Read Online Box 21 by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström - Free Book Online
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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direction of the decorous façade.
I dont like physical abuse cases anywhere, but its worse in this sort of place. Which is as a rule where they happen.
He looked around. An ambulance and two police cars with their chilly blue lights rotating. Maybe ten or so curious neighbours standing about near the parked cars, not crowding in on the place, decent enough to show a little proper respect, something that didnt always happen. The street door was held open by a rope tied to a bicycle rack. Ewert and Sven walked along the flagged path and into the lobby. Large wrought-iron numerals set into the wall near the doorway said 1901. So it was built at the turn of the century. Satisfied, Ewert nodded to himself and started to study the list of tenants names. Four of them on the fifth floor: Palm, Nygren, Johansson, Löfgren.
Couldnt be more Swedish. Only to be expected, given the kind of place it was.
Do you spot anybody familiar, Sven?
No.
They dont exactly put it on show.
You?
No idea.
Pretty poor lift, narrow with a folding grid gate, room for three, no more than 225 kilos. A uniformed policeman stood guard, an older man whom Ewert hadnt seen around for a long time.
I always forget how many idiots there are in the force, he thought. Like this one. If you dont clap eyes on them day in and day out, these sad bastards fade from your mind.
He smiled grimly while he observed the man.
Legs well apart, the stance of a cop on the telly, a cop with an important mission, keeping an eye on things as the music builds up, with lots of long notes from the string section. He might even click his heels if you asked him a question, and hed almost certainly spell words aloud when working on a report. In short, the sort who should be allowed to guard lifts, but not much else. That sort.
The constable didnt return Ewerts smile, because he sensed the contempt. He deliberately addressed Sven when he started on his account.
We were called about an hour ago, sir. An extremely drunk pimp. And a badly beaten prostitute.
That so?
Yes. Some neighbours phoned the police, but by then hed already beaten her black and blue. Shes unconscious. She needs to go to hospital. And theres one more in there. Another prostitute, by the look of her.
Beaten up too?
Dont think so. He didnt get round to her, I suppose.
Ewert listened in silence while Sven talked to the idiot guarding the lift, but eventually he couldnt take it any more.
Alerted an hour ago! Exactly what are you waiting for?
We arent allowed in. Apparently its Lithuanian . . .er, territory.
What? When someone is being physically abused, you go straight in!
Five bloody flights. Ewert had a problem breathing, every step cost him. He should have used the lift, but his temper had flared up and he had run past that flaming imbecile on guard duty. He heard voices discussing the case above him, getting louder as he climbed. Two ambulance men and a paramedic seemed to be conducting a case conference on the fourth-floor landing. They exchanged brief nods as he passed them. Only one more flight.
He was gasping for breath and out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sven was catching up with light steps. Ewert couldnt give up now and forced his legs to move. They didnt want to. He could hardly feel them.
There were four doors on the top-floor landing. One of them had a gaping hole in the panel and was guarded by three uniformed men. He didnt recognise any of them, but further back he saw the familiar face of Bengt Nordwall, in civvies like himself and Sven. Barely twenty-four hours hadpassed since Ewert and Bengt had met on that rain-sodden morning outside the happy family home where Ewert had been given breakfast and caring attention. It was rare for their paths to cross at work, and Ewert stared at his friend, feeling
I dont like physical abuse cases anywhere, but its worse in this sort of place. Which is as a rule where they happen.
He looked around. An ambulance and two police cars with their chilly blue lights rotating. Maybe ten or so curious neighbours standing about near the parked cars, not crowding in on the place, decent enough to show a little proper respect, something that didnt always happen. The street door was held open by a rope tied to a bicycle rack. Ewert and Sven walked along the flagged path and into the lobby. Large wrought-iron numerals set into the wall near the doorway said 1901. So it was built at the turn of the century. Satisfied, Ewert nodded to himself and started to study the list of tenants names. Four of them on the fifth floor: Palm, Nygren, Johansson, Löfgren.
Couldnt be more Swedish. Only to be expected, given the kind of place it was.
Do you spot anybody familiar, Sven?
No.
They dont exactly put it on show.
You?
No idea.
Pretty poor lift, narrow with a folding grid gate, room for three, no more than 225 kilos. A uniformed policeman stood guard, an older man whom Ewert hadnt seen around for a long time.
I always forget how many idiots there are in the force, he thought. Like this one. If you dont clap eyes on them day in and day out, these sad bastards fade from your mind.
He smiled grimly while he observed the man.
Legs well apart, the stance of a cop on the telly, a cop with an important mission, keeping an eye on things as the music builds up, with lots of long notes from the string section. He might even click his heels if you asked him a question, and hed almost certainly spell words aloud when working on a report. In short, the sort who should be allowed to guard lifts, but not much else. That sort.
The constable didnt return Ewerts smile, because he sensed the contempt. He deliberately addressed Sven when he started on his account.
We were called about an hour ago, sir. An extremely drunk pimp. And a badly beaten prostitute.
That so?
Yes. Some neighbours phoned the police, but by then hed already beaten her black and blue. Shes unconscious. She needs to go to hospital. And theres one more in there. Another prostitute, by the look of her.
Beaten up too?
Dont think so. He didnt get round to her, I suppose.
Ewert listened in silence while Sven talked to the idiot guarding the lift, but eventually he couldnt take it any more.
Alerted an hour ago! Exactly what are you waiting for?
We arent allowed in. Apparently its Lithuanian . . .er, territory.
What? When someone is being physically abused, you go straight in!
Five bloody flights. Ewert had a problem breathing, every step cost him. He should have used the lift, but his temper had flared up and he had run past that flaming imbecile on guard duty. He heard voices discussing the case above him, getting louder as he climbed. Two ambulance men and a paramedic seemed to be conducting a case conference on the fourth-floor landing. They exchanged brief nods as he passed them. Only one more flight.
He was gasping for breath and out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sven was catching up with light steps. Ewert couldnt give up now and forced his legs to move. They didnt want to. He could hardly feel them.
There were four doors on the top-floor landing. One of them had a gaping hole in the panel and was guarded by three uniformed men. He didnt recognise any of them, but further back he saw the familiar face of Bengt Nordwall, in civvies like himself and Sven. Barely twenty-four hours hadpassed since Ewert and Bengt had met on that rain-sodden morning outside the happy family home where Ewert had been given breakfast and caring attention. It was rare for their paths to cross at work, and Ewert stared at his friend, feeling
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