Box 21 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström Page A
Authors: Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström
Tags: Fiction, General, Fiction - General, Noir fiction, Mystery & Detective, Police, Revenge, Criminals, Sweden, Human Trafficking, Prostitutes, Stockholm (Sweden), Police - Sweden, Criminals - Sweden, Human trafficking - Sweden, Prostitutes - Sweden, Human trafficking victims
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poor-quality dental work, as he answered his phone, which was ringing again. Jochum stared silently straight ahead, absently following the wipers as they spread the water over the windscreen. Right enough. A total screw-up when hed done a cash collection and that fucking witness who shouldve known better, who talked and pointed until the court passed a sentence. He followed the paths of the raindrops, thinking that he knew all the hazards, but shit happens, thats true enough. Mio was always close at hand, watching him with borrowed eyes and ears every morning when he woke up and looked around his cell, looking out for him, looking out, thats what they did.
The gleaming new car gathered speed on its way through the landscape as it changed from rural to urban, and then through the northern suburbs, on towards central Stockholm.
Suspects were questioned in a room below the custody cells.
Wasnt much of a room, really.
Filthy walls, which had been white once, a heavily barred window at the far end, a worn pine table in the middle of the floor and four plain wooden chairs, straight out of some school canteen.
Sven Sundkvist, interview leader (IL): Please remain seated. Hilding Oldéus (HO): Why the fuck are you picking up innocent people?
IL: Mixing amphetamines with washing powder, you call that innocent?
HO: Dont know what youre on about.
IL: Crap drugs. Cut. So far weve got three users with corroded veins. They gave us your name.
HO: What the fuck are you talking about?
IL: And you were in possession.
HO: Wasnt mine.
IL: We took the bags of white powder from you at the time of your arrest. All six were sent to the labs.
HO: Werent fucking mine.
IL: Twenty per cent amphetamine, twenty-two per cent Panadol Extra and fifty-eight per cent washing powder. Oldéus, sit down.
Ewert Grens opened the door and went in. He had to pass through eight locked doors to get here, but hadnt even noticed. His mind was on the reports, and he could still hear Svens voice reading aloud, causing serious injury, over and over in his head. And he saw the police van that hadnt stopped in time, him holding her in his arms until the paramedics put her on a stretcher and carried her off, away from him.
He was fighting Svens voice, trying to rid himself of the words, and looked up briefly into the harsh overhead light. Then he concentrated on the man sitting opposite Sven, noted his thin face and how a finger was scratching nervously at a wound on one nostril, the drops of blood trickling down towards his mouth and chin.
IL: DSI Ewert Grens enters at oh nine twenty-two.
HO: [inaudible]
IL: What was that, Oldéus?
HO: Wasnt fucking mine.
IL: Stop messing about. We know you sold cut speed on the Plain.
HO: Know fucking everything, dont you?
IL: We arrested you there. With the bags full of washing powder.
HO: Wasnt fucking mine. Some guy handed it to me when I got there. What a cunt, passing on crap like that. Ill sort him when I get out of here.
Ewert Grens (eg): Youre going nowhere.
HO: What? Fucking pig.
IL: Plenty of people whod like to get hold of you, Oldéus. And if just one customer who bought that shit off you reports it, well charge you with attempted murder.Thats you inside for between six months and eight years.
Hilding got up, walked jerkily about in the tight space, suddenly stopped and struck out with one arm, lowered it and walked on a few more steps, stopped again and started speaking incoherently. He rambled on, his head first shaking, then tossing from side to side. His thin body, that was screaming for heroin, that ate and spewed, was disintegrating as they watched.
Ewert looked at Sven. They had seen all this before, of course, and knew he might sit down again and tell them all they wanted to know. Or he might lie down on the floor in the foetal
The gleaming new car gathered speed on its way through the landscape as it changed from rural to urban, and then through the northern suburbs, on towards central Stockholm.
Suspects were questioned in a room below the custody cells.
Wasnt much of a room, really.
Filthy walls, which had been white once, a heavily barred window at the far end, a worn pine table in the middle of the floor and four plain wooden chairs, straight out of some school canteen.
Sven Sundkvist, interview leader (IL): Please remain seated. Hilding Oldéus (HO): Why the fuck are you picking up innocent people?
IL: Mixing amphetamines with washing powder, you call that innocent?
HO: Dont know what youre on about.
IL: Crap drugs. Cut. So far weve got three users with corroded veins. They gave us your name.
HO: What the fuck are you talking about?
IL: And you were in possession.
HO: Wasnt mine.
IL: We took the bags of white powder from you at the time of your arrest. All six were sent to the labs.
HO: Werent fucking mine.
IL: Twenty per cent amphetamine, twenty-two per cent Panadol Extra and fifty-eight per cent washing powder. Oldéus, sit down.
Ewert Grens opened the door and went in. He had to pass through eight locked doors to get here, but hadnt even noticed. His mind was on the reports, and he could still hear Svens voice reading aloud, causing serious injury, over and over in his head. And he saw the police van that hadnt stopped in time, him holding her in his arms until the paramedics put her on a stretcher and carried her off, away from him.
He was fighting Svens voice, trying to rid himself of the words, and looked up briefly into the harsh overhead light. Then he concentrated on the man sitting opposite Sven, noted his thin face and how a finger was scratching nervously at a wound on one nostril, the drops of blood trickling down towards his mouth and chin.
IL: DSI Ewert Grens enters at oh nine twenty-two.
HO: [inaudible]
IL: What was that, Oldéus?
HO: Wasnt fucking mine.
IL: Stop messing about. We know you sold cut speed on the Plain.
HO: Know fucking everything, dont you?
IL: We arrested you there. With the bags full of washing powder.
HO: Wasnt fucking mine. Some guy handed it to me when I got there. What a cunt, passing on crap like that. Ill sort him when I get out of here.
Ewert Grens (eg): Youre going nowhere.
HO: What? Fucking pig.
IL: Plenty of people whod like to get hold of you, Oldéus. And if just one customer who bought that shit off you reports it, well charge you with attempted murder.Thats you inside for between six months and eight years.
Hilding got up, walked jerkily about in the tight space, suddenly stopped and struck out with one arm, lowered it and walked on a few more steps, stopped again and started speaking incoherently. He rambled on, his head first shaking, then tossing from side to side. His thin body, that was screaming for heroin, that ate and spewed, was disintegrating as they watched.
Ewert looked at Sven. They had seen all this before, of course, and knew he might sit down again and tell them all they wanted to know. Or he might lie down on the floor in the foetal
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