Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime

by Leif G. W. Persson

  “Certainly not,” said the minister of justice, sounding just as jovial as if it was an ordinary present that was going to be given out. “Certainly not,” he repeated. “When we discussed the matter at the higher governmental level, we were only in agreement on the fact that it would be advantageous to deal with this question in particular before we set to work on the somewhat broader oversight.”

  “We don’t want to embarrass the opposition,” the special adviser clarified with his usual wry grin.

  “Not at any price, certainly not,” emphasized the minister with a cordial voice. “Let others score such crude political points.”

  So there’s no help to be had, thought Berg. Wonder how many they’ve talked with?

  “I will put together a proposal as quickly as is possible,” he said, nodding curtly. “If there’s nothing else, then …”

  He understood by their satisfied head shaking that they all thought he’d gotten as much as he could tolerate for one occasion.

  . . .

  Despite repeated attempts, Waltin hadn’t gotten hold of Hedberg. After the shocking attack he’d been subjected to by that fat red-haired stuffed sow and Berg’s deplorable nephew—actually he ought to report him, but justice would have to be tempered with mercy, and first he wanted to discuss the problem with Hedberg, who always used to have good ideas when it was a matter of retaliating with interest—he’d felt anxious and phoned Hedberg on his secret number far into the night. The phone had rung and rung, but no one had answered, and finally he’d gone to bed after a few stiff malt whiskeys.

  The explanation for Hedberg’s absence came in the mail the next morning. On the hallway mat below the mail slot lay a single postcard: blue sky and blue sea, white sand and green palms. When he turned over the card and saw the only word written there he understood exactly: “Diving,” read Waltin, smiling. Hedberg was clearly at his favorite place, devoting himself to his favorite hobby, and just like all the times before he would soon return from Java to relative civilization and his little house on northern Mallorca, where he’d settled many years ago when he’d had enough both of his fatherland and of the secret police he’d worked for.

  Hedberg, thought Waltin, nodding with approval as he always did every time he thought about the brother that his constantly sick little mama had denied him, and when he did so this time he suddenly got a totally brilliant idea how he might use him to shut his deplorable and clearly paranoid boss up. For it was of course Berg who had supported Hedberg that time almost ten years ago when those lunatics at the Stockholm Police Department’s assault unit were after him like a pack of howling bloodhounds. We all have a history, and I’ll see to it that you don’t run away from this one, thought Waltin contentedly.

  It must have been almost ten years ago, thought Waltin. Those so-called detectives in Stockholm wanted to get Hedberg for a post-office robbery and two murders. The whole story was absolutely absurd and obviously quite worthy of police thinkers like that Norrland tramp Johansson and his violence-worshipping best friend, Jarnebring, who were the ones who’d let the pack loose.

  First Hedberg supposedly slipped away from a bodyguard assignment, where he was guarding the minister of justice while the latter was screwing a slightly more high-class prostitute to exhaustion, and took the opportunity to rob a post office not far from the security object’s love nest. Then he supposedly killed two witnesses who recognized him and wanted to extort money from him. True, he’d only run over the first one with his car, but the other one he’d killed in a rather more old-fashioned and honest way, dumping the body out at the Forest Cemetery. An ordinary old bum, so that was no doubt both pious and practical, but the peasant police had persisted anyway, even though it would have been best for all concerned just to bury the wretch and forget the whole thing. They were going to get Hedberg and that was that.

  Until the minister of justice stood up and provided an alibi for his bodyguard. Hedberg had not budged an inch from the minister’s side during the entire day. That’s how it stood and the whole so-called case had fallen apart like a house of cards. Hedberg hadn’t even been questioned for information, and all the files in the case had been carried up to Berg for forwarding. Wonder just where they went? thought Waltin with delight.

  A both interesting and morally instructive story on the importance of not sticking your nose into other people’s business and with a clearly humorous point. It wouldn’t do to remove Hedberg, but as he was the active type that liked to move around, he wasn’t all that easy to have in the office, either. Especially as there was a great deal of talk even internally. To put it briefly, Berg had had a little problem, and as so often before it was Waltin who had solved it for him. You can’t expect gratitude in this world, thought Waltin, while at the same time feeling more exhilarated than in a long time. And because Hedberg clearly was good enough to get a recalcitrant minister of justice (nowadays forgotten and removed from politics) under control, then he certainly was still good enough to get Berg to fall in line.

  . . .

  When Hedberg wanted to quit and Berg was about to end up in an acute phase of his chronic control mania, Waltin offered to shift Hedberg over to the external operation in order to see to it, under tranquil and well-controlled conditions, that he was kept in a good mood by using him as a so-called external consultant. Berg not only supported this, he thanked him warmly, and because Waltin, in contrast to his so-called boss, was no ordinary wooden head, he’d naturally seen about documenting his gratitude. It’ll work out, thought Waltin, and at the same moment the doorbell rang on his front door.

  Outside stood Berg’s own stable boy—he saw that through the peephole—although just now he appeared more fat than terrifying, thought Waltin as he quickly checked his morning getup in the hall mirror before opening the door.

  “The earlier in the day the finer the guests,” said Waltin tranquilly as he let the fat man onto his expensive rug. “What can I help you with, chief inspector?”

  “Berg wants to talk with you,” said Persson curtly. Don’t put on airs, you stuck-up devil, he thought.

  “What does he want?” said Waltin. Since he’s sending his fat household slave, he thought.

  “You can take that up with him,” said Persson. You pompous little bastard, he thought.

  “Has he forgotten to pay his phone bill?” asked Waltin innocently.

  “Don’t know,” said Persson. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because he’s sending you, chief inspector,” said Waltin conciliatorily. “At this early hour.”

  “Shall we go?” said Persson. Or should I drag you out, although I probably won’t have such good luck, he thought.

  “Tell him that I’ll see him in his office in an hour,” said Waltin, holding the front door in a way that even someone like that ought to understand.

  He evidently had too, for he only grunted something before he turned on his heel and left. And Waltin himself whistled under his breath while he stood in the shower and pondered how he would set the whole thing up. High time that he did something about little Jeanette too, he thought. He’d actually been neglecting her lately.

  “You chose a preventive effort, you say,” said Berg, looking at the dandy sitting on the other side of his good-sized desk, pinching his eternal trouser creases.

  “Not the hint of suspicion of a crime, products that can be purchased freely on the open market and that even the Russians might need. … So at that point I chose to inform the corporate executives and recommended a number of preventive measures to them,” Waltin summarized. Instead of injuring our exports, he thought.

  “These crime-prevention measures,” said Berg. “What did they consist of?” He seems completely unmoved, Berg thought as he heard the alarm bells in his head start to ring. Faintly, to be sure, but nonetheless clearly enough.

  “That it was probably best they move their employee, for his own sake if nothing else, and then I arranged it so they had contact with one of our external consultan
ts, who helped them with an analysis and a security program—forward-directed preventive measures, quite simply. I don’t recall the details, but I’m assuming it was managed and invoiced in the customary way, and I definitely know that from the company’s side they were very satisfied with our efforts.” You should have seen the check they gave me, he thought.

  “An external consultant?” asked Berg, although he ought to have listened to the alarm bells, for they were ringing louder now.

  “You surely remember Hedberg, whom you asked me to take over a number of years ago,” said Waltin, smiling cordially. “An extraordinary person, as it turned out, even if at the time I no doubt felt a certain hesitation regarding your decision. Yes, considering his earlier difficulties, I mean,” said Waltin with the right worried smile. “So I was wrong, you were right,” said Waltin, allowing his well-manicured fingers to illustrate how wrong he’d been and how right his boss had been.

  Hedberg, thought Berg, and now the alarm bells were booming in his head.

  “Hedberg.” Waltin savored the name as though it were a fine wine. “I owe you a great debt of gratitude there, considering everything that man has helped us with over the years.” Not least with the Krassner case, he thought. He almost started to giggle out loud when he saw Berg’s face. I’ll wait to mention the Krassner case, he decided.

  That’s enough now, thought Berg. That’s more than enough.

  “There’s been a lot of talk, as you understand,” said Berg, exerting himself not to sound compliant.

  “Yes, I can imagine that,” said Waltin empathetically, “and considering that Hedberg must have been completely innocent, I recall that you told me that the minister of justice at the time personally vouched for him, so it’s really rather frightful.” And let them talk, he thought, for the money I got neither you nor anyone else is going to find.

  “I hope you weren’t offended,” said Berg. Does the trap feel like this when it closes? he thought. A week, at the most fourteen days until he had to inform Waltin that his operation would be shut down. Waltin, who certainly would not hesitate for a second to strike back and use Hedberg and his story against him.

  “Certainly not,” said Waltin with conviction, smiling with his white teeth. “I think your questions were completely legitimate, and considering that it’s your old protégé Hedberg who has helped us, then I hope that you understand that everything has been managed in the best way.” For now the shit has finally hit the right fan, and considering the context, that was probably an unusually apt description, thought Waltin.

  Enough, thought Berg. And the alarm bells were thundering so it was impossible to even think.

  “I understand what you mean,” said Berg. What do I do now? he thought.

  A little over a week at the new job and Johansson had never felt so frustrated in his entire professional life. He’d of course been aware that he would no longer be working as a police officer. It was the price you had to pay if you wanted to advance, and Johansson could actually imagine life as a high-level bureaucrat. He was good at getting people to feel comfortable and do their part and see to it that there was order in existence, even within the police department. But unfortunately that wasn’t what he was working on. He’d become clear about that after a few days, and there was nothing that even suggested a different, and better, future. During the week that had passed he’d only worked on reassigning bad police officers to higher positions with the help of their extraordinary ratings, and arranging it so that good police officers got to quit early because they’d already had enough. One of them he remembered from his time with the surveillance squad. An officer fifteen years his senior, who not only was a real policeman, but who had gladly shared with a young and inexperienced Lars Martin. Johansson called him up and asked him out to lunch. If for nothing else than to get to see him and see what had happened, and—if nothing had happened after all—to try to persuade him to stay.

  “It wasn’t yesterday,” said Johansson, nodding with warmth toward his older colleague. He looks a hell of a lot friskier than I do, he thought enviously.

  The officer had clearly made the same observation, for their lunch had started with the obligatory joke about all the superintendent muscles that were swelling around Johansson’s waist nowadays.

  “You crossed my desk the other day,” said Johansson. “Saw that you were thinking about quitting.”

  “And then you got the idea that you could convince me to stay,” declared his older colleague.

  “Yes, you see,” said Johansson, smiling, “despite your advanced age you appear both clear and energetic.”

  “That’s not the problem,” said his lunch guest, shaking his head. “Do you know why I became a policeman?”

  “Because you knew that you could become a good policeman,” said Johansson, who already sensed what was going to come.

  “Because I wanted to put crooks in the slammer so ordinary decent people could live in peace.”

  “Who doesn’t want that?” said Johansson, and suddenly he felt gloomier than in a long time.

  “I didn’t for Christ’s sake become a policeman to sit for days on end filling out forms that I stuff into a binder,” declared the older man with a certain intensity.

  Me neither, thought Johansson. I became a policeman because I wanted to be a policeman, not because I wanted to become head of the personnel bureau of the National Police Board.

  “How’s it going for you, by the way?” asked his guest. “I guess you’ll soon have more binders to put things in than anyone else on this sinking ship.”

  And then they proceeded to talk about old times.

  The only bright spot in Johansson’s existence was the lively debate that had broken out on the personnel bureau’s bulletin board over the fact that the Stockholm chief constable was nowadays swinging his pen with his visor lowered. When Johansson returned from his unsuccessful lunch mission he took a look at the latest contributions.

  There was a little of everything, from various commentaries and suggestions arising from the chief constable’s problematic living situation to mixed literary viewpoints: “It can’t be fun to live like that” declared “A concerned colleague,” while the contribution from “Unlicensed real-estate agent within the corps” was both clear and constructive: “I can arrange a studio in Sumpan for you off the books for just twenty-five bills so you don’t have to spend the night on your windowsill.”

  Police humor is crude without exactly being warm, thought Johansson, proceeding to the literary portion: “This year’s Nobel Prize winner?” speculated the pseudonym “I write too in my free time” while “Poetess in a blue uniform” was more to the point in her appreciation: “Write more! Release my longing! Slake my thirst!” Even a completely innocent Johansson was included in one corner as “Old Man from Ådalen.”

  Oh well, thought Johansson, sighing as he settled down behind his even bigger desk, despite the fact that the one he’d had before had been more than large enough.

  It was considerably worse for himself. In a formal sense he was still a policeman, and if he was doubtful on that point he only needed to dig his police ID out of his pocket and look at it. A small national coat of arms in yellow and blue, the word “Police” in red block letters, and the only thing that might confuse a badass was possibly his highly suspect title “Bureau Head.” Although on the other hand they never did look very carefully, and when by the way would he have an opportunity to flash it, for this was actually only a friendly gesture from his employers’ side to keep him, and people like him, in a good mood.

  Already the object of social therapeutic measures, thought Johansson, and that was when he decided. High time to clean up Krassner, he thought, taking the government office telephone book off its shelf. Next highest up on the first page, thought Johansson, and with a longer title than anyone else in all of Rosenbad. “Special adviser at the disposition of the prime minister,” he read, and he dialed the number.

  Not completely unexpecte
dly, it was the special adviser’s secretary who answered his telephone.

  “My name is Lars Johansson,” said Johansson. “I’m bureau head at the National Police Board. I would like to speak with your boss.” An extra lot of Norrland in his voice, however that might have happened, he thought.

  “I’ll see if he’s in,” said the secretary neutrally. “One moment.”

  Do that, thought Johansson, silently sighing, and to be on the safe side check that he hasn’t hidden under his desk. And then he answered.

  “We’ve only met in passing,” said Johansson, “but now the matter is such that I would like to meet you again.”

  “I remember, I remember,” said the voice in Johansson’s telephone, and he could picture him, poured out in an easy chair and with the heavy eyelids at half-mast. “It was an interesting discussion we had.”

  “Yes,” said Johansson. And you aren’t going to be any happier this time, he thought.

  “You don’t want to say what it concerns?”

  “There are a number of papers that I want to unload,” said Johansson. “It’s a long story and I’m not calling on official business.”

  “Yes?”

  “They’re about your boss,” said Johansson. But it’s clear, just say the word so I can heave them over to the colleagues at SePo, he thought.

  “You have a hard time talking about it on the phone?” asked the special adviser.

  “No,” said Johansson, “but I thought it would be best if I came over so we could deal with this privately.”

  “Now I’m getting really curious,” said the special adviser. “You don’t want to …”

  “There are greetings to your boss from Fionn,” Johansson interrupted.