The Little Old Lady Who Broke All the Rules (24 page)

Liza crept into a little room not much bigger than a cell at Hinseberg. There was a chair and an unmade bed, and a table with a pile of books. In front of the sofa on one side of the room was a little tea table and two armchairs. Above the armchairs hung two pictures of the king and the royal couple, and two smaller reproductions of old nymphs and angels. There was a noticeboard on the wall to the right with lots of Post-it stickers and a poster for this year’s student carnival. She picked up one of the books and started to browse.
The History of Art
. Just like the chief barman had said, the girl evidently studied art history. Liza opened the wardrobe door. There hung some trousers, blouses and skirts, and on the floor below them was a heap of shoes and boots. At the back of the wardrobe she caught a glimpse of some paintings. This got her excited and she pulled them out. They were reproductions, but so modern that she couldn’t tell what they represented. She shook her head and put them back in again. No Claude Monet or Auguste Renoir there, that was certain. She closed the wardrobe and started to look through the desk. The top drawer contained letters, pens, erasers, paper clips and a pair of
scissors. In the next drawer were photographs and a packet of postcards. She quickly looked through them. Some views of Stockholm, the
Vasa
ship, the palace, the Grand Hotel and a bundle with art motifs. She went through them slowly. The last two cards showed the missing paintings. Why had the girl saved those? Liza looked up at the wall again and decided to turn the paintings over to see if there was anything on the back. She went up to the picture with the royal couple and carefully started to turn it round. Then she heard steps out in the corridor. The door to the bathroom was open and she just had time to nip in there and close it after her before a gang of rowdy young people stormed into the room. For a moment there was silence, and then somebody tried the door handle. ‘Petra, we know you are in there!’

Liza heard laughter and cries and then they all started singing: ‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday …’

Liza stood still in front of the mirror.

‘… Happy Birthday to you. Three cheers for Petra!’ There was another cry and whispering, and then somebody yanked the door open. Liza cowered.

‘What? Who the hell are you?’ The girl with the birthday cake leading the group took a step back and the others did too.

‘I was going to surprise her on her birthday,’ said Liza, putting her lipstick back in her handbag. ‘I’m her cousin.’

‘Are you? That’s cool!’

‘I’ve got an idea. Wait here in the room for Petra and I’ll go and meet her in the lobby,’ she went on and quickly walked past them before anybody could say a word. On her way down the stairs she saw a young girl with red hair and a rucksack over her shoulder. Perhaps this was her, but Liza didn’t dare
hang around to find out. It was bad enough that she had been seen.

When she had got her breath back and was on her way into the city on the underground, Liza started thinking about the pictures. Perhaps she had been too optimistic expecting that she could find them. If they weren’t at the hotel, and none of the staff had them, then they were probably already out of the country. They might possibly have been hidden away in a cellar, or some attic or other, but she didn’t really think so. Surely it would be too risky to hide them there? Pity about that Petra girl. Liza had hoped that she would have understood the value of the paintings and taken care of them but she clearly didn’t have any taste. To have such fancy gilded frames around an ordinary portrait of the king and the royal couple seemed ridiculous. The frames were far too large too. No, she was certainly no art connoisseur. Liza huddled up on the seat. As she sat there she started thinking about the picture that she had started turning round. It had been surprisingly heavy and had a remarkably large frame. Perhaps there was something fishy about all of it.

Cheated. There was no other word for it. For weeks, Brains had been trying to figure out how he could remove a tag from his ankle and put it back again without being found out. But
just as he had solved the problem, he discovered that he wasn’t going to have a tag. Early one autumn morning, the door of his cell at the Täby prison was opened.

‘It’s time now. You’re going to be moved on,’ said the warder.

Brains, who had been lying down reading, struggled to a sitting position.

‘What? Moved on? How?’

‘You are done here, and you’ll be going to an open prison. After that it’ll be home to the wife.’

Thoughts crashed into each other inside his head. Home? He saw Martha and Nurse Barbara in his mind’s eye because he didn’t have a real home any longer. His wife had remarried and lived in Gothenburg, while his son had moved abroad after a failed marriage. He worked for the Red Cross in Tanzania, and Brains hadn’t seen him for nearly three years. Brains had retained his workshop in Sundbyberg, since he hoped that his son, one happy day, would take it over. But of course he couldn’t live there. Brains rubbed a finger under his nose and thought it over. If he couldn’t go back to Diamond House, then what would happen?

‘Rake, is he going to be let out too?’ Brains asked.

‘As soon as they have finished reviewing his case,’ the warder said.

Brains rubbed his nose again and tried to imagine his new life. But the only thing he saw before him was Martha and the money in the drainpipe.

‘At Asptuna open prison you’ll be able to acclimatize to your new freedom so that it will be easier to adjust to society,’ the guard went on.

‘I’ll be eighty. Better late than never,’ said Brains.

‘We’ve informed the transport section. You’ll be fetched in a few days.’

Yet again, he felt dizzy. Brains had felt pretty comfortable in prison, and if it hadn’t been for Martha and the others he would have had nothing against staying on there. Admittedly, the sound insulation had been rotten, and it had been damp at Täby, but here at least he got to help make the food, and it had been a delight to be able to work in a proper workshop. Above all, it had been edifying to meet people of all ages. He didn’t have to listen to all that talk about aches and pains and times gone by; here people talked about what was happening
right now
. The inmates had such exciting plans for the future. He often listened to them during breaks. Primarily he tried to analyze how they had gone about things when they had succeeded with their crimes, and what had gone wrong when they had failed. The thought of the ultimate crime had not left him. And that, of course, included
not
getting caught.

Rake, too, had been fairly comfortable because he had been able to do odd jobs in the garden. He liked plants, and he had even sown lettuce, cabbages and radishes. In addition, he had planted roses and perennials. He couldn’t deny that he found it hard to bend down, but Brains had constructed a tool holder and a foldable chair that could be adjusted to different positions. It was delightful how happy Rake had become, and he gladly sang one seaman’s ditty after another while he tended his plants. However, he didn’t like being locked in at eight in the evening, so to console himself he had put a calendar on the wall with lightly clad ladies. Because he didn’t have a photo of Christina, he said,
but Brains wasn’t fooled. Rake had always had an eye for the ladies.

A few days passed and then it was Rake’s turn to be told that he was going to be moved on. The friends packed their few belongings, and early one Monday morning they were driven off to Asptuna. Neither of them was seen as likely to try to escape, and there was no security risk either, so they weren’t going to be given electronic tags. Or, as one of the guards said, ‘A foot tag and a walker don’t seem to go together.’

A few days later, they were installed at the new open prison and to their surprise, they found that they had been given wardrobe-sized rooms without a shower or a toilet and there was hardly enough space for their few belongings. They would get used to it, Brains thought, that’s how it was. People get used to anything. It was only the first day and already he had asked if he could start in the workshop, and he intended doing some exercising in the gym too. He had been a bit lazy about that when he hadn’t had Martha after him, and he wanted to be in top condition when they met again.

‘I’d like to go to the gym,’ he said to the guards.

‘Right, I’ll join you,’ said Rake, who also wanted to become fitter. Christina had said something about trim men. He took a portion of tobacco and smiled at the thought that they would soon see each other again. But where? He didn’t actually have anywhere to live. ‘Brains, have you thought about it?’ he went on. ‘When we get out. What’s going to happen then? I mean, we can’t stay at the Grand Hotel.’

‘It will have to be Diamond House until we find something else,’ said Brains.

‘Never!’

‘But your son has paid for your room, remember that, and that’s where we’ve got our things, and then there’re the girls.’

‘The girls, yes, of course,’ said Rake, immediately feeling a sense of warmth spreading inside him.

They discussed various homes and hotels during the following weeks, but before they had solved the problem they found themselves with something else to think about. Late one afternoon a prison van drove in with two new prisoners. Brains gave a start. In the van sat a man he had seen before. Juro, the Yugoslav.

‘Hey, you!’

At dinner the next day, just as Brains had sat down at one of the tables, he sensed a shadow behind him.

‘Hi, matey!’

Juro gave him a thump on the back and sat down beside him with a more-than-full plate of spaghetti. Brains stared at his powerful shoulders and upper arms. Jesus Christ! Not an ounce of fat, just muscle. The Yugoslav looked like one of those people who could straighten a horseshoe with their bare hands. No, the legs of an oil rig!

‘Where have you been?’ Brains asked, hoping his voice sounded relaxed.

‘Isolation cell. Should be there but paper wrong.’

‘Bombed?’ said Brains, trying to sound criminal.

‘Bombing? No, not yet, bloody hell.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that.’ Brains turned bright red.

‘I stay low now a while.’ Juro pulled up a trouser leg and pointed at his tag. ‘Look, sock under so no rubbing. But more important, you know how short-circuit?’ He took a mouthful of spaghetti and it was like filling a container. Almost all the plate fitted in one gulp.

‘Mmm,’ Brains hummed. ‘Yes, that tag can be—’ He stopped himself at the last minute. Better to let Juro do his own thing. Otherwise the Yugoslav might try to enlist him again. Brains hardly had time to think that thought before Juro lowered his voice.

‘You not forget Handelsbank, yes? Now we have time, we plan.’

The Yugoslav seemed to have something big coming up. Brains breathed more heavily. He ought to keep well out of this, but …

The next morning, Juro was in the workshop waiting for Brains. He gave a sign that he wanted to talk to him. Brains fastened his piece of wood on the workbench and started the lathe. He was busy making a bowl for Rake. Brains had already made the basic shape, now he just had to make the hole in the middle. Rake needed something to keep his tobacco in. Juro cast a glance at the piece of wood.

‘You make?’

‘Yes, sometimes …’

Juro glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody heard them.

‘You. Most ready now, but the lock …’

‘Oh yes,’ mumbled Brains. ‘To the bank vault?’

He nodded.

Brains didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, he wanted to know everything about the planned crime and where they intended taking the loot; on the other hand, he wanted to keep as much distance from the Yugoslavian mafia as he could. A gang of pensioners was one thing, the mafia was something else altogether. At the same time, the ultimate crime did involve somebody else carrying out the deed while the five friends took care of the loot. To do that, he must find out where they were going to take the booty. He turned the lathe off.

‘So it’s coming up?’ Brains threw a shy look in Juro’s direction. The tattoo on his arm was of a burning torch, a knife and a sword. At the top, on his shoulder, a skull grinned at you.

‘Just take away tag, is all,’ said Juro.

Brains breathed deeply. The electronic tag again. Should he say anything? No, perhaps not.

‘Now listen. Bank robberies are too risky. Besides, nowadays banks have so little cash. Hijack a security van instead.’

The Yugoslav’s eyes glistened.

‘But that means many shooting.’

‘No, find out which vans are being used. They must go in for an annual service check, right? Then you can have your mechanics there and arrange things.’

Juro raised his eyebrows, lifted his shoulders and waited for what was to follow. But Brains started the lathe up again. He felt that he must think this over.

During the break, he wanted to test a new fishing rod, but he didn’t get very far before he noticed that Juro had followed him to the jetty.

‘What this, then?’ he wondered, pointing at the extendable fishing rod with hooks attached to the line. Brains had an inkling that he might find a use for it in the future—perhaps to go fishing in a drainpipe.

‘Have you thought about how often a fish gets off the hook? Now some will get caught on these,’ said Brains, holding out a bit of the line with barbs.

‘But how … hurts, yes?’

‘No, no. When you carry the rod around, the hooks are covered with protective tops that dissolve in the water.’

‘Oh, right,’ said the mafia boss, looking confounded. He sat down.

‘You, that money van. Mechanics fix, what?’

‘Then I need to know more about the whole thing.’ Brains avoided looking Juro in the eye.

‘We stop van. Crow feet and machine guns. Then explode van door and drive direct Djursholm with sacks.’

Brains had considerable difficulty interpreting Juro’s rather limited language. Crow feet? What on earth …? But of course, he meant caltrops. Anyhow, he got the gist of what Juro was saying.

‘Forget the machine guns,’ said Brains. ‘The drivers are not armed. You want to manipulate the locks instead. That’s all you need to do.’

‘Money vans not bicycle locks, big locks …’ Juro indicated the size with his mallet-like hands. Brains opened his fishing-kit box with sinkers, hooks and lines and pointed at the lock. Then he took his chewing gum out of his mouth, put it between the bolt and the hollow, and closed the lid.

‘Now it looks as if the lock has engaged, but it hasn’t, not
for real.’ He took a firm grip of the box and without using a key got the lid open again. ‘It’s the simple things that are difficult, you see?’

Juro was all eyes.

‘When the vans are taken in for servicing, your mechanics will be there. They will hollow out a bit more by the bolt and then fill the hollow with metal shavings and resin so that it won’t be visible. The doors won’t shut properly but it will look as if they have. And you’ll be able to open them, I promise.’

‘Raisins? Everybody laugh me like hell.’

‘Not raisins, resin, the sticky stuff from fir trees,’ Brains said, laughing. ‘But I said that I’m not an expert, don’t forget. The post sacks will be going abroad. Switch the sacks with similar ones filled with false money. Deliver them to Arlanda airport. Watertight. Nobody will discover that the money is false until it gets to London, and then the cops can search all they want, but it’ll be too late.’

‘You not stupid,’ said the Yugoslav.

‘Nowadays, lots of different firms have these security vans. There’s lots of money on wheels just waiting to be picked,’ Brains went on. He then went off on a long ramble about the security-van coups in Hallunda, Gustavsberg and some other places, and how the robberies could have been carried out better. He spiced his tales with details that he had snapped up at the Täby prison and hoped he would sound sufficiently knowledgeable so that Juro would talk with him about the robbery. Then perhaps he would let slip where he was going to hide the money.

‘If you don’t like that trick with the lock, then I’ve got another idea,’ Brains continued. ‘Why not stage a police
check-point? Dress up as police officers. When the van stops and they lower the side window, you throw in something to anaesthetize them. Ether, perhaps, or I don’t know what. When the guards have nodded off, then you’ll have plenty of time to take out the money.’

‘You one of us man,’ said Juro.

‘No, don’t get me involved,’ said Brains. ‘I can’t manage another stint in prison. I’m too old. This is my last time in here. Never again will a guard lock me in and tell me what time I should eat and sleep. I want peace and quiet the few years I have left. You’ll understand better when you get older.’

‘But—’

‘Then there is my heart,’ Brains babbled on, putting his thin, sinewy hand on his chest. He wanted to fool Juro into thinking that he had left the life of crime behind him. In fact, his criminal career had only just begun. ‘Yes, it is tough getting old, but after the raid … by the way, have you thought where you can store the sacks?’ he asked, trying to look as indifferent as he could.

‘At eleven.’

‘Eleven?’

‘Yes, mother-in-law’s wine cellar on Skandiavägen … in Djursholm. Jesus, she has big house, big like castle, you know, with long fences. Then car to Dubrovnik and—’

Juro went silent when one of the guards approached, and Brains quickly did a cast with his fishing rod. He stared at the float. Juro had been more forthcoming than he had dared hope. If the Yugoslavs stacked the loot from the raid in that wine cellar, then the five of them would get their chance. Now he must find out the date they were planning to carry
out the robbery, and do so without Juro getting suspicious. But that wasn’t entirely simple. It wasn’t only a case of duping the police. The League of Pensioners would have to delude the mafia too.

In the evening, Brains got out pen and paper and wrote a poem to Martha. This time he was even more cryptic than usual, and he wasn’t certain whether Martha would understand his poem. On the other hand, he didn’t dare be too specific. Stealing from the Yugoslav mafia was not something you did lightly.