Until the minister of justice stood up and provided an alibi for his bodyguard. Hedberg had not budged an inch from the minister’s side during the entire day. That’s how it stood and the whole so-called case had fallen apart like a house of cards. Hedberg hadn’t even been questioned for information, and all the files in the case had been carried up to Berg for forwarding. Wonder just where they went? thought Waltin with delight.
A both interesting and morally instructive story on the importance of not sticking your nose into other people’s business and with a clearly humorous point. It wouldn’t do to remove Hedberg, but as he was the active type that liked to move around, he wasn’t all that easy to have in the office, either. Especially as there was a great deal of talk even internally. To put it briefly, Berg had had a little problem, and as so often before it was Waltin who had solved it for him. You can’t expect gratitude in this world, thought Waltin, while at the same time feeling more exhilarated than in a long time. And because Hedberg clearly was good enough to get a recalcitrant minister of justice (nowadays forgotten and removed from politics) under control, then he certainly was still good enough to get Berg to fall in line.
. . .
When Hedberg wanted to quit and Berg was about to end up in an acute phase of his chronic control mania, Waltin offered to shift Hedberg over to the external operation in order to see to it, under tranquil and well-controlled conditions, that he was kept in a good mood by using him as a so-called external consultant. Berg not only supported this, he thanked him warmly, and because Waltin, in contrast to his so-called boss, was no ordinary wooden head, he’d naturally seen about documenting his gratitude. It’ll work out, thought Waltin, and at the same moment the doorbell rang on his front door.
Outside stood Berg’s own stable boy—he saw that through the peephole—although just now he appeared more fat than terrifying, thought Waltin as he quickly checked his morning getup in the hall mirror before opening the door.
“The earlier in the day the finer the guests,” said Waltin tranquilly as he let the fat man onto his expensive rug. “What can I help you with, chief inspector?”
“Berg wants to talk with you,” said Persson curtly. Don’t put on airs, you stuck-up devil, he thought.
“What does he want?” said Waltin. Since he’s sending his fat household slave, he thought.
“You can take that up with him,” said Persson. You pompous little bastard, he thought.
“Has he forgotten to pay his phone bill?” asked Waltin innocently.
“Don’t know,” said Persson. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because he’s sending you, chief inspector,” said Waltin conciliatorily. “At this early hour.”
“Shall we go?” said Persson. Or should I drag you out, although I probably won’t have such good luck, he thought.
“Tell him that I’ll see him in his office in an hour,” said Waltin, holding the front door in a way that even someone like that ought to understand.
He evidently had too, for he only grunted something before he turned on his heel and left. And Waltin himself whistled under his breath while he stood in the shower and pondered how he would set the whole thing up. High time that he did something about little Jeanette too, he thought. He’d actually been neglecting her lately.
“You chose a preventive effort, you say,” said Berg, looking at the dandy sitting on the other side of his good-sized desk, pinching his eternal trouser creases.
“Not the hint of suspicion of a crime, products that can be purchased freely on the open market and that even the Russians might need. … So at that point I chose to inform the corporate executives and recommended a number of preventive measures to them,” Waltin summarized. Instead of injuring our exports, he thought.
“These crime-prevention measures,” said Berg. “What did they consist of?” He seems completely unmoved, Berg thought as he heard the alarm bells in his head start to ring. Faintly, to be sure, but nonetheless clearly enough.
“That it was probably best they move their employee, for his own sake if nothing else, and then I arranged it so they had contact with one of our external consultants, who helped them with an analysis and a security program—forward-directed preventive measures, quite simply. I don’t recall the details, but I’m assuming it was managed and invoiced in the customary way, and I definitely know that from the company’s side they were very satisfied with our efforts.” You should have seen the check they gave me, he thought.
“An external consultant?” asked Berg, although he ought to have listened to the alarm bells, for they were ringing louder now.
“You surely remember Hedberg, whom you asked me to take over a number of years ago,” said Waltin, smiling cordially. “An extraordinary person, as it turned out, even if at the time I no doubt felt a certain hesitation regarding your decision. Yes, considering his earlier difficulties, I mean,” said Waltin with the right worried smile. “So I was wrong, you were right,” said Waltin, allowing his well-manicured fingers to illustrate how wrong he’d been and how right his boss had been.
Hedberg, thought Berg, and now the alarm bells were booming in his head.
“Hedberg.” Waltin savored the name as though it were a fine wine. “I owe you a great debt of gratitude there, considering everything that man has helped us with over the years.” Not least with the Krassner case, he thought. He almost started to giggle out loud when he saw Berg’s face. I’ll wait to mention the Krassner case, he decided.
That’s enough now, thought Berg. That’s more than enough.
“There’s been a lot of talk, as you understand,” said Berg, exerting himself not to sound compliant.
“Yes, I can imagine that,” said Waltin empathetically, “and considering that Hedberg must have been completely innocent, I recall that you told me that the minister of justice at the time personally vouched for him, so it’s really rather frightful.” And let them talk, he thought, for the money I got neither you nor anyone else is going to find.
“I hope you weren’t offended,” said Berg. Does the trap feel like this when it closes? he thought. A week, at the most fourteen days until he had to inform Waltin that his operation would be shut down. Waltin, who certainly would not hesitate for a second to strike back and use Hedberg and his story against him.
“Certainly not,” said Waltin with conviction, smiling with his white teeth. “I think your questions were completely legitimate, and considering that it’s your old protégé Hedberg who has helped us, then I hope that you understand that everything has been managed in the best way.” For now the shit has finally hit the right fan, and considering the context, that was probably an unusually apt description, thought Waltin.
Enough, thought Berg. And the alarm bells were thundering so it was impossible to even think.
“I understand what you mean,” said Berg. What do I do now? he thought.
A little over a week at the new job and Johansson had never felt so frustrated in his entire professional life. He’d of course been aware that he would no longer be working as a police officer. It was the price you had to pay if you wanted to advance, and Johansson could actually imagine life as a high-level bureaucrat. He was good at getting people to feel comfortable and do their part and see to it that there was order in existence, even within the police department. But unfortunately that wasn’t what he was working on. He’d become clear about that after a few days, and there was nothing that even suggested a different, and better, future. During the week that had passed he’d only worked on reassigning bad police officers to higher positions with the help of their extraordinary ratings, and arranging it so that good police officers got to quit early because they’d already had enough. One of them he remembered from his time with the surveillance squad. An officer fifteen years his senior, who not only was a real policeman, but who had gladly shared with a young and inexperienced Lars Martin. Johansson called him up and asked him out to lunch. If for nothing else than to get to see him and see what ha
d happened, and—if nothing had happened after all—to try to persuade him to stay.
“It wasn’t yesterday,” said Johansson, nodding with warmth toward his older colleague. He looks a hell of a lot friskier than I do, he thought enviously.
The officer had clearly made the same observation, for their lunch had started with the obligatory joke about all the superintendent muscles that were swelling around Johansson’s waist nowadays.
“You crossed my desk the other day,” said Johansson. “Saw that you were thinking about quitting.”
“And then you got the idea that you could convince me to stay,” declared his older colleague.
“Yes, you see,” said Johansson, smiling, “despite your advanced age you appear both clear and energetic.”
“That’s not the problem,” said his lunch guest, shaking his head. “Do you know why I became a policeman?”
“Because you knew that you could become a good policeman,” said Johansson, who already sensed what was going to come.
“Because I wanted to put crooks in the slammer so ordinary decent people could live in peace.”
“Who doesn’t want that?” said Johansson, and suddenly he felt gloomier than in a long time.
“I didn’t for Christ’s sake become a policeman to sit for days on end filling out forms that I stuff into a binder,” declared the older man with a certain intensity.
Me neither, thought Johansson. I became a policeman because I wanted to be a policeman, not because I wanted to become head of the personnel bureau of the National Police Board.
“How’s it going for you, by the way?” asked his guest. “I guess you’ll soon have more binders to put things in than anyone else on this sinking ship.”
And then they proceeded to talk about old times.
The only bright spot in Johansson’s existence was the lively debate that had broken out on the personnel bureau’s bulletin board over the fact that the Stockholm chief constable was nowadays swinging his pen with his visor lowered. When Johansson returned from his unsuccessful lunch mission he took a look at the latest contributions.
There was a little of everything, from various commentaries and suggestions arising from the chief constable’s problematic living situation to mixed literary viewpoints: “It can’t be fun to live like that” declared “A concerned colleague,” while the contribution from “Unlicensed real-estate agent within the corps” was both clear and constructive: “I can arrange a studio in Sumpan for you off the books for just twenty-five bills so you don’t have to spend the night on your windowsill.”
Police humor is crude without exactly being warm, thought Johansson, proceeding to the literary portion: “This year’s Nobel Prize winner?” speculated the pseudonym “I write too in my free time” while “Poetess in a blue uniform” was more to the point in her appreciation: “Write more! Release my longing! Slake my thirst!” Even a completely innocent Johansson was included in one corner as “Old Man from Ådalen.”
Oh well, thought Johansson, sighing as he settled down behind his even bigger desk, despite the fact that the one he’d had before had been more than large enough.
It was considerably worse for himself. In a formal sense he was still a policeman, and if he was doubtful on that point he only needed to dig his police ID out of his pocket and look at it. A small national coat of arms in yellow and blue, the word “Police” in red block letters, and the only thing that might confuse a badass was possibly his highly suspect title “Bureau Head.” Although on the other hand they never did look very carefully, and when by the way would he have an opportunity to flash it, for this was actually only a friendly gesture from his employers’ side to keep him, and people like him, in a good mood.
Already the object of social therapeutic measures, thought Johansson, and that was when he decided. High time to clean up Krassner, he thought, taking the government office telephone book off its shelf. Next highest up on the first page, thought Johansson, and with a longer title than anyone else in all of Rosenbad. “Special adviser at the disposition of the prime minister,” he read, and he dialed the number.
Not completely unexpectedly, it was the special adviser’s secretary who answered his telephone.
“My name is Lars Johansson,” said Johansson. “I’m bureau head at the National Police Board. I would like to speak with your boss.” An extra lot of Norrland in his voice, however that might have happened, he thought.
“I’ll see if he’s in,” said the secretary neutrally. “One moment.”
Do that, thought Johansson, silently sighing, and to be on the safe side check that he hasn’t hidden under his desk. And then he answered.
“We’ve only met in passing,” said Johansson, “but now the matter is such that I would like to meet you again.”
“I remember, I remember,” said the voice in Johansson’s telephone, and he could picture him, poured out in an easy chair and with the heavy eyelids at half-mast. “It was an interesting discussion we had.”
“Yes,” said Johansson. And you aren’t going to be any happier this time, he thought.
“You don’t want to say what it concerns?”
“There are a number of papers that I want to unload,” said Johansson. “It’s a long story and I’m not calling on official business.”
“Yes?”
“They’re about your boss,” said Johansson. But it’s clear, just say the word so I can heave them over to the colleagues at SePo, he thought.
“You have a hard time talking about it on the phone?” asked the special adviser.
“No,” said Johansson, “but I thought it would be best if I came over so we could deal with this privately.”
“Now I’m getting really curious,” said the special adviser. “You don’t want to …”
“There are greetings to your boss from Fionn,” Johansson interrupted.
“One moment,” said the special adviser, “just one second.”
It took longer than that, more than two minutes, but then things progressed rapidly, and less than an hour later Johansson was sitting across from the special adviser in his office on the eighth floor at Rosenbad.
He’s his usual self, thought Johansson. Although the smile on his lips was friendlier than the last time. An interesting smile.
“It concerns these papers,” said Johansson, pushing across the bundle with Krassner’s manuscript and documentation.
The special adviser nodded amiably but without even a hint of a movement in the direction of the papers he’d just been offered.
“I received them without having asked for them,” said Johansson. “It’s a long, involved story that, moreover, I don’t intend to go into.”
The special adviser nodded again.
“I’ve read them, naturally,” said Johansson. “They deal with your boss. A few of the papers he’s even written himself, and because I haven’t received them as part of my job and I have no reason to suspect him of any crime, I thought that you could give them to him. I think it’s really not my department,” said Johansson.
“You want to relieve yourself of a worry,” said the special adviser understandingly.
“Because it isn’t my worry,” said Johansson. “And if someone else wants to worry about it, I don’t intend to get involved.”
“I understand,” said the special adviser, nodding.
“I’ve written a little memorandum on the whole thing,” said Johansson, handing over the short summary that he’d written on his brother’s typewriter, without signing it.
. . .
Obviously he’d thrown away the ink ribbon and the typing element, so his brother’s electric typewriter would be of no help if someone happened to think of that.
“If you don’t have any questions then I can wait while you read it,” said Johansson.
“If you don’t have anything against it,” said his host. “Perhaps you’d like more coffee after all?”
Experienced reader that he was it had only taken him f
ive minutes, and when he was done there were two things he had noted in particular. Forselius had clearly been right all along, and Berg’s judgment of Johansson seemed to fit to a tee.
“Are you certain that SePo killed him?” asked the special adviser.
“Not SePo,” said Johansson, shaking his head. “I believe their operative landed in a situation he wasn’t able to handle and so he killed him and then solved his own problems by feigning a suicide.”
“In that case that’s shocking,” observed the special adviser, without showing any particular feelings. “In that case they’ve made themselves guilty of a murder,” he continued.
“Not they, but he,” said Johansson. “My colleagues have written it off as a suicide, and the only reason they’ve done that is that they’re convinced it was one. And should this person not appear and confess, then I see no possibility at all of opening a preliminary investigation into the case. All possible evidence of anything else is unfortunately already gone.”
And what you’ve gotten from me isn’t sufficient for that in any case, he thought.
“Do you know who the operative is?” asked the special adviser.
“Not the faintest idea,” said Johansson. “You’ll have to ask SePo about that.” Then you’ll have to see if they answer, thought Johansson.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” said the special adviser. “Your colleagues have written off the case as a suicide, from conviction you say, and there is no evidence whatsoever that might give support to suspicion of anything else, not the least reason to open a preliminary investigation. You can’t even open a preliminary investigation, if I’ve understood the matter correctly.”
“Quite correct, couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Johansson, smiling.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End Page 52
