I fire. It bangs like hell. My ears are ringing. It’s the first time ever I’ve fired my gun on duty and it feels good, real good. I want to do it again.
I take a few more steps toward the doorway but so does the other one. I shoot again, this time I’m aiming for the stomach. The figure keeps heading my way. I fire three more shots before I lower my gun. I wait; I can smell the gunpowder, mixed with blood. It’s completely silent except the ringing in my ears.