When Evert gestures with his hand even Superman shits himself, Johansson thought, suddenly feeling unfathomably cheerful in spite of the pain in his chest and side.
Evert moved a chair and sat down.
‘Do you want a glass of water?’ he asked.
‘Get me a cognac,’ Johansson said. ‘A large one.’
‘Fine,’ Evert said, with a nod of approval. ‘Of course you shall have cognac. I think I might have a Scotch.’
Then they sat and talked. In peace and quiet, man to man, elder brother to younger, as Evert sipped his whisky and Johansson his cognac.
‘You can’t go on like this – you can see that for yourself,’ Evert said.
‘Really?’ Johansson said. ‘I had actually worked that out for myself. Any suggestions gratefully received.’
‘You can borrow my lad. I’ll bring him over; he can help you. The lad who works on the estate for my wife and me.’
‘Your lad?’
‘Yes,’ Evert said. ‘It seems a trifle unnecessary for you to fall and kill yourself at home in your own apartment.’
‘So what’s wrong with him, then?’ Johansson said. ‘Your lad?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ Evert said, shaking his head. ‘He’s big and strong, far from stupid, and he does as he’s told.’
‘Nothing wrong with him at all?’
‘No,’ Evert said with a broad grin. ‘Sometimes when I offer him a vodka he starts going on about wanting to join the police but, apart from that, he’s perfectly normal.’
‘What about you, then?’ Johansson said. ‘Don’t you need him?’ With all those horses and dogs, and the farm, the woodland and the hunt, he thought.
‘I daresay I’ll cope.’ Evert snorted. ‘Right now, you’re the one we need to get sorted out.’
‘Okay,’ Johansson said. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Shake my hand,’ Evert said. ‘High time you pulled yourself together. It’s only a month before the elk season starts.’
‘To the hunt,’ Johansson said, nodded and raised his glass.
52
Wednesday evening, 28 July
Dinner with Pia. They ate in the kitchen. They couldn’t sit on the terrace, because it was raining, which was perfectly appropriate, given how he felt.
‘How are you feeling?’ Pia asked. ‘You frightened the life out of me today, you know that?’ She ran her hand over his hopeless one as it lay on the table.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Johansson said, instantly annoyed at what she had said. ‘I told that little tattooed bitch not to call you, but she ignored me. I asked her to help me up on to the sofa again, but she ignored that as well.’
‘You have to understand that she had to. She had to call. She did it because she cares.’
‘No, I don’t understand. I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t agree with you, and I’m seriously bloody fed up with everybody thinking for me. That applies to you, too, by the way.’
‘You’re having a hard time right now,’ Pia said. ‘I understand that, but you still have to appreciate that we only want to help you.’
This is pointless, he thought, his anger slipping away, exhaustion shoving it aside.
‘I spoke to your brother,’ Pia said. ‘I think his idea sounds excellent. It would make me feel a lot calmer. There’s more and more to do at work now that people are getting back from their holidays, so I thought he could stay in the guest bedroom for a while.’
‘Lovely that the two of you are in agreement,’ Johansson said.
‘I think you’re being unreasonable now, Lars. And I also talked to that doctor who came to have a look at you. Nothing broken, but you sprained your ankle, and you’ve got a lot of bruising. You’ve got to take it slowly when you stand up. If you get up too quickly you’ll only get dizzy and fall.’
This can’t be happening, Johansson thought.
‘There’s one thing I’m wondering,’ he said. ‘I feel bloody tired. I have a feeling that might be because I am bloody tired. Is it okay if I go and lie down, or what?’
A forced smile now. Her hand had stopped. ‘I’ll help you,’ she said.
‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘You bloody well won’t. I’m going to put myself to bed. I’m going to have a wash, brush my teeth, take all my wretched bloody pills, and then I’m going to bed. All on my own.’
He nodded to her. She’d stopped smiling. And had pulled her hand away.
Then he did everything he said he would. He concluded by taking another of the little white tablets and a sleeping pill. He fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, in spite of the ache in his side and the fact that he was having trouble breathing.
53
Thursday morning, 29 July
The moment he opened his eyes that morning Johansson decided to regain control of his life. He woke before six, the way he always used to before he had been laid low and brought face to face with his own mortality. He limped out to the toilet, showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, took his pills, drank two glasses of water, put on his dressing-gown, fetched the morning paper, limped back to his study, lay down on the sofa and began to read the paper. His head began to ache as good as instantly, and he tossed the newspaper aside. When Pia came in and asked if he wanted breakfast, he merely shook his head. He had his eyes closed, and couldn’t have offered her a better chance for a reconciliation. Not if he was going to regain control of his life. Regardless, she just walked away.
He must have dozed off after that, because the next thing he remembered was hearing his wife talking to Matilda out in the hall before she came into his room, bent over him and ran her fingers down his left cheek. And whispered:
‘Look after yourself, darling. See you this evening.’ Then she left; he heard the front door close behind her, no more to it than that. More angry than worried, he thought, and then he must have fallen asleep again.
Then Matilda was standing there. Smiling happily, as if the previous day hadn’t happened.
‘Up you get, boss,’ Matilda said. ‘We’ve got to go and see the physiotherapist.’
‘What do you mean, “we”?’ Johansson said, shaking his head. ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I’ll give it a miss. Ask if she can do something about those tattoos. Who knows, maybe you can get rid of them by exercising?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Matilda said. She even tilted her head, the way his neurologist did as soon as he didn’t fulfil her expectations.
‘I was thinking of going for a walk on Djurgården,’ Johansson said. ‘Then I’m going to have lunch in a restaurant. If you want to drive me, that would be good. If not, I can call for a taxi.’
‘Okay,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I’ll drive you. Let me know when you’re ready.’
Johansson got dressed carefully. White linen trousers, blue linen shirt, yellow linen jacket. To match his mood, and the sunlight shining in through his window. He took his time and noticed Matilda sitting in his living room glancing at her watch when he walked straight past her without taking the slightest bit of notice of her. He decided instantly to push the front line a bit further forward. If they want a child, they can have a child, he thought.
‘You can calm down,’ Johansson said. ‘I need to make a phone call before we leave.’
Then he took out his phone and called Hermansson’s mobile.
‘Johansson,’ Johansson said. ‘There are a few things I’d like you to do.’
‘I’m listening, boss,’ Superintendent Hermansson said. Three years of retirement were as good as blown away by Johansson’s tone of voice.
‘How are you getting on with Högberg?’
‘I did a broad search for him. The boys in Surveillance have taken a few pictures as well. Doesn’t look too sprightly. They took them when he stumbled out of his local bar last night. Rather the worse for wear, if I can put it like that.’
‘Good,’ Johansson said. ‘Not that the last twenty-five years matter too much. The question is more what he looked like b
ack then. See if you can send me the photographs from when he was arrested and had his prints taken.’
‘Of course,’ Hermansson said. ‘Patrik was going to bring them over to you as soon as he finishes his shift. Low profile, you know. Trying to keep it in the family.’
‘What do you mean, “low profile”?’ Johansson said.
‘Well,’ Hermansson said. ‘The case is prescribed now, after all. We’ve just got to be a bit discreet about it, that’s all.’
‘What a load of crap,’ Johansson said. ‘Send someone to get a DNA sample from the bastard. If you’re right, he’s probably out cold right now. You just have to ring on his door. His DNA is all we need.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, boss,’ Hermansson said. ‘Let me think about it. As I’ve said, we’re talking about a prescribed case, and I’m not exactly keen to have the judicial ombudsman breathing down my neck.’
‘Don’t bother, then,’ Johansson said. ‘I’ll call someone else instead.’
‘Hang on, now, boss. Lars, for God’s sake, don’t be like that. We’ve known each other a fair while now, haven’t we?’
‘Sometimes I worry about you, Herman. If it was Högberg who killed Yasmine, you can’t seriously believe that was the last time he did anything like that?’
‘No,’ Hermansson said. ‘I hear what you’re saying. I’ll make sure we get a DNA sample as soon as possible, though how on earth I’m going to manage that, I don’t know.’
‘Why don’t you send your son-in-law?’ Johansson suggested. ‘I’m sure he could do it straight away. If Högberg refuses to open his mouth, just stick the swab up his nose.’
‘Okay, boss.’
‘Good. And then I’d like you to get it prioritized by the National Forensics Lab.’
‘Hang on, hold your horses,’ Hermansson said. ‘I spoke to them yesterday regarding another case, a current murder we’re dealing with here at Regional Crime. Two Russians, shot and dumped out at Biskopsudden. Three weeks at the earliest, they said.’
‘Who’s in charge?’ Johansson said. ‘At the lab?’
‘That woman, the one who was head of the National Police Board in your day.’
‘Good,’ Johansson said. ‘Call her and give her my regards. Tell her you want this done at once, within six hours of them receiving the sample at the very most.’
‘Sure,’ Hermansson said. ‘I hear what you’re saying. I’ll make sure it gets done.’
‘Excellent,’ Johansson said. ‘I look forward to seeing your son-in-law.’
Then he put his mobile into the breast pocket of his jacket, picked up his stick and limped out into the hall. Matilda was sitting on a chair, waiting for him. She smiled weakly.
‘The first day of your new life,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Just drive, and keep your mouth shut, and I’ll make sure you get all the information you need on the way,’ Johansson said. Back on the road again, he thought.
Johansson showed the way, gesturing with his left hand as they went, crossing the junction at Slussen, along Skeppsbron, past Gamla Stan, past the Grand Hotel, along the quayside on Strandvägen, past the American Embassy and the Kaknäs Tower, across the little bridge over the canal to Djurgården. Yellow sun, blue sky, gentle white clouds, like the down on the breast of an eider duck in mating season, the same sort of down that was more than good enough to smother a nine-year-old girl. Stockholm at its most beautiful, showing its finest side to the onlooker.
‘Stop here,’ he said.
No objections this time. She stopped the car without saying anything.
‘I was thinking of walking back towards the city,’ Johansson said. ‘I’ll see you at that old inn at the bottom of the funicular railway at Skansen.’ What the hell’s the name of it? he thought. It was gone, all of a sudden, even though he must have eaten there a hundred times in the days when his life was normal.
‘Ulla Winbladh’s,’ Matilda said.
‘Exactly. See you at Ulla Winbladh’s. In an hour or so.’
Only then did she look at him. Then she nodded.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘See you at Ulla Winbladh’s.’
Then she got back in the car and drove off.
To start with, he felt almost buoyant: there were no tricky hills; he just walked along the edge of the canal, alone, at his own pace. After a quarter of an hour or so he began to feel a bit tired. He sat down on a bench, wiped the sweat from his brow, took several deep breaths with his eyes closed as he felt his blood pressure go down. After a while he stood up to go on, slowly, carefully, so that his blood pressure had time to keep up, to stop him falling arse over tit for no good reason.
After another fifteen minutes he was almost halfway. He was breathing more easily now, sweating less. Another bench, time to rest, and all he was missing was a flask of coffee and a chunky sandwich filled with slices of Falun sausage. Perhaps also the sharpness of a September breeze against his cheeks and chin. A stump to sit on, a view of the river back home and the low bark of a Swedish elkhound that had just spotted an elk.
You’re alive, Lars Martin, Johansson thought, as he walked into the inn at the appointed time.
‘What do you think about grilled char with warm salad?’ Matilda suggested, already sitting there with the menu.
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m going to have pork chops with potato pancakes, a cold Czech pilsner and a large vodka.’
54
Thursday afternoon, 29 July
Once he was home again, he lay down on the sofa in his study and told Matilda to bring him a cup of coffee and a bottle of mineral water. He felt brighter than he had for a long time. No headache, no tightness in his chest. Best to make the most of it, Johansson thought, and pulled out the brown envelope Ulrika Stenholm had given him a few days before. It was also reassuringly thin for someone who had been told to take it easy and not get stressed.
A number of concert programmes for performances by Margaretha Sagerlied.
Christmas concert in Bromma church. Standard repertoire, Johansson thought, without really knowing much about the subject.
Concert in Spånga church. Clearly a more mixed repertoire, Johansson thought, without really knowing much about that either.
Mozart at the Drottningholm Palace Theatre. Everyone knows about that, Johansson thought, despite never having set foot in the place.
Half a dozen photographs, immediately more rewarding to someone like him, because they suddenly put faces to a number of people he had never met, spoken to or even seen pictures of.
A signed photo of Margaretha Sagerlied – a young and very beautiful Margaretha Sagerlied – taken in 1951, according to the photographer’s stamp on the back. The only reason it had ended up in the hands of Ulrika Stenholm’s father many years later had to be that she had given it to him. Or, rather, to him and his wife, Johansson thought. She was pictured in half-profile against a dark background, her head tossed back, eyelids partly lowered, an almost scornful smile and – half a century later – a dramatic expression that didn’t work at all. Carmen, Johansson thought. Was that how she saw herself?
Another photograph. ‘Crayfish party, 1970, at Margaretha and Johan’s’, Johansson read on the back. ‘Our host, Johan, my dear wife, Louise, our charming hostess, Margaretha, and myself’, he read on the line below. Clearly Daddy Vicar’s writing, Johansson thought. Two men in smoking jackets flanking two women in fancy party dresses, all of them with crayfish-party hats on their heads, the wide-bowled champagne glasses of the time and cheerful smiles. Wonder who took the picture, Johansson thought. Who cares? he thought, seeing as the photographer, assuming he was a man, would also have been far too old fifteen years later.
To the right of the photograph was a man of about seventy with thinning hair and a flushed complexion; he was big and burly and his expression was jovial. Beside him was a woman who looked half his age and could have been Johansson’s neurologist’s twin sister. Then t
he charming hostess, who looked younger than her fifty-six years when the picture was taken. A head taller than Ulrika Stenholm’s mother, beaming into the camera, raising her glass and with her left arm around the man next to her. Daddy Vicar, Johansson thought. Thin, not much hair, open, regular features, a friendly, almost shy smile. A wise and good man, judging by his appearance. Possibly slightly embarrassed by the arm round his waist, he thought, then put the photograph down as his mobile started to ring.
‘Johansson,’ Johansson said, seeing as he usually responded since he had retired by giving his surname, instead of just grunting at the caller.
‘Hello, Lars,’ his brother-in-law said. ‘Alf here. I hope all’s well with you?’
‘Constant pain,’ Johansson said. Because who the hell bothers to lie to a man like Alf Hult? he thought. ‘How are you getting on with our opera singer and that old butcher she was married to?’
‘I was just about to let you know.’
‘Tell me,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m listening.’
They were both childless, according to all public registers on the matter, and, for once, Alf Hult was inclined to believe that this was actually the case.
‘No kids out of wedlock?’ Johansson said.
‘Not all families can afford things like that,’ Alf Hult said with a discreet cough.
‘Anyone else, then? Young men of the right age, nephews, cousins, anyone else?’
None of them either, according to his brother-in-law. Neither Johan Nilsson nor Margaretha Sagerlied had any siblings.
‘Johan Nilsson was a third-generation meat-trader. He was born in 1895, died 1980. His father, grocer Anders Gustaf Nilsson, was born in 1870, and his son, Johan, was his only child. Anders Gustaf died in 1950, by the way. Johan’s grandfather, on the other hand, had a whole brood of children. Eight of them, if I’ve counted right – three boys and five girls – but none of them seems to have produced any male descendants of the right age.’
‘What about her, then?’ Johansson said. ‘Sagerlied?’
‘To make it nice and easy, she was an only child as well. She was born Svensson; her father was a furrier in Stockholm and her mother a housewife. Lower bourgeois, as they probably said in those days. At the risk of disappointing you, there’s not much joy to be had there either. No close male relatives. Margaretha Sagerlied, born Margaretha Svensson, changed her name in 1937 when she was twenty-three years old. That was two years before she got a permanent job at the Stockholm Opera.’
The Dying Detective Page 20
