He Who Kills the Dragon

55.

On Saturday morning Grislund, thirty-six, had opened his heart to Superintendent Jorma Honkamäki, forty-two, head of Toivonen’s surveillance unit and usually the acting head of the Stockholm Police riot squad.

A heart that was already wide-open, since he had opened it three days earlier to his old friend Fredrik Åkare, fifty-one, who was sergeant-at-arms for the Hells Angels out in Solna. The same Åkare who was absolutely livid when he stepped into his workshop — and what real choice had he had, a simple car mechanic and father of two? Grislund thought.

‘Okay, Grislund, unless you fancy drinking the oil from your own drip tray, I suggest you tell me where I can find little Nasir,’ Åkare said, kicking the contents of the tray across Grislund’s well-scrubbed concrete floor to underline the seriousness of what he had just said.

Grislund had revealed everything. He was a simple man but even he realized it was time to choose a side. Naturally, Grislund was not his real name: No one would really be called Pigpen. He actually came from a noble family. He was called Stig after his father and Svinhufvud after his mother, a fetchingly old-fashioned name meaning ‘pigheaded,’ because she refused to become a Nilsson upon her marriage to Grislund’s father. Her happiness meant her son’s unhappiness, and sadly, in spite of her fine background, she didn’t possess a single krona that could have softened the blows her son had to endure.

Back in nursery school his friends had nicknamed him Grislund, and the only advantage was that he had been able to eat like an ordinary person all his life, and fairly soon he was living up to his own nickname. As a lad his dad had called him Stiglet. Then, when Grislund told his mom that he and a friend were going to open a car repair shop out in North Järva she had stopped talking to him. Dad still called him Little Stiglet. Either because he didn’t know any better or because he wanted to wind up his wife. It’s probably more to do with Mom, Grislund thought — he had just turned seventeen and had just completed his mechanics course out in Solna.

The repair shop had gone well, and his old friends had done what they could to help. Mostly Farshad Ibrahim, whom he had got to know in secondary school in Sollentuna. Plus all the others that Farshad even then could count among his retinue.

He had met Åkare much later. One day he just turned up and rolled an old van off the back of a truck, telling him to scrap the fucker before sunset. Grislund had done as he was told and had earned yet another customer.

Everything kept on rolling, so to speak. There had been the occasional little hiccup with grouchy cops sniffing around the repair shop, but nothing he couldn’t live with. Up until seven o’clock the evening before, when all hell had broken loose.

He was lying happily beneath his labor of love, a Chevy Bel Air from 1956, tightening some old nuts, mainly for the fun of it. Suddenly the repair shop door had flown open and before he even had time to turn his head and look, someone had grabbed his ankles and pulled him out. It was a miracle that he didn’t crack his head open on the frame of the Chevy.

‘Grislund,’ Jorma Honkamäki said, smiling at him with his small eyes. ‘Call your old woman and tell her not to bother getting you any tea, and I’ll take you for sausage and mash back at Solna.’

Compared with Åkare, Honkamäki had behaved reasonably, and because it was never wrong to get yourself a bit of extra insurance, he had opened his heart one more time.

Admittedly, Honkamäki had started by winding him up. They’d evidently found a few things: steel wire, solder, all the necessary tools, a dozen caltrops that he’d knocked up and then forgotten about, a few old number plates that it was always useful to have in reserve. It didn’t really amount to much, if only that had been all.

If only Nasir hadn’t asked him to look after that hundred-gram bag when he looked in on Monday last week to pick up a whole sack of caltrops.

‘Only until the end of the day,’ Nasir had assured him. ‘I’m on a driving job later today, so, in case anything goes wrong.’ An eloquent shrug of his slender shoulders.

‘Okay,’ Grislund said, because he was a kind, decent man, and as far as possible he liked to keep his customers happy. Especially if they had an older brother called Farshad Ibrahim. Besides, Nasir had promised to pick the bag up later that evening. After he finished the job, he and his girlfriend were heading down to Copenhagen to celebrate. Meet up with a mutual friend of his and Grislund’s. Let their hair down, have some fun.

‘After all, I don’t drink like you and the other Swedes,’ Nasir had said.

‘A hundred grams of coke,’ Honkamäki said. ‘We’re talking fourteen days per gram, Grislund, your prints on the bag, and what is it that makes me think you’ve suddenly gone soft in the head?’ Four years, Grislund thought, because he could count perfectly well. It was high time to open his heart.

‘Take it easy, Jorma,’ Grislund said. ‘You’re talking to a simple foot soldier in the great army of organized crime. Where would someone like me get money like that from?’

And all thanks to a fucking springer spaniel, he thought. First she had just run round like all the other dogs people like Honkamäki brought with them. Then she suddenly stopped and howled, almost tying herself in knots in front of the big oil tray he had in the workshop. The one that even someone like Åkare would think twice about before kicking. Still less stick in his hand, like the dog’s master had done without a moment’s hesitation.

So he had opened his heart one more time and explained the way things were. Compared with Åkare, Honkamäki had at least behaved more or less like a human being. He hadn’t started by putting his hands round his neck, sticking his index finger up his nose, and twisting it.

Nasir and Tokarev had taken off after the shooting out at Bromma. They drove five hundred meters. Abandoned their van twenty meters from the entrance to the Hells Angels’ holy of holies. Their clubhouse itself, practically next door to the airport.

No explanation as to why. Because red mist was still coming out of the side window? To cause trouble for their rivals? Because they’d just found an empty parking space? Stupidly, Nasir had pulled off his mask as he was running past one of Åkare’s many associates just a couple side streets away, as the sirens began to wail in the background.

‘Nasir,’ Grislund concluded. ‘Drives like a fucking boy racer.’

‘Little Nasir,’ Honkamäki said. I wonder how much money his nasty big brother has had to fork out to fix up board and lodging for him this time? he thought.

‘He’s a fucking little brat,’ Grislund said. ‘Do you know what the bastard says when he gets his fucking caltrops and I’ve promised to look after his fucking coke so he’ll leave me alone to get on with my own thing? Do you know what the bastard says to me as he leaves?’

‘No,’ Honkamäki says.

‘Oink, oink,’ Grislund said.

‘You don’t have it easy, Grislund.’ Honkamäki grinned.

‘No,’ Grislund agreed. Whoever said we’re supposed to have it easy? he thought.

‘Have you told anyone else this?’ Honkamäki said.

‘No,’ Grislund said, shaking his head. There are still limits, he thought.

‘A little bird told me that you had a visit from Åkare,’ Honkamäki said, sounding as if he were thinking out loud.

‘No way,’ Grislund said. What the hell is he after? he thought.

‘It’ll get sorted,’ Honkamäki said.

‘What about the prints?’ Grislund asked. ‘On that fucking plastic bag. Nasir’s coke,’ he clarified.

‘What fucking prints?’ Honkamäki said, shaking his head. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

Grislund himself had asked to stay in the holding cell. At least until Monday, to prevent any unnecessary rumors from spreading.

‘Make yourself at home, Grislund,’ Honkamäki said.

Then he had called Toivonen to tell him.

‘What the hell would the little bastard want with Copenhagen?’ Toivonen said. Anyway, weren’t the Hells Angels on the city council there? he thought.

‘I’ve already spoken to our Danish colleagues,’ Honkamäki said. ‘They’ve promised to keep an eye out for him. If we’re lucky, he’s still alive.’

And if he isn’t, things will get even worse, Toivonen thought.