The Dying Detective

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘Open it, then,’ Johansson said, waving his weak right arm to encourage her.

  ‘Really mysterious,’ Matilda said, holding up a sheet of A4 that was folded in two.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘A name. Staffan Leander. Just a name. That’s all. Staffan Leander.’

  ‘Staffan Leander,’ Johansson repeated.

  ‘See for yourself,’ Matilda said, handing him the sheet of paper.

  ‘How long has it been since you drove me to Lilla Essinge?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘That was last week. Tuesday. Almost a week ago.’

  Erika Brännström, Johansson thought. Suddenly she was sitting there on the chair in front of him, hands clasped in her lap, with those wary eyes of hers. Hands marked by hard work, he thought. Erika, who had two young daughters the same age as Yasmine.

  61

  Monday afternoon, 2 August

  Just an idea, a fleeting thought, but he had to do something, after all. With some effort, he managed to drag the box containing the many hundreds of records from the vehicle register over to the sofa. He picked out the ones at the top. Leafed through them, put them back and pulled out a fresh bundle from the bottom of the box. There’s no order at all, everything’s all mixed up, Johansson thought, and put those back as well. Precisely what happens when a number of colleagues each decided to dig about for whatever he or she was looking for twenty-five years ago, and without a computerized summary that could give him a clue when he approached the same task twenty-five years later.

  Max, Johansson thought. He picked up his mobile and called him. He certainly wasn’t going to shout for him. And he had no intention of asking Matilda, who was doubtless sitting on watch outside his door. God knows what might have happened to her with a mother like that, Johansson thought. No plop, plop; definitely no eyes plopping out with the help of a pair of long, red fingernails, he thought.

  ‘Can you come here?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘I’m sitting in the kitchen, boss,’ Max said, barely able to conceal his surprise.

  ‘Then get a move on.’

  Twenty metres at most, but still ten seconds: why the hell did it take him so long? Johansson thought.

  ‘What can I do for you, boss?’ Max asked.

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ Johansson said, nodding towards the chair closest to the sofa he was lying on.

  ‘I’m listening, boss,’ Max said as he sat down.

  ‘A direct question, Max. Are you the sort of person who can keep his mouth shut?’

  ‘Yes,’ Max said. ‘I don’t know anyone who’s better at that.’

  ‘Not a word,’ Johansson said. ‘Not even to Evert. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. In this box here are hundreds of records from the vehicle register. People who owned a red Golf about twenty-five years ago. In June 1985, to be precise. Can you see if you can find an owner called Staffan Leander,’ he said, giving Max the sheet of paper Matilda had given him.

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Hundreds,’ Johansson said. ‘Thousands, maybe. Loads.’ How the fuck should I know? he thought.

  ‘Is there a list of them?’

  ‘Nope,’ Johansson said. ‘Because some daft bugger managed to lose it.’ Twenty-five years ago, he thought.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Max said. ‘Is it okay if I take them into my room?’

  ‘Of course.’ Johansson nodded towards the closed door. ‘On one condition. That you don’t—’

  ‘I know,’ Max said, and grinned.

  Max came back just over an hour later.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Johansson asked. ‘Did you find anything?’ Stupid question, because he could already see the answer in Max’s eyes.

  ‘No Staffan Leander. No other Leanders either.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Hundred per cent,’ Max said. ‘There were just over seventeen hundred vehicles, if you were wondering, boss. The most recent model of Golf from 1982, up to 1986, because that year’s model was released in June 1985. There are loads of registered owners whose first name is Staffan, but none with the surname Leander. Almost half are company cars, hire cars or owned by leasing firms. Are you quite sure this Leander couldn’t have been driving one of those, boss?’

  ‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘You might very well be right.’ And, in the worst-case scenario, I might have got everything completely wrong, he thought.

  62

  Tuesday, 3 August

  In the morning he got a new crutch. It stretched from his right armpit all the way down to the floor, an extended arm with a pistol grip that supported his bad right hip and stabilized his upper arm. A crutch he could hold with no difficulty at all.

  ‘Did you make it yourself?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘Contacts,’ Max said. ‘I used to play ice-hockey. I limped about with one like that myself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Johansson said.

  Then his brother-in-law called him on his mobile.

  ‘I think I’ve found something,’ Alf Hult said.

  ‘You do, do you?’ Johansson said. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I was going to suggest that I come over, because it’s rather complicated. Unless you’re busy, of course.’

  ‘I’m never busy,’ Johansson said. ‘If you like, I can offer you lunch?’

  ‘See you in an hour. The bus leaves in fifteen minutes,’ Alf said. He lived out in Täby and, according to his brother-in-law, Evert, had never taken a taxi, not even to his own wedding.

  Half an hour later Matilda knocked on the door.

  ‘Ye–es,’ Johansson said. He had been lying on the sofa reading J. D. Salinger’s posthumous American Reflections, which had been published in English a couple of weeks earlier. According to the quote from the New York Times Literary Supplement on the dust-jacket, it was ‘a ferocious indictment of all the -isms that have not only killed the American dream but also transformed highly comprehensible and private neuroses into a national trauma’.

  That told them, he thought. And now they couldn’t argue with him about it.

  ‘Physiotherapist,’ Matilda said, pointing at her watch.

  ‘Cancelled, I’m afraid,’ Johansson said, waving his book as a deterrent. ‘I’m expecting an important visit. From my brother-in-law.’

  ‘Will he want lunch?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Johansson said. ‘I think he prefers fish. He’s the cautious sort. Run down to the market hall at Medborgarplatsen and see if you can find some fresh salmon.’

  Matilda nodded and disappeared, just as Johansson had another idea. Baltic herring, he thought. Fresh Baltic herring with crushed potatoes, a touch of vinegar, a cold Czech pilsner, a—

  ‘Or fresh Baltic herring!’ Johansson yelled after her. Wonder if she heard? he thought as the front door slammed shut.

  Alf is a uniquely long-winded bastard, Johansson thought half an hour later. First, his brother-in-law had insisted on shaking his hand, even though Johansson was lying on the sofa and had made do with waving at him. Then he arranged the table between them, adjusted his chair, and only then did he pull a thin sheaf of papers out of his battered brown briefcase.

  ‘You said you’d found something,’ Johansson said. Wonder if he’s messing me about? he thought. Trying to raise my hopes so he can whack the price up.

  ‘Yes,’ Alf said, cautiously clearing his throat. ‘That’s quite right. I’ve discovered that Johan Nilsson had a hitherto unknown half-sister. You know, the chap who was married to Margaretha Sagerlied.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Vera Nilsson, born on 21 October 1921. Died on 10 March 1986. If you’re wondering why I didn’t find her earlier, it’s because her relationship to Johan Nilsson isn’t apparent from the population register. According to that, her father’s identity is unknown. Father unknown: an almost classic element of Swedish population records,’ Alf Hult said, looking almost delighted.

  ‘So how do you know t
hey were related?’ Johansson asked. She had been twenty-six years younger than her half-brother, he thought.

  ‘That emerges from a will Johan Nilsson signed in November 1959,’ Alf Hult said. ‘Just a couple of months after his father died. Anders Gustaf Nilsson, the grocer, died on 15 September that year. His son, Johan, signed a new will exactly two months later, on 15 November 1959. It was submitted and registered at Stockholm District Court.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘So it wouldn’t be too presumptuous to assume that Anders Gustaf only told Johan about his sister when he was on his deathbed.’

  ‘Better late than never,’ Johansson said. ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Hult said. ‘In the will Johan Nilsson signed in November 1959, he leaves a sizeable portion of his assets to, and I quote, “my beloved half-sister Vera Nilsson”, end of quote.’

  ‘“A sizeable portion”,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Approximately a tenth of his collected assets, and, according to my rough calculations, that ten per cent is roughly equivalent to half the amount Johan Nilsson inherited from his father, Anders Gustaf. It’s worth noting that Anders Gustaf died without having made a will. He was a widower, so everything was passed on to his only son and heir, Johan.’

  ‘How much money are we talking about, then? How much did he leave his sister?’

  ‘About three hundred thousand kronor. Which of course was a lot of money in those days. About a couple of million today, after inheritance tax, so a considerable amount. As well as a number of valuable possessions. Among them a very valuable painting by Leander Engström, Wanderer and Hunter. Painted in 1917. Sold relatively recently in Bukowski’s spring auction of 2003, when it went for three and a half million. In the will, it was valued at fifteen thousand.’

  ‘A Leander Engström,’ Johansson repeated. Another Leander, but as a first name this time, he thought. Dead since the 1920s. He himself owned a mountain landscape by the same artist. It hung in his living room.

  ‘Vera Nilsson is an interesting person,’ Alf said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Amongst other things, she was the daughter of a cousin of her and Johan’s father, Anders Gustaf.’

  ‘Common enough in those days,’ Johansson said with a grin.

  ‘Well,’ Alf Hult said, and cleared his throat. ‘The Nilsson family had its roots in the Stockholm area, so things may have been a little different to northern Ångermanland. In any case,’ he went on, clearing his throat again, ‘Vera Nilsson gave birth to a son in the autumn of 1960 – on 5 October 1960 – at the age of thirty-nine, which was fairly old for those days. His father, too, was “unknown”, so history seems to have repeated itself. In July that year Johan Nilsson gave his sister an early inheritance, equivalent to the amount he had bequeathed to her the previous year. The most likely explanation is that in August 1960, just a month later, he married Margaretha Sagerlied and, immediately before the wedding, made a new will that replaced the one from November 1959. So first he gives his sister her share of what he inherited from their father, then he makes a new will, leaving all his assets to his new wife. His half-sister isn’t mentioned at all in the new will. He marries Margaretha Sagerlied and, when he eventually dies twenty years later, the whole of his estate passes to her.’

  ‘This son,’ Johansson said. ‘Vera Nilsson’s illegitimate son. What’s his name?’ I knew it, he thought.

  ‘Staffan Leander Nilsson,’ Alf Hult said. ‘Leander is his middle name, and one can only speculate as to the reason for that. Born on 5 October 1960. I’ve got his ID number here.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’ Johansson asked. Staffan Leander Nilsson, he thought.

  ‘Yes, he’s alive. Single, no children. His most recent address is out in Frösunda, in Solna. Gustaf III’s Boulevard, number twenty. From his birth right up to 1986 he lived right in the centre of the city, at Birger Jarlsgatan 104, the same address as his mother, Vera Nilsson. That’s the big HSB housing association block between Birger Jarlsgatan and Valhallavägen, if you know the one I mean? In May 1986 he left the country, and didn’t return until autumn 1998. Twelve and a half years later.’

  ‘Abroad,’ Johansson said. ‘Abroad where?’

  ‘Probably Thailand. But I haven’t been able to find an address. I’m still grappling with that. When he left the country, he owed a significant amount of tax – several hundred thousand kronor. Among other things, the inheritance tax on his mother’s estate. That debt was written off after ten years. So he had good reason to want to stay out of the way, to put it mildly.’

  ‘How sure are you that he was in Thailand?’ Johansson asked.

  ‘Fairly sure. He seems to have had a share in a hotel project in Pattaya.’

  Thailand, Johansson thought. Must have been paradise for someone like him in the late eighties. Probably still was, come to that.

  ‘So, to summarize,’ Alf said, ‘his mother dies on 10 March 1986. A couple of months later her son leaves the country, after receiving his inheritance as her only heir. She doesn’t appear to have left a will. According to probate, her estate amounted to just under a million, but if you ask me I’d guess at double that. He only returns to Sweden twelve and a half years later.’

  ‘Okay, this is the situation,’ Johansson said, sitting up on the sofa. ‘This Staffan Leander Nilsson—’

  ‘Yes?’ Hult said, and nodded.

  ‘I want to know everything about him. Absolutely everything.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll find out.’

  ‘Can you excuse me for a moment?’ Johansson said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Then Johansson picked up his new crutch and, without any difficulty at all, went out into the hall and into the guest bedroom, where his very own Little Evert was sitting in front of his computer with headphones on as he played something that looked suspiciously like an unusually violent game.

  ‘Boss,’ Max said, taking the headphones off.

  ‘Can you have another look at that box?’ Johansson said, pointing at the box of vehicle-registration details Max had left on the bed. ‘See if you can find a Staffan Nilsson, or a Staffan Leander Nilsson, born on 5 October 1960.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Max said. He stretched out his long arm and pulled out a thin bundle of printouts held together with a paperclip. ‘Just a moment,’ he repeated, leafing through the documents.

  ‘I put all the Staffans together,’ he explained. ‘There are about thirty of them, actually.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ Johansson said. The lad’s far from stupid, he thought.

  ‘Here he is,’ Max said, holding out one of the records. ‘Staffan Nilsson, born on 5 October 1960. Back then, he was living on Birger Jarlsgatan, number 104, here in Stockholm. On 5 July 1985 he was registered as the owner of a new Golf GTI, 1986 model. A red Golf. Bought directly from the main dealer, Volkswagen Sweden.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ Johansson said. ‘You don’t say?’ he repeated, taking the proof of registration.

  Now, you bastard, thought the former head of the National Crime Unit, Lars Martin Johansson, having learned to hate coincidence at an early age. Once doesn’t count, but twice is two times too many. I’ve got you now, he thought, and even though he told himself that he had to take it easy if what he had suspected all along turned out to be the case, he felt an instant and quite unreasonable hatred.

  ‘Are you okay, boss?’ Max said, gently touching his arm.

  ‘Fine. Absolutely fine,’ he said, and nodded. What do I do now? he thought.

  IV

  Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot …

  Book of Exodus, 21:24

  63

  Wednesday morning, 4 August 2010

  Regular routines, as far as possible. On the days when his body wasn’t tormenting him in a more tangible way he would eat breakfast in the kitchen, but today he ate sitting on the sofa in his study. He had had a headache since he had woken up. Then his chest started to fe
el tight, anxiety grabbed hold of him and he was forced to save himself with another little white pill. Then he must have dozed off for a moment, because Hypnos had been lurking in the gloom of his study, head tilted, with his fine fair hair, just like a child’s, and his gentle smile, as he held out the hand containing the green poppy seedhead to him.

  Half an hour later, he felt better. So he got out his laptop, put it on his knees and decided to come up with a plan of how to proceed. In the prime of life, he used to write that sort of thing on Post-it notes that he would stick on his desk at work, but that was out of the question these days.

  In the prime of life, you even used to write little memos, Johansson thought. Now he couldn’t write legibly with his right hand. But he could use it to hold the computer on his lap while he tapped at it with the fingers of his left hand.

  ‘Actions’, Johansson typed at the top of the screen. Then a new line: ‘Continue mapping Staffan Leander Nilsson, born on 5 October 1960,’ he wrote. Then another new line: ‘Compile biography of Nilsson, Staffan Leander.’ When he had got that far Matilda came in and looked pointedly at her wristwatch.

  ‘Physiotherapy,’ Matilda said. ‘Time to get moving.’

  ‘Give me five minutes,’ Johansson said. ‘Manpower: one plus four,’ he wrote. Me, Johansson thought. Plus his best friend, Bo Jarnebring, his brother-in-law, Alf Hult, then Matilda and Max. But no one else, definitely not former colleagues like Superintendent Hermansson or his son-in-law, who might have trouble keeping a cool head if things heated up.

  I’ve been in charge of considerably worse investigative teams, he thought. Then he switched the computer off, put it on the table and got up from the sofa where he had been lying.

  When they were in the car on the way home from the physiotherapist, Max made a suggestion.

  ‘I’ve been giving some thought to the elk hunt, boss, if you’ve got a moment?’

  ‘I’ve got a moment,’ Johansson said. What else would I have time for? he thought. Except poking about in an old, prescribed murder case, stuffing myself with pills and counting down the days of what was, until just a month ago, a dignified and even a good life.