How the hell could you know anything about that, Danielsson thought morosely, for you’ve never investigated a crime, have you? But he didn’t say that.
“You horny bastard,” he said instead, giving Bäckström the evil eye.
Lucky not to have been born yesterday, thought Bäckström half an hour later when he had returned to his office. It was just as he had thought. That fucking whore had used him and tried to knife him in the back, but that was her mistake, thought Bäckström. That sort of thing didn’t work with an old pro, however hard she tried. Clearly she had turned over the tape from her answering machine to her lawyer, who in turn had given it to Lindberg, whereupon his boozer of a boss had insisted that they listen to it, in spite of the fact that he and Lindberg were already in agreement that the homos in the violence-against-women group should take over the case.
But that was where you shit all over yourself, thought Bäckström, for it was at that point that he’d come up with his stroke of genius.
First they had played the tape from the answering machine, and maybe it sounded a little weird, as it well might when you’re worried and call someone late at night. But Bäckström had kept his cool.
“What’s the problem?” said Bäckström. “She’s the one who insisted on being questioned in her own home, because she couldn’t bear to go to the police station. And it’s clear that I got worried when she didn’t open the door.”
“So you called her,” said Jack Daniels softly.
“Yes,” said Bäckström. “I obviously didn’t have reasonable grounds for anything else, even if for a while I did fear the worst.”
“At one-thirty in the morning?” said Jack Daniels.
“That must be wrong,” said Bäckström. “It was much earlier than that.” I’m guessing there isn’t any clock on those things, he thought.
“You were so fucking loaded you can hardly hear what you’re saying,” interrupted Jack Daniels.
“Drunk,” Bäckström burst out indignantly. “I was cold sober and standing there, brushing my teeth. I was about to go to bed. It was just past ten, I guess. I was standing there brushing my teeth, and that’s no doubt why it sounds a little unclear.” Ingenious, thought Bäckström.
“Yes, yes,” said Lindberg, raising his hands like some fucking Pentecostal preacher. “Then I believe we’re clear on this matter.”
Say what you will about Bäckström, thought Lindberg’s immediate supervisor, Chief Inspector Danielsson, but he’s a shrewd bastard. Lazy and incompetent, but shrewd! He was horny too, the fat little devil—quite a mystery how he managed it, lush that he was. I must have a little nip myself, he thought, glancing at the binder on his bookshelf where he had hidden the office bottle. He looked at the clock. Not before twelve, he thought gloomily, and besides, he’d forgotten to buy throat lozenges. Wonder where he came up with that bit about brushing his teeth, he thought.
How come Danielsson is called Jack Daniels? Bäckström pondered. Simple. Easy to remember. How do you kill a Jack Daniels? Assume that I invite him home for dinner, buy a little herring and meatballs for the sake of appearances and a shitload of aquavit. A whole fucking case and three or four cases of strong beer. Which he gets to pour into himself until he chokes and then I help him with the last gulps. Too uncertain, decided Bäckström, and it sounds fucking expensive. Besides, it was Friday and high time to slip away for the usual business errands outside the building.
Vindel is from Norrland, thought Johansson, old dog owner and teetotaler. So he gets up early. Johansson looked at the clock and decided to talk with Vindel before he went to the office. Why should I do that? he thought, suddenly despondent as he stood on the street, waiting for his taxi.
His analysis had been correct anyway, thought Johansson as he sat in Vindel’s parlor with a cup of coffee before him. Dark, old-fashioned furniture, large Oriental carpet on the floor, wall clock above the sofa, and so clean it sparkled. Johansson had already made note of the large framed portrait on the sideboard over by the window. Silver frame with ornaments.
“That’s Charlie,” said Vindel and sighed. “He reached thirteen before he died.”
“I like Pomeranians too,” said Johansson, which was perhaps not completely true, as both his father and his brothers had always kept Norwegian elkhounds and he had never objected to their choice.
“You hunt, of course,” Vindel declared.
“Yeah,” said Johansson, and his Norrland dialect was apparent.
“Home on the farm,” said Vindel, and this was more a statement than a question.
“Yeah,” said Johansson. “Both of my parents are still alive, although my dad is starting to get a little frail.”
“You’ve done well,” said Vindel, glancing at Johansson’s business card, which he had placed before him on the table. “Police superintendent, that’s not cat shit.”
“Yeah,” said Johansson. “I’ve done well.”
“For me things almost went to hell for awhile,” said Vindel.
“Your health failed you?” asked Johansson, despite the fact that he knew. Vindel shook his head.
“Booze,” he said. “The greatest depravity that he-down-there ever sent us poor wretches up here. But I broke out of those chains of his and there are others besides me who can testify to the fact that it was at the last minute.”
Me among them, thought Johansson and nodded, but he didn’t say anything. Vindel took a cookie from the plate and suddenly smiled at Johansson.
“It’s nice when things go well for us Norrlanders,” he said. “We’ve always pulled our weight, I can tell you, but how many Norrlanders are there in the government? Stockholmers and Scanians, they’re a dime a dozen, but Norrlanders?” Vindel sighed and shook his head. “Although when the wind starts to blow, then we come in handy.”
So true, so true, thought Johansson, and what am I doing here, really?
. . .
Johansson had shown him the pictures anyway. The picture of Krassner and nine of the others that he had gotten from Jarnebring. Vindel only shook his head.
“He wasn’t in any condition for me to recognize him,” said Vindel, “and it’s true I’ve lived here since I came to Stockholm, but I don’t recall any of them.” He nodded toward Johansson’s photographs and shook his head.
“Which of them is it?” asked Vindel.
“That one,” said Johansson, pointing to the photo of Krassner.
“I’ve never seen him,” said Vindel. “Has he done something, or … ?” he asked. “More than been the death of Charlie, I mean.”
“Not as far as we know,” said Johansson.
“I heard he was American,” said Vindel. “Your colleagues who were here over the weekend said so. There was a big husky one, a real mountain of a guy, and then he had a little dapper one with him who looked like an executive. In all fairness, though, they were both nice, I have no complaints about either of them.”
I should hope not, thought Johansson.
“There’s one thing I was thinking about,” said Vindel as they stood in the entryway saying goodbye.
“Yes,” said Johansson.
“I told my neighbor, Mrs. Carlander, fine lady, widow, although she’ll soon be eighty of course …”
“Yes,” said Johansson.
“Yes, I told her that he was an American.”
“Yes,” said Johansson.
“Yes, she must have seen them when they stood there talking at the place where he was killed. Your colleagues, that is.”
“Yes,” said Johansson as he stepped out through the door. High time to get back to work, he thought.
“She’d heard about Charlie; that’s why we came to talk about it and when I told her that they’d said that he was an American.”
You haven’t started tippling again, have you? thought Johansson, feeling ashamed at the thought. “Absolutely no problem,” he said. “It’s no secret, and I’d like to say thank you for the treat.”
“You’re welcome,” s
aid Vindel and nodded after Johansson, who was disappearing down the stairwell.
“I think she’d spoken with some American when she was at the post office,” explained Vindel to Johansson’s back.
“Excuse me?” said Johansson, turning around.
“It was him,” said Mrs. Carlander, pointing at the photo of Krassner. “I heard right away that he was an American but also that he spoke with a distinct upstate New York accent. My husband was head of sales for SKF in the U.S. and we lived there for quite a few years,” Mrs. Carlander explained.
This can’t be true, thought Lars Martin Johansson.
“Tell me,” he said.
“It must have been a little over a month ago,” said Mrs. Carlander. She wasn’t sure of the day, but toward the end of every month she would always gather together all the bills that needed to be paid and go to the post office with them, so it must have been just around then. Besides, it was then that her husband’s pension check was deposited in her account, so she didn’t need to worry about making overdrafts from the bank and annoyances like that.
No doubt, thought Johansson, looking around at the tastefully decorated apartment. Mrs. Carlander has the means to get by.
“I could just write it out on my postal account and put it in the mail,” she continued, “but I think there are so many newfangled things and I feel more secure going to the post office where there’s always someone to ask if need be. And besides, they’re so nice, the people who work there, especially the manager. She’s charming.”
Johansson nodded.
“Where is the post office?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Carlander. “It’s our own post office, as we usually say, we older folks who live here in the neighborhood. It’s that little post office on Körsbärsvägen. Right on the corner before the student dormitory, but on the other side of the street of course,” she explained. “Besides, the walk there is just about right.”
Johansson nodded. He had a vague recollection of having walked or driven past it at some point.
“And naturally they’re going to close it,” said Mrs. Carlander, with a noticeable irritation at the ravages of time.
“I see,” said Johansson.
“Well,” said Mrs. Carlander. “So we’ve started to organize a protest among us older people in the neighborhood. The politicians can’t just take all local service away from us.”
They certainly can, thought Johansson, but he didn’t say that.
“It must have been in the morning,” continued Mrs. Carlander. “That I was there, that is. There are very few people there in the morning, and of course you want to stand in line as little as possible.”
“That’s for sure,” said Johansson. “Who wants to stand in line?”
“That’s why I recall it so well,” said Mrs. Carlander. “I became extremely irritated at him.”
On the morning about a month earlier when Mrs. Carlander visited the post office on Körsbärsvägen, the premises had been mostly empty when she entered. There was only one man, speaking English with the cashier at the only window that was open.
“I heard right away that he was an American,” said Mrs. Carlander. “My husband and I lived there for almost ten years. SKF had an office in Manhattan at that time and we lived less than an hour north, on the Hudson River outside a charming little town called Montrose. Gerhard commuted on weekdays, morning and evening, and I took care of our children. Now they’re grown up and have children of their own.”
Johansson nodded. He had gathered as much from the framed family pictures on her little desk.
“Where was I?” Mrs. Carlander smiled absently but then she picked up the thread again and there was a twinkle in her gray eyes. “That’s what was amusing, suddenly I recognized his, well, accent. New England, although to be exact it’s not really New England.”
“So you, Mrs. Carlander, became irritated at him,” Johansson reminded her.
“He was going to send some letter and the cashier’s English no doubt could have been better—I actually became a little irritated at her too, and for a moment I thought about butting in and offering to help out by translating, but you don’t want to meddle either.”
No, thought Johansson. You’re not the type. He nodded encouragingly.
“But finally I became thoroughly irritated in any event, for he didn’t give up and it’s a little hard for me to stand for longer periods, but just as I was about to say something the manager came and took over. Charming young woman, you should meet her, although that is a strange title they’ve given her. Postmaster. What’s wrong with postmistress? After all, you say equestrienne, for example. It’s not logical.”
If she’s married to one then it’s completely okay, thought Johansson, and I’ll reserve judgment on that thing about horses, but he didn’t say that.
“Do you recall what kind of problem there was with that letter?” asked Johansson.
Mrs. Carlander shook her head slowly.
“No,” she said hesitantly. “But if there were any I’m convinced the manager would have solved them for him.”
“You don’t recall her name?” asked Johansson.
“Name, name,” said Mrs. Carlander vaguely. “Her first name is Pia, that much I know. But what her last name is, I know that I know but sometimes I get those, well, it’s as if things just fall out of my memory. The other day I forgot the word for ‘navel.’ I was talking with one of my grandchildren on the phone and it was completely gone. She must have thought Grandma had gone crazy, poor thing.”
“It’ll be okay,” said Johansson confidently. “We police find out things like that.” Peppy Pia, he thought.
“I think so too,” said Mrs. Carlander with conviction. “I’m quite certain you are going to take notice of her, superintendent. She has that kind of appearance that you fellows take notice of, if I may say so.”
Time to say goodbye, thought Johansson and smiled in her direction.
“Yes, Mrs. Carlander, I must say thank you …”
“You won’t say what he’s done? Is it narcotics and those kinds of horrors?”
Johansson shook his head and smiled soothingly.
“No, not as far as we know,” he said. “He isn’t suspected of any crime.”
“No,” said Mrs. Carlander, and she didn’t sound entirely convinced.
“No,” repeated Johansson. “We’re just trying to find out who he was.”
Mrs. Carlander nodded again but she still didn’t seem entirely convinced.
Mrs. Carlander was completely correct. Pia had the kind of appearance that fellows take notice of: dark hair cut short, blue eyes, large breasts, and a narrow waist. Her last name was Hedin. There’s nothing wrong with her legs either, thought Johansson, but because they were standing on either side of the counter it wasn’t particularly easy to make sure of that.
Johansson had stated his name and given her his business card. He had also noted that she became more surprised when she looked at it than was warranted by his name and title alone. Then she smiled amiably at him and nodded inquiringly.
“What can I help you with?”
Johansson handed over the photo of Krassner.
“I understand you were speaking with this person about a month ago. He wanted help sending a letter.”
She took the photo in her hand and Johansson saw that she recognized the face in the picture. Then she smiled amiably again and nodded toward his business card, which she had placed on the counter.
“You don’t have an ID or anything,” she asked. “I don’t want to seem awkward, but we do have our rules as well.”
Careless of me, thought Johansson, and wondered how many courses in corporate security she’d gone to. He smiled apologetically and held out his police ID. In contrast to almost everyone else, she looked at it carefully. Then she smiled again and Johansson understood that Mrs. Carlander was a woman who knew men better than most women half her age.
“That’s right,” she said. “I recognize him
and I was the one who helped him send the letter to you.”
What the hell is she saying? thought Johansson, and apparently Pia Hedin was just as observant as he was, for she just smiled and nodded toward the back of the post office.
“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.”
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End Page 10
