home and was determined to get there in time.
Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp had been dispatched as effectively as they could have wished.
They first saw him walking towards Departures, accompanied by two heavies. As he queued for security control, Ewert and Sven had been near the check-in counter, just a little bit away, noting his nervous head movements as he rooted through his jacket pockets for the boarding pass. He was still at it when a short, sturdy man in his sixties approached and started to shout at him, gesticulating energetically and at one point slapping Dimitri’s cheek. The scene caught everybody’s attention. The man, smartly dressed in a suit and a hat, went on shouting at Dimitri, who seemed to shrink and crumble as they watched. Another slap and then the older man pushed him in the back to propel him through the electronic gateway, past the conveyor belt and the X-ray camera, on into the departure hall.
Ewert and Sven didn’t intervene. They had wanted to reassure themselves that they’d never have to clap eyes again on the man who beat up young women. That was all. The airport guards could handle anything out of order.
When the man in the suit had stopped shouting and turned away from the departing Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp, he walked briskly towards Ewert and Sven, not hesitating for a moment, as if he had known all along that they were there, keeping an eye.
Surprisingly light of foot, carrying a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other, he had approached them and greeted them politely, doffing his hat and shaking their hands.
Now the car had left the airport area and swung out into the southbound E4 motorway to Stockholm. Visibility was poor, and Sven had to slow down even with the windscreen wipers going at top speed.
Ewert sighed loudly and turned on the car radio.
The suit-and-hat man had introduced himself, though Ewert had forgotten his name instantly, and then stayed where he was, calmly chatting to them while late travellers hurried and elbowed their way past, swearing at them in the passing. He had started talking the moment Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp had vanished out of sight and began by explaining that he was on the Lithuanian diplomatic staff, the head of embassy security in Sweden, and invited them for a drink. Ewert had said thanks, but no thanks. Actually, he could’ve done with a drop of something alcoholic. It was early but he was tired and thirsty. It wouldn’t do, though, not with Sven standing next to him. The security boss insisted. A coffee perhaps, in the upstairs cafй?
They hesitated for a little too long. Their host had found a table with a view of the runway, brought them all cups of coffee and greasy Danish pastries, then sat down facing them and sipped his drink.
He had been silent at first, but soon started speaking in heavily accented but fluent English, better than either Ewert’s or Sven’s. He apologised for his behaviour earlier, declaring that he disapproved of raised voices and violence, but sometimes it was necessary, as indeed it had been this time.
Then he launched into a long and complicated thank-you speech, addressing them on behalf of the Lithuanian people.
After a longish pause while he watched them, he explained how upset he had been when informed of the activities of his embassy colleague, Dimitri Simait, and how embarrassing such revelations were for a country that was trying to recover its reputation after decades of oppression. He was fishing for an agreement to keep the whole thing quiet. They themselves had seen that Dimitri-Bastard-Pimp had left the country and could leave it at that.
Ewert and Sven had thanked him politely for the coffee, got up and, before they left, told him with some asperity that the investigation could not be hushed up, indeed should not be, if they had anything to do with it, that human trafficking seldom was.
The music that rolled out from the car radio was like a wallpaper of sound. Ewert had long since tired of it, it all sounded the same. He produced one of his own tapes.
‘Hey, Sven?’
‘Yes?’
‘You listening to this?’
‘Yes.’
‘It isn’t up to much, is it?’
‘I want the traffic info; we’re getting closer to the northern access.’
‘I’ll put this one on.’
Ewert cut the Radio Stockholm talk of vehicle collisions and put in his own home-mixed Siw Malmkvist tape. Her voice. He closed his eyes. He could think now.
When they had suddenly got up from the cafй table with the runway view, the Lithuanian official had turned pink in the face and asked them to stay and listen to him for just a little longer. Ewert and Sven had exchanged a glance and sat down again. The man’s voice had sounded tired. Strands of his thin hair were dangling on his forehead, he was sweating profusely, and his skin shone in the harsh glare of the strip lighting. His hands sought something to hold on to, found one each of their hands and clasped them with his stumpy, sticky fingers.
Several thousand young women, he said. From Eastern Europe. Hundreds of thousands of lives! That was the extent of it, the illegal sex trade with the West. Bought and sold as we speak. More and more. Our girls! Our women!
He squeezed their hands, his voice desperate now.
It’s the unemployment, he continued. Persuading the girls is easy. Don’t you see? They’re young, looking for a job, waiting, hoping for an income. A future. And the men who offer the world on a plate, they’re so clever, they promise and threaten until they’re ready to sell the goods, kept in rooms with electronic locks, like the two girls you found in the Volund Street flat. That was the address, wasn’t it? And when the deal is done, when the cajoling, menacing men have got their bundles of bank notes – then they disappear. You know it’s true. No responsibility, no investment, no risk. Cash in hand! Cash in and vanish!
The embassy official had suddenly raised their hands; Ewert had stared angrily at Sven, been about to protest, but decided to stay put while the little man pressed their hands firmly against his cheeks.
Do you understand, he had said, truly understand what I’m telling you?
In my country, in Lithuania, trading in narcotics, say, is a serious crime. Heavy sentences are passed. Long, harsh punishments are meted out. But trading in people, in young women, that’s risk-free. In Lithuania, pimps are hardly ever punished. No one is sentenced; no one gets a spell in prison.
I see what is happening to our children. I cry for them, with them. But I can do nothing. Do you understand? Truly?
The car was slowing down on the Nortull access route.
Ewert slowly let go of the image of the despairing man, the official with his hat and his briefcase, pleading with them to understand, and swapped it for the next, the long queues of wet cars. The lights blinked and swallowed ten cars at a time, a quick estimate told him that there were at least a hundred stationary vehicles crowded in ahead of them. They’d have to wait for at least ten minutes.
Sven swore irritably, something he didn’t often do. They were late and about to be even later.
Ewert leaned back in the passenger seat, turned up the volume. Her voice:
It drowned out Sven’s swearing and the idiot hooting of car horns.
Ewert was at peace, resting deep, deep inside himself. Only what had been, long ago, existed for him. Everything had been so simple, like black-and-white photos; he had more of a life then, and lots of time waiting for him. ‘For sent skall syndaren vakna’, (1964), original English title ‘Today’s Teardrops’. The empty plastic box in his hand had an insert with his photo of Siw on stage in a People’s Palace. He had snapped her and she had smiled into the camera, waved at him and said hello to him afterwards. His eyes wandered among the song titles on the list, tunes he had recorded himself, written down the lyrics.
He was listening to Siw, but couldn’t get the despairing little man from the embassy out of his head. When their coffee cups had been drained to the last drop, he and Sven had thanked the diplomat again, freed their hands and had scarcely managed to get out of the cafй when they heard him calling after them. He had asked them to stop and wait until he caught up with them.
He had walked between them down the stairs and started to tell them what he knew about Lydia Grajauskas and her father. He had come to the airport not only to ensure that Dimitri Simait was dispatched, but also out of
