Hard Cheese

by Ulf Durling

  ‘There’s a pine forest here and some broken ground.’

  Ivehed is an orienteer and wanted to parade his knowledge.

  In that pine forest and on that broken ground there were some small dots that could represent cottages. Gustavsson suggested that we should go and get Crona that same night, and Ivehed was very happy. I guess that he wanted to go at it like a steam-roller, causing the police authorities to become liable for damage to the land owners. He would readily have jumped into his track suit and run straight away with a compass in his hand.

  My opinion was that, if we were going to follow idiotic leads of this kind, it should at least be done in the daytime. We had downed a lot of beer, and I was neither prepared to drive 30-40 kilometres in the middle of the night, nor look after the others in the darkness. It would be difficult to fine-comb the area, and since it was pitch-black, Crona could easily hide as soon as he saw the beams of our flashlights. And one or two of us would perhaps be afraid of the dark.

  After a lot of ifs and buts, it was decided that Gustavsson and I would drive over there the next day—as of yesterday, that is to say. The others could do whatever the devil they wanted to do. Play cards if they wanted—one is after all a liberal and modern employer.

  I told Kerstin about our trip. It was in the middle of the night. Now, it doesn’t concern anybody what we do in the night, but she was uneasy and thought that we were after some kind of desperado. She had heard that Crona sometimes is troublesome, and he had grown to an enormous size in her imagination. In the end, I had to promise to bring my service pistol.

  In the morning I overslept. Gustavsson called at a quarter past nine and sounded rather angry. Kerstin had packed an enormous box lunch in a knapsack. I refused to put the damned thing on, for it was not a scout excursion. At last she became reasonable and packed the sandwiches and the Thermos flask in my briefcase.

  We took the patrol car. Gustavsson drove.

  For the record it was a truly fine day. The sun was shining and so forth. There are many charming colours in nature at this autumn time of the year. Red, yellow, violet and who knows what else.

  We kept fairly good time while we turned around the southern traffic circle of our nice little town and sped through the outskirts. Then the houses thinned out on both sides, the speed limits were eased and we were in the back of beyond.

  Farmers were standing around in the fields looking bucolic. They would take a few steps forward and then a few to the side, as if they were on a chessboard. There were cows scattered here and there, red barns and whatnot….

  Just as you would expect in the country.

  Gustavsson turned on the car radio. There was a worthless information programmeme for foreigners about our beautiful country, followed by the mushy singer Lasse Lönndahl rattling off a song, followed by a lot of greetings to sweet grandmothers sitting around beaming all over the country.

  Half an hour later he slowed down opposite a yellow two-storied wooden house. In front of it was a gravel spot. I guessed this was the school.

  There was nobody in sight, so we looked at the map. Gustavsson had entertained me with a lot of information about the environment, ancient monuments and such, so I thought it was about time for some action.

  We drove for a few more kilometres and stopped to consult the map again. We twisted and turned it a few times, looked at the sun—which according to the hymn-book, rises in the east—and at the road which, according to the general staff, rose in the direction of the north-west. In front of the car, on the left-hand side, a path led straight into the forest. It seemed we should follow it for about five hundred metres to reach a clearing. And there we would find Stora Hede. There were many small cottages and Crona was to be found in one of them, if Gustavsson was to be believed.

  After just a few metres we found the bicycle. It was a new, blue one, a boy’s bike. One has to be tipsy or really frightened to steal such a thing and ride forty kilometres on it in the middle of the night. On the handlebars was a sign: “Property of Magnus Rask.”

  Gustavsson was humming a monotonous melody as he walked forwards. He seemed to be very pleased, but had no reason to be, considering the quality of his singing. I told him to shut up.

  Everything went fine on the way to the house. The route had been abandoned long ago. Those who left have my full understanding.

  Gustavsson began to wax lyrical about animal life. He pointed at some gnawed-off twigs which had been attacked by roe deer, birds’ nests in the trees and rabbit droppings along the path. I cannot understand how anyone can be happy about things like that. The rabbit droppings looked just like common dung, I thought, though smaller and rounder.

  There was swampy terrain and branches hanging down for the purpose of pricking and scratching. One had to shut one’s eyes and keep one’s mouth closed. Gustavsson had to do the same, so there was a positive side as well.

  We fumbled our way towards a bare hillock a few hundred metres ahead. When we reached the top we could see the first cottage. It was a poor, small, dilapidated thing, crouching beneath a few firs.

  There was no one inside and there hadn’t been anyone in my lifetime, I swear. So we went on to the next place.

  We’d selected five spots in the forest and were prepared to spend the whole afternoon looking for him, but it was actually there that we found him.

  We saw the cottage at about the same time that we almost hit our noses against the timber wall. The forest had sort of grown together with the house or vice versa; the changeover was hardly perceptible.

  Now, some people might think it would be very dramatic, but not so: it was all very calm and orderly. The wounds I would show when I returned home were caused by the branches in the copses and the result of a sprain I got when I stumbled upon a damned stone.

  His snoring could be heard through the walls. Even though the door creaked, he didn’t even wake up when we went inside. The bed he slept in was more or less the only piece of furniture, apart from a broken Windsor-style chair. It seemed obvious he’d come into this place in a hurry. We saw no belongings anywhere.

  Crona was sound asleep. From time to time, strange guttural noises emerged from his mouth. He was dirty and his clothes were torn and his hair was in wild disorder, but the jacket was neatly folded up underneath him and his feet were placed on a yellowed Sunday supplement of the daily Aftonbladet.

  Gustavsson shook him gently and Crona probably thought that he was down at the station and it was time to leave again. He slowly sat up, fell back again and looked around in a surprised fashion. One could see that he was totally consumed by hunger and fatigue. Fear surged over him. He opened his eyes wide and his pupils dilated. His body stiffened and his hands twitched convulsively. Maybe his pupils contracted instead—anyway, they changed in one way or another, if that’s any interest.

  ‘What is it? I didn’t do it, I didn’t—.’

  ‘What is it you didn’t do, Crona?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Then he was silent, refusing to answer.

  We walked back in a line. First Gustavsson, then Crona. It’s not really true to say he walked. Rather he stumbled along.

  Gustavsson insisted on sitting with Crona in the back seat. He tried to talk with him now and then but he never got an answer. On one occasion he flew into a temper and I heard a thud behind my back. I saw in the driving mirror that Crona disappeared for a moment and after that he looked as confused as he’d looked before the smack, but now with a red spot on his cheek. It became darker and his right eye became swollen.

  Gustavsson is a decent man deep down but he has some problems with his temperament, perhaps because of some difficult childhood experience--what do I know? Things like this shouldn’t happen, but, on the other hand, the swelling could have been something allergic. That’s possible. Anyway, I didn’t see anything. After some time, Gustavsson took the Thermos flask out from my brief case and offered Crona hot chocolate. Most of it got spilt, but we’re used to wiping up after C
rona.

  He ate all the sandwiches except the one with meat. Gustavsson ate that one. Anyhow, Crona became more attentive and at least murmured some kind of answers to Gustavsson’s questions. Then he asked for Elvy, but when we had said that she felt very fine he fell silent again.

  I did manage to grab a cup of coffee before the interrogation, but I didn’t get to eat a single one of my sandwiches.

  By now I was quite pissed off, frankly. Gustavsson noticed it and seemed to be embarrassed. The only one who was fairly calm and collected was Crona. That would soon change, I thought, when I screwed in the lamp in the interrogation room. I mean the ceiling lamp. We have no spotlights for the third degree. We would never be able to afford the electricity.

  7

  Crona was placed in a chair on the other side of the desk. There he shrank down, and from where I was I could see most of his head, which stuck up above the table-top. Gustavsson had put an ashtray in front of him, and if one squinted a little bit it was as though his skull was in it. It looked quite funny, and you need to take your entertainment when you can in this profession.

  ‘We don’t think that we got an answer to the question of what you claimed not to be guilty of, back at the cottage.’

  And we didn’t get it now, either.

  Gustavsson, who was sitting at the short side of the table, leant towards Crona and patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘The detective sergeant hates it when he doesn’t get answers, Crona. He becomes upset and impatient, which you will not find at all funny. And, by the way, I don’t like it either.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Why did you stay at the cottage?’ I asked.

  No reply.

  ‘I don’t understand why this man won’t answer,’ I continued. ‘It doesn’t create a good impression.’

  ‘It’s bothering me too, chief,’ said Gustavsson.

  ‘Do you want a lawyer, Crona?’

  The goldsmith looked up. He looked completely helpless. On the table was a packet of John Silver cigarettes. Gustavsson had put it there. With trembling hands Crona took one of them, but he was shaking so much that he needed assistance to light it. Then he put his head in the ashtray again and let the cigarette stay in his mouth.

  ‘Should we call a lawyer? We’re trying to help you, Crona.’

  ‘The detective sergeant is trying to help you,’ Gustavsson clarified. ‘He has served you sandwiches and hot chocolate, he has given you cigarettes and he is promising to arrange a lawyer for you. He’s being as considerate towards you as he can possibly be. But you’re just sitting there silently, not even saying thank you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. We like civility here, answering when spoken to, for example. What were you doing in the cottage?’

  ‘I was in hiding.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘I don’t know. What am I accused of?’

  ‘You know perfectly well,’ boomed Gustavsson. ‘And it’s not up to us to answer your questions.’

  He was sounding really indignant.

  ‘Should the detective sergeant really have to answer all your questions?’ he continued. ‘This is not an information centre. So listen carefully to me! Why did you disappear from town Sunday night? Quit stalling!’

  Crona was certainly frightened, but still he didn’t say a word.

  Gustavsson, who looked like a mountain by his side, got to his feet and, with a deft hand, seized Crona’s upper arm. It created a most threatening impression, exactly as in the gangster movies. Then he turned his head a half-turn, so that it caused deep wrinkles in his bull-neck, and hissed sinisterly at me:

  ‘Could I take care of him for a while, chief?’

  I nodded and left the room. In a situation like this a short nod is more definitive and terrifying than answers like “Do as you like!” I’ve tried different methods but have settled on the nodding. It’s performed with a slightly protruding lower jaw after a short inhalation through a half-open mouth.

  I listened for a while outside the door, but it was totally silent in the room. Gustavsson is reliable and effective, so I wasn’t concerned. The incident in the car was a pure exception. An accident at work.

  When I called home I found out that the boy had spread Selukos, a dandruff medication, on Lillan’s sandwich. It looks exactly like Kalles kaviar and it was pure luck that Kerstin suspected mischief, because he was acting in an uncharacteristically friendly manner.

  Strictly speaking it was my fault. I hadn’t put the tube away properly in the bathroom cabinet.

  I promised to come home as soon as possible. Food was waiting for me, she pointed out, it just had to be warmed.

  Vivianne at the switchboard came in and wondered if there was anything more to do. There wasn’t, but I remembered that Nyegaard should have performed the autopsy the day before. No report had arrived in the mail and we had not heard anything from him. At forensics I was connected to a secretary who regretted that the post-mortem protocol hadn’t been written out until the afternoon. She explained that it was on its way. She didn’t remember anything of its contents and Nyegaard wasn’t there. She worked overtime and it was already half past five. I was just as wise as I was before.

  Gustavsson came out of the room after half an hour. He said we could go on and appeared very pleased. His sleeves were rolled down, exactly as they should be according to the regulations. I was prepared for the worst.

  Crona looked calm and almost exhilarated.

  ‘Well, Crona. Why did you leave town?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s true, I swear.’

  ‘Shall we begin all over again? What the devil do you mean you don’t know?’

  ‘It’s my memory. I’ve lost my memory.’

  Gustavsson jumped into the conversation.

  ‘He said the same thing to me, chief. Loss of memory. Black out.’

  ‘Okay, I don’t believe it. A damned coincidence, eh? If his faculty of speech has returned, then his faculty to remember also should return. Immediately.’

  ‘I swear. It’s true. You know I have problems with alcohol.’

  ‘We noticed.’

  ‘Sometimes I get blackouts like that. At two o’clock on Sunday morning there was a click in my head as though a switch had been turned on. And do you know what? I found myself running along Björkstigen. I wasn’t sober either. I must have downed a few.’

  ‘That wouldn’t entirely surprise me.’

  ‘The strange thing is that I can’t for the life of me remember what I’d done. I was scared and I was running, right there in the middle of the night. I was in a great hurry and I had the feeling that something horrible had happened. I had to get away but I didn’t know what from!’

  ‘Did you see anybody?’

  ‘No. Well, perhaps. A dog with slobbering jaws, sir. And bats, thousands of them. I jumped on to a bike and fled.’

  ‘Do you recall anything before the time you fled?’

  ‘Well, I was at Bussparken in the afternoon, but everything after that is black.’

  ‘That doesn’t hold water.’

  ‘No, you’re absolutely right. I must stop drinking, otherwise I’ll be ruined.’

  He began to cry. We left him and went into the corridor.

  ‘How the devil did you do it?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘How did you persuade him to open up?’

  Gustavsson looked very innocent, which usually means mischief. He looked down at the floor and squirmed, adjusting his tie and so forth. All of sudden I understood. I went back into the office and opened the lowest desk drawer. It was empty. I mean the bottle of gin was empty. Holding it in my hand, I went out to my associate and kicked the door with my foot. The bang released new screams in the room.

  ‘Where’s the alcohol?’

  ‘Oh my, is the bottle empty? He must have found it when I went out to wash my hands.’

  ‘There’s a washbowl in the room.’


  ‘I would never think of borrowing your personal soap.’

  Well, that was how it happened. Gustavsson had, as if unintentionally, let Crona take a look into the drawer and then he’d announced he had to leave for a moment. Crona had yielded to temptation. But it was my alcohol. I had relieved some kids of it last week.

  ‘That was most irresponsible on my part, chief. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘I hope not,’ I growled.

  After that we continued with Crona for some time, but with no result. He was very pleased with his version of the delirium and decked it out with even more fantasies. There had been a lot of snakes and rats after him and on his way to the cottage he had seen an unbelievable crowd of animals lurking in the forest. Gustavsson smiled tactfully and I almost thought of sending him out to search for droppings.

  Crona had, in fact, suffered from real deliriums in the past and we’d once assisted when he was transported to St. Katarina’s, the lunatic asylum in this region. That was after he tried to cut Elvy’s throat. It had taken three men to hold him until the ambulance arrived.

  We didn’t believe Crona, of course, but it was impossible to pursue the interrogation. He stuck rigidly to his claim of memory loss and when we put pressure on him, he cried.

  Loss of memory is a common phenomenon among our customers, but mostly it can be solved. This time we were not successful. A most embarrassing situation.

  Gustavsson suggested that we should call the mental hospital and try to get a shrink to talk with Crona. The psychiatrist on duty answered our call but refused to accept us. I asked what kind of authority he had to hinder a sick human being from coming to him, and was told that we first had to produce a lot of documents from the district medical officer.

  At last, I had the idea to call Nylander. At the sound of the name, Crona became happy.

  ‘Just call him. He’s a friend of mine. He’ll help me stop drinking.’

  We called and the doctor promised to be with us within a quarter of an hour.

  When he arrived I told him about the case. I explained that Crona was suspected of withholding information about the death at The Little Boarding-House. To begin with Crona had referred to loss of memory, and then to delirium tremens.