The Dying Detective

by Leif G. W. Persson

‘Good to hear,’ Johansson said. ‘That you take care of your cashiers, I mean.’

  ‘Really,’ Pia said. ‘Do you know what?’ She leaned forward and took his hand. Smiled at him.

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re starting to sound just like my husband.’

  ‘I’ll end up better than him after this five-star bean-counter treatment,’ Johansson said.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the girl who’ll be helping you. Her name’s Matilda, and she’s known as Tilda. She’s coming tomorrow morning, when I’m still here.’

  ‘Okay,’ Johansson said. ‘So what’s wrong with her, then?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s twenty-three years old, pretty, energetic, happy and positive. Studied healthcare at high school. Trained as a personal assistant.’

  ‘Come off it,’ Johansson said. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Well, she looks like most young people do these days.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s got a few tattoos on her arms, that sort of thing.’

  ‘That sort of thing?’

  ‘Rings in her ears, too.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Johansson said. ‘Why do kids today insist on scribbling all over themselves? In my day, only criminals and sailors had tattoos. And that Danish king whose name I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘But, apart from that, she seems like a really sweet girl.’

  Johansson didn’t seem to be listening.

  ‘If little Alicia showed up like that, looking like a bit of old carpet, ready to stick a curtain rail through her face, I’d soon have something to say about it.’

  ‘That’s just what young people are like these days,’ Pia said dismissively; she had been in the sauna with Johansson’s eldest grandchild and clearly knew more about her than her grandfather did. ‘On a different matter . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Johansson said.

  ‘What are you and Bo up to? Is it some old case?’

  ‘Yes. An old murder investigation. Unsolved. One of those ones that us police officers – some of us – have trouble letting go of.’

  ‘God, how exciting,’ Pia said, and looked like she really meant it. ‘Can’t you tell me what it’s about? Is it one of your old cases?’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘Definitely not. My old cases were usually solved when I let go of them.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Pia said. ‘You’re tired, you should get some sleep.’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘I want to test-drive my new bed.’

  Then he fell asleep. Hypnos had summoned him. He smiled amiably at Johansson. Then he put the green poppy seedhead in Johansson’s good hand before taking him firmly by the arm and leading him into the darkness.

  38

  Thursday, 22 July

  For the first time in a long while, Johansson slept his usual eight hours but, instead of feeling alert and rested, he was tired and sluggish. He had a headache when he woke up, so had to add another pill to all the others he was stuffing himself with these days.

  You look fucking awful, Lars, he thought as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Unshaven, haggard, and saggy in a very literal sense. He couldn’t even think about doing anything about his stubble.

  Then Jarnebring showed up just after eight o’clock in the morning. He brought in three large boxfuls of paper and put them down on the floor of Johansson’s study.

  ‘Herman says hello,’ he said. ‘He’s sent some sort of application form that you need to sign. The case may have been written off and prescribed, but it’s still confidential, so you need official permission to see the files.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lars Martin said. ‘Have you got a pen?’ Left hand, he thought. How difficult can it be? He had written his name so many times that even the other hand ought to be able to manage it by now.

  ‘Nice,’ Jarnebring said when he was handed the signed form. ‘Lars Martin Johansson, four years old, by the look of the handwriting. Congratulations, by the way. You’re now a police researcher.’

  ‘A police researcher?’

  ‘According to Herman, that’s the simplest solution,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Okay, so pretty much anyone can get permission to research whatever they want, just to satisfy their curiosity. That mad professor on the National Police Board, the one who’s always talking a load of crap on Crimewatch, he approved your application as soon as Herman picked up the phone to call him. That’s what I’ve got here, in case you were wondering. Sends his best wishes, apparently. The professor, I mean. Says you shouldn’t worry too much, because he’s had his own problems with blood clots and strokes. And several heart attacks.’

  ‘Isn’t he dead?’ Johansson said. He must be ancient, he thought.

  ‘No, fit as a fiddle, apparently. On his last legs, but they keep going. And, according to Herman, he also says it’s high time the bastard was boiled down and turned into glue.’

  ‘Who?’ Johansson said. ‘Who should be turned into glue?’

  ‘The man who killed Yasmine,’ Jarnebring said. Off he goes again, he thought. Completely out of it.

  ‘Oh, he said that, did he?’

  ‘Yes. Those very words, according to Hermansson. Anyway, I’ve got to dash. That water leak at my daughter’s, you know. Looks like I’m going to have to rip the floor up and get it dried out before it starts going mouldy.’

  ‘Those papers,’ Johansson said, nodding towards the three boxes.

  ‘They’re a right mess. Don’t worry about them now. I’ll help you when I get back.’

  After that Matilda, his new carer, showed up. His wife’s description was fairly accurate, because her bare upper arms were black with what looked like coiled snakes. That may have been why Pia had failed to mention all the rings she had in her face: one in her left nostril, two through her bottom lip and three in each earlobe.

  I wonder how long my dear wife was planning to hide that from me? Johansson thought. But Matilda did seem cheerful and very perky.

  ‘Okay,’ Pia said. ‘Time for you to take over, Tilda. You’ve got my number, just in case.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Matilda said. ‘It’ll all be fine,’ she added reassuringly.

  Just like when the kids were little and they were going to a party, Johansson thought. Never forget to give the babysitter your phone number.

  Then he ate breakfast sitting on the sofa in his study. Yoghurt, muesli and fresh fruit, coffee and water. Nothing especially worthy of comment. And nothing wrong with the service, either. She even offered to tie his napkin round his neck. Naturally, he declined and did it himself, even though he dropped it twice.

  ‘I was going to ask if you had any special requests?’ His personal assistant looked at him inquisitively.

  ‘Special requests?’ What the fuck’s she going on about? Johansson thought. Special requests?

  ‘Yes, you know, walks, or any particular food you’d like. If you want, we could go for a drive in the car. Go to the cinema. You name it.’ She nodded almost encouragingly at him.

  ‘I’m very fond of peace and quiet,’ Johansson said. ‘So I’d really like to be left alone.’

  ‘I’ll sit in the kitchen and read,’ Matilda said. ‘That’s fine. Shout if you want anything.’

  Johansson lay on the sofa and looked at the ceiling. He didn’t even want to think about the boxfuls of papers.

  Seems quite nice, after all, Johansson thought. And she was pretty. So why the hell did she do that to herself, he thought. And why didn’t her parents say anything?

  Then he fell asleep. And woke up to find someone gently touching his arm.

  ‘Time to get up,’ Matilda said. ‘We’ve got to be at the physiotherapist’s in two hours.’

  ‘Two hours,’ Johansson said. ‘I need fifteen minutes at most to get dressed.’ How long can it take to drive there? No more than twenty minutes, he thought.

  ‘I thought I’d smarten you up before we go,’ Matilda said. ‘Do you think you could sit on this chair?
’ she said, indicating an armchair she had placed just a metre from the sofa where he lay.

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. What’s the problem? he thought. One metre – does she think I’m completely paralysed, or what?

  Then he stood up and sat down on the chair, up and down.

  Matilda put a cushion behind his head and wrapped his face in a warm towel. His headache was suddenly gone, as if she had banished it with a click of her long, slender fingers.

  ‘Now, you just sit there for a minute or two, and I’ll get the razor and some shaving foam.’

  Then she shaved his stubble off. Carefully and without leaving the slightest trace of blood, in spite of the anticoagulants he was on. She removed the shaving foam with another towel which she had moistened with warm water. She gently patted his cheeks and chin dry with aftershave from his bathroom cabinet. She held a mirror up in front of him.

  ‘Go on, admit that there’s a slight difference,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. That’s as close to sex as I’ve come recently, thanks to these wretched blood-pressure pills, he thought. ‘Thank you, Matilda,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ she said. ‘I know people say funny things when they’ve had a stroke. It’s fine. But my friends call me Tilda – in case you were wondering, I mean.’

  ‘Thank you, Tilda,’ Johansson said. What the hell’s she going on about? he thought.

  39

  Thursday afternoon, 22 July

  Jarnebring appeared after lunch, just as he had promised. Matilda brought coffee, water and fruit for them. Then she shut the door on them so they could be in peace. She just disappeared into the silence that pervaded his big apartment.

  ‘Pretty girl,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Smart, too.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But all those tattoos and rings – what’s the point of that?’

  ‘They’ve all got them these days,’ Jarnebring said with a shrug. ‘Adults and children alike. My wife, for instance. She’s got two tattoos.’ Thank God you’ve never seen them, he thought.

  ‘I’ve managed to miss those,’ Johansson said. What’s going on? he thought.

  ‘Where do you want to start?’ Jarnebring asked, nodding towards the boxes.

  ‘You said they were a right mess.’ Johansson sighed.

  ‘To put it mildly,’ Jarnebring said. ‘But I’ve got a bit of an idea. I can give you a reasonable description of what’s in those boxes.’

  ‘Start with the door-to-door,’ Johansson said. No headache now. Instead, there was that odd, distanced feeling he’d been getting recently. As if he were on his way somewhere else. ‘Start with the door-to-door,’ he repeated. Pull yourself together. You’ve had a shave, you’ve just done your exercises, you’ve got over that plateau, been praised by the physiotherapist, and now you’re sitting here with your best friend. What more do you want? You’re alive, after all, he thought.

  In summary: the door-to-door inquiries in the investigation into the murder of Yasmine Ermegan had been a disaster. By the time they got going, a week had passed since she had gone missing and, according to Jarnebring, it was a miracle that he and his colleagues managed to find any witnesses who could place her in the area, let alone on the street where she lived with her dad.

  There had been good weather all week, and on the news they were forecasting similar for the weekend. The summer holidays had started, and the affluent middle classes who lived in the neighbourhood were not short of places to go and stay out in the country, or invitations to visit friends and acquaintances. According to one list, fewer than five of the neighbours had been at home on the evening of Friday, 14 June, when Yasmine disappeared. The only ones who were still there were elderly people who had either gone to bed early or were sitting indoors in the cool. Reading, listening to the radio, playing music, watching television . . . anything but seeing or hearing anything that went on outside the walls of the homes that were their castles.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you, Lars,’ Jarnebring said, ‘but from the point of view of door-to-door inquiries, she could hardly have chosen a worse day to go missing. Friday evening, Swedish summer, school holidays. A nightmare for police officers going door-to-door.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Johansson said with a nod.

  Wonder what the perpetrator was doing there? he thought. Late on a Friday evening, late on a summer’s evening. Good weather, too. What would he have been doing there? This man who, in all likelihood, didn’t even live there. Why wasn’t he driving around the city, cruising about in his red Golf and staring at all the little girls playing in their short skirts? Even though it was really far too late for them to be out playing.

  ‘I managed to find our summary of the door-to-door inquiries,’ Jarnebring said. ‘The list of everyone living in the area when it happened; almost all the properties were private homes – no offices, which was good. But the interviews themselves seem to have ended up in a hell of a mess.’

  ‘As long as we’ve got the list, it will all work out,’ Johansson said. Bäckström probably stuck his fat little fingers in and messed everything up, he thought.

  ‘The search for the Golf is even worse. I couldn’t find the summary. There’s no back-up printed copy after that computer trouble they had. There must have been one, but it looks like it was lost. The vehicles we managed to track down on the national registry ought to be in the log, though; otherwise, we’re buggered.’

  Probably ended up in Bäckström’s wastepaper basket, Johansson thought.

  ‘We’ll have to make the best of it,’ he said. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll just have to compile a new list.’

  ‘Sure,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Mind you, I don’t believe it. But I’ve already said that. Even if you don’t seem to want to listen.’

  ‘Margaretha Sagerlied,’ Johansson said. ‘Have you found the interviews with her?’ Sometimes I can’t help wondering if Bo’s the one who had the stroke, he thought.

  ‘Yes,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Two of them. The first from Tuesday, 2 July, so two and a half weeks after Yasmine went missing. Like most of the others, the old dear was away at the time, and supplementary interviews were conducted about a month later, on Friday, 9 August.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Johansson said.

  ‘I managed to find those interviews with her among all the mess,’ Jarnebring said. ‘I’ve put them in the same plastic folder as the summary. Do you want to read them?’

  Jarnebring held up a blue plastic folder.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ Johansson said, shaking his head. I don’t feel up to it, he thought.

  ‘The two interviews were conducted by the same officer, Carina Tell. Seriously attractive, must have been twenty years younger than me. Barely out of school. She’d been brought in from Solna, where she worked in Patrol Cars. She was clever, too, properly on the ball, and you should have seen the tits on her—’

  ‘Get to the point,’ Johansson said. ‘What did the old woman she spoke to say? The Sagerlied woman?’

  ‘She’d been away,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Left a couple of days before Yasmine went missing. Got home a couple of weeks later.’

  ‘So where had she been?’

  ‘At her place in the country, outside Vaxholm. On Rindö,’ Jarnebring said. ‘A big old place her husband left her. She used to spend her holidays there with an old friend who also used to be an opera singer.’

  ‘You questioned her as well?’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ Jarnebring said. ‘Her story matched Sagerlied’s, down to the last comma. The friend was actually even older than she was – around eighty, if I remember rightly. Supposed to have been bloody well-known in her day. The friend, I mean.’

  ‘Okay,’ Johansson said. ‘So what does she say? Margaretha Sagerlied?’ Makes sense, he thought. If she spent time with someone who was eight years older than she was, she must have had her reasons.

  ‘It boils down to four things,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Firstly,
she had nothing to say on the matter. Because she was away when it happened.’

  ‘And secondly?’

  ‘Secondly, she knew Yasmine. Little Yasmine had been to see her a number of times. Pretty and pleasant and polite, according to Sagerlied. They even played the piano and sang together. Naturally, she was distraught about what had happened. But she was one hundred per cent certain that it couldn’t have happened where she lived. Not in Äppelviken in Bromma, because only decent, educated people lived there.’

  ‘Thirdly, then,’ Johansson said. Definitely not where she lived, he thought. That must have been utterly unthinkable for her.

  ‘Male contacts.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘There weren’t any. No children, no grandchildren, no one else, either. Not on her side, or on her husband’s. No younger contacts at all, of either gender. Old friends her own age, both sexes. People from the same background as her. Old singers, people who worked in the opera and the theatre, ex-actors, celebrities from her time, so to speak.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Johansson said. ‘You’ve seen the house she lived in. She must have had a cleaner, at the very least.’ Someone who did the washing-up, he thought. In worn, pink rubber-gloves; her employer may have been a bit mean when it came to things like that.

  ‘Officer Tell asked that very question. Like I said, she was on the ball. The old woman said she did the cleaning herself. And, before Christmas, she would employ a cleaning company. Same thing in the spring, when it came to cleaning all the windows and smartening things up before summer.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Johansson snorted. ‘What about workmen? Did she ever employ any?’

  ‘She hadn’t for several years. The last time they had any work done was when her husband was still alive and they had the gutters and drainpipes replaced. They installed new copper pipes because the old tin ones had rusted. Cost a fortune, apparently. I called Carina yesterday and asked. There was a lot of that sort of thing, reading between the lines. Money and famous names. The old woman had barely been asked about her place in the country before she started going on about its fifteen rooms and two verandas, and how much her father-in-law had paid for it.’