The Little Old Lady Behaving Badly Read online

  She looked down at her bright green work clothes with their reflective stripes; she would have liked to have been wearing something more elegant than a waste collector’s uniform. Why hadn’t she chosen something more discreet? She regretted that now, and when she got back into the cabin and sat next to Christina, she was very dissatisfied with herself. Her friend saw Martha’s expression and, to console her, she held up a bag of flavored chocolates. Christina knew that Martha loved sweets even though she did her best to keep them for special occasions. But under extraordinary circumstances, such as a bank robbery, she liked to indulge herself with that little extra.

  “Thank you,” said Martha and she took a handful. And then, rapidly, yet another handful. Christina looked at her out of the corner of her eye.

  “Problems?”

  “It takes a bit longer to rob a bank when you are old,” Martha answered. “They hadn’t even got through the brick wall.”

  “You don’t say . . . but Martha—oh, goodness gracious!” Christina’s voice rose to a falsetto.

  There was a sort of flash up on the first floor above the bank and a cloud of dust appeared behind the windows.

  “Oh no! Brains has detonated yet another piggy bank!” said Martha. “Now we must hurry!”

  She pressed the joystick and the suction pump started up.

  “RIGHT, THAT’S THAT,” SAID BRAINS, AND HE DROPPED THE LAST brick down onto the pile of rubble. “It just needed one more piggy bank to do the job.”

  He swept away some light-blue bits of plastic and leaned toward the open garbage chute. A heavy stench of rotting garbage crept in under his mask and out into the room. “Time to get the shovels and buckets. We must collect the goodies and do it quick!”

  “But what a revolting smell.”

  “Well, money doesn’t come from heaven. It must be earned here on earth. Get to work now,” urged Anna-Greta from under her Margaret Thatcher mask.

  “OK, OK, don’t nag,” could be heard from the others and then Pavarotti and Elton John started to shovel the riches into the garbage chute, assisted and cheered on by Brad Pitt. Jewels, gold and banknotes were swallowed by the modern pneumatic garbage chute. Swoosh and they were gone, and everyone realized that Martha had the suction pump at full throttle.

  Three golden necklaces, five bars of gold and three hundred thousand kronor in large banknotes were counted by Anna-Greta before she realized that she actually was counting. She didn’t have to do that, she wasn’t working in a bank any longer!

  They worked hard and all the members of the League of Pensioners were panting ominously. It was particularly heavy going when you had to exert yourself behind a latex mask, but none of them dared take them off. There was CCTV after all.

  “Just a little bit left,” Brains urged them on and worked even faster. Thankfully, the heaps of riches were getting smaller and smaller, and now they could hear a pleasant gurgling sound from down the garbage chute. Brains saw how banknotes, certificates and jewels were sucked down the shaft and, after a really loud gurgle, he found himself wondering how many millions they had shovelled in. Just as long as the people living higher up in the building didn’t wake up and throw their kitchen trash into the system, because that would really mess things up, he found himself thinking. Suddenly a large plastic bag with banknotes was sucked into the chute but got stuck and blocked the opening.

  “I’ll sort that,” said Anna-Greta briskly and, before anyone could stop her, she prodded the bag with her walking stick. But she prodded so hard that not only the bag but also the walking stick were sucked into the shaft.

  “Oh dearie me,” she exclaimed in horror while the stick rattled down the chute making a hell of a sound. That will probably wake the residents, she realized, and cheerily chirped, “It’s time for us to say goodbye . . .”

  “This is not a time to joke! We’re risking a prison sentence here, you do know that?” hissed Rake behind his stiff latex grin. He’d hardly finished speaking before he was interrupted by the sound of newly awakened voices followed by shouts and screams.

  IN THE BIG, FANCY GARBAGE TRUCK MARTHA NOTICED HOW THE suction pump started to cough worryingly while at the same time lights were turned on higher up in the building above the bank.

  “Oops! We had better get moving. We’ve already got lots of millions,” she said with her mouth full of flavored chocolates. She reached out to get some more, but the movement was so sudden that the bag fell to the floor.

  “I’ll pick it up,” said Christina, eager to help. She threw herself forward, but ended up with her tummy on top of the control panel. A roaring sound could be heard from the suction pump.

  “What was that? A heavy sack of valuables?” Martha wondered out loud.

  “I think that I might have . . .” mumbled Christina.

  “I had better increase the suction force,” said Martha, pulling the control panel toward her and pushing the joystick to maximum.

  “No, no,” shouted Christina in panic because she had pressed the button that said: REVERSE. The newly stolen riches were now being pumped back into the garbage chute!

  INSIDE THE BANK VAULT, THE LEAGUE OF PENSIONERS WERE ON their way up the ladders when they suddenly heard a sound like when water has been turned off in a building and then turned on again. A coughing, knocking and rattling noise was coming from the garbage chute which soon expelled an enormous burst of old garbage, followed by plaster, bits of board and mortar. After that came banknotes, brochures, wills and golden bracelets like projectiles into the bank vault and, last of all, a golden necklace wrapped around Anna-Greta’s bent walking stick.

  “But Martha, dear! Turn it off, turn it off!” moaned Brains as he and Anders tried to push the big oak table against the opening to stop the flow.

  “Well, well, my walking stick,” sighed Anna-Greta and sadly felt the handle which hadn’t fared well. A piece of it had splintered off.

  Then they heard a new, strange roar, followed by a long whooshing sound. Then silence. Martha had evidently turned the pump off. But then it started up again, the sound increased and everything, including Anna-Greta’s stick, was sucked back down the shaft again. But now they could hear other sounds too. Police sirens. And they were very close.

  Down on the street they were getting nervous inside the garbage truck.

  “It would seem that the neighbors have phoned the police,” Christina commented.

  “Oh my God, yes, we’d better get moving,” said Martha nervously, finding it hard waiting for the last of the loot to be sucked up. Then she hurriedly pressed the clutch and put the truck into reverse gear.

  “But Martha! Don’t forget the suction pump,” protested Christina, quickly jabbing her foot hard on the brake.

  “Oh dearie me, there is so much to bear in mind nowadays,” muttered Martha blushing slightly. “I mean, it is so easy to forget.”

  “Help, now I can see a police car,” Christina broke in.

  “If they come, then I’ll say that we’ve got a problem with food waste in the suction pump,” said Martha unfolding an old, sticky pizza carton. “This sort of thing always causes a blockage in the pump.”

  “Oh, you think of everything!”

  “Yes, when I don’t forget it . . .”

  “But, yech, what a horrible smell,” said Christina.

  “My dear, this isn’t a taxi, it is a garbage truck,” answered Martha.

  THE LEAGUE OF PENSIONERS DOWN IN THE BANK VAULT HEARD the police sirens, checked that they hadn’t forgotten anything and then hurried back up to the meeting room. There they quickly brushed the worst of the dust and dirt off one another and then, as calmly and coolly as possible, went out to the stairwell and down into the street with the trash cans between them. A drunkard who walked past the bank gave a start when he saw Brad Pitt, Elton John and Pavarotti with two trash cans, closely followed by Margaret Thatcher. He rubbed his eyes. It was never a good idea to drink liqueur. Liqueur drinks could contain just about anything.

 
The police car was approaching the corner of Saint Eriksgatan and Fleminggatan and it slowed down outside the bank just as the rain started to become more intense. The side window was lowered.

  “Hey, you!”

  Elton John and Brad Pitt heard the policeman’s voice behind them but pretended they hadn’t, and quickly disconnected the suction pipe as nonchalantly as they could. For the sake of appearances they even picked up a beer can and some messy napkins from McDonald’s and threw them into one of the trash cans. Meanwhile, Martha pressed the buttons on the control panel so that the suction pipe was retracted and turned off completely, after which the hydraulic arm lifted the trash cans into place. Her hands fumbled to find the plastic bag with the emergency solution and then—that very moment—the rain turned into a cloudburst. The policemen, who were just getting out of their car, stopped mid-movement, shut the doors and quickly raised the side window.

  Anders, with his back turned to them, quickly removed his Brad Pitt mask and headed toward the nearest underground station, waving goodbye to the pensioners. Brains and Rake went up to the truck and took their places on the spare seats behind Martha and Christina. It was a bit of a squeeze and had meant a lot of welding work and lots of prior planning. But instead of two trucks, they only wanted one. Making your escape in two vehicles was always more of a risk than just having one vehicle.

  “We seem to have sucked up some really nasty-smelling garbage.” Rake sniffed in dissatisfaction and pressed the nose of the Elton John mask as tightly as he could.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Martha. “If you drive a garbage truck, you need to play the part convincingly, so I brought this along with us in case the police should get too close for comfort.” She opened the plastic bag which contained fermented herring—a Swedish delicacy, but one which smelled so horrible that even the gourmands who like to eat it usually put a clothespin over their nostrils while they do—the odor of which now filled the cabin even though she lowered the side windows.

  “Hold your noses! Now we’re off!”

  With a heavy turn of the steering wheel she swung out into the middle of the street, pressed the accelerator and set off past the police car before driving down Saint Eriksgatan in a calm and dignified manner. The policemen, who had just lowered their side windows once more, rapidly raised them again to prevent the stench from coming in, and it took them a while to collect their thoughts to such a degree that they were then able to rush into the bank with their pistols at the ready.

  “Do you know why Norwegian garbage trucks drive so fast?” began Martha, with her hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere in the cab.

  “Because they are afraid they will be robbed!” came the reply in unison from the back seat. And then they all giggled while they continued their drive by turning off toward Roslagstull and continuing on toward their new hometown of Djursholm. In the truck’s trash hold they now had at least ten, if not fifteen, million for the poor who needed a brighter existence. But in actual fact, the League of Pensioners needed to haul in several hundred million more to realize Martha’s great dream: a place where ancient seniors could meet, amuse themselves and enjoy life; yes, a place with lots of lovely things. A little like an old-fashioned village where everybody managed nicely but with a more modern name—a Vintage Village or a Pleasure Village perhaps? Or why not a Panther Nest, she had thought, remembering how she had heard about a group of American seniors who had called themselves the Gray Panthers.

  2

  IT IS THE MISTAKES THAT ARE MADE AFTER A CRIME THAT LEAD to many crooks being caught, Martha thought as she steered the garbage truck out of the city. How many robbers have relaxed after carrying out their crimes, done something silly and then got caught? No, that was not going to happen to the League of Pensioners. Everyone in the gang must retain their concentration and not relax for a moment, she thought as she veered away at the last moment from a solitary pedestrian on the street, after which she skidded into a curve with screeching tires before she understood that she must drive a bit slower. She got a hold of herself and gripped the steering wheel hard with both hands.

  She thought about how stupid those young men had been, years ago it was, when they stole paintings from the National Museum. The culprits had fled in a boat from the quay outside the museum in the middle of December, but then they had been so noisy once they were out in the bay that a skipper had become suspicious. After that, it didn’t take long for the police to find them. Not to mention the notorious helicopter robbery. On that occasion, the crooks left their GPS on a passenger seat in the helicopter, so the police could easily ascertain that they had been at the crime scene! That sort of farce was not going to happen with the League of Pensioners—they already had their plan ready. They weren’t going to leave any tracks at all . . . So, in good time before the robbery, they had fitted up their new villa in Djursholm with its own pneumatic garbage system so that all they had to do was connect the truck’s suction pipe to the system. With the press of a button they would then do everything in reverse so that the entire haul would end up in their own cellar before they drove the truck back to the depot. Simple and brilliant. Nobody would think of looking for the loot from a big robbery in the house of some old pensioners in Djursholm. No, in reality seniors just sat at home and solved crossword puzzles.

  Martha turned off from Norrtäljevägen in the direction of Djursholm square. By the shop she took the steep hill up to the right, passed the top and slowed down when they reached their new permanent home in life, Auroravägen 3. The picturesque old villa from around 1900 had a lovely position on a slope with bushes and oak trees and it was one of the many large old houses in the area. It had three stories and was clad in dark-stained wood; it even had a tower with a glazed veranda. She loved the villa and if it hadn’t been for the grumpy multimillionaire Bielke who lived next door, the place would have been absolutely idyllic. There had once been a lovely Jugend villa on his plot, but grizzleguts had had it demolished and instead built a rectangular, fortress-like box construction. And in front of the gray concrete bunker he now had a luxurious swimming pool with steps and railings and around that were large concrete pots with neglected plants that were slowly suffocating from all the goutweed and dandelions. But worst of all were the tasteless garden sculptures in stone and plastic. A large granite lion with its front paw on a globe and a Santa Claus in jolly red colors with a split plastic hood and a bag on his back. If it hadn’t been for the lilac bushes and rows of apple trees which hid most of the abomination, Martha would never have gone along with buying the house next door. She wanted to be surrounded by beauty and lovely nature.

  Martha missed the beautiful old house in the country outside Vetlanda down in the south of the country that they had been forced to leave. But the local council had decided to build a freeway right outside and they had no choice but to move back to Stockholm. They hadn’t dared return to Värmdö where they had lived earlier, but had chosen to settle in Anna-Greta’s old home district of Djursholm, a very posh northern suburb of the city. It felt safer there. Not so much motorbike gang and bandits, but more businessmen in expensive suits. And they didn’t tend to knock down pensioners. Besides, Djursholm was a calm and peaceful place with a well-raised population who liked culture. This, for example, is where the storyteller Elsa Beskow had once lived. Martha could imagine how she would have sat there in her large 1940s villa, played the piano, drawn pictures and thought up stories. Perhaps it was this that had made Martha herself dream of creating a wonderful existence for older people. Yes, a Vintage Village, a real Panther Nest with a cinema, theater, spa, garden, Internet cafe, hairdresser, swimming pool and bar; yes, a wonderful retreat for seniors where they could enjoy the last years of their life. She wanted to get the League of Pensioners to realize this dream, but if she was going to succeed in convincing them, she would have to proceed with caution. Because as soon as her friends understood how much money would be needed, they would also understand that t
hey must carry out new crimes. Millions in a bank were all very well, but a Panther Nest or a Pleasure Village, if you could call it that, would demand thousands of millions of kronor.

  Martha changed to a lower gear, had a look in the door mirror to make sure there was nobody behind them, and drove in toward the carport next to the cellar. It was rather hard to maneuver the heavy vehicle so unfortunately the truck ended up at a bit of an angle, but even real trash collectors can park their trucks a bit carelessly sometimes. Now the most important thing was to quickly unload their booty!

  “Time to connect the suction pipe,” she said, nodding to the others. A sleepy Pavarotti (Brains) and a just-as-sleepy Elton John (Rake) climbed out of the cab of the truck while Martha got hold of the control panel and lowered the pipe. The men dragged it across to the cellar wall and were just about to connect it when they both felt an urgent call of nature . . . the early hours of the morning have a strange effect on elderly men and both Pavarotti and Elton John had to pee.

  “Hang on a moment!” Brains signalled to Martha as he nipped around the corner with Rake right after him. But Martha didn’t grasp the signal and she went ahead and pressed the joystick. A stench of rotten herring erupted from the truck together with some wills, bars of gold and banknotes, before the men—clutching their belts—rushed back in horror and connected the pipe as they should have done straight away. Martha heard all sorts of sounds and imagined how banknotes, coin collections, gold bars and lots of other things were landing in the cellar. But then there was a sudden blockage and the pump stopped with a crack as if somebody had fired a rifle.

  “Oh no, Anna-Greta’s walking stick!” squeaked Christina as there was another crack and the remains of the stick were ejected into the cellar.

  “Poor Anna-Greta, what shall we do now?” mumbled Martha while the noise slowly diminished before finally stopping completely.

  “We’ll buy her a nice new stick if Brains can’t repair the old one,” said Christina, and Martha nodded in agreement. Then she signaled to the men to disconnect the pipe. But nothing happened. Enraged, Martha got out of the cab.