by Leif Persson
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Yes. First he asked if this was the right number for Ericson. I thought that was a rather odd way of putting it, which is why I remember it so clearly. I actually remember thinking about that phone company there was all that fuss about, and that it might still have been someone messing around. By that time I was pretty annoyed, so I just said he must have got the wrong number. And then he apologized and all that, and it sounded like he really meant it, and I suppose I was fairly cheerful again because my holiday was safe. So I said it didn’t matter, as long as he promised not to do it again.’
‘And that was all?’
‘No,’ the anaesthetist said, shaking her head. ‘He said something else, and because he said it in such a charming way, I remember it.’
‘Try to be as accurate as you can,’ Lewin said, checking that his little tape recorder was working properly.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘He more or less said that he didn’t suppose it was the right moment to ask for a blind date. Yes. “I don’t suppose this is the time to ask you out on a blind date”, that’s what he said. Or something like that, but before I had time to say anything he had hung up. A shame really, because he actually sounded charming and nice.’
‘Happy, sober, nice, charming,’ Lewin summarized.
‘Yes. If he hadn’t called in the middle of the night, who knows where it might have led. I remember I actually had trouble getting back to sleep. I suppose I was lying there fantasizing about him being as nice and charming and handsome as he sounded.’
‘You were hoping he might call back?’
‘Well, I’m not quite that desperate. Not yet, anyway.’
‘And he hasn’t called back?’
‘Not while I was on holiday,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Just the usual boring messages.’
Maybe he had other things on his mind, Lewin thought. Otherwise he would probably have done so, if he’s the sort I think he is. ‘If you remember anything else, I hope you’ll let me know,’ he said, handing her his card.
‘Of course,’ she said, looking at the card before putting it in the top pocket of her white coat. ‘And if you’d like me to show you the delights of Växjö, give me a call. After all, you’ve got my number.’
As soon as Lewin got back to the police station, he called an old friend and former colleague who now worked as an inspector with the Security Police, and also happened to owe him a favour or two. To begin with they chatted idly about this and that, and then, once they had got the social bit out of the way, Lewin got to the point.
Not a matter of national security, but a serious crime none the less. It was a matter of tracing a particular phone call, but for once he knew the exact time it had been made, and the number that had been called. What he wanted to know was the number from which the call had come, who that account belonged to, and – if it wasn’t asking too much – who had made the call.
‘I don’t suppose I’d be wrong if I guessed that this is about the murder of that trainee officer?’ his old friend said. ‘Seeing as you’re the one asking, and you want to know about a call made to a number in Växjö, I mean.’
‘That’s the one,’ Lewin said. ‘How long do you think it’ll take?’
Assuming that Lewin’s information was correct, and that the call was made at quarter past two on the morning of 4 July to the number given, it ought to be possible to find out almost immediately.
‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow,’ his friend said. ‘So keep your fingers crossed. As I’m sure you know as well as me, they nearly always use those pay-as-you-go mobiles these days, and then it’s almost impossible to trace who made the call.’
‘I’ve got a feeling we’re not talking about one of those,’ Lewin said. Not this time, he thought.
66
IN POLICE HEADQUARTERS on Kungsholmen in Stockholm, four hundred kilometres north of Växjö, the Head of National Crime was feeling his blood pressure rise. The main reason for this, in purely objective terms, was the least important of all the cases that had accumulated on his desk. When the Bäckström circus rolled into Växjö, Lars Martin Johansson thought.
He was talking to a nice young woman from the finance department who had spent the weekend trying to deal with the red question marks that Johansson had highlighted in the documents she had prepared for him. Without success, unfortunately. There were still a number of peculiar invoices for everything from care of equipment and conference materials to the usual bar and restaurant visits with anonymous informants. All of them verified by Detective Superintendent Bäckström, and totalling almost twenty thousand kronor. There were also a number of unexplained cash withdrawals made by the same Bäckström to a total of almost twelve thousand kronor, plus the usual expenses for excursions of this nature, where the costs, not including wages and national insurance contributions, had now built up to about three hundred thousand kronor.
‘What’s this all about really? Just between you and me,’ Johansson said, nodding to her encouragingly.
‘Someone’s had their hand in the cookie jar, and because this is strictly between us I don’t think it’s the first time. Besides, I also happened to recognize the name of the person verifying these expenses.’
‘You’ve seen worse?’ Johansson said, suddenly feeling brighter than he had in a long time.
‘Much worse,’ the finance woman said, with emphasis and feeling. ‘I’ve seen plenty of peculiar invoices over the years.’
‘What was the most peculiar?’ Johansson asked curiously.
‘During the most recent financial year, that would have to be two tons of hay. That was some time last winter, but it wasn’t actually that expensive. A few thousand, if I remember rightly.’
‘I think I can guess who authorized that invoice,’ Johansson grunted.
‘Apparently the rapid-response unit needed it for an exercise,’ the finance woman said. ‘After all, they do jump off things all the time, and I suppose they wanted something soft to land in. Mind you, Detective Superintendent Bäckström’s laundry bill from Växjö isn’t bad either. I even requested a breakdown of the costs. I’ve got a husband and three kids who are all complete pigs, between the two of us, but compared to Bäckström they’re amateurs.’
‘Tell me,’ Johansson said eagerly.
The same day Detective Superintendent Bäckström arrived in Växjö, one of his colleagues handed in some laundry on his behalf to be washed by the hotel. These items had been returned a few days later. The relevant invoice was authorized by Bäckström and, according to a handwritten note, covered ‘care of equipment occasioned in the course of duty’. According to the breakdown of costs requested by the finance officer – which for some reason had not been attached to the original invoice – this included, in absolute terms, the dry-cleaning of ‘27 pairs of men’s boxer shorts, 2 pairs of men’s long johns, 31 men’s vests, 14 pairs of socks, 9 ties, 4 long-sleeved sweaters, 14 shirts, 3 pairs of trousers, 2 pairs of shorts, 1 jacket and 1 three-piece suit comprising jacket, waistcoat and trousers’.
‘A waistcoat?’ Johansson said, grinning like a small child. ‘Does it really say that? A waistcoat?’
‘A waistcoat,’ the finance woman said, almost as delighted as her boss. ‘I think I might even have seen it. Some sort of pin-striped brown thing, and Bäckström’s not exactly renowned for changing his clothes every day, if you know what I mean.’
‘Phenomenal!’ Johansson said, sounding like he really meant it. ‘Okay, this is what we’re going to do . . .’
When Johansson met the chief superintendent who was Bäckström’s immediate superior, the northerner was in a brilliant mood. The chief superintendent had no idea why he was there, had had nightmares about Johansson for three nights in a row, and had spent every waking moment since being summoned to it dreading this meeting. For him it was actually a near-death experience.
‘Let’s see, said the blind man,’ Johansson said, leafing through a bundle of papers with a cheery
look on his face. ‘I don’t suppose you want a cup of coffee?’ He nodded enquiringly towards his guest.
‘No, thank you, no, I’m fine,’ the chief assured him. The man must be a full-blown sadist, he thought. Is he trying to force some sort of low-budget last meal on me? A cup of coffee and a biscuit?
There were three things Johansson was wondering about. Why had the chief superintendent sent these six officers in particular? Why had he appointed Bäckström to be in charge? And which one or more of them had spent at least one long night in the hotel watching the hotel’s porn channels? Possibly the most basic thing on the long list of absolute no-nos covering all the things you really weren’t supposed to do when you were on duty and your employer, the National Crime Unit, was footing the bill.
According to the chief superintendent, the matter was rather more complicated than that. To begin with, he hadn’t personally sent anyone to Växjö. As he had already explained, with all due respect to his boss, he had been on holiday and the decision had been taken by Johansson’s predecessor, Nylander. Why Nylander had chosen to appoint Bäckström head of the operation was also outside his knowledge, and as far as the porn films were concerned, the matter was still under investigation.
‘I see,’ Johansson interrupted. ‘But surely you’ve given the matter some thought? I see that Jan Lewin is down there. Why isn’t he in charge? Back when I knew him, he was a fully functional police officer.’
‘He doesn’t like being in charge,’ the chief said. ‘As I understand it, Nylander asked his secretary to call Bäckström. Why him in particular remains unclear. Bäckström was given the task, and it was left to him to put together a group of officers who were available at the time. With the exception of Bäckström, who certainly has his idiosyncrasies, there’s really nothing much wrong with any of the others. Lewin, for instance, is both very experienced and very competent. Must be one of the best murder detectives in the country.’
‘Well, maybe,’ Johansson said. I’ve seen better, he thought. ‘That goes for Rogersson as well,’ he went on. ‘As I understand it, the invoice for the porn film was linked to his room.’
‘But he himself was in Stockholm. He left the car he was using in the garage here on Friday evening, and signed it out again at lunchtime on Sunday, so it couldn’t have been him,’ the chief said.
‘Find out which one it was,’ Johansson said.
‘I promise to do all I can,’ the chief said.
‘Just finding out who it was will do,’ Johansson said. ‘So I know who to kick out of this unit and replace.’
67
WHEN JAN LEWIN read the Småland Post the next morning the front page was dominated by a large picture of head of purchasing, Roy Edvardsson, forty-eight years old. Judging by the picture, he was a rather fat man in the prime of life, dressed in classic male attire for the Swedish summer: sandals with socks, knee-length shorts, a striped, short-sleeved shirt, and a check cap of the lighter variety out of consideration for the time of year. Edvardsson was leaning comfortably against his car, a Mercedes, radiating both confidence and material success. And he was born, raised and lived in Småland.
The reason for his appearance in the Post was a lengthy report about the fact that the National Food Administration had conducted an extensive investigation which had found that Smålanders were less likely than other Swedes to buy organic and environmentally friendly products when they bought their groceries. And this in spite of the notable efforts of the world’s most famous Smålander, the author Astrid Lindgren, to liberate hens from their cages and give pigs a happy life all the way to Christmas.
The paper’s reporter had gone out on to the streets of the town and conducted a rather smaller study in which she had asked people about their views on organic and environmentally friendly groceries and other products. The answers she received from a majority of those questioned appeared to support the National Food Administration’s findings, and the reason for their negative opinion was unambiguous. Organic and environmentally friendly food was more expensive than ordinary food, even though it tasted pretty much the same as all food did these days.
But none of this covered Roy Edvardsson, 48, who, in spite of his job, was entirely unfamiliar with the question.
‘Don’t ask me about that,’ Edvardsson said. ‘I never do the shopping. I mean, I’ve been married for years now.’
I didn’t think men like that still existed, Lewin thought, astonished, as he reached for the scissors so that he could add this little insight into Roy Edvardsson’s life to his scrapbook of memories from Växjö.
68
ONCE HE HAD finished breakfast, Lewin followed in his colleague’s footsteps, and because he hadn’t mentioned this to him each step pricked his conscience. First he paid a visit to the 92-year-old witness’s optician, to determine, once and for all, the state of her eyesight.
He was a man in his sixties, and he had been supplying the witness with glasses for the past thirty years. In total that had amounted to two new pairs of glasses and a few minor repairs, so she wasn’t exactly a big customer. The last time she had been to see him was about six years ago. The examination conducted on that occasion had shown that the glasses she had bought five years previously were still perfectly adequate. And those had been bought shortly after her eightieth birthday, and mainly because she needed new frames.
The witness was near-sighted, but she had been born with the problem and it didn’t seem to have got noticeably worse over the years. Assuming that she was wearing her glasses, and that her sight hadn’t deteriorated dramatically since her last visit, she ought to have practically normal vision, making her perfectly capable of recognizing someone at a distance of some twenty metres away from her, as Lewin asked. If she hadn’t been wearing her glasses, then she couldn’t have done so. It was out of the question. At that distance, without her glasses she could make out movement and differentiate between a person and a dog, but probably not tell a dog from a cat.
But there was a different problem with old people and their eyesight, which lay outside the area of optical medicine but was still a part of their daily life, which every conscientious practitioner had to take into account.
‘Old people’s eyesight is affected in a completely different way by their general physical and mental condition. They get a lot of dizzy spells and double vision, and they’re more sensitive to changes in the light. They can also get quite confused generally, mixing things up, before it passes and they’re back to normal again. They come to me and I try out new lenses on them and sometimes they even manage to read the bottom lines of the chart, then they come back and test the new glasses and all of a sudden they can’t even read the top line because they slept badly or have had a row with their children or something.’
‘But assuming she was the way she usually was, and was wearing her glasses, she ought to be able to see and recognize a person at that distance? Especially if it was someone she’d seen before?’
‘Yes,’ the optician agreed. ‘But then there’s the mental aspect. They get people mixed up, and think the person they see is someone they know, possibly because of some superficial similarity, and then they might describe the person they know and not the person they actually saw. I’m not a doctor, but I’ve seen and heard plenty of examples of this sort of thing over the years.’
Evidence pointing both ways, Lewin thought, sighing inwardly as a little while later he rang the doorbell of the flat where their witness lived. He had asked Eva to phone her beforehand, and hoped that was why she didn’t bother to look through the peephole before she opened the door to him.
‘My name is Jan Lewin, and I work as a detective superintendent for the National Crime police,’ Lewin said, holding up his ID and smiling his most trustworthy smile at her. She seems lively enough, he thought.
‘Come in, come in,’ she said, pointing the way with her rubber-tipped stick.
‘Thank you,’ Lewin said. And compos mentis, he thought, feeling his hopes risin
g.
‘I should be thanking you, superintendent,’ Mrs Rudberg said. ‘You’re not just something the cat dragged in, are you? That lass who was here before, she was just an ordinary police officer, wasn’t she?’
First they talked about her birthday, and it turned out that the witness had evidently encountered the same sort of priest as his old grandmother had. It had also taken a number of years before her parents had realized the mistake and told her.
‘It must have been when I was about to start school that my father realized the priest had written the wrong date in the register,’ she explained. ‘But by then we had got a new priest, and he didn’t want to change it now that it had been entered. So it had to stay as it was.’
For a while she had been annoyed that she was registered under the wrong month. But as she got older the extra month had mattered less, and when she reached retirement age she had even been grateful for the priest’s mistake.
‘I got an extra month of my pension,’ she explained, smiling at Lewin. ‘So I kept quiet and accepted it gratefully.’
The business about her birthday had never led to any practical problems. She had always celebrated 4 July as her birthday, and the fact that she hadn’t explained about the priest’s mistake to the female police officer she had spoken to was simply because it hadn’t even occurred to her. It was 4 July at six o’clock in the morning that she had been sitting on her balcony. Like most other days this summer, but in honour of that particular day she had taken a piece of cake out to have with her usual morning coffee.
‘I’d even laid a tray so I wouldn’t have to keep running in and out. I have to think about my stick as well, you see,’ she explained.
Which leaves one more problem, and how on earth am I going to deal with that? Lewin thought.
‘And of course now, superintendent, you’re wondering if I was wearing my glasses,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him over the frames.
