Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All Read Online Free PDF

and installed GPS trackers in every new vehicle, and the nicer used ones. They had no sense of fair play: they didn’t even inform the car thieves ahead of time. Suddenly the police were standing in a middleman’s warehouse in Ängelholm, gathering up both cars and Poles.
    The count, however, made it through. Not because he was listed as living with a fishmonger in Manila, but because the seized Poles were far too enamored of life to squeal.
    Incidentally, the count had received his nickname many years earlier from his elegant manner of threatening customers who didn’t pay up. He might use words such as “I would truly appreciate it if Mr. Hansson were to settle up his pecuniary accounts with me within twenty-four hours, after which I promise not to chop him into bits.” Hansson, or whatever the customer’s name might have been, always found it preferable to pay. No one wanted to be chopped into bits, no matter how many. Two would be bad enough.
    As the years passed, the count (with the help of the countess) developed a more vulgar style. This was the one that befell the receptionist, but the name had already stuck.
    Per Persson and Johanna Kjellander set off to see the count to demand five thousand kronor on behalf of Hitman Anders. If they were tosucceed, the murderer in room seven would be a future potential source of income for them. If they failed . . . No, they must not fail.
    The priest’s suggestion of how they should handle the count was to fight fire with fire. Humility didn’t work in those circles, was Johanna Kjellander’s reasoning.
    Per Persson protested, and protested some more. He was a receptionist with a certain talent for spreadsheets and structure, not a violent criminal. And even if he were to transform himself into a violent criminal, he would absolutely not start by practicing on one of the region’s foremost players in the field. Anyway, what sort of experience did the priest have with the circles she was referring to? How could she be so sure that a hug or two wasn’t just the ticket?
    A hug? Surely even a child could figure out that they would get nowhere if they tracked down the count and apologized for existing.
    â€œLet me handle the sermonizing and everything will be fine,” said the priest, once they had arrived at the count’s office, which was, as always, open on Sunday. “And don’t hug anyone in the meantime!”
    Per Persson reflected that he was the only one of the two who was at risk of having a sexual organ cut off, but he was resigned in the face of the priest’s courage. She was acting as if she had Jesus by her side rather than a receptionist. Nevertheless, he wanted to know what the literal meaning of fighting fire with fire might be, but it was too late to ask.
    The count looked up from his desk when the doorbell rang. In stepped two people he recognized but, at first, couldn’t quite place. They weren’t from the Tax Authority, though—he could tell by the collar on one.
    â€œGood day again, Mr. Count. My name is Johanna Kjellander and I’m a priest with the Church of Sweden and, until very recently, the parish priest of a congregation we can leave out of this conversation. The man by my side is a long-standing friend and colleague . . .”
    In that instant, Johanna Kjellander realized that she didn’t know the receptionist’s name. He had been nice to her on the park bench, a bit stingier when it came to negotiations over the price of her room, relatively anonymous in the effort to bowl over Hitman Anders with words, yet sufficiently brave to come along and rip the missing five thousand kronor out of the hands of the count, who stood before them now. He had probably mentioned his name as she was trying to trick him out of twenty kronor for a prayer, but it had all happened so quickly.
    â€œMy long-standing friend and colleague . . . and he has a name too, of course. We all tend to