Let the right one in (17 page)

"Have to go right away. Don't know when I'll be back. We'll talk more later."

He hurried out into the hall and Tommy's mom followed after him. Tommy heard something about "be careful" and "I love you" and

"staying?" while he went up to the piano and, without knowing exactly why, stretched out his arm and picked up the shooting trophy. It was heavy, at least two kilos. While his mom and Staffan were saying goodbye to each other—
they're getting off on this. The man heading into
battle. The woman who pines for him
—he walked out onto the balcony. He sucked

the cold night air into his lungs and he felt like he could breathe for the first time in hours.

He leaned over the balcony railing, saw that thick bushes were growing underneath. He held the trophy out over the railing, let it go. It fell into the bushes with a rustling sound.

His mom came out on the balcony and stood next to him. After a few seconds the door to the building opened below them and Staffan came out, half-running to the parking lot. His mom waved, but Staffan didn't look up. Tommy giggled as he jogged past the balcony.

"What is it?" his mom asked.

"Nothing."

Just a little kid with a gun hiding in the bushes and taking aim at
Staffan. That's all.

Tommy felt pretty good, all things considered.

+

They had strengthened the gang with Karlsson, the only one among them with a "real" job, as he himself put it. Larry had taken early retirement, Morgan worked off and on at an auto scrap yard, and Lacke you didn't know exactly what he did for a living. Sometimes he turned up with a few bucks.

Karlsson had a full-time job at the toy store in Vallingby. Had owned it once upon a time but been forced to sell due to "financial difficulties." The new owner had eventually employed him because—as Karlsson put it—one couldn't deny the fact that "after thirty years in the business you get a certain amount of experience."

Morgan leaned back in his chair, let his legs flop to either side, and knit his hands together behind his head, his gaze fixed on Karlsson. Lacke and Larry exchanged a look. Now came the usual.

"So, Karlsson. What's new in the toy business? Thought of new ways of cheating kids out of their allowance?"

Karlsson snorted.

"You don't know what you're talking about. If anyone is being cheated it's me. You can't imagine the pervasiveness of the shoplifting. The kids

..."

"Yes, yes, yes. But all you've got to do is buy some plastic doodad from Korea for two kronor and sell it for a hundred and you've covered your loss."

"We don't carry those kind of items."

"Sure you don't. What did I see in the store window the other day?

Something with Smurfs? What was that? A quality product made in Bengtfors—?"

"I think this is remarkable coming from a man who sells cars that only run if you strap them to a horse."

And so on. Larry and Lacke listened, laughed from time to time, made a few comments. If Virginia had been here the stakes would have been raised a notch and Morgan would not have backed down until Karlsson was thoroughly pissed off.

But Virginia wasn't here and neither was Jocke. The evening didn't have the right feeling and it had already started to wind down when the door opened slowly at half past eight.

Larry looked up and saw a person he never thought would set foot here: Gosta. The Stinkbomb, as Morgan called him. Larry had sat on the bench outside the apartment buildings and talked to him before but he had never seen him in here.

Gosta looked shaken. He walked as if he was made of different pieces that were only poorly glued together and that could fall apart if he made the wrong move. He squinted and shook his head from side to side. He was either drunk out of his mind, or sick.

Larry waved to him. "Gosta! Come sit down!"

Morgan turned his head, checked him out, and said, "Oh, shit." Gosta maneuvered himself over to their table as if traversing a minefield. Larry pulled out the chair next to him, made an inviting gesture.

"Welcome to the club."

Gosta didn't seem to hear him, but shuffled over to the chair. He was dressed in a worn suit with a waistcoat and bow tie, his hair combed flat with water. And he stank. Piss and piss and more piss. Even when you sat with him outside you could smell it, but it was bearable. Inside in the warmth, the stench of old urine was so overpowering you had to breathe through your mouth to stand it.

All of the guys, even Morgan, made an effort not to show on their faces what they felt. The waiter approached their table, stopped short when he caught a whiff of Gosta, and said:

"Can I ... get you anything?"

Gosta shook his head, but without looking at the waiter. The waiter frowned and Larry signaled, "It's OK, we'll take care of it." The waiter left and Larry put his hand on Gosta's shoulder.

"So to what do we owe this honor?"

Gosta cleared his throat and with his gaze directed at the floor he said,

"Jocke."

"What about him?"

"He's dead."

Larry heard Lacke catch his breath. He kept his hand on Gosta's shoulder, encouraging. Felt it was needed.

"How do you know?"

"I saw it. When it happened. When he was killed."

"When?"

"Last Saturday. Night."

Larry removed his hand. "Last Saturday? But... have you talked to the cops?"

Gosta shook his head.

"I haven't been able to make myself. And I. . . didn't exactly see it. But I know."

Lacke had his hands over his face, whispering, "I knew it. I knew it." Gosta told his story. The child who had taken out the streetlight nearest the underpass by throwing a rock at it, then hidden inside and waited. Jocke, who had gone in and never come out again. The faint imprint of a body in the dead leaves the following morning.

When he was done, the waiter had for some time been making angry gestures at Larry, pointing at Gosta and then at the door. Larry put his hand on Gosta's arm.

"What do you say. Shall we go have a look?"

Gosta nodded and they stood up. Morgan downed the last of his beer, grinning at Karlsson, who took the newspaper, folded it, and slid it into his coat pocket like he always did, the cheap bastard.

Only Lacke was still sitting at the table, fiddling with some broken toothpicks. Larry bent down.

"Coming?"

"I knew it. I felt it."

"Yes. Aren't you going to come along?"

"Yes, of course. You go ahead. I'm coming."

Gosta calmed down when they were out in the cool evening air. He started walking so quickly that Larry had to ask him to slow down, his heart couldn't take it. Karlsson and Morgan walked side by side behind them, Morgan waiting for Karlsson to say something stupid that he could jump all over. That would feel good. But even Karlsson seemed absorbed by his thoughts.

The broken streetlight had been replaced and it was surprisingly light in the underpass. They stood grouped around Gosta, who pointed to the piles of dead leaves and talked. They stamped their feet to stay warm. Bad circulation. It echoed under the bridge like a marching army. When Gosta had finished Karlsson said:

"But you have no
proof of
any kind, do you?" This was the kind of thing Morgan had been waiting for.

"You heard what he said, man, do you think he's making it all up?"

"No," Karlsson said, as if talking to a child, "but I don't think the police are going to be as prepared to believe his story as much as we do if there's no evidence to back it up."

"He's a
witness
for godssake."

"You think that's enough?"

Larry waved his hand at the piles of leaves.

"The question is where his body is now, if we assume it happened like this."

Lacke came walking along the footpath, walked up to Gosta, and pointed to the ground.

"There?"

Gosta nodded. Lacke pushed his hands into his pockets and stood there for a long time staring at the irregular arrangement of leaves as if it were all a gigantic puzzle he had to solve. His jaw clenched, relaxed, then clenched again.

"Well, what do you say?"

Larry took a few steps toward him.

"I'm sorry, Lacke."

Lacke waved his hand defensively, kept Larry at a distance.

"What do you say? Are we gonna get the guy who did this or not?" The others looked anywhere but at Lacke. Larry was about to say something, that it was going to be difficult, probably impossible, but stopped himself. Finally Morgan cleared his throat, went over to Lacke, and put an arm around his shoulders.

"We'll get him, Lacke. Of course we will."

+

Tommy looked out over the railing, thought he caught a glimpse of shiny metal down there. Looked like one of those things Huey, Dewey, and Louie came home with after their competitions.

"What are you thinking about?" his mom asked.

"Donald Duck."

"You don't like Staffan so much, do you?"

"It's OK, Mom."

"Is it?"

Tommy looked out toward the center of town. Saw the large red V in the neon sign that slowly rotated high above everything. Vallingby. Victory.

"Has he shown you his pistols?" he asked.

"Why do you want to know something like that?"

"Just wondering. Has he?"

"I don't understand."

"It's not that hard, Mom. Has he opened the safe, taken out the guns, and shown them to you?"

"Yes. Why?"

"When did he do it?"

His mom brushed something from her blouse, then rubbed her arms.

"I'm cold," she said.

"Do you think about Dad?"

"Yes, of course I do. All the time."

"All the time?"

His mom sighed, bending over a little to be able to look him in the eye.

"What are you implying?"

"What are
you
implying?"

Tommy's hand was on the railing; she put hers on top. "Will you come with me to see Dad tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, it's All Saints or something."

"That's the day after. And yes, I will."

"Tommy."

She peeled his hands from the railing, turned him toward her. Hugged him. He stood there stiffly for a moment, then freed himself and walked back in.

While he was putting his coat on he realized he needed his mom to come back inside if he was going to be able to go look for the statuette. He called out to her and she quickly came back in, hungry for words.

"Yeah,. . . uh, give my regards to Staffan."

She lit up.

"I will. You're not staying?"

"No, I... it could take all night."

"Yes, I'm a little worried."

"You shouldn't be. He knows how to shoot. Bye."

"Good-bye..."

The front door slammed shut.

"... honey."

+

There was a muffled bang from deep inside the Volvo as Staffan drove it up over the curb at high speed. His upper and lower teeth slammed together with such force it almost sounded like a bell rang out in his head. He went blind for a second and almost ran over an older man who was about to join the group of onlookers that had gathered around the police car by the main entrance.

Larsson, a new police recruit, was in the patrol car talking on the radio. Probably calling for backup or an ambulance. Staffan drove up behind the patrol car in order to leave clearance for any other vehicles that might be on their way, jumped out and locked his car. He always locked his car, even if he was only going to be gone for a minute. Not because he was afraid it would get stolen but in order to keep the habit alive, so he would never forget to lock a
patrol car
for godssake. He walked up the steps to the main entrance and made an effort to walk with authority in front of his onlookers; he knew he had an appearance that inspired confidence, at least with most people. Many of the people who were gathered probably saw him and thought: "Aha, here comes the guy who's going to clear up this whole thing."

Shortly inside the front doors there were four men in swimming trunks with towels wrapped around their shoulders. Staffan walked past them, toward the changing rooms, but one of the men called out, "Hello, excuse me," and ran over to him in bare feet.

"Yes, sorry, but... our clothes."

"What about them?"

"When can we get them?"

"Your clothes?"

"Yes, they're still in the changing rooms and we're not allowed in there." Staffan opened his mouth and was about to say something sharp about the fact that their clothes were hardly the highest priority right now, but just then a woman in a white T-shirt came walking toward the men with a bunch of white robes in her arms. Staffan gestured to her and then continued on his way.

In the corridor he met another woman in a white T-shirt walking a boy of twelve or thirteen toward the entrance. The boy's face was a deep red against the white robe he was wrapped in; his eyes were devoid of expression. The woman turned to Staffan with a look that was almost accusatory.

"His mother's coming to pick him up."

Staffan nodded. Was this boy... the victim? He had wanted to ask this, but in his haste couldn't think of a reasonable way to put the question. Had to assume Holmberg had taken the boy's name and other information, judged it best to let his mother come in and take over, accompanying him to the ambulance, crisis intervention, therapy.
Protect these Thy smallest.

Staffan kept going down the corridor, ran up the steps while inside his head he recited a prayer of thanks for the Lord's mercy and for strength to meet the challenges ahead.

Was the murderer really still in the building?

Outside the changing rooms, under a sign with the single word MEN, there were, appropriately enough, three men talking to constable Holmberg. Only one of the three was fully dressed. The other two both lacked some item of clothing: one had no pants, the other had no shirt.

"I'm glad you got down here so fast," Holmberg said.

"Is he still here?"

Holmberg pointed at the changing room door.

"In there."

Staffan gestured at the three men.