The son of vengeance – X

Rain lashed against the grimy window of the dingy motel room. The older man slammed his fist on the table. “There’s a kid. Skinny little thing, keeps following me. I know; I can feel it in my bones.” The tall one, scoffed. “Probably a stray cat, skittish in this weather. You know how it is in this small places.”
“Växjö is not small,” the older man murmured quietly.
“Blimey man, what happened here? Turning local in the old age,” the tall guy said laughing and looking at the rain outside the window.

“No, no. I’m sure. I keep catching him out of the corner of my eye. Lurking in doorways, watching from alleyways.” The older man rubbed his calloused hand across his brow, anxiety twisting in his gut. His line of work wasn’t exactly conducive to fans.

Across town, the dark haired boy huddled beneath a dripping awning. His thin frame trembled, not entirely from the cold. He’d been tailing the two men for days. The men who’d stolen his father’s life. He shook his head. No time for grief time for resolve and the boy had a plan, a risky one but he needed help.

The next morning schools were off, some kind of county teachers’ meeting in the city and kids in a break. The rain was still there however subsided into a cold drizzle. The boy positioned himself outside a cafe where he’d spotted the two men entering earlier. A different one this time. A smaller cafe in Sandgärdsgatan, not far from the police headquarters.

The boy took a deep breath and opened the door, a tremor of fear running through him. The bell jingled. Heads turned.

A voice, gruff yet kind, cut through the silence. “Lost, son?” Officer Carl Nisson, a friendly-faced cop with a worn leather jacket, stood beside him. Shame flooded the boy. He couldn’t tell the truth, not yet.

“Just looking for my dad,” he mumbled, hoping the officer wouldn’t press.

The cop’s eyes softened. He knew the boy and he knew his dad. He was dead, murdered, not long ago. Officer Carl Nisson sighed deeply.

“Yes, this is his place,” he murmured avoiding past tense or any mention of death. “Here, have some hot cocoa. Warm you up.” He added nodding at the woman behind the counter.
The boy felt uneasy with the two men sitting just meters away but saying no word he sat next to the police officer looking at the cu hat had just landed in front of him.

The boy sipped the sweet drink next to Officer Carl Nisson and the two thugs on the other side of the room when a plan B flickered in his mind.

“Officer,” said the boy getting closer to the policeman, “I saw a suspicious guy this morning. He looked like…” and he described the older man hoping that the description and the knowledge of the fact of who the boy was would trigger something. At least make the officer look around.

Officer Ramirez’s brow furrowed and instinctively looked around. But it was more from worry than interest. “Hold on a second, son and calm down. I know who you are and I know who your father was,” he said softly. “But you cannot go around accusing people for something like that. Let the police do the work and we know what we are doing.” The man said and looked at the young boy with real pain.

“Drink your cocoa and then go back home.” And wit that he stood up. “And me, well I have some robbers to catch,” he added smiling. The boy looked at the thick man exit the cafe and then he felt the two men staring at him. He put on his jacket fast and almost run outside. Time for plan C.

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Read all The son of vengeance chapters in order, HERE!

The son of vengeance – IX

“My dad is very optimistic,” the boy with the darker hair said to the boy with the lighter hair sitting on the other side of the table with two chocolate drinks and cinnamon bans between them.
“He said it’s a matter of time before he makes an arrest.”
“Polisinspektör Mikael Hansson is a very clever man,” the boy with the lighter hair squealed between bites and quick sips.

The two men were there and it had been a long day waiting for the boys to come. They didn’t come in the morning or at noon’s break. Obviously they came after school on their way home but the old man and the taller one had sent al their day patrolling in front of the cafe, walking up and down Krononbergsgatan and Storgatan checking who’s coming and who’s going from the cafe.

The tall man was getting tired and he was not hiding it. The older man knew that patience is plays a key role in their profession. After all and best proof, he was still alive; he thought and smiled when he crossed Krononbergsgatan for the sixth time that morning.

But the boys came. And the old man was there coincidentally with the tall man in his company. They were also lucky to sit just behind the boys with full hearing to every word the boys said.

“The robberies?” the boy with the lighter hair asked.
“The murder.” The other boy answered. “Dad is sure that they are still here.”
“Really?”
“He said that they are waiting for thing to calm down before run.”
“Wow.”
“He says he know how these scumbags think. The police are watching trains, buses and highways so they stay here for the police to get tired or other crimes come.”
“We are not the capital,” the boy with the lighter hair said cheekily and they both smiled while taking sips form the drinks.
“Dad says criminals are stupid,” the boy with the dark hair said and the other boy agreed with a nod.

The two boys tried not to run even though that’s all they wanted and when they reached the end of the square far from the cafe and the two men’s eyes, they stopped took a deep breath and laid back at the wall of the building.

“Gosh, the last time he passed in front of the cafe, I thought that he saw us.” The boy with the lighter hair said.
“They are stupid.” The boy with the dark hair answered.
“I can’t believe it, they haven’t seen us all day following them.”
“Criminals are stupid,” said the boy with the dark hair and then they both left for their houses. They were already late and school had finished two hours earlier. “We need more,” the older man said when the boys left. “We need more information and this boy is the only way to get it.
“A boy?” The tall man looked at him in wonder and anguish. “A boy?” He repeated his question. “Does the boss know?”
“The boss knows what he needs to know and we need to get out of this mouse trap. Can you understand that?
“What mouse trap?”
“Didn’t you hear the boy? The police are watching trains, buses and highways.”
“They have no description of the car or us.”
“You don’t know what they have…” The older man said and he stood up. “I’m going for a walk, I need to think.” And saying that he walked out of the cafe leaving the tall man thinking that perhaps time had come to move to a pub. He also needed to do some thinking.

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Read all The son of vengeance chapters in order, HERE!

The son of vengeance – VIII

The boys left the old man in deep contemplation, a strange smile playing on his lips. The tall man, who had just entered the moment the two exited, noticed the expression and raised an eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” the boy with the lighter hair asked, his voice barely a whisper as they hurried towards the fish market across the square.

“Didn’t you see his face? The second he heard ‘Polisinspektör’ he practically vibrated out of his chair. I swear he almost moved to our table to hear better,” the boy with dark hair replied, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face.

“Oh boy, oh boy,” the lighter-haired boy muttered, before they both broke into a run, disappearing around the corner.

“What happened?” the tall man inquired, placing his coffee and pastry on the table with a slight clatter.

The old man ignored him for a moment, his gaze fixed on the spot where the boys had vanished. A sly smile played on his lips. Finally, he spoke.

“Just had my morning coffee with the most interesting chocolate drinker this town has to offer.”

“Are you losing it, Erik? I told you this place is a backwater and it’ll eventually get to you,” the tall man said, a hint of concern lacing his voice.

The older man, chuckled. “I’m fine, mate. In fact, more than fine,” he continued, ignoring the tall man’s annoyed expression. “Do you know who the young gentleman was who sat next to me for a creamy chocolate and a cinnamon pastry just before you stumbled in?”

The tall man squinted around the cafe. “What young gentleman?”

“He’s gone now, but that’s not important,” the old man waved his hand dismissively. “The key is who he was.”

“Well? Who?” the tall man pressed, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach.

“The son of Polisinspektör Mikael Hansson,” the older man declared a triumphant glint in his eyes.

The tall man’s jaw dropped. “No way…” he croaked. “Again?

“Way and again!” The older man affirmed.

Across the square, the boys had reached the corner, chests heaving from exertion.

“So, are we calling the police?” The lighter-haired boy panted, his voice laced with worry.

“I told you, no,” the other boy snapped, his outburst surprising his companion. Realizing his friend’s shock, he softened his tone. “Not yet, I mean,” he added hastily.

“Right,” the lighter-haired boy replied, nodding slowly. “But you have a plan, right?”

“Right,” the darker-haired boy confirmed, eyes fixed intently on the cafe across the square.

While being observed by the old man’s piercing gaze, a new plan had begun to take shape in his mind. It was a plan that wouldn’t involve the police until the very last moment.

Back at the cafe, the tall man took a large bite of his pastry, crumbs scattering on the table. “So, what’s this grand scheme of yours, old man?”

“Listening. That’s the scheme.”

“Listening? That’s your master plan? That’s a pretty short strategy, wouldn’t you say?” The tall man couldn’t resist a jab, but the older man simply sighed in exasperation.

“Listen, you oversized oaf,” he whispered, his voice low and controlled.

“I’m not an oaf!” The tall man shot back, his voice rising slightly.

The older man shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “And I’m not short,” he countered.

The tall man slumped back in his chair, grumbling under his breath. “Alright, alright,” he conceded, raising his pastry in a mock surrender, “spill it. What’s the actual plan?”

“Think about it,” the older man continued, his voice returning to its usual calm. “Those boys come here every day, probably before or after school. They talk, teenagers like to brag.”

“Here? In this public place?” Lars scoffed.

“Exactly,” the older man said, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Teenage boys have an inflated sense of self-importance. They think no one’s listening.”

The tall man considered this for a moment. “So, we snatch them up and hold them hostage until they spill their guts?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

The older man rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, man! We don’t resort to brute tactics. We use subtlety. We listen. We glean information. We let them underestimate us.”

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Read all The son of vengeance chapters in order, HERE!

The son of vengeance – VII

The older man, eased into the cafe, the familiar scent of coffee and pastries a comforting counterpoint to the gnawing unease in his gut. He ordered his usual – a strong black coffee and a flaky Danish pastry with the tart berry jam that always managed to stain his fingers. With practiced ease, he navigated the crowded cafe, his worn leather jacket brushing against bustling patrons. Finally, he found a haven in the back room, a small table tucked away by a window that offered a view of the town square bathed in the muted light of a late November afternoon.

This was their third day holed up in this provincial town, Växjö. Three days since Emil Persson had become a national sensation. News of a string of burglaries and a murder had splashed across headlines. Back in Stockholm, their boss had relayed the news with a mixture of amusement and irritation.

“Bad news,” the gruff voice had crackled through the phone. “Persson’s all over the national rags and even made the evening news. But there’s a silver lining. Turns out the local yokels think it’s some sort of inside job, a way for Persson and his cronies to line their pockets. Commissioner even called it a ‘sharing of profits’ on the news. Sounds like Persson’s reputation in Växjö is well and truly tarnished.” A harsh laugh punctuated the sentence.

The older man’s partner, the tall onel, a man who wore his disdain for small towns like a second skin, had chimed in, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “See? The mighty Polisinspektör isn’t so mighty after all.”

The older man had held his tongue. He didn’t share the tall man’s disdain for Växjö. Sure, it lacked the frenetic energy of Stockholm, but there was a quiet charm to the cobbled streets, the quaint town square, and the ever-present scent of pine that clung to the crisp air. But charm wouldn’t solve a case.

“Three days, maybe five max,” the tall man had echoed their boss’s words, his voice heavy with boredom. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The older man knew that the tall man loathed being away from the city. The dampness, the seemingly endless fog, the slow pace of life – everything grated on his nerves. He understood the frustration, but right now, the tall man’s impatience was the least of their worries.

“Heading to the cafe,” the older man had said, picking up his worn briefcase. “Read my paper, look busy, or something.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just gotta check the room service menu first. See if they have anything more exciting than the usual watery fish they call a meal here.” The older man had rolled his eyes. Tall man’s complaints were as predictable as the sunrise.

Now, as the older man sipped his coffee, a sliver of unease wormed its way back into his gut. A voice, barely a whisper, had pierced the dull roar of the cafe.

“My dad is the Polisinspektör,” the voice had declared, full of childish pride, “and he’s going to catch all the bad guys. He won’t miss a thing!”

The older man turned slowly, his gaze landing on two boys, no older than twelve, huddled at a table behind him. He had seen them before. He recognised the one with the darker hair. Both were scrawny, bundled in oversized jackets, a stark contrast to the mountains of pastries and chocolate milkshakes piled in front of them. Polisinspektör Hansson son.

The dark-haired boy, the one who had spoken, continued, seemingly oblivious to the older man’s watchful eyes. “He works slow, but he’s already figured things out. I could tell by the way he talked last night.”

“What did he say?” asked the other boy, his voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and awe.

“Something about the gun,” the dark-haired boy replied, puffing out his chest with importance. “And the crime scene. He’s close, I can feel it.”

“Did he tell you what?” The boy with the lighter hair asked.

“No, but he will tell me tonight. Dad always tells me everything. He wants me to practice my skills e says.” And with this the two boys finished their drinks and their bans and left the place leaving the old man in deep thought.

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Read all The son of vengeance chapters in order, HERE!

The son of vengeance – VI

Polisinspektör Mikael Hansson rubbed his eyes hard, the office was quiet with the evening shift have taken over the streets leaving only a couple of street cops and a group of cleaning people in the building. He was reading the latest reports and all he could see was a big nothing staring at him.

This case with the robberies really bugged him and the worse of all was what was shouting in the back in his mind and he didn’t want to hear it. That little voice saying it is an inside job and so much worst, it is a uniform involved.

Polisinspektör Mikael Hansson had no proof or some kind of lead but it was there and his eyes could see it. He shook his head trying to push away the thoughts and looked back at the murder file. Emil Persson. Another case with no leads but a lot of suspicions and rumours. At least he had suspicions and intuitions and with no obvious reason with this thought his mind connected leads and rumours unexpectedly with his son. He picked the phone and dialled home.

“Doing his homework, wait I’m walking to his room so you can talk to him. Is it going to be another late night Mikael?” It was his wife.
“I’ve got a murder and the commissioner breathing on my back,” he answered expecting that this had explained everything needed.
She didn’t say anything, just passed the phone to their son.

“Hi dad,” the boy said.
“Son, do you know a boy called Persson? Is he in your class?”
“He’s my best friend, dad.” The boy answered sounding almost insulted.
“Your best friend, right,” Polisinspektör murmured.
“Dad, how many times you saw him in our house? How many times he ate with me in the kitchen and how many ours we spent playing computer games in my room?”
“Right, right…” The Polisinspektör answered shaking his head. “Not much of a detective, right?” H tried to make a joke of the situation but his son remained silent.

“Has he told you anything about his dad?” Mikael tried again softly.
“The murder?” Straight to the point.
“Yes, the victim.” A policeman always Polisinspektör Mikael Hansson corrected his own son.
“He says that you will get to the murderer and arrest him or them.”
“He said that?”
“He’s sure dad.”
“Has he said anything else? Did he hear anything that night or saw something?”
“No dad. I thought you questioned him at the police station.” The son said and the father’s mind went to Mrs Persson. He asked the boy but it was the mother who gave all the answers.
“Son, can you do something for me? It is really important.” The boy left a big sigh and said, “What dad?”
“Can you ask him if he heard or saw anything?”
“Right dad. Now I got to finish with my homework, bye,” and the connection was over. His wife didn’t want to talk to him anymore and Polisinspektör Mikael Hansson felt really tired with his life. He looked back at the robberies files. Definitely an inside job with good information. A uniform informant.

He closed the file angry. How much he hated it when a policeman was involved in a crime. He always thought that it should be a provision that if a policeman commits a crime the punishment should be double.  

“Goddamn!” He shouted at the dark hall, a policeman from the nightshift, the only other member at the office this time of the evening gave him a worrisome look and then he returned to his work.

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Read all The son of vengeance chapters in order, HERE!

The son of vengeance – V

Alvar, a sandy-haired kid with eyes like summer skies, perched precariously on a chair at the far table of the small cafe. At twelve years old, he considered himself quite the man. He cradled a steaming cup of cocoa, generously crowned with whipped cream, nibbling on a banana between gulps.

“They must know everything about Emil Persson by now,” he declared, his voice thick with importance. “Dad said it was a tough case, old Emil was a secretive one. But don’t worry, Dad knows who the killers are.”

Across the table sat another boy, roughly the same age, lighter hair but the same piercing blue eyes, mirrored Alvar’s cocoa and banana routine. A smear of cream adorned his upper lip like a mischievous moustache. “Yeah? And what’s your dad got to do with it?” he inquired, the scepticism evident in his tone.

Alvar puffed out his chest. “Loads!” he boasted. “Criminals, murderers, crooks – you name it, Dad knows all about them. More than anyone,” he added with a hushed emphasis, “even more than the police-lady and the commissioner.”

The boy with the lighter hair took a sip of his cocoa, leaving a thicker moustache in its wake. “Sure, and I bet he spills all his top-secret stuff to you, lets you help him catch the bad guys.”

Alvar, caught up in his self-importance, missed the glint of doubt in the other boy’s eyes. He nodded fervently. “My dad and me,” he announced, holding up two crossed fingers, “we’re a team. No secrets, never been any.”

Both boys cast glances towards the corner table by the large window, where two men, one tall and one stout, sat hunched over their coffee, feigning disinterest in their conversation. Alvar winked at the other boy, stealing another decadent sip of his cocoa.

“Do you think he’ll catch them?” the boy with the lighter hair asked, his voice laced with a hint of worry.

“No doubt about it,” Alvar assured him, brimming with confidence. “Dad always gets his man in the end. You just wait and see.” With that declaration, he nodded to his friend, and they both rose from their seats, leaving the cafe at a leisurely pace.

The moment the boys disappeared around the corner of the square, silence descended upon the corner table. “A cop’s son, huh?” the tall man muttered, breaking the quiet.

The older man, a sly smile playing on his lips, emptied his cup with a sigh. “Even better,” he corrected. “That, my friend, is Police Inspector Hansson’s pride and joy, young Hansson.”

The tall man’s eyes widened in surprise. “No way!”

“Absolutely,” the older man confirmed, a genuine smile stretching across his face for the first time in over a day. They sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, a newfound glimmer in their eyes.

Meanwhile, from a safe distance behind the cafe, the boys peeked back through the window. “Think it worked?” the boy with the lighter hair asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Of course it worked,” Alvar replied confidently. “It’s a good plan.”

The other boy echoed, “A great plan.”

“The Kalle Blomkvist plan,” Alvar declared with a proud grin, his eyes searching for the two men among the cafe patrons. He couldn’t quite make them out, but moments later, he spotted them exiting, walking briskly towards the parking lot.

“Run!” he hissed, and both boys took off towards Norrgatan, hoping the car with the two men would be headed in the opposite direction.

Their plan was audacious, inspired by their hero, the legendary teenage detective Kalle Blomkvist. Alvar, ever eager to emulate his idol, had devised a scheme to lure the suspects into a false sense of security, hoping they would lead them to a trap and a punishment.

As they hurried down the cobbled street, their hearts pounded with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. They were just kids, but their minds buzzed with the thrill of the chase. They were on the trail of something big, something that could help Inspector Hansson crack the case.

Little did they know, their actions had ignited a chain reaction. The two men, now aware of Inspector Hansson’s son’s involvement, found themselves in a precarious situation. Their initial plan, whatever it may have been, was thrown into disarray. They had to act fast, for the innocent curiosity of two young detectives could spell trouble for them.

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Read all The son of vengeance chapters in order, HERE!

The son of vengeance – IV

The older man shuffled out of the cafe, his worn leather shoes whispering against the cobblestone sidewalk. A wave of frigid air rolled down Kronobergsgatan, biting through his thin jacket and nipping at his exposed neck. He squinted towards the town square, its centrepiece the imposing building of the old townhall. To its left stood the Grand Hotel, its grand facade marred by clean white paint and some music promotion posters. The old man adjusted his glasses, his gaze lingering on the hotel’s darkened windows. There was a disquiet in the air, a sense of foreboding that mirrored the churning in his gut.

Across the street, the cafe door creaked open, and his partner emerged. Ex-boxer, all height and muscle, slammed the door shut with unnecessary force and yanked his coat tighter, his scowl mirroring old man’s own unease. They exchanged no pleasantries, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Boss says we got to stick around for a few days,” the older man finally muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind whipping around them. “Lay low until things cool down.”

The tall man let out a derisive snort. “This dump? Can’t stand this place.”

“Boss says—” the older man began again, only to be cut off.

“Did you tell him?” tall man’s voice was a low growl.

“Accidents happen,” the older man snapped, a flicker of defensiveness in his tired eyes.

The tall man’s response was a sardonic laugh. “Real tall accident for a shrimp like you.” The incident at Emil Persson’s show still hung heavy in the air, infecting their interactions with a caustic edge.

“Shut it,” the older man hissed, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and fear.

“Didn’t exactly end funny,” the tall man countered, his tone turning grim. “This whole thing ain’t funny. We need to get out of here. Now.”

The older man ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Easier said than done. Boss has a plan.”

A flicker of surprise crossed the tall man’s face. “He told you?”

“Yeah.” The older man hesitated, unwilling to meet the tall mans’ gaze. “Said it’s temporary. We blend in. Become part of the scenery.”

They stood there by the car, an aging Volvo with mismatched hubcaps. Its dusty windows reflected the bleakness of the town square, the imposing buildings dwarfed by the heavy, leaden sky. The tall man squinted at a couple hurrying across the square, their faces obscured by scarves and hats.

“Lovely weather for sightseeing, wouldn’t you say?” he muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“Damn place,” he grumbled under his breath for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Just follow the plan,” the older man said, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “A few days. Make ourselves regulars at that damn cafe. Become part of the furniture. Then, we disappear.”

The tall man’s response was a humourless bark of a laugh. “Boss’ brilliant plan, huh? Blend in, then vanish? Sounds legit.”

The older man outlined the plan, his voice monotone. Blend in, avoid suspicion, ditch the guns, ditch the car, melt into the anonymity of the city.

“Always a plan with the boss, ain’t there?” The tall man said, his voice dripping with a dark sarcasm.

“Always.” The older man offered a weak nod, his eyes filled with a growing sense of doubt.

As they drove away, the silence in the car was heavy with unspoken anxieties. The older man kept glancing nervously at the rearview mirror, a prickling sensation crawling up his spine. “Anyone else getting the feeling we’re being watched?” he finally blurted out.

The tall man snorted. “Paranoid much, old man?”

“Maybe,” the older man admitted, his voice laced with worry. “Just a feeling.”

A heavy silence descended upon them once more. Then, the tall man spoke, his voice devoid of its usual bravado. “This wasn’t your first time, was it, old man? Emil?”

The old man’s breath hitched. He stared straight ahead, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “No,” he finally whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Then shut up and deal with it,” the tall man snapped. The anger in his voice couldn’t mask the underlying fear. They were both in this together, two aging thugs clinging to a fading hope of escape.

“Heard the name of the cop lookin’ for us on the news,” the older man said after a long pause. “Hansson. Polisinspektör Hansson.”

The tall man let out a nervous chuckle. “Cool copboss makes the news, huh? Figures.” He glanced sideways at the older man, a grim smile playing on his lips. “Guess we got ourselves a celebrity manhunt.”

“Oh, feeling important now?” And with that the tall man pushed the gaspedal for more speed.

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Read all The son of vengeance chapters in order, HERE!

The son of vengeance – III

Polisinspektör Mikael Hansson emerged from the commissioner’s office on the top floor, his face burning a shade darker than his ruddy complexion. He was just one of several officers who’d received a blistering today from the commissioner, all thanks to a string of unsolved robberies and a recent, unsettling murder that had rocked the usually peaceful city of Växjö.

Växjö wasn’t exactly crime central. Far from it, in fact. But a series of copycat robberies targeting computers and gadgets from various offices, including some government buildings, had shaken the trust of the city’s residents. The media had gone into overdrive, with social media exploding in frenzy. And the commissioner, Mikael observed with a grimace, seemed to take Facebook and Instagram updates more seriously these days than his own officers.

Mikael felt a surge of frustration. He’d been working tirelessly on the robberies, and now, just when he thought he was making some headway, a murder had landed squarely on his desk. Heaving a sigh, he navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the police headquarters, finally arriving at his cubicle. Inside, a large, round-faced woman sat with a young boy by her side. It was Birgit Persson, the wife of the murdered victim. He couldn’t recall the boy’s name, but a nagging familiarity pricked at his memory. Before the murder, he corrected himself.

Birgit Persson wasn’t known for her patience. In the two days since her husband’s death, she’d voiced her scathing opinions about the police department’s work ethic in no uncertain terms. Mikael braced himself, knowing it was his turn to face Mrs. Persson’s wrath. Her timing, arriving fresh from the commissioner’s lecture, couldn’t have been more impeccable, or more infuriating.

“Feeling better today, Mrs. Persson?” Mikael began cautiously, hoping to diffuse the situation. “I can’t make any promises, but we believe we might have some leads…” He trailed off, searching for the right words.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better, officer?” she snapped back.

“Polisinspektör,” he corrected gently.

“Oh, you’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” Her glare could have curdled milk.

“We’re doing our best, Mrs. Persson,” Mikael said evenly.

“Just like you’re doing your best with those robberies?” Her comment stung.

Mikael closed his eyes, counting silently to ten. He couldn’t help but glance at the boy, who sat quietly beside his mother, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. It was hard to reconcile the grief-stricken widow with the fiery woman before him.

“I know you, don’t I?” Mikael ventured, turning to the boy.

“Same school, same class, sir,” the boy replied in a prepubescent voice that still held a hint of childishness. “Same class as your son, I meant sir.” He added seen the puzzlement on Polisinspektör glance.

“Stand up straight, Erik,” Birgit Persson interjected sharply. The boy did his best, his gaze still fixed on Mikael.

“You were in the house when it happened, weren’t you?” Mikael asked gently.

Before Erik could answer, Birgit spoke up again, her voice softer now, almost apologetic. “He was staying with his father because I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Did you see anything unusual that night?” Mikael persisted ignoring her.

Erik remained silent.

“Speak up, Erik,” Birgit Persson barked, her earlier fire returning.

“No, sir,” Erik mumbled, looking down at his feet. “Dad told me to stay in my room and not come out.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Just the… the bang,” Erik stammered.

“That’s enough!” Birgit nearly shouted. “We didn’t come here for you to interrogate my son.” With surprising agility for her size, she rose from her chair and grabbed Erik’s arm, pulling him out of the cubicle.

“Do your damn job,” she spat over her shoulder as she stormed out, Erik trailing reluctantly behind her.

Mikael watched them go, a knot of frustration tightening in his gut. He knew Birgit was grieving, but her hostility was making things difficult. He slumped into his chair, the weight of the unsolved cases pressing down on him. He had to find a way forward, not just for the victims’ family, but for the peace of mind of the entire city. Taking a deep breath, he started sifting through the case files, determined to crack both the robberies and the Persson murder. He wouldn’t let the commissioner, or Mrs. Persson, break him.

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Read all The son of vengeance chapters in order, HERE!

The son of vengeance – II

A suffocating silence stretched in the hallway, punctuated only by the ragged breaths of the three men. Minutes bled into an infinity as Emil, the bearded man, felt a cold dread gnawing at his insides. Every muscle in his body tensed as his gaze flickered between the older man with a sickly-sweet smile and the imposing figure of the tall man leaning against the wall. The tall man held himself stiffly, like a coiled viper ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

“You alright, Emil?” The older man inquired, his voice dripping with a false cheer that sent shivers down Emil’s spine.

“Peachy, thanks for asking,” Emil replied, his voice strained as he kept a wary eye on the tall man.

“The wife, Emil? How’s the lovely wife doing?” The older man persisted, his smile widening unnaturally.

“With her family,” Emil answered curtly, not daring to look away from the menacing silhouette.

“And the little one, Emil? What was his name again? Slipped my mind for a moment,” the older man prodded, a hint of malice flickering in his eyes.

“With his mother,” Emil mumbled, his throat tightening.

“A clever little one, that’s for sure,” the older man remarked, finally turning his gaze towards the tall man. “Last time I was here; he was peeking from behind the door, listening to our conversation, wasn’t he?”

“We weren’t having a conversation, you were threatening me,” Emil retorted, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes.

The older man chuckled, the sound devoid of humour. “Oh, Emil, that was just some friendly advice.”

“It felt more like a threat,” Emil muttered, his voice laced with defiance.

The older man’s smile faltered for a brief moment, then he shrugged, pretending not to hear Emil’s last remark. “Speaking of, the boss isn’t in the best of moods, you see.”

Emil remained silent, his jaw clenched, his gaze unwavering as he stared at the impassive face of the tall man.

“Can’t say the same for his wife and kid, but the boss himself, well; let’s just say he’s not doing well, Emil. And do you know why he’s not doing well?”

Emil didn’t reply, his silence a thunderous roar in the tense atmosphere.

“And guess who else isn’t doing so well, Emil?” the older man continued, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. Seeing Emil’s stoic expression, he added, “The boss’s bank account, Emil.”

The tall man finally spoke, a cruel grin stretching across his thin lips. “Poor thing, the bank account. Been waiting ten whole days for you, Emil. Nothing new from Växjö, eh?”

“Ten days since my last visit, Emil,” the older man chimed in, his voice laced with a barely concealed tremor. “And with inflation skyrocketing, well, you get the picture.” The mention of inflation seemed almost random, a desperate attempt to shift the focus.

Emil finally diverted his gaze from the tall man to the older man, a spark of defiance igniting in his eyes. “So, you brought your oversized friend here to remind me about inflation?” he asked, a newfound courage rising in his voice. The tall man’s smirk widened, revealing a gap-toothed grin.

The older man’s face contorted in surprise. “Hobbit brought a giant to scare you?” Emil pressed on, emboldened by the stunned silence. “Is that it?”

A deep flush crept up the older man’s neck, his face turning the colour of a ripe tomato. “Careful with your words, Emil,” he growled, the forced smile gone, replaced by a menacing grimace.

“Careful with what, hobbit?” Emil couldn’t resist the jab. He lowered his body slightly, mimicking a parent talking to a child. “Do you have a precious, hobbit? Is this your almighty and tall Gandalf, here to scare me or to protect your little treasure?”

The tall man let out a muffled snort, his earlier bravado crumbling under Emil’s taunts. The older man, however, remained silent, his eyes burning with a dark fury.

“What’s the matter, hobbit? Did the mouse steal your tongue?” Emil goaded, unable to stop himself.

“I can fetch a ladder from upstairs if you want to have a proper conversation, shorty,” the tall man finally replied, his voice laced with a newfound aggression.

The tension in the room escalated with each passing second. Then, in a blur of movement, everything happened simultaneously.

The old man pulled a small pistol from his inside pocket and before the tall man stop laughing an explosion and a sudden lighting shook the place.

“Oh Jesus man, what have you done?” The tall man shouted at the older man while they were running out of the house.

“He called me hobbit…” the older man said when they managed to reach the car; he entered and drove fast into the fog.

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The son of vengeance – I

Deep fog hung heavy over Växjö Lake, cloaking the town in a veil of eerie sounds and muffled echoes. Sporadic lights and streetlamps cast an unsettling glow, their hazy beams swallowed by the swirling mist. It was a scene devoid of life, no traffic rumbling through the streets, no pedestrians seeking solace in the muted night. The clock had just struck twelve, leaving the town in an unsettling quietude.

On the east side of the lake, a car glided silently along a deserted street. Inside, two burly figures occupied the front seats, their faces obscured by the gloom. One could mistake them for weary salesmen returning from a late meeting, with their dark jackets and thin ties adding to the illusion. However, the tell-tale presence of a large black bag, a smaller one, and two pairs of black leather gloves piled precariously in the backseats hinted at a more sinister purpose.

“Pull over,” muttered the passenger, his voice barely a whisper above the muffled sounds of the night. Across the sidewalk loomed the vague outline of a weathered wooden fence. Further down the street, a faint yellow light flickered above a wooden door, barely discernible through the swirling mist.

“Here’s good,” the driver replied, his voice a low rumble. He eased the car to a stop against the curb.

The passenger, a stocky man well into his fifties dressed entirely in black, exuded an undeniable air of menace. His heavy face, with its two beady eyes, held a cruel glint that even the darkness couldn’t conceal.

“You know the drill,” he said to his hulking companion in the driver’s seat. “I handle the talking, you… well, you be muscle. Remember the plan? Don’t deviate. Capiche?”

The driver, a towering figure compared to his partner, responded with a curt nod.

“What if he’s not there?” a hint of uncertainty crept into the tall man’s voice.

“He’ll be there,” the older man insisted with unwavering certitude. “I know Emil Persson.”

He leaned forward, checking the luminous glow emanating from his wristwatch. When it precisely indicated 12:15, he muttered a curt “Now!” and swiftly flung open his car door.

The two men disembarked, leaving the car shrouded in darkness. The driver had switched off the headlights before stopping, plunging them into deeper anonymity. The faint glow from the streetlamp cast their elongated shadows onto the pavement, highlighting the stark contrast between their heights. As the older man rounded the car to join his partner, the tall man couldn’t help but flash a cryptic smile, harbouring thoughts he kept hidden from his companion.

They crossed the silent street, passing by the weathered fence before reaching the doorway with its single, flickering light. The giant fiddled with his car keys, his movements almost playful.

“Nervous?” the older man inquired his voice gruff.

“Never,” the tall man replied with a confident air, swiftly stashing the keys in his pocket.

The older man rapped twice on the door, waiting patiently for a response. After a tense couple of seconds, he pounded harder with his fist, impatience simmering beneath the surface. A muffled voice emanated from within, followed by shuffling sounds. Finally, a gruff voice inquired through the door, “Who’s there?”

Both men stood in stony silence, waiting for a response. Minutes bled into an eternity, punctuated only by the silence from within and the ever-thickening fog that seemed to coil around them.

Frustration mounting, the older man slammed his fist against the door with renewed vigour, the resounding thud echoing through the night. The tall man smirked, his eyes fixated on the doorknob, knowing the man inside was likely watching them through the peephole.

The tension finally broke as the door creaked open, revealing a man in his mid-forties with a thick beard and a belly that strained against his shirt. He squinted at the figures cloaked in shadow, a flicker of recognition dawning in his eyes.

“Emil,” the older man greeted, a sly smirk twisting his lips. “Remember me?”

Emil’s eyes widened in a mixture of fear and something akin to resignation. This unwelcome visit was about to shatter the uneasy peace that had settled over Växjö Lake, setting in motion a chain of events that would forever alter the town’s shrouded past.

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