The rest had been purely routine. First they had driven out to the embassy and dropped off those of Krassner’s effects that were not needed for the investigation. True, the police station was closer, but because Jarnebring had accepted with pleasure a guided tour of the embassy, he would have to be dropped off afterward in reverse order. Thus, almost exactly four hours after Hultman had picked him up outside the Östermalm police station, they were back at the same spot.
Hultman stopped. Turned off the motor and smiled amiably toward Jarnebring.
“Scotch or bourbon?” he asked.
“Can’t you get a mixed case?” Jarnebring asked in return. “My lady isn’t too thrilled about whiskey and it’s almost Christmas.”
“No problem. A mixed case. A completely different matter,” Hultman looked at Jarnebring and smiled paternally. “Are you doing anything in particular this evening?”
Jarnebring shook his head.
“You don’t happen to have a suit with a white shirt and a tie?”
Jarnebring nodded. He knew what was coming.
“Then I thought to ask if I might have the pleasure of treating you to a nice dinner.”
“Certainly.” Jarnebring smiled. “Should I bring along a couple of young ladies? Mine is on assignment, of course, but she has a couple of colleagues who are really something.”
“Old memories.” Hultman nodded, mostly to himself, it seemed. “First we talk about old memories, and then you tell me what has happened since I quit while we have a really good dinner. What you do after that doesn’t concern me, as long as you take care of yourself.”
Johansson sat the whole day and worked on his statement about the two missed murder victims. He wasn’t done until about seven—thinking, that is; the actual writing of his viewpoints would have to wait until tomorrow. After that he took a taxi home, prepared a simple meal, and spent the rest of the evening watching TV. At midnight he was sleeping deeply, on his right side with his right arm tucked under the pillow.
Hultman had kept his promise. They started eating at seven-thirty and it was not until just before midnight that Hultman looked at his watch and took out his gold card. They said goodbye on the street outside the restaurant with mutual marks of respect and promises to see each other again soon. After that Hultman went home while Jarnebring wandered further out into the Stockholm night.
. . .
Stridh woke up just in time for the morning news on the radio. After that he had hash with eggs and red beets and two beers. Now he was lying on the couch again and it was time to start on volume three. Finally, he thought, making himself comfortable, finally time to study the political intrigues in early-eighteenth-century Holland that preceded the battle of Blenheim.
Wiijnbladh’s day had been a day of personal suffering, as was often the case. First he had pondered various ways to put his wife to death, but because none of them was painful enough and certain enough—after all, he couldn’t assume that Bäckström and his colleagues would be in charge of the investigation—it had only granted him minor relief. When he’d finally pulled himself together and driven home, a note from his wife stuck to the mirror in the hall reported that she’d gone to visit her sister in Sollentuna. Wonder what they talk about? thought Wiijnbladh with a shiver.
Bäckström had had a good day, even if it had appeared threatening at the start when his boss foisted a wife-abuse case off on him. What do you mean, wife abuse? thought Bäckström. Every policeman worth his badge knew that these were only drunken hags who wanted nothing better than to have their drunken husbands beat them up. All women liked a little whipping (Bäckström knew that from personal experience), but certain specimens persisted in spicing up marital coexistence by running off now and then to Mister Policeman to complain. They should have a damn good beating instead, thought Bäckström while he steered his service car to the victim’s residence. Strangely enough she lived on fashionable Karlavägen, which had made him sufficiently curious to show up for questioning at the residence.
What a hell of an apartment, thought Bäckström when he had finally sunk down into the victim’s sofa. There was no shortage of dough here, and most likely she was trying to squeeze her man for even more and he’d quite simply taken a swing at her, but without a doubt the case offered certain openings. She didn’t look too bad either, thought Bäckström. Certainly over forty, but she had big knockers and could surely get good speed going on her little mouse if a real pro like Bäckström was at the stick.
“Yes, Mrs. Östergren,” said Bäckström gently. “If you would be so kind as to tell me what happened. You can take your time and try to take it from the beginning, even if it feels terribly difficult just now.”
Mrs. Östergren nodded and snuffled. I do believe, God help me, that I’m sitting here making myself horny, thought Bäckström contentedly with his head slightly to one side.
“There there, Mrs. Östergren,” he said consolingly. “This is going to work out. I’ll see to it personally. Soon we’re going to see the light at the end of the tunnel,” he added. When I’m looking into your pussy, you fucking sow, he thought.
Three hours later Bäckström was sitting at the after-hours unit, writing out his report. If our friend the executive doesn’t get locked up for this then he never will be, thought Bäckström. His dear old lady had gotten both Bäckström’s work and home numbers, so that part the dear spouse didn’t need to think about. If she just rises to the bait I’ll be greasing up her snout, thought Bäckström, and he pulled the last piece of paper from the typewriter. High time for a beer or two, he added to himself, looking at the clock while making the most necessary corrections with his ballpoint pen.
Oredsson had spent the day with ten or so of his closest cohorts, all of them officers with the uniformed police, of course. Three were actually women but completely okay despite that fact. One of his friends had gotten the use of an abandoned hut from an older relative, and there they had practiced breaking in and freeing hostages (blank ammunition, of course) and then they’d barbecued and finished a couple cases of beer while they chatted about this and that.
“This sort of thing should be cleared up before it happens,” explained Mikkelson, who worked with the riot squad and knew what he was talking about. “It’s nothing that needs to be fussed about when it’s already happened.”
A white man, thought Oredsson, and in the evening they would be meeting again, go out on the town, and show the colors.
A spot with better prospects than this probably doesn’t exist, thought Jarnebring contentedly, looking around the large bar. He had found a dive on Kungsgatan where mostly police and a few firemen, security guards, and other assorted folks went, plus at least a few battalions of female nursing personnel. He’d gotten results right away. Two female officers from the police cavalry, at least one of whom seemed firmly determined to ride down his on-duty girlfriend.
“You’re looking nice,” she said approvingly. “I’ve never seen you in a suit before, but it looks good on you.”
“Business,” said Jarnebring and shrugged his broad shoulders apologetically. “I’m at Östermalm now, so the American embassy invited me to dinner. Think about that, ladies, when you’re galloping around out on Djurgården. See to it that you behave yourselves.” Jarnebring gave them a quarter of a wolfish grin.
“And if we don’t do that?”
Damn she’s good-looking, thought Jarnebring. The night has hardly begun and I’m already home.
Jarnebring increased the power to half a wolfish grin. Leaned over and whispered in her ear. She giggled but her friend suddenly looked wary. A possible leak there, thought Jarnebring, and how do I seal it?
When Bäckström came in he was in an excellent mood. En route to the bar he had already planned the first gentlemen’s dinner for his colleagues in homicide in his new apartment on Karlavägen. They’re going to shit their pants, those fucking paupers, thought Bäckström delightedly while he slipped past the coat check. He had left his coat a
t work on Kungsholmsgatan. Who the hell wants to pay for something like that? thought Bäckström, staring at the coat checker. Fucking loan shark.
Because he was completely broke, not a fucking kopeck in his pockets, he had immediately started scouting around for a suitable victim that he could borrow a little from, but the pickings looked thin. On the other hand it was booming like hell out on the dance floor and there was a good pull from the bar; plenty of abandoned bottles and glasses. Bäckström made an evasive maneuver behind a burly type in a suit who was standing with his back to him chatting with a couple of blondes that he had a vague memory he’d seen somewhere. Some damn security guard who’s been at daddy’s funeral and wants to show off that he has a suit, thought Bäckström as his fat fingers wrapped themselves around an almost full half liter of strong beer. There it is, thought Bäckström. Carefully pulled the beer toward him and turned around, back against back. A sure trick that always worked. He sighed silently with pleasure and raised his well-earned malt.
Suddenly the suit reached out a hand, big as a hairy Christmas ham with fingers on top of it, and grabbed hold of his beer.
“Watch out, you bastard, I’m a cop,” Bäckström threatened, and at the same moment he saw that it was Jarnebring. Has that bastard started sneaking around in disguise? thought Bäckström. He knew perfectly well who Jarnebring was. All policemen knew that. Only a month ago the fucking psychopath had torn the leg of an older colleague from Östermalm in order to get at his job. Wonder how many people he’s beaten to death? thought Bäckström, and suddenly it felt as if he had a large black hole in his chest approximately where his heart used to be.
Jarnebring sipped his regained beer, smiled his wolfish grin, and nodded toward the mirror wall behind the rows of bottles standing on the bar.
“Do you see that mirror? I’ve been watching you since you came in.”
Bäckström had a good reply on the tip of his tongue but for some reason that was never really clear to him he refrained from it and contented himself with nodding.
“I think you should go home,” Jarnebring continued. “You seem a bit overworked.” Jarnebring exchanged a glance with the bartender, who nodded, eyeing Bäckström.
“Go home and sleep,” said the bartender. “And listen, I believe this place will get along fine without you. Just so you know.”
Bäckström shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heels, and left. Actually he had only intended to make an evasive maneuver, but that damn gorilla standing in the doorway clearly had an eye on him. He smiled broadly toward Bäckström, held the front door with an exaggerated bow, and showed the way out with a sweeping right arm.
“Thank you for joining us, police inspector.”
I’m going to kill you bastards, thought Bäckström.
Oredsson and his comrades had been sitting at a table only a few yards from the bar and they had seen the whole thing. Wonder if he thinks like we do? thought Oredsson. Everything I’ve heard about him seems to add up, and we work at the same place. He felt the excitement growing in his chest.
When Bäckström came out on Kungsgatan it was snowing. Large white flakes floating like moist reminders, unclear of what, from the great infinity up there. Suddenly he started weeping. Hell. He was weeping like a little bastard, like a fucking hag. Bastards, he thought. I’m going to kill those bastards.
“I’m going to kill you bastards,” Bäckström roared straight out toward the empty street and a passing taxi. What fucking people, what a fucking society, and what a fucking life they’re living, he thought.
[SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 24]
Johansson devoted Sunday to writing out his statement on the two missed murder victims. He weighed every word with utmost care, and as such things took their sweet time, it was already seven o’clock in the evening when he returned to his apartment. After that he prepared a simple meal, read a book in English about the international narcotics trade, and at midnight he was sleeping deeply, according to already long-established routine.
You’re starting to get old, thought Jarnebring gloomily as he leafed through the papers on John P. Krassner’s death. The night before, everything had gone without a hitch. They hadn’t even had to dance with each other, but instead had sat at a table in the quietest corner available, while her friend excused herself and slipped away with a well-known local stud from the Södermalm riot squad. Then he had gone home with her. They had walked the whole way in spite of the fact that she lived way up at Gärdet, and when they were finally standing in her doorway there was only one decision he needed to make.
She smiled at him but in her eyes there was another, more evaluating expression.
“Well,” she said, giggling. “What do we do? Will you come up and have a cup of tea? Are you going home? Or do you want more time to think it over?”
First he had considered using having to work the next day as an excuse. Instead he shook his head.
“I’m going home,” answered Jarnebring. “It may be that I’ve got a big hole in my head, but considering … well, I’m sure you know … so I guess I’ll go home.”
She had had difficulty concealing her surprise. Then she had shrugged her shoulders, smiled at him, leaned over, and given him a kiss right on the mouth.
“Suit yourself,” she said and disappeared through the doorway.
You’re a coward, thought Jarnebring as he was walking down the street. Or else you’re starting to get old. That thought, however, was so unpleasant that he immediately dismissed it.
Now he was sitting here, behind a desk where he didn’t need to be. Like a male counterpart to Busy Lizzie—and as a chief inspector and boss he didn’t even get overtime. I’m starting to get like Johansson, thought Jarnebring, leafing further in his papers. There are three possibilities, he thought: murder, suicide, or accident.
It seemed extremely unlikely that this was an accident. Krassner was five feet eight inches tall; the window was relatively high up on the wall and well above Krassner’s waist. Besides, it was equipped with a catch, which meant that it could only be opened a few inches. The same window catch that someone had broken loose with force, and the break marks in the wood seemed brand new. It even smelled of wood in the holes from the pulled-out screws. Assume that he’d had a sudden, compulsive need for a breath of fresh air, broken the catch, and leaned out. Even then he shouldn’t have tipped over and fallen out. Forget that, thought Jarnebring, crossing out the third alternative.
Murder or suicide remained. What argued for murder? Nothing, thought Jarnebring. No signs of trespass, no signs of struggle, no known, visible, or even plausible motive, no murder weapon, hardly even any opportunity. What kind of murderer went into a student room and, without a sound or a trace, murdered the person who was living there? Eight small rooms with thin walls crowded along a common corridor, and a potential murderer could scarcely control the fact that Krassner was the only one there when the whole thing happened. You can just forget murder, thought Jarnebring with a slight feeling of regret that he couldn’t help, occupationally injured as he was.
That left suicide, thought Jarnebring, and what argued for that? Everything we’re aware of, he thought, and it’s not our fault that we don’t know too much about Krassner himself. A vacuum that, by the way, Hultman would be filling for him rather soon. He harbored no doubts on that point. Alone in the room, depressed or on a sudden gloomy impulse, he writes a suicide note—that was still the way it had to be interpreted—breaks the window catch, takes a deep breath, and jumps. There were certainly better ways, not least considering those who would have to clean up afterward, but not for Krassner, not this time. No pills had been found that he might have ingested, no knife or other sharp object that would have worked against wrists or neck, no rope to hang himself with, not even a place where he could have fastened the noose. Definitely no firearm.
Suicide, thought Jarnebring and nodded, and now it was only a matter of straightening out three remaining question marks. The first regarded Krassner as an
individual. Who was he and what was he actually doing here? Hultman and the embassy will take care of that, and I’ll chew my service revolver if they come up with anything that makes a mess of things for me, thought Jarnebring.
The second concerned Vindel’s testimony about the victim’s mysterious left shoe, which had come tumbling down a good while after Krassner himself and unfortunately killed Vindel’s best friend. An admittedly old Pomeranian, thought Jarnebring, and even if this was punishable, there was no suspect that could be held responsible.
The distance in time from the moment the victim hit the ground to the time his left shoe did was the question they had talked about most when they questioned Vindel. It was a matter of less than a minute, less than half a minute, but it wasn’t a matter of a mere few seconds and Vindel was quite certain on that point.
“Yes, first I just stood there staring. I was in shock, of course, and it took a few seconds for sure, and it’s not really so strange if it seemed longer to me.” Vindel cleared his throat, sighed, and tried again. “Yes. Then I stood there looking at the guy who fell, and it was not a pretty sight, I can assure you, officers. I’ve only seen something like that once before and it was a good many years ago. A buddy of mine at work who fell down from a bridge span and landed in the cargo hold of a working tug anchored in the river under us. It was up at Älvkarleby. We were doing some maintenance work.”
Vindel sighed again and nodded.
“Ten seconds. Say it took ten seconds before Charlie got the shoe on his head.” Vindel snuffled and his eyes became moist.
When they’d left Vindel and were en route to the embassy they’d discussed the mysterious shoe. Hultman had also come up with an explanation that wasn’t too bad.
“Do you recall that crazy who jumped from his private plane and landed in a flower bed out in Hässelby?” asked Hultman.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 5
