by Leif Persson
‘Yes,’ Lewin said with a friendly smile. ‘How are your glasses, Mrs Rudberg?’
No problems at all, according to the witness. The last thing she always did once she’d gone to bed in the evening was take off her glasses and leave them on the bedside table so she could find them easily the next morning. And the first thing she did each morning before she got out of bed was put them back on again.
‘Superintendent, what would I be doing out on the balcony without my glasses?’ she declared. ‘My word! I doubt I would have even managed to find my way there.’
Which left the man she had seen doing something to the car out in the car park. This is going like a dream, Lewin thought.
Fairly short, dark, quick and agile. In good shape, as people said these days. Good-looking, the way men used to be when she was young. ‘Mind you, in those days they didn’t have to do any of that exercising to keep their bodies in trim.’
How old was he, Lewin wondered.
The age the men who looked like that had been when she used to look at them that way when she was a few years younger than they were. Men were always a few years older, weren’t they? And that still seemed to be the case if she had understood correctly.
‘He must have been about twenty-five; thirty, perhaps,’ she concluded. ‘Mind you, nowadays I think practically everyone looks like a youngster, so he could have been a little older.’
‘And you thought he was someone you knew, Mrs Rudberg?’ Lewin prompted cautiously.
‘Yes, but I got that badly wrong.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I must have got him confused with someone else.’
‘I see. So how . . . ?’
‘I was talking to our caretaker the other day. He came in to help me with my fridge, it makes such a racket I can hardly sleep at night, and we talked about that car. It had evidently been stolen, because they said something about it on the radio, and I happened to mention what I had said to that policewoman, about it being him, the son, who had taken it and gone off to the country.’
‘I see,’ Lewin said, nodding encouragingly.
‘But I must have got that badly wrong,’ she repeated, ‘because he doesn’t have a son. So I must have got that completely wrong. My scythe hit a rock that made it sing, as my old father would have said.’
‘So it was actually someone else that he reminded you of ?’ Lewin said.
‘Yes, it must have been. I mean, if he hasn’t got a son, then he hasn’t got a son.’
‘So your caretaker knew that your neighbour, the retired pilot who owned the car, didn’t have a son, Mrs Rudberg?’
‘If there’s anyone who knows that sort of thing, it’s him,’ the witness said firmly. ‘He knows everything about everyone who lives here. Of course he does. That pilot has two daughters. I know that for certain, and we were in complete agreement about that. And it wasn’t either of them that I saw. I’m not quite that dotty. Not yet.’
‘I appreciate that you’ve given the matter some thought, Mrs Rudberg,’ Lewin persisted. ‘You weren’t thinking of someone else who lives here, someone else you know? Or someone that you may have seen before who resembled the person you saw?’
‘No,’ the witness said, shaking her head firmly. ‘I’ve certainly given it some thought, but the only person who comes to mind is that actor. The one in Gone With the Wind. That Clark Gable, although without a moustache, of course.’
‘Clark Gable, but without a moustache,’ Lewin said with a nod.
‘Although it could hardly have been him, I suppose.’
‘No,’ Lewin said. ‘It doesn’t seem very likely.’
‘No, it doesn’t seem very likely at all,’ the witness agreed. ‘Because he ought to be the same age as me by now, and anyway, isn’t he already dead?’
‘I think so,’ Lewin said. ‘I have a feeling he died quite some time ago.’
‘So I could hardly have seen him, then.’
As Lewin walked back to the police station, the old sense of gloom had made itself felt again. The little over-stuffed flat, the family pictures, friends and relatives who belonged together and were all dead now. That special smell that’s always in older people’s homes, no matter how scrupulously clean they are kept, or no matter that their occupants might live another twenty years. A ninety-two-year-old woman who was healthy and alert for her age, and still managed to live in a flat on her own, make her own coffee, even carry a tray in one hand. No wheelchair, not even a walking frame, just the power and strength that could manage to get out on to the balcony with just a rubber-tipped stick.
Not even close to the ante-room of death that institutionalized care of the elderly had to offer all those less fortunate than his witness, many of them considerably younger than her. Linoleum floors, the television permanently stuck on the same channel, boiled fish and fruit soups, being fed with a spoon, a bed for the night with the back tilted to support a crooked back and ease tired lungs. And the only freedom on offer being an end to all of this. If you were even conscious of it being there, and that it was waiting patiently for you, utterly regardless of who you might have been when you still had a life to live.
‘He was like Clark Gable?’ Sandberg asked an hour later.
‘But without the moustache,’ Lewin said with a thin smile.
‘I actually dug out a recent picture of the pilot’s son-in-law. His name’s Henrik Johansson, thirty-eight years old. He’s the flight officer married to their younger daughter,’ Sandberg said.
‘What’s he look like, then?’
‘Not at all like Clark Gable, and you should know that you’re talking to a woman who’s seen Gone With the Wind on video several times,’ Sandberg said. ‘What do you think about a photo-fit picture? In the absence of anything else?’
‘God help us,’ Lewin said, shaking his head. Of Clark Gable? We could probably get away with just removing his moustache, Lewin thought, already feeling a bit livelier.
Olsson had asked to have a private conversation with Bäckström, the reason for which had already been divulged to Bäckström by Anna Sandberg the previous day.
‘Yes, I heard about that,’ Bäckström told him breezily. ‘It’s that crazy woman in the pink shift that I met at that meeting you invited me to. That’s the only occasion I’ve ever met her, and I dare say there won’t be another any time soon. Are you good friends, by the way?’
‘Now you mustn’t misunderstand me, Bäckström,’ Olsson said, putting up his hands in the defensive gesture that had become something of a trademark for him. ‘I just wanted to warn you, that’s all. In case you should hear any unpleasant rumours.’
‘Unfortunately I’ve had to get used to things like this over the years. Do you happen to know, Olsson, just how many of our fellow officers are currently the objects of one or more complaints from all the thugs and confused souls we’re trying to keep in check?’
‘Quite a lot, I dare say, sadly,’ Olsson said.
‘About two thousand,’ Bäckström said emphatically. ‘Fifteen per cent of the entire force, and practically all of them simply for trying to do their jobs. And do you know how many are actually convicted?’
‘Not many,’ Olsson said.
‘Nice try, Olsson,’ Bäckström said. ‘One or two each year. Less than one per thousand officers out of all the officers whose reputations those people have done their level best to ruin.’
‘Yes, it really isn’t a good situation.’ Olsson made a move to stand up.
‘I should really have a word with the union and organize a charge of false accusation.’
‘Against the alleged victim?’
‘No, against that crazy bitch in the pink shift. Anyway, I didn’t think you even had a victim. So think about whether or not we should report her. That woman in the pink shift, I mean.’ Suck on that, you little prick, he thought.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Olsson said, getting up.
‘So how did Bäckström react? Did he
have anything to say in his defence?’ the county police commissioner asked five minutes later.
‘He didn’t seem to understand,’ Olsson said with a sigh. ‘He thought we should report Moa Hjärtén for making a false accusation. Says he’s thinking about talking to the union.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ the commissioner groaned. ‘By the way, have you spoken to the victim?’
‘Only over the phone,’ Olsson said.
‘So what did she say, then?’
‘She didn’t want to talk about it at all, and she’s not thinking of making an official complaint. But I’m absolutely convinced there’s something behind this.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the commissioner said. ‘There usually is, but we’re still talking about a fellow officer here, and if the victim is refusing to make a complaint I don’t really see what we can do about it.’
‘Maybe you should have a word with Bäckström’s new boss,’ Olsson suggested. ‘That Johansson.’
‘You mean Lars Martin Johansson, our new HNC?’
‘Yes, him. He’s bound to find out about it sooner or later anyway.’
‘I promise to give the matter some thought,’ the commissioner said. What’s happened to Olsson? he thought. I must have been completely wrong about the man.
That afternoon, just before he was about to head back to the hotel, Lewin’s friend in the Security Police called back to give him the details of the telephone Lewin was trying to identify.
‘You’re in luck, Jan,’ the officer said. ‘It’s a traceable mobile. Registered to Växjö Council, and if you can give me another day I’ll be able to tell you who uses it. There are several hundred staff to choose from.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d obviously be very grateful. As long as it doesn’t cause any problems for you,’ Lewin said.
No problems at all, according to his old friend. The Security Police just happened to have an excellent contact in a strategic position inside Växjö Council, so all he needed was another twenty-four hours.
‘Well, that sounds good,’ Lewin said. ‘Thanks very much indeed.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ his friend said. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow to let you have the name.’
‘Well, thanks very much, really,’ Lewin repeated. Maybe, maybe not, although maybe after all, he thought, and he suddenly felt the old familiar gloom again. The feeling he usually got when he thought he was in the process of working out something that would soon have very real consequences for people of flesh and blood.
69
IN HIS DREAMS things were usually even worse when he was feeling low. Naked anxiety that made his body swing, spin and fall, his legs twisting the sheets into a sweaty rope in the middle of the bed. Completely natural, seeing he was so utterly exposed to his thoughts, unable to defend himself by thinking about something else the way he could when he was awake.
But not this night.
Another Indian summer, almost fifty years ago. Jan Lewin has been given his first proper bicycle. A red Crescent Valiant. Named after the noble knight Prince Valiant, who lived so long ago that there weren’t any bicycles, just horses.
For the umpteenth time Daddy is running behind him, holding on to the saddle and cheering him on.
He grips the handlebars, pedals as hard as his legs can manage, and at least he’s stopped closing his eyes now when he knows he’s about to fall off and scrape his knees.
And now there’s just the worst bit left. The gravel path between the white gate up to the red wooden porch of the house, where Mummy must be frying pancakes because it’s Thursday.
‘Don’t worry, Jan,’ Daddy cries behind his back. ‘I’ve got you. Don’t worry. I’ve got you.’
Jan pedals and steers and manages better than usual, because Daddy’s still holding on, and when they reach the house he brakes carefully, puts his left foot on the ground and clambers off.
And when he turns round he sees that his daddy is still standing down by the white gate, a smile on his suntanned face, far too far away to ruffle his hair, but of course he doesn’t need to do that any more.
70
Stockholm, Wednesday 20 August
THE COUNTY POLICE commissioner didn’t have to call the Head of National Crime, because on Wednesday morning Lars Martin Johansson called him.
‘I’ll be brief,’ Johansson said. ‘It’s about Bäckström. Unless you have any pressing need for him down there, I’m thinking of recalling him. I can send you some new people.’
‘Ah, I see,’ the commissioner said. ‘Naturally, I’m grateful for all the resources you can spare, but of course if you need Bäckström for more important duties I’d have to accept that.’
‘More important duties?’ Johansson snorted. ‘I’m thinking of recalling him so I can tear a strip off him, and once I’ve finished doing that I’m wondering if he actually ought to have any duties at all.’
‘If it’s that complaint you’re worried about, I think perhaps we shouldn’t be too quick to judge our dear Bäckström,’ the commissioner said, trying to keep his voice calm and steady.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Johansson said. ‘What complaint?’
At that point the commissioner had no choice but to explain about the complaint against Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström which had been reported to the police authority in Växjö two days before.
‘That sounds fairly remarkable, if you ask me,’ Johansson said five minutes later, as soon as his long-winded colleague had finally finished. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve received a complaint from the co-ordinator of the women’s helpline in Växjö, to the effect that Bäckström subjected a female journalist of her acquaintance to what, according to my version of the criminal law, sounds like sexual harassment. Which the female journalist, for reasons unknown, refuses to talk about, still less file a complaint against.’
‘Yes, that’s a fairly comprehensive summary,’ the commissioner agreed. ‘And then there’s the certified statement brought in yesterday by the person who filed the complaint.’
‘I’m getting to that,’ Johansson said. ‘After you contacted the alleged victim and she refused to make a complaint, the woman who filed the report came in with some sort of document signed by her and someone else, purportedly the notes of a conversation which this woman had with the aggrieved party. One simple question. Who is the second witness?’
‘He’s the co-ordinator of the men’s helpline here in town. His name’s Bengt Karlsson. The co-ordinator of the women’s helpline, the one who filed the complaint, is Moa Hjärtén, and—’
‘Okay, now I really don’t understand,’ Johansson interrupted. ‘I thought you said the aggrieved party had only spoken to Hjärtén. So what’s this Karlsson actually put his name to?’
‘Yes, it certainly is a little unclear.’
‘Not in my opinion,’ Johansson said. ‘In my book, this sounds like a completely fabricated certified statement. It’s not my place to give you advice, but if I were you I’d either try to make sense of this report, or write it off altogether before our dear Bäckström has time to cook something up with his friends in the union.’
‘Really?’
‘That man has the capacity to be quite astonishingly troublesome. You’d need a hundred dogmatic legal experts to match one Bäckström. Just so you’re aware of the sort of person we’re talking about here,’ Johansson said.
‘Obviously, I’m very grateful for your help,’ the commissioner said.
‘I’ll ask Bäckström’s boss to get in touch with the head of your preliminary investigation, so that they can sort out the practical details,’ Johansson said.
Bäckström’s immediate superior had no objections. The report which the finance office had copied him in on was unfortunately both troubling and very pointed. But he had of course been on holiday when it all happened.
‘I also heard through the grapevine that a complaint has been made against him, alleging that he expos
ed himself to a journalist,’ the chief superintendent said with a blush.
‘Yes, you get to hear a lot of strange things over the course of a lifetime,’ Johansson said.
‘When do you want him back, boss?’ the chief asked.
‘As soon as possible,’ Johansson said. ‘By Monday morning at the latest, because I’ve got a gap in my diary that I thought I might squeeze him into.’ To tear him off a strip or two.
‘Do you have any preference about who we should send down to replace him, boss?’
‘Anna Holt and that little blonde, whatever her name is, Lisa Mattei,’ Johansson said. ‘Admittedly, that’s better than they deserve down there, but it’s time to wave the flag and send the A-team out on to the ice.’
‘I’m afraid that might be a problem,’ the chief said nervously.
‘There are no problems,’ Johansson said. ‘In my world there are only challenges.’
‘Neither of them is working for me at the moment,’ the chief explained. ‘Anna Holt is acting superintendent of the national coordination office, and Mattei is on secondment to the analysis group to cover their holidays.’
‘So much the better,’ Johansson said. ‘They could probably do with a bit of fresh air. Just get it sorted. Quick as you like. Oh, and one more thing, which you might like to think about if you want to carry on working for me here.’
‘How do you mean, boss?’
‘I never express wishes when I’m on duty,’ Johansson said. ‘I gave you an order. That’s all there is to it.’
An hour later the chief superintendent had returned to his boss to say that everything had been done, and for some reason he had remained standing in front of Johansson’s desk as he spoke.
‘According to orders,’ the chief superintendent concluded, swearing silently to himself that he hadn’t been brave enough to click his heels as he said it.
‘Thank you,’ Johansson said, giving him a friendly smile. ‘That’s excellent.’
‘Do you want to talk to them, boss? I can ask them to come in at once if you like,’ the chief superintendent said innocently.