The Little Old Lady Who Struck Lucky Again! (8 page)

Sometimes Anders and Emma came to visit, but after having tasted Martha’s fish and potato au gratin – when Martha had forgotten to turn the page in the cookbook and therefore only
included half the ingredients – they avoided her cooking days. The brother and sister did, however, continue to fill the freezer and larder with meat, fish, berries and vegetables every time
they came on a visit.

The aroma of cinnamon buns became all the more intense and when two baking plates were ready, Martha thought it was high time to summon a meeting. They must continue to search for the golf bag
and get some order in their everyday income. Not least, they ought to find out how their money in the Robbery Fund had been used. Martha wanted to see the retirement homes with her own eyes to make
sure things had got better. And then, of course, there were their contributions to culture. She thought about their anonymous donation to the National Museum, along with which they had suggested
the purchase of more paintings by the French Impressionists. Perhaps the museum had even purchased a new Renoir? It would be exciting to follow up what had happened. And they must also decide what
they would do with the remaining capital in the Robbery Fund. None of the five friends liked
passive
riches. Money should promote culture, create jobs or be given to people of less fortunate
circumstances in society – not left lying around in a bank account. Martha looked around the room. Her friends had already started on the buns and were now on their second cup of coffee. It
was high time to get going.

‘Now, everybody, I think it’s time we got down to business,’ she said in a firm voice, but was interrupted by a creaking sound from the gate. They heard steps on the gravel
path and, with an irritated wrinkle between her eyebrows, she went up to the kitchen window. Two big men wearing bulky leather jackets were approaching the door. The men were very beefy and walked
with their legs apart and their arms out, rather like little children who have wet themselves. They wore black leather trousers and waistcoats, and clumsy black boots. It was a grim sight and they
looked threatening.

‘They aren’t the police, but it doesn’t look good,’ said Martha, taking some hesitant steps into the hall. She stopped and opened the front door a little. The very next
second it was pushed wide open and a damp, icy cold swept into the house. Martha saw the steel-capped boots and instinctively drew back, but still tried to manage a smile.

‘Visitors, how nice, please come in! Can I offer you some breakfast?’

The men gave a start, but collected their wits when they smelt the aroma of freshly baked buns.

Jörgen Smäck, neighbour,’ said the man with the most muscles and long rat-coloured hair. He held out a large hand.

‘Tompa Eriksson, also neighbour,’ said the giant with the shaved head and a tattoo on his neck. He nodded in greeting.

‘I’m Martha,’ she said, and tried to sound unconcerned.

‘We would like to have a chat with the gang who live here.’ The giant put his hands by his sides.

‘Yes, that’s fine. Take a seat,’ Martha answered. The men sat down at the kitchen table wearing their leather waistcoats and black T-shirts. Their forearms were covered in
tattoos. Christina got out two coffee cups but her hands shook when she put them down on the table. With a forced smile she offered them a basket of freshly baked cinnamon buns.

‘Please, help yourselves!’

The men each dug a hand into the basket and put several buns on the table. Anna-Greta said hello to them somewhat hesitantly. Christina backed away.

‘The boys, will they be coming soon?’ Tompa asked with his mouth full of bun.

‘Here we are!’ Rake and Brains held out their hands as they introduced themselves. ‘Boys, well, it isn’t every day we get called that. Thank you.’

The two bikers looked uncomprehendingly at each other. Martha fetched two more glasses.

‘Some cloudberry liqueur perhaps? It goes nicely with wafer biscuits.’

Yet another nervous shudder crossed the men’s faces before they gathered their wits together.

‘Cloudberry liqueur? Booze is booze, I guess. So why not,’ said Beefy and he filled his coffee cup. ‘We thought we’d say hello to our new neighbours, but perhaps
they’ve gone away for the weekend?’

‘No, we’re sitting here,’ snorted Anna-Greta. ‘We are the people who bought the house; this is our new retirement home.’

‘Retirement home!’ Beefy and the Hulk glared at them. The bikers put their elbows down with a bang and exposed their thick lower arms. On the skin you could see fire-breathing
dragons next to skulls and wings.

‘You’ve got some fancy tattoos there, boys,’ said Martha, leaning forward. She prodded Hulk on his elbow. ‘But doesn’t it hurt when they stick a needle in you to do
that?’

The giant knocked back the cloudberry liqueur in one go, and coughed.

‘It just pricks your skin a little. I’m not an old lady. But that gym equipment out in the garden, we thought—’

‘It’s important to keep fit,’ said Martha. ‘Even if you’re old, you have to exercise regularly. Don’t you do that too?’

Beefy and the Hulk exchanged embarrassed looks and each took another wafer.

‘Don’t have time. Business, motorcycles and such.’

Brains lit up.

‘Could that be Harley-Davidson?’

‘Of course!’

Brains’s eyes glistened and a dreamy expression appeared on his face.

‘It would be fun to—’

‘Some more ginger biscuits?’ Anna-Greta cut him off.

‘No, we’re off now,’ replied Tompa, the one with the tattoos on his neck. He coughed and in a sheepish voice mumbled, ‘Well, thanks for the juice.’

‘Booze,’ Beefy corrected him.

The two bikers got up, took their jackets and made their way towards the door. Martha grabbed a paper bag and filled it with ginger biscuits. When she handed it over, she saw that the one called
Tompa had ‘Helena’ tattooed on his wrist. There wasn’t an arrow, nor was there a little heart, but nevertheless. She smiled to herself.

‘Here’s something to nibble on,’ she said.

The men exchanged glances, raised their hands as a farewell and went out. Not until they heard the creak from the gate, did any of the five in the kitchen dare open their mouths.

‘Help! The estate agent didn’t say anything about that motorbike gang,’ said Christina.

‘Now I understand why it was so easy to bargain the price,’ Anna-Greta commented.

‘So what do we do now?’ Rake wondered out loud.

‘Keep on good terms with them,’ Martha answered.

‘But don’t you get it? They’re members of a motorbike gang,’ Anna-Greta protested.

‘Yes, that’s why I invited them in. They are our neighbours, so we must be nice to them. You should always keep on good terms with your neighbours.’

‘You must be crazy,’ muttered Rake. ‘What if they wring our necks?’

‘Who knows, one day we might have some use of them,’ said Martha and the smell of adventure spread through the room. ‘I’ve learned at least one thing about life. You
never know what awaits you.’

Up in the neighbours’ house the lights were on long into the night, and there too they had a meeting. The members of the Bandangels MC club had lots of projects going on,
shady projects that they didn’t want anybody to know about.

‘But what shall we do about the old people, then? Just think what would happen if they discover what we’re doing,’ said Jörgen Smäck, scratching himself on his
balloon of a stomach.

‘We needn’t worry about those slugs. They’ve got their hands full with baking cakes and playing cards. They won’t be causing us any bother. But I do have another idea.
Why don’t we use them as front men? They can be our tools. A drunkard can squeal, but nobody would suspect those oldies of anything, would they? We can fill with them with all sorts of tall
stories.’

‘And?’

‘Don’t you get it? We’ll shovel a bit of snow for them and help with some heavy lifts. Then when we’ve gained their confidence we’ll have them sign some papers for
us . . .’

‘That’s a good idea, Jörgen, you’re not stupid, you.’

The bikers guffawed and with much laughter and jollity they ended the evening with a sauna and a crate of beer. That night they slept like logs.

The days passed, but the five old friends couldn’t stop thinking about the diamonds. It wasn’t just because they were fantastically beautiful. The friends knew that
they could get pots of money for them, and they could donate that money to people who needed it.

‘It’s high time we went on a golf safari,’ Martha announced. ‘It is late in the season and any day now the courses will be closed for the winter. Who knows, the golf bag
might be out there somewhere.’

Brains was the only one who supported her on this. He and Martha dressed up in the latest style of golf outfit and bought an ultra-light golf bag on wheels. Then they were ready. Admittedly,
they only had one wedge club, but they didn’t want to end up with aching shoulders and knees from having to pull along anything too heavy.

So that they would elegantly fit in and not arouse suspicion, Martha had bought a black polo sweater, a knitted cap, a pair of thermo trousers, a windcheater and a pair of thermo socks. For his
part, Brains put on a pair of Teflon over-trousers to cover his old grey flannels. On the upper part of his body, he had a windcheater and, on top of everything, a black rain anorak. But he had
stubbornly refused to wear a cap. It was hard enough going around in those plastic clothes as it was.

They started looking for their missing golf bag out on the Värmdö course. Their special minibus stayed in the garage and instead they borrowed Anders’ less noticeable Volvo.
Martha turned on the GPS and even though she thought that the loud mechanical voice ought to shut up when she spoke, both she and Brains thoroughly enjoyed the drive out to the golf clubs. They
started at Wermdö Golf & Country Club and looked to see if there were any golf bags outside the clubhouse and the restaurant.

‘A five wood, scorecard and seven iron,’ Martha mumbled.

‘What did you say?’

‘Just a few golf terms, in case anybody wonders what we’re doing here. Golf clubs want you to be members.’

Most of the golf bags had wheels and looked both expensive and elegant, their own old-fashioned model with walking sticks in it was nowhere to be seen. Then Martha and Brains drove on to the
next courses, and visited first Ingarö and then Nacka, but they didn’t strike lucky at either of them.

Tired, they had a break for lunch and then continued to the clubs to the south and north of Stockholm. Here too, they wandered around a long time and peered at lots of golf bags – but
without any luck. After having visited the Lidingö and Danderyd golf clubs they finally ended up out at Drottningholm. But by then they were so exhausted that they almost forgot why they were
there. Instead they walked hand-in-hand across the soft green lawns and discussed life. In the end, Martha said:

‘This feels hopeless but we’ve had a nice day! Can’t we plan some new robberies so we can go out on day trips again?’

‘You don’t think we can go on day trips anyway?’ Brains asked.

‘Perhaps, but planning crimes helps keep our brains in good trim. And a new coup would give us more money than just the diamonds.’

‘Indeed. But you can do brain gymnastics too. There are courses.’

‘That’s true of course,’ said Martha. ‘But first and foremost we should find the diamonds and see what has happened with our Las Vegas money.’

‘Yes, we must ensure that the money has been put to good use,’ Brains agreed. ‘But how shall we do that? You haven’t forgotten that we are all on the Wanted
list?’

A chilling wind blew across the course and Martha found herself shivering. Brains put his arm around her shoulders to warm her.

‘Our old raid in Täby? That was easy as pie. Things will turn out, just you wait and see. And I’ve actually got an idea!’

And all the way back from Drottningholm to their new home on Värmdö, they sat in the car and planned. The first thing they would do would be to check that their money had been used in
the way they wanted. Because money – and they knew this from their own experiences – could easily go astray.

‘Martha, are you really sure this is such a brilliant idea?’ Rake touched his pointed cap for the tenth time and looked decidedly grumpy. The upside-down cone was a
part of the traditional costume for the Lucia procession. ‘So I’ve got to have this on, then?’

‘If we’re going to have a Lucia procession, everybody must do their bit.’ Martha had made up her mind and her tone of voice signalled that any further discussion was ruled out.
They were on their way to their former retirement home, Diamond House, to see what had been done with the big donation they had made. On Lucia day they had simply decided to do a Wallraff
undercover project of their very own. Perhaps their idea of how a Wallraff investigation should take place was somewhat original, but investigative journalists and people in the secret services had
to put up with a lot. The five of them had disguised themselves with suitable wigs and flowing Lucia gowns and then had squeezed into their newly purchased vintage Volkswagen minibus. It was one of
those minibuses with a hydraulic ramp at the back so you could transport people sitting in wheelchairs, and so on.

Now the five of them were sitting there practising scales. Anders drove while Martha, who sat next to him, didn’t bother with the scales. Instead she hummed the ‘Sankta Lucia’
song and ‘Silent Night’ in rotation.

‘We must hold the key when we sing “Sankta Lucia”. Luciaaaaaa, it should be. It doesn’t sound right if you make it too short,’ she said.

‘And we must disguise our voices so that nobody will recognize us,’ Christina added.

‘Yes, of course. Good, Christina!’ Anna-Greta praised her.

‘But, Martha, listen now. Have you thought of something? We are almost five hundred years old together and a Lucia procession is usually made up of young girls. Have you completely lost
your marbles?’ sighed Rake, always quick to criticize.

‘But however else are we going to get into Diamond House without being recognized? Don’t forget that we are on the Wanted list!’