The Dying Detective

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘Do you know if she’s still alive?’ Johansson asked. She had two little girls, he thought.

  ‘I know she’s alive,’ the general said. ‘I spoke to her as recently as last week. I met her on the tram from Alvik. She was going to visit a friend who lived out in Nockeby.’

  ‘Do you happen to have her phone number?’

  ‘Yes,’ the general said. ‘I asked if she might still be interested in helping an old man like me with his cleaning.’

  ‘And she was?’

  ‘Yes,’ the general said. ‘She was. I’ll get her number for you. I wrote it in my book, it’s in the hall.’

  Things are moving along nicely, Johansson thought. The only explanation was, presumably, that it was already too late to make any difference. Erika Brännström, who was Margaretha Sagerlied’s cleaner for several years and had two small girls. Wonder who the father was? he thought. This man who’s supposed to have left her. Who was he?

  44

  Friday afternoon, 23 July

  Home at last. No place like home. Never had been, and all the more so now.

  This is going swimmingly, Johansson thought.

  He clutched the rubber-pointed stick firmly as Matilda held the door open for him, with a gentle grip on his bad arm, and as soon as he had crossed the threshold he had a brilliant idea. A quite magnificent idea.

  ‘Alf Hult,’ Johansson said, nodding to Matilda. ‘Alf Hult,’ he repeated.

  ‘Alf Hult?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Johansson said. ‘Alf Hult.’

  45

  Friday evening, 23 July

  It wasn’t just his investigation that was making progress. Even his physical health was improving, day by day. No great strides, just tiny little steps that took him closer to the life he had lived before. But what was going on inside his head was more complicated. Things kept happening up there the whole time, and there was no structure or order to any of it. And there were also the headaches that plagued him as good as daily. One thing at a time, he used to think. One thing at a time.

  A beautiful evening. After some persuasion, his wife had agreed that they should eat out on the terrace, the way they always used to on fine summer’s evenings when they ate dinner in the city. He walked up the stairs under his own steam. Without his stick, which was mostly just in the way; on his legs, his left hand on the handrail to stop him falling. Pia walked behind him, even though he tried to tell her not to.

  ‘I’ll only break your arms and legs if I go arse over tit,’ Johansson said. Stubborn as hell.

  He’s starting to get back to his old self again, his wife thought. Restless as an old horse.

  When they were drinking coffee after the meal he told her about the brilliant idea he’d had only a couple of hours earlier.

  ‘I’ve invited Alf for lunch tomorrow,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Alf?’

  ‘Alf Hult.’

  ‘Your brother-in-law?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Is Anna coming, too?’ Pia asked, unable to hide her surprise.

  ‘Anna? Which Anna?’

  ‘Your sister. Your youngest sister.’

  ‘Well, of course I know she’s my little sister. No, she’s not coming. Just Alf and me.’

  ‘I see. I didn’t think you could bear to be in the same room as him,’ Pia said, recalling a number of Johansson family gatherings.

  ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ Johansson said. ‘Alf’s got a lot of good points. In some respects, he’s a completely unique person,’ he added, for some reason.

  ‘That’s not the impression I’ve ever got,’ Pia said. ‘That you were so fond of Alf,’ she explained. ‘Out of curiosity: why do you want to see him, all of a sudden?’

  ‘I’ve employed him,’ Johansson said. The best idea I’ve had since I took that detour to Günter’s that saved my life, he thought.

  46

  Saturday morning, 24 July

  Alf Hult was a retired auditor. Married to Johansson’s younger sister, Anna, the last of Mother Elna and Father Evert’s large brood of children. An afterthought, five years younger than the previous child, former head of the National Crime Unit, Lars Martin Johansson.

  Alf Hult had spent his career working for the tax office out in Solna, for almost forty years, from the time he gained his accountancy qualification to his retirement. He was successful, and feared, with good reason, by the individuals and legal entities that were the subjects of his audits.

  Johansson’s eldest brother Evert loathed him with all his heart. According to Evert, Alf Hult was a threat to every form of normal business, and human life in general, and he rarely even needed a drink inside him to vent his opinion on the subject.

  Alf Hult wasn’t the sort of man to care. He had a hawkish appearance, was tall and skinny, with thinning hair, and in good shape. He was slightly stooped after several decades bent over the attempts of the subjects of his audits to evade their social responsibilities and duties as citizens. He wasn’t a coward either and, at his wife’s fiftieth-birthday dinner, which big brother Evert was obliged to attend in the name of family unity, he had even given his brother-in-law a gentle reprimand over the coffee and cognac.

  ‘You may think I have a long nose, but to date no one has been able to lead me by it.’

  After he retired Alf Hult began to get interested in genealogy. He became passionate about it, applying the same intellect, objectivity and precision that he had previously devoted to his auditing. Because he was as conscientious with his own business as anyone else’s, he had also run his own successful one-man family-history business for the past few years. Naturally, he had already investigated his wife’s sprawling family. This he had done in his usual way, without side-stepping even marginal historical shortcomings, thereby incurring even more displeasure from the family’s two patriarchs, Father Evert and his eldest son, Evert, known as ‘Little Evert’ until he reached his majority, when his father spoke publicly for the first time about the inevitable.

  ‘From now on I don’t want any of you to call my eldest son “Little Evert”,’ said Big Evert. ‘There are now two Everts, and soon enough he’ll be the one who takes over.’

  You, Alf, can be the Sherlock to my Mycroft, Lars Martin Johansson thought when he had his brilliant idea. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes’s elder brother, who didn’t even have to leave the comfort of his armchair to solve even the most complicated of crimes. What could be more fitting, bearing in mind the fact that Johansson now spent most of his time lying on the sofa in his study? That was as close to the field as he could get under his own steam these days. He noted that he suddenly had no difficulty remembering the name of the elder of the Holmes brothers.

  Now Johansson’s very own Sherlock was sitting at his right side, former auditor Alf Hult, with his sharp features, leaning forward slightly in the armchair he had pulled over to the sofa so as not to overexert his brother-in-law unnecessarily. Happy to listen, parrying, toujours, always ready to counter all forms of dastardly deeds and insidious traps.

  ‘Margaretha Sagerlied and her husband, Johan Nilsson,’ Alf Hult said, nodding thoughtfully at his own notes.

  ‘And Sagerlied’s old cleaner, Erika Brännström,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Not so old, perhaps,’ Hult said. ‘If your information is correct, she ought to be considerably younger than both you and me.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be any problems, should there?’ Johansson wondered. ‘The only one whose date of birth and ID number I’ve got is Sagerlied. As far as Erika Brännström is concerned, all I’ve got is the address and phone number I gave you.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ Alf Hult said with a light shake of his head. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Everything,’ his brother-in-law repeated. ‘Then I ought perhaps to let you know that this sort of thing can quickly get out of hand, in terms of cost.’

  ‘Cost doesn’t matter,’ Johansson said w
ith a dismissive gesture, as he was the second wealthiest member of his extensive family.

  ‘And you want it within a week?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Johansson said. ‘Plenty of time for you to smoke your three pipes.’ Mycroft smoked cigars, didn’t he? he thought.

  ‘Conan Doyle has never been a favourite of mine,’ Alf Hult declared. ‘Far too much of a romantic for my taste.’

  47

  Monday, 26 July

  Monday. A new week and another day in a life that had almost been lost. Breakfast, physiotherapy and a check-up with Ulrika Stenholm, forty-four years old and without the slightest wrinkle on her smooth, white neck. Neurologist, vicar’s daughter. Bore a striking resemblance to a squirrel when she sat and twitched her head of cropped blonde hair.

  ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Things are going forwards,’ Johansson said. Never mind the constant headache, the tightness in your chest and the seal’s flipper you’ve got in place of your right arm. Stop whining, he thought.

  ‘That’s my impression as well,’ she agreed. ‘That things are going forwards. Your physiotherapist is very pleased with you, by the way. And I heard from Pia that things are working out well at home.’

  What would Pia know about that? he thought with sudden bitterness. ‘And how are you getting on?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Ulrika Stenholm shook her head. ‘I’ve been through all of Dad’s papers now. All the bags and boxes, and I promise I was thorough. I haven’t found anything since that hairgrip and the envelope it was in.’

  ‘You must have found something?’ Johansson interjected.

  ‘Nothing about Yasmine. A few old programmes about Margaretha Sagerlied singing in Bromma church, a couple of invitations for my parents to have dinner with her back when her husband was still alive, some old photographs that must have been taken when Dad and Mum were visiting her and her husband. One where she’s singing in church. I think that was at some Christmas service in the seventies. I put it all in here,’ she said, handing him a brown envelope.

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all,’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘How about you? How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s going well,’ Johansson said. ‘I’ll have him soon.’ Why am I saying that? he thought.

  ‘Do you know who it is? Can you tell me who it is?’ Ulrika Stenholm had trouble concealing her surprise.

  ‘I promise, you’ll be the first to know,’ Johansson said. Why am I saying that? he thought.

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ I just need to peer round the next corner first, he thought.

  ‘I feel like a fucking traitor,’ his best friend said three hours later.

  ‘I’m listening,’ Lars Martin Johansson said, even though he had already worked out what this was about.

  It was the usual story about marital difficulties and unexpected complications. It had all started with Jarnebring’s new car. Quite regardless of the fact that he had got it at half price, they had more pressing expenses, according to Jarnebring’s wife. Especially for two middle-aged people who were supposed to live on his police pension and her teacher’s salary.

  ‘So what did you do, then?’ Johansson asked, even though he already knew the answer.

  ‘I backed down,’ Jarnebring said. ‘She’s booked a last-minute holiday for us, to Thailand, so I’m left looking like an idiot. A romantic holiday, so she can work out if she still wants me. It’s only a week, admittedly, but even so.’

  ‘At the height of the Swedish summer,’ Johansson said, suddenly feeling the elation that these days seemed to alternate with the headache, the tightness in his chest, his angst, anger and melancholy. Sell the car, he thought.

  ‘Women,’ Jarnebring said.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Johansson said. Just promise not to say anything to my brother, he thought.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to your brother, by the way,’ Jarnebring said, as if he could read his thoughts.

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘That I should be careful not to let the women take over,’ Jarnebring replied. ‘Then he recommended some nice places in Thailand.’

  Sounds like Evert, Johansson thought.

  As soon as Jarnebring had left, Matilda came in with a large cup of tea and a perfectly respectable sandwich. Coarse rye bread, lettuce, sliced tomato, all covered with a generous layer of air-dried ham, and enough to prompt a pang of conscience.

  ‘I haven’t been looked after like this since I was little and was off school sick,’ Johansson said. Stop whining, he thought.

  ‘Company policy,’ Matilda said, then nodded towards the boxes of paper on the floor beside the sofa. ‘Is that an old case you’re working on? You know you’re supposed to be taking things easy and not getting stressed. You’ve got to learn to chillax a bit.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d call it a case,’ Johansson said. ‘It’s an old, unsolved murder.’

  ‘A murder – cool!’

  ‘Don’t be childish,’ Johansson said, shaking his head. ‘It’s not the least bit cool. It’s nothing but tragic and miserable. Gruesome, too.’

  ‘I could help, if you like.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The investigation is confidential, to stop inquisitive souls like you from going through it.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ Matilda said. ‘I’m not a gossip.’

  Not a gossip, he thought. ‘Okay,’ Johansson said, suddenly struck by another thought. ‘Do you know your way around the internet?’

  ‘Not as well as Lisbeth Salander, but I’m not bad.’

  Who the fuck is Lisbeth Salander? Johansson thought.

  ‘Maybe you could have a look and see if you can find anything online about someone called Joseph Simon, with a “ph” at the end; otherwise, like it sounds.’

  ‘By all means. You’ll soon know everything about him,’ Matilda promised, even though she wasn’t as good as Lisbeth Salander. ‘Is he the bad guy?’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘He’s a doctor, born 1951. Arrived in Sweden as a political refugee from Iran in 1979. Left Sweden and moved to the USA in 1990. Supposed to be very rich, works in pharmaceuticals.’

  ‘Why are you so interested in him? If he isn’t the bad guy, I mean.’

  ‘I want to know how he’s dealt with his grief,’ Johansson said.

  Pia gets home from work and asks how he is.

  ‘Fine,’ Johansson replies with a smile. Even though his head aches and his chest feels tight. Even though just a quarter of an hour earlier he took one of those white pills he’s supposed to take in emergencies. Because his angst suddenly shook him up as if he were a small child, and his one salvation is the detachment that only a little white tablet can offer him.

  ‘Like a pig in shit,’ Johansson lies. ‘Come and sit down here. Tell me how you’re getting on at the bank, darling.’ Why am I saying that? he thinks. Why didn’t I just ask how she got on at work?

  That evening his brother-in-law rang to tell him that his work was going better than expected and that he hadn’t encountered any insurmountable problems yet.

  ‘I’ve pretty much finished with Erika Brännström and her two daughters,’ he said.

  ‘Have you found their father?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alf Hult said. ‘They’ve both got the same father. His name is Tommy Högberg, born 1956. Three years younger than Erika Brännström, who was born in ’53. The oldest daughter, Karolina, was born in 1975, and her younger sister, Jessica, in ’79. Erika never married Tommy Högberg, but they lived together and he acknowledged his paternity of the two girls. Do you want it by fax or email?’

  ‘Fax,’ Johansson said. ‘Then I won’t have to fiddle about with all those little buttons on the computer,’ he explained. So he acknowledged paternity, he thought.

  ‘Judging by his taxable income, the father seems a bit of a layabout. Maybe you should check with your f
ormer colleagues to see if he’s been active in your area of expertise. I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  ‘Really?’ Johansson said. I wonder if Tommy Högberg has anything else he’d like to confess? he thought.

  Then he ended the call, and had barely put the phone down before he fell asleep.

  48

  Tuesday morning, 27 July

  As usual, Johannson spent the morning trying to regain his health. When he and Matilda returned from the physiotherapist, she suggested a walk around the block in which he lived.

  ‘I’ve already done my exercise,’ Johansson countered.

  ‘Come on,’ Matilda said. ‘You can’t have too much exercise.’

  Reluctantly, he gave in. Too tired to argue. By the time they stepped back through the front door his face was dripping with sweat, even though he had barely walked a kilometre and needed twenty minutes in which to do even that. His heart was pounding in his chest, the pain radiating up over his face and forehead. Matilda glanced at him surreptitiously in the lift. A quick, anxious glance.

  ‘Lie down on the sofa, and I’ll get us some lunch,’ she said. She held the front door open for him and took a careful grip of his limp right arm as he stepped across the threshold.

  That taught you, Johansson thought as she plumped the pillows up behind his back. Better now, he thought. Better now, when he was able to lie down.

  ‘I’m not trying to kill you,’ Matilda said. ‘But you do need to move occasionally. Are you lying okay like that?’

  ‘Stop fussing,’ Johansson said. ‘Get me something to eat instead. And give me the message that’s come through on the fax.’

  Erika Brännström was born in 1953, in Härnösand, where she also grew up. When she was twenty years old she moved to Stockholm and started work as a nursing assistant at Huddinge Hospital. She met Tommy Högberg, who was three years younger than her and had lived in Stockholm all his life. He had studied vehicle technology at vocational college and worked as a car mechanic.