‘No, I didn’t. She would have dropped dead on the spot if I had. If anything, she was even more gullible than I was.’
‘I don’t think your reaction is unusual,’ Johansson said. ‘For normal, decent people, the idea that someone you trust could do that is completely incomprehensible. Not least if you’re a parent.’
‘I’m sure you’re wondering if I suspected anything after what happened to Yasmine. That’s what’s so odd, and I can understand if you don’t believe me, but I genuinely didn’t. Not that Staffan could have done it. I figured out that it had to be someone with the same inclinations as him, obviously. But the idea that it might actually be him . . . That thought never even occurred to me, because what happened to Yasmine was just so utterly appalling. Completely different to whatever had happened to my girls. Whoever murdered Yasmine had to be a complete monster, and the Staffan Nilsson I knew wasn’t like that. He may have tricked them into fiddling with his willy, or something like that. But he hadn’t raped and strangled them or anything like that. It was out of the question. It was just too horrible to be possible.’
‘I believe you,’ Johansson said. ‘You’re not the first person to think like that.’ Nor the last, he thought.
‘I’m honest, anyway,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘I just didn’t get it.’
‘Margaretha Sagerlied,’ Johansson said. ‘Did you have any contact with her after she sold the house and moved into the city? After you stopped working for her – what? – in the spring of ’86?’
‘She called me. It was six months later, during the autumn. Asked me to go and see her. We met in her flat. In Östermalm, Riddargatan, if I remember rightly. It was quite a shock, actually. Her whole personality had changed. She seemed pretty confused. Thin as a rake, too. She told me she had cancer. It took me a while to work out what she was talking about. That she was talking about Johan’s nephew. I’m fairly sure she thought he’d killed himself. Then she went on at length about my girls, and how I shouldn’t worry about them. That there was nothing to worry about. That she was sure nothing had happened. It was terrible.’
‘I can imagine,’ Johansson said. ‘Was that the last time you heard from her?’ Time for the big honesty test, he thought.
‘While she was alive, yes. Then I read in the papers that she’d died. I think that was in the spring of 1989, and just a week later her solicitor called me to say that she’d left a lot of money to my girls. Five hundred thousand kronor – half a million. Have you got any idea how much money that was in those days?’
‘Yes,’ Johansson said with a smile. ‘I have, actually. About two million in today’s money.’
‘For me, us, it was a fantastic amount of money. In her will, it said that it was to be used to pay for the girls’ education and help them to have good, decent lives. That was exactly what she wrote.’
‘And it did?’
‘I’ll say,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘Neither of them has any student debts at all, even though they both went to university. Karolina’s a physiotherapist, and Jessica has an MBA. They’re both married, with children and husbands who are nothing like their dad.
‘And there was enough money left over to pay the deposits on their flats when they moved away from home. Nothing remarkable, but still. They own the roofs over their heads, and how many ordinary kids can say that?’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ Johansson said. ‘Lovely to hear that things have turned out so well for them.’ Sagerlied must have been going through hell when she tried to buy her way out of what her nephew had done, he thought.
‘I’ve got a question for you,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘When she said that he killed himself. Is that true?’
‘His mother killed herself. In the spring of 1986, I know that for certain. So that’s true. He himself disappeared at about the same time. What happened after that is less clear.’
‘Are you telling me the truth, now?’
‘Either way, there’s one thing I think we need to be absolutely clear about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That the only person responsible for what happened to Yasmine is the man who murdered her. And certainly not you.’
‘So why do I keep thinking I should have got in touch with the police after that trip to Kolmården?’
‘You can rest assured on that point,’ Johansson said. ‘They wouldn’t have done a thing about Staffan Nilsson if you’d called and said you suspected he was a paedophile. They may well have thought that you were mentally ill. Because you don’t imagine he’d have just given in and confessed?’
‘You’re a good man, Johansson,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘Do you know what?’
‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘I don’t. What don’t I know?’
‘Since I met you that first time, I’ve thought about what happened every single day. Wondering if I could have done anything to prevent what happened to Yasmine. Could I have saved her life? I don’t think so, but of course I can’t be certain. Could I have helped you to get hold of him? I don’t think so. I couldn’t get it into my head that it might have been him. And as for the idea that it could have happened in Margaretha’s home, that thought never even entered my mind.’
‘I haven’t actually said that he was the one who did it,’ Johansson said.
‘No, you haven’t. But that’s because you’re a good man. You’re being kind to me. That’s why you’re saying the things you have.’
‘So you say.’
‘Yes. I know that you know it was Staffan Leander – or Staffan Nilsson – who murdered Yasmine. And I’m absolutely certain you’re right. But I have no idea how you worked it out. I certainly didn’t. I’m also certain that he’s still alive, and that you know where he is. He hasn’t killed himself. The fact that his mother did is presumably because she suddenly realized what had happened. If I’d had a son who had done something like that, I’d probably have killed myself, too. And there’s one more thing I understand. Even if I didn’t think it was true at first when I read it in the paper.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That it’s too late for him to be punished for what he did. Because of some weird law that you have to be a lawyer to understand.’
‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘That’s how it is. If a case has passed the statute of limitations, the perpetrator can no longer be punished.’
‘There’s one thing I was thinking of asking you,’ Erika Brännström said.
‘What’s that?’
‘That you make sure he gets his punishment.’
‘I promise to do my best,’ Johansson said.
‘Good,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘If you’re going to look decent, respectable people in the eye, you have to be a decent, respectable person yourself. And it isn’t easy for a good person to keep evil at bay, and sometimes you have to be just as evil back. Then you might be able to carry on as normal. But you understand that, seeing as you’re a Norrlander.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of killing him, if that’s what you mean,’ Johansson said.
‘No, I certainly hope not, because that’s not what I want either. But you’ll manage to come up with something that even us decent people can live with.’
‘Did it go okay, boss?’ Max asked when they were sitting in the car on the way back to Södermalm.
‘It went very well indeed,’ Johansson said. In spite of the subject matter, he thought.
‘Good to hear,’ Max said. ‘Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
‘I promise,’ Johansson said. The easiest way out, he thought. Let Max or someone like him beat Staffan Nilsson to a pulp. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, all the way down to his little feet in his doubtless very shiny shoes.
‘Max,’ Johansson said. ‘What do you think about stopping on the way and grabbing a burger?’
‘No,’ Max said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘You’re not the slightest bit tempted?’
�
�I am,’ Max said. ‘But given that Pia would kill me, I think it’s a really bad idea. You’ll have to forgive me, boss, but that’s how it is.’
‘What do you think about knocking up a nice salad when we get home, then?’
‘I think that sounds like an excellent idea,’ Max said. ‘You can’t go wrong with a nice salad.’
79
Friday, 13 August
On Friday evening Jarnebring and Max made another attempt to get a sample of Staffan Nilsson’s DNA. First, they made another nuisance call to his landline. No answer. Not even an answer-machine. Then they called his mobile, using the number Gun had provided. No answer there either, and they had no intention of leaving a message.
As they were already out, they decided to go round to his home to check the situation. His car was in its usual place. Neatly parked, locked and alarmed, as usual.
Then Jarnebring went into the building where he lived. Tried listening outside the door of his flat. Not a sound. He went back down to the street. Went into the building opposite, where the stairwell had a decent view into Nilsson’s flat. No lights on, no television on, no sign of human activity at all.
‘Do you think he’s done a runner?’ Max asked when Jarnebring returned to the car.
‘No,’ Jarnebring said. ‘I’m not getting that feeling.’ If only I were still on the force, with an active case on my hands, he thought. A murder case, at that, with the usual complement of officers to take care of the practical details, then I wouldn’t have to sit here and speculate. ‘Let’s call it a night. We’ll do a quick circuit of the local bars, then we’ll call it a night. Unless something comes up, of course.’
‘There’s no way he’s done a runner,’ Johansson said when Max was standing in front of the sofa in his study, giving a report of the evening’s activities.
‘If you say so, boss,’ Max said.
‘He’s not the type,’ Johansson said, shaking his head. ‘He’s not the type to commit suicide, because he’s far too fond of himself. And he’s not the type to leave his car behind, if he had done a runner. He’d have sold it first. People like him are mean. Which is often very useful for people like me when we want to lock them up. They’re often a bit slow off the blocks.’
‘You’re a wise man, boss,’ Max said.
‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘For the time being, I’m wiser than you, but that’s not your fault.’
‘Why not?’
‘All the crap you went through when you were a young lad. All the crap that wicked grown-ups subjected you to when you were too small to be able to defend yourself against them. All the stuff that wasn’t your fault but which is still governing your life. The day you get over that will be the day when you’re as wise as me.’
‘Good to hear,’ Max said.
‘Yes,’ Johansson said. ‘So there’s no need to worry on that score. And because you’re on your feet and I’m lying down, and Pia’s chatting to her friends on her computer, I was wondering if you could go into the bathroom and get the case containing my pills?’ So I can shut my head up and breathe like a normal person, he thought.
‘No problem,’ Max said.
When he came back two minutes later Johansson was already asleep. Max sat down on the chair beside him. Listened to his snoring. He sat there for two hours, mainly to reassure himself that his boss would still be there when he woke up in the morning. Then he went into his room and closed the door behind him. He lay down on his bed without even kicking his shoes off.
The boss is a good man, Max thought. A bad man is eating him up from inside. I have to help him, so he doesn’t die on me, he thought.
Then he fell asleep. He slept as silently as he moved when he was awake. Slept with his eyes half open, the way he always had, without ever being aware of it.
80
Saturday, 14 August
On Saturday, 14 August, Bo Jarnebring made yet another attempt to acquire a sample of Staffan Nilsson’s DNA. More actively this time. He went early in the morning, let himself into the building where Nilsson lived with the help of the entry-code Gun had given him, seeing as she, unlike him, was still employed by the Stockholm Police and could find such things out without difficulty. Once he was in the lobby, he stole Staffan Nilsson’s copy of Svenska Dagbladet, which was sticking out of his mailbox, in the hope of forcing him out of his flat to take an early-morning walk.
An hour later Nilsson appeared down at the front door dressed in pyjamas, slippers and dressing-gown, and, even though he couldn’t hear him, Jarnebring could tell he was swearing about his missing newspaper.
At first, he tried to pinch the neighbour’s copy of Dagens Nyheter, but because Jarnebring was a conscientious man when it came to the various forms of police provocation, he had made sure to push every other morning newspaper as far inside their recipients’ mailboxes as possible. Nilsson made a number of further attempts before finally giving up, getting in the lift and disappearing back up to his flat on the third floor.
Ten minutes later he emerged on to the street dressed in trainers, shorts and a jacket and set off towards the next block and the nearest convenience store, which not only sold newspapers, cigarettes and a variety of groceries but also offered customers the chance to consume a simple breakfast. Jarnebring felt his hopes rise as he strolled down the street to take up a better position.
Staffan Nilsson bought a copy of Svenska Dagbladet, a cinnamon bun and a cardboard cup of coffee. He took the whole lot and went straight back to his flat, leaving Jarnebring to curse him out loud.
In the absence of better options, he checked Nilsson’s car, but it was just as locked and alarmed as it had been on every other day he had checked it to see if he could get hold of anything of forensic interest.
The bastard doesn’t even seem to lose any hair, Jarnebring thought unhappily, as he inspected the front seat and headrest through the side window. Well, quitters never win, he thought, as he returned to his own car. He parked so he could see the windows of Nilsson’s kitchen and living room and kept watch on the front door while he leafed through his freshly stolen newspaper.
After another two hours of fruitless waiting, he gave up.
On his way home he called Johansson on his mobile and told him about his early-morning travails.
‘The bastard doesn’t even seem to lose any hair,’ Jarnebring said.
‘Probably what happens if you don’t smoke or use chewing tobacco,’ Johansson said.
‘You don’t think it’s time to make a call to our colleagues out on patrol? Before he moves his car next time? We could probably get him for drink-driving as well. Give him a little appetizer before we shove the main course up him?’
‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘I don’t. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have my breakfast.’
81
Sunday, 15 August
‘Your friend and I were thinking of doing some more surveillance on the paedo, boss. See if we can’t get hold of a bit of DNA,’ Max said.
‘Sounds good,’ Johansson said. ‘Good luck.’
‘You don’t want to come along, then, boss?’
‘No.’ Johansson shook his head. ‘I was thinking of lying here and staring at the box. The television, I mean,’ he added, seeing as he wasn’t sure how much slang a young man like Max might have picked up in the course of his short life. ‘Thought I might watch an old eighties flick I’ve got on DVD.’ He must know what a flick is, surely? he thought.
‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s quite interesting, actually,’ Johansson said. ‘It’s about a story Jarnebring and I were involved in when we worked in Spain in the seventies. A right mess, really. A Minister of Justice hanging out with prostitutes. But the film’s good.’
‘Have a nice, quiet evening, then, boss,’ Max said.
‘You too. Say hello to Bo, and good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
Even though it wasn’t a bad film, Johansson fell asleep in the middle of it, perhaps because he
seemed to be able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat these days, regardless of what was going on around him. He woke up to find Max leaning over him, gently nudging his left shoulder.
‘It’s done,’ Max said.
‘What?’ Johansson said, sitting up on the sofa. ‘What’s done?’
‘That business with the DNA, I sorted it,’ Max said, holding up a two-litre freezer-bag containing what looked like a used paper napkin.
‘What the hell have you two been up to?’ Johansson asked, taking the bag containing the napkin.
‘Bo’s entirely innocent,’ Max said.
‘What do you mean, innocent?’
‘He couldn’t make it,’ Max said. ‘He had to help his daughter with something.’
‘I see.’
‘So I went off on my own.’
‘You did, did you?’
‘It was just like when you were there, boss,’ Max said. ‘First, he came out and went over to the restaurant, and sat there and had a meal. Only this time he didn’t make any calls. He ordered a pizza and a bottle of red wine. A whole bottle, which he finished.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then he went to move his car, because it’s Monday tomorrow. The thing I don’t understand is why he doesn’t park it in the right place to start with. Well, that’s his problem, not mine. I followed him. As soon as he started to reverse I walked out behind him, so he couldn’t help driving into me.’
‘He drove into you?’ What the hell’s the lad saying? Johansson thought.
‘Yes, he reversed into me, but it didn’t matter. Nothing to make a fuss about. When he realized what he’d done he opened the door and asked if I was okay.’
‘What did you do, then?’
‘I walked up to him and yanked him out. Asked what the fuck he thought he was doing. Told him he was drunk and shouldn’t even be driving. He started to argue, so I gave him a slap across the nose. Then I pulled out a napkin I had in my pocket and wiped him down. Said he ought to be a bit more fucking careful before he thought about driving drunk. That he could kill someone if he wasn’t careful.’
The Dying Detective Page 32