The Dying Detective

by Leif G. W. Persson

  Obviously, Johansson thought. That was exactly what she was like. ‘What about home helps?’ he said.

  ‘She didn’t trust them. Wouldn’t dream of having anyone sent by the council in her home. Not after she read in the papers about that Indian who strangled an old woman he was supposed to be helping. The one whose conviction was dismissed on appeal, if you remember?’

  Yes, I do remember him, he thought. ‘What about the fourth point, then?’ Johansson said. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘The red Golf that was supposed to have been parked outside her house.’

  ‘What did she have to say about that?’

  ‘Not a thing. She couldn’t drive and didn’t have a car. No one she knew owned a red Golf. She didn’t even know what sort of car it was.’

  Not good, Johansson thought. Not good at all. Not when he could no longer see round corners.

  ‘That officer . . .’

  ‘Nina – Carina, Carina Tell.’

  ‘Yes, her,’ Johansson said. ‘Is she still in the force?’

  ‘Nope,’ Jarnebring said. ‘She left a few years ago. These days, she’s some sort of lifestyle consultant. Very successful, by all accounts. Gives lectures, owns two gyms, personal trainer to half a dozen billionaires, as well as teaching a load of ordinary, fat, wealthy old men like you how to live a healthier life. She’s even written a couple of books on how to do it.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I know her,’ Jarnebring said. ‘I called and spoke to her. I told you that.’ He gave a satisfied smile.

  ‘How do you mean, you know her?’

  ‘The usual way,’ Jarnebring said with a grin. ‘It was twenty-five years ago, before I met my wife.’

  ‘You couldn’t ask her to call me?’

  ‘On one condition,’ Jarnebring said, with an even broader smile.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That you don’t say anything to Pia.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Johansson said. Why would I do that? he thought. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘There was one more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That second interview, the one Tell conducted five weeks later. What did Sagerlied say in that one?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jarnebring said.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No. Margaretha Sagerlied was the one who called Carina. She wondered how the investigation was going, if we had reached any conclusions. The usual, you know. The way every old dear who lives close to where something awful happened always phones and goes on. The interview was conducted over the phone. There wasn’t any reason to go to talk to her at her home. Read it for yourself, if you don’t believe me. Anything else you’re wondering?’

  ‘I’m tired,’ Johansson said. ‘Need to have a little nap.’

  There he goes again, Jarnebring thought. Seems completely out of it. ‘But you’re doing fine,’ he said.

  ‘I am fine. Just need a little rest.’

  ‘Look after yourself, Lars. See you tomorrow, same time, same place, same old team from Central Surveillance. Do you remember those days? The ten years we spent sitting in the front of the same clapped-out old Volvo?’

  Then he leaned forward, put his arm round Johansson and hugged him tight.

  ‘Promise to look after yourself, Lars,’ he said.

  ‘I promise.’

  Five weeks later, she phones up to ask how it’s going, Johansson thinks, staring at the door his best friend had just closed behind him. Gently, so as not to disturb him, as he thought Johansson was already drifting off.

  What had happened in that time? he thought. To make her suddenly wonder how things were going? Someone she knew but hadn’t thought of, not in that way? Someone who drove around in a red Golf? Or was it to do with a red plastic hairgrip? A red Monchhichi that she had perhaps found under the bed in her bedroom?

  Then he fell asleep.

  40

  Friday, 23 July

  Another day in his new life. Breakfast, physiotherapy and Matilda, who was actually going from strength to strength, in spite of all the rings and tattoos.

  ‘What do you want to do now?’ she asked when they were on their way home from the Karolinska.

  ‘I’m going to see Jarnebring,’ Johansson said.

  ‘It’s a few hours before he arrives,’ Matilda said. ‘Come on, what would you like to do if you were allowed to choose?’

  ‘In that case, I’d like to go swimming,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Swimming,’ Matilda said, and nodded towards his dangling right arm. ‘Is that a good idea?’

  ‘Listen,’ Johansson said. ‘I could still beat you by half a pool-length with both arms tied behind my back if I had to.’

  ‘Okay,’ Matilda said, smiling and shrugging her shoulders.

  The Eriksdal pool or the Forgrénska at Medborgarplatsen lay closest, and were Matilda’s suggestions. Johansson wanted to go to the Sture baths in the centre of the city, so that’s what happened. He had to use the ladder to get into the pool; there was no way he could dive in now, not with a flapping right arm. No energetic crawl, no butterfly. Mostly backstroke with powerful kicks of his legs, helped by one arm. He hadn’t felt so good since he got out of his car in front of the best hotdog kiosk in the world to buy a Zigeuner sausage with sauerkraut and Dijon mustard.

  ‘Where did you learn to swim like that?’ Matilda asked when they were sitting in the car on the way to Södermalm. ‘You’re pretty hot.’

  ‘My eldest brother used to throw me in the river back home when I was little. I didn’t have a lot of choice.’

  ‘How old were you then?’ She looked at him in surprise.

  ‘A year or so,’ Johansson said with a shrug.

  ‘Wasn’t he worried you’d drown?’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. You don’t know my brother, he thought.

  After that she made lunch for him. Not quite up to Pia’s standard, and still a few too many vegetables, but considering the way she looked, it was nothing short of a miracle.

  ‘Good,’ Johansson said, nodding towards his empty plate. ‘Where did you learn to cook like that?’

  ‘My brother used to throw me in the river when I was little,’ Matilda said. ‘I didn’t have a lot of choice.’

  Then Jarnebring called and asked to be let off that day’s visit. The water leak in his daughter’s kitchen had turned out to have had unforeseen consequences.

  ‘It’s got through to the cellar,’ Jarnebring said. ‘I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Johansson said. ‘See you on Monday.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jarnebring asked.

  ‘Quite sure,’ Johansson said. ‘Give me a ring if you need any advice about proper plumbers.’

  ‘Can’t afford it,’ Jarnebring said. ‘I’ve just filled up that car I bought off you. So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to lie on the sofa and read some old interviews,’ Johansson said.

  For practical reasons, those ended up being the interviews with Margaretha Sagerlied that Jarnebring had already dug out for him. The idea of poking about among all the bundles in the boxes never entered his head.

  The first interview that Officer Tell had conducted with Margaretha Sagerlied was dated 2 July 1985, eighteen days after Yasmine went missing. It had commenced at quarter past two in the afternoon and concluded at five minutes past five. Almost three hours, which was practically unique for a door-to-door interview. All too often you had to make do with the five minutes it took to ring the doorbell and ask if whoever opened the door – if you were lucky – ‘had seen or heard anything’. They usually hadn’t, and five minutes was normally more than long enough. Carina Tell had been thorough and systematic, and Margaretha Sagerlied both talkative and accommodating. The interview stretched to almost ten pages. It had been recorded on tape, summarized, printed out, read and verified by Margaretha Sagerlied.

  There wasn’t really anything in the interview that Jarnebring hadn’t already told hi
m. One or two details, perhaps. That Margaretha Sagerlied had two cats, for instance. Which she had obviously taken with her when she went to the country. That none of her neighbours had a key to her house. She valued her privacy: no one in the house if she wasn’t at home; and the people she socialized with were all of the same age as her. Came from the same background as her. She knew them all well, had known them for many years.

  Everything Johansson read annoyed him intensely. Especially since he was unable to put his finger on what it was that was upsetting him. Could she have had a lover, or some attentive cavalier, someone she didn’t want to mention? Was she lying, or was it just that she didn’t understand what the police were looking for? A younger man. Seen through her eyes, a perfectly ordinary, normal younger man. Someone she knew and trusted, because he wasn’t only entirely normal but also educated and sociable, polite and attentive. Nothing like the monster who had raped and murdered little Yasmine.

  Johansson barely had time to put the document down before Carina Tell called him on his mobile.

  ‘Carina Tell,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to your good friend Bo Jarnebring and he led me to believe that you’d like to talk to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any way you could call in?’

  ‘I can be with you in half an hour,’ she said. ‘I’m down at the gym. I just need to have a quick shower first.’

  ‘Splendid,’ Johansson said. ‘Let me give you—’

  ‘I’ve got your address and the code for the door,’ she interrupted. ‘See you in half an hour.’

  A very efficient woman. And punctual, he thought, when the doorbell rang exactly half an hour later.

  41

  Friday afternoon, 23 July

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ Johansson said, gesturing to the nearest chair. ‘You must forgive me if I don’t get up to say hello, but I’ve been a little under the weather recently.’ A very attractive woman, Johansson thought. Almost as attractive as Pia.

  ‘Would you like anything?’ he added.

  ‘Thanks, I’m fine,’ Carina Tell said. ‘I understand that you wanted to talk about Yasmine’s murder. And that you’re particularly interested in the old opera singer I interviewed when we went door-to-door.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Johansson said. ‘I’ve read both your interviews with her.’

  ‘Just one question,’ Carina Tell said, smiling at him. ‘To be honest, because obviously I know who you are, I don’t really understand why you’re interested in this old case. Would you mind explaining?’

  ‘It’s mostly a feeling I’ve got,’ Johansson said. ‘Tell me, instead, do you remember what Margaretha Sagerlied was like as a person? I never met her, as you’ll appreciate.’

  ‘Yes, I remember her. A bit self-obsessed, to put it mildly. She was happy to talk at length about herself, her career as a singer and all the fancy people and celebrities she knew. But what had happened to Yasmine still seemed to have hit her hard. She had tears in her eyes when she talked about her. She described her as a quite enchanting little girl. Yasmine had been round to her house several times. They used to play the piano and sing together.’

  ‘How did she live, then? Tell me what her house looked like. Do you remember?’

  ‘A large villa. Furniture and carpets and crystal chandeliers. Paintings and photographs, ornaments, vases and pot-plants. I remember, we sat in her living room. There were things everywhere. There must have been at least ten large photographs in silver frames of her in different roles she had sung. And there was a small photograph of her late husband. He had to make do with a black wooden frame. It was on the mantelpiece above the open fire. He can’t have had an easy life, poor sod. She had two big cats as well. Those creepy, long-haired ones. I’ve never liked cats.’

  ‘And she’d taken the cats to the country with her?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carina Tell said, nodding. ‘Naturally, I asked, and I’m fairly sure she was telling the truth. She’d taken the cats with her to the country.’

  ‘No cleaner? No one who looked after the house?’

  ‘No, I spent quite some time asking about that. She was very clear on that point. She did all her own cleaning. Before Christmas and in the spring she got a cleaning company in to go through the house properly, clean the windows and so on.’

  ‘What about the garden?’ Johansson said. ‘Who looked after that for her? All those damn plants and pots? Who watered them?’

  ‘She did. She was very interested in gardening, and there was nothing to indicate otherwise. She had loads of flowerbeds, and a big fruit garden.’

  ‘She must have had a cleaner,’ Johansson said, finding it hard to conceal his irritation. Margaretha Sagerlied wasn’t the sort to clean up after herself, he thought. How stupid could you be?

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘From what you’re saying,’ Johansson said, ‘I’m having trouble believing that she was the sort of woman who did her own cleaning, laundry and washing-up – anything like that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Carina Tell retorted. ‘She was in good health. Lively and mobile. Seemed a lot younger than she was.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Johansson said. ‘Listen, she was gone for two weeks. It was hot and sunny pretty much the whole time. She must have had someone to water the pot-plants. Not to mention the flowerbeds and the lawn.’

  ‘I don’t recall us talking about that particular detail. But now that you come to mention it . . .’

  ‘Could she have had someone working for her unofficially? And that was why she didn’t say anything?’

  ‘I didn’t ask about that,’ Carina Tell said with a smile. ‘If she was using black-market labour, I mean. Stupid of me. I was twenty-three years old. I’d been a police officer for one year. I was sitting there interviewing a smart old lady of seventy or so. Obviously, I should have asked if she made a habit of employing black-market staff.’

  Yes, it was stupid of you not to do that, Johansson thought. Incredibly fucking stupid of you.

  ‘Just out of curiosity,’ he said. ‘That second interview, the one you conducted over the phone?’

  ‘I don’t know that it was an interview,’ Carina Tell said. ‘She was the one who called me. She had a question, I think. I remember asking her if she’d thought of anything else. Anything she wanted to add. But she didn’t. Mostly, she wanted to hear how we were getting on. What I wrote up afterwards was mainly just a note to say that she’d called.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that she was poking about?’

  ‘No, definitely not. It was the usual thing with old ladies – anxious, of course, and curious. I remember her asking if we’d found that car we were looking for. The red Golf.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said it was no longer an issue. That the witness had changed his mind. That it was no longer of interest to us. She couldn’t drive, and didn’t own a car. Didn’t know a thing about them. She barely knew the difference between a Volvo and a Saab.’

  ‘How did you get round that, then?’

  ‘I was young and ambitious in those days, so when I spoke to her the first time, obviously, I had a picture of a red Golf with me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a car that she recognized. Those of her friends who had cars certainly didn’t drive about in such small models. She was very definite on that point. They drove Mercedes and Jaguars and BMWs, things like that. Her husband used to prefer big American cars. That was what she said. He had a Lincoln when he died. I think she was almost offended that I thought she might go about in such a ridiculous little car. That was what she said when I showed her the picture of the Golf the first time. That neither she nor anyone she knew would drive about in such a ridiculous little car.’

  ‘So you were sitting inside her house when you questioned her?’

  ‘Yes, first we sat in her living room and talked, like I said, and before I left she showed me the rest of the house.’
r />   ‘And you were happy to take a look around?’

  ‘Of course,’ Carina Tell said. ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘So tell me,’ Johansson said. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Over-furnished, like I said. Things absolutely everywhere. A lot of nice stuff, of course: antiques and carpets and crystal chandeliers and paintings that were probably worth a bit. But because there was so much there, you didn’t really pay much attention to any of it.’

  ‘The living room was downstairs, on the ground floor?’

  ‘Yes.’ Carina Tell nodded. ‘Let’s see if I can remember. First, you entered a big hall. Then off to the left was the kitchen and a serving room. On the right was an old library. Her husband had used it as his gentleman’s room, or study, she said.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Straight ahead was a large living room, with a glazed veranda facing the garden. That was where we were sitting when I questioned her. To the left of that was a dining room. It wasn’t a bad house at all, very fancy, really. It would cost a fortune today.’

  ‘And upstairs?’

  ‘First, the landing. Straight ahead, above the living room, was a big room that she used as a music room. There was a huge grand piano in there – I remember thinking that it couldn’t have been easy getting it up all those stairs. Next to the music room was her bedroom, with a separate room for all her clothes, a dressing room and a large bathroom. She and her husband had evidently had separate bedrooms when he was alive. I remember that her husband’s room and bathroom – he had his own bathroom as well, although hers was at least twice the size – faced the street. Then there was a sewing room and a couple of smaller bedrooms. In total, there must have been eight or ten rooms in the house. Oh, and there was a maid’s room behind the kitchen as well. But that had stood empty for years, apparently. When her husband was still alive they had a housekeeper who slept in there, but she left just a year or so after the husband died.’

  ‘Cellar?’

  ‘Yes, there was one. Steps down from the kitchen, but I didn’t see it. But she made sure to let me know that was where she kept all her wine.’