Another Time, Another Life

by Leif G. W. Persson

  “You’re hopeless,” she said, “but all right.”

  And there was something in her voice that definitely gave him hope for brighter, better times. Easy as pie. Now it’s only a matter of finding that tie she gave me the day after we met, thought Jarnebring, and hung up.

  To be sure, the part about the tango orchestra wasn’t true, but otherwise it all added up. And what do you need an orchestra for when your whole heart is singing? thought Jarnebring as he twined his fingers through hers, which were only half as big.

  “Listen, Bo,” she said, but because he already knew what was coming he just slowly shook his head, tested the old wolf grin, and took her other hand in his as well.

  “In a few weeks it’s … well, you know … an even number if I may say so.” I can’t sit here and say that soon it’s four years, he thought. Never wake a sleeping badger.

  “Yes?” She nodded seriously and looked at him.

  “My suggestion is that we go away. Avoid having a lot of relatives and colleagues drinking up your money. I’ll invite Lars Martin, you can invite Karin. Isn’t she your best friend?”

  “Is this a proposal?” she asked. Yet another, she thought.

  “Yes, well,” said Jarnebring and nodded, and there must have been something in the food for it felt as if something was stuck in his throat. “I know it sounds a little corny, but that’s what it’s supposed to be. A proposal, that is.”

  “In that case the answer is yes,” she said, nodding.

  They didn’t bother with champagne. Instead they went home to his fiancée and future wife’s place and played the film backward to the first days of their relationship. When Jarnebring finally fell asleep he felt like the sun was already about to go up on the other side of the curtains, but he must have been wrong because the red digital display on the alarm clock on the nightstand only showed three, and she was resting with her back and behind pressed against his chest and stomach, like a coffee spoon against a soup ladle, Jarnebring thought contentedly. In his world this was exactly as it should be, her head resting on his right arm and his left arm over her side and his hand carefully against her stomach. And when a dream finally took him and led him away he sensed the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, fresh-squeezed juice, scrambled eggs and bacon.

  It’s going to work out, thought Jarnebring between sleep and trance, and then he slept just as securely as when he was a little boy and summer vacation had just begun.

  7

  Saturday-Sunday, December 2–3, 1989

  Criminal inspector Anna Holt, age thirty-one, had spent the weekend with her son, Niklas “Nicke” Holt, age six. They had gone skating in Kungsträdgården, had junk food at McDonald’s on Norrmalmsgatan, bought a new jacket for Nicke, played games, and been couch potatoes.

  “This is the way it will always be for you and me, Mama,” Nicke summarized the weekend when it was time for a bedtime story on Sunday evening.

  Criminal inspector Evert Bäckström, age forty-seven, didn’t wake up until Saturday afternoon with what was, even by his standards, a formidable hangover, which he attributed to all the alcohol he had unfortunately happened to pour into himself the evening before. First came malt whiskey, vodka, and cognac, and so far all was well and good. Unfortunately toward the wee hours he had also sampled—mostly out of curiosity—some bottles with contents unknown, which for philanthropic reasons he had rescued from the General Inheritance Fund.

  When he went down to the convenience store to shop for a little late breakfast he was met by the major evening tabloid, which reported that an “insane serial murderer” had been running loose in the city for almost a year now and that he had just “butchered his fourth victim.”

  Where the hell’d they get that from? Bäckström thought, and contrary to habit bought a copy.

  As he read it he saw Jack Daniels before him. It was not a pleasant sight, and he realized it was high time to drag himself off to work and execute a number of preventive measures over the weekend.

  Jarnebring didn’t even open a newspaper over the weekend. He and his future wife didn’t leave their bed any more than was absolutely necessary, and when she parted from him outside work on Monday morning he couldn’t remember when he had last felt so good. For breakfast he got fresh-brewed coffee with milk, fresh-squeezed orange juice, two fresh-baked rolls with a crisp crust, lettuce and ham, and a large plate of yogurt with fresh fruit.

  I have to call Lars Martin and tell him, he thought as he went through the door to the detective squad.

  8

  Monday, December 4, 1989

  “Have you seen the newspaper?” Bäckström asked, waving his copy of Saturday’s tabloid as he stepped into Danielsson’s office on Monday morning. Better to forestall than be forestalled. Go ahead, shit your pants, Jack Daniels, he thought with delight when he saw Danielsson’s expression.

  There were a number of indications that Danielsson too had seen the newspaper. Among others, there was a copy of the same newspaper in front of him on his desk. But after Bäckström’s opening, the boss did not have much to say. Mostly he sat silently in his chair and glared at Bäckström, his swollen face purple and a vein as large as an earthworm wriggling back and forth on his left temple.

  Soon his fuse will blow, thought Bäckström with delight, but of course he didn’t say that. Instead he arranged his face in a worried frown and kept talking according to his carefully prepared strategy.

  “My first thought was that the leak came from someone inside,” said Bäckström, shaking his head. “As you know we have a number of new, unknown entities working with us. But then”—Bäckström shook his round head again—“then I actually read this crap, so now I don’t think so anymore.” Bäckström nodded for the third time and looked at his boss credulously.

  “So why don’t you think so?” Danielsson grunted, looking askance at his colleague.

  “It’s just too stupid,” said Bäckström. “That some religious maniac would run around butchering homos with a … what the hell was it? … samurai sword because he was sexually abused by a male father figure when he was a child. Or so says the psychologist the tabloid talked with.”

  “Samurai sword?”

  “Yeah, you know, one of those things the saffron monkeys have,” said Bäckström. “You and I and everyone else who knows anything know that Eriksson was stabbed with an ordinary kitchen knife. It’s sitting down in tech for examination.”

  And there wasn’t much more to it than that.

  “Unfortunately I’ve got to run,” said Bäckström. “I have a meeting with the investigation group.”

  Danielsson didn’t say a word. Only stared at him.

  “Okay,” said Bäckström, leaning forward in his chair and looking energetically at the detective team assembled in full force in the room. “Let’s start with Eriksson himself. What was he doing before he closed up shop? Jarnebring?”

  Something must have happened to Bäckström, thought Jarnebring. Wonder if he’s going to AA.

  “We’ve found out a few things,” said Jarnebring, pulling out a paper with handwritten notes summarizing what he and Holt had come up with.

  On Thursday, November 30, Eriksson had first been at a SACO conference in City. Then, for reasons that were unclear, he had chosen to leave right before lunch, which was usually served at about ten minutes past twelve. At about three p.m. he had then shown up at the office in time for afternoon coffee. What he’d been up to in between was a blank. At work he had coffee for about half an hour with a number of coworkers, after which he went into his office, closed the door, and did some work. Shuffled papers and talked on the phone according to those sitting closest, if they were to hazard something that at the same time they couldn’t swear to. At five thirty-five, on the other hand, it was certain he left his office. This was shown by the stamp on his time card and was supported by his coworkers in the office next door who saw him on his way out.

  Right before closing time—they closed at six—he went into
the Östermalm market, where he shopped for a number of food items but none that indicated he was having guests for dinner. Normal weekend purchases for one of the market’s regular, single customers. Then there were a number of things that indicated he had walked directly home carrying his briefcase and a bag from the market: Humlegårdsgatan down to the corner of Sturegatan, then diagonally up through Humlegården to Engelbrektsgatan–Karlavägen, Karlavägen to Rådmansgatan and into the building where he lived. The customary police calculations indicated that he must have arrived home at about six-thirty and that he then began his solitary evening by having a portion of already prepared chicken with rice and curry, which he had purchased an hour earlier. With the chicken he had two bottles of German beer, and after the meal was finished he placed the dishes in the dishwasher and threw the empty bottles into the wastebasket.

  At about seven, according to his closest neighbor, he had a visitor. Someone rings his doorbell, he opens the door and lets the visitor in. The witness’s story and the little that had been produced about Eriksson so far strongly indicated that the person who came to visit was someone he knew. Probably also that the visit was prearranged.

  “We’ll have to see if we find any notes at his apartment or if his phone records might give us something. We can forget his office because all the calls go through the same switchboard. They’re working on dumping the records,” said Jarnebring.

  “His office,” said Bäckström, who was suddenly struck by a thought that he had forgotten to investigate. “His office, was there anything there?” Efficient and managerial. Something must have happened to him.

  Maybe he’s met someone, poor guy, thought Jarnebring.

  “No,” said Jarnebring, shaking his head. “No private notes in any case. Some that dealt with his job, mostly meetings that were noted on his desk calendar. But nothing exciting that we can see.” Jarnebring exchanged a glance with Holt, who nodded in confirmation.

  “So what’s next?” said Bäckström, leaning back comfortably in his chair.

  • • •

  A prearranged visit from someone he knew, but that was all they had. No witnesses or technical observations that pointed to any specific individual. Eriksson’s private socializing seemed exceedingly meager. Up to now two individuals had made contact and said that they were personal acquaintances. Both had known Eriksson for more than twenty years, both had met him at the university, and all three had spent time together. The one who made contact first by calling the homicide squad on Friday morning was named Sten Welander. He worked as a project coordinator at the TV editorial offices in the big building on Oxenstiernsgatan at Gärdet.

  “I’m sure you all know who that is,” said Gunsan, looking delightedly at the others in the room.

  The reactions to her comment were mixed and hesitant.

  “It’s that red-bearded guy who produced that program about the police last spring,” Gunsan continued. “That terrible person …”

  “Is it that creep who looks like Gustav Vasa?” Alm asked.

  “But skinny,” Gunsan giggled. “Do you remember the ruckus after that program?”

  “Leave it for now,” Bäckström interrupted. “If he’s the one who did it, I promise I’ll treat you to cake and coffee. Who’s the other one who called?”

  Something definitely must have happened with Bäckström, thought Jarnebring. If he goes on like this there’s a major risk we’ll soon have someone sitting in the slammer.

  The other one who had called was the director and principal owner of a stock brokerage firm with an office on Birger Jarlsgatan down at Nybroplan. Theodor Tischler, born and raised in Sweden but with a German name. Generally known as “Theo” among family and friends, and in financial circles, according to the all-knowing Gunsan, he was known as “TT.”

  “He seems to be rich as hell,” said Gunsan.

  “Good for him,” said Bäckström curtly. “Jarnebring, do you have anything else? What’s the story with our corpse after he chows his last meal?”

  Eriksson’s visitor had arrived around seven. At around eight a quarrel broke out, according to the witness, Mrs. Westergren. What had the victim and the perpetrator been doing between seven and eight? They’d had coffee, according to the technicians, and one of them had also had cognac.

  Then the coffee cups, cognac glass, and coffeepot had been carried out to the kitchen, placed in the sink, and rinsed off. After which one of the two had a gin and tonic with lemon. The traces were found partly in the kitchen—a lemon that had been cut into strips, the empty ice cube tray that was normally in the refrigerator, an empty tonic bottle—and partly on the floor in the living room, where a half-empty bottle of Gordon’s Gin was found with the cap screwed on, along with an unsealed bottle of tonic and a crystal highball glass. And the wet patch on the floor from gin, tonic, and perhaps melted ice.

  “The drink was probably sitting on the table in front of the couch where they were drinking, and then ended up on the floor when the fight broke out and the table was overturned,” Wiijnbladh stated, while looking portentous.

  “Bravo, Wiijnbladh,” Bäckström drawled. “Do we have any idea who was drinking these noble beverages?” Besides me, of course, but you can forget about that, thought Bäckström, giggling with self-satisfaction.

  Judging by the fingerprints it was the host himself. On the other hand, whether his guest drank anything, and in that case what, was not clear from the evidence.

  “Probably he took the glass, wiped off the fingerprints, and put it back in the cupboard. Eriksson had a very large collection of different glasses, by the way,” said Wiijnbladh.

  “It doesn’t seem very likely,” said Bäckström. “How the hell could he see which glass was his if they’d ended up on the floor in the general confusion? There was only one lemon slice if I remember correctly. Did he wipe off and dispose of his own lemon slice too? Either he drank something else or it was out of a different glass or he didn’t drink anything at all. Compare that with the coffee cups. By the way, have you found any prints on them?”

  Wiijnbladh looked offended.

  “They were in the sink. They were rinsed off,” he said indignantly.

  “There, you see,” said Bäckström contentedly.

  The little fat boy has turned into a regular Sherlock Holmes, thought Jarnebring with surprise.

  An hour together which, judging by the technical evidence, passed in at least relative harmony. You have coffee, one of you, probably Eriksson, has cognac as well, you clean up and proceed to further consumption. The host at least has a gin and tonic with ice and lemon. But then something must have happened.

  “Thanks, Jarnebring,” said Bäckström without taking the least notice of Wiijnbladh. For a half-monkey you did really well, he thought. “Well, Wiijnbladh,” Bäckström continued, looking at his victim with delight, “may we hear what science has to say? What happened when things boiled over?”

  “Quite a bit,” said Wiijnbladh indignantly. “We have already produced quite a bit and quite a bit is in progress, as I said. I have received a preliminary report from our forensic physician,” he continued, peeking in his folder. “The protocol is in process.”

  “Did Esprit de Corpse do it?” asked Bäckström.

  “Unfortunately no,” said Wiijnbladh. “It was some new, younger talent, some woman I’ve never seen before. But I contacted Engel. He and I have met and gone through the whole thing, and he has promised to keep a watchful eye on our case.”

  “Sounds good.” Bäckström chuckled. “Esprit is supposed to have an eagle eye. What does he say?”

  “That the victim Eriksson was killed with a violent knife thrust that was delivered from behind at an angle and struck him high in the back, penetrated into the chest cavity, cutting apart the heart, left lung, and aorta,” Wiijnbladh summarized.

  “Nothing else?” Bäckström looked almost a little disappointed. “No signs of a struggle? No other observations about our corpse and his little body?”


  “No signs of a struggle,” said Wiijnbladh, shaking his head. “No wounds at all except for the one that killed him.”

  “This woman that peeked at him … does she have the same keen eyesight as Esprit?” Bäckström asked, grinning.

  “I reserve judgment on that,” said Wiijnbladh stiffly. “Do you mean do either of them have any thoughts about the victim as a person?”

  “Exactly,” said Bäckström expectantly. “Did either of them have any?”

  “Yes, Engel was of the opinion that the victim was homosexual,” said Wiijnbladh.

  “Imagine that,” said Bäckström. “The same thought struck me when I saw the crime scene and the way he lived.”

  “Although his younger colleague, the woman who did the autopsy, thought that it was hard to find any physical signs of it,” said Wiijnbladh. Best to say what’s right, he thought.

  “So I’ve heard,” said Bäckström. “As for how things really stand, our local policeman will surely figure it out.”

  “I’m listening,” said Jarnebring, who had toyed with the same thought himself.

  “My gut feeling tells me we have an ordinary homo murder here,” said Bäckström.

  It’s nice that you’re starting to sound like yourself again, thought Jarnebring.

  “I’m still listening,” said Jarnebring.

  “Single man, forty-five years old, no children, not a woman as far as the eye can see. Lives like a queer, eats like a queer, drinks like a queer, dresses like a queer. By the way, did you see those berets on the hat rack out in the hall? A whole bunch of fairy caps. He sits on the little couch with his boyfriend and has a few drinks and then they have a falling out and the little fiancé fetches his knife and sneaks up from behind and sticks it in. Then the perpetrator waltzes off to the kitchen, throws the knife in the sink, and hops into the bathroom where he throws up.”