The Dying Detective

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘Not his eyes.’

  ‘Not like a wolf.’ Matilda smiled. ‘This is a man who’s suffered,’ she said. ‘Not someone who’s just helped himself. And a lot of us girls find that attractive. Guys who’ve been through the mill but are still standing. They’re pretty hard to beat, actually.’

  ‘So?’ Johansson said. He was sixty-seven and had never been particularly good-looking, but his looks had been steadily improving until very recently, something like a month back. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I’m twenty-three,’ Matilda said. ‘If Joseph Simon asked, then if he’s the man he seems to be, and even if he didn’t have a penny in his pocket, well, woohay!’

  ‘What do you mean, “woohay”?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘I’d be on my back in an instant, or whatever position he wanted.’

  ‘Really?’ Johansson said. Which might well explain the tattoos and piercings, he thought.

  ‘Yes,’ Matilda said. ‘I would. Anyway, I’ve got a question.’ She nodded towards the boxes that were still on the floor of the study.

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m listening.’ Even though he already knew the answer to the question.

  ‘The girl in those boxes, that’s his little daughter, isn’t it? Yasmine?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘That’s his daughter, Yasmine.’ These days, she lives in boxes on the floor of my study, he thought. And all I’ve managed to do so far is give her back her hairgrip.

  ‘Good luck,’ Matilda said. ‘I hope you manage to catch the man who did it. And that you tell me when you know who it is.’

  ‘Why?’ Johansson said. So you can rip his arms and legs off, and boil him down to make glue? he thought.

  ‘So I can scratch his eyes out,’ Matilda said. ‘Just stick my fingernails in and dig them out. Just like that, plop, plop.’

  56

  Friday afternoon, 30 July

  In the car on the way home from the physiotherapist, Johansson sat in silence to start with, wondering whose fault it really was. Whose fault it was that even normal, decent people, usually perfectly normal and even respectable people, kept offering to kill someone they had never met in the most gruesome ways.

  If I’d been given this case back in the day, then obviously the perpetrator would have been behind bars within a month and, apart from the unavoidable occurrence that we couldn’t have done anything about, at least we would have escaped all the rest of it, Johansson thought. The murderer would have disappeared into collective forgetfulness just like John Ingvar Löfgren, Ulf Olsson and Anders Eklund. They lived on only inside the heads of anyone who had been close to their victims, and all the victims men like Löfgren, Olsson and Eklund hadn’t managed to kill, the ones who were allowed to live on with their lifelong suffering. Not like the rest of us, who had enough distance to be able to move on. But instead Evert Bäckström had been put in charge of the case, and it had turned out the way it always turned out when Bäckström was supposed to do something.

  But it isn’t only Bäckström’s fault, he thought. Maybe it’s partly that crazy police chief’s fault. The man who thought he could be a detective even though he didn’t know his way round the most basic interview, still less how to get anything useful out of it in the process. Or the chief of police’s best friend, the publisher who got robbed and seriously beaten up for taking the wrong person home, losing both his wallet and Rita Hayworth’s old evening dress into the bargain. And who, as the icing on the cake, was allocated Evert Bäckström as the person who would see to it that he got earthly justice.

  Hardly Ebbe Carlsson’s fault either, he thought. The fact that he blabbed to his best friend was hardly that odd, considering all the indignities Bäckström had subjected him to.

  Maybe it wasn’t Bäckström’s fault at all, he thought. Maybe it was actually his fault, for failing to keep the force clean of men like Evert Bäckström, the force that was his family, despite the occasional cuckoo like Evert Bäckström. The same organization in whose upper echelons he had spent the last twenty years of his police career.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ Johansson said, nodding towards his chauffeur, Matilda.

  ‘I’m listening, boss.’

  ‘What you said earlier,’ he said. ‘About scratching out the eyes of the man who murdered Yasmine. Would you really do that?’ Think about this carefully now, he thought.

  ‘If it had been my own daughter,’ Matilda said. ‘If men like you had let him get away?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Then I’d do it.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying.’

  ‘I understand why you’re asking.’

  ‘How can you?’

  ‘Because I think you’re going to find him,’ Matilda said. ‘I’m pretty certain that you’re going to, actually. So you’re worried I’m going to find out who it is and get something like a hundred million for letting Yasmine’s dad know what his name is and where he lives.’

  ‘Would you do that?’ Johansson asked. You wouldn’t be alone in that, he thought.

  ‘No,’ Matilda said, shaking her head. ‘That’s the boundary. If it had been my own daughter, okay. I swear to you, I’d make mincemeat of him. But otherwise, no.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There are boundaries. You should know that.’

  ‘I know,’ Johansson said. Boundaries you never cross, he thought. Boundaries you can’t bring yourself to cross, because that would make you a worse person than the people who are so terrible that you can’t even kill them.

  ‘Just make sure he gets sentenced to life. Then it’ll be fine, and you won’t have to worry about people like me.’

  As soon as Johansson got home he called an old friend of his brother Evert. Someone Johansson knew as well, seeing as they usually went hunting together. A prominent freelance journalist who had been covering the business world for almost forty years and who knew most of what had been going on in the sphere of human life that constituted his area of expertise and was far from afraid to speak out when necessary.

  ‘I’m calling because I’ve got a question,’ Johansson said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘Good to hear from you, Lars. No, definitely not. You could never disturb me. How are you?’

  ‘On top of the world,’ Johansson lied.

  ‘So we’ll see each other for the elk hunt as usual?’ his good friend said. ‘I certainly hope so,’ Johansson said. ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering.’

  ‘Doesn’t cost anything to ask.’

  ‘Joseph Simon. Is that anyone you know?’

  ‘Yes, I’d even venture to say that I know him better than most people. I knew him back when he lived in Sweden. I wrote an article about him in the early eighties. He and his uncle, who was a professor at the Karolinska, had a private business on the side. They used to analyse blood samples, urine, faeces – anything the health service would throw at them. Must be thirty years ago now.’

  ‘How did it go?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘It turned out very well indeed,’ his hunting partner said. ‘Hence my interest, and the resulting article. Do you know, an ordinary shit can be worth its weight in gold if someone gets it into their head that it contains bacteria that shouldn’t be there. Or anything else, for that matter. Or too much or too little. But no matter.’

  ‘How would you describe him? Simon, I mean,’ Johansson said. ‘In one sentence,’ he added.

  ‘In one sentence?’

  ‘In one sentence,’ Johansson said. Can’t be that hard. After all, you’re a journalist, he thought.

  ‘In one sentence. Then I’d put it like this: if there’s one person on this planet that I don’t want to fall out with, in any serious sense – and I don’t mean about business, but feelings and personal relationships – then it’s Joseph Simon. Not at any cost.’

  ‘What would happen if you did?’

  ‘Then he’d probably be capable of killing me. I presume you
know what happened to his little girl, Yasmine?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But hang on a moment,’ Johansson said. ‘You mean he could seriously get it into his head to get rid of someone like me?’

  ‘Despite the fact that you used to be head of both the Security Police and National Crime, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If it turned out that you were involved in his daughter’s murder, then he’d definitely do it. Even if you were the president of the United States, he’d have a serious attempt at it. Joseph is a man with infinite resources and, if you ask me, there are one or two American paedophiles who have already been made very painfully aware of that. Without ever having heard of or read about his daughter, Yasmine. Or her father.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I was looking on the internet recently,’ the journalist said. ‘Around the time when Yasmine’s murder passed the statute of limitations, and in conjunction with the new legislation abolishing the statute where murder is concerned, I don’t know if you read it, but Svenska Dagbladet printed an article comparing the murder of Olof Palme with that of Yasmine. And the fact that Palme’s murder will never be prescribed, whereas the murder of a little girl like Yasmine already is, because it was three weeks too old when the new law came into force. Even though there’s DNA evidence that could convict a perpetrator no matter how long it takes to find him. I mean, if there are any cases that eat up ordinary people from the inside, it would have to be the sexually motivated murder of small children. We’re all parents, after all.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Johansson said. Every parent’s worst nightmare, he thought.

  ‘I uncovered a lot of interesting things. Do you know, for instance, how many paedophiles were murdered in the USA last year?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Over three hundred. That number comes from the FBI, if you were wondering, so it wasn’t just snatched out of the air. These murders have even got their own category in the States: they’re called paedophile-victim-related murders. More than three hundred in the past year. Do you know how many of them have been solved so far? With their murderers being prosecuted?’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Three,’ his friend said. ‘In one case, the perpetrator was released because of an illegal search of his home. A hillbilly from the South, and a local jury. And guess who paid for the million-dollar lawyer who represented the idiot? You guessed it. That foundation Joseph set up in memory of his daughter.’

  Yasmine’s Memorial Foundation, Johansson thought.

  ‘What about the second one?’ he asked. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘That was even more straightforward. He was himself a victim. So he was given a probationary sentence and released into the community. He’d cut off the perpetrator’s, or rather the murder victim’s, cock and shoved it in his mouth. This was in New York, where the law tends to be applied relatively fairly.’

  ‘The third case?’

  ‘Secure psychiatric care. But an appeal has already been lodged and is due to be considered shortly. The defendant is currently out on bail.’

  ‘But this isn’t Joseph running about the streets trying to get justice?’

  ‘Why on earth would he do that? He gives a billion a year – Swedish kronor, I mean – to people who’d do it for nothing. Who would even pay to do it, if they were given a name and address. Often people who themselves have been the victims of abuse.’

  ‘Really?’ Johansson said.

  ‘And he’s caught the mood of the moment, the Sweden Democrats have just made it a big issue in this autumn’s election, saying that we should have the same legislation they’ve got in the USA, where all information about paedophiles and others found guilty of sexual offences are in the public domain and open to everyone. A similar law was passed in Poland last year. And a dozen other EU member states, including Denmark, are preparing similar legislation.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Johansson said. What am I supposed to do about that? he thought.

  ‘Excuse my curiosity,’ his friend said. ‘Obviously, I don’t think for a moment that you had anything to do with the murder of his little daughter, but I can’t help being curious. I don’t suppose that you and your colleagues have been sitting on the identity of the perpetrator? The man who raped and strangled little Yasmine?’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘Absolutely not. I just happened to look at the case when it passed the statute of limitations.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ his hunting partner said. ‘That’s a relief,’ he repeated. ‘Because Joseph would give his right arm to find out. You could be as rich as your brother if you told him the name of the man who did it. And if he didn’t get it, he’d demand far more than that of you if he was convinced that you knew and didn’t want to tell him.’

  ‘Well, that’s all academic,’ Johansson said. ‘See you at the hunt.’

  Silly fucker, he thought as he hung up. Crapping himself over nothing. Murdering the US president? Christ, who the hell do these people think they are? Do they really think they can do whatever they want just because they’ve got a bit of money? Anyway, what the hell has happened to your head? he thought. Why can’t you just keep your mouth shut?

  57

  Friday evening, 30 July

  That evening he had a talk with Pia. Asked her a direct question. A man-to-woman question, an older-man-to-a-twenty-years-younger-wife question, if you like.

  ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering,’ Johansson said. ‘Quite a few things, actually.’

  ‘In that case, you’ve come to the right place, Lars,’ Pia said with a smile.

  ‘How many adult men do you think would be able to do it with a child? I’m talking about ordinary, normal blokes like me or Evert or your dad or your brothers – pretty much anyone at all, really.’

  ‘None,’ Pia said, shaking her head. ‘Not if we’re talking about normal men. No normal man or person has sex with a child.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Johansson said. ‘And I’m not asking for my own sake. What about all men, then?’

  ‘One per cent or so, maybe,’ Pia said. ‘One in a hundred, one in fifty, or maybe even forty. Assuming we’re talking about children. Not twelve-year-olds, not young girls who’ve just got breasts and hair between their legs. Which is fairly easy to shave off, of course, if you’re that way inclined.’

  ‘How many is that, then?’ Johansson said.

  ‘Far too many,’ Pia said. ‘Go and have a look on the internet if you don’t believe me. Apparently, those sites get tens of millions of hits each week. Discreet visitors, not page hits, because then it would be hundreds of millions.’

  ‘I’ve already done that.’

  ‘A question,’ Pia said. ‘Those boxes,’ she continued, nodding towards the boxes on the floor of his study.

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘What about them?’

  ‘They contain the investigation into the murder of little Yasmine Ermegan, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘How do you know that?’ That that’s where Yasmine lives, he thought.

  ‘I had a look inside them, of course. Who do you take me for?’

  ‘Ah. You had a look.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t kill you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘When you find him,’ Pia said. ‘Because I’m absolutely convinced that you will. As long as it doesn’t come at the cost of another stroke or a heart attack.’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘You don’t have to worry about that.’

  ‘So what will you do then?’ Pia asked. ‘Once you’ve found him, and when someone like you can’t do a blind thing about him because it’s too late, according to some law that’s so screwed up you’d have to be a lawyer to come up with something so utterly fucking stupid. So incomprehensibly stupid that any thinking, feeling person can only shake their head at the idiocy of it. Pardon my French.’

  ‘I won’t have to do a damn thing,’ Johansson sa
id. Once I’ve found him, it will already be too late, he thought. When I find him, everyone else will do it for me.

  58

  Saturday morning, 31 July

  ‘Lars,’ Pia called. ‘There’s someone at the door. Can you get it?’

  ‘What for?’ Johansson called from the sofa, where he was lying with his newspaper, for once without a headache.

  ‘I’m on the toilet,’ she shouted.

  I didn’t think female bank directors went to the toilet, Johansson thought. Then, with some effort, he got to his feet, picked up his stick and limped out into the hall to open the door. He didn’t even look through the peephole first, seeing as it didn’t really matter that much, given the way he felt these days. If it came to it, he could probably administer a couple of well-aimed blows with his stick.

  ‘I’m Max,’ said Maxim Makarov. ‘Your brother Evert sent me.’

  Little Evert, Johansson thought. Where the hell did Evert manage to find him? I didn’t think they made them like this any more.

  ‘Come in, Max. You’re very welcome indeed.’ Your very own Little Evert, he thought. After sixty years, you’ve got your very own Little Evert, and one who’s going to be living with you and your wife. ‘Come right on in, Max,’ he said, suddenly inexplicably elated.

  Pia seemed more seriously delighted in their new lodger. She served up grilled steak for lunch. Johansson was permitted a small piece with nothing but salad, whereas Max shovelled down a mountain of fried potatoes with three generous spoonfuls of Pia’s homemade garlic butter on top. Johansson was allowed his two glasses of red wine. Considering the amount that was being dispensed in his vicinity, this felt mostly like a sympathetic sop. It was measured precisely by the centilitre by his wife when she had her back to him. Two glasses of red wine and a glass of mineral water, while Max drank at least a litre of freshly squeezed orange juice. He’s going to eat me out of house and home, Johansson thought.