During an unusually merry company party at one of the squads, one of his chief inspectors was said to have tried to force himself on a female civilian employee. The person making the report was anonymous—as usual, thought Johansson with a dejected sigh—but was quite obviously to be found in their own corridors. The man singled out as the perpetrator had taken sick leave on the advice of his boss, and the alleged victim didn’t want to talk about it at all. The matter had now been turned over to the district prosecutor in Gothenburg—for the usual geographic distance to maintain objectivity—and in any event hadn’t been leaked to the media. And when it finally was, with any luck his successor would be sitting at his desk.
Ten days, thought Johansson hopefully. Then he would have vacation over the Christmas, New Year’s, and Epiphany weekends, and when he finally returned he would just clean out his office before he left for a more tranquil existence at the personnel office of the National Police Board. And a nice dinner or two with the old comrades from the union, thought Johansson, who in spirit was already sitting in his own neighborhood restaurant with his counterpart, making toasts with Aunt Jenny’s crystal shot glasses.
After lunch—because he hadn’t felt especially hungry he had been content with a cup of coffee and a sandwich—the jet lag caught up with him and struck with full force. True, he’d slept a few hours on the plane home, and where he was sitting it was only two o’clock, but in his head it was suddenly bedtime after a long, strenuous day.
“Now I’m going to go home and turn in before I faint,” said Johansson to his secretary. “If you can call a taxi for me, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
At home on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan everything was as usual. The neighbor had watered the plants, fed his two fish, and sorted his mail. The pile of newspapers was much higher, but that could wait. Instead he set the suitcases down in the hall, went straight to his bedroom, took off his clothes, crept down between the sheets, and fell asleep at once. When he woke up, it was eight o’clock in the evening and he was as frisky as a squirrel. He was ravenously hungry too, despite the fact that the contents of his refrigerator offered a man with his appetite faint hope. Beer, mineral water, and way too much aquavit, thought Johansson gloomily, and what do I do now?
First he thought about pulling on his clothes and slipping down to his beloved neighborhood restaurant, but instead he got into the shower and let the water run so he could think better, and an hour later it had all resolved itself for the best. All that had been required was a systematic ransacking of the refrigerator, freezer, and pantry, and a little creative thinking as well as various practical measures à la Kajsa Warg, thought Johansson contentedly as he filled the coffeemaker and poured a tall cognac as a reward.
First an open-faced sandwich with egg and anchovies on hardtack; after that a few slices of moose filet, which he’d thawed quickly in the microwave and simply turned in a hot iron skillet so that they were still thoroughly red and juicy under the browned crust; add to that raw-fried potatoes and homemade garlic butter, all in all a classic Swedish meal worthy of a genuine Norrlander who had once again returned to his native soil after completing exertions abroad.
After that he pulled out the phone jack in order to be in peace, and took his coffee, cognac, and the thick bundle of newspapers into the living room, where he lay down on the sofa in order to evaluate, in peace and quiet, his colleague Wiklander’s summary of what had taken place in the realm during his absence.
Färjestad had taken a comfortable lead in the ice hockey finals and it had been unusually cold for that time of year. Some days the temperature in Stockholm had been between 10 degrees above and 10 degrees below zero, but as for the rest everything seemed to have been rolling along as usual at this time of year.
Christmas sales should break records—on this point merchants and consumers were in touching agreement—despite the fact that the times obviously could have been better. The minister of finance, on the other hand, was unusually optimistic, and in a widely publicized interview he maintained that Sweden was now finally on its way to removing itself from the ensnaring debt the country had landed in due to the previous conservative administration’s mismanagement.
The minister of finance was a popular person and possibly the chief explanation for why things were going well for the ruling party. In Sifo’s December opinion polls, support for the social democrats had risen to forty-four percent, an increase of one percent over the previous month, despite the fact that an overwhelming majority of the party’s supporters simultaneously “completely or partially lacked confidence in” the leader of the same party, the country’s prime minister.
Poor devil, it can’t be easy for him, thought Johansson with a sympathy that in any case was uncharacteristic of the rest of the police in the nation. News reports, political analyses, editorials, cultural articles, humor columns, and the usual gossip, page up and page down, all shared a common preoccupation with the prime minister’s character deficiencies and various human shortcomings.
During the short time that Johansson had been away, the prime minister had managed to be assessed for back taxes and promised “an impending tax charge of considerable proportions”; had “seriously damaged Nordic cooperation by his arrogance”; had “expressed opinions that are completely alien to a unionized democratic philosophy”; and had “vacillated disquietingly” when information about the Russians’ shameful treatment of their political dissidents was demanded of him.
In addition he had “incited a struggle against the tax collectors” when, at a lunch with a number of journalists, he had discussed the latest turns in his own tax case. But in contrast to anyone else, who would have been met with standing ovations, by the next day the evening papers had already forced him into full, disorderly retreat. “An unfortunate joke at a private, informal gathering,” the prime minister explained.
How the hell does he keep it up? thought Johansson from the depths of his police experience; the only possible consolation in the misery was that there were others in the same arena who didn’t seem to be having it so easy either. The Center Party’s nominating committee had fired its party leader six months before the convention, which mortified Johansson even more, for two reasons. For one thing, they were both natives of the province of Ångermanland—according to Johansson’s firm conviction there were far too few representatives from Ångermanland in national politics—and also because he seemed to be a decent fellow.
True, Johansson had never met him, but he’d seen him on TV, and you didn’t need to be a policeman to understand that he was decent, honorable, and completely normal. In contrast to most others in the same business, thought Johansson, who was clearly irritated despite the fact that he would never dream of voting for the Center Party, for there were more than enough others in his family who did so. This country is in the process of going completely to hell, thought Johansson gloomily, consoling himself by pouring another splash of cognac into his almost empty glass.
Within the so-called cultural sector, on the other hand, the picture was more divided and at first glance not particularly easy to understand. The Charter Trip II was still the number one movie, in its fourth week now with over a million viewers, while the country’s second most esteemed director was in a state of severe personal brooding due to a lack of financing for his next film. The planned staging of Swan Lake at the Stockholm Opera had had to be postponed because of a simple broken leg, and at the same time Sidney Sheldon and the Collins sisters were topping the Christmas best-seller charts and selling more books than “almost all serious authors combined.”
High time to go to bed, he thought, as the jet lag again made itself known, resulting in a large yawn.
. . .
Krassner can wait, thought Johansson as he brushed his teeth. He could unpack his suitcases tomorrow, because apart from Krassner’s posthumous papers they contained mostly clothes that needed to be laundered, and as far as Krassner’s papers were concerned he already had a gnawing premo
nition of what was there, and the only thing he felt about that was a growing unease.
We’ll have to see what Wiklander comes up with, Johansson decided, adjusting the pillow under his head, and a minute later he was sound asleep. On his right side with his right arm under the pillow, as always.
[WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 11]
Johansson’s internal clock had been upset. Normally he always woke up at six in the morning, but now it was only four o’clock and Johansson was both alert and in need of a substantial breakfast. First he showered and got dressed, but creativity was no longer sufficient. He’d polished off the only egg in the house during yesterday evening’s festive dinner, and the remaining filets in the can of anchovies didn’t tempt him, not at this time of day at any rate. So he had to be content with a cup of black coffee and a few slices of hardtack with butter while he read the morning paper.
Damn, thought Johansson, staring crossly at his clock. Only five-thirty despite the fact that he’d almost memorized Dagens Nyheter and even squandered his life by reading the sports section.
He thought about unpacking his suitcases, sorting the laundry, and at least laying Krassner’s papers on the desk in his study, but for reasons that weren’t entirely clear to him he had not yet made up his mind to do that. Instead he took a brisk walk to the office—piercing cold and raw dampness along the piers that bit into his cheeks and the tip of his nose—and when he strode into the reception area on Polhemsgatan right after six a.m. the guard looked both worried and red-eyed.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
“Early to bed, early to rise,” said Johansson with feigned heartiness, despite the fact that his stomach was rumbling and it would be another hour yet before he could quiet it in the cafeteria down by the swimming pool.
When his secretary arrived right before eight o’clock as she always did, he had cleaned his desk, the calendar pages were white as snow, and before him lay an entire workday during which he could wander around in his own corridors and shoot the breeze with his colleagues. As long as nothing especially critical and pressing happened that demanded his elevated participation, of course. Why would that happen, for it never did, thought Johansson, nodding toward his closest female coworker.
“You don’t have a few minutes?” she asked, and from her guilty expression he knew at once what it was about.
She’s changed her mind, he thought.
“Of course,” said Johansson. “Why don’t we go into my office and sit down.”
She had changed her mind, and it took her five minutes of circumlocutions to get it said.
“It’s clear that you should stay here,” said Johansson kindly. “Who knows how long I’ll remain at the personnel office? I hardly know that myself.”
Women, he thought.
“Let me know if you think of someone else,” said Johansson. “I’m not asking for miracles; it’s enough that she’s half as good as you,” he added, with a little extra Norrland in his voice.
It’s all the same, he thought as she went out through his door.
After that he devoted a good hour to looking in on his old colleagues and talking about this and that and mostly about robbers old and new. When ten a.m. approached he excused himself, returned to his office, and called his accountant at the bank’s trust department.
“I want you to sell my Fermenta shares,” said Johansson.
The accountant wiggled like an eel in a saltcellar, but Johansson, who looked out for number one when it came to things that were his, was unrelenting.
“You want me to hold on to them?” asked Johansson.
“I’m sitting here with the latest report from our analysts and they see a continued, very strong growth potential. They’re firmly advising against selling—instead they’re recommending buy even at the current level.”
Wonder if those are the same bean counters who firmly advised me against buying three months ago? Although it’s clear, then I got them for a song.
“Okay,” said Johansson heavily. “Let’s do it like this. I want you to sell all of my shares in Fermenta, and I’m going to stay on the line until it’s done.”
“Now it’s done,” the accountant said sourly after about half a minute of mumbling next to the receiver.
“Excellent,” said Johansson. “I’m sure you know what old man Ford used to say? The one with the Model T?”
“No,” said the accountant. He still sounded hurt.
“Profit is profit,” said Johansson and hung up.
Okay then, thought Johansson. So what do I do now? He looked at his watch and leaned back in his desk chair. Just past ten and nothing to do. First he had a random idea that he should give Wiklander a buzz and offer his services, but then the police superintendent in him immediately put his foot down. He shouldn’t even think about it, for it was altogether too sensitive for a man in his position, and considering the probable significance of the matter, unnecessary as well.
Johansson drummed his fingers on the desk crossly. The policeman in his soul had suddenly come to life, refusing to back down, and he felt a strong urge for a little old-fashioned honest detective work. What was it that piece of shit wrote in that letter, the one I was never supposed to read? thought Johansson. That he’d gotten my home address from a very well-known Swedish journalist? Johansson could only think of one such person, and for lack of anything else it was just as well to get the matter cleared up.
Wendell, the editor of the large evening paper, sounded both flattered and interested when Johansson called and suggested lunch the same day.
“Are you up to something interesting?” asked Wendell with curiosity, because he knew from experience that Johansson usually dealt in hard goods.
“No,” said Johansson. “Just thought it might be nice to get together. It’s been a while.”
“I understand,” said Wendell cryptically. “We’ll discuss it when we meet.”
I doubt that, thought Johansson, but didn’t say it out loud.
All real police officers disliked journalists, and in that respect Johansson was no exception. It was Wendell who was the exception, and Johansson had recognized it many years earlier when he’d started his climb to the top of the police pyramid and felt the need of someone like Wendell. They had started exchanging back scratches with each other and up to now they had both profited from the trades. Wendell was also the only journalist who had gotten Johansson’s home address, strictly for his own use and for sensitive deliveries. But he’d probably betrayed that confidence and turned it over to Krassner, and because Johansson was not about to move on account of Wendell’s loose lips, it was just as well to make an early, clear indication of this.
Otherwise he didn’t have anything against him in particular. He was a pleasant guy, just like Johansson fond of the good things in life, such as food, drink, and women, and just like Johansson he had his own favorite Italian restaurant, where they’d gotten a large tray of mixed Italian cold cuts as a little appetizer before things got serious.
Business first, thought Johansson, leaning forward and nodding amiably at Wendell.
“Do you know an American journalist named Krassner, John Krassner?” asked Johansson.
Wendell suddenly looked rather wary. Then he nodded.
“I’ve met him a few times down at the press club on Vasagatan. He’s working on some project here, writing some book, very hush-hush, but I haven’t seen him in a good while now, so he’s probably gone back to the States. The fact is that we talked about you at some point.”
Johansson nodded to him to continue.
“Don’t know how we got onto that subject. I seem to recall that he asked me if there were any honorable cops here.” Wendell smiled weakly and raised his beer glass before he took a gulp.
“So what did you say?”
“I seem to recall that I said something to the effect that I knew one at any rate,” said Wendell. “I no doubt mentioned your name too—in fact, I’m sure I did. It was right at the time
when you were making headlines in the media as the foremost champion of justice.”
“Why did he want to get hold of someone like me?” said Johansson. “Was there some information that he wanted to get?”
Wendell shook his head doubtfully.
“Don’t think so. Just between us he’s a mysterious type. It was never really clear to me what he was doing, other than that it was a great revelation, of course.” He shook his head in sympathy, then asked, “Has he been in contact with you? If I were you I’d be a bit careful with the good Krassner.”
“He sent me a mysterious letter,” said Johansson. “I actually didn’t understand a thing, but because he sent it to my home address I thought I should ask.”
Wendell shook his head dismissively. “Forget it,” he said. “I would never dream of giving out your home address. All he got was the address to your office. To the bureau, the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I think I said it was in the phone book.”
Hmm, thought Johansson.
Then they talked about other things besides Krassner, had pasta with veal, and tiramisu for dessert.
In addition they drank both beer and wine, and at coffee Wendell excused himself as usual.
“Small bladder,” said Wendell, smiling wryly. “Shall we have one more small grappa?”
As usual too he’d hung his sport coat on the back of the chair, and as soon as he left to go to the restroom Johansson stuck his hand in and fished his address book out of the inside left pocket. Well organized and neat handwriting, and he himself was under “J” with his home address, the address of his office, and all three of his telephone numbers.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 35
