He had declined dinner and dutifully nibbled at a sandwich instead, and crispbreads and cheese, he had drunk a couple of glasses of water and ate a pear – or was it an apple? Presumably, he had gone to the toilet, rinsed his face, brushed his teeth. Talked to Pia about the practical arrangements that needed to be made regarding his return home to their large, two-storey apartment on Södermalm. Kitchen and study on the ground floor, their bedroom and bathroom upstairs, and a narrow staircase that he wouldn’t be able to negotiate, not in either direction. Not in his current state.
‘If you like, we can put a bed in your study – there’s plenty of room. Or you could sleep in the guest room down there. Entirely up to you.’
‘I can sleep on the sofa,’ Johansson said, and promptly fell asleep again.
He slept the whole night through, dreaming about Yasmine. But no angst, no joy either, mostly contemplation – whatever that was doing in a dream – and perhaps grief. Grief which hadn’t yet hit him, had barely even caught up with him.
The same Yasmine as in the photograph. But no smile. She’s standing there looking at him. Serious, watchful, but not frightened.
‘Hello, little thing,’ Johansson says. ‘There’s no need to be frightened.’
She doesn’t reply, but she does at least nod, and she isn’t frightened.
‘I’ve found your hairgrip,’ he says, holding it out to her.
‘Thanks,’ she says, surprised, but now she’s smiling. ‘Thanks very much,’ she says, and takes it from his outstretched hand.
32
Wednesday morning, 21 July
First the toilet, then the shower, then teeth-brushing. But he couldn’t be bothered to shave. A bit of stubble is never wrong on a rough-hewn man, Johansson thought as he staggered into his room.
Lazy bastards, he thought once he was lying on his bed. It was the fourth time in a row that they had left him to fend entirely for himself on his potentially lethal walks. In spite of all the taxes he had showered on them throughout his life, without demanding anything in return.
Then breakfast. The healthy version, with yoghurt, muesli and fresh fruit. Three glasses of mineral water, but no coffee. He didn’t feel like coffee this morning.
He didn’t escape the physiotherapist, even though the bells of freedom were ringing loudly inside him. Regrettably, he was still stuck on the same plateau, despite the fact that he was trying really hard not to be viewed merely as his own very specific, if unforeseen, condition.
‘Make the best of things,’ the physiotherapist said, and gave him a big hug.
‘Make the best of things,’ Johansson said, with a nod and a smile. Easy for you to say, he thought. I’m free, he thought. He felt free as well. Bright and clear in his head. No worries, no angst, not even the slightest trace of anxiety.
After that came his doctor, now also his own personal informant, Dr Ulrika Stenholm, who this morning looked so tired that she could very well be taken for a woman of forty-four.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ she sighed. ‘First time in months I get a bit of peace and quiet and I barely managed a wink of sleep all night. Thinking about the kids, dreaming about the kids, calling their dad and waking him.’
‘Well, it’s hardly that bloody surprising,’ Johansson interrupted. ‘If you’re going to sit and play the piano half the night, then start drinking red wine and listening to other people playing the piano.’ Get yourself a decent bloke, he thought.
‘Do you know what?’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘Sometimes, you really worry me. You’re sure you’re not sneaking out of here at night and spying on me?’
‘Thanks for the invitation,’ Johansson said. ‘But no, I’m not. A fat pensioner in a white nightshirt dragging a drip-stand behind him standing there with his nose pressed against your window in the middle of the night? No, definitely not.’ He shook his head. ‘I reckon even you might have spotted someone like that.’
‘Do you know what?’ she said, with a smile. ‘You can be very funny, when you’re in the mood. Talking to you cheers me up.’
‘I know,’ Johansson said. ‘So what do you think about all the practical arrangements, then?’
Already done, according to Ulrika Stenholm, who had spoken to Pia earlier that morning. Pia had sorted out everything at home. She was also up to speed when it came to check-ups, new appointments, tests and daily visits to see the physiotherapist.
‘Apparently, one of your former colleagues is coming to collect you,’ she said. ‘He’s going to bring your clothes. He’s coming in his car, but you’re entitled to a taxi, as you might already know.’
‘That’ll be my best friend,’ Johansson said, and felt someone or something touch his heart when he said it. ‘We’ve known each other since we were at Police Academy together. Almost fifty years ago. He was one of the people who worked on Yasmine’s case, by the way. I was on the National Police Board at the time.’
‘On Yasmine’s case?’ she said, looking at him in surprise. ‘But that’s great, isn’t it? Has he been able to help, then?’
‘He brought me some old papers to read through.’ Johansson nodded towards the files on the table next to the bed. Has he been able to help? Sort of, he thought.
‘Great,’ Ulrika Stenholm said as she put her hand in the pocket of her white coat and fished out her mobile. ‘Okay, looks like it’s time to go.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve got to rush.’
‘Look after yourself,’ Johansson said, and held out his left hand towards her. What a fucking job the woman has, he thought.
‘You look after yourself,’ she said, giving him his second hug of the morning. ‘I’ve told them to give you a hand packing your things. But I’m afraid I do have to rush.’
Wonder what it is? Johansson thought. Even though your face is drooping to one side, they’re still crazy about you.
Five minutes later Jarnebring marched into his room. He walked straight over to the bed and emptied out a bag of clothes.
‘Up you get then, lad,’ he said. ‘You can’t just lie here letting your youth pass by.
‘Pants, T-shirt, shirt, socks, shoes and trousers. And the longest belt I could find,’ he went on, gesturing with his whole hand. ‘It’s sunny out, twenty degrees, so you’re not likely to freeze your arse off.’
‘About bloody time,’ Johansson said, sitting up with some effort.
‘Stop whining,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Do you want me to dress you, or shall I just stand in a strategic position to stop all those beautiful nurses seeing you?’
‘Sit down on that chair over there and shut up, and I’ll do the rest.’
Half an hour later they were standing in the car park beside Johansson’s very own car.
‘I thought I’d give it a try while your brother sorts the paperwork out,’ Jarnebring said.
‘You’ve bought my car,’ Johansson said, not the least bit surprised, as he knew his eldest brother as well as he did his best friend – or himself, for that matter.
‘Yep. There’s some document you need to sign. I’ve got it with me, so we can do that once we get back to yours.’
‘Okay. And what about me, then?’
‘What do you mean, you?’ Jarnebring shrugged his broad shoulders.
‘Am I expected to walk everywhere from now on, or what?’
‘Apparently, you’re getting one exactly the same, but an automatic. And a few other bits and pieces your brother told them to add until you get your arm sorted out.’
‘Okay,’ Johansson said. He had never been interested in driving. Less so now than ever. I wonder what Bo had to stump up for his car? he thought.
33
Wednesday afternoon, 21 July
‘Aaah,’ Jarnebring said, sighing with contentment as he pulled away from the car park. ‘Twelve cylinders, 450 horsepower,’ he explained, nodding towards the long, black bonnet.
‘If you say so,’ Johansson said. ‘It goes fucking fast if you put your foot down,’ he added. Whatever anyone
might want that for, when the highest permissible speed was 120 kilometres an hour, now that blue lights and sirens were a thing of the past for men like him and Jarnebring.
‘What do you want to do?’ Jarnebring asked. ‘Straight home, or shall we take a detour out into the field first?’
‘Ear to the ground,’ Johansson said. High time I saw it with my own eyes, he thought.
‘Then let’s start with Jasmine’s mum’s flat, down in the centre of Solna,’ Jarnebring suggested. ‘It’s only two minutes away.’
‘Drive to Äppelviken,’ Johansson said. ‘I want to see the house where she lived with her dad. I know Solna,’ he explained. Besides, it wasn’t there it happened, he thought. Why, he didn’t know, not yet, just a feeling, but it was strong enough for him. It had always been good enough in the past. Back when he was a different person to the one he was today.
‘Okay.’ Jarnebring reached out his long right arm and pulled on the safety belt that Johansson had forgotten, even though the car was bleeping at him and a red light was flashing on the dashboard.
‘Thanks,’ Johansson said. ‘We’re in no hurry,’ he added, just to be on the safe side.
Nice, safe driving; no rush, no stress. Out from Karolinska Hospital, left along the edge of the cemetery, left at the first roundabout on to the Solna road, then right on the first slip road on to the southbound E4, then right again towards Bromma and Äppelviken, and twelve minutes later Jarnebring pulled up at the junction of Äppelviksgatan and Majblommestigen.
‘Somewhere around here was where that witness thought he saw the red Golf,’ Jarnebring said, pointing towards the first house on the right-hand side. ‘This is Majblommestigen.’ He waved his large hand at the little cul-de-sac. ‘About one hundred metres long, a dead end, with a turning circle at the top of the slope. Yasmine, her father and his new partner lived in the house at the top, Majblommestigen 10, on the right from where we’re sitting.’ He raised his hand again.
‘And the car was parked down here, where we are,’ Johansson said. ‘Parked outside the house where we’re parked. Majblommestigen 2. Here, by the junction?’
‘According to the witness’s first statement, yes,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Then the silly sod started to wobble, and in the end he wasn’t sure about anything. Nor were we.’
You pushed him too hard, Johansson thought. He got worried when he realized what he said he’d seen, and suddenly a load of journalists showed up and started ringing at his door.
‘Things weren’t made any better when all the hacks started hanging around his house, playing at being interviewing officers,’ Jarnebring said, as if he could read Johansson’s mind.
‘I can imagine.’ Johansson was already thinking about something else.
Wooden houses from some time between the First and Second World Wars, in red, yellow, white and blue, even pink, but not so garish as to upset the neighbours. Contemporary wooden details, porches, verandas; painters and blacksmiths who knew what they were doing and took the time to do it well. Picket fences, neatly clipped hedges, mature, leafy gardens with flowerbeds and fruit trees and smart lawns. One or two of the houses even had raked gravel paths between the gate and front door. A well-kept area, extensions, renovations, pious restorations throughout the years. Well-behaved, well-off middle-class residents and, in recent years, a few neighbours who were considerably wealthier, in line with the increase in the value of the houses.
The house at the top of the road where Yasmine had lived was not the biggest, but not the smallest either. Red with white details, a freshly painted façade, some of the painters’ equipment still on the drive, loosely covered by a tarpaulin.
‘Do you know if she still lives here?’ Johansson asked. ‘The father’s ex-girlfriend, I mean.’
‘No,’ Jarnebring said. ‘I heard she sold up and moved out the following summer. Yasmine’s dad left just a month or so after it happened. I can imagine that it made things pretty hard for them.’
A house that had gained new memories, Johansson thought. Memories that made it impossible for the people who had lived there to remain.
‘Do you want to get out and take a look?’
‘No,’ Johansson said, shaking his head.
‘Not that I’m an expert on child-killers, but I promise to eat my old police helmet if it happened out here,’ Jarnebring declared, and he turned the car with confident movements of the wheel. ‘This area feels completely wrong.’
‘So where did it happen, then?’
‘If you ask me, I’m pretty sure someone picked her up when she was on her way back to her mum’s again. The poor kid was probably tired, tired and upset. This isn’t the sort of area where people murder little girls,’ Jarnebring repeated as they glided slowly down the road.
‘Can you stop here at the corner?’ Johansson asked.
‘Sure,’ Jarnebring said.
This house was considerably larger than the others on the street. Blue, with a hipped tiled roof, a projecting porch held up by two white pillars, the upper storey jutting out above. An imposing flight of stone steps led up to the double front doors. A large glassed-in veranda faced the garden at the back. Different owners who had been there a while – perhaps several owners – because if there was one thing Johansson knew without looking in the property register, it was that the woman who lived here when it happened had moved out as soon as she realized what had happened, and that it had happened in her home.
Wonder when she realized? he thought. Maybe as early as the autumn of the same year; it would be easy enough to find out. I wonder where she found Yasmine’s hairgrip? That was far from easy to find out, twenty-five years later.
‘If you’re thinking about moving to a villa, I’d consider taking on your flat,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Seeing as I’ve already bought your car, I mean.’
‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘I like living on Södermalm.’
‘You’ve got stuck with your ear to the ground,’ Jarnebring said with a grin.
‘No. I just thought you might like to take a look at the crime scene.’ Johansson nodded towards the big, blue house.
III
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand …
Book of Exodus, 21:24
34
Wednesday afternoon, 21 July 2010
At first, Jarnebring made do with a nod. Initially towards the big house on the other side of the road, then at Johansson.
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked. ‘That this is the crime scene?’
‘The pillow. Well, the pillow and the pillowcase,’ Johansson replied. He seemed submerged in his own thoughts. ‘That was when I first realized.’
‘The pillow? And the pillowcase?’
‘Yes, although there were other things. The red Golf – I have a feeling it was parked just there. The whole setting, if I can put it like that.’
‘The pillow, the pillowcase, and a red Golf. The whole setting?’ Should I be pleased or worried? Jarnebring thought.
‘Well, there’s a lot more. But it’s mostly just feelings. The woman who lived here, for instance.’
The woman? The woman who lived here? Okay, I’m getting seriously fucking worried now, Jarnebring thought. Where the hell did she come from?
‘I don’t suppose you feel like explaining?’ he said.
‘Later,’ Johansson said. ‘I’d like to go home now.’
Home at last, he thought as he stepped across the threshold into his home on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan, leaning on his best friend, admittedly, but largely under his own steam.
‘Let’s go and sit in my study. Then I can prop myself up on the sofa. Just give me my stick and I’ll be okay.’
‘It’s no problem,’ Jarnebring said. ‘If you’d rather—’
‘Just do as I say,’ Johansson interrupted. ‘Get me a glass of water. If you want something to eat, there’s bound to be loads in the fridge. Pia’s good at that. But I’ll be fine with just a glass of water.’
Home at last, he thoug
ht, once he had managed to sit down on the sofa, not without effort, and had arranged his legs the way he usually had them. The same sofa, the same corner of the same big sofa where he must have spent thousands of hours over the years, reading, watching television, having little afternoon naps, or just thinking. The room now also contained a large bed that Pia had bought for him, positioned against the short end of the room – with a load of electrical features that he looked forward to trying.
Jarnebring brought over a chair and sat down opposite him. On the table between them he put a large bottle of mineral water, a bowl of fruit and two glasses.
‘You don’t want a sandwich as well?’ Johansson asked, nodding at the tray.
‘I’m not hungry. But I am seriously fucking curious.’
‘Calm down,’ Johansson said. ‘All in good time. I’m just working out what order to explain things.’
‘I suggest you take it in whatever order a simple constable could understand.’
‘Of course,’ Johansson said. ‘You remember the feather and the two white threads that the pathologist found in the poor girl’s throat and between her teeth? Indicating that she was smothered by a pillow covered by a white pillowcase?’
‘Yes, I believed that,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Everyone did. Even that fat little bastard Bäckström bought the idea of the pillow.’
‘The problem is that it wasn’t an ordinary pillow. Not an ordinary pillowcase, either. It was stuffed with eiderdown and the pillowcase was made of linen.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Jarnebring said, raising his hand to be on the safe side. ‘The wife and I have got loads of down-filled pillows at home in our humble abode. We’ve even got down pillows at our place in the country. Which is even more humble. Well, you know that, you’ve been round ours. Both here in the city and out in the country.’
The Dying Detective Page 12
