The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared (18 page)

Allan didn’t get a job at Atomic Energy PLC, his qualifications being seen as woefully inadequate. But he felt a quiet
satisfaction
as he sat on a park bench outside the Grand Hotel, with a nice view of the Royal Palace across the water. And how could he feel otherwise? He still had most of the money that the prime minister had been so kind as to give him. He had been staying in a fancy hotel for a while now. He ate in a restaurant every evening, and on this particular early January day he sat with the sun in his face and felt how it warmed his body and soul.

Of course, it was a bit cold for his bottom, and so it was a little surprising when a man sat down right next to Allan.

Allan greeted him with a polite ‘Good afternoon’ in Swedish.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Karlsson,’ the man answered in English.

When Chief Inspector Aronsson reported his findings to
Prosecutor
Conny Ranelid in Eskilstuna, the prosecutor
immediately
decided to issue a warrant for the arrest of Allan Karlsson, Julius Jonsson, Benny Ljungberg and Gunilla Björklund.

Aronsson and the prosecutor in charge of the case had been in close touch ever since the centenarian climbed out of the window and disappeared, and the prosecutor’s interest had continued to grow. Now he was reflecting upon the spectacular possibility of getting Allan Karlsson convicted for murder, or at least manslaughter, even though they hadn’t found any victims. There were one or two cases in Swedish legal history that showed it could be done. But you needed exceptionally good evidence and an extremely skilful prosecutor. The latter was no problem for Prosecutor Conny Ranelid, and as for the former he intended to construct a chain of circumstantial evidence, where the first link would be the strongest and no link would be really weak.

Chief Inspector Aronsson felt a little disappointed at the way things had developed. It would have been much more fun to save a geriatric from the clutches of a gang of criminals, rather than – as now — failing to save the criminals from the geriatric.

‘Can we really prove that Allan Karlsson and the others were involved in Bylund’s, Hultén’s and Gerdin’s deaths when we still don’t have any corpses?’ asked Aronsson, hoping that the answer would be ‘no’.

‘Don’t sound so downcast, Göran,’ said Prosecutor Conny Ranelid. ‘You’ll see, that old fool will spill the beans as soon as you catch him for me. And if he is too senile, I’m sure the others will contradict each other and that’ll give us all we need.’

And then the prosecutor went through the case again with his chief inspector. First he explained the strategy. He didn’t think they would be able to lock up all of them for murder, but there were still other charges – manslaughter, or assistance to commit this and that felony, or causing a death, or protecting a criminal. Even offences against the law concerning corpses could come into play, but the prosecutor would need a bit of time to think that through.

Since some of the suspects had become involved in the events later than others, and would be more difficult to convict, the prosecutor intended to focus on the man who had been in the thick of it all the whole time, the centenarian Allan Karlsson.

‘In his case, I think we will be able to manage a life sentence in the true meaning of the word,’ prosecutor Ranelid joked.

To start with, the old man had a motive for killing Bylund, Hultén and Gerdin. The motive was that otherwise he risked the opposite — that Bylund, Hultén and Gerdin would do away with him. The prosecutor had evidence that the three men from the Never Again organisation had a tendency to resort to violence.

But that didn’t mean that the old man could claim he acted in self-defence, because between Karlsson on the one side and the three victims on the other there was a suitcase with contents unknown to the prosecutor. From the very beginning the
suitcase
was clearly at the centre of events, so the old man actually had an alternative to killing the others – he could have refrained from stealing the suitcase, or at least given it back.

Furthermore, the prosecutor could point to several
geographical
connections between Mr Karlsson and the victims. The first victim had, just like Mr Karlsson, got off the bus at Byringe Station, even though it hadn’t been at the same time. And, unlike Mr Karlsson and his companion, victim number one had not been seen after the inspection trolley journey. However,
‘someone’ had become a corpse and left a trail behind him. It seemed obvious who this was. Both the old man and the petty thief Jonsson had demonstrably been alive later that same day.

The geographical connection between Karlsson and victim number two was not quite as strong. They had not been observed together. But a silver-coloured Mercedes on the one hand, and an abandoned revolver on the other told Prosecutor Ranelid – and would soon tell the court – that Mr Karlsson and victim Hultén, the one who was called Bucket, had both been at Lake Farm in Småland. Hultén’s fingerprints on the revolver were not yet confirmed, but the prosecutor felt that was purely a matter of time.

The sudden appearance of the revolver was a gift from above. Beside the fact that it would prove that Bucket Hultén had been at Lake Farm, it strengthened the motive for killing victim number two.

As far as Karlsson was concerned, they now had the fantastic discovery of DNA to make use of. The old man would of course have spread it around everywhere. So now he had the formula: Bucket + Karlsson = Lake Farm!

DNA would also be used to ascertain that the blood in the crashed BMW belonged to victim number three, Per-Gunnar Gerdin, also known as the Boss. They would soon be able to carry out a more thorough examination of the demolished car, and that would certainly reveal that Karlsson and his companions had been there too and put their fingers on everything. Otherwise, how would they have got the corpse out of the car?

So the prosecutor could show a motive and a connection in time and space between Allan Karlsson on the one hand and all three dead thugs on the other.

The chief inspector risked asking whether the prosecutor could be certain that all three victims really were victims, that is, were actually dead? Prosecutor Ranelid sniffed and said that
as far as number one and number three were concerned, they hardly needed any further explanation. As for number two, Ranelid would have to put his faith in the court – because when they accepted that number one and number three had indeed passed on, then number two would end up as a link in the famous chain of circumstantial evidence.

‘Or are you suggesting, chief inspector, that number two quite voluntarily handed over his revolver to the people who had just killed his friend, before tenderly saying goodbye and leaving without waiting for the arrival of his boss a few hours later?’ asked Prosecutor Ranelid in an acid tone.

‘No, I guess not,’ said the chief inspector, defensively.

The prosecutor admitted to Chief Inspector Aronsson that the case might be a little thin, but what really held it together was the chain of events. The prosecutor didn’t have a murder weapon (except for the yellow bus). But the plan was to get Karlsson convicted for victim number one to begin with.

‘At the very least, I’ll get the old man locked up for
manslaughter
or for being an accessory. And once I’ve got him
convicted
, then the others will fall with him – to varying degrees, but they will fall!’

The prosecutor could not really arrest people on the grounds that during interrogation they would contradict each other so much that he would be able to hold them in custody. Nevertheless, that was plan B, because they were amateurs, the lot of them. A centenarian, a petty thief, a hot-dog-stand proprietor and a woman, how the hell would they be able to withstand the pressure in an interrogation room?

‘Make your way to Växjö, Aronsson, and check in at a decent hotel. I’ll leak the news this evening that the centenarian is a veritable murder machine and early tomorrow morning you’ll get so many tips about where he is that you’ll be able to pick him up before lunch, I promise.’

‘Here are your three million, dear brother. I would also like to take this opportunity to apologize for how I behaved in connection with the money from Uncle Frasse.’

Benny got straight to the point when he met Bosse for the first time in thirty years. He handed over a bag with the money before they even had time to shake hands. And he went on, in a serious voice, while his brother was still catching his breath:

‘And now I’ll tell you two things. The first is that we need your help, because we have created a real mess. And the second is that the money I have given you is yours, and you deserve it. If you have to send us packing then you can do so, the money is yours regardless.’

The brothers stood in the light of the one still functioning headlight on the yellow bus, outside the entrance to Bosse’s
substantial
residence, Bellringer Farm, on the Västgöta plain just a few miles south-west of the little town of Falköping. Bosse gathered his wits as best he could, and then said he had some questions, if that was okay? And on the basis of the answers he promised that he would then decide about any possible hospitality. Benny nodded.

‘Okay,’ said Bosse. ‘This money you’ve just given me, is it honestly got by?’

‘Definitely not,’ said Benny.

‘Are the police after you?’

‘Policemen
and
thieves,’ said Benny. ‘But mainly thieves.’

‘What happened to the bus? The front is all smashed in.’

‘We rammed a thief at full speed.’

‘Did he die?’

‘No, unfortunately. He’s lying in the bus with concussion, broken ribs, a broken arm and a big open wound on his right thigh. His condition is serious but stable, as they say.’

‘You’ve brought him with you?’

‘Yes, it’s as bad as that.’

‘Is there anything else I need to know?’

‘Well, perhaps that we killed a couple of other thieves on the way, buddies of the half-dead one in the bus. They insisted on trying to get back the fifty million that happened to come into our hands.’

‘Fifty million?’

‘Fifty million. Minus various expenses — for this bus, among other things.’

‘Why are you driving around in a bus?’

‘We’ve got an elephant in the back.’

‘An elephant?’

‘She’s called Sonya.’

‘An elephant?’

‘Asiatic.’

‘An elephant?’

‘An elephant.’

Bosse was silent for a few moments. Then he said:

‘Is the elephant stolen too?’

‘No, you couldn’t really say that.’

Bosse was silent again. Then he said:

‘Grilled chicken with roast potatoes for supper. Would that be good?’

‘I am sure it would,’ said Benny.

‘Does that include something to drink?’ said an elderly voice from inside the bus.

When it transpired that the corpse was still alive in the middle of his wrecked car, Benny immediately ordered Julius to go and
fetch the first aid kit from behind the driver’s seat in the bus. Benny said that he knew that he was causing them trouble but that with his being an almost-doctor he also had to think of his almost-doctor’s-ethics. It was thus unthinkable to leave the corpse sitting there to bleed to death.

Ten minutes later, they were on their way. The half-corpse had been eased out of the car wreck, Benny had examined him, made a diagnosis and with the help of the first-aid kit administered relevant medical care; above all, he had made sure that the heavy bleeding from the half-corpse’s thigh was stopped.

Upon which Allan and Julius had to move into the back of the bus and join Sonya, to allow room for the half-corpse to lie across the back seat in the driver’s cabin, with The Beauty as nurse on duty. Benny had already checked that the victim’s pulse and blood pressure were in reasonable order. With an appropriate dose of morphine, Benny had also ensured that he could sleep despite all his injuries.

As soon as it became clear that the friends really were welcome to stay with Bosse, Benny examined his patient afresh. The half-corpse was still sleeping deeply, and Benny decided that they should wait to move him.

Then Benny joined the group in Bosse’s spacious kitchen. While their host busied himself with a meal, the friends – one after the other – described the dramatic course of the last few days. Allan first, then Julius, after that Benny with a bit of help from The Beauty, and then Benny again when they came to the ramming of thug number three’s BMW.

Although Bosse had just heard in detail how two people had lost their lives, and how the course of events had been concealed in a way that contravened Swedish law, there was just one thing he wanted them to confirm:

‘Now, if I’ve understood you correctly… you’ve got an elephant in the bus.’

‘Yes, but tomorrow morning she needs to be let out,’ said The Beauty.

Otherwise, Bosse didn’t find much to comment upon. The law often says one thing, while morality leads to a different
conclusion
in his opinion and he didn’t think he needed to look further than his own small-scale activities to find examples of how the law can be set to one side as long as you hold your head high.

‘A bit like how you dealt with our inheritance, except the other way round,’ Bosse happened to say to Benny.

‘Oh yeah, who smashed up my new motorbike?’ Benny
countered
.

‘But that was because you dropped out of the welding course,’ said Bosse.

‘And I did that because you lorded it over me all the time,’ said Benny.

Bosse looked as if he had the answer to Benny’s answer to Bosse’s answer, but Allan interrupted the two brothers by saying that he had been out and about in the world and if there was one thing he had learned it was that the very biggest and apparently most impossible conflicts on earth were based on the dialogue: ‘You are stupid, no, it’s you who are stupid, no, it’s you who are stupid.’ The solution, said Allan, was often to down a bottle of vodka together and then look ahead. But now there was an unfortunate problem in that Benny was a teetotaller. Allan could, of course, look after Benny’s share of the vodka, but he didn’t think it would be quite the same thing.

‘So a bottle of vodka would solve the Israel-Palestine conflict?’ asked Bosse. ‘That stretches all the way back to the Bible.’

‘For the particular conflict you mention, it is not impossible that you would need more than one bottle,’ Allan answered. ‘But the principle is the same.’

‘Would it work if I drink something else?’ asked Benny, feeling – with his total abstinence – as if he was destroying the world.

Allan was pleased with the development. The argument between the brothers had lost its poison. He remarked on this, and added that the vodka in question, for that very reason, could be used for other things than solving conflicts.

The liquor would have to wait, Bosse said, since the food was ready. Chicken straight from the grill and roast potatoes with beer for the grown-ups and a soft drink for his little brother.

While they were starting their dinner in the kitchen,
Per-Gunnar
‘Boss’ Gerdin woke up. He had a headache, it hurt when he breathed, one arm was probably broken because it was in a sling, and when he struggled down from the bus’s cabin, a wound in his right thigh began to bleed. Amazingly he found his own revolver in the glove compartment. It would seem that all the people in the whole world were idiots apart from him.

The morphine was still effective, so he could cope with the pain, but it also made it hard for him to sort out his thoughts. He limped about in the yard and peered in through various windows, until he was certain that all the people in the house were gathered together in the kitchen, including an Alsatian dog. And, it turned out, the kitchen door to the garden was unlocked. The Boss limped in through the door, and with considerable determination and the revolver in his left hand, said:

‘Lock the dog in the pantry, otherwise I’ll shoot it. After that I’ve got five bullets left, one for each of you.’

The Boss was surprised how well he was keeping his anger under control. The Beauty looked unhappy rather than afraid when she led Buster into the pantry and closed the door. Buster was surprised and a bit worried, but above all satisfied. He discovered he had just been shut inside a pantry, and there are worse things to do to a dog.

The five friends were now lined up. The Boss informed them that the suitcase in the corner belonged to him, and that he was going to take it with him when he left. It was possible that he would leave one or two of the five alive, depending on their answers to his questions, and on how much of the contents of the suitcase had disappeared.

Allan was the first to speak. He said that a few million were indeed missing from the suitcase, but that Mr Revolver Man could perhaps be satisfied with less, since for various reasons two of the revolver man’s colleagues had died and that meant there were fewer people to share with.

‘Are Bolt and Bucket dead?’ asked the Boss.

‘Pike?!’ Bosse suddenly exclaimed. ‘It is you, Pike. It’s been a long time!’

‘Bosse Baddy!’ exclaimed Per-Gunnar ‘Pike’ Gerdin in return.

And Bosse Baddy and Pike Gerdin met with a hug in the middle of the kitchen floor.

‘I do believe I’ll survive this too,’ said Allan.

Buster was let out of the pantry, Benny dressed ‘Pike’ Gerdin’s bleeding injury, and Bosse Baddy set another place at the table.

‘Just a fork will do,’ said Pike, ‘I can’t use my right arm anyway.’

‘You used to be a dab hand with a knife in the old days,’ said Bosse Baddy.

Pike and Bosse Baddy had been close friends, and also colleagues in the food trade. Pike had always been the impatient one, the one who wanted to go that bit further. In the end they had gone their separate ways when Pike insisted that the friends should import Swedish meatballs from the Philippines, treated with formaldehyde to increase their best-before date from three days to three months (or three years depending on how generously you applied the formalin). Bosse had said ‘stop’ at
that point. He didn’t want to be involved with preparing food with stuff that could kill people. Pike thought Bosse was
exaggerating
. People didn’t die from a few chemicals in their food, and with formalin their lives would surely be preserved.

The friends separated amicably. Bosse moved to Västergötland, while Pike tried his hand at robbing a firm of importers and was so successful that he set aside his meatball plans and decided to become a full-time robber.

At first, Bosse and Pike had been in touch once or twice a year, but over the years they had gradually drifted apart – until that evening when Pike was suddenly standing unsteadily in Bosse’s kitchen, just as threatening as Bosse remembered he could be when he was in the mood.

But Pike’s anger subsided the moment he found the companion and comrade of his youth. He sat down at the table together with Bosse Baddy and his friends. It couldn’t be helped that they had killed Bolt and Bucket. They could sort out the business with the suitcase and everything else the next day. For the moment they were going to enjoy their dinner.

‘Cheers!’ said Per-Gunnar ‘Pike’ Gerdin and fainted, his face landing right in his food.

They wiped the food off Pike’s face, moved him to the guest room and put him to bed. Benny checked his medical state and then gave the patient a new dose of morphine so he would sleep until the next day.

Upon which it was at last time for Benny and the others to enjoy the chicken and roast potatoes. And enjoy it they did!

‘This chicken really is delicious!’ Julius praised the food, and they all agreed that they had never eaten anything tastier. What was the secret?

Bosse told them that he imported fresh chickens from Poland (‘no junk, top-quality stuff’), and then he injected every chicken manually with up to one litre of his own special spicy water
mixture. Then he re-packaged them and with all that had been added locally he thought he could just as well call them ‘Swedish’.

‘Twice as good on account of the spicy mixture, twice as heavy on account of the water and twice as popular on account of the Swedish origin,’ was how Bosse summed it up.

Suddenly it had become big business, despite the fact that he had started off on a really small scale. And everybody loved his chickens. But for reasons of security, he didn’t sell to any of the wholesalers in the district, because one of them might come by and discover that there wasn’t a single chicken out pecking in Bosse’s farmyard.

That was what he meant by the difference between law and morality, Bosse said. The Poles were surely no worse at feeding chickens and then killing them, than the Swedes? Quality had nothing to do with national boundaries, did it?

‘People are just stupid,’ Bosse maintained. ‘In France, French meat is best. In Germany, German meat. The same thing in Sweden. So for everybody’s benefit, I keep some information to myself.’

‘That is thoughtful of you,’ said Allan, without irony.

Bosse said that he had done something similar with the
watermelons
he also imported, although not from Poland. They came from Spain or Morocco. He preferred to call them Spanish because nobody would believe that they came from Skövde in the middle of Sweden. But before he sold them, he injected half a litre of sugar solution into each melon.

‘That makes them twice as heavy – good for me! – and three times as tasty – good for the consumer!’

‘That is also thoughtful of you,’ said Allan. Still without irony.

The Beauty thought that there must be one or two consumers who for medical reasons should not gobble down a whole
litre of sugar solution, but she didn’t say anything. Besides, the watermelon tasted almost as heavenly as the chicken.

Chief Inspector Göran Aronsson sat in the restaurant at the Hotel Royal Corner in Växjö and ate chicken cordon bleu. The chicken, which didn’t come from Västergötland, was dry and tasteless. But Aronsson washed it down with a bottle of good wine.