‘I can forget him, too? Why?’
‘Far too peculiar. A loner, a conspiracy theorist, always in conflict with pretty much everyone he runs into. Previous convictions for stupid crimes. Forget men like Olsson.’
‘What’s our bloke like, then?’
‘Pleasant, helpful, sociable, good company, likes spending time with men and women his own age. None of them has any idea that all he really wants to do is have sex with little girls. The only thing you might be able to criticize him for is drinking a bit too much,’ Johansson said with a smile. ‘But he never gets annoying or out of hand.’
‘You couldn’t give me a name, could you?’ Jarnebring said with a grin. Lars Martin is back in the saddle again, he thought.
‘Give me a week or so. You mustn’t forget that I’ve got a lot of crap going on inside my head. I’ve forgotten loads of things. I keep thinking of things I’ve forgotten. The worst part is that I can’t remember what they are. Just that they’re things I’ve forgotten.’
‘Yes,’ Jarnebring agreed. ‘You’ve seemed perfectly normal recently. You’ve even shown a few human characteristics, actually.’
‘There are three things I haven’t forgotten,’ Johansson said, not seeming to take any notice of what Jarnebring had said. ‘When I forget them, I’m finished.’
‘What are they, then?’ Jarnebring asked.
‘Make the best of what you’ve got, don’t complicate things unnecessarily, and hate coincidence.’
‘Lars Martin Johansson’s three golden rules for investigating a murder. A week, you said. Then you’ll give me a name?’
‘Not that I can see why you want it,’ Johansson said. ‘You can’t do anything about the case, not now.’ None of us can, he thought.
‘To satisfy my curiosity,’ Jarnebring said. ‘I might go round and see the bastard and have a serious talk with him. Man to man. And rip his arms and legs off.’
‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ Johansson said. ‘But you’ll still have to give me a week or so. I’m not quite myself yet.’
27
Friday afternoon, 16 July
Johansson spent the rest of the afternoon looking through the files Jarnebring had given him. He sat for a long time with a photograph of Yasmine in his hand. It was an unremarkable portrait, probably a school photograph, half profile, with her smiling and flashing her eyes at the photographer. A child, he thought. A happy child, and just as pretty as Jarnebring had said. Then his chest started to hurt. He put the photograph back in the folder, and the pain eased.
He made do with merely leafing through the post-mortem report. What it said seemed to match what his best friend had already told him. Instead, he scrutinized the analysis of the place where she was found, as well as the other forensics reports. He carefully inspected all the photographs taken by the forensics team. He even wished he had the little loupe he had fixed to his key ring. They must have a magnifying glass in a place like this, Johansson thought, and rang for a nurse.
‘How can I help?’ A young woman in her thirties. Nice-looking, happy and positive. Someone like her was bound to have a magnifying glass.
‘You wouldn’t have a magnifying glass that I could borrow, would you?’ Johansson asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You can borrow the one we keep in the office.’
After he had raped and murdered Yasmine, her sensitive murderer had taken his time and gone to a lot of trouble wrapping her up in a neat parcel.
He pulled two bin-bags over her head, across her torso and down to her thighs. Then he pulled two more bags over her feet, legs and waist, the edge of the bags at roughly the level of her nipples. He did it in that order, because the bags at the bottom overlapped the ones at the top.
Then he sealed the parcel with tape. Ordinary brown packing tape, five centimetres wide. Pulled tight. First round her ankles, with her feet and legs pushed close together. Then her knees, and her thighs, just below her buttocks. Then round her waist and chest, with her arms by her sides. At each point he wound the tape round her body five or six times, even though once would probably have been enough. The result was a package that, in terms of its content and appearance, was strikingly like a mummy wrapped in bandages. Apart from the black plastic and tape, of course.
Despair, Johansson thought. Not just despair at what you’d done and the situation you found yourself in. This despair is older than that, he thought. You’ve learned to control it. Controlling your despair has become an essential part of your character.
He hadn’t left any fingerprints while he was doing it. But there were marks made by fingers wearing rubber gloves. Fragments of pale pink rubber had been found on the underside of the tape.
Washing-up gloves, Johansson thought. Ordinary washing-up gloves. Probably well used, too, seeing as they had started to fray and leave traces behind. If you’re in your own home, then these aren’t your gloves, he thought. Because you’d have had a different colour. Besides, I don’t think you’re the sort who does the washing-up, still less wears gloves if you do. Women use washing-up gloves, so there’s a woman somewhere in your life. Your partner? Or perhaps your mother or your sister? Or simply some other woman you know well enough to be able to spend time in her home without feeling any need to rush?
I wonder if you’re still alive? Johansson thought. Or if your despair has killed you?
I think you’re alive, he thought. Making the best of things. You’re far too fond of yourself and, anyway, you don’t feel any guilt. No despair that you can’t control, at least. Besides, there are plenty more like Yasmine. You see them all the time. They occupy your consciousness practically the whole time.
Then Johansson put the files down to eat his dinner. He drank two glasses of water, ate about half his portion of wholemeal pasta and pesto, mostly out of duty, and so as not to worry the people responsible for his health and imminent recovery.
After that he fell asleep, and he woke to find Pia sitting in the chair by the side of his bed, running her forefinger across his cheeks and down his chin.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. ‘You look a lot brighter. When I was here yesterday you were asleep the whole time. Sleeping like a baby; you weren’t even snoring, not at all. I almost got worried.’
‘I feel like a pig in shit,’ Johansson said. ‘So don’t you go worrying about me now. Tell me what you’ve been up to instead.’
28
Saturday, 17 July, to Sunday, 18 July
The weekend, with all its visits. Just like the previous weekend, except that he had fended off the children. Just to make sure, he had even gone so far as to speak to both his son and his daughter on the phone.
‘I’ll soon be home,’ Johansson said. ‘It would be a lot nicer for everyone to come and see me and Pia at home and have a proper dinner. Spend time together like normal people.’
‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ his son said.
‘We’ll do as you say,’ his daughter said. ‘Daddy’s little girl always does what Daddy says,’ she added, for some reason.
There was no getting away from his eldest brother, Evert, though. He came marching in before lunch. Big and heavy, unbowed, his back ramrod-straight, even though he was ten years older than Lars Martin, the youngest son of the Johansson family.
Cheerful and pleased with himself, as always, and ‘what phenomenal luck’ that they had been able to conclude the forestry deal before Lars Martin ‘had his brainstorm’.
‘We really were damn lucky,’ Evert Johansson declared, grinning with his big, yellow, horse-trader’s teeth. ‘The price of timber and woodpulp is going through the roof. I’ve already got a load of people after me, wanting to do a deal on the patch we got hold of.’
‘What have you been telling them, then?’ Johansson asked. He was only half listening and could already feel his headache starting to rumble.
‘Far too early to sell, far too early. So I’ve been telling them to go to hell,’ Evert said, and chuckled happily.
<
br /> ‘They don’t get upset?’ Johansson wondered.
‘If they do, it’s their problem, not yours and mine,’ Evert grunted. ‘To change the subject, I’ve found an industrial property outside Örebro, an old workshop and warehouse. Looks very promising. Very promising. What do you think?’
‘Go on,’ Johansson said, having made up his mind to stop listening altogether.
Then Jarnebring arrived, in the middle of one of his brother’s long spiels, and he and Evert needed no more than a quick exchange of glances to understand that any attempt at a cock-measuring contest would be a waste of time. How often did you ever encounter an equal?
‘Bo Jarnebring,’ Evert Johansson said. ‘Shake my hand, Bo. Thanks for taking care of my little brother. That used to be my job, but since he moved to Stockholm fifty years ago that’s happened less and less, if I can put it like that.’
Then they shook hands on the matter, with hands of a size that hardly any other men went around with. They squeezed harder than usual, and resolved the issue by more or less simultaneously giving the other a fraternal slap on the right shoulder.
‘If there’s anything I can do for you, Bo,’ Evert said, ‘don’t hesitate to get in touch. Let me give you my mobile number. And you can give me yours.’
After that, they mostly talked to each other. Not about crimes, not about forestry and property, but about cars, which was a common point of interest. Evert Johansson, who, along with all the forest, land and properties he owned, also happened to own a couple of large car-dealerships in Västernorrland. Bo Jarnebring, who had no money but was a devoted motorist, and naturally preferred the sort of cars he couldn’t really afford.
‘In that case, I’ve got just the right car for you, Bo,’ Evert said. ‘I’ll get one of my salesmen to give you a call on Monday and we can do business. You’ll never be offered a price like this again in your life, I can promise you that.’
Watch yourself, Jarnis, Johansson thought, but didn’t say anything.
Then Pia showed up. She flashed a radiant smile at both Evert Johansson and Bo Jarnebring, gave them each a big hug and then told them both to go to hell.
Not that she put it quite like that, but that was what she meant, thought her husband, Lars Martin Johansson.
‘It’s a shame you have to leave,’ Pia said. ‘I suggest you go and sit down somewhere nice and have a proper boys’ lunch, do a bit of arm-wrestling and take good care of each other. You, Evert, can pay for it, and I’ll have a nice quiet chat with my husband in the meantime.’
‘I know of a really good bar up on Regeringsgatan,’ Jarnebring said, before they were even out of the door. ‘Decent, traditional Swedish food, not too busy, reasonable prices. It’s actually run by a couple of Yugoslavians,’ he explained. ‘Got to know them when I was at Surveillance here in Stockholm. But they’ve calmed down a lot now, and they’re seriously good at cooking decent grub.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ Evert said. ‘Good blokes need good food.’
‘You’re missing them already, I can tell,’ Pia said as soon as the door closed.
‘Not remotely,’ Johansson said, and reached out both arms to her, to hold her the way he had always held her before he became someone different from the man he had been.
29
Monday, 19 July
A human being, no doubt, but primarily a patient, and therefore subject to fixed routines decided by people other than himself. First, he met the physiotherapist. The old record in squeezing the rubber ball still stood. His right arm was the same as before. No better, no worse. Maybe it tingled a little more. It itched, too. Prickling, pins and needles, even a bit of stinging now.
‘You’ve reached a plateau,’ his well-trained female tormentor explained. ‘That’s perfectly normal, nothing for you to worry about. Your recovery will happen in stages. Your arm will be exactly the same as before. But it will take time.’
Why don’t I believe you? he thought. All of a sudden, he felt tired and depressed.
‘Why don’t I believe you?’ he said.
‘You mustn’t think like that,’ she said. ‘That will only make it take longer. This will be sorted out, your arm will be exactly the same as before. That’s what you’ve got to think.’
The medical version of ‘make the best of things’, he thought.
‘In the police, we usually say that you have to make the best of things,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Exactly.’
Not so easy when it’s you, though, he thought.
When he returned to his room, Jarnebring called. He was going to have to postpone their meeting. His daughter had a water leak in her kitchen and her clever old dad had to do a bit of plumbing.
‘You can never get hold of a decent bloody plumber,’ Jarnebring said, for some reason. ‘But I’ll see you as soon as I’ve finished.’
‘You’re a marvel when it comes to that sort of thing,’ Johansson said. ‘So it’s hardly the end of the world. Anyway, I’ve got loads I need to be getting on with, so my suggestion is that we meet up tomorrow instead. If that’s okay with you, of course.’
‘Course it’s okay,’ Jarnebring said. ‘What do you take me for? Take care of yourself now.’
Then his doctor, Ulrika Stenholm, showed up. She was feeling guilty about not managing to get through her dad’s paperwork over the weekend, as she had promised. All manner of things had got in the way.
‘I should have had children earlier. At my age and with my job, you really shouldn’t have a five-year-old and a three-year-old.’
‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Johansson said.
‘It’s not good, though, is it?’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘Tonight, I promise, I’m going to do something about it. I can drop the kids off with their father. Anyway, I’ve got some good news,’ she added.
I’m going to get a new arm, Johansson thought. One of those ones with a hook on the end. But, naturally, he didn’t say that.
Johansson was going to be allowed home. He would be leaving the hospital. Transferred to out-patient care and regular check-ups. Not tomorrow, though, but on Wednesday, because Dr Stenholm wanted to take a look at the results of the latest batch of tests before letting him go. And always assuming that nothing untoward happened in the meantime, of course.
‘Which it won’t,’ Dr Stenholm said, smiling in a way that was both cheerful and professional. ‘I think you’ve done really well. I’ve booked you in for a check-up with me in a week’s time – next Monday. As for the rest, I thought I’d talk to Pia about that.’
Pia, Johansson thought. You’re Pia and Ulrika to each other now. To him, she was still Dr Stenholm, Ulrika Stenholm, or ‘my doctor’, he thought.
‘You’re the doctor, so you know best. I want to go home,’ he suddenly said.
‘I can understand that very well.’ Ulrika Stenholm smiled and nodded, and tilted her head.
After lunch, yet another meal that tasted like all the others, regardless of what was served, he made yet another attempt to pull himself together.
‘Is it possible to get a cup of coffee in this place?’ Johansson grunted at the nursing assistant who came to remove his tray.
‘Would you like a magnifying glass on the side?’ She smiled cheerily at him.
‘Just coffee,’ Johansson said. ‘Black.’
Black, to help clear your head, he thought, and reached for one of the files. Pull yourself together. Make the best of things. This isn’t all about you, after all.
Among all the papers in his folders he had found an expert’s statement from the National Forensics Laboratory in Linköping, which in turn had prompted a further statement from a professor in animal biology at Stockholm University.
When Professor Sjöberg carefully pulled out the scrap of down that had caught in Yasmine’s throat, and, with the same precision, removed the two white threads that had caught between her teeth, he had put each of them in a separate bag, filled in the usual forms and sent them with
everything else to the forensics department of the Crime Division in Stockholm.
There, a forensics officer had looked at them. Two fragments of white cotton and a piece of bird-down approximately two centimetres long and one centimetre across. He couldn’t say much more than that, because he had neither the knowledge nor the necessary equipment. But, being a conscientious and thorough public servant, he had put them into two fresh bags, filled in even more forms and sent the lot off to the National Forensics Lab in Linköping. He had two questions: what sort of thread was it, precisely? And was there anything else that could be said about the scrap of bird-down?
The relevant biologist at the lab had no difficulties with the first question. He had both the knowledge and all the equipment he needed. The two threads came from the plant Linum usitatissimum, or flax, to give it its common name.
The finest-quality flax and, more specifically, the sort of flax that was used to make fabrics. The finest-quality flax, and the idea of the pillowcase, which his colleague in the Crime Division in Stockholm had mentioned, seemed highly plausible under the circumstances. Or a sheet, a duvet cover or a handkerchief woven of the same fibres.
The notion that the threads might have come from – for instance – a tablecloth, a table runner, a towel or a linen napkin, was, on the other hand, highly improbable. Not only because of the circumstances but because such items were usually made of thread of a different structure and coarseness.
That left the little scrap of down, about which he, however, lacked the necessary knowledge. Because he was just as conscientious and thorough as his colleague in the forensics department, he had sent it on to one of his old lecturers at Stockholm University. The professor was a distinguished ornithologist, so it would present him with little difficulty.
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