The Little Old Lady Who Struck Lucky Again! (23 page)

‘Isn’t today the day they empty the dustbins? The dustbin men might have taken the mannequin by mistake,’ Martha ventured to suggest.

‘But we don’t keep the dustbin in the cellar any longer, Martha, we keep it out by the road. And who would take a mannequin for recycling? No, I don’t think that explains
it,’ said Anna-Greta.

‘Well, all we’ve got to do is go out and see if they’ve emptied the bin,’ Brains said and he got up. Brains went out into the hall, put on his overcoat and disappeared
outside. He was so quick that Anna-Greta didn’t have time to stop him. The mannequin had disappeared from the cellar, not from the dustbin.

Brains was outside quite a while, and he came back in with a cloud of cold air around him.

‘No, nobody has emptied the dustbin,’ he said, and blew his nose. ‘Yesterday I saw both mannequins, and today “Munin” has gone. But, despite that, I couldn’t
find any tracks in the snow. None by the road, and none by the cellar.’

‘Fishy business. Did you find anything at all?’ Gunnar asked.

‘Not really, just a woollen sock that somebody must have lost.’ He went out into the hall for a moment, dipped into the pockets of his overcoat and pulled out the black sock
he’d found by the gate. He returned and held it up so that everyone could see it. ‘Anybody’s?’

‘Give it to me,’ said Martha, and she examined it more closely. ‘This is a man’s sock, a large size, too; it isn’t much of a clue.’ She looked at it from toe
to heel and then handed it on to Christina. Each one studied the sock in turn, and shook their head before passing it on to the next person. Brains gave it a particularly thorough examination,
finally even sniffing at it.

‘Hmm, none of us has lost this. It smells of motor oil.’

‘Perhaps it belongs to one of the bikers?’ Anna-Greta suggested.

‘Do you think they’ve been looking through our cellar?’ Christina turned pale. ‘Perhaps they want to steal something as a sort of revenge for our not signing those
papers?’

They all went completely silent and Christina got the jitters just at the thought of one of those leather-clad hundred-kilo giants being in their yard.

‘Is there anything else missing beside the mannequin?’ Christina asked.

‘I thought that there were a few less boxes in there. We’ll have to check that. But “Munin” is the most important thing. We’ve got to find the mannequin straight
away, so this doesn’t end up the same way as the golf bag,’ said Martha.

‘After a crime you should get rid of any evidence as soon as possible,’ said Christina.

‘Why not ask the neighbours,’ Rake garbled. ‘I can nip across to Lillemor and . . .’

‘You will most certainly NOT nip over there!’ Christina cut in.

‘No, we’ll go straight up to Bandangels. They’re having a party and are bound to be in a good mood. I can go up there and have a look,’ Brains offered, enthralled by the
thought of seeing all those motorbikes again.

‘If you can get the mannequin back, then that’s OK,’ said Martha. ‘They’ve just opened their new clubhouse and perhaps they needed a shop dummy for
something?’

‘Next you’ll be claiming that they’ve got Barbie dolls too!’ Rake snorted.

‘No, now listen,’ said Brains, and his voice had acquired a nostalgic ring. ‘In my youth our biker club in Sundbyberg had the best clubhouse you could possibly imagine. The
inside was painted yellow and black and on the wall hung everything from saddles and handlebars to exhaust pipes. In the middle of the room was a black-painted showcase and inside that on a cushion
we’d put a biker helmet, a worn leather jacket, leather leggings and boots. So a mannequin for decoration, why not?’

‘You’re right. It’s worth checking,’ Anna-Greta conceded.

‘But it’s dangerous going up there, isn’t it?’ Christina sounded worried.

‘Wait, I’ve got an idea,’ said Martha. And then she started giggling, which quickly turned into laughter and soon she was laughing so loud she almost choked. They all looked at
her.

‘Martha, what have you thought up now?’ Brains queried, looking horrified.

It was cold and there was a full moon, which made the bay shimmer light blue and crystal. Brains and Rake panted in the cold air as they slowly and cautiously made their way up
the slippery slope. While they were walking along they could hear the thumping disco beat and they understood that the party was still in full swing. Slightly nervous, they continued to struggle up
the icy road in their far-too-tight leather gear with the Mad Angels emblem sewn onto the back of their waistcoats. Not only were the clothes tight, but they were also ticklish! In her hurry,
Martha had forgotten to fasten the threads on the inside.

‘What if we get beaten up?’ said Brains as he supported himself on Rake.

‘No risk. Bikers can be really nice; you just have to treat them with respect.’

‘But if they start fighting, what then?’

‘You just do this, you say: “Oh, you dropped your knife!” and then, when they bend over to look, you just head-butt them,’ said Rake, who was used to fights from his days
as a seaman.

‘But I’m not as strong as I used to be,’ Brains pointed out.

‘In that case, just kick them hard where it hurts.’

Brains could just see himself going round kicking hundred-kilo giants between their legs and he didn’t think it was such a good idea.

‘Won’t we do better with friendliness and respect? They can’t kill us just for knocking on the door.’

‘But we’re pretending to be Mad Angels veterans. What if they find out we’re just bluffing?’

‘No way, they’re too drunk for that.’

Brains took a deep breath and thought about what Martha had said. She had encouraged them to go up to the Bandangels and claim they were old members of Mad Angels, scarred warriors who wanted to
have a beer with the guys. Who would refuse entrance to a couple of over-age biker veterans? And once they were inside the clubhouse, they would start looking for the mannequin.

‘If you find “Munin”, then you’ve only got to bring the dummy back down here so we can hide it,’ she had said. It was that
only
word, Brains thought. Nothing
is
only
; most of the time
only
is something extremely difficult. Catching sight of the mannequin and taking it away with them – they weren’t exactly the same thing. No,
this wasn’t going to be easy. Brains and Rake reached the top of the slope, went into the yard and stopped a few moments in front of some beautiful Harley-Davidson bikes before they went up
the steps and rang the bell. After a while they heard some steps and one of the Bandangels members opened the door. Brains, who had learned that it was better to have the first word rather than let
someone else have it, took a deep breath:

‘A bit of whisky to help things along. Cool party!’ he said and offered the biker a large bottle of Glenfield’s.

‘Errh, but the party is for members only.’

‘Come off it! Don’t you recognize us? Hell, man, we’re vintage Mad Angels! We are the ones who started the club down in Skane. Now listen, lad, you must be new! Here’s
the man himself, the first vice-president!’ Brains gave him a friendly punch to the stomach.

‘And we’ve met before, don’t you remember the Fixer? Nice of you to invite us.’ Rake tried to sound self-assured.

The guy hesitated but Brains pushed the bottle of whisky into his arms and simply walked in with all the confidence he could muster. The biker backed up and Rake even allowed himself a big
grin.

‘We’re a bit late, but I’m sure you’ve got some grub left.’

The guy opened his mouth to say something but by then Brains and Rake were already inside the clubhouse. Brains almost slipped.

They went further inside the premises and Brains came to a halt, nostalgic at the sight of the bar counter and the fancy decorations. Best of all he liked the group photos of several Bandangels
members and some framed photographs of Harley-Davidson bikes. He took a few steps forward. There were those framed photos he had seen on the floor earlier which had now been hung up on the wall.
They were all there except the picture he had managed to sneak off with. Nobody had noticed that it was missing.

Before Rake and Brains had reached the bar to get a beer each, they caught sight of a lanky youth who carefully lifted down one of the group photos and put it on the counter. He put it with the
picture facing down, and Brains and Rake exchanged looks of surprise. They saw how he loosened the back of the frame, took out the cardboard and then passed the framed photo from man to man at the
bar. As it passed, each person picked up a tiny bag of white powder which quickly disappeared inside a pocket. The photo they had back at home, what if that contained white powder too? He suddenly
felt afraid. Drugs! They had better get the hell out of there, and quickly too. He grabbed Rake’s arm and nodded meaningfully towards the bikers leaning over the tables with their rolled
banknotes.

‘Rake, we’d best get out of here now.’

‘Not without the mannequin. Look over there.’

Brains turned around. A hundred-kilo tattooed giant was dancing with ‘Munin’ and a whisky glass. Now and then he tried to get the mannequin to take a gulp, while singing as loud as
he could. When he saw his snorting mates, he stopped beside the bar, put his glass down and asked for a mirror. Brains froze. Perhaps they could go up to the mannequin now, pretend to ask for the
next dance and then dance out with it through the door? If the giant could play around, then surely they could too. The biker asked the bartender for a bag of white and then rolled a banknote.

‘Why not simply ask if we can borrow the mannequin. Surely the guy isn’t going to dance with it all evening?’ Brains whispered.

‘No, I know what, we’ll ask a girl to ask him to dance.’

‘Right, you do that.’

Rake immediately felt uncertain.

‘Well, we could wait too,’ he muttered.

‘Now look, the guy is going to the bog. Now we can take the mannequin and dance off!’

‘Dance? In these tight leather trousers! I can hardly walk, let alone dance! But, I know, we’ll pretend that we’re offering it some drugs.’ Rake plucked up his courage
again and grinned. He had never done it himself, but he’d seen others with drugs.

‘Right you are, let’s strike!’ said Brains and he went across to the counter. The bartender beamed at them.

‘A beer?’

‘Yeah, what else!’ Rake tried to look like a man of the world. The bartender filled a glass and Rake took a deep gulp. But when he put the glass down, he happened to bump into
‘Munin’ so that the mannequin slid down towards the floor. He quickly straightened it up again. Pure luck that the head hadn’t fallen off. They’d better take the mannequin
right now, before the other biker came back. Rake’s hand was shaking as he grasped the beer glass.

‘Brains, cover me. Let’s be off,’ Rake whispered and took a firm hold of ‘Munin’. They sneaked away and had almost got out of the room when there was an enormous
roaring:

‘Don’t try that, you’ve got to pay too!’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ Rake muttered, and he fished up a hundred-kronor note which he gave to the bartender. ‘Keep the change.’ Then he moved off towards the main door
protected by Brains.

‘Hey, you two old guys there, who are you?’ An enormous fist landed on Rake’s shoulder and he would have fallen over if Brains hadn’t been standing right next to him.

‘Errhhmm,’ Brains murmured but was cut off by a drum roll and a spotlight up on the stage. He and Rake backed towards the front door with the mannequin but people were pushing behind
them and they didn’t get very far. They exchanged a pained glance. Here they were, carrying a fortune but they couldn’t move. The heavy metal band’s dark-haired drummer hit the
drum skin all the harder, ending in a deafening crescendo when Tompa ran up onto the stage and got hold of the mike.

‘Right, lads, now it’s time!’ Tompa shouted as he looked around the room beaming with joy. Tompa had borrowed the dummy’s helmet and asked Jörgen and his girl to tip
the raffle tickets into it. He was actually really pleased with himself, because all the raffle tickets had been sold. All he had to do now was to ask somebody to draw the winning tickets. He
looked at the assembled company, but was interrupted by Jörgen, who came towards him on unsteady legs. He pressed his index finger against Tompa’s forehead.

‘Raffles are for little kids. And just because you like presents, you don’t have to go and make a fool of all of us,’ Jörgen slurred and he grabbed hold of the microphone
stand.

‘Sssh, Jörgen, cool off, man, we’re having a party!’ Tompa hissed. He signalled to the lighting technician to start up the disco ball in the ceiling. The spotlight went
on, and red, blue and green cascades of colour swirled around the room. Jörgen swayed a little, burped and dropped his can of beer onto the floor, before speaking into the mike. ‘Your
mum said how thrilled you were when you opened presents on Christmas Eve.’

‘Shut your gob!’

‘You’ve always said how much you love your mum and how dependent you have been on her . . .’

Tompa took a threatening step forward when Lennart, the vice-president, strode up onto the stage.

‘What are you playing at? Aren’t we going to have the raffle draw soon?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Tompa murmured, and he shook the helmet so that the raffle tickets were mixed up. ‘Right, now all you have to do is pick a ticket.’ He held out the
helmet and Lennart took one.

‘Number twenty-two, who has number twenty-two?’

A short guy with an enormous girth made a victory sign while he waddled up to the stage.

‘I’ll take the box, of course,’ he said and pointed at the box with ten bottles of whisky.

The next number to be picked out was thirty-four, and the winner chose a box of champagne.

‘Are they all going to choose the booze?’ the vice-president muttered darkly. ‘Those who are drawn first will take the best prizes straight away. Why not put a cover over all
the prize boxes and only allow people to point?’

‘Point at a shape and then discover what you’ve won?’ Tompa asked.

‘Yes, then there’ll be a bit of excitement.’ By the tone of his voice, Lennart made it clear that he wanted this to happen.