Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

by Leif Gw Persson

  Damn, thought Waltin, despite the fact that he almost never swore.

  “We’ll just have to hope that he didn’t have it with him,” said Hedberg, smiling wryly.

  Waltin was not the type to take unnecessary risks. If Krassner had indeed had Forselius’s letter in his pocket when he jumped out the window, it was too late to do anything about that. On the other hand there was almost certainly still time to warn Forselius so that he could keep his mouth shut if the investigators from the Stockholm police were to contact him. In addition there were of course a number of other major reasons to find out what he and Krassner had really been up to at the meeting, which in any event must have been considerably shorter than planned.

  Forselius seemed even less pleased than usual to encounter Waltin. After the usual grumbling about Saturday morning and “important business,” he finally yielded and received him in his darkened apartment, as usual and despite the time of day wearing a dressing gown and holding a brandy snifter. Waltin pretended not to notice and turned on the charm, being careful not to show his cards from the start.

  “How did the meeting with Krassner go?” Waltin asked with a conciliatory smile.

  “The meeting with Krassner,” said Forselius, with a calculating look at Waltin. “You’re wondering how the meeting with Krassner went?”

  “Yes,” said Waltin, smiling amiably. “Tell me how it went.”

  “So kind of you to ask,” Forselius grunted. “It went just fine.”

  “That’s nice,” said Waltin. “What did you—”

  “The little snake never showed up,” Forselius interrupted, fortifying himself with a generous gulp from the snifter.

  “He never showed up?”

  “I’m happy that your ears are functioning,” Forselius said amiably. “As I said. He never showed up.”

  “What did you do, then?” Waltin asked with interest. Idiot, he thought. The old man is a complete idiot.

  “I waited a while. Then I read a good book, an excellent book, in fact, about stochastic processes and harmonic functions. I have it here somewhere if you’re interested.” Forselius made a sweeping gesture in the direction of the bookshelves behind his back.

  “It never occurred to you to make contact?” asked Waltin. As we’d agreed on, you miserable old bastard, he thought.

  “No,” said Forselius, looking as if he’d never given it a thought. “On the other hand I did make a call to your boss.”

  What else would you expect? thought Waltin.

  “And what did he say?”

  “Not too much,” said Forselius. “Either he wasn’t at home or he didn’t want to answer.”

  “Did you leave a message?” asked Waltin.

  “I never leave messages on answering machines,” said Forselius haughtily. “It goes against the nature of the operation.”

  When Waltin told Forselius that Krassner was dead, the old man nodded approvingly. It was an excellent opportunity to find out in peace and quiet what “the little snake” had been up to. The information that he must have taken his own life was received with amused indulgence.

  “Took his own life, of course,” said Forselius, winking. “So now the superintendent wants me to testify that he seemed deeply depressed when we met, if our colleagues from the open operation should knock on my door.”

  “If that should be the case I only want you to say how it was,” said Waltin with forced courtesy. “That he wanted to meet you for an interview but that he never showed up.” And that you can keep yourself sufficiently sober not to mention us, he thought.

  “So it was then that he”—Forselius grunted with enjoyment while he drew his index finger across his wrinkled neck—“took his own life.”

  Sigh, thought Waltin, and five minutes later he said goodbye, correct yet courteous.

  After the visit with Forselius, Waltin took the road past the firm’s garage. The blue delivery van stood parked in its usual place and it had been cursorily cleaned. However, in the trash can by the garage door only five yards away someone had been recklessly careless. The black garbage bag was almost empty, but on the top was a paper bag and inside it an empty can, a crumpled coffee cup, and various scraps of paper that were evidence of a hamburger dinner for two, plus a receipt for the whole party from the hot-dog stand up by Tessin Park at Gärdet.

  What kind of world is it we live in when a police superintendent is forced to use his weekend to root through garbage cans? thought Waltin gloomily while with distaste and the help of his pen he poked through the leftovers. What do I do now and how do I get rid of these two lightweights?

  First he returned to his office and spoke with an acquaintance who was responsible for certain security issues at the ministry of foreign affairs. No problem, because Waltin promised to pay the costs, and the joint decision on a quickly arranged extra exercise under realistic conditions could be made immediately. One hour later he met Göransson and Martinsson in his office. Both appeared to have slept well, and one thing was obvious right from the start: Neither of them had any idea about Krassner’s demise.

  “Tell me,” said Waltin, nodding and smiling amiably while he leaned back in his large desk chair and formed his fingers into a church steeple of the classic Gothic model.

  “Yes,” said Göransson, clearing his throat and leafing through his little black notebook. “Well,” he continued after another throat clearing. “The object left his address on Körsbärsvägen at eighteen thirty-two hours. After that he walked at a brisk pace down Körsbärsvägen, then Valhallavägen on the sidewalk on the west side. He arrived at the appointed meeting place, Sturegatan 60, at eighteen forty-two hours and went directly in through the doorway. Ten minutes later, that is,” Göransson summarized with a discreet throat-clearing and a slightly nervous side glance at his younger colleague.

  “I see,” said Waltin blandly. “And what did you do then?”

  “We positioned our vehicle approximately one hundred yards further down on Sturegatan,” said Göransson, giving Martinsson another glance. “It was the best position according to our collective judgment.”

  “What else?” asked Waltin heartily. “Was it you who was driving, Martinsson?”

  Martinsson tore himself unwillingly away from his image in the large mirror behind Waltin’s back and shook his head.

  “No,” said Martinsson. “It was Göransson who drove.”

  Göransson glared acidly at his younger colleague, which wasn’t easy, as he was trying to do it on the sly.

  “And at what time had you taken up your position?” Waltin asked innocently.

  “About eighteen forty-three,” said Göransson. “About eighteen forty-three more or less, that is.”

  This is getting better and better, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that.

  “And so then what happened?” Waltin asked with curiosity, at the same time leaning forward across the desk in order to further indicate his deep interest.

  Not a thing, according to both conspirators. They had just sat there—true enough, in the front seat of a Dodge delivery van but watchful as two eagles—until the radio operator had made contact and told them to break it off and call it a day and then it was past ten o’clock.

  “Twenty-two-zero-eight hours,” Göransson clarified with a fresh throat clearing and after another look in his little black book.

  “It’s all in our surveillance memo,” Martinsson assisted obligingly. “It’s sitting in the usual folder.”

  “But that was very good, wasn’t it?” said Waltin, nodding and leaning back. Lying with all the practice that the profession had given them, he thought, and now it was crucial to just be rid of them before the natural stupidity that qualified them for this same profession also made a mess of things for him.

  “I have a special assignment for you gentlemen,” said Waltin. “A very urgent one, abroad, might take a week, maybe two. The thing is that the ministry of foreign affairs needs help with a little discreet surveillance of a somewhat mixed dele
gation of politicians, people from the foreign ministry and the military, and I have to have a couple of lads that I can really rely on. Through thick and thin,” he added gravely.

  “Yes,” said Göransson. “We’re listening, chief.” The thought of a fat foreign per diem had put life into his tired eyes.

  “Abroad,” said Martinsson, who was younger, had a harder time concealing his enthusiasm, and was already packing his bathing trunks.

  “We can be at Arlanda in two hours, packed and ready,” Göransson agreed obligingly.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Waltin dryly. “It’s good enough if you can be at the central train station before six o’clock.” For further transport to a place where there aren’t any hamburgers and where it’s guaranteed that you’ll be freezing your asses off, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that.

  “Train,” Göransson burst out, and the light in his eyes had gone out.

  “Train,” echoed Martinsson, who seemed so taken aback that he forgot to check his reaction in Waltin’s mirror.

  “I think it’s going to be a very interesting journey,” said Waltin, nodding with conviction, “and you’ll receive further information accordingly and on a need-to-know basis.”

  It will be a fantastic journey, he thought. In the middle of a bitterly cold winter on one of those fine old Russian trains and with all the service that has made their hosts famous among their Western visitors.

  “He who makes a journey always has something to tell,” said Waltin, smiling amiably. “In addition the ministry of foreign affairs has arranged passports for you, so you don’t need to mess around with visas,” he added consolingly.

  In the afternoon Waltin made quiet inquiries about how it was going with the Stockholm Police Department’s investigation of Krassner’s death. According to his contact, who had spoken with the head of the after-hours squad, the investigation was already done. A few practical details remained that the local precinct at Östermalm would take care of.

  “Seems to be a rather typical suicide. However it is that you can jump from the sixteenth floor—but he was after all some sort of student, so he was high, of course,” Waltin’s contact summarized.

  That was nice to hear, I guess, Waltin thought sympathetically and decided that the rolls of film that Hedberg had taken could wait until after the weekend. So could contact with Berg, who was out of the country meeting important people and was only to be disturbed if something happened that was even more important, and in Waltin’s ledger Krassner didn’t merit an entry. Finally, thought Waltin, who had more essential things on the program.

  Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson had done her part as well. Daniel had called her right before lunch and as usual he was friendly and obliging, and this time also worried about how she was doing. Jeanette had said the things she was expected to say. That it felt sad despite the fact that she didn’t know Krassner and had mostly perceived him as a very strange character who hadn’t even been particularly nice. Whatever the case may be, it was still a strange feeling since she’d said hello to him as recently as a few days ago. One thing was important; she absolutely did not want anything to do with the police. True, she hadn’t said anything to Daniel earlier, but her previous experiences with the Swedish police were far from good. Despite the fact that she’d never done anything criminal.

  “They treat all people like criminals, even if you’re completely innocent,” said Assistant Detective Eriksson.

  According to Daniel she had no reason to be concerned. She could trust him unconditionally. He would really not drag her into anything if the police were to come around again. This Krassner was truly a strange person and Daniel himself was certain that he’d also been a racist. And as far as the Swedish police were concerned, he had unfortunately been struck by the fact that they were obviously like the South African police, and he couldn’t even bear to go into his experiences regarding the latter.

  “It’s a particular kind of people who become police officers,” Daniel maintained. “It doesn’t seem to matter where they come from, and I’ve never met one who seemed normal and humane.”

  Because Jeanette would as usual be meeting her sick mother over the weekend, one of her early lies and the emergency exit she made use of most often, they decided that they would talk after the weekend, perhaps meet in town and have lunch together.

  Okay then, thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson as she put down the receiver. And now she could finally start planning her evening.

  Okay then, thought Waltin as he strode into his apartment on Norr Mälarstrand. High time to plan the evening.

  [MONDAY, NOVEMBER 25]

  When Waltin came to work on Monday morning he felt sharp in mind, strong in body, and with a pleasurable weight in his crotch. He had spent the last thirty-six hours with Jeanette Eriksson, and they hadn’t even set foot outside the door. With the exception of a few brief meals and a few hours’ sleep, he had also been for the most part screwing her the entire time, and everything had gone according to plan. Women were naturally submissive. Waltin had known that for a long time from his own extensive personal experience, but with many women—and strangely enough this often concerned those who were a little younger—there might still be problems stemming from the rampant delusions spread by certain media and groups on the left fringe. Something that in its turn might create mental blockages that prevented them from full enjoyment in what was for a woman the obvious way.

  Little Jeanette had, however, responded in a natural way to the signals he’d given her, although it was still mostly a matter of intellectual influence, and her physical qualifications were extraordinary. The slender boyish body, her closed eyes when he was working his way through her erogenous zones, the pathetic little attempts to hold back her reactions before she achieved orgasm. The only thing that bothered him now was the black triangle of tightly curled hair that covered her little womb, but that was a detail he looked forward to being able to attend to the coming weekend.

  High time to tighten the thumbscrews, thought Waltin contentedly, and just then his red telephone rang.

  Berg had spent the weekend together with some colleagues at Constitutional Protection. The meeting had taken place at an exceedingly comfortable spa hotel twenty or thirty miles outside Wiesbaden, and for once he’d had the opportunity to bring his wife along. The Germans had arranged a charming ladies’ program so that he and his colleagues had been able to work completely undisturbed while their wives visited various attractions along the Rhine, and in the evenings they had taken their meals together. Exceedingly nice parties where the host had escorted his wife to the table for the somewhat simpler and more informal welcome buffet on Friday evening, and Berg himself had been given the place of honor at the gala dinner on Saturday.

  You can really count on the Germans, thought Berg. They were a people who were careful about both content and form in their relationships with their fellow human beings.

  . . .

  On Sunday evening he and his wife had taken the flight to Copenhagen. His wife had continued with a connecting flight to Stockholm because she had classes at the school where she worked on Monday morning. He himself had taken the hydrofoil to Malmö, checked in at the Savoy, eaten a simple dinner at the hotel, and gone to bed early.

  On Monday morning he had set up a meeting with his colleagues at the department in Malmö, but before they sat down at the conference table he had called his secretary in Stockholm. It had after all been two and a half days since he’d last had access to a secure telephone.

  “Waltin wants you to call him,” said his secretary. “It’s about Citizen Kane,” she added. Where had she heard that name before? she thought.

  Krassner, thought Berg, and much later, when he thought back to this incident, he recalled that he’d had an unpleasant foreboding about something even then. Unclear why, but real. He remembered that distinctly long afterward.

  Waltin’s voice sounded utterly unconcerned. Almost as though h
e had nothing to do with the matter.

  Of course Berg also thought about that. Both then and long afterward.

  “How has it been going?” asked Berg.

  “Just fine,” said Waltin. “It appears we’ve been worrying ourselves quite unnecessarily.” Not me but you, he thought, but he didn’t say that.

  “What do you mean?” said Berg.

  “I’ve just been looking through the results of his so-called intellectual efforts, and it seems to be pure rubbish.”

  Despite the fact that he’d been sitting at his typewriter several hours a day for a month and a half, thought Berg, but he didn’t say that.

  “Tell me,” said Berg.

  “Fifty-some pages with highly confused notes. Some assorted texts, a few drafts of something that might possibly be a thriller, possibly a documentary history, but presumably something in between.”

  “What’s it about?” asked Berg.

  “I suggest that we take that up when we meet,” said Waltin, his voice sounding rather pleased. “Let me put it like this. Both you and I and many of us here in the building have probably indulged in the same line of reasoning.”

  I see, thought Berg. So that’s the way it is. He’d already suspected as much.

  “Has anything else happened?” he asked.

  “He killed himself on Friday evening,” said Waltin, and judging by his tone of voice, he wasn’t one of the chief mourners.

  “I’m coming up,” said Berg. “See to it that someone picks me up from the flight.”

  One more scatterbrain, thought Waltin.

  Berg and Waltin had spent the whole afternoon together, and when they went their separate ways neither of them was especially satisfied with the other, despite the fact that they both concealed it well.

  There’s something careless about him, thought Berg. Something childish, something immature.

  “We’ll lie low,” he said. “I’ll take this over starting now. I will of course keep you informed.”

  Waltin shrugged his well-tailored shoulders. Berg might soon start working in the Kurd unit, thought Waltin. Along with both those other loonies.