‘It’s the same with people like me,’ Simon said. ‘Within my profession, I mean. There are good doctors and there are bad ones. There are some who are so bad that they should never have been allowed to become doctors.’
‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘You and your wife were unlucky. The investigation was poorly handled, and my colleagues were unable to give you and your wife the justice you had the right to demand from us. That’s one of the reasons why I’m sitting here.’
‘Give me his name,’ Joseph Simon said.
‘Sorry,’ Johansson said, shaking his head. ‘Because I know who you are, I don’t see any possibility of doing that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Naturally, I can’t begin to imagine the suffering you’ve been through. That would be presumptuous of me. Let me put it like this. If I were you, and the same thing happened to me – if our roles were reversed – then I wouldn’t dare trust myself.’
‘You’re worried that I’d kill him,’ Simon said.
‘Yes.’
‘So there’s nothing I could give you in exchange?’
‘Nothing,’ Johansson said. ‘But I was thinking of making a suggestion.’
‘What?’
‘Suppose we had found him twenty-five years ago . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Then he would have been sentenced to life and would have served seventeen or eighteen years before being released. I’ve already met him, by the way, in case you were wondering. Without him having any idea of who I am and what I know about him. I shall be meeting him again soon. I’m going to offer him exactly that. That he take his punishment.’
‘How can you do that?’ Simon asked. ‘My daughter’s murder has already been prescribed. You mean he’s done something else apart from that?’
‘I can’t go into the details,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m thinking of making him an offer he can’t refuse.’
‘And if he doesn’t take it? What will you do then?’
‘Considering the alternatives, I hope he accepts my offer.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ Joseph Simon repeated.
‘Then I’ll give you his name,’ Johansson said. ‘If he refuses to accept responsibility, I’ll let you have him.’
‘When?’
‘At noon on Wednesday of next week, at the latest. You needn’t worry about the practical details, because I’ve already taken care of them. Just give me your phone number, and I promise to call you as soon as I know.’
‘I believe you,’ Joseph Simon said. ‘I’ll give you my number. I accept your offer. If he accepts the same punishment he would have received for murdering my daughter. In nine days’ time,’ he said.
‘I can appreciate that it must seem like a long time,’ Johansson said. ‘Unfortunately, it will have to take as long as it takes.’
‘Twenty-five years is a long time,’ Joseph Simon said. ‘Nine days is no time at all. I have no problem waiting another nine days.’
‘Well, then,’ Johansson said, getting to his feet.
‘If there’s anything I can do for you, you only have to say. I’d be prepared to do whatever is in my power to help you,’ Joseph Simon said. As he said this, for some reason he glanced at the crutch under Johansson’s right arm.
‘People like me are the ones in your debt,’ Johansson said. ‘So don’t give it another thought.’
Good job I’m not made the same way as my eldest brother, because then Joseph Simon would be penniless by now, Johansson thought as he sat in the car on the way home.
94
Tuesday, 24 August to Thursday, 26 August
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday: the usual routine, tightness in his chest and headaches, dangling right arm, the numb forefinger of his right hand, which, in spite of all the physiotherapist’s promises, would remain that way until his last breath. And the preparations, all the practical details he had to sort out before it was time to confront Staffan Nilsson with what he had done to little Yasmine.
‘On Friday it’ll be time for me to visit the make-up salon again,’ Johansson told Matilda.
‘Are we still talking about the same character? No need to back it up with a blonde in a very short, black leather skirt and a skimpy red top?’
‘That’s very kind of you, Matilda,’ Johansson said. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll be absolutely fine with a bit of oil in my hair and those dark sunglasses. I’d be very happy if I could wear one of my usual suits.’
‘I don’t think that would be a problem,’ Matilda said. ‘Not now that he’s already seen you. I doubt he’d even notice, actually. It’s like you’ve already established the character.’
‘Excellent,’ Johansson said.
‘What about the bit about scratching his eyes out, then?’
‘I think I could manage that bit all on my own,’ Johansson said. ‘But there is one little detail I was going to ask you to help me with. If you could get this photograph enlarged?’ he said, handing her the one of Yasmine that he’d taken from the police investigation.
‘She’s very pretty. Beautiful,’ Matilda said. ‘She’s on the internet as well – I think it’s the same photograph. Will A4 be all right?’
‘That would be excellent,’ Johansson said.
On Thursday morning his brother-in-law phoned and asked if there was anything else he could do for him.
‘We haven’t spoken for a few days, so I interpret your silence to mean that you’ve got all the information about Margaretha Sagerlied and her relatives that you wanted.’
‘I’m more than happy,’ Johansson said. ‘And I’m looking forward to settling your bill.’ That’s what he wanted to hear, he thought.
‘I listened to her last night – Margaretha Sagerlied. I found an old LP of her singing Tosca with Sigurd Björling, among others – he sings Scarpia, a quite phenomenal baritone – but Sagerlied really isn’t bad either. Decent pipes on the woman. And the role seems to have suited her,’ said Alf, who was an opera buff.
‘Do you have many albums she sings on?’ Johansson said, having just been struck by an idea. A detail, but well worth trying, he thought.
‘I may have one or two,’ his brother-in-law said, with his habitual modesty.
‘I don’t suppose I could borrow a few of them? The ones with Sagerlied on, I mean. It would be interesting to hear them.’
‘By all means.’ Alf was barely able to hide his surprise. ‘You’re very welcome to. Any particular requests?’
‘I want anything with her on the album cover,’ Johansson said. Who gives a shit what it is? All that stuff sounds the same, he thought.
‘In that case, I’d suggest Tosca,’ Alf said. ‘There’s a very striking picture of Margaretha Sagerlied on the cover. And that one might be rather fitting, given your previous occupation.’
‘How do you mean?’ Johansson asked.
‘Scarpia’s a policeman,’ Alf said. ‘Not a terribly pleasant policeman, let me tell you, but Sigurd Björling gives a magnificent interpretation of the role.’
‘Excellent,’ Johansson said. ‘Send it over by courier and put it on my bill. Thank you very much, Alf.’ ‘Not a terribly pleasant policeman’, Johansson thought.
That afternoon he called Mats Eriksson and told him that he wouldn’t need to sit in on the next meeting with Staffan Nilsson. That there was no need for him to contact Nilsson and inform him of his absence, but that he should stay out of the way when Nilsson turned up at the office. He also planned to see Nilsson in his brother’s room. Mats Eriksson had no objections.
‘No problem at all,’ Mats said. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘That old record-player of Evert’s, is it still in his room?’
‘Of course,’ Mats said. ‘So he can play all his golden oldies for me and the rest of our colleagues at staff parties. You know, “Corinna, Corinna”, “Tell Laura I Love Her”, “Red Sails in the Sunset”.’
Well, then, Lars Martin Johansson thought when he and M
ax arrived at Evert’s office at eight o’clock on Friday morning, so they would have plenty of time for the final preparations, before an entirely unsuspecting Staffan Nilsson walked into the office to make a real killing from a rich but gullible hillbilly from Norrland.
95
Friday, 27 August
He sorted out the final preparations himself. The record sleeve with the picture of Margaretha Sagerlied was fully visible on his brother’s large desk. The chair where Nilsson would be sitting while Johansson spoke to him and hopefully got him to realize what was best for him ended up at just the right angle after three attempts. His faithful assistant, Max, was already sitting behind the closed door to the next room – just in case Staffan Nilsson decided to be awkward and needed another slap across the nose.
Five minutes to go, Johansson thought, checking the time. Then he began to play the old record featuring Staffan Nilsson’s aunt in the title role of the opera. Hopefully, he would manage better than his colleague Scarpia, Johansson thought, having read the summary of the plot on the back of the sleeve the previous evening.
What a lot of shouting, Johansson was thinking five minutes later when a discreet knock on the door warned him that his visitor had arrived.
‘Mr Nilsson is here to see you now,’ said Gerd, Evert’s secretary.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ Johansson said, waving his crutch first at Nilsson, then at the visitor’s chair. ‘And would you mind switching the gramophone off, Gerd?’ he said, nodding towards her. ‘And shutting us in,’ he added.
‘Wonderful set of pipes she’s got, that woman,’ Johansson said, nodding towards the record cover.
And you’re already sniffing at the bait, he thought.
‘It’s nice that you think so, Lars,’ Nilsson said. ‘Especially nice for me, because she was in fact my aunt.’
‘Really?’ Johansson said. ‘Your aunt? Is she still alive, or—’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Staffan Nilsson said, shaking his head sadly. ‘She died in the late eighties.’
Yes, you ought to know, Johansson thought.
‘That’s a beautiful painting,’ Nilsson said, gesturing towards the large landscape hanging on the wall behind the desk.
‘It’s an Osslund,’ Johansson said. ‘Late winter in Ådalen, painted in 1910. The view from the family farm. According to the family story, the artist set up his easel on the meadow in front of the house. My grandfather bought it off him on the spot. For one hundred kronor, so the story goes.’
‘I was lucky enough to own a Leander Engström in my youth,’ Staffan Nilsson said. ‘That was one of those Norrland landscapes, too. There was some sort of hunter in it.’
‘I see,’ Johansson said. Who’d have thought it? he thought as he leaned forward and pulled his sunglasses down on to his nose. ‘Well, art and music are all very well, but it’s high time we got down to business,’ he went on. ‘I’m afraid Mats isn’t able to join us, by the way, but I don’t think we should let a detail like that get in our way.’
‘No, of course not,’ Staffan Nilsson said with a smile.
You still haven’t got a clue, Johansson thought. You’re just sitting there, licking your lips. ‘A curious question,’ he said. ‘How much money are you looking for from me and my brother? Twenty million? Fifty?’
‘I usually leave that to my investors to decide,’ Nilsson said, still smiling.
‘Do you know what? I’m thinking of offering you something that will be worth more to you than all the money in the world.’
‘Now I’m definitely curious, Lars,’ Nilsson said, smiling even more broadly.
‘I’m going to offer you a chance of survival,’ Johansson said. ‘For at least another fifteen, twenty years, assuming that you take your punishment and sit it out in a Swedish penal institution. I promise to do my best to make sure you end up with people with the same proclivities as you, so your fellow inmates don’t kill you.’
He still doesn’t get it, Johansson thought. He looks like he’s just heard something his mind can’t take in.
‘I don’t understand,’ Staffan Nilsson said. ‘Is this some sort of joke, or what?’
He gave a nervous twitch of the head towards the closed door, fear beginning to creep into his eyes.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Johansson said, handing over the photograph of Yasmine Ermegan.
He was almost as white in the face as Max had been when he’d talked about Nadja, a moment before he had to dash out to the toilet, but if Staffan Nilsson ended up being sick on Evert’s expensive carpet, Gerd would just have to clean up after him. That would do very nicely as a confession and, in the worst-case scenario, I could always buy my brother a new carpet, Johansson thought.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Staffan Nilsson said. He pushed the photograph away. The trap had snapped shut. Fear was now the dominant emotion in his eyes. His head was twisting and turning as those same eyes looked for a way out.
‘I’m talking about little Yasmine,’ Johansson said. ‘She was nine years old when you raped her and smothered her with a pillow in your aunt’s bedroom in her villa out in Äppelviken. That was on the evening of Friday, 14 June, 1985. You were there to look after the house and water your aunt’s plants while she was away in the country, when suddenly Yasmine rang on the door because she wanted to use the phone to call her parents. Of course, you already knew her. You must have met her on numerous occasions when you visited your aunt. Surely you remember that?’
‘I can’t believe my ears,’ Staffan said, standing up with a jerk. ‘Not a single word of that is true. Who told you such a grotesque story?’
‘I worked it out all on my own,’ Johansson said. ‘And, now, I’ve also been able to compare your DNA with the sperm found on Yasmine’s body, so there’s really no need for us to discuss your guilt or innocence.’
‘Clearly, I’ve ended up in the hands of a madman, some lunatic private detective. You know, what you’ve just said is criminal. It’s gross defamation, and I won’t hesitate to—’
‘Shut up before I kill you,’ Johansson said, firing him a look that brooked no contradiction. ‘You can forget about sneaking out through that door, by the way, because it’s locked. If you want to call the police, I won’t stop you, but I’d advise against it, for your own sake. Unless you want to find yourself in the evening papers, that is. If it will calm you down at all, you haven’t ended up in the hands of some lunatic private detective. I may be retired now, but I spent all my working life as a police officer. Before I retired I was head of the National Crime Unit and, if it’s any consolation, sadly, I’ve encountered hundreds of men like you over the years.’
‘Not a word – not a single word – of what you just said is true,’ Staffan Nilsson said. His voice was noticeably different now, stressed, hoarse, as if he were having trouble breathing. His eyes kept darting round the room, landing on everything except Johansson.
‘I can appreciate that you’re terrified,’ Johansson said. ‘I wouldn’t be feeling too great if I’d raped and murdered Joseph Simon’s daughter. If anyone has been able to disturb your sleep during all these years, I daresay it’s him, Yasmine’s father, with all his hundreds of billions, and the knowledge of what he and his associates would do to you the day he caught up with you.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Staffan Nilsson said, even though the look on his face was saying something completely different.
‘Don’t lie,’ Johansson said. ‘Besides, I’d like you to shut up for two minutes and listen to my offer. Listen very carefully. This is what is usually called a once-in-a-lifetime offer. An offer you can’t afford to turn down.’
As long as he doesn’t shit himself, Johansson thought. Nilsson was drooping in his chair now, his head sagging, suddenly miles away.
‘I met Yasmine’s father a few days ago,’ Johansson said. ‘He wanted me to sell you to him. I turned him down, so he still doesn’t know who you are. I explained to him that I wanted
to talk to you first, to give you a chance to take your punishment. To go to the police and clear the decks. Tell them about all the little girls you’ve slept with, all the ones you’ve raped or drugged before you had sex with them. All the ones you simply had to pay for before you had sex with them. I’m convinced that would be enough to warrant a two-figure custodial sentence. Failing that, you could always say you murdered your mother. Fortunately, her case hasn’t yet passed the statute of limitations, unlike Yasmine’s.’
‘I didn’t murder my mother! This is completely insane.’
‘I don’t think you murdered her either,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m actually convinced that she committed suicide as soon as she worked out what you did to Yasmine. But I’m just as convinced that a court would find you guilty of murder if, for instance, you were to tell my colleagues that she’d threatened to tell the police about you, and that you decided to poison her by tricking her into taking lots of sedatives and drinking lots of alcohol. That it was you who murdered Yasmine, because they’ll work that out pretty much instantly, and that your mother threatened to give you away. A story like that would solve any problem regarding your motive. And that’s without even taking into account all the money you stood to inherit.’
At least he’s hearing what I’m saying now, Johansson thought, even though he’s having to cling on to the arms of the chair to stay upright. But his head is still lolling, and his eyes keep darting about.
‘To sum up,’ he went on. ‘Either you do as I say, and, if so, I want to know as soon as possible – by noon on Wednesday of next week at the latest. If you turn the offer down or don’t contact me, I shall tell Yasmine’s father who you are. He’ll get your name, date of birth and ID number, your address, copies of your passport and driving licence, your passport number, the registration number of your car, the names of everyone you know, your friends and acquaintances; he’ll know everything you think, feel and do. Then it will only be a matter of time before he finds you and, given who he is, there isn’t a place on this planet where you could hide from him. What he would do to you once he got hold of you is something I would prefer not to think about.’
The Dying Detective Page 38
