The Dying Detective

by Leif G. W. Persson

  His reply arrived by fax the same day he received the package containing the sample and the request from the National Forensics Laboratory. They were dealing with a member of the duck family, the professor explained. More precisely, a member of the subspecies of diving ducks, and, in this particular instance, down from the breast of a Somateria mollissima, an eider duck. Not a bad pillow, the biologist at the National Forensics Lab thought, as he forwarded the reply to the police in Solna. Stuffed with eiderdown and covered with a pillowcase woven of the finest linen.

  What the fuck is this? thought the former head of National Crime, Lars Martin Johansson, when he had finished reading. How in the name of all that’s holy did they manage to miss this? They must have been complete morons, he thought. And ‘they’ included, sorry to say, even his best friend, former Detective Superintendent Bo Jarnebring. After that, he wrote a whole page of notes. A new record with his left hand, Johansson thought, and then he fell asleep.

  30

  Tuesday, 20 July

  Yet another day that started with the physiotherapist, as he had now reached the point where he chose to disregard the fact that it actually started with a walk to the toilet, having a shower and a shave and eating breakfast. His day started with the physiotherapist, and this penultimate day, if Dr Stenholm was true to her word and nothing unforeseen occurred, he was, regrettably, once again stuck on the same ‘motor-function plateau’ as the previous day.

  ‘Make the best of things,’ the physiotherapist said, and smiled.

  ‘Make the best of things,’ Johansson agreed.

  Something’s happened, Johansson thought as soon as Dr Stenholm sat down in the place where she always sat. Her cheeks even looked a little flushed.

  ‘You’ve found something,’ he stated.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Dr Stenholm said. ‘It was in a boxful of papers from 1989. I don’t know how you could have known that.’ She handed him a small plastic bag.

  ‘Let’s take a look, then.’ Johansson reached out with his good hand. A hairgrip, he thought. A little hairgrip made of red plastic shaped like a Monchhichi doll’s head.

  ‘It’s a Monchhichi.’

  ‘I know,’ Johansson said with a faint smile. ‘I’ve got children and grandchildren. Was it in this bag?’ he asked, holding up the little plastic bag.

  ‘No,’ Dr Stenholm shook her blonde head firmly. ‘I put it in there. I thought—’

  ‘I understand what you were thinking,’ Johansson said, to pre-empt the usual explanations about fingerprints and DNA.

  ‘The hairgrip was in this envelope,’ Ulrika Stenholm said, passing him another small plastic bag containing a white envelope.

  Egg-shell coloured, Johansson thought. Finest quality, with the owner’s name printed on the inside of the flap. ‘Margaretha Sagerlied’, he read. Where have I heard that name before? he wondered, turning the envelope over. Where the stamp would usually be there was a brief note, written in ink with a fountain pen: ‘USC/ÅS’.

  ‘Under the seal of confession, forward slash, then your father’s initials, Å. S., Åke Stenholm.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Stenholm said. ‘Now I’m starting to think my sister wasn’t exaggerating when she told me all those stories about you.’

  ‘Well,’ Johansson said, ‘let’s not get carried away. I don’t suppose there’s any way that this hairgrip could have belonged to you or your sister when you were little?’ And that there was something else in the envelope to start with, he thought.

  ‘No, neither of us ever had a hairgrip like that. Besides, we’re both far too old. This sort of thing was popular with young girls from the late seventies. Monchhichi dolls are still popular, as you’re no doubt aware. Both my boys have got stuffed Monchhichi toys. Yasmine was nine years old when she was murdered in 1985; she might well have had a hairgrip like this.’

  Johansson contented himself with a nod. There are no strands of hair on the grip, he thought as he inspected the bag it was in.

  ‘This envelope,’ he said, holding up the other bag. ‘You didn’t notice if there were any strands of hair inside it?’ He couldn’t just open it and take a look any more, of course.

  ‘No,’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘I was very careful when I opened it. I mean, I’d seen what Dad had written on it, and his abbreviations – my older sister learned to crack his codes as soon as she could read. I am a doctor, after all, so I’ve picked up a bit over the years. There was nothing, just the hairgrip.’

  A sensitive murderer, Johansson thought. Who had carefully removed her hairgrip so that his already sleeping victim could lie there with her long, black hair spread out across the pillow.

  ‘This Margaretha Sagerlied,’ Johansson said. ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘Quite a bit,’ Dr Stenholm said. ‘I even met her a few times. I looked her up on the Net when I found the envelope. She’s in Who’s Who. You know, that book.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Johansson said. Always the Net, he thought.

  Margaretha Sagerlied was born on 12 April 1914 and died on 6 May 1989, at the age of seventy-five. She was once an opera singer. Not one of the most famous, but well enough known to leave a trail in numerous newspaper articles, reviews and books about opera and other opera singers. And well enough known to appear in Who’s Who in the 1950s.

  ‘Like I said, I found her in an old edition of Who’s Who,’ Dr Stenholm said. ‘My dad must have had a subscription, I’ve inherited at least twenty editions from him; they’re all in my bookcase at home.’

  ‘And what did it say, then?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘I was actually rather surprised,’ Dr Stenholm answered. ‘I mean, I knew she was famous, but I had no idea she was that well-known. There was almost as much written about her as about Birgit Nilsson. I’ll get a copy for you.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Johansson said. He knew better from experience. ‘The most likely explanation is that, once you’re in that book, you get to write your own entry.’

  ‘That would explain it, then,’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘She always was extremely pleased with herself. She came to dinner at my parents’ several times when my sister and I were young. And she used to sing at christenings, weddings and funerals in the church out in Bromma, and she always had loads of stories to tell. How she’d met the king – the old king, that is – and about singing with Jussi Björling, and knowing Birgit Nilsson. And going to banquets at the palace and at the district governor’s residence. And singing at the Nobel ceremony. Did I mention that she was very attractive? She was very particular about her appearance. But I never thought she was really that good as a singer.’

  ‘You didn’t?’ Johansson said. ‘Not like Birgit Nilsson.’ Hardly sounds like the sort who’d stand bent over the sink wearing a pair of old pink rubber-gloves, he thought.

  ‘No. I’m actually quite musical, you know. I used to play the piano and the organ in Dad’s church. I still do, actually. I play the piano several hours each week. I find it’s a good way of relaxing.’

  ‘Husband and children, then?’ Johansson asked. ‘Any family?’

  ‘No children.’ Dr Stenholm shook her head. ‘She married quite late. According to Who’s Who, not until 1960, when she was close to fifty. Her husband was considerably older, born in 1895, died 1980. I have a vague memory of him as well. At some point, he came to dinner with my parents with his wife. According to Who’s Who, his name was Johan Nilsson, and he was a company director. I have a feeling he was in the grocery business, and I remember Dad saying he was very wealthy.’

  An eighty-five-year-old husband who died five years before Yasmine was murdered, no children, no grandchildren. Well, no known children or grandchildren. Some other younger male relative? Someone who was an admirer of the famous opera singer and for that reason was permitted to spend time in her company? Perhaps a member of her entourage, Johansson thought. Regardless of who might have been its members, it was a lovely word.

  ‘Maybe I should ask my sister,’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘She’s
three years older than me, so she ought to remember more about those days.’

  ‘No.’ Johansson shook his head firmly. ‘Don’t do that. For the time being, I want this to stay between the two of us. I don’t want you to talk to anyone about this.’ The last thing I want is an inquisitive prosecutor around my neck, he thought.

  ‘Okay,’ Dr Stenholm said. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Carry on with your father’s old papers. See if you can find anything else.’

  ‘I was thinking of carrying on anyway,’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘My ex has taken the kids off to the country, so I’ve got all the time in the world for the next few days.’

  ‘To change the subject slightly,’ Johansson said, ‘you don’t happen to know where she lived, this Sagerlied woman?’

  ‘I suppose she probably lived in Dad’s parish, in Bromma.’

  ‘Bromma’s a big place.’

  ‘I know. I have a vague memory of her talking about moving into the city centre. To be nearer everything. To the opera and all the theatres, and Östermalmshallen and all her friends. Saying that the villa she lived in was far too big for her now that she was on her own. That must have been a year or so after she was widowed. But I wasn’t very old at the time. I only remember fragments. But I do know that my dad was in charge of her funeral. I know that for certain, because he asked my sister and me if we wanted to go. So it ought to be possible to find out from his records of that. I can have a word with someone in the parish office out there.’

  ‘It’ll all become clear,’ Johansson said. ‘Is it okay if I keep hold of the hairgrip and the envelope?’

  ‘Of course. I hope you don’t think this is childish, but I can’t help finding this all really exciting. Horrible, but exciting at the same time.’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘I don’t think you’re being remotely childish. Did you go to the funeral, then? You and your sister?’

  ‘No,’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘Neither of us had time, actually. He was a bit disappointed with us. Apparently, there weren’t many people there. Hardly anyone, in fact.’

  Not even a sensitive child-killer, Johansson thought.

  As soon as she had gone, he called the Stockholm Police and asked to speak to Superintendent Kjell Hermansson, head of the cold-cases unit at Regional Crime, or, if he wasn’t able to take the call, to his office.

  ‘This is Lars Martin Johansson,’ Johansson said. What on earth that has to do with anything! he thought. From the National Association of Retired Police Officers, he thought, and suddenly felt almost elated.

  ‘I recognized your voice, boss,’ the receptionist said. ‘One moment, please.’

  ‘Hermansson,’ Hermansson said. Only fifteen seconds and three rings later.

  ‘Johansson.’

  ‘Johansson. How the devil are you? You sound very lively,’ he added, for some reason.

  ‘Living life to the full,’ Johansson lied. ‘I could do with a bit of help with something. I’d like to look at the log book for the Yasmine Ermegan case. You know, with all the people, vehicles, places and timings that cropped up in the investigation.’

  ‘Now I’m getting curious,’ Hermansson said.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Johansson said. ‘It’s too early for that. Can you email it to me?’

  ‘Nope,’ Hermansson said. ‘It isn’t on the system. We had trouble with our computers a few years back and it all got deleted.’

  This can’t be true, Johansson thought.

  ‘But I’m sure there’s a back-up copy in our physical archive, so you can have that. I’ll make a copy and have it sent over to you, if that suits you, boss?’

  ‘Excellent,’ Johansson said. ‘When can I have it?’

  ‘It’s practically on its way. But on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘That I’m first to hear the bastard’s name,’ Hermansson said, sounding unexpectedly bitter. ‘I was thinking of killing him, you see.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I’ll send my son-in-law.’

  Half an hour later, Detective Inspector Patrik Åkesson, P-2, walked into Johansson’s room with a brown envelope in his hand. Plain clothes, unlike last time.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ P-2 said. ‘But I haven’t brought you a sausage from Günter’s. I spoke to Jarnis. He’s had strict orders from Alpha One.’

  ‘Alpha One?’

  ‘Your wife, boss,’ P-2 said with a broad grin. ‘Just code we use at work. The alpha female of the family, codename for the wife. Saves time and unnecessary chat.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ Johansson said. ‘Thanks for last time, by the way. I didn’t know you were married to Hermansson’s daughter. Isn’t she with Domestic Violence, down in the city?’

  ‘Yes,’ P-2 said, with an even broader smile. ‘But, apart from that, she’s completely normal. It’s a small world, as they say.’

  ‘Very small,’ Johansson said. My family, he thought. If you ignored cuckoos like Evert Bäckström.

  According to the log that was compiled in the summer of 1985 in connection with the investigation into the murder of Yasmine Ermegan, Margaretha Sagerlied was questioned during the door-to-door inquiries in the area on Tuesday, 2 July 1985. The officer who spoke to her was a female constable, Carina Tell, and the person responsible for deciding that she was of no interest to the case was the head of the preliminary investigation, Detective Inspector Evert Bäckström.

  An elderly woman, seventy-one years old, a widow of five years, with no children or male contacts of interest to the case, away from home for the three days before Yasmine was reported missing. Returned home the day before she was questioned. The police had made the same checks on everyone who lived in the area. Margaretha Sagerlied had no criminal record, didn’t own a car, had a passport but no driving licence.

  The only reason she had been questioned at all was that she lived at Majblommestigen 2, at the bottom of the road, next to the junction with Äppelviksgatan. At roughly the same place where a witness had reported seeing a red Golf, latest model, on the evening that Yasmine disappeared.

  The same Yasmine who lived at the top of the road, on the same side, at Majblommestigen 10. Together with her father and his new partner, who Yasmine sometimes called ‘Mummy’ when she was tired and sleepy, or just forgot.

  Certainly a highly remarkable coincidence, thought the former head of the National Crime Unit, Lars Martin Johansson, who had learned to hate coincidences early in his career.

  31

  Tuesday, 20 July

  Now, it was all really just a matter of time, Johansson thought, seeing as he had learned to make the best of things even before he started to hate coincidences. And assuming that he didn’t have another stroke, of course, as he was now a different person to the man he had always been.

  First, he thought he might have a little nap and rest on his newly acquired laurels. He had, after all, been told to take things very, very gently. But, of course, that didn’t work. Too much going on in my head, he thought, after making a couple of attempts, and even going to the effort of rolling over in bed.

  So instead he asked for some coffee and started to look through the files his best friend had given him, and because Jarnebring had arranged the papers in the exact order he knew Johansson would want them, he quickly found the inventory listing the clothes and other belongings Yasmine had had with her when she disappeared.

  No hairgrip, Johansson thought when he had finished reading. He felt a sense of calm spread through his body when he saw that the inventory had been signed by his best friend, former Detective Superintendent Bo Jarnebring.

  It shouldn’t have been there, of course, not if she had lost it somewhere along the way. He tried to get rid of the image of her dark hair spread out across the white pillow.

  Then he took out the portrait of Yasmine in which she was flashing her dark eyes and smiling at the photographer with her perfect white teeth. Even though she was only nine years old, while half of h
er classmates were walking about with braces on their teeth. Just as he was unable to see round corners, he was unable to see behind her eyes and mouth, see her thin neck and the way she wore her long, black hair. And it doesn’t help much if I turn the photograph, he thought, feeling the same inexplicable delight as when he had felt like telling the police receptionist that he was calling from the National Association of Retired Police Officers.

  Johansson put the photograph down on the bed covers. Drank a restorative sip of coffee, took three deep breaths and tried to buck his ideas up.

  ‘Lars Martin Johansson, you’re starting to go mad,’ he said out loud to himself. So sort yourself out, he thought.

  It worked. Suddenly, he felt calm and collected again. He picked up the picture and examined it once more.

  Not that I’m a hairdresser, Johansson thought, but from this photograph it looks like her hair has been tied back, or pulled up, or whatever it’s called. With a hairgrip, a hairband, maybe just an ordinary scrunchie, the sort his wife used to keep her unruly hair together when she was exercising at the gym or wanted to do pretty much anything at all.

  Bo Jarnebring was a very thorough man. A legendary detective, for good reason, and compiling inventories was one of the disciplines he excelled at. Attached to the inventory was a list of the interviews he had conducted when he was trying to find out what Yasmine had been wearing, and what she had had with her, when she disappeared. Three interviews with her mother, two with her father, and ten in total, once you included the five witnesses who saw her on her way from her mother’s flat to her father’s home. There were another ten witnesses who thought they’d seen her but probably hadn’t, largely because their descriptions of her and her clothes diverged widely from the information provided by the first seven witnesses.

  Nothing about a small, red plastic hairgrip in the shape of a Monchhichi. Easiest to call Jarnebring, Johansson thought, but at that moment tiredness caught up with him, emptying his mind of all thought, all energy, all willpower. He was barely able to put the file down before he fell asleep, and when he woke up later he had trouble remembering what had happened after that.