The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared

Caracas’ head. Upon which Caracas started to cry and said that he didn’t want to be in the club any more. He had had nothing but shit from the Boss since first Bolt and then Bucket vanished, just as if it had been him, Caracas, who was behind it. No, the Boss would have to manage as best he could, Caracas was going to phone for a taxi, drive to the airport and fly all the way home to his family in… Caracas. Then at least he could get his real name back.
    ‘¡ Vete a la mierda !’ Caracas howled, and rushed out of the door.
    The Boss sighed. Everything was getting messier and messier. First Bolt had disappeared, and in retrospect the Boss had to admit that he should not have taken out his frustration on Bucket and Caracas. And then Bucket disappeared and the Boss in retrospect had to admit that he should not have taken out his frustration on Caracas. And then Caracas disappeared – to buy a watermelon. And the Boss now in retrospect had to admit that he… should never have whacked him over the head with the melon.
    And now, he was all alone in his hunt for… Well, he didn’t even know what he was hunting. Would he find Bolt? But then had Bolt pinched the suitcase? Could he be so stupid? And what had happened to Bucket?
    The Boss drove a car that reflected his standing in society, the latest BMW X5. And most of the time he drove it extremely fast. The police in the unmarked car shadowing him passed the time counting the number of traffic violations he committed during the journey from Stockholm down to Småland, and after 300 kilometres they agreed that the man behind the wheel in the BMW in front of them ought to be deprived of his drivinglicence for the next four hundred years if everything he had done so far on the journey went to court, which of course it never would do.
    Be that as it may, the journey took them past Åseda where Chief Inspector Aronsson intercepted his Stockholm colleagues, thanked them for their help and informed them that he would take over the surveillance himself.
    With the help of the GPS in the BMW, the Boss had no trouble getting all the way to Lake Farm. But the closer he came, the more impatient his driving. His already illegal speeds increased so much Chief Inspector Aronsson had trouble keeping up. He had to keep a certain distance so that Per-Gunnar ‘Boss’ Gerdin wouldn’t notice that he was being shadowed, but now Aronsson was beginning to lose sight of his quarry. It was only on the really long straight stretches that he could occasionally glimpse the BMW until… he couldn’t see it any more!
    Where had Gerdin gone? He must surely have turned off somewhere, or…? Aronsson slowed down. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. This was definitely not what was supposed to happen.
    There was a road off to the left, perhaps the BMW had gone that way. Or had it continued straight ahead and then gone to… Rottne, wasn’t that the name of the place? Unless Gerdin had turned off earlier?
    That must be what happened. Aronsson turned around and then turned down the side road where he thought Gerdin must have gone.
    The Boss stood on the brakes to slow down from 180 to 20 and quickly steered his way onto the gravel road indicated by the GPS. Now there were only 3.7 kilometres left to his destination.
    Two hundred metres from the mailbox at Lake Farm the road made a final turn, and round the bend the Boss saw the rear endof a moving bus that had just manoeuvred its way out from the exit that the Boss was being directed towards. What should he do now? Who was in the bus? And was anyone still left at Lake Farm?
    The Boss decided to let the bus go on its way. He turned down a winding track, which led him to a farmhouse, a barn and a lakeside shed that had seen better days.
    But no Bucket. No Bolt. No oldie. No biddy with red hair. And absolutely no grey suitcase with wheels.
    The Boss took another minute to inspect the place. It was obviously empty of people, but behind the barn two cars had been hidden: a red VW Passat and a silver-coloured Mercedes.
    ‘The right place, that’s for sure,’ said the Boss. But a few minutes too late.
    And so he decided to catch up with the moving bus. That shouldn’t be too hard; it had a start of only three or four minutes on the winding gravel road.
    The Boss pressed his foot down on the accelerator and disappeared in a cloud of dust. The fact that a blue Volvo was approaching from the direction in which he had originally come