Of course he had gotten on a first-name basis with him as soon as they’d shaken hands. That was half the fun. Then he’d made little snide remarks during the course of the journey whenever there was an opportunity.
“It’s just horrible that someone could do that to a child,” Waltin had said, shaking his head mournfully while Wiijnbladh showed him a little pair of undies on which one of Wiijnbladh’s colleagues in the forensic vineyard had evidently succeeded in identifying semen stains.
“Ugh yes,” Wiijnbladh had said.
“You have kids yourself,” Waltin had said; this was more a statement than a question, and of course he’d already known the answer.
“Unfortunately,” Wiijnbladh had answered, “my wife and I have not had any success in that regard.”
And in no other regard either, it appears, despite the fact that she can hardly be accused of a lack of willingness, Waltin had thought, making an effort to preserve an indifferent and sufficiently regretful expression.
“I myself don’t even have a woman by my side,” Waltin had said, shaking his head. I hardly have time to screw everyone else’s, he thought.
“Yes,” Wiijnbladh had said, and suddenly he’d seemed to have his thoughts somewhere else. “Although marriage can have its drawbacks.”
What is he saying? Waltin had thought. This is almost too good to be true.
Finally Wiijnbladh had shown him the weapons room: hundreds of weapons of all imaginable sizes and manufacture. Military and civilian automatic weapons, rifles and ordinary shotguns with whole or sawed-off barrels, revolvers and pistols, shootable walking sticks, pen pistols, bolt pistols, nail pistols, even a regular slaughtering mask.
“Mostly confiscations we’ve made in connection with various crimes,” Wiijnbladh had explained. “Although we purchase quite a few as well, to have in our weapons library.”
Yes, for you probably can’t read, Waltin had thought. What an unbelievable mess, he’d thought. Weapons on the walls, on shelves, in boxes and cabinets. Weapons and parts of weapons in an old shoe box that someone had clearly started sorting into smaller piles before he’d found something else to do. Weapons and parts on tables and benches and even a sawed-off, disassembled shotgun that someone had set aside on the seat of a chair before he’d run off to do who knows what.
“Seems to be quite a lot,” Waltin had said, nodding, as a telephone started ringing in the background.
“We have almost a thousand weapons here in the unit. Excuse me a moment,” Wiijnbladh had said.
“Sure,” Waltin had replied, and as soon as he’d heard him lift the receiver in the room outside, and without understanding how it really happened or why he did it, he’d stuck his hand down in a half-opened drawer, fished up a revolver with a short barrel, and let it glide down into his very deepest pocket.
“Excuse me,” Wiijnbladh had said when he came back, “but that was the after-hours unit that called.”
“Not at all,” Waltin had said. “If there’s anyone who should beg pardon it’s I, who am taking you away from more important tasks. I’d like to thank you greatly for the visit. It’s been very instructive.”
Almost as good as that time he’d seen dear Mother come out of the doorway where she lived and with the help of her canes and the usual antics limp away toward the stairway to the subway.
Wiijnbladh and his wife as usual celebrated Christmas with his sister-in-law, her semi-alcoholic husband, and their fourteen-year-old son in the town house in Sollentuna where they lived. It was exactly as wretched as it always was. First they ate and then they watched TV and then they passed out Christmas presents, and after that they watched TV again.
Then his brother-in-law fell asleep on the sofa after the usual intake of beer, wine, and a dozen shots, spiked coffees, and highballs. His head leaned back against the sofa at a ninety-degree angle, mouth wide open, violently snoring. His wife and her sister disappeared out into the kitchen, where they sat and giggled and drank wine behind a closed door. The son remained sitting, glaring furtively at Wiijnbladh when he thought he didn’t see him. Judging by his look he was retarded and undependable, thought Wiijnbladh, the only consolation in this connection probably being that he would soon turn fifteen and then Wiijnbladh would be able to look him up in the crime registry to see what he was really up to when he was expected to be in school or sitting at home doing his homework.
“Perhaps we should think about moving along,” said Wiijnbladh, and as soon as he opened the door to the kitchen his wife and sister-in-law fell silent. It was his wife who was telling something, he’d heard that, and clearly she’d been laughing till the tears ran while she did so.
“I believe your dear husband will have a lay … too,” said the sister-in-law after a stage pause, and then they both laughed so hard the tears were flying around them.
I ought to kill the both of them, thought Wiijnbladh.
As soon as Waltin came home to his apartment on Norr Mälarstrand, he made a decision and called up little Jeanette.
“Change of plans, my love,” he said. “It looks like we’ll have to celebrate Christmas here in town. A few things have happened at work, so I have to stay within reach,” he clarified.
“When do you want me to come?” asked Jeanette. Lovely, she thought. Then perhaps I can sit normally during the week after Christmas.
Wonder if she’s going to try to make contact with me, thought Waltin. Or if I should make contact with her. And suddenly he became so aroused that he was compelled to take out those old photographs he’d taken of her last spring and go into the bathroom and release himself.
. . .
What the hell is happening? thought Jeanette with surprise. First champagne and Russian caviar, then foie gras and that sweet French wine she loved, filet of sole and more champagne. Now they were eating black currant sorbet. And he was just as tender, courteous, and entertaining as the first time. And better looking than ever despite the fact that he’d been damn good-looking the whole time.
“Skoal, my love,” said Waltin, raising his glass. “By the way, I’ve bought a Christmas present for you.”
An ankle-length mink coat with a hood, and when can I wear that? she thought. In another life, wonder what it cost? One or two or several years of my salary before taxes, she thought.
“I heard it would be a cold winter,” said Waltin, smiling. “And I don’t want you to have to freeze.”
What is happening? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, who would soon turn twenty-eight.
I must get hold of Hedberg too, thought Waltin while he looked at little Jeanette, who was sleeping in the bed by his side. Unpunished, without being rocked to sleep after a few too many glasses of champagne and with his Christmas present as the only covering over her slender body. Then I must see to it that Berg calms down, he thought. For his own good if nothing else.
Right before midnight Jarnebring mustered his courage and called his best friend to tell him.
“I’ve gotten engaged,” said Jarnebring.
“What’s her name?” said Johansson, who sounded unusually happy and in high spirits and certainly had a few under his belt. “Is it anyone I’ve met?”
“Stop it, Lars,” said Jarnebring, who wouldn’t let himself be disturbed by such boyish nonsense on his great day.
“Many congratulations, Bo,” said Johansson, “and merry Christmas to both of you. And take care of yourself. And of her too,” he added, suddenly sounding serious again.
You sentimental old Lapp bastard, thought Jarnebring when he put down the receiver. Christ, I must’ve gotten something in my eye, he thought, rubbing the corner of his right eye with his fist.
“Was he happy?” asked his fiancée.
“Hmmmm,” said Jarnebring, nodding.
I must get hold of Hedberg, thought Waltin, but then he must have finally fallen asleep, for when he looked up again it had already started to get light outside his bedroom window.
CHAPTER XV
And all that rem
ained was the cold of winter
Sundsvall over Christmas and New Year
Johansson’s oldest brother lived by the sea about ten miles outside Sundsvall in a big old wooden palace that had been erected as a summer place for a rich country squire during the golden years in the middle of the nineteenth century. It hadn’t gotten smaller since his brother had taken over.
Let’s see now, thought Johansson, who was an old detective and had a good memory. He’s asphalted the driveway, extended the parking area, and bought a new car for his wife.
On the morning of Christmas Eve they hunted hares on one of the islands. It was an old tradition from their upbringing at home on the farm outside Näsåker, and the only thing wrong with it had been that the foxhound used to run off more often than not and that Mama Elna was usually good and angry at them when they finally came home, whether they had a hare with them or not.
This time it went better. The sea was not frozen over, so neither the foxhound nor the hare had any choice but to keep on dry land. On the other hand, the dog was still chasing flat out when his brother looked at his watch and reported that it was time to go home if they weren’t going to miss Christmas Eve lunch.
“What do we do with the bitch?” said Johansson, who would happily have stayed behind to shoot one more.
“The hunting boy will take care of that,” said his brother, nodding in the direction of the wooded hillside where their dog driver had been stationed for more than an hour.
“I had no idea there were so many hares out here on the islands,” said Johansson, jerking his chin toward the three chalk-white corpses that lay on the bottom of the boat as they went home.
“Christ, there aren’t any hares out here,” said his brother, grinning.
“Where did these come from, then?” asked Johansson, who had shot one and almost gotten another.
“The boy set them out last week,” said his brother, grinning. “Who do you take me for?”
Nice to hear you haven’t changed, thought Johansson.
The luncheon on Christmas Eve was not just the opening but also the high point of the Christmas celebration at home with Johansson’s oldest brother, and they always ate in the kitchen. By knocking out the ceiling and the walls between the attic, the original kitchen, the serving areas, and the old dining room of the forest squire, his brother had created a great room large enough for the latter-day Viking chieftain that he of course was. The buffet was spread out on the table to avoid unnecessary running, a log fire blazed in the open fireplace, and Johansson’s brother sat as usual in the high seat at the short end with Mother to his right and Father to his left, all of his children along the long sides, and his wife and Lars Martin at the opposite end.
“Merry Christmas to you all,” said Johansson’s big brother, smiling with his strong, yellow horse-trader teeth and raising his brimful schnapps glass.
You haven’t changed, thought Johansson.
Papa Evert and Mama Elna, seven children, three sons-in-law, three daughters-in-law, twenty-one grandchildren, five great-grandchildren, and even with outside additions in the third generation, not even big brother’s kitchen would have been sufficient if they had all come. But despite the fact that annual family reunions had been held at home in Näsåker going back several generations, the majority of the large Johansson family had chosen to celebrate Christmas elsewhere, at their own places, as always happens when family feelings have cooled and other feelings and commitments have intervened, even without serious conflicts or quarrels.
For obvious historical reasons, Johansson’s parents chose to celebrate Christmas with their eldest son when they themselves had gotten too old to gather the family at home with them. That was why Papa Evert sat at his oldest son’s left side. Nowadays he was only half the size of “Little Evert,” and with every Christmas more and more like something that had been hung to dry at home in the sauna on the family farm north of Näsåker.
After lunch there had been an exchange of presents in the living room, yet another blazing log fire, and enough sofas, armchairs, and other chairs to accommodate even those who hadn’t come. Johansson had as usual been Santa, wearing a red stocking cap but refusing to wear a mask, pleading the heat from the fire, far too many shots at lunch, and the decisive circumstance that the youngest member of the company was actually fifteen years old and clearly old enough to lace his Christmas cider with one or two strong beers when he thought his parents weren’t watching. Although of course he hadn’t said that last thing. It was Christmas, after all, and what did he have to do with it?
At last, however, it was over, and all the food and all the drinks were beginning to have their effect in earnest. The final present from the last of the rows of bast-fiber laundry baskets was doled out; as always to the woman of the house, from the master of the house and without Santa’s assistance. As always more expensive than the rest of the arrangements combined, and as always it was passed around so that everyone could express their proper admiration for the host’s generosity, warm heart, and magnificent financial condition.
“Not too bad,” said Johansson in order to make his brother happy while he held up the glittering necklace. And certainly long enough to go around her waist, thought Johansson, smiling approvingly at his nicely shaped and nowadays, regardless of the season, always suntanned sister-in-law.
“Yes, I’ll be damned how good we rich people have it,” his brother chuckled jovially, waving his thick Christmas cigar and puffing smoke on his youngest brother.
Watch out, thought Johansson, or I’ll sic the business squad on you, and then he withdrew to a corner to talk with his old father in peace and quiet.
“How are you feeling, Papa?” said Johansson in a loud voice as he carefully patted him on the hand.
“Don’t shout, boy, I’m not deaf,” said Papa Evert, grinning with delight at his favorite son and at the same time pushing him in the stomach with his free hand. “It doesn’t look like you’re in want of anything, in any case,” he stated contentedly with a glance at Johansson’s ample middle.
“Papa seems spry,” said Johansson at a normal volume and with filial concern in his voice.
“Oh hell,” said Papa Evert, shaking his head. “It’s probably a good while since I did that sort of thing, and that’s not really something you talk about with your children,” said his papa, who heard what he wanted to hear. “Although I’m spry and sharp, yes indeed, despite all the crap you hear on the radio and read about in the newspaper.”
Almost ninety, almost deaf, half the size he was in his prime, and thin as a rake. But spry, thought Johansson, and you could have it worse than that.
Then Papa Evert got onto his favorite subject—the increasing crime rate that nowadays was more and more often afflicting even Näsåker and its vicinity. There had been a break-in at the school and someone had put their mitts on one of the forestry company’s machines.
“Although with that business at the school I’m damn sure that it’s Marklund’s little bastard, despite the fact that he’s never there otherwise,” said Papa Evert.
It was worse, though, about the forestry machine, considering that such a thing cost several hundred thousand crowns—it had been almost new—and that it was probably someone from outside the district who’d been at it. Lars Martin should send up a few good fellows from the national police in Stockholm. Norrlanders preferably, but it would be best of course if he could come himself.
“You can always ask that brother of yours if you can borrow that bitch of his so you can take the opportunity to do a little hare hunting at the same time,” said Papa Evert, who gladly mixed business with pleasure.
He himself had gotten rid of his hunting dogs the year he turned eighty.
“That’ll be good,” said Papa Evert in order to underscore the weight of his argument, nodding toward his youngest son.
Johansson sighed, not simply from longing for another life than the one he was now living. But before he got involved in a discussio
n that he preferred to avoid, two of his nephews took over and he went and sat down with his mother.
From the frying pan into the fire, thought Johansson five minutes later, for Mama Elna was not only small, thin, spry, and without the least thing wrong with her hearing, she was worried besides.
“You don’t look healthy, Lars,” said Mama with her head to one side. “You seem overworked, and then I do think you’ve lost a lot of weight since I last saw you.”
Always something, thought Johansson, and at first he almost felt a little encouraged, but that was before she got onto her personal favorite among all the things that worried her where little Lars Martin was concerned.
“You haven’t met anyone,” said Mama Elna, tilting her head from left to right in order to truly show how concerned she was.
“You mean women, Mama,” said Johansson, smiling like a good son.
“Yes, what else would I mean?” said Mama Elna watchfully.
“I guess you always meet one or two,” said Johansson evasively, because he didn’t have the slightest desire to tell his mother about the school of two where he’d wallowed around like a killer whale last week.
“You know what I mean, Lars,” said Mama Elna, who didn’t intend to give up. “I mean something solid, something steady, something like … well, like Papa and me.”
No, thought Johansson. Not like you and Papa, for that kind of thing doesn’t exist anymore.
A while later he excused himself, wished a merry Christmas and good night to all, took his Christmas presents with him—mostly books, including several that clearly appeared to be readable—and went up to his room to read awhile before he fell asleep. For reasons that weren’t entirely clear to him, he also thought about the woman he’d met at the post office up on Körsbärsvägen almost a month ago. Pia, thought Johansson. Pia Hedin, that was her name. Maybe after all, thought Johansson, and then he fell asleep.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 46