The Andalucian Friend (40 page)

He threw half his hot dog in the trash when Erik got back in the passenger seat again. Lars was driving the Volvo, turned left down Odengatan. Erik shut his eyes and massaged the same spot between his eyes. He seemed to be sighing out the pain, squinting against the daylight outside the car.

“And the nurse, how are things going with her? Do you think she knows anything?”

“No,” Lars replied.

“Why not?”

“Because there’s nothing to suggest that she does. I’ve spent a lifetime listening … Not even a hint.”

“Does she know we’re listening to her?”

Lars turned toward Erik.

“Why would she?”

“I don’t know, but we’re not getting anything from her.”

“Maybe she hasn’t got anything to give us?”

Erik shrugged.

They pulled up in a no-parking zone outside Carlos’s apartment on Karlbergsvägen.

Before Erik opened the car door he turned to Lars and studied him for a moment. The study stretched into a silent, protracted stare.

“What is it?” Lars mumbled.

Erik didn’t seem to find the situation uncomfortable. On the contrary, he seemed to be enjoying it.

“You’re a fucking clown, Lars Vinge, you know that, don’t you?”

Lars didn’t answer. He was still going on prescription heroin. That always made him more self-confident. He could maintain eye contact with Erik. But Erik snorted at that.

“You’re trying to outstare me?”

Lars looked away.

Erik cleared his throat. It sounded rough, and ended up as a series of coughs. He gasped for air.

“Gunilla said you wanted to widen your horizons a bit, get some different jobs. This is one of them, you ready for it?”

Lars nodded.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“OK, watch and learn, and keep your mouth shut. That last point is the most important.”

He got out of the car. Lars didn’t move, took a deep breath, then followed him.

The elevator was out of order. Carlos lived on the fourth floor. They started to go up the stairs.

Erik was puffing and panting. On the third floor he stopped and grabbed hold of the handrail. His breathing was labored, his face bright red. With an irritated wave of the hand he gestured to Lars to keep on going.

Erik, headphones over
his ears, was listening to the little box that Hasse and Anders had left behind on their previous visit.

“There’s nothing here? Just static and shit!”

He looked up at Carlos.

“Why?” he went on.

Carlos licked his lips.

“I don’t know. I was wearing it but Hector didn’t talk to me.”

Lars was sitting on one of kitchen chairs watching all this.

“He’s going to fall, and you’re going down with him,” said Erik. “I’m giving you a chance here, Carlos. A chance to get out of this mess a free man. But for that to happen, you need to help us. Understand?”

Erik’s tone was patronizing, as if he were talking to a child. Lars looked at the bruises on Carlos’s face.

“Have you been beaten up?” he asked.

Carlos looked at Lars with a questioning expression.

“Shut up, Lars,” Erik said.

Erik held up the microphone again.

“Wear it all the time. We’ll be back in two days, and by then it needs to be full of info. … There you go.”

Carlos looked at the microphone that Erik was holding out, then down at the floor, as if he were searching for options.

“Take it,” Erik said.

Carlos shook his head. Erik’s patience ran out.

“Take it, man!” Erik’s voice cracked halfway through.

Lars stood up.

“Are we done?”

Erik turned toward him.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

Lars smiled insolently at Erik.

“Shut up yourself. You can’t do anything properly. Do you think this is a good strategy?”

Erik looked at Lars in surprise. His blood pressure went up, his face got redder.

“You fucking little cocksucker,” he said in a low voice, and was about to go on when he suddenly stumbled. He muttered something inaudible. His voice sounded thick and muffled. Lars and Carlos looked at him in surprise. Erik tried to say something, he was squinting as if the light had suddenly gotten too bright. Erik rubbed a hand over his head, blinked, stumbled, and grabbed the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

“I can’t see properly,” he said.

“What?”

Erik’s left arm began to tremble, and he looked at it in astonishment.

“What the fuck?” he whispered quietly to himself.

His gaze moved from his own shaking arm to Lars, then to Carlos. He made a guttural, incomprehensible sound, then projectile vomited. One of his legs gave way. He fell to the left, taking the chair with him, and hit the floor hard. He ended up lying in his own vomit, screwing his eyes up.

Carlos stared. Lars stared and leaned over cautiously.

“How are you feeling, Erik?”

No answer.

“We have to call an ambulance,” Carlos said.

Lars held a hand up at him.

“Erik?” he whispered.

Erik was gasping for breath as he lay there on the floor. Carlos grabbed the phone off the kitchen wall, and was about to dial the emergency number. Lars drew his pistol and aimed the gun lazily toward him.

“There now, put it back.”

Carlos stared into the barrel of the gun, hung the receiver up again, and took a step back.

“He can’t die on my floor!” Carlos said.

“Of course he can.”

Lars crouched down with the pistol hanging from one hand between his legs, staring at Erik in fascination. Waved his other hand in front of his eyes.

“Erik?”

Erik moved his eyes slightly, looked at Lars. Lars could see something pleading in them. The muscles in his thighs started to ache and he stood up and turned to Carlos.

“The police officers who were here before?”

Carlos looked at Lars, unsure what he was getting at.

“There were other police officers here before, they gave you the microphone. Tell me!”

“Two men came ’round the other evening, one big one and one …ordinary one. They asked questions … They threatened me.”

“Why?”

Carlos looked at the pistol hanging from Lars’s hand.

“I don’t know. Put the pistol away.”

Lars looked at the pistol without putting it away. “But I’m not even aiming it at you.”

Carlos put his left hand over his eyes.

“What did they ask?” said Lars.

“About Hector …”

“What did they ask about Hector?”

Carlos put his hand down, looked at Lars.

“If I’d met him at the restaurant that evening.”

“What evening?”

Carlos gestured to his battered face.

“And did you?”

Carlos shook his head.

“How did they threaten you?”

“I don’t know.”

“How could you not know that?”

“They hit me.”

“What else?”

Carlos looked confused. Lars clarified.

“Did they mention anyone else?”

“Like who?”

“A woman?”

“What woman?”

“Sophie?”

Carlos thought, nodded.

“Yes, they asked if I saw her that evening.”

“And did you?”

Carlos shook his head.

“What did you tell them?”

He looked at Lars as if he was stupid.

“That I didn’t see her!”

“So what happened at the restaurant?”

Carlos looked away.

“I don’t know.”

He said the words as if he was tired of repeating the same thing over and over again.

“I want you to let me know if they contact you again.”

“Why?”

Lars pointed idly at him with the pistol.

“Because I say so.”

Carlos thought.

“What do I get out of it?”

Lars looked closely at Carlos’s injuries.

“Nothing. You escape getting beaten up again, I guess.”

Carlos shook his head.

“So what do you want, then, Carlos?”

“Protection, if I get in trouble.”

“OK, agreed, but part of the deal is that no one finds out that any time has passed between the old man hitting the floor and us calling for an ambulance.”

Lars gestured with his pistol for Carlos to leave the kitchen.

He pulled up a chair, sat down, and looked at Erik Strandberg’s rigid body. The old bastard was slowly suffocating. Lars looked into his eyes to reassure himself that he, Lars Vinge, would be the last thing Erik Strandberg ever saw in this life. Erik died after a long and painful struggle, Lars didn’t miss a second of the drama. The corpse looked odd, the face was drooping weirdly. Erik was lying dead in his own vomit. Lars felt a certain satisfaction at that.

Albert lay there, pressed to the ground,
it smelled of soil and grass.

He had received a text from Sophie.
Stay where you are. Keep hidden
.

He heard steps out on the road, saw the second man, the one named Anders. Where Hasse was, he had no idea.

Albert made up his mind to run again, knew he had the advantage then.

There was a rustling sound a few yards away from him. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears. The man, whichever one of them it was, was standing close by. Albert had no choice. He got up quickly, took aim, and started to run. He hadn’t gotten more than ten yards when he ran straight into an outstretched arm, was hit in the throat and pulled to the ground. Strong hands held him down, a heavy knee on his chest pressed the air out of him. Albert could see Hasse’s contorted face as the fat man snarled curses at him, saliva running from his mouth. With a hard stranglehold around Albert’s neck Hasse started punching him in the face. Hard blows to his eye, nose, mouth. He stopped hitting but kept his stranglehold and squeezed. The air soon stopped. Albert could feel that the oxygen in his head was running out, that the life was running out of him. His mind was screaming for more. … His eyes could no longer keep themselves open.

Just when it felt like he was about to lose consciousness, Hasse let go. Albert rolled onto his side, retched, and tried to get his breath back.

Hasse dragged him up from the ground, holding his arm tight.

“I’ve got him,” he shouted.

At that moment Albert managed to break free. He set off again. His legs were driving him forward even thought he couldn’t feel them. He had the taste of blood in his mouth, and every joint in his body ached. He got out onto the road and heard the car accelerate behind him. He managed to get into a garden. His steps were slow and heavy, his balance poor. The whole time Albert could see Hasse from the corner of his eye, running parallel to him. When he realized that Hasse was managing to keep up with him Albert leaped over the fence to run out onto the road in the hope of meeting someone, maybe stop a car … get help.

He emerged onto the tarmac road, tried to increase his speed. The Volvo came from the left, at high speed, didn’t even try to brake. The blow was hard. The car struck him on the kneecaps and Albert was thrown into the air, where he performed a half somersault over the roof of the car and fell, after his long, silent flight, onto the tarmac, his back hitting first, then the back of his head, with such force that the back of his skull shattered. Everything went black.