Free Box 21 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström Page A

never had done, had never understood the point of such a predictable game.
     
‘So what’s on your mind?’
     
They hadn’t exchanged more than a word or two on the way, since Slobodan had met him at the gate of Aspsĺs prison in the shiny car and Jochum let himself be driven away, had sat in the leather passenger seat and thrown away the shreds of the standard one-way train ticket.
     
Now the two of them were waiting and watching each other across the beautifully laid breakfast table in the expensive restaurant ten minutes from the centre of Stockholm.
     
‘Some business of Mio’s.’
     
Jochum, with his large shaved head, sunbed tan, scarred cheek, remained stubbornly silent, just sat there taking up space.
     
Slobodan leaned forward.
     
‘He’d like you to have a word with a guy who is selling our goods cut with washing powder.’
     
Jochum waited. He said nothing. Not until Slobodan’s mobile phone, lying in the middle of the table, rang and he reached out for it. Then Jochum grabbed his wrist.
     
‘You’re talking to me. Do the rest of your fucking business some other time.’
     
A flash of defiance in his eyes.
     
Slobodan withdrew his hand, just as the ringing stopped.
     
‘Like I said, this guy sells bad shit. And one of the buyers was Mio’s niece.’
     
Jochum picked up the salt cellar from the starched tablecloth waste between them, rolled it over the table, watched it go over the edge of the table and roll across the floor towards the window.
     
‘Mirja?’
     
Slobodan nodded.
     
‘Mio never bothered about her before. A smack head whore.’
     
Muzak flowed from wall-mounted speakers, lift music. The women with red cheeks laughed and lit fresh cigarettes, the men undid the top buttons on their shirts, tried to hide their ring fingers as best they could.
     
‘I think you know the bloke.’
     
‘What’s your point?’
     
‘Look, it was cut with washing powder. And it was ours. Don’t you get it?’
     
Jochum didn’t comment and leaned back in his chair. Slobodan had gone red in the face.
     
‘That little creep is ruining our street cred. The story that punters were mainlining fucking Persil will do the rounds in no time.’
     
Jochum was starting to get fed up with the whole place: the conference women’s smoke, the smell of cooked breakfasts, the too-polite waitresses. He wanted to get out, out into the daylight, to another day. This posh scene might be everything that some people longed for in Aspsĺs, but it wasn’t his idea of the good life. On the contrary. The more years he spent inside, the more he resisted any kind of fancy pretence.
     
‘Get on with it. Tell me what I’m supposed to do, for fuck’s sake.’
     
Slobodan responded to his impatience.
     
‘No fucker’s going to sell washing powder in our name. So, a few broken fingers. An arm, nothing more. That’ll do.’
     
Their eyes met. Jochum nodded.
     
The muzak piano played worn-out pop. He got up, made for the car.
     
     
     
     
     
The morning had almost passed, but Stockholm’s Central Station was still yawning, still not quite awake. Some people were in transit, some were snatching a little sleep. Always room for those who struggled with loneliness. It had been raining since midnight, and the homeless had sought shelter in the massive doorways, tried to lie down on the benches in the hall that was as large as a football pitch. They had to keep moving to avoid the security guards, hiding in amongst the hurrying crowd of travellers carrying bags and suitcases and paper cups of café latte steaming under plastic lids.
     
Hilding Oldéus had just woken up.
     
A couple of hours’ kip in the middle of the day. He looked around.
     
His body ached from the hard bench. Some sodding guard had been prodding him non-stop.
     
No food, not since the morning, when one of the cops had given him a couple of custard creams at the joke hearing. Not that it made him grass on Jochum.
     
He wasn’t hungry now. Not randy either.
     
He was, like . . .