“Perhaps we should sit down in my office,” she suggested. “So we can talk without being disturbed.”
Nice legs, thought Johansson as he followed her into her office, at least one consolation in this mess.
More than a month ago, Krassner had come into the post office on Körsbärsvägen and sent a letter to the Stockholm 4 post office on Folkungagatan on the south end, poste restante, for Police Superintendent Lars Martin Johansson. She had helped him herself but she didn’t go into the reasons why she’d done so.
“It was a rather strange request. We almost never get any poste restante here, and the ones we do get come as a rule from abroad. As you no doubt know, police superintendent …”
“Call me Lars,” said Johansson, and received a smile and a nod as a reward.
“When a poste restante is sent to one of our offices, it remains there for a month—thirty days, to be exact—and then it goes back to the sender. Provided that the addressee hasn’t picked it up, of course.”
If he had my address, thought Johansson, why in the name of heaven didn’t he send it directly home to me instead of to the post office—although he did send it to the post office I usually go to.
“I’m thinking,” said Johansson, smiling his most charming smile. “I had no idea that I’d received a letter poste restante.”
“I figured that out a little more than a week ago,” said Pia Hedin. “When we got it back here.”
Finally, thought Johansson. Soon the truth will emerge, but before that we’ll take everything in the right order. Calmly and methodically.
“There are naturally no obstacles to sending local mailings poste restante, but it’s not common. That I can guarantee. I recall that I offered to try to find out your address so that it would be sure to get through.”
“What did he say to that?” asked Johansson.
“He explained that you’d agreed to do it this way.”
I see, thought Johansson. He said that.
“Yes.” She nodded and smiled again. “It’s clear that I started a little at the addressee’s title, your title—it was actually a little bit exciting.”
“What did you think?” said Johansson. What a smile she has, he thought.
“That it was some kind of secret tip. I mean, he didn’t seem like he was on drugs or strange in any way. He even wanted to show his ID to me, but I said that wasn’t necessary. I understood of course that there was no dope in the letter. It was an ordinary letter. Not even especially thick, and of course I could feel that there was only paper in it. Yes. What did I think? I probably thought it was exciting. A little secret agent movie like that.”
She seems rather charmed, thought Johansson.
“Okay,” he said. “You wouldn’t be able to fetch it so I can look at it?”
“Won’t work.” She smiled and shook her head. “Unfortunately.”
What do you mean won’t work? thought Johansson.
“He had requested particular forwarding from here, so I’ve already sent it to that address. It actually left here yesterday.”
This is, so help me God, not true, thought Johansson, and he groaned internally.
“Why did he do that?” asked Johansson.
“I explained how it worked with poste restante and that the letter would come back here in about a month, and then he said that if he hadn’t picked it up within a week he wanted me to forward it to an address in the U.S. He explained that he was living at the student dormitory right across the street but that he was planning to go home in a month, approximately. He didn’t know exactly which day he would leave, and he didn’t want it to remain sitting here with us and he didn’t want it sent to the student dormitory because he was just living there temporarily. And because we don’t want a lot of letters sitting around here either, making a mess, I did as he requested, a little special service like that.” She smiled and nodded.
“Where have you sent it?” said Johansson.
“To the address in the U.S. that he gave me, and actually I thought that was a little strange too.”
“How so?”
“Well, as I said, he explained that he was only here temporarily and that he was living at the dormitory right across the street and that he would probably be going home in a month. So if we were to get the letter sent back, we could hold it here for a week and then forward it to him if he hadn’t picked it up by then.”
“Yes,” said Johansson inquiringly. “What’s strange about that?”
“He wanted it forwarded to a different person,” she explained. “A woman, so I thought that was probably more of that secret stuff that I shouldn’t butt into, but I have both her name and address. I have a copy of the forwarding information that you can look at if it’s of any help.”
“Yes,” said Johansson. “Gladly.”
Sarah J. Weissman, read Johansson, 222 Aiken Avenue, Rensselaer, NY 12144 U.S.A. Yes, yes, yes, thought Johansson. And so who is she?
“I actually checked the address,” she said. “I mean, you do get a bit curious.”
It shows in your eyes. You think this is a lot more fun than I do, Johansson thought gloomily.
“And?” he asked.
“Yes, the zip code fits the address. I haven’t checked if the addressee is there. I don’t really know if we can do that, but the rest checks out. Rensselaer is north of New York.”
Upstate New York, thought Johansson, and that much adds up.
“You seem worried, superintendent,” she said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
If the eyes are indeed the mirror of the soul, thought Johansson, you seem sufficiently talented in any case. The question is whether you are sufficiently tight-lipped.
“Perhaps,” said Johansson.
“Try,” she said. “Sometimes you actually have to try trusting your fellow humans.”
“Are you the type of person who can … keep her mouth shut?” asked Johansson, and he immediately thought that perhaps he ought to have put that differently.
“Yes,” she said and nodded emphatically. “I am.”
“Good,” said Johansson. “The problem is in brief the following. I’ve never met this Krassner. I didn’t even know that he existed. True, I’m head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation”—a brief period of happiness, thought Johansson—“but,” he continued, “Krassner isn’t one of our informants, and if he were, it wouldn’t be handled in this way.
“Explain to me,” Johansson went on, “why someone sends something poste restante to a police officer they’ve never met without saying that they’ve done so. The chance that he will get what’s been sent ought to be about nil.”
“Certainly,” she said. “But there’s another thing that I don’t understand.”
Johansson nodded to her to continue.
“How you found out about it anyway. I mean, you show up here with me. How did you find out about it?”
You’re not stupid, thought Johansson, and what do I say now without saying too much?
“By pure coincidence,” he said. “Why does he send something to me in such a way that he must be almost certain that I will never receive it or even find out about it?” he continued by way of diversion.
“Wouldn’t the simplest way be for you to ask him? And if he’s already gone home and it’s terribly important I suppose you could ask the American police for help. I mean, the police have some kind of international cooperation, don’t they? Even we have within the postal service, and sometimes it actually works really well.”
Now she smiled again and seemed visibly charmed.
Groan, thought Johansson. Just so she doesn’t think I’m a complete idiot.
“The problem is that I can’t do that,” he said. And don’t start harping about why, he thought.
“Are you that policeman that there was so much about in the papers a few months ago?” she asked.
Johansson nodded.
“Perhaps he’s heard people talking about you in particular,�
� she said. “There was pure adulation in several newspapers, and that isn’t so common when it comes to policemen, is it? Does he understand Swedish?”
“I don’t believe he does,” said Johansson. “Although I’m not completely sure. It’s possible of course he might have spoken with someone. Who spoke Swedish, I mean.” She’s thinking the same way as Jarnebring, he thought. No resemblance in other respects.
“Think if it’s like this,” she said, suddenly sounding eager. “Suppose he’s up to something secret or something dangerous, and so he wants to get himself a kind of insurance, as it were. I’ve read that in mysteries many times. People who leave all their secret papers with people they can trust, lawyers and journalists and in secret safe-deposit boxes. Like a type of insurance if something should happen to them.” Johansson had been struck by the same thought five minutes earlier. There was just one hitch.
“There’s just one hitch,” he said. “How would I have found out about it?”
“You’re sitting here,” she said, “so you’ve clearly found out about it.”
“True,” said Johansson, “but I still have no idea what it’s about.”
“Exactly,” she said and sounded even more eager. “And you shouldn’t, either. As long as nothing has happened, you shouldn’t know a thing. He never needed his insurance. You wouldn’t even be sitting here if it weren’t for a pure coincidence. You’ve said that yourself.”
Johansson nodded and tried to look as if he was doing so because of what she had said. Then he smiled.
“You’ve never thought about becoming a police officer?” he asked.
“No, never,” she said, smiling back.
“I’d like to thank you very much for your help,” said Johansson.
“It was nothing,” she said, and there was no mistaking that she was charmed. “Get in touch if you happen to get stuck again.”
Don’t tempt me, he thought, and suddenly he felt rather miserable.
What a mess, thought Johansson. What is this really all about? First he stopped at the Östermalm police station and gave back Jarnebring’s identification photos. Jarnebring wasn’t in, which saved both time and explanations. After that he went to the office and now he was sitting behind his desk submerged in thought. What is it that connects me with the now deceased John Krassner and the hopefully still existing Sarah Weissman? Krassner and Weissman, Americans of whom generally speaking he knew no more than that the first was dead and that he’d probably taken his own life by jumping out the window of his student apartment. And what do you really know about yourself? thought Johansson gloomily. If you really stop to think about it? Wiklander, thought Johansson.
“Can you get hold of Wiklander,” said Johansson to his secretary on the intercom, despite the fact that she was only sitting on the other side of the wall five yards away from him. Don’t feel like running around today, he thought.
Wiklander was thin and dark, tall and trim and ten years younger than Johansson. He worked on the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation’s own surveillance squad and was an extraordinarily competent policeman. If it would ever be necessary to put a face on discretion—which was highly unlikely, as that would be contrary to the very idea—then Wiklander was a likely candidate. Now he was standing in Johansson’s office, sniffing the air like a foxhound moments before you pull off the leash.
“What can I do for you, chief?” asked Wiklander.
“Find out a telephone number and check if the address matches up,” said Johansson and handed over a handwritten slip of paper.
“Sarah Weissman,” said Wiklander. “Check the address and find out her telephone number. Of course,” he said and almost sounded a little offended. “Nothing else?”
“Well, yes,” said Johansson, “so you don’t need to have that sour look. I want you to do it without a soul finding out about it.”
“You mean our dear colleagues,” said Wiklander, who was of course no numbskull.
“Exactly,” said Johansson. “In a global sense, even. And preferably no one else either.”
“Sure,” said Wiklander. “If she has a telephone number, you’ll get it.”
“Excellent,” said Johansson.
Fifteen minutes later Wiklander was back with the requested telephone number. It was written on the same piece of paper he had received from Johansson, and if he knew Wiklander it was also the only relevant thing in writing.
“That was quick,” said Johansson.
“So-so,” said Wiklander modestly. “It’s her number and it goes with the address.”
“Tell me,” said Johansson with curiosity. “How’d you go about it?” He held up his watch with an inquiring smile.
“I forget,” said Wiklander. “Don’t really know what you’re talking about.”
It would be simplest to call her. Johansson was staring gloomily at his slip of paper. What time is it there now? he thought. He checked his watch. Almost twelve here makes almost six there. That wouldn’t come off too well, maybe, he thought. And tomorrow he was going to the United States.
The world is really full of strange coincidences, thought Johansson, with a heavy sigh.
Johansson hadn’t called her. On the other hand, Jarnebring had called him at home that evening.
He sounded in high spirits and wondered how the investigations had gone.
“How many do you want us to arrest and do we need to request assistance from the riot squad?” he asked, chuckling into the receiver.
“No need,” said Johansson. “I went by and talked with Vindel but that led nowhere.”
“What do you know,” said Jarnebring, faking astonishment. “That led nowhere?”
“It occurred to me that perhaps he’d run into him. That Vindel had seen Krassner before because they both moved around in the same area. Just a wild chance,” said Johansson, sighing.
“You didn’t find out a thing, in other words.”
“Not a thing,” lied Johansson.
“No need to be so hangdog,” said Jarnebring. “There don’t seem to be very many people who knew our man Krassner.”
“No?” said Johansson. “What do you mean?”
“I spoke with the embassy this afternoon, well, with Hultman, that is, and Krassner doesn’t seem to have any relatives.”
“Aha,” said Johansson. What do you mean? he thought.
“Yes, Hultman was a little worried because they must have someone to send his things to.”
Not my problem, thought Johansson.
“And the only person the folks there could get hold of was evidently some old girlfriend. But according to her it had been ten years since the breakup between her and Krassner. According to Hultman.”
Old girlfriend, thought Johansson; at the same time the well-known alarm bells started to sound inside him.
“I don’t understand,” said Johansson. “Has Hultman talked with Krassner’s old girlfriend?”
“Are you drunk, Johansson?” asked Jarnebring politely.
“Stone sober,” said Johansson. “A little tired, perhaps.”
“I understand,” said Jarnebring pedagogically. “Our American colleagues who tried to find out who Krassner was have spoken with an old girlfriend of his. By the way, I’ve received a copy of their interview with her. First she says that it was about ten years ago or so that she broke up with him—”
“Yes,” said Johansson. “I’m listening.”
“Stop interrupting, then,” said Jarnebring. “Where was I?”
“Old girlfriend who broke up ten years ago.”
“Exactly,” said Jarnebring with the emphasis of someone who has just found a lost thread. “And second, she doesn’t appear to have been one of his most ardent admirers.”
“Maybe that’s why she broke up with him,” said Johansson.
“For sure,” said Jarnebring, “but Krassner seems to have missed that, for he’s listed her as his nearest relation, and in addition a will has been found where he leaves everything to her.
I reserve judgment on what that may be, but I bet my old police helmet that we’re hardly talking in the billions.”
“Does she have a name?” asked Johansson innocently.
“Sarah something. I have it at work.”
Sarah J. Weissman, thought Johansson but kept his mouth shut.
“I see,” said Johansson. “Yes, frankly speaking I’m damn tired of this story.”
“Nice to hear,” said Jarnebring. “And you …
“Yes,” said Johansson.
“Have a nice trip and take care of yourself over there. That’s why I called, actually.”
“Thanks,” said Johansson. “Take care of yourself too.”
This gets stranger and stranger, he thought as he put down the receiver.
[SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30]
On Saturday the thirtieth of November Lars Martin Johansson took an early morning plane to New York. As travel companions he had two chief inspectors from the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Exceptional police officers and nice fellows.
Fuck you, Krassner, and fuck you, Weissman, thought Johansson. Because now I’m going to have a good time and maybe even learn something new that might prove useful.
“I’m thinking of having a shot with lunch,” said Johansson, smiling wryly.
His colleague from the bureau’s narcotics squad nodded thoughtfully.
“The same thought actually occurred to me too.”
Their colleague from the Interpol section nodded as well.
“Remarkable,” he said. “I was just thinking the exact same thing. Life can be really strange sometimes.”
CHAPTER II
Free falling, as in a dream
Stockholm in the 1970s and 1980s
In the fall of 1976 the secret police set up an external group to increase its organizational security. Given the working name Group for Internal Security and Protection Against Leakage, it constituted the most secret part of covert police operations. As protection against discovery, a number of measures had been taken. A private-sector management consulting firm was created as a front for its operation; its office was in the city, and no one who worked there could be traced back to the secret police’s already secret lists and payrolls.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 11
