The Dying Detective

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘You hit him? You hit him on the nose?’ This can’t be happening, Johansson thought.

  ‘With my hand open,’ Max said, holding up a right hand that was even bigger than Johansson’s best friend’s. ‘An open hand across the nose. Anyway, he’d already run me over.’

  ‘Across the nose?’ The lad’s done this before, Johansson thought. He knows the difference in punishment for an open hand and a clenched fist, he thought.

  ‘Best place if you want someone to start bleeding without hurting them badly,’ Max said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘If I’d hit him in the jaw or eyebrows he could have died. I could have fractured his skull without him even shedding a drop of blood.’

  ‘You didn’t do anything else?’ Johansson asked. He’s considerate as well, he thought.

  ‘No,’ Max said. ‘I just walked away.’

  ‘I sincerely hope he is still alive.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Max said. ‘A little nosebleed never killed anyone, did it?’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘You didn’t think you had any other options, then?’

  ‘No,’ Max said. ‘I could hardly go into the restaurant and give him a slap. With loads of witnesses and all that. I hope you’re not mad at me, boss.’

  ‘No. I’m afraid to say that I’m not. Not if what you’re telling me is what really happened.’ I can think of at least two people who’d adopt you on the spot, he thought.

  ‘There’s no need to worry, boss,’ Max said. ‘I’m not lying. Only bad people lie. I’ve never needed to.’

  No, Johansson thought. Why should you need to? ‘Just one question,’ he said. ‘Do you always go round with a paper napkin in your pocket?’

  ‘Always,’ Max said. ‘In case I need to blow my nose or something. Was there anything else you were wondering, boss?’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘But there might be something I ought to say.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Thank you, Max,’ Johansson said with a nod. ‘Thank you very much. And next time you decide to solve a problem for me, I’d appreciate it if you asked me for permission first.’

  ‘Of course,’ Max said.

  Must call Bo, Johansson thought. He suddenly felt inexplicably elated, as if someone had removed the strap that had been constricting his chest and stopping him breathing properly. No headache, either. Just free. At last, he thought.

  82

  Monday, 16 August

  Johansson had made up his mind what to do before falling asleep the night before. The Security Police can deal with the practical side of things, he thought. You could think what you liked about the Security Police, but they knew how to keep their mouths shut. If he sent Max’s bloody napkin to one of his many contacts in the regular Crime Unit, he was more than likely to find himself reading about it in the paper at pretty much the same time as the test results came through. He didn’t even want to think about the consequences of that, and didn’t need to, seeing as they were bleeding obvious.

  I need to talk to Lisa, Johansson thought. Lisa Mattei, his youngest and most talented colleague during his last ten years in the force, who had moved with him from the Security Police to National Crime. She had returned to the Security Police after he retired. These days she was a Deputy Police Commissioner on the staff of the Director General, despite being just thirty-five years old.

  On Monday morning Johansson cancelled his appointment with his physiotherapist and called Lisa Mattei instead.

  ‘Johansson,’ Johansson said when she answered.

  ‘Lars,’ Lisa Mattei said. ‘Good to hear from you. According to the latest news in the staff room, you’re improving by the day.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Johansson said. ‘Lars’, he thought. What happened to ‘boss’? Are we close friends, all of a sudden?

  ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘And, practically enough, I think you may be the only person who can. It’s urgent, too.’

  ‘I can see you in an hour,’ Mattei said. ‘How long do you think it will take?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ Johansson said. Little Lisa’s grown up, he thought as he hung up.

  A reserved, very fit blonde, well-dressed, respectable, pleasant appearance. Lisa Mattei in one sentence, Johansson thought as he stepped into her office. She was obviously pregnant now, judging by the size of her stomach. Little Lisa is properly big now, he thought.

  ‘Lars,’ Lisa said. ‘It’s really good to see you. Can I give you a hug?’ she asked.

  ‘Okay,’ Johansson said, and leaned forward to make it easier for her to put her arm round his back. ‘Do you know what sort it is?’ he went on, nodding towards her round stomach as soon as he had sat down.

  ‘A girl. I couldn’t wait, so I asked them to tell me,’ she said.

  ‘And her dad? Is he a police officer, too?’

  ‘Not remotely. He teaches film studies. Works at the university.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ Johansson said.

  ‘What can I do for you, Lars?’

  ‘I need to get a DNA sample tested. It’s a sensitive subject. If we get a match, I don’t want it to leak out.’

  ‘What’s the case?’

  ‘The unsolved sexually motivated murder of a nine-year-old girl twenty-five years ago, now prescribed.’

  ‘Yasmine Ermegan?’ Lisa Mattei stared at him.

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said.

  ‘You’ve solved it for us?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m pretty certain I’ve found him. And he’s still alive.’

  ‘I can’t help being curious,’ Mattei said. ‘What made you take an interest in Yasmine’s murder? It wasn’t one of your old cases, was it?’

  ‘I needed something to do while I was in hospital.’

  ‘You haven’t changed, Lars,’ Lisa Mattei declared.

  ‘Maybe,’ Johansson said. ‘To be honest, I’ve felt better. This is his DNA, and a hairgrip that I believe belonged to the victim,’ he said, putting his two plastic bags down on her desk.

  ‘Blood,’ Mattei said, holding up the bag containing the paper napkin.

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘Sometimes you have to make the most of things. We can deal with that later.’ He shrugged.

  ‘And this hairgrip was Yasmine’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘Not that I think there’s anything on it, but from a purely academic perspective it’s probably worth a try. I’ve got a question. Can this be regarded as a security matter?’

  ‘If we get a match, then yes, definitely. I presume you know who Yasmine’s father is?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘What about as things stand now?’

  ‘What are friends for?’ Mattei said with a smile. ‘Besides, this is where I work,’ she added.

  ‘Let me know,’ Johansson said, and stood up. ‘And take care of yourself.’ He nodded towards her bulging stomach.

  ‘You, too, Lars,’ Mattei said.

  After lunch a thought struck Johansson. He quickly weighed up his options. Decided to break one of his own rules. He called one of his old contacts at Solna Police and began by asking a direct question.

  ‘Toivonen,’ said Superintendent Toivonen from the Crime Unit in Solna.

  ‘Johansson,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Toivonen said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ Johansson said. ‘Are you still good at keeping your mouth shut?’

  ‘Better than ever,’ Toivonen said. ‘You only get more and more tired as you get older. I can barely be bothered to talk to myself any more,’ he clarified. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Can you check if you received a report of an incident yesterday evening? Frösunda. The parking spaces near the square. About ten o’clock. Assault.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Toivonen said.

  It took five minutes, but he got an answer.

  ‘Sorry it took a while,’ Toivonen said. ‘Computer trouble,’ he explained. ‘
Had to check with the officer who’s looking after the case. What do you make of this, then? Aggravated assault. The plaintiff, a Staffan Nilsson, born 1960, was mugged just before ten o’clock last night when he was heading home to go to bed. He’d been for a meal at a nearby restaurant.’

  ‘Aggravated assault?’

  ‘Yes,’ Toivonen said. ‘The perpetrators, at least two of them, according to the plaintiff, possibly three, were the usual sort, going by his description. They took his gold-and-steel Rolex, a gold note-clip containing twelve thousand kronor in notes, the gold chain he had round his neck and a signet ring in white gold he was wearing on his left hand. Total value around one hundred and fifty thousand kronor. Frankly, he was asking for it if he was wandering about with all that on him. Or else he’s just got fucking good insurance.’

  ‘Witnesses?’ This is getting better and better, Johansson thought.

  ‘None who saw what happened. An elderly couple who were out for an evening found the victim immediately afterwards. He was sitting on the pavement, bleeding from the nose. They called 112. The first patrol arrived five minutes later. The meat-wagon arrived just after that.’

  ‘Surveillance cameras?’

  ‘No, none where it happened.’

  ‘How is the victim, then?’

  ‘He was discharged from hospital last night after they patched him up. Fractured nose. Nothing too serious. Is it someone you know?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The victim?’

  ‘What victim?’ Johansson said.

  ‘I understand,’ Toivonen said. ‘Take care.’

  So how do I use this? Johansson thought.

  83

  Monday evening, 16 August

  That evening Lars Martin Johansson, sixty-seven, had a conversation lasting over an hour with Maxim Makarov, twenty-three. A personal conversation in which Max talked about events in his life which were almost unbearable to talk about. It was Johansson who got him to do this, and whether it was right or wrong of him was a question to which he would never know the answer. It all began innocently enough, mostly as an attempt to forge a bit of simple, human contact. Possibly even an attempt to joke about serious things.

  Johansson asked Max to make him some tea. It was a relatively risk-free enterprise, asking a Russian to make tea, regardless of gender. The sort of tea that Johansson liked, not that English dishwater. Russian tea. Then they sat down in the study and Johansson told him that Staffan Nilsson evidently hadn’t merely had his nose slapped and then wiped afterwards, in a way which could hardly have been beneficial to his pride. He had also been mugged of his note-clip, money, watch, the gold chain round his neck and the signet ring on the little finger of his left hand.

  ‘He’s lying,’ Max said. ‘He wasn’t wearing a gold chain. But I do remember the ring and watch.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Johansson said. ‘Besides, you’re a very bad match with his description of his attackers. Two, possibly three, perpetrators, none of them much like you if I understood correctly.’ By now Staffan Nilsson ought to have filed a report with his insurance company too, he thought.

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ Max said. ‘I have trouble with people like him.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t kill him,’ Johansson said.

  ‘For your sake, boss. I let him live for your sake.’

  The lad seems completely out of it, Johansson thought.

  ‘Tell me about the children’s home you were in,’ Johansson said. ‘Sometimes it can be good to let out a bit of pressure. Anything you say will stay inside this room.’

  ‘Okay,’ Max said.

  It’s 1993. Maksim Makarov is six years old, and he has just lost his foothold in life. His grandmother has died, and he’s been left on his own, with no close relatives to feed him and give him a bed to sleep in. No adult hand to cling to for a bit of comfort. That leaves the children’s home: a home for him and children like him.

  The old stone city of St Petersburg, where the River Neva flows into the Gulf of Finland, 5 million inhabitants, squeezed into an area a third the size of Stockholm. The commissars of the Soviet state and the relative order they created have been replaced by voracious capitalism and a vicious free-for-all, even if the individuals concerned are largely the same.

  Ordinary people are suffering; wages and pensions are paid late or not at all. There is a sudden torrent of goods that only a minority can afford. The price of bread, potatoes and everything else people use to fill their stomachs keeps on rising. Crime is growing to epidemic levels. Members of a new lumpen proletariat have made the streets and squares their home. Police vans no longer appear every morning and evening to cart them off to the police cells of the people’s republic, where they were once given water, thin gruel, bread and a bucket to vomit, piss and shit in. Nothing like that now. The Soviet welfare state has ceased to exist, and free enterprise has taken over.

  This applies even to people like Max, and all the lonely children who have no adult hand to guide them through life. But there is the children’s home, which at least offers three meals a day, a roof over their heads and beatings at any hour of the day for anyone who doesn’t behave or has simply wet themselves. There is still the hope of being adopted. Of getting a new mother and father who will take them away, to a new life in capitalist heaven, at a safe distance from the despair of St Petersburg.

  ‘I grew up in Grazdanka,’ Max said. ‘It wasn’t a lot like Östermalm, exactly. Where all the rich people live, where Evert’s office is,’ he explained.

  ‘Is that in the suburbs?’ Johansson asked. Despite having visited St Petersburg both before and after the collapse of communism, he didn’t really know his way around.

  ‘There are hardly any suburbs in that city,’ Max said, shaking his head. ‘It’s not like here. Petersburg is a stone city; Grazdanka is a slum. The building where I lived with Grandma and Grandpa had an outside toilet. For a while there was a children’s home in almost every block. It’s better now. The worst is over. I don’t think the staff in the homes are allowed to sell children any more. I think Putin put a stop to that.’

  The sale of children used to follow the same rules that applied to the sale of most other goods. The price was set according to supply and demand, and customers obviously had the expected preferences when it came to something like a child. They should be as young as possible, healthy, of course, pleasant, and as pretty as possible. Girls were more in demand than boys.

  ‘So you were left on the shelf?’ Johansson said with a wry smile.

  ‘Guess,’ Max said, smiling back. ‘I looked the way I do now, just a much smaller version.’

  ‘So there were never any offers?’

  ‘Once, a fat old Finn started poking and prodding me,’ Max said. ‘His wife was even fatter. So I jumped up and punched him. Guess if I got beaten after that. I had to sleep on my front for the rest of the week.’

  The children’s home where Max lived for four years was an old, abandoned hospital that had been patched up and turned into a home the year before he ended up there. There was space for three hundred children and twenty staff, mostly women. The children were sorted according to the usual principles. Infants and toddlers at the bottom, children between six and twelve on the next floor, where boys and girls were sent in different directions at the top of the stairs. The older children were on the top floor, and as soon as they turned fifteen it was time to find another home.

  ‘When you grew hair on your balls, or round your fanny if you were a girl, you were moved to the top floor. If Mum had waited another year, I’d have ended up there, too. Once you got there, you were finished.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Johansson said.

  ‘I had a number of older friends who lived up there. They’re all dead now. Drink, meths, solvents, heroin, crime. You got chucked out of the home straight on to the street. One of my best friends – he was four years older than me – he smuggled a bottle of methanol in and drank the lot. He died in the home that night. Thirt
een years old.’

  ‘Did you get any kind of education? You must have gone to some sort of school?’

  ‘Sure,’ Max said. ‘In the building next door. You were taught to read, write and count, but most of it was practical. You worked in a workshop, basically. I spent a whole year nailing pallets together. The last year I was there. Before that I washed dirty glasses and peeled potatoes. That was the staff’s perk: anything we did, they got to trouser. And they couldn’t make any money from us being taught how to read.’

  ‘“Trouser”?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘Stick the money in their own pockets,’ Max explained. ‘We worked for loads of customers. Restaurants, small workshops, ordinary shops, building firms. They used to turn up with a truck and dump a load of rubble in the yard. Then we’d run out and start pulling out nails, sorting the wood and putting it into piles. Knocking mortar from old bricks. There we were, a load of Russian kids. It was like that film with the seven dwarfs. But they worked in a mine, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said, and sighed. What could he say? he thought. That he used to sit in the kitchen back home at the farm, splitting kindling long before he started school, while his mother bribed him with chocolate and whipped cream and freshly baked cinnamon buns.

  ‘There wasn’t really anything wrong with us paying our way,’ Max said, as if he could read Johansson’s thoughts. ‘But we were basically the staff’s slaves. If they couldn’t make money from selling us to rich Westerners, then we had to work. If we did learn to read and write, that was just a façade to cover what the staff were really doing.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy,’ Johansson said. I have to say something, he thought. That I used to sit by the stove in the kitchen splitting kindling? That I had to mound up the potatoes and harvest hay when I was a lad?

  ‘There was worse, I’m sure – kids who had it much worse, I mean,’ Max said, and shrugged. ‘But what I’ve told you wasn’t the worst of it. Worse things went on.’

  ‘Tell me about that,’ Johansson said.