The Little Old Lady Who Broke All the Rules (20 page)

The remand period was coming to an end, and now a more permanent posting awaited them. Brains sat in his cell and looked through the poems he had received from Martha. Did he dare keep them? They might be confiscated and analyzed at the new place. At the same time, he doubted whether he would be able to remember everything she had written. So he would have to take them with him. If worse came to worst, he could lie and say he had written them himself.

He read through the poems again. In the first ones, Martha had been preoccupied with the money in the drainpipe; in the later poems she had presented constructive suggestions as to what they should do with the millions. Apart from contributions to geriatric care, culture and the poor, she had become sentimental. She hinted that she felt sorry for museums, which had such a difficult financial situation, and suggested that they perhaps ought to give some of the money back to the National Museum—why not as an anonymous donation via the Friends of the National Museum? Many riches, to art in return, or whatever it was she had written. Then she had said something totally different in later poems, which he interpreted as meaning that the money should stay in the drainpipe after all, but perhaps that was simply one of her usual tricks to send people down the wrong track.

The clergyman, who took a look at every poem, became all the more confused, and Brains had explained that Martha obviously wasn’t feeling very well in prison. In the two most recent poems, she had really gone to town:

So Martha wanted them to give money to others—but also be able to afford to journey to the sun. Then the Robbery Fund should become active and kept alive.

Martha seemed to have great plans but was perhaps rather too optimistic. Even though they had stolen valuables and two famous paintings, they could hardly pull off just any robbery they wanted. It was tough in the criminal world, dangerous even. It had been interesting to take a few steps down the path of crime, but if prisons were like the remand cells he had seen so far, then they had a far better reputation than they deserved. If they were going to do something criminal again, then everything must work perfectly so that they did
not
get caught.

Brains found himself thinking about some very shady characters he had met in the Sollentuna remand prison. Juro, a big and strong Yugoslav, had whispered something about a bank robbery. He had spoken Croatian but Brains knew several languages and had understood it all. Brains’s father had been a carpenter in the former Czechoslovakia and his mother came
from Italy. When his parents moved to Sweden and ended up in Sundbyberg, they had spoken every imaginable language, and Brains had picked up quite a lot. He became interested in languages and often listened to foreign radio stations when he was busy in his workshop. That way you learned a language without having to make an effort, he thought. So far it had worked. He had even become quite good at Croatian, thanks to his new friend in prison.

The Yugoslav must have seen when Brains sketched his inventions, because in the exercise yard some days later he had crept up to him and whispered:

‘You special technic, yes?’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I used to build with Lego when I was little, that’s all.’

‘No, no, you inventor man. Me know. You clever—locks and alarms.’

Oh hell, thought Brains, who wanted to keep his head down with regard to any criminal skills.

‘I studied Polhem when I was a lad and his locks are three hundred years old,’ Brains said and laughed it off.

‘Banks, you know,’ the Yugoslav went on. ‘Stoopid, much stoopid. They take money from state when bad bissness, yeah, but they not share when good bissness. I fix them, you help—’

‘There are other ways,’ Brains interrupted him. ‘The state can ask for a bonus. People make a lot of money from that.’ He tried to sound like a man of the world; he had kept up by reading the newspapers and understood that bonuses made people rich. So he wasn’t completely hopeless when it came to money issues. The Yugoslav laughed heartily and put his hand on Brains’s shoulder.

‘You know, here in Stockholm, Handelsbank at Karlaplan, yes? Close to Valhallavägen and quick to Arlanda Airport. But bank locks much difficult.’

Brains shrugged his shoulders to indicate that it was regrettable. ‘I’m not at all familiar with that sort of lock.’

The Yugoslav mafia was not something he wished to be involved with, and after that conversation he kept his distance during exercise periods. He noticed how the Yugoslav sought out other inmates there in the yard, and how he tried to milk a former bank employee for information. The man was to be tried for economic crimes and had emptied accounts for many years until his wife gave him away.

A week later the Yugoslav left the remand prison and Brains gave a sigh of relief. Juro had taken too much of an interest in him and Brains had been forced to pretend he was more stupid than he actually was.
He who is silent gets information; stupid people who talk give themselves away
, he used to say. But one thing he did know—Juro and his mates outside the prison had planned a large robbery.

‘Sometimes get caught, not dangerous. Just little rest in prison. Then fetch money,’ the Yugoslav had explained.

Brains pondered this and wondered if he could adopt that same attitude but develop it a bit more. Skip the crime bit but get rich anyway. That would, after all, be the ultimate solution, but as yet he hadn’t worked out how to achieve it. He needed Martha. Together they would think of something.

‘And why are you at Hinseberg? People like you should be in an old folks’ home.’

Martha twirled round. She was in the kitchen and had just poured out a glass of milk when a girl with fuzzy hair, a narrow mouth and a pointed nose came into the room. The girl looked to be in her mid-thirties, was chewing gum with her mouth open and kept her hands demonstratively by her sides. What a welcome, Martha thought. She could at least
try
to be pleasant.

‘Old folks’ home, not likely. I’m not a dinosaur. If I was, I wouldn’t still be standing here, I would have stomped on you already.’

The girl’s eyelids flickered.

‘Oh right, you are one of those cocky types. Watch yourself. Don’t forget that you are a first-timer. I’ve done bird before.’

Done bird before? Martha thought about that. Presumably it meant that she had been here on earlier occasions.

‘You don’t have to “bird” me. There is nothing to stop you from being decent to a new inmate,’ said Martha. She drank a large gulp of milk and put the glass down in the sink. ‘By the way, I’m Martha Andersson.’

The girl continued to chew her gum.

‘I’m Liza. What got you here?’

‘Robbery,’ said Martha.

‘What, someone like you? Is that why you drink milk—to become stronger for your next burglary? Holy cow!’

Two younger girls who had come into the kitchen guffawed. Martha looked out of the corner of her eye at the
guard behind the glass of one of the long walls and wondered whether she could hear them. Liza’s gaze was hard and vacant. She must be the one who bossed people around here, Martha thought, having already gauged how some things worked at Hinseberg. Some leader types took command, she had heard. Even the guards had said that there were several unspoken rules and it was best to follow them.

‘Oh, did you just call me a cow?’ exclaimed Martha.

Liza nodded.

‘If you call me a cow once more, I’ll stuff my walking stick where the sun don’t shine! There’s your warning.’

The room became silent, and then some repressed giggling could be heard from the girls in the background. Liza took a threatening step forward.

‘Listen to me, you senile old bat. Watch your step or you might just find that your face comes into contact with my fist next time you’re in the showers.’

‘Showers?’ Martha didn’t understand, and it must have shown.

‘That’s where we settle things. Insulated walls and no windows.’

‘Oh right, so that’s how it is,’ said Martha, who guessed what the girl was getting at. She changed her tactic and tried a more friendly approach. ‘Do you want some?’ she asked, and held out the milk carton.

‘You must be kidding!’

‘And why are you locked up here?’

‘Murder.’

Martha almost choked on her milk, coughing several times.

‘And who did you rob, then?’ Liza asked.

‘Oh, it was an art robbery. It was at the National Museum.’ Martha shrugged her shoulders as if it had been just a trifle.

‘Oh, the museum robbery. I’ve read about that. Are the paintings still missing?’

Martha nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. They disappeared.’

‘Like hell they did—where did you hide the paintings? I won’t snitch.’

‘Neither we nor the police have found them yet.’

‘I won’t fall for that. Out with it now! We all stick together here, get it? If you don’t share, well …’ The girl took Martha’s glass and emptied it down the sink.

‘The robbery was successful, but then … it couldn’t all be perfect,’ said Martha, filling her glass again.

‘You’re a cocky one, aren’t you? There are lots of people here who have robbed pensioners, you know. Girls whose speciality is robbing folk like you. Take my advice: cool it a bit.’ The girl emptied Martha’s milk down the sink again. ‘Oh, and one more thing. Since you are over-age, we don’t want you in the workshop. You can do general duties. We start working at eight, so you must have breakfast ready by seven o’clock.’

‘That’s for the guards—I mean screws—to decide,’ said Martha.

‘It’s us and them. Anybody who goes into the screws’ cage and complains doesn’t belong here. Got it? Otherwise you’ll get what’s coming to you in the showers.’

‘You are awful,’ Martha muttered.

‘Just because you are nearly a corpse doesn’t mean I wouldn’t put my fist into you.’ The girl’s eyes were as icy as the Arctic.

Martha cleared her throat. ‘Right then, tomorrow morning at seven is breakfast time. See you then.’

Martha left the kitchen with her head held high and out of the corner of her eye she saw the girl smirking. It immediately became clear to Martha that prison reality was something quite different to what she had seen on TV or read about in crime novels. Here it was a question of balancing on a knife-edge.

‘This is how it should look. Almost nothing left,’ said Allanson as he surveyed the shed. A large anchor and a crate of beer stood on the floor, and on the shelves were a couple of nets, some lifebuoys and fishing rods—otherwise it was empty. The bicycles had gone, as had the mopeds and the two snow scooters.

‘And to think that we got paid in euros just like we wanted. The kids’ bikes and the ten-gear jobs sold like hotcakes. The Estonians were pleased as punch,’ said Janson.

‘Yeah, and the mopeds sold well too,’ Allanson added. ‘Now we’ve got some space again. What about a new venture? Bikes and mopeds, for example?’

‘I think you might be on to something there. Could we start Saturday?’

‘I’m off work on the weekend and I’m going to visit my
mum at the retirement home. It’s her birthday. But after that …’

‘You’re not going to bloody well visit her at four in the morning, are you?’ Janson smirked.

‘No, no.’ Allanson looked down at the floor. He usually got teased because he visited his mother so often. But he was fond of her, and she was so pleased when he came to visit—even though she usually forgot that he had been there the minute he walked out the door.

‘I’ll stay with her a while and drive over to meet you after. But I should get her a present. I can’t keep taking her chocolates and flowers.’

‘Flowers? She should get them anyway, but take this. It looks completely new and it’s only been getting in the way here.’ He kicked the black shopping trolley that was on the pallet.

‘The shopping trolley? But she is too old to go out shopping.’

‘Don’t you get it? Let her think she can. Things like that let people who are past it feel a bit younger. And you can always fill it with something nice.’

Allanson cast a critical eye over the shopping trolley, but then he brightened up.

‘She’s got one hell of a lot of blankets that she drags around with her. The staff at her retirement home have complained about it. Now she’ll be able to put them in the trolley.’

‘Exactly. Just don’t forget to take out the old newspapers first.’

‘Sure, but I should take her something to go with it,’ Allanson mused, still not satisfied.

‘You said that they had stopped serving cakes and biscuits at the retirement home. So buy some fancy buns and cream
cakes for the place. And then you can get something tasty for us too while you’re about it.’

Allanson’s face lit up. ‘You always have such good ideas.’

Janson laughed, closed the doors and locked up the shed. They got into the car again and did the usual round past the skip and Lost Property.

When the alarm clock went off at half past six, Martha gave a start. Many elderly people were in the habit of waking up early in the morning, but not her. In her world, it was an unchristian time of day for birds, villains and uncouth youths who hadn’t yet gone to bed. She unwillingly forced herself up, had a shower and got dressed. When the guards let her out at seven, she shuffled along to the kitchen at the end of the corridor. There were no kitchen islands and no fancy equipment either. Perhaps that was just as well; otherwise she would only have got confused. She got out the milk and the ham and cheese slices from the fridge, and found the oats and muesli in the cupboard. Cups and plates were on the shelves above the sink, and cutlery lay in the drawers underneath. Yawning, she boiled eggs, made some porridge—the old-fashioned way, in a saucepan—laid the table and put out bread, butter and marmalade. When she had finished, she flopped down on a chair with a cup of coffee in her hand. But she hadn’t laid a place for Liza, the chewing-gum girl. Her place at the short end of the table was empty.

The girls came in one after the other and Martha introduced herself. They said hello, sat down and began to help themselves. They were all eating their breakfast in peace and quiet, but when Liza came crashing in, everyone looked up. You could tell at a distance that the girl was in a bad mood and it didn’t improve when she discovered that nobody had laid her place at the table.

‘Where is my cup?’

‘I suppose it is in the cupboard,’ Martha answered.

‘Then put it on the table,’ Liza responded.

‘The plates are on the top shelf and on the lowest shelf you’ll find the cups. The glasses are by the sink.’

The girls stopped eating and the whole room fell silent. Martha ate her porridge and slowly stirred her coffee. Nobody could fail to notice the tension in the room, but Martha was too old to care.

‘Fetch the cup and lay my place too!’ Liza growled.

‘I might lay your place tomorrow, but that depends. I am extremely fussy about how people treat me.’

Liza gave Martha’s cup a shove and coffee splashed out onto the table. Martha, who had expected something of the sort, calmly filled the cup again and continued to eat her porridge. Then she turned to the girl next to her.

‘Is she always this difficult in the morning?’

No answer. Somebody coughed, a spoon clinked against a plate and the girls exchanged silent looks. The next moment, Martha felt somebody pull her chair back, grab hold of her blouse and yank her up.

‘My coffee!’ Liza roared.

‘There is tea too,’ said Martha, calmly taking the hands
away from her collar. The girls all gasped, and then came a half-repressed giggle which spread. Soon they were all laughing. Liza glared at Martha, but knew that she couldn’t intervene. The girl had dominated the others by threatening to sort them out in the showers, but with Martha it was different. If she took an almost eighty-year-old woman there and beat her up, she would be the loser. She realized that, as did all the others in the room.

‘Take your breakfast, Liza, and I’ll do the washing-up later,’ said Martha.

Liza pretended not to hear, but she fetched a cup, poured out her coffee and sat at the short end of the table. Without a word, she buttered some bread, and when she had drunk her coffee she got up and left the room. Martha watched, and wondered how and when Liza would take her revenge.