Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime

by Leif G. W. Persson

  Bäckström celebrated Christmas at the after-hours unit. It wasn’t the first time and certainly wouldn’t be the last, either, especially now that old Jack Daniels was completely off the wall, but on the whole it wasn’t too bad. The union had clearly celebrated a victory, for they’d gotten yet another nap room since last year. Not that Bäckström cared. He used to sneak up to the homicide squad when he needed a nap, for it was a lot quieter there, but the union rep was proud as a rooster and because he was a tedious bastard Bäckström made sure to take a potshot at him while passing through.

  “I thought we were here to work, not to slack off,” said Bäckström. “But correct me if I’m wrong.”

  The poor bastard just glared at him, despite the fact that it was Christmas and everyone should be happy, and then the safety rep took over and nagged for a quarter of an hour about that new disease A-I-D-S. Doesn’t concern me, thought Bäckström, for he didn’t poke assholes, blacks, or drug addicts, and if he needed to touch someone there were always plumber’s gloves that he could put on.

  The cases were mostly shit as usual. Nothing worthy of a real pro such as himself. Mostly thefts and drunken driving, and who had the energy to care? Not Bäckström, in any case, so he took the opportunity to nap for a few hours. Although there was naturally a bright spot or two despite the fact that the Christmas food in the break room had disappeared rather quickly. Three Finnish tramps—real geniuses from Karelia—had broken into a shoe store on Sveavägen and emptied the Christmas display of fifty left shoes, and when the police cars came with their blue lights one of the Finns had almost cut his own throat as he was trying to finagle his way out through the window. So when they came to the after-hours unit there were only two of them, but every little bit counts, thought Bäckström as he locked up the remaining two, each in his own barred compartment.

  Then the riot squad came in with a little gypsy lad who had been siphoning gasoline up on Karlbergsvägen. It was Ornery Adolf’s squad—dear colleagues have many names—and he and his guys were sour as vinegar, for the rest of the tribe had managed to escape. He was a funny little guy, thought Bäckström. With Goofy shoes, trousers a foot too long—where had he pinched those?—and the tribal chieftain’s cap on his curly little head. He was bent over like a poker and moaning that he’d gotten gasoline in his little belly and had to go to the hospital, so Bäckström arranged a barred compartment for him too. Farthest in, to be on the safe side, so he wouldn’t disturb the others who were there.

  But then the boss started to make a fuss about the gypsy’s age, and that perhaps it would be best if someone sat with him in a normal room until the old ladies from the social services after-hours office had time to drag themselves there and take over.

  “It’s cool,” said Bäckström. “I’ve counted his fingers and there are six on each hand.”

  The boss, who was a Pentecostalist, was a humorless bastard, so he didn’t want to hear that, and for a while it looked rather critical. But then the tribal chieftain himself showed up with half of his numerous relatives to talk the lad out, for he was only thirteen according to Papa Taikon, and then it became a real circus. For clearly they’d missed the fact that Ornery Adolf and his lads had taken the opportunity to stay and chow down a holiday snack. And then they suddenly had six folk dancers arrested instead of one. This is a pure Christmas week sale, thought Bäckström.

  Then of course a bunch of old hags came in too who’d gotten a little well-deserved Christmas whipping. One of them wasn’t half bad. True, her face looked like a Lappland owl, but she had rather nice tits and was only half as old as the other drunken hags who’d gotten a beating. High time for a case of my own, Bäckström decided, took her into an interrogation room, and turned on the red light on the door in order not to be disturbed.

  First the usual sniveling, but Bäckström had paper napkins on hand, so that would no doubt work out.

  “I understand that this is awfully difficult for you,” he said with his most sympathetic tone of voice. “You shouldn’t feel any pressure, so take your time and start from the beginning. You can take my card, by the way, in case you need someone to talk with.” So you can get your little mouse greased up too as soon as you look human again, he thought.

  A few hours earlier she’d gotten the bright idea to toddle over to her ex-boyfriend’s to give him a Christmas present. True, it was over because he drank too much and ran around with other women and was generally crazy, but he should get a little Christmas present in any case, and when he got it he’d evidently started wrestling and seen to it that he got a lay as a bonus. How fucking stupid can you be? thought Bäckström, for in the preliminary report the officers from the uniformed police had filled out there wasn’t any mention of a rape.

  “You don’t have his name and address?” Bäckström asked as he leaned forward and patted her consolingly on the arm. Out in the cold, he thought gloomily, and close up those tits weren’t especially noteworthy—who the hell gets turned on by Dachshund ears? Wonder if I can ask to get my card back? he thought.

  First he spoke with the boss and told him about the rape the colleagues had missed, and because the chief was that type, he got so worked up that Bäckström was worried he would get the big police medal.

  “Nice to have a few people who’ve been around a while,” said the boss, nodding. “Good, Bäckström, good,” he repeated. “I’ll take care of the victim and make sure that the doctor has a look at her, then you see to it that you bring in the perpetrator.”

  What the hell kind of justice is there in this world? thought Bäckström gloomily fifteen minutes later. The victim had gotten a lay and now she was lying in a warm doctor’s office resting up. The perpetrator had gotten both a present and a lay and was no doubt sitting at home boozing in that good ol’ cottage warmth. He himself was sitting in the dark in a bumpy service car in the middle of an ice-cold Christmas Eve, together with that surly guy from the union, to collar some crazy bastard who was nesting far out in the southern suburbs, and if he was even still at home Bäckström would certainly get to celebrate Christmas in the hospital with a Mora knife in his belly.

  Plus the union guy sat and nagged the whole journey that they had to see to it they got backup from the uniformed police before they went into the apartment.

  “Perhaps we should check if he’s at home first,” said Bäckström wearily. “Or what do you think?”

  The union guy was content to nod. True, he was surly, but still he did have the good taste to keep his trap shut. The ex-boyfriend was home. Bäckström listened at the mail slot and heard sounds both of the TV and of someone going to the can. And because he was there anyway he rang the doorbell and the perpetrator opened, let them in, and asked if they wanted anything. A cup of coffee or something? On the other hand he couldn’t offer them any aquavit for he’d stopped drinking. There was something here that didn’t add up, thought Bäckström.

  A dark, rather husky fellow in his mid-thirties, completely sober as far as Bäckström could determine. His apartment was small and neither tidy nor untidy. The bed in the only room was covered with a throw but it didn’t appear arranged. The TV in front of the sofa was on; clearly he’d been sitting and watching when Bäckström rang the doorbell. Nothing arousing either, a normal American flick—Bäckström had seen it himself when it was at the theater.

  The only thing that gave a little hope was all the books he had and a few posters on the walls that clearly seemed political, even if they weren’t exactly Chairman Mao. Wonder if he’s a communist? thought Bäckström, and while their host, the perpetrator, was making coffee, Bäckström took the opportunity to snoop around a little. It was then that he found the dartboard that was hanging on the door to the bathroom. Damn, thought Bäckström. That was the face of our dear prime minister, with hook nose and everything. Damn solid workmanship, too, with the picture printed directly on the target itself, and the majority of the thrown darts appeared to have landed just right and straight on the nose of the
poor bastard.

  There’s something that doesn’t add up, thought Bäckström, for of course he couldn’t be a communist.

  “Damn amusing dartboard you have,” said Bäckström when they were sitting on the sofa drinking coffee. “Where can you buy one like that?”

  “You mean of the traitor?” said their host, and here there was definitely something that didn’t add up. “You can have it if you’d like. I can get more.”

  “That’s okay,” said Bäckström, for that damn union guy he had with him had already started to purse his lips. “There was another thing that we wanted to talk about with you.”

  So then they did that and as so often before it appeared that the little whore had made it all up. They’d been together, but otherwise there wasn’t a thing that was right. He was the one who’d left her, and it would soon be six months ago, for he couldn’t put up with her constant boozing and yelling; he himself had tried to quit drinking alcohol. Suddenly she’d shown up at his place on Christmas Eve and the present she had with her was a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  She’d sat down on the sofa and started hitting the bottle, teasing him because he didn’t want any, and because he’d felt the need he’d suddenly gotten extremely angry. Taken the whiskey and poured out what was left into the sink and told her to leave. Then she’d attacked him and tried to smack him with a vase and he’d taken hold of her and gradually he’d succeeded in carrying her out.

  “And you didn’t screw her?” asked Bäckström, who was eager to be clear about that little detail. And besides, it was the reason he was sitting here wasting his young life.

  Of course he’d screwed her, although not for six months, not since he’d left her, but before that he used to be on her approximately five or six times a day. Perhaps a little more when it was a holiday and they’d partied really hearty.

  There, there now, thought Bäckström, who hadn’t gotten any since he’d greased up that little Estonian whore with the big knockers, and feeling a certain draft in his crotch.

  “Why’d you smack her, then?” asked Bäckström, who didn’t mind being a bit direct about things if it would save time.

  “Hell, I didn’t smack her,” said their host, looking at them with honest blue eyes.

  “Lay off,” said Bäckström. “I talked with her half an hour ago, and her face looked like a Lappland owl.”

  “She did when she came here too,” said their host, “but when I asked her she didn’t want to talk about it. You can ask my neighbor, by the way. He was the one who helped me get her out of my apartment.”

  Then they talked to the neighbor, and when they’d done that they thanked him for the visit, got in the car, and drove back to the after-hours unit.

  “My God, what fucking whores there are,” said Bäckström with feeling. “I’ve got a good mind to give her a going-over myself.”

  “Think about what you’re saying,” said his colleague indignantly. “It’s not appropriate to say that kind of thing if you’re a policeman.”

  “Shit in your pants, you fucking amateur politician,” said Bäckström, for he’d thought about saying that for a long time, and when he looked at his watch it was already a quarter past twelve in the morning and his Christmas celebrating was over for this year.

  Early on the morning of Christmas Eve, Berg had been compelled to get into a taxi and go down to Rosenbad to inform the special adviser of an embassy case that had taken an unexpected turn. The special adviser seemed to be in an excellent mood despite the early hour. He offered him coffee, and the case itself went both quickly and painlessly.

  “Okay then,” said Berg, making an effort to get up. “Then I guess I should wish you merry Christmas and hope that I don’t have to disturb you anymore this year.”

  “I wish the same to you,” said the special adviser. “And good luck with the reorganization. It must be the best Christmas present you’ve gotten in a long time,” he said, looking unusually cheerful.

  What does he mean? thought Berg, sinking back into the sofa.

  “Now I don’t understand,” said Berg.

  “Then you aren’t aware either that the Kurds are thinking about murdering the prime minister,” said the special adviser, pouring more coffee for them both.

  The Stockholm chief constable had phoned a few days earlier and wanted to speak with the prime minister at any price. Because it wasn’t the first time and the prime minister had more important matters on his hands, he had to be content with the special adviser. The story that the chief constable had told went in brief along the lines that “he’d gotten reliable information from a completely reliable and intimate source that the PKK was planning to murder the prime minister.”

  “So I thanked him for the tip,” said the special adviser, “and to myself I congratulated you for finally getting rid of them both.”

  “I’m afraid they’re probably still with us,” said Berg, sighing. And perhaps it wasn’t this that I’d imagined, he thought.

  “It’ll work out,” said the special adviser, raising his coffee cup.

  . . .

  Then Berg took a taxi back to his wife and the house in Bromma. They had lunch together with his sister and brother-in-law, and after that all four of them drove to Roslagen to celebrate Christmas Eve with his aged parents. A calm and pleasant family Christmas, thought Berg when he was back in Bromma and he and his wife had gone to bed, each with a book that they’d given one another as a Christmas present. Then he fell asleep and for some reason dreamed about the child that they’d never had, and at three o’clock in the morning he had to get up as usual and take a leak.

  Oredsson and his comrades had celebrated Christmas in the country. A real midwinter sacrifice according to ancient Swedish custom. They’d managed to rent an entire vacation establishment with a lodge and everything up in Hälsingland, and despite the fact that there were almost twenty of them, the majority of them police of course, they’d had plenty of room. First Berg, who was their leader, had called a general meeting where Oredsson had informed them of what their colleague Martinsson had told him.

  “As I’m sure you know,” said Berg, looking at them seriously, “that traitor at SePo is my own uncle, and if there are any of you who have a problem with that then I’d like us to take that up now. Personally I can only apologize for the relationship.”

  No one had any problems. On the contrary, all of them took the opportunity to express their sympathies and indicate their loyalty.

  “Good,” said Berg. “So what do we now? Do you have good suggestions? Thanks to Oredsson, here, we are of course forewarned and thereby armed.”

  They agreed to lie low for the time being.

  “We lie low, we close ranks, and we keep our eyes and ears open,” Berg summarized, and then they ate whole roast pig and drank a great many beers. Perhaps a few too many in some cases, considering that joint exercises had been planned for both Christmas Day and the day after Christmas.

  . . .

  As the wee hours approached, Berg took Oredsson aside and thanked him for his good contribution. Then he told him about his father, who had also been a policeman and was killed in an accident when Berg himself was only a child. In a car chase he’d lost control of the vehicle that he was driving, ended up in the water, and drowned. Service car with bad brakes, two crooks in a stolen car who succeeded in getting away and were never caught, a policeman who died on duty. Things can be so different, thought Oredsson, clearly moved by what Berg had related. Two brothers, one who died a hero’s death and one who became a traitor.

  Oredsson’s colleague Stridh had taken a good many comp days over the holidays. He’d celebrated Christmas Eve with his sister, who was his only living relative and an excellent human being. She was also single, worked in accounting at a small advertising agency, and was both bookish and interested in cooking.

  A pity really that she’s my sister, thought Stridh as he took yet another portion of her home-preserved Christmas herring. For other
wise we might have gotten married.

  Bo Jarnebring had celebrated Christmas as a twosome, the other person being his new girlfriend. Sort of new; after all, they’d been together since last summer and it had only gotten better the whole time. A few weeks earlier they’d decided to get engaged on New Year’s Eve, but for reasons he wasn’t really clear about he hadn’t told Johansson, despite the fact that he’d had more opportunities than in a long time.

  Why is that? thought Jarnebring. Because you’re a coward, thought Jarnebring.

  “Darling,” said Jarnebring, going out to the kitchen where she stood, cheeks red from the heat. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

  “You’re hungry,” she said, smiling. “It’ll be ready soon.”

  “No,” said Jarnebring, shaking his head. “I was thinking about this thing with the engagement.”

  “You’ve changed your mind,” she said, moving a casserole dish from the burner.

  Didn’t she look a little worried? thought Jarnebring, grinning like a wolf.

  “No,” he said. “But what do you think about doing it now instead?”

  “Now?” she said, giggling. “You mean now … now?”

  “Yes,” said Jarnebring, putting his left arm around her waist and pulling her to him while she turned off the stove with her right hand.

  “What are you doing? Aren’t we going to eat?”

  “Now, we can do it like this,” said Jarnebring. “First we’ll take off all our clothes so that all the new gold shows to best advantage, then we’ll exchange rings, then we’ll screw each other, and then we can eat. Then you’ll get your Christmas present too, but that will be a surprise.”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding and pulling her blouse over her head.

  Then I’ll call Johansson and tell him, thought Jarnebring. What do you mean, coward? he thought.