‘I’m sorry,’ Ulrika Stenholm said, and looked like she meant it. ‘I really shouldn’t be bothering you . . .’
‘Never mind that now,’ Johansson said. ‘This informant, the woman who spoke to your dad, the one who knew who killed Yasmine . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s her name? The informant, I mean.’
‘I don’t know, he never said. He wasn’t allowed to say. Dad had his oath of confidentiality, after all.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Johansson said. What the hell is she saying? he thought. ‘When did she tell your dad this, then?’ he went on. ‘The informant, I mean.’
‘As I understand it, it was a year or so after Yasmine was murdered. It can’t have been after the summer of 1989, because that’s when Dad retired. Reading between the lines of what he said, I understood that she was an elderly lady who was a member of his congregation. And that she told him because she was seriously ill – that was why she was making confession.’
‘But you don’t know her name? This woman? No idea at all?’
‘No, no idea.’
‘How do you know she was telling the truth, then? Maybe she was just a bit crazy. Or wanted to make herself more interesting. That sort of thing isn’t unusual, you know.’
‘Well, my dad believed her. He was a wise, thoughtful man. And he’d heard a few things over the years, so he wasn’t easily fooled.’
‘So did your dad tell you that she told him who did it, then?’
‘No, he didn’t say. Not to me, anyway.’
‘It wasn’t her husband or her son, a relative, a neighbour, workmate? Someone she knew? No clues of that sort?’
‘No. But I’m fairly sure she told my dad. Who’d done it, I mean.’
‘So how did she know? That this individual had actually done it?’
‘Don’t know. I just know that Dad believed her, and it caused him a lot of anguish.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Johansson said. ‘Tell me what happened when your dad told you.’ Let’s take this from the start, he thought. Or what was your start, anyway.
The former vicar of the parish of Bromma, Åke Stenholm, had died of cancer at the age of eighty-five early in December the previous year. In his final days his daughter was with him more or less the whole time. His wife, Ulrika’s mother, had been dead ten years, and her father’s relationship with Ulrika’s older sister was poor. They hadn’t been speaking to each other over the previous few years. His daughter Ulrika was the only person he was really close to. As well as being his beloved daughter.
He had spent most of the last few days of his life asleep. Heavily medicated to ease his pain. But two days before he died he had been fully conscious for several hours, and that was when he had told her.
‘He started by telling me he hadn’t taken his pills for that precise reason. That he wanted to be right in the head – that was how he put it, right in the head – so he would be able to talk to me.’
‘I see,’ Johansson said. ‘Was that all?’
‘Yes,’ Ulrika Stenholm conceded. ‘I can understand that you don’t think it’s much to go on. Even if the case wasn’t prescribed, I mean.’
‘Nonsense,’ Johansson said. ‘There’s one thing you need to know, Ulrika: if you’re going to investigate a murder, you take things as you find them. There’s no point moaning about how hard it is and how little you know, rubbish like that. No proper police officer would waste time on that. Make the most of what you’ve got, that’s the point.’
‘Yes, but it’s not—’
‘Don’t start arguing,’ Johansson interrupted. ‘Let’s sum up what we’ve got instead. And make a note of this.’
Ulrika Stenholm nodded and sat ready with the pen and notepad.
‘In December last year, just before he dies, your father tells you what an elderly female parishioner once told him. Some twenty years earlier, just a couple of years after Yasmine’s murder, under the seal of the confessional, and when she herself is about to die. Is that correct?’ ‘Under the seal of the confessional’ – not bad, Johansson thought.
‘Yes,’ Ulrika Stenholm agreed.
‘Nothing else that you can recall?’
‘No,’ Ulrika Stenholm said.
‘Okay,’ Johansson said. ‘Well, we really are going to have to make the most of this. Just so you’re clear.’
‘I realize that. But there was one thing that struck me, the very first morning I saw you. The day after you were admitted.’
‘I’m listening,’ Johansson said.
‘This story didn’t only torment my dad, it’s been troubling me as well. Especially recently, what with everything that’s been in the paper. And then all of a sudden you show up here . . .’
‘And?’
‘My father had a very strong faith.’
‘That sounds practical. Considering that he was a priest, I mean,’ Johansson said.
‘And I suppose I’m a bit like that, like he was, but not as much as Dad, I have to admit. Do you know what Dad would have said?’
‘No,’ Johansson said. How the fuck would I know that? he thought.
‘He always said it, when strange things happened. Odd coincidences and so on, things you couldn’t explain. Good and bad alike.’
‘I’m still listening,’ Johansson said.
‘Dad used to say that the Lord moves in mysterious ways.’
‘You’ll have to forgive me, but that sounds like blasphemy to me.’ All of a sudden it had happened again. He was elated, instantly. His headache had completely gone.
‘How do you mean?’
‘The idea that the Lord would have sent you a former police officer, unconscious with a blood clot in his tiny little head, to help you get to grips with a twenty-five-year-old murder. Which just happens to be prescribed already because it was, sadly, a couple of weeks too old to be covered by the new law.’ When you thought about it, that was pretty much the only piquant aspect of the whole story, Johansson thought.
Ulrika Stenholm, doctor and neurologist, forty-four years old, even if she didn’t look a day over forty, hadn’t moved her head at all.
‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways,’ she repeated.
‘My problem is that I can no longer see around corners,’ Johansson said. ‘I can barely work out where I am, if I’m honest. Some things I don’t remember at all. The other day it took me an hour to remember what my daughter-in-law’s name is. I get cross, sad and happy in a flash, all muddled up, without knowing why. I say strange things, and I swear like a trooper. This murder you’re talking about, little Yasmine – I don’t remember it at all. To be honest, I haven’t got the slightest memory of it, not a thing.’
‘That’s because of what you’ve been through,’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘It happens to everyone in your position, you know. And let me tell you . . .’
Johansson shook his head.
‘Because we’re dealing with you here, I’m pretty confident that it will pass.’
‘My arm as well?’ Johansson said. Best to make the most of this, he thought.
‘Your arm as well,’ Dr Stenholm said, and nodded.
Then she stood up, nodded again and patted his good arm.
‘Look after yourself now,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow.’
It was only when she had already left the room that he remembered. The first of all the obvious professional tricks that someone had erased from his head.
‘Fuck!’ Johansson yelled. ‘Come back, woman!’
‘Yes,’ she said, standing by his bed again.
‘Your dad,’ Johansson said. ‘He must have left loads of papers and notes when he died.’ Old priests were quite phenomenal when it came to collecting stacks of paper.
‘Boxloads.’ Ulrika Stenholm said.
‘See if you can find anything, then,’ Johansson said. Because I’m not going to look for you, he thought.
Then she left, and she was barely out of the door before he fell asleep. The man who had once been
able to see around corners, Johansson thought, just before Hypnos grabbed hold of his good arm and led him gently into the darkness. Luring him with the green poppy seedhead he was holding in his slender white hand.
10
Wednesday afternoon, 14 July
In his prime, Lars Martin Johansson was known among his colleagues as ‘the man who could see around corners’, as well as a walking encyclopaedia when it came to violent crime. As soon as his associates came across an old case they couldn’t place, they would start by asking Johansson. That usually saved a lot of time in front of a computer for the person in question, and Johansson was normally able to help, willingly, happy to be asked, and careful and thorough in his answers. He also had an uncanny ability to remember numbers and was often able to recall the case numbers of the investigation a colleague in need was looking for.
Now something had happened inside his head. He could live with the fact that he had forgotten the name of his only son’s second wife. Besides, he had remembered after a while.
The fact that he was unable to remember the murder of Yasmine, apparently only nine years old when she was raped and strangled, was considerably more serious. That it had taken place twenty-five years ago only made matters worse. He was often able to remember murders from that time, from the prime of his career, better than those that had occurred later, and he was able to remember the most notable of them down to the smallest details.
Serious anxiety, almost angst, then – not because he had forgotten Yasmine’s murder but because of what must have happened inside his head.
First he thought of calling for the nurse and asking for an extra tablet. One of those ones that made him feel detached, that increased the distance between him and whatever was bothering him and made him stop caring. As if it, whatever it was, were nothing to do with him any more.
But not this time.
‘Pull yourself together,’ Johansson said out loud to himself. Go on the internet and have a look, he thought. The simplest solution was that his little squirrel had got most of it muddled up and that was why he couldn’t remember Yasmine’s murder. He thought, took an instant decision, but then things started to go seriously wrong.
Problems, problems, problems. Getting the laptop from the bedside table, putting it in front of him on the bed, opening the lid, switching it on, all with his left hand, having a right hand that was only in the way. Then, once he had got that far, realizing he had forgotten his password. The same password he hadn’t had any problem with that morning, before that nightmare of a doctor had come into his room and complicated his life. Now he could no longer use his own computer. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with already.
Nevertheless, he made a number of attempts. He could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead, his head started to ache, his chest felt tight. It got worse each time he was denied access to his own computer. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Johansson thought, and it wasn’t the change in his language that was bothering him now. Then he called Pia. She was in a meeting but answered straight away because it was him ringing, and made no effort to hide the anxiety in her voice.
‘Lars, has something happened?’ she asked.
‘I’ve forgotten my password,’ Johansson said.
‘Your password?’
‘The password for the bloody computer,’ Johansson explained.
‘God, you gave me a fright!’ Pia said.
‘My password,’ Johansson repeated. For God’s sake, woman, he thought, the first time he had ever thought anything like that about Pia. The first time since he met her more than twenty years ago.
‘I’ve got it written down at home,’ Pia said. ‘You can have it when I see you this evening. I don’t know it off the top of my head.’
‘For God’s sake, woman!’ Johansson yelled. ‘Is it really so fucking hard to remember a pissing computer password?’ In an instant, he was unreasonably furious with the person he loved more than everyone and everything.
‘Lars, you’ve never shouted at me before. This isn’t you, Lars. We both know why, but please, don’t shout at me.’
His throat tightened. That only took a second as well.
‘Sorry,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m sorry, darling.’
Then he ended the call, but not quickly enough, because tears were already running down his cheeks.
He wiped his face on the sheet, and the fact that his laptop fell off the bed didn’t bother him in the slightest. It might as well lie on the floor until someone came in and picked it up for him. Then he took three deep breaths, picked up his mobile and called his best friend. Easy enough, because he was on speed-dial, and Johansson was able to manage perfectly with just his left hand and thumb for once.
‘Jarnebring,’ Jarnebring said on the second ring.
‘Hello, Bo,’ Johansson said. ‘It’s me.’
‘Christ! That’s cheered me up! How are you? You sound pretty perky.’
‘I was wondering if I could ask a favour,’ Johansson said. ‘You’ve got a key to my house. Could you call in and check the password for my laptop? There’s a note of it in that secret place, you know . . .’
‘No problem,’ Jarnebring said. ‘See you in an hour.’
‘I’m fine, by the way,’ Johansson said. ‘Like a pig in shit.’
‘Yes, you sound pretty alert. And you’re not slurring or stammering.’
‘Never felt better,’ Johansson declared. A thought had just struck him, a very pleasant one, compared to everything else that struck him these days. And not too much of a stretch: a real bonus. Not like having a stroke because of your dodgy heart.
‘There was one other thing. While you’re in the flat, grab a bottle of vodka, then if you could stop off on the way, at Günter’s, you know, and get me a large bratwurst with sauerkraut and mustard. Don’t bother getting a drink to go with it, I’ve got that here.’
‘You do sound kind of thirsty,’ Jarnebring concurred. ‘Weird food in those places, so I’ve heard.’
‘Can you manage that?’
‘Do bears shit in the woods?’ Jarnebring said. ‘Sausage, password, vodka, sauerkraut. See you in an hour!’
My best friend, Johansson thought. But he wasn’t about to start crying. Instead he made himself comfortable in bed. He even managed to fold his hands on his stomach in a reasonably sensible way. No headache, no anger, no anxiety. Peace, Johansson thought. Finally, some sort of peace for a restless hunter like me.
That was how things progressed for Johansson. That was how it started up again for his best friend, Bo Jarnebring. After the first time, twenty-five years ago.
II
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth …
Book of Exodus, 21:24
11
Wednesday afternoon, 14 July
Jarnebring looked the same as usual. He stopped in the doorway to Johansson’s room, assessed its security with his eyes, then occupied it in a purely physical sense. As if he were on a raid of a drug den. Only then did he come over to the bed and sit down beside Johansson. He smiled and shook his head.
‘You look fucking awful, Lars,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Mind you, you look a lot more awake than I was expecting,’ he added quickly when he realized what he had just said.
There’s something that isn’t right, Johansson thought. Something missing. Something that could hardly be inside the large brown bag that Jarnebring had put down next to the bed. And Jarnebring smelled of aftershave. Nothing but aftershave. Not like someone who had just been to Günter’s.
‘Where the hell’s my sausage?’ Johansson asked in an accusing voice.
‘Look, Lars,’ Jarnebring said, leaning forward and grabbing his shoulder with his large hand and squeezing him hard. ‘You’re my best friend. I’m fucking glad you’re still alive, you know.’
‘Same here,’ Johansson said. ‘So where the hell’s my sausage?’ And my vodka, he thought.
‘Here.’ Jarnebring emptied the contents of the brown bag on the bed. ‘Apples, pears, oranges, banana
s – I even got you some chocolate, that healthy stuff with nothing but cocoa.’
‘No sausage.’
‘No sausage, and no vodka either,’ Jarnebring confirmed. ‘If you want to kill yourself, you’ll have to do it on your own. I’m not going to help you. But I have got the password for your computer, like you asked. And as soon as you sort yourself out and get out of here, I’m going to personally carry you down to my gym so we can knock you into shape.’
‘Thanks a lot for all your help. With friends like you, who needs enemies?’
‘Stop moaning,’ Jarnebring said. ‘You’re not the only one having a rough time. Pia hasn’t had a great time, you know. Nor me. On Monday evening last week, when you ended up here, some moron from Aftonbladet called and said you’d been shot in the stomach and were in intensive care. I was sitting out in the garden, relaxing with my wife, my sister and brother-in-law, drinking a nice chilled pilsner. Enjoying life as a pensioner, and then that idiot phones, claiming you’ve been shot and are on the way out. Wondered if I’d like to make a comment.’
‘And did you?’
‘I told him to go to hell. Then I called the Pit and asked if they knew anything. And there I got hold of another simpleton – a fellow officer, no less, whoever the fuck would recruit someone like him and put him in Central Control. Anyway, he says that all he knows is that the lads from the rapid-response unit said over the radio that they were taking you to A&E at the Karolinska because it was evidently too fucking urgent to wait for a proper ambulance. It’s hardly surprising I was worried. So I got on the phone again, but the doctors refused to tell me anything and Pia’s number was engaged the whole time, so obviously I got even more worried.’
‘You haven’t had an easy time of it,’ Johansson said.
‘No,’ Jarnebring said. ‘It wasn’t easy, but just as I was about to get in the car, in spite of those three or four beers, to drive to the Karolinska and say goodbye to you, one of my old mates called and told me what was going on. He was one of the ones who drove you in. We’re still in touch.’
The Dying Detective Page 4
