The Little Old Lady Who Struck Lucky Again! (36 page)

‘What are you talking about? I don’t understand,’ said Christina.

‘We’re going to try to give a nasty telling-off to a gang of bikers who have clubs and knuckledusters,’ Brains explained, now looking decidedly pale in the face.

‘Oh goodness me!’ said Christina. ‘You are brave.’

‘Perhaps Gunnar can go along with you?’ Anna-Greta suggested, and looked around her, but he had already disappeared.

‘I’ll sort this out. Sometimes you must make an extra effort,’ said Brains, and he felt encouraged by their support, but, deep inside, he had never been so afraid in all his
life. Martha saw the look in his eyes.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Martha decided. ‘It always feels better if there’re two of you, don’t you think?’

A little while later, Brains took Martha by the arm and together they walked up to the yellow house. Once there, they straightened their backs and hammered on the door with
heavy, deliberate thumps. Tompa opened and broke into a big grin when he saw his elderly neighbours. He didn’t ask them to come in, he just stood there in the doorway.

‘Well, it’s about the vehicles on our land. That’s our land,’ said Martha.

‘And?’

‘Well, we need our land quite simply,’ said Brains, minding his words. ‘We are somewhat angry over your having put a load of rubbish there.’

‘Rubbish? What do you mean? Are you calling a Cruiser rubbish?’

‘Not exactly, no, I didn’t mean that, but the cars block the view and we can’t grow our flowers and it’s a bit hard to move around among all the vehicles you’ve
parked there.’

‘Listen! We’re keeping our stuff there as long as we need to. Got it? You could have rented the land to us, but now it’s too late. You’ve only yourselves to
blame.’

‘But it’s our land,’ Martha protested, in a firmer tone this time.

Are you hard of hearing or what?’

‘But how long are you going to leave your stuff there, then?’

‘That’s up to us.’

Jörgen appeared in the doorway too. His torso was bare and Martha saw that his entire chest was tattooed.

‘Sorry, we haven’t got time for you now. Push off!’ Jörgen said.

‘Can you move it all by Monday?’ Martha insisted.

‘No way. We’re going to Copenhagen. This’ll take the time it takes.’

‘But the lawn and the garden?’

‘Listen, we’re going to the AGM, do you get it? Just cool it; the grass will grow again, OK?’ Jörgen started to close the door.

‘But, please . . .’ Martha attempted again.

‘Push off, I said.’

Martha and Brains withdrew, Brains took Martha by the arm again, and they walked slowly down the hill. When they got back inside their own house, they looked relieved.

‘Just like we thought, and like it says on their website,’ said Brains. ‘They’re going to Mad Angels Annual General Meeting in Copenhagen. So we can get going straight
away!’

‘Should we really go ahead with this? What if somebody sees us?’ Christina worried.

‘Don’t you worry, this is going to work, you wait and see,’ Rake consoled her, and he put his arm around her shoulders. Then she looked at him in amazement and became
speechless. Rake was his old self again now, as he was before that hocus-pocus woman turned everything upside down.

On Friday evening, the Bandangels left the Yellow House, and motorbike after motorbike roared past Myrstigen in a cloud of exhaust fumes. The League of Pensioners stood on
their balcony and watched the spectacle. When the last bike had left, Martha wiped her hands on her apron and looked very decisive.

‘Now, my dear friends. I’m afraid there won’t be any cloudberry liqueur this evening. We have too much to do.’

‘Can we really be absolutely certain that they have all left the house? Can you guarantee that nobody will come back?’ Christina was really worried.

‘You can never guarantee anything in this life. But sometimes you have to take a risk. It’s only then that things can change or develop into something better,’ said Martha.

Or worse,’ Rake muttered.

‘This time I reckon it’s going to work fine,’ Brains hurried to add. ‘Don’t forget that we have an awful lot to struggle for.’

‘Health care, social services and retirement homes . . .’ Anna-Greta started to say.

‘Home-help visitors and culture,’ said Rake.

And schools,’ Christina added, but at that point Martha cut her off.

‘We can have a critical look at society later on. First things first, now we’ve got to take the photos and get measuring,’ she exclaimed. ‘Brains and I will take pictures
of everything, and you, Christina and Rake must make a note of all the details of make and model, and measure everything in the garden and on the lawn. And don’t forget the boats down by the
jetty.’ Martha handed over a tape measure stained with PVC plastic after Brains’s pictorial stone castings.

‘But what about Lillemor? She might start wondering?’ Christina pointed out.

‘There’s no risk of that. She’s at one of those Tarot séances all weekend,’ said Rake.

Ah, right, then she’ll be in her own world. As usual, that is,’ Christina snapped, still finding it hard to stomach the thought of the dark-haired gold-digger.

‘Gunnar, perhaps you could help us transfer our photos to the computer as usual,’ Martha continued without bothering about what her friend had said. Gunnar nodded in delight, pleased
to be at the centre of things once again.

‘We must make sure that all the details and product numbers, et cetera, match with the measurements and the right photographs. Well, you know what I mean.’

‘Indeed,’ he answered with a jocular salute.

‘Righto, then, let’s get going!’ Martha commanded, but not before Brains had been up to the yellow house and made sure that nobody was home. Christina had informed Anders and
Emma what was going on so that they would be available during the weekend should help be needed.

‘Well, there’s lots to do today, but at least we don’t have a gym session,’ remarked Rake.

They all set off and enjoyed the fact that it was June and light outside until very late in the evening. Making a note of all the names and details of everything, as well as measuring cars,
motorbikes and motorboats worth altogether almost two hundred million, took time. The hours ticked by and not until nine in the evening had they finished all the practical work. Then it all had to
be entered into the computer. Martha served coffee and tea with toasted sandwiches and after a little break they continued with their work. Close to midnight everything was finished, and by then
they had put everything on the Internet sales website, including two paintings they had found inside the cabins of one of the yachts.

‘Right, take the chance to get a bit of sleep now,’ said Martha, ‘because you never know. We might have an awful lot to do tomorrow.’

At that moment she didn’t know just how true that would be.

Olle Marling was in a dreadful mood when he tramped around inside Mad Angels’ old and shabby clubhouse in Orm-inge. He had touched a hot exhaust pipe with his foot and
the burn had become infected. Blood poisoning. The doctor had told him to rest and keep still, but of course he wasn’t going to do that. Mad Angels clubs from all of Scandinavia would be
meeting down in Copenhagen the next day and he had lots of things to organize for the AGM. He’d go down south on his bike with some mates later in the evening as soon as he had finished. But
he was so tired and his foot hurt like hell. He’d better fortify himself with a beer. He took a can out of the fridge and looked for the opener. Then he caught sight of the burnt shop
dummy.

‘Oh!’ he groaned to himself and held up the wretched mannequin. The leather clothes were hanging in tatters and one boot was missing. The dummy looked ridiculous. He slowly drank the
beer and limped out of the clubhouse. Outside, the sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It smelt of grass and the newly sown borders, and the leaves fluttered lightly in the
breeze. Down in the garden a flock of birds was cackling. He limped across to the borders and waved his arms to frighten them off, but they just flew up a few metres, circulated several times and
then landed again. They were eating the newly sown seeds. Olle Marling sighed. Angry, he went into the tool shed and fetched an old rake. From the toolbox he took out a knife and sharpened the end
of the handle. Then he went into the clubhouse again and fetched the shop dummy. The head was loose, but he screwed it back on as best he could. Then he pushed the handle inside the dummy’s
half-burnt leather gear. It wasn’t easy and it took a while, but when he had finished he took a step back and looked at his creation with pride. A perfect scarecrow. Pleased with his work, he
took the dummy under his arm and limped off back to the vegetable borders again. Once there, he stuck the rake shaft into the ground and hammered it in place as firmly as he could. Then he stepped
back and admired the result. A neat job; he just had time to think before the birds returned and started pecking at seeds just like before.

He swore and decided to dump the wretched dummy in the tip. He had had his fill of it. He remembered the party when they’d made a fool of him in front of everybody: that embarrassing
raffle prize, and how in his anger he had just grabbed the shop dummy when he left. Since then it had mainly just been in the way. It was high time to get rid of it. Or why not give the Bandangels
something to think about? He found himself thinking about the mafia and how they left the chopped-off head of a horse as a sign. Yes, the Bandangels could get their dummy back, sure, and there was
no doubt that the burnt body would scare them. He couldn’t imagine a better way to get his revenge. He laughed and went back into the clubhouse with the dummy.

Rake was busy out in the garden when he heard the noise from down on the road. A motorbike messenger drove up the hill with a large packet. He got off his bike and rang the
bell of the yellow house but nobody opened up. He tried once more but, as it seemed to be dead up there, he looked around and saw Rake lower down the hill. Then he got onto his bike again, drove
down to the letter boxes and stopped at the garden gate. He waved to Rake to come to him.

‘I’ve got a package for that lot up there. Do you know when they’ll be coming home?’ he asked.

‘In two days,’ said Rake, and he glanced suspiciously at the package. ‘Actually, they asked me to take care of their post and any deliveries while they’re away. If you
want, I can sign for it?’

The motorbike courier didn’t seem to have any qualms about that; he pulled an electronic pad out from his leather waistcoat and gave Rake a pen-like stick to sign with.

Just a signature, that’ll do.’

Rake nodded, scribbled something illegible, and handed the pad back. Then the courier untied the package from the carrier and leaned it against the fence.

‘Well, then, have a nice weekend,’ he said, and he kicked the motorbike into action again. Rake raised his hand as a farewell. Then he called to the others to come over.

‘What was that?’ Brains asked, as he looked at the man-size rectangular package.

‘I think I know,’ said Rake. ‘Just look at that shape. What else could it be but our missing mannequin?’

‘But how in the name of? Then we’ll take that back right now!’ Anna-Greta exclaimed.

Martha came forward and had a look. She carefully started to unwrap the package while the others stood around watching.

‘Oh my God, it
is
our mannequin, but look, it’s been burnt!’

‘What did you say?’ Brains cut in, and then he, too, looked inside the wrapping paper.

‘What if the banknotes have all burnt up?’ said Christina as she, too, approached cautiously.

‘It must be a practical joke. Or some sort of revenge for what happened to Olle Marling at the party,’ Rake said.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. The main thing is that the money has come back to us,’ Anna-Greta added in a satisfied tone. ‘All we have to do is empty the mannequin,
right?’

‘Do we dare do that?’ Christina wondered.

‘Oh yes. Then we can just put the mannequin back again so that nobody will know,’ said Martha, and she started to unscrew the head. ‘Oh, thank the powers above, this is our
lucky day. Look, the banknotes are still there!’

‘Right, then,’ Anna-Greta announced, and she rolled up her sleeves and dug her hand down into the millions. A happy smile spread right across her face while she felt the bundles of
notes with her fingers. ‘Oh, lovely banknotes. How wonderful. They feel as though they are real,’ she sighed.

‘No, stop, I know what. I’ve got a better idea,’ Martha suddenly broke in.

‘What now? There are several million kronor here!’ Anna-Greta protested.

‘The money from the Handelsbanken robbery is marked.’

‘We can always launder it. Solvalla horse races!’ said Anna-Greta nonchalantly, with both her hands now stuck deep into the mannequin.

‘That’s true, but sometimes it pays to think a step further,’ said Martha, looking carefully around her. ‘Now we’ll go up with the mannequin to our dear neighbours.
It’s what Mad Angels wanted and I think it would be wisest for us to do that. I promise you, this is going to be the best thing for us too. Trust me.’

Anna-Greta opened her mouth to say something, but stopped herself at the last second when she saw Martha’s determined expression. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hands from the bundles of
banknotes and straightened her back. Then she looked on sadly as her friend screwed the head back on again and put the mannequin back in the wrapping, after which Brains balanced the package on his
Zimmer frame and set off up towards the yellow house. With five million kronor.

Since the League of Pensioners had advertised on the Internet, people had been phoning like mad. Anna-Greta had written: ‘Final sale from the estate of a collector’, which was the
sort of thing that attracted people’s attention. Car or boat, motorbike or tractor. It didn’t seem to make any difference what she had advertised, every item that they had put on the
Internet site had resulted in a swarm of eager buyers. To keep some sort of order during the day, they had taken turns to man the telephone and then planned the visits so that not all the
speculators would turn up at the same time. It was a good strategy, but they doubted whether it would actually work.