Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

by Leif Gw Persson

  “I want to find out what he’s up to, quite simply,” Waltin summarized. “And when you’ve taken care of things I don’t want him to find out that you’ve done so.”

  “He’s writing something,” said Hedberg. “That’s all we know?”

  “No doubt something shocking,” concurred Waltin, smiling wryly. “Which according to certain political thinkers might possibly have significance for the security of the realm, which in turn entails your and my modest participation in this little project.”

  “Okay then,” said Hedberg, getting up. “I’ll be in touch as soon I’m done.”

  After lunch he’d returned to the apartment that Waltin had arranged for him. Clearly better than staying at a hotel with lots of people who might notice you at the wrong moment and in the wrong place. You also got a receipt if you stayed at a hotel and if you paid cash you could almost be sure that someone would think that strange, become suspicious, and make a mental note of your appearance. Almost as bad as credit cards, which were a pure paper trail that your opponent could pick up by electronic means even years later if things went badly. But if you were camping at Waltin’s you never got a bill, and if you ran into a neighbor when you were coming in or going out it was almost a sensation. He had lots of vacant apartments too. Hedberg had seldom needed to stay at the same place twice, and the refrigerator was always well stocked in accord with his wishes.

  Hedberg slept a few hours. He liked to be well rested when he went to work. Then there was less carelessness.

  Seven o’clock was the agreed-on time. At that time the corridor should be empty and he would be able to do his part, hopefully as quickly as possible. He was already on the scene at six o’clock to reconnoiter; the first thing he saw was the blue delivery van someone had parked at just the spot where you had a complete view of the dormitory lobby.

  Fucking amateurs, thought Hedberg with irritation and returned to his own car, which he’d placed some distance away. Why hadn’t they gotten themselves a well-situated lookout where they could sit without risk of being discovered? He himself had no intention of being photographed, regardless of whether it was his former colleagues who were holding the camera. Least of all then.

  “There he is. Damn, he’s early,” Assistant Detective Martinsson declared a second after Krassner had stepped out briskly through the entryway.

  “Eighteen thirty-two,” Göransson said, making a little note on the pad that sat on the instrument panel. “I guess he just wants to arrive in good time.”

  Nothing bad that doesn’t bring something good with it, thought Hedberg. First he’d seen Krassner’s back, but because the light was poor out on the street he was uncertain if he’d seen right. But then the blue delivery van had suddenly shown up and taken a new position less than a hundred yards behind the man who was disappearing down the street. Okay then, thought Hedberg. No rest for the wicked.

  Krassner had clearly decided to walk over to Sturegatan. He’d also been so kind as to select the correct sidewalk. He was walking fast too, so it was no great art for them to keep a suitable distance despite the fact that they were shadowing him from a vehicle.

  “Fucking amateur,” snorted Martinsson. “If I’d been him I would’ve walked on the other side of the road. They never learn that you should walk against traffic.”

  “If I were you I would just be thankful,” said Göransson. “It must be close to ten degrees outside. Be glad that you can sit in a warm car instead.”

  With you as chauffeur, thought Martinsson, for it was hardly by chance that Göransson was sitting in the driver’s seat just this once. You really need to move a little, you lazy bastard, thought Martinsson, but he didn’t say that.

  Looks good, Hedberg noted, inspecting his own image in the mirror while he took the elevator up to the seventeenth floor. Typical worker with blue overalls, tool belt, and a small metal toolbox where he had put his camera and the walkie-talkie that he needed so those two amateurs who had driven off in the blue delivery van would be able to warn him if Krassner was suddenly inspired to come up with some tomfoolery.

  “He’s twenty minutes too early,” Martinsson observed as Krassner’s back disappeared through the entryway to Forselius’s building on Sturegatan. “Should we report that he’s arrived, or what?”

  “Yes,” said Göransson. “And then I think we should drive around the block and position ourselves a little farther down. Better to stay on the same side as the entryway.”

  “Okay,” said Martinsson, pressing the send button on the portable radio three times.

  I see, thought Hedberg when a crackling sound came from the radio in his toolbox. The object is at a secure distance and we’re almost twenty minutes ahead of schedule. So what do I do now? he thought.

  “A hamburger would sit nicely,” said Martinsson.

  “The hell it would,” objected Göransson.

  “There’s a stand up at Tessin Park,” said Martinsson innocently. “It’ll take five minutes at the most.”

  “Okay then,” said Göransson, sighing. “I could go for one too. With cheese and raw onion and a lot of mustard and ketchup. I want coffee too. Coffee with milk.”

  Take a chance, Hedberg decided. He’d stood in the stairwell between the sixteenth and seventeenth floors for almost five minutes, observing the glass door to the corridor where Krassner was living. True, the lights were on inside, but that’s how it should be and it looked empty. Leaking faucet, thought Hedberg, smiling wryly as he took the keys out of his pocket. You should never wait with a leaking faucet.

  Nothing here, nothing there, but here, thought Hedberg while his sensitive fingers probed the crack between the door frame and the door to Krassner’s room. He moistened the little scrap of paper against his tongue, carefully unlocked the door, pressed the scrap of paper back where it had been, sneaked into the dark coat closet and slowly pulled the door closed after him while he held the door handle down. Empty, thought Hedberg, slowly releasing it again. And high time to carry out a little work.

  . . .

  “Damn good burger,” said Martinsson contentedly, belching to give emphasis to his judgment.

  “So-so,” said Göransson.

  He still sounds grumpy, thought Martinsson.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, it’s only five past seven. Five minutes more or less isn’t the end of the world. Better than raw hamburger.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Göransson. We’re well situated, in any case, he thought. Scarcely a hundred yards down on the street and with full view of the entryway, and five minutes isn’t the end of the world, nor ten either, for that matter.

  “I can take the first hour if you want to lean back,” Martinsson suggested. Instead of smoking a peace pipe with you, you grumpy bastard, he thought.

  “Okay then,” said Göransson. “You take the first hour.”

  Why didn’t I decide that we should meet in his room instead? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, glancing nervously at her watch. Seven minutes late, and the guy who’s going to do the job is probably already frantic. Lay off, Jeanette, she thought. You know very well why you didn’t want to meet him in his room. Drink your beer, which you’ve ordered and paid for with government money, and try to appear normal. Quarter past, she decided. If he hasn’t shown up by quarter past I’ll have to make radio contact.

  Hedberg had started in the shower room. Shower, toilet, sink, medicine chest with mirror, tiled walls, and a plastic mat that looked almost new and appeared to be solidly glued to the floor. Plastic gloves on his hands, plastic covering over his shoes, and the very first thing he did was to place his walkie-talkie on the desk inside the room so he would be quite sure to hear it if someone needed to warn him. Between the medicine chest and the wall he found a plastic bag with a few carelessly rolled cigarettes. Marijuana, thought Hedberg, sniffing in the bag. He placed it back carefully where it had been. Coat closet next, thought Hedberg. Hat rack, three wall-mounted closets
with overhead cabinets. This is going like a dance, he thought.

  Come sometime then, thought Jeanette, glancing at the clock, and just then he arrived. Fourteen minutes late and with an embarrassed smile.

  “I’m really sorry I’m late,” said Daniel as he leaned over, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “It’s okay,” said Jeanette, trying to appear just irritated enough.

  “I have a suggestion,” said Daniel, sitting down on the stool next to her. “There’s a good Mexican restaurant down on Birger Jarlsgatan. What do you think?”

  Five, maybe ten minutes’ walk, thought Jeanette. She herself would have preferred to stay in the vicinity in case something happened, but on the other hand Waltin hadn’t said anything that prevented her from doing it. Only that she should see to it that M’Boye was kept away from the student dormitory for at least an hour and that she should make contact as soon as everything was done. Okay, she thought. Have to move a little, walk off the tension.

  “Okay,” she said, smiling. “That’s okay.”

  The closets were mostly empty, screwed solidly tight against the wall, although one of the skirting boards against the floor was coming loose. Hedberg got down on his knees, took a knife, and poked carefully with the blade between the skirting board and the linoleum. I see, thought Hedberg with satisfaction, removing the molding and sticking in his hand. Papers, he thought. A rather thick bundle encased in a plastic sleeve.

  Hedberg carefully coaxed out his find. Got up and read the text on the first page. “The Spy Who Went East, by John P. Krassner.” Is he spending his time writing a mystery? thought Hedberg, bewildered, leafing through the manuscript. It wasn’t that long and was far from finished, judging by the amount of handwritten additions and corrections. How will I have time to photograph this? he thought, and at that moment he heard steps in the corridor outside the door.

  . . .

  Waltin was sitting at home in his large apartment on Norr Mälarstrand watching porn. It was one of his favorite tapes and originally part of a large confiscation that Berg’s coworkers had made at the home of some crazy Yugoslav, but because it was altogether too good to be shown at personnel parties at the bureau he’d pinched it for his own use. A private American production in which the play’s leather-clad hero had hung up a real prize sow from a pair of ceiling hooks in his rec room. A well-narrated and very morally instructive story, although for Waltin it was nevertheless mostly about the play’s female protagonist. Exactly the type he hated, with large, fat white breasts that bobbed up and down as soon as she moved, and now she was getting exactly the treatment her type deserved.

  The steps in the corridor outside had died away. Then he’d heard the door between the corridor and the stairs slam shut. It was supposed to be empty of people here, thought Hedberg, exhaling. He tiptoed into the room and over to the desk and quickly started laying manuscript pages out on the available surface. Desk lamp or flash? he thought as he took the camera out of his tool bag. Desk lamp, he thought. It goes more quickly and is less visible. He arranged the light so it was balanced and started to photograph. It must be over a hundred pages, he thought with irritation. Wonder if I have enough film? It went quickly, in any case. The first roll was done in a few minutes, and just as he stood putting in a new one he heard it again, the slam of the door to the corridor. Someone’s on their way in, thought Hedberg, turning off the desk lamp and tiptoeing quickly out into the coat closet.

  Strange that he puts up with me, thought Jeanette, trying out her shy smile at her table companion. They had been seeing each other for almost six weeks and all he’d gotten was a kiss and a hug, and he hadn’t even nagged at her, much less tried to wrestle with her. What she had been thinking about most the past few days—for her assignment would be over this evening if you could believe Waltin—was how she would extract herself from this without hurting him unnecessarily.

  “You must think I’m really boring,” said Jeanette.

  “No,” said Daniel, shaking his head seriously and placing his large hand over hers. “You’re not like other girls I’ve met, but I respect your attitude toward … well, you know.”

  Daniel smiled wryly and shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “Besides, I like you. A lot,” he added, squeezing her hand and nodding.

  Damnation, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson, but she didn’t say it. Instead she just nodded with a shy smile and her gaze directed at the tablecloth. Sort of the way little Jeanette would have done.

  Waltin moaned lightly with pleasure and sipped his malt whiskey while the whiplashes echoed from his black Bang & Olufsen speakers and the female protagonist shrieked like a stuck pig.

  “There’s more to come, there’s more to come,” Waltin hummed with delight, for he was both exhilarated and the tiniest bit intoxicated, and just then of course his red telephone rang. His secure line.

  Typical, thought Waltin, sighing as he paused the film. Quarter past eight, he thought, looking at his watch as he picked up the receiver. It must be Hedberg, and it could only mean that everything had gone according to plan.

  “Yes,” said Waltin. “I’m listening.”

  “In a little less than three weeks I’m going home,” said Daniel. “Do you want to go along?”

  He smiled at her, that big white charming smile, but it was probably mostly to conceal the seriousness of his question, she thought.

  “I don’t know, maybe later. I have that exam that I just have to take care of and then I’m going to spend Christmas with my parents.” The latter was true in any case, she thought.

  “You must come to South Africa,” said Daniel and smiled. “It’s amazing.”

  I’m sure, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson. And how do I get myself out of this? But she didn’t say that either.

  “Everything went well?”

  “Yes,” said Hedberg.

  “Anything interesting?” asked Waltin.

  “Nada,” said Hedberg.

  “Nada? Nothing?”

  “Messy student’s den, a lot of papers, and most of the ones that had something on them lying on his desk. A few miscellaneous handwritten notes.”

  “And that was all?”

  “Yes,” said Hedberg. “I took a few rolls of what was on the desk. I got the idea that he’s writing some kind of mystery.”

  “Mystery? Why do you think that?” asked Waltin.

  “I found a page,” said Hedberg. “I have a picture of it. Typewritten. Looked like the cover to a mystery or something. The Spy Who Went East, by John P. Krassner.”

  “The Spy Who Went East?”

  “Yes, The Spy Who Went East. Supposed to be the Russians, I guess.”

  The spy who went over to the east? Strange title, thought Waltin. Went over from what?

  “And there wasn’t anything else? I mean the book itself or anything?”

  “There were a number of pages with more or less text on them and those I took pictures of. Most of what was there was on the desk, but there wasn’t too much. I got it all on three rolls, so he doesn’t seem to be any great author.”

  “Were you able to check the ribbon in the typewriter? How much had he written?”

  “Yes. Appeared almost unused.”

  An old bastard and his crackpot fantasies, thought Waltin.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Waltin suggested.

  “Sounds fine,” said Hedberg. “I was actually planning to go and turn in, so you can call me early if you want.”

  . . .

  First Waltin thought about calling the security police’s own central liaison and asking them to inform Göransson and Martinsson that they could call it a day. But then he started thinking about that idiot Martinsson and decided that they might just as well sit where they were, at least until they themselves made contact. It was below zero outside, and in all likelihood it would soon be the same temperature inside that old delivery van he’d loaned out to them. It was only to be hoped that old man Forselius e
ntertained himself half the night with that scatterbrain Krassner while Martinsson froze his dick off on the street outside, Waltin thought contentedly. Besides, he really wanted to see the end of his film. True, he’d seen it more times than he could recall, but it only got better and better every time. So be it, thought Waltin, pouring a fresh malt whiskey and reaching for the remote control.

  They sat at the restaurant for almost two hours, and once they came out onto the street she thought about leaving, saying that they could talk tomorrow, and going home, but for some reason that didn’t happen. Instead they walked home to Daniel’s, a brisk walk—they even raced a little—and when they strode in through the entryway to the dormitory he looked at her with his big eyes and his gentle smile and asked if she wanted to have a cup of tea. And she nodded and followed him into the elevator. What is it you’re doing? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson.

  What do you mean, first hour? thought Martinsson, glancing at the blanket-wrapped, snoring bundle in the back of the delivery van. Almost three hours, and the last two hours he’d been cold as a dog despite the fact that he’d wrapped his legs in a blanket and even stuffed a couple of old copies of Expressen under his rump in a desperate attempt to alleviate the cold that forced its way up through the seat.

  Like some damn homeless person, thought Martinsson. And that damn Göransson must be built like an Eskimo despite the fact that he’d taken almost all the blankets that they had in the car. And that damn druggie who sat gorging himself in a big Östermalm apartment. He would slice the arms and legs off him as soon as he stuck his nose outside the door and then …

  “Jesus!” Martinsson swore out loud and sincerely as he turned the key in the ignition.

  As soon as she stepped into the corridor she saw them and all her alarm bells starting ringing in her head. What is going on? she thought. But fortunately Daniel took over so she had time to think. Another Daniel than the one she knew. Big, black, and threatening, a person who didn’t step back and who quite certainly hadn’t grasped that the men whose way he was blocking were police. Jesus, thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson despite the fact that she almost never swore, what is going on and what am I doing here?