Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

by Leif Gw Persson

  During the years that followed Berg devoted hundreds of hours to ransacking his consciousness. Honestly, sincerely, and ruthlessly he tried to recall down to the smallest detail what he’d done, said, and thought during the days in question that would change his life as well. He obviously remembered the short meeting with Waltin, as well as the reason that Waltin had dropped by his office. In order to deliver a bundle of papers that, it was true, were classified at the highest level of secrecy, but in any case had nothing to do with what happened later. That was all, and there wasn’t anything more.

  When Hedberg showed up in the apartment at Gärdet he was late. It was going on seven-thirty and Waltin had waited for half an hour and more or less given up on the idea he’d been thinking about. Whatever it was, thought Waltin in his usual superficial way, but just at that moment Hedberg put the key in the lock.

  “Unfortunately I have to cancel our little meeting,” said Waltin, “but we were through with each other for the most part anyway.”

  “That’s okay with me,” said Hedberg, shrugging his shoulders. Perhaps I should stop by Café Opera and see if there’s anything worth screwing, he thought. It’s actually been a while.

  “I heard a funny thing at the office an hour ago,” said Waltin. Just in passing like that, he thought, so we’ll have to see if there’s anyone who’ll rise to the bait.

  “Yes?”

  “Our mutual acquaintance seems to have phoned and canceled his bodyguards. He’s supposed to be going to a movie with his wife. In the middle of town on a Friday evening after payday when there are thirteen drunks to the dozen,” said Waltin, smiling.

  “The Swedes are a patient people,” declared Hedberg. “I’m sure he’s figured that out. Kept in the dark and put up with just about anything.”

  “Unfortunately that’s how it is,” sighed Waltin.

  “Does he still live there?” said Hedberg suddenly.

  “Yes,” said Waltin as he looked at the expensive watch that he’d stolen while dear Mother was still alive and he himself was far too young to be able to use it. “Yes, he still lives there.

  “From one thing to another,” said Waltin as he stood up. “Because I’m forced to close down, I bought some goodies and put them in the fridge. If there should be anything left over, just leave it so I can take care of it tomorrow after you’ve gone. I was thinking about stopping by anyway.”

  “It’ll work out,” said Hedberg.

  . . .

  As soon as Waltin had left, Hedberg went out to the kitchen and took out the plastic bag with mixed delicacies that Waltin had placed in the fridge. The revolver was under a foil container from the Östermalm market with prepared veal burgers, cream gravy, small green peas, and mashed potatoes.

  Who the hell does he take me for? thought Hedberg crossly as he weighed it in his hand. Buffalo Bill?

  Then he looked at his watch and it was almost eight, so perhaps there wasn’t so much to think about, but since he’d planned to go into town anyway he might just as well take a look past Old Town where the traitor lived.

  CHAPTER XX

  For a great and noble cause

  Stockholm, February 28–March 1

  Taking a taxi to Old Town was out of the question. Regardless of the fact that he was short on time, it would have to be the subway. Running to catch the train was out of the question too, so he’d missed the first, and when he finally arrived at Old Town it was eight-thirty and he’d already decided to give up the whole project and take a swing into town and do something else instead. He could always toss the antiquity that Waltin had slipped him into Strömmen, for it was hardly something he wanted to carry around with him, much less leave at the coat check if he went to a bar.

  It’ll have to be a brisk walk, thought Hedberg, and when he strode out of the subway the first thing he saw was them, walking straight toward him from the alley. Almost a hundred yards, and they hadn’t seen him, in any event, so he turned on his heels and went back up onto the platform. A rather risk-free long shot, for if they were going to the movies it was probably at Hötorget or Rådmansgatan, and if it should turn out that he was wrong then he would have to live with that too.

  The alley would have been perfect, he thought, but now it was the way it was and then there were other conditions that applied: keeping his distance and hoping for luck. So he jumped onto the train that had just come in, even though he knew they wouldn’t make it. He rode past the central station, but at Hötorget he got off and positioned himself on the platform, pretending to read the newspaper while he was waiting. He had a fool’s good luck, for when the next train pulled in there were enough passengers where they were sitting that he would be able to melt into the crowd.

  Being in the same car was naturally out of the question. Instead he took a chance again, got into another one, and was among the first to get off at Rådmansgatan. Because he’d devoted hundreds of hours to shadowing people he wasn’t the type to follow them if he had the choice. He went out onto the street ahead of them, and as soon as he was certain that they were going to the Grand Cinema he went into the lobby and placed himself in the ticket line for a film that plenty of people would see but not them. Wrong film for people like them, and as soon as he was sure which film they would see instead he left. He already knew when their movie would end, for he’d got that from the poster in the lobby, so he didn’t even need to slink past a well-stocked newsstand to check it in a newspaper. And he obviously never even considered asking the cashier.

  He didn’t consider hanging around outside the cinema for two hours, either. That it was bitterly cold was uninteresting, for his job was to keep his distance and minimize risk, and the price of that was that he had to take a chance. So again he took a chance. Took the chance that they would watch the movie to the end, for people like that usually did; took the chance that they would then head home; and took the chance that they would take the subway, for they usually did that too.

  If he really was going to shoot someone, he didn’t intend to do it on an empty stomach. He hadn’t eaten a thing all day. So he slipped into a Chinese restaurant on Drottninggatan, with just enough people, just drunk enough and occupied with themselves, and no coat check where he needed to hang his jacket. Then he ate and read the newspaper in peace and quiet. Paid cash, gave a respectable tip, and left the place with enough time, not too early and not too late. And exactly like the first time, when he saw them it was at a distance of a little less than a hundred yards, and they were walking at a brisk pace straight toward him.

  Unfortunately they were walking on the wrong side of the street. On the west side of the street along Adolf Fredrik’s cemetery and in the direction of Kungsgatan, a lot of people were moving in both directions and there was no question of getting anything accomplished there. He had just decided to hurry down into the subway, ride ahead of them to Old Town, and wait for them in the alley where he’d seen them the first time, when he had a fool’s luck again. For suddenly they crossed Sveavägen and walked up to a shop window, and on that side of the street there was hardly a soul. It’s almost enough to give you religion, thought Hedberg, crossing and positioning himself on the same side of the street at the corner of Tunnelgatan.

  This is too good to be true, he thought. A dark little cross street with construction trailers and narrow passageways and a number of escape routes to choose from, right close by. If it had been his to choose, this was exactly where he would have arranged to encounter them. For what he intended to do there was no place better, and for them there was no place worse. So he waited for them while he pretended to look in the shop window, and when they were passing him he just walked up behind them, pulled the revolver from the right pocket of his jacket, cocking the trigger with the same motion, placed his left hand on the traitor’s shoulder, and fired a loud and almost point-blank shot right down the edge of his collar.

  His legs just folded up and he fell headlong to the street on his face. Dead, thought Hedberg, for he knew from experi
ence, even though he’d never shot a man in his entire life.

  And at the next second he backed up a step in order to get a better firing line, cocked the trigger with his thumb since the weapon was sluggish, aimed at the same place on the upper-class whore that the traitor had been married to, and fired again. She sank down on her knees with a sagging head and eyes that didn’t seem to see. And presumably she must have twisted at the very moment that he fired, just when the flare from the muzzle blinded him, because he hit her in the lung and not in the spinal column where he’d aimed.

  He was content to look at her for a few seconds, for in a minute at the most she would be dead, and in any event by then he intended to be somewhere else. Then he turned and because it was icy and slippery he ran straddle-legged and jogged along the stone border between the street and the sidewalk, and as he ran toward the stairs up to Döbelnsgatan he put the revolver back in his jacket pocket.

  For a great and noble cause, he thought, and he couldn’t have said it better himself.

  When he came up onto Döbelnsgatan he stopped running, crossed the street at a normal pace, and continued straight along down the hill. At Regeringsgatan he turned right and took the stairs down to Kungsgatan, and as he was walking down toward Stureplan and the subway and saw all the people around him he knew that the flock gave him all the protection he needed and that he’d already gotten away. When he stepped into the apartment at Gärdet the time was only ten minutes to twelve. He took off his shoes and all his clothes and put them in an ordinary black plastic garbage bag, on top of which he set the revolver, and then he carried the sack out to the kitchen and placed it next to the refrigerator.

  After that he showered and washed his hair, and when he’d rinsed off all the lather he did the same thing over again, letting the hot water run the whole time. Only after that had he gone to bed. He hadn’t thought about anything in particular, and he fell asleep almost immediately.

  The next morning he took a taxi to the airport bus and the airport bus to Arlanda, and if there were policemen out chasing a murderer they weren’t at Arlanda, in any event. For once his plane took off on time, and when he landed in Palma it was almost seventy degrees, and for the first time since he’d moved there it felt like coming home.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Falling free, as in a dream

  Stockholm, February 28–March 1

  Oredsson and Stridh had been standing at the hot-dog stand down by Roslagstull when the roof came crashing down on their heads. Stridh had gone crazy, asking on the radio if they should attempt to cordon off the main road at Roslagstull themselves while waiting for reinforcements, but instead they were ordered to drive to the crime scene and help out with the practical aspects.

  What is happening? thought Oredsson, while they drove down Sveavägen toward the city center with spinning blue lights. He didn’t understand a thing, and if this was the beginning of something bigger that he and his comrades were part of, shouldn’t he have heard something?

  “This is complete madness,” Stridh hissed. “What will we be doing there? Someone has to cordon off the main roads. Even that drunkard down in the pit must understand that!”

  He seems completely crazy; must be a social democrat, thought Oredsson.

  When they finally arrived there were police and ordinary civilians everywhere, and everyone was running around like headless chickens. First they helped set up a cordoned-off area, but as people were in the way the whole time—it had to be done quickly—it wasn’t a very large one. It actually turned out roughly like a sheep pen—in any event, it was the smallest cordoned-off area he’d seen, thought Oredsson. And after that they just remained standing there while waiting for further instructions.

  Because it was Friday evening and Bäckström was still behind on his finances, he had as usual been slaving at the after-hours unit, and when the alarm was sounded he understood immediately that this was the great moment in his life, and before anyone had gotten other ideas on his behalf he’d thrown on his coat and driven down to the crime scene. For where else should an old experienced homicide detective like him be?

  Unlike everyone else, Bäckström also tried to get a few things done. First he took a peek at all the ordinary citizens who were in the general vicinity to check out if he saw anyone remotely suspicious, but they all just looked completely down in the mouth, and a few old ladies had even turned on the waterworks, whatever good that would do. Then they started chucking flowers inside the cordoned-off area (God knows where they’d gotten hold of them at this time of day), and then he trotted down to Tunnelgatan to get a little peace and quiet and see if he could find any tracks or anything else interesting. There were God help me tracks everywhere. Must be a millipede that shot him, Bäckström thought, grinning.

  Then he expanded his investigations and took the opportunity to chow down a sausage with mashed potatoes at the stand on Sveavägen, and when he came back the Chimney Sweep himself was just getting out of a taxi along with that little fairy Wiijnbladh, and because he didn’t have anything better to do he went up and said hello to them.

  “How’s it going?” said Bäckström.

  “Under control,” said the Chimney Sweep, who was a stuck-up bastard.

  Kiss my ass, thought Bäckström.

  “The chief and I are standing here, analyzing the situation,” said Wiijnbladh, who was an ingratiating bastard.

  And I’m on my way to the Nobel dinner, thought Bäckström.

  “What have you come up with, then?” said Bäckström smoothly. This will be fun, he thought.

  “That the crime scene obviously leaves a great deal to be desired,” said the Chimney Sweep haughtily.

  And what were you intending to do about it? thought Bäckström.

  “So unfortunately there’s not really much we can do,” sighed Wiijnbladh, shaking his head in distress.

  Sure, and it’s damn cold too, thought Bäckström. And who doesn’t want to come in out of the cold?

  Then they got into a taxi and drove away, but because he was a real policeman he hitched a ride with a patrol car that happened to be passing by.

  “Good that you came, Bäckström,” said the boss as soon as he stepped inside the door. “We have a tipster who’s contacted us, but she refuses to talk with anyone other than you.” The boss handed over a telephone message slip.

  “It’ll work out,” said Bäckström, heaving a large manly sigh. Seems to be a reasonable woman, thought Bäckström. Certainly someone he’d screwed, even if he didn’t remember the name.

  “How was it down at the crime scene, by the way?” asked the boss.

  “Heavy,” said Bäckström. “This can get heavy. Really heavy.”

  Then he got coffee, closed the door behind him, and called up the female tipster with the good judgment.

  “Am I speaking with Chief Inspector Bäckström?” she hissed excitedly.

  “Yes, it’s me,” said Bäckström with manly confidence. Just a matter of time, he thought.

  “We met on Christmas Eve,” she whispered. “I was the one who was raped by my old boyfriend.”

  This is God help me not true, thought Bäckström, moaning to himself. That fucking Lapp owl who ratted out her poor guy. The one who had that priceless dartboard with the victim on it, thought Bäckström. Too damn bad he hadn’t taken it with him after all. Now it would be worth a lot.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” said Bäckström curtly, “but I’m sitting here with—”

  “Good Lord,” she whispered. “He’s the one who’s murdered him. I don’t know what to do.”

  What the hell is she saying? thought Bäckström.

  “Murdered who?” asked Bäckström.

  “The prime minister,” she whispered.

  She is, God help me, off her rocker, thought Bäckström, but then he suddenly thought about the dartboard, so he didn’t say that.

  “Why do you think that?” he asked.

  “Good Lord,” she said dejectedly. “He�
��s been planning to do it as long as I’ve known him.”

  “Do you know if he has access to weapons?” Bäckström asked carefully.

  “Weapons, he has lots of weapons,” she whispered.

  This might be worth checking out, thought Bäckström, and since the after-hours unit mostly resembled the locked ward at a psychiatric hospital, he borrowed a service vehicle and drove to her place.

  She lived in a messy little apartment on the south end, but he’d figured that out from the start. On the other hand, what she had to say didn’t sound so stupid. Her old boyfriend, the one with the dartboard, was evidently a mean devil when it came down to it, and he had evidently hated the prime minister and then some. She mostly whispered and sniffled and snuffled, but they always did that, so it was no surprise.

  “You said that he had weapons,” Bäckström reminded her.

  “Yes, he showed me one time.”

  “What were they?” asked Bäckström. “Do you remember that?”

  “It was one of those like they have in western movies. One of those cowboy pistols.”

  What do you say? thought Bäckström, feeling the excitement rising, for before he’d left the after-hours unit he’d heard that one of the eyewitnesses from the crime scene had maintained that the perpetrator had fired a revolver.

  “You mean a revolver,” said Bäckström.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “A revolver, it was one of those.”

  Doesn’t look good for the damn dart-thrower, thought Bäckström contentedly, for soon he would have a real pro breathing down his neck. Not good at all, he thought.