Another Time, Another Life

by Leif G. W. Persson

  Because Jarnebring had a purpose this evening, he had also decided on a certain approach so as not to disturb their time together unnecessarily. Even before he stepped into the restaurant he had concluded that the news about his impending marriage could suitably be deferred until the coffee and cognac. Possibly even until the highball and the often obligatory midnight snack at Johansson’s place on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan. That’s how it’ll be, Jarnebring decided. No need to excite Lars Martin before he has food in his stomach.

  But this time that wasn’t how it turned out.

  In recent years Lars Martin Johansson had led a transient existence within the police department. First he had taken a leave of absence for some university courses, and when he returned to the National Police Board, after having completed his academic work with customary efficiency, he had been immediately promoted to police superintendent and become a fill-in resource for the Board. After the murder of the prime minister a few years earlier, personnel turnover at the top of the police pyramid had increased dramatically, and Johansson was now a fixed point in a changeable and uncertain world.

  For that reason he also had to wander between brief temporary positions as police chief filling in for whichever colleague had most recently bit the dust, as well as serve on more and more study commissions and accept recurring assignments as an expert in the Ministry of Justice and the prime minister’s office. He had certainly not lacked for work, and for the past few months he had been sitting in the Ministry of Justice with a new investigation that Jarnebring had only heard rumors about, despite the extensive police station gossip.

  “Tell me, how are things in the corridors of power? Or is it secret?” said Jarnebring with curiosity as soon as they had finished the first schnapps with the baked anchovies au gratin their Italian restaurateur served as an appetizer. Presumably for lack of herring, but damned good anyway, thought Jarnebring.

  “It’s not really a secret,” said Johansson in his contemplative Norrland dialect. “You only have to watch TV or read the papers. Although this one came up a bit quickly of course.”

  One month earlier the Iron Curtain had suddenly been raised with a bang, just like when you fiddle with an old-fashioned window shade that has stuck. On any TV channel whatsoever in the Western world you could follow, day after day, the stream of refugees from the former Soviet satellite states who were pouring westward and the story about how the inhabitants of the former East Berlin had torn down the wall with their own hands.

  “The socialist paradise,” said Jarnebring, smiling contentedly. “Can you imagine how wrong it turned out.”

  “Oh well,” said Johansson. “The idea was good in and of itself, and you hardly needed the gift of prophecy to realize that sooner or later something like this would happen. But maybe it went a little fast. A little too fast for my taste,” said Johansson. He smiled and shook his head, seeming despite everything rather contented.

  “Yes, up till now we seem to have managed,” said Jarnebring, who preferred not to wind up in any political quarrel with his best friend despite the fact that he certainly was the closet social democrat the majority of his colleagues suspected. “Those Eastern Bloc hooligans we’ve taken in seem mostly to have shoplifted at NK and Åhléns.”

  “Yes,” said Johansson. “Although a few of us have an idea that this might be different.”

  Continuing along that track they talked politics far into the marinated pork with garlic and pesto that was their entrée, and it was only when Johansson asked what Jarnebring himself was up to now that the conversation returned to normal.

  “Now let’s forget about politics,” Johansson decided. “Tell me! What are you doing these days?”

  “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation,” said Jarnebring, and just as he said that he saw the momentary regret in his best friend’s eyes.

  “I would happily trade with you,” said Johansson. “If it’s not Palme, of course,” he added quickly and smiled. “I have had enough of that mess as it is. I could keep investigating colleagues until I was put in my grave.”

  “No, God help me,” said Jarnebring. “No, this is a completely regular Joe Six-Pack, apart from the fact that he seems to have been a nasty character. But it’s hardly the first time.”

  “Sounds good,” said Johansson. “Joe Six-Pack and a real character. If I haven’t forgotten everything I learned it sounds a lot like something we usually clear up.” Why don’t I do something smart with my career too? he thought suddenly.

  “There are certain problems, however,” said Jarnebring, leaning forward.

  “Tell me,” said Johansson. “Start with the biggest one and don’t make things unnecessarily complicated,” he added, suddenly looking rather pleased.

  “Bäckström,” said Jarnebring with a sneer.

  “Bäckström,” said Johansson. “Do you mean Bäckström at homicide?”

  “One and the same,” said Jarnebring. “Bäckström is the leader of the investigation.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” said Johansson with feeling. “I ran into that nitwit the other evening, by the way. He came flying out of that club, you know, that’s farther down on the street where I live, and if it hadn’t been him I would have thought he was involved in indecent activities.”

  “He has the idea that this is a so-called gay murder,” said Jarnebring.

  “I seem to recall he mentioned that too,” Johansson recalled. “Why does he think that? Because it’s Bäckström, or is there any factual reason?”

  “There is a noticeable lack of women in the vicinity of the victim,” said Jarnebring. “So the thought even occurred to me—”

  “But,” said Johansson, leaning closer too.

  “I have the wrong feeling in my fingertips,” said Jarnebring, holding up his big right hand and rubbing his thumb against his fingers. “In gloomy moments I get the idea that this is more complicated than that.”

  “Aye, aye, aye,” said Johansson, shaking his head in warning. “Watch yourself carefully now, Jarnie. Don’t complicate things. Never, never complicate things.”

  “I get the idea this isn’t about sex at all,” said Jarnebring.

  “What is it about then?” asked Johansson.

  “Money,” said Jarnebring. “What do you think about money?”

  “Money is good,” Johansson agreed. “Intoxication and ordinary insanity are best, then comes sex, and then comes money. Money is not bad at all,” said Johansson, who for some reason raised his wineglass as he smiled and nodded.

  “Although my new colleague thinks that it could be more about power. Well, not political power but power over people that you know and mostly for power’s own sake. It’s a woman of course.”

  “Imagine that,” said Johansson delightedly, for this had just been his own thought.

  “Yes indeed,” said Jarnebring. “Although when I was on my way here I got the idea that maybe she’s right. This victim of ours is actually a really strange little creep. Not anyone I’d want to share an office with.”

  “Is she good-looking?” asked Johansson. “Your new colleague, is she good-looking?”

  “Yes,” said Jarnebring. “You might say so, a little too thin for my taste maybe … but sure.”

  Of course she is, he thought. Anna Holt was a very enticing woman, and the fact that she wasn’t his type wasn’t exactly her fault.

  “Thin women are an abomination,” Johansson decided, although he had never met Jarnebring’s new colleague. “What do you think about a little dessert, by the way?”

  For dessert they had almond torte. Johansson had some kind of sweet Italian dessert wine, but because Jarnebring did not drink wine on principle and could not really have yet another beer, not with almond torte, he jumped the gun with an ample cognac. As the waiter set it down in front of him he decided that now it was high time to let the marital bomb explode. Johansson seemed to be in a splendid mood—he always was when he got to sit and talk about some old murder that he was now too fine to inv
estigate—and personally Jarnebring felt both calm and collected despite the fact that this was a very serious story. A life-changing step, Jarnebring thought solemnly.

  It turned out completely wrong. It was his own fault, and it lay in the fact that he got the idea he should warm Johansson up further, despite the fact that things were fine as they were.

  “You seem damned chipper, by the way,” said Jarnebring. “It’s almost as if you’ve lost a few pounds. Have you started working out?” Oh well, thought Jarnebring, the things you won’t do for your best friend.

  “Working out,” said Johansson with surprise.

  “Your fist,” Jarnebring clarified, nodding toward Johansson’s left hand, which was adorned with an ample adhesive bandage around his ring finger. “I thought you’d caught your little fist in a barbell.”

  “Oh that,” said Johansson self-assuredly, holding up a hand that in size could almost compare with his best friend’s. “Depends on what you mean by little … no … not an exercise injury exactly … It’s more like it concerns my heart, I guess.”

  “You haven’t been sick, have you?” said Jarnebring, exerting himself not to show how worried he had suddenly become. “I’ve told you, you have to think about getting some exercise.” Advice which of course you’ve completely ignored, he thought.

  “Never felt better,” said Johansson, pulling away the adhesive bandage and showing the broad gold ring on his left ring finger. “I just didn’t want to spoil your appetite, so I decided to wait until we were through eating.”

  “Huh,” Jarnebring exclaimed. “Are you engaged?” What the hell is happening? he thought in confusion. Is this Candid Camera or what?

  “No,” said Johansson, shaking his head contentedly. “I got married.” Engagements are for the cowardly and irresolute, he thought, but naturally he would never dream of saying that to his best friend, who more or less made a habit of getting engaged to avoid taking the great, life-changing step.

  “You got married?” Jarnebring repeated with equal emphasis on every word and syllable in that short question.

  “Yes,” said Johansson, with manly firmness.

  “Is it anyone I know, a colleague?” This is not true. Say that it’s not true, thought Jarnebring.

  “No,” said Johansson. “No one you know, not a colleague.”

  “When did you meet her then?” asked Jarnebring incredulously.

  “Fourteen days ago,” said Johansson with delight.

  “Fourteen days ago? Are you pulling my leg?” In his haste Jarnebring was about to treat his best friend to the same look that he normally reserved for the worst sort of hooligans.

  “I talked to her briefly a few years ago; it was in the line of duty,” Johansson said evasively. “But then I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her until I ran into her down at the grocery store fourteen days ago and then we got married a week ago. I actually called to tell you but you weren’t home.”

  This is not true, thought Jarnebring. What the hell do I do now?

  Jarnebring did not get home until the wee hours and he wasn’t sober, not drunk either for that matter, but rather considerably sloshed.

  “You seem to have had a good time,” his impending wife giggled.

  “Yeah,” said Jarnebring, sounding even more absent than he felt.

  “Did you tell him about us?” asked his impending wife curiously.

  What the hell do I say now? thought Jarnebring, and suddenly, when he needed it the most, his poor head was completely empty.

  “No,” said Jarnebring. It’s as though there never was the right time for it, he thought.

  14

  Monday, December 11, 1989

  This time Bäckström took no chances. He personally called Tischler’s secretary and set up a time for a meeting on Monday morning, and as he was sitting in the taxi on his way there with his tape recorder as his only companion, he congratulated himself on getting rid of that grinning idiot Alm.

  The interview was held at Tischler’s lavish office, and their conversation flowed easily and was unforced as happens so often when two men of the world meet to converse with one another, allowing for the fact that in this case they had gathered their experiences from somewhat varying spheres of human activity, Bäckström philosophized.

  Tischler proved to be a pleasant fellow. He was sitting in shirtsleeves with his collar unbuttoned, tie loosened, and dressed in wide red suspenders where he evidently placed his flat thumbs while he pondered. A rugged, slightly balding man in his prime, certainly accustomed to being in the thick of things and not completely unlike himself, thought Bäckström. Not reminiscent in the slightest of that pansy he had met at the TV station the week before.

  In contrast to Welander, Tischler was also both frank and open, confirming in all essentials what Bäckström had already understood from the very start, and he was not one to toss out a lot of rubbish in Latin either. When Bäckström brought up the subject of Eriksson’s sexual orientation, Tischler winked at Bäckström, leaned back in his leathered desk chair, and almost compassionately shook his head.

  “I can imagine what Sten said. It can’t be easy to work at a place where the hags wear both trousers and skirts.”

  Then he quoted an Icelandic saga.

  “I’m sure you know what the Icelandic Vikings said: One thing I know that never dies … the reputation of a dead man. That’s the unvarnished truth,” Tischler declared.

  Personally he could very well imagine that Eriksson lived a secret life in his own little closet, but because he did not understand the sort of people who had such inclinations he didn’t waste his time wondering about their motives or how they arranged their business.

  “I’ve been to his home a few times and seen how he lives.” Tischler smiled wryly and wiggled the palm of his hand a little. “Not really my taste, if you know what I mean.”

  “You don’t have the name of anyone he may have spent time with?” Bäckström asked carefully.

  Tischler shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Kjell was a secretive type, so if he was doing any butt-surfing at home in the bedroom then I’m sure he was careful to pull down the shades first.”

  An amusing fellow, and rich as a troll, Bäckström thought with delight.

  Then Bäckström naturally brought up Eriksson’s finances, and there was nothing strange there at all according to Tischler. It was clear that he was the one who had helped Eriksson. No big deal about that either, and he had done it despite the fact that Eriksson had really been Welander’s friend to begin with. If he could help someone with such simple means then he made no distinction between friends and those who were only friends of a friend.

  “You shouldn’t exaggerate the level of difficulty,” said Tischler. “Up to this point in the eighties the companies on the Swedish stock exchange have increased in value by almost a thousand percent. That’s what you would have earned if you had closed your eyes and thrown a dart at the stock exchange list. Personally I usually squint a little with one eye,” said Tischler, “so those companies that we’ve worked with here at the firm have doubtless improved on that.”

  Why am I not a buddy of this man? thought Bäckström with genuine regret.

  “Kjell was a rather frugal type, if I may say so,” Tischler continued, grinning. “When he came to me about ten years ago he had scraped together ten, twenty thousand that he had in a savings account—watch out for savings accounts, by the way, because they’re pure robbery. I loaned him some money and bought a few shares for him. Of course he had to leave those as security—and then I guess it has just rolled on from there. We have bank confidentiality at this place, but if you just pick up the papers from the prosecutor, I’ll tell my coworkers to give you a proper analysis of his finances.”

  It would be better if you loaned me some money and gave me some good tips, thought Bäckström, and for a brief moment he even thought about asking Tischler flat out.

  “That probably won’t be necessary,” he sa
id instead. “It’s not that he’s suspected of anything.”

  “It’s never a mistake to have a little money,” Tischler grunted, looking as though he knew what he was talking about. “You and I both know what women cost … and without knowing about it in detail—I haven’t seen this with my own eyes—then I imagine that if one were to prefer little boys in sailor suits that’s not free either.”

  Fucking nice guy, thought Bäckström, who almost forgot to ask the customary routine question about Tischler’s alibi until Tischler himself reminded him.

  “Well then,” said Tischler, looking at his watch. “It was nice to meet you, even if the reason is sad to say the least.… So if you don’t have anything else, I have a few things to take care of. There’s a lot of money out there that I have to place in the right hands,” said Tischler, winking.

  A purely formal matter, and Bäckström truly hoped that Tischler would not take offense. What kind of alibi did he have for Thursday evening the thirtieth of November?

  “That was when those damned hooligans tried to tear down the city,” Tischler declared. “I read about it in the newspapers the following day. I was in London the whole day. I flew home the morning after. If you speak with my secretary she can give you the details.”

  At the meeting of the investigation group that afternoon Holt reported what she, Jarnebring, and the meritorious Gunsan had produced about the victim Kjell Eriksson’s background. For the sake of simplicity Holt had compiled half a page with the most important information, which she handed out to all those present.

  Eriksson, Kjell Göran, born 1944, single, no children, father unknown, grew up in Hjorthagen in Stockholm with a single mother who died in the mid-1980s, no siblings. The mother worked as a cleaning lady, building manager, etc.