To the Top of the Mountain

29

ON FRIDAY 2 July, Hammarby’s losing streak ended. 3-0 at home to Norrköping. Hans Berggren’s goal-scoring dry spell was over. Kennedy Bakircioglü scored his very first league goal.

Perhaps as a result of what happened earlier that day.

Just before ten in the morning, two shabby-looking young men wandered into the police station on Agnegatan. They asked to see Paul Hjelm and Kerstin Holm. Since they had gone to the county police station, there was a certain hesitation at reception. The detectives’ names were unfamiliar. During their long wait, the older and taller of the two men stood with his arm around the younger and shorter one.

Eventually, the receptionist managed to track down Paul Hjelm and Kerstin Holm. She phoned them, and asked the two men to take a seat on a nearby sofa. Neither man sat down. It was something they were physically incapable of doing.

Hjelm and Holm arrived together. They immediately recognised the older and taller of the men. It was Jonas Andersson from Enskede, committee member of the Bajen Fans club. After a while, they also recognised the younger and shorter of the two. From a black-and-white photograph, attached to a whiteboard with ladybird-shaped magnets. The unkempt blond hair and the drooping moustache slightly past the edges of his mouth were, by this point, well known.

What they hadn’t expected was the Kvarnen Killer’s eyes, puffy and red from crying.

‘He was sitting outside the clubhouse this morning,’ said Jonas Andersson from Enskede. ‘He said he didn’t want to do any more damage to Hammarby.’

They nodded at him.

‘Thanks, Jonas,’ said Kerstin Holm.

Jonas Andersson smiled faintly and trudged off.

‘What’s your name?’ Paul Hjelm asked the Kvarnen Killer.

‘Conny Nilsson,’ the Kvarnen Killer said faintly. His vocal cords seemed to have tied a knot in themselves.

‘Why are you coming forward now?’

‘I saw my picture in the paper. Not the drawing, the photograph. It was enough. It hasn’t been fun.’

‘I understand,’ said Paul Hjelm, sitting down on the visitors’ sofa. He patted it. Conny Nilsson sat down next to him. He was small, compact. And completely broken.

‘Where have you been hiding?’ Kerstin Holm asked, sitting down on the other side of the Kvarnen Killer.

Without a word, they both mentally decided never to use that name again.

‘At home,’ said Conny Nilsson. ‘I live with my parents in Haninge.’

‘How have you been able to stay hidden? Are your mates that loyal?’

‘My mates… I don’t know them, they don’t know me. I just followed a group after the game. They didn’t seem to know I was there. They were so bloody angry. A draw against Kalmar at home. They started mouthing off against some Smålanders in Kvarnen. The atmosphere was really heated. The Smålanders were lying, saying they didn’t support Kalmar. One of them pushed me. I don’t know what happened, it’s completely black. I guess I must’ve wanted to show I was there, that I wasn’t some worthless little shit you could just push around. I’d already passed the metro when I realised there was a bit of bloody glass in my hand. I chucked it away and ran. I took a bus from down by Stadsgården. That’s it. I’ve been ill for a week.’

‘Off sick?’

‘I don’t work. I don’t have any job to be off sick from. My mum’s the only one who realised I was sick. I heard her talking about that Kvarnen Killer one night. She was wondering what kind of sick world she lived in.’

‘Now she knows.’

‘She’ll know soon,’ Conny Nilsson nodded. ‘Jesus Christ.’

They didn’t have much else to say.

They left him to the local police.

They felt ill at ease.