“Murdered him.” Mrs. Westergren looked pale as she finished the sentence.
“What I mean is … what was it about him that could have caused someone to do that?”
Well done, thought Jarnebring. She has not said “murder” the whole time. She was really good-looking too. Although maybe a little thin?
“I don’t really know,” said Mrs. Westergren. “I have no idea what it could have been.”
His female colleague just nodded without saying anything, simply looking at the older woman who sat across from her. Friendly, cautious, encouraging. Now then …
“I had the feeling,” said Mrs. Westergren hesitantly, “that he had started to drink a great deal recently. That something was worrying him. It’s not like I saw him drunk or anything … but there was something. The last few times I saw him … he seemed really nervous.” Mrs. Westergren nodded in confirmation, and looked almost relieved herself.
Well, well, well, thought Jarnebring. Then we’ll have to find out what sort of thing it was, and then the prosecutor can take over.
When the door knocking was finally finished it was almost midnight and they had gathered in the victim’s apartment for a first go-through. The corpse had already been carted away, leaving only the impressions of his upper body and head on the blood-covered parquet floor where he had been lying. It was clear that effort had been devoted to searching for fingerprints—that flagship of police work—because moldings, handles, and cupboard doors were smeared with black traces of carbon dust. For some reason they had also tidied up—the overturned coffee table, for example, was now standing in its usual position, and it was only to be hoped that Wiijnbladh had managed to take photos before they’d rearranged the furniture. Bäckström sat and smoked as he wallowed in the largest armchair in the room, talking on the victim’s phone while trying to make a show of not noticing either Jarnebring or his colleague. Wiijnbladh too was his usual self. Little, gray, and fussy as a sparrow that had just stopped pecking for a moment.
“Step right in, just step right in,” said Wiijnbladh, waving a hand, his head at an angle. “Make yourselves at home. I realize that you want to take a look.”
Fucking idiots, thought Jarnebring. How the hell can anyone like them become policemen?
Jarnebring and his new, temporary colleague made the rounds of the apartment, and considering that Eriksson was supposed to have been a bachelor it was a remarkable place. Not the least like Jarnebring’s own two-room apartment over in Vasastan. If you disregarded the disarray created by the crime and the traces of Wiijnbladh’s and the others’ work, the place was quite tidy, neat, almost overfurnished, and in a taste that Jarnebring neither shared nor would have had the means for.
“Strange fucking place,” Jarnebring said to his new colleague.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“To live in,” said Jarnebring. “Hell, I don’t live like this.”
“Imagine that,” she said. “Believe it or not, I didn’t expect you to.”
Wiijnbladh displayed his finds, lined up like trophies on the coffee table. Although he looked like a sparrow he was still proud as a rooster for he had “secured both the murder weapon and a great number of other interesting clues.”
“Yes, we found the murder weapon in the kitchen. The perpetrator had thrown it in the trash.” Wiijnbladh pointed at a large carving knife with a black wooden handle, its shiny blade black with dried blood.
Congrats, thought Jarnebring sourly. This is almost too much to expect from someone as blind as you.
“Is this the victim’s knife?” asked Jarnebring’s colleague.
“It appears to be so, yes, it appears so,” said Wiijnbladh, nodding insightfully. “The blade is almost a foot long, after all, so it’s hardly something you would carry around.”
“Sabatier,” said Jarnebring’s colleague. “French brand, kitchen knives, very expensive. I saw that the other knives in the holder out in the kitchen were also from Sabatier.”
“Exactly, exactly,” said Wiijnbladh, trying to look as though he were appearing on “Nobel Minds.”
What the hell are they up to? thought Jarnebring, looking at his watch. It was past twelve and high time to hit the sack before a new day with fresh mayhem and misery, and here they are yakking about the victim’s choice of kitchen utensils. Even a child could figure out where the knife had come from.
“I’m hearing that you were in the home ec program out at the police academy,” said Bäckström to Jarnebring’s colleague. “It didn’t exist in my day, but maybe we can stop talking domestic science and try to get something done.
“I’ve talked with your boss, Jarnebring,” Bäckström continued, “and he has promised that both you and your girlfriend will help out. So if we could meet at homicide tomorrow morning at nine, I’ll thank you ladies and gentlemen for a pleasant evening.”
Watch out, you little shit, thought Jarnebring, but he didn’t say it.
There really were no major faults with his new, temporary colleague, even if she was a woman, thought Jarnebring as they drove away. First she had offered to put their car back in the garage at the police headquarters on Kungsholmen—she lived nearby so that was no big deal—and on the way there she had driven him home.
“How does it feel to start working as a detective?” asked Jarnebring, who didn’t want to be outdone.
“Good,” she said, nodding. “I think I’m going to like it.”
“You worked with the uniformed police,” said Jarnebring, and this was more a statement than a question. Strange I didn’t notice her, he thought.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That was a long time ago.”
It couldn’t have been that long, thought Jarnebring. How old could she be? A little over thirty, tops.
“I worked at Sec,” she said. “As a bodyguard.”
The hell you did, thought Jarnebring, but naturally he didn’t say it.
“And now you’ve wound up in a murder investigation,” Jarnebring stated. With two real fools, he thought.
“It’s my first one,” she said, “so it will be interesting.”
“With two real fools,” said Jarnebring.
“You mean Bäckström and Wiijnbladh,” she said and smiled. “I’d actually heard about them. Although it’s only now that I’m starting to believe it’s true … what I heard, that is.”
“Bäckström is a known douche bag,” said Jarnebring. “Let me know if he messes with you and I’ll slap him around.”
“No need to worry,” she said, smiling wanly. “I can do that myself.”
Strange gal, thought Jarnebring. Where the hell is the police department headed?
“So you can then,” said Jarnebring, “in a pinch?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding with her gaze directed straight ahead and her hands steady on the wheel. “I can. In a pinch.”
When she dropped him off outside his door and before he had even managed to think up a suitable farewell line, she simply drove away.
“See you first thing tomorrow morning,” she said and smiled. “Sleep tight now.”
Jarnebring watched the car as it disappeared down the street. Anna Holt, he thought, Inspector Anna Holt. Strange he hadn’t run into her before. After all, he’d been a policeman his entire adult life.
Bäckström had surprised Wiijnbladh. He had offered to stay behind and make sure the crime scene was locked and sealed before they drove away.
“Aren’t you going to ride with me?” asked Wiijnbladh.
“No,” said Bäckström, smiling mysteriously. “I’ve got a little something going if you know what I mean. And you have to drop off what we’ve confiscated up at tech. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“That’s nice of you,” said Wiijnbladh. What if I was to sleep at the office? he thought, but obviously he didn’t say that to Bäckström.
• • •
Finally alone, thought Bäckström, and as soon as the little half-fairy Wiijnbladh disappeare
d out through the door with his bag and baggage Bäckström locked himself in and searched through the corpse’s clothes closet. The bastard had cases of expensive alcohol. Bäckström thought about calling a taxi, but at the same time a real pro took no unnecessary risks. Who knew, there might still be some reporter outside on the street. Whatever. There would be other occasions to return for more bottles—rather that than the goods ending up in the general inheritance fund for any relatives the victim appeared not to have had. The bastard.
Good thing he had brought his winter coat. The be-all and end-all of crime scene investigation gear, thought Bäckström with delight, an ample coat with deep pockets. He put some well-chosen bottles in the pockets and then locked up from the outside with the victim’s keys, pasted sealing tape on the door, and took off.
When he got home he sat down on the couch in front of the TV and inspected the goods he’d brought with him. Then he pondered how to set up the investigation so that he could mess with Jarnebring and that skinny police dummy he’d had with him.
“Cheers,” said Bäckström, raising his glass of malt whiskey toward the blurred mirror image of himself in the dark TV screen. True, he didn’t have any expensive furniture like the corpse, and it was high time that he brought home a whore who liked to clean and could get laid for clearing away the worst of it, but all in all he had it good enough. We’re drinking the same alcohol, the corpse and I, thought Bäckström and sneered. Although I’m alive while he’s dead. So he poured another ample shot before taking a pee, and just as he swallowed the last swig he saw the light. Suddenly he understood exactly the way things were, clear as water, the motive, the whole nine yards. Lit up like a plain under a flaming sky he saw the truth spread out before his eyes. Hell, thought Bäckström with delight. This is going to be fun.
3
Friday morning, December 1, 1989
Jarnebring’s day had not started out well, but it got much better as it went on. At the end of the day things got a little shaky again, and if he hadn’t pulled himself together as evening approached and showed some determination the day might have ended really badly. But there was finally a good end to it and a very promising weekend lay ahead. The reasons for this were complicated but were in all essentials connected with his love life, and personally he preferred not to think about it, much less talk about it.
For almost four years Jarnebring had been engaged. His fiancée worked as a uniformed police officer at Norrmalm. She was beautiful to look at, fun to be with, had considerable household talents, and led an orderly life. Besides, she was very much in love with Jarnebring, and so far all was well and good. The problem was the engagement, and time’s more and more rapid flight, drawing him into some kind of strange union that he couldn’t seem to get a handle on.
To start with, everything had been peace and harmony. Jarnebring moved in with his sweetheart. He had been extraordinarily well taken care of and seen their engagement as an omen of an imminently approaching marriage, eternal future harmony, and peaceful domestic happiness. Then he put on ten pounds, the ring on his left hand suddenly felt irritatingly tight, and their relationship started to flounder.
Unfortunately he had also discovered new sides to his “girlfriend,” such as the fact that it annoyed her when he called her his “girlfriend” instead of his “fiancée.” If that was how things stood for him, she had said, if he saw their engagement as just a ploy to gain time, he might just as well “come out with it immediately” so she’d have the opportunity to arrange something else instead. So he’d moved back home again, they had reconciled, he’d moved back in, moved home, and so on as time literally rushed onward. At the moment he was living at home, but their plans were no more definite, and personally he would have preferred not to think about the future. But on this particular morning he had no choice, as soon as he opened the refrigerator door at a quarter past six in the morning.
Jarnebring never slept more than five or six hours even when he’d partied. When he got out of bed he was always alert and rested, but above all hungry and in need of an ample breakfast. Even as he was standing in the shower he had unpleasant premonitions, and when he looked in his refrigerator those premonitions were confirmed.
It did not look good. Yesterday’s roll lay collapsed in a bag—who could be so dense as to put bread in the fridge?—in the company of a wedge of cheese, a trickle of apple juice, and a very tired, soggy tomato that had clearly given its all. The only consolation in this wretched state of affairs was an almost full carton of eggs. When he saw the miserable prospects for a dizzyingly brief moment he considered calling his girlfriend despite everything—she lived on the way to work after all—but then he steeled himself, pushed that thought aside, and made the best of the situation.
As a policeman I have to approve of the situation, thought Jarnebring, without really feeling convinced of that. They’re not like we are, and the ones he had in mind were the great human collective among which his fiancée could also be counted. They’re like children, damn it, he thought with irritation as he put the pan on the stove and poured in enough water for both coffee and the eggs.
Half an hour later he was on the subway en route to work after a breakfast of instant coffee without milk, half a glass of juice, almost an entire tomato, yesterday’s roll with a few shavings of cheese and five soft-boiled eggs. He was prey to conflicting emotions, only partly connected to his first meal of the day.
• • •
When he arrived Holt was already in place behind her desk, and evidently she had been sitting there a good while because she had managed to do searches on the victim, his neighbors, and the cars that had been parked on the street.
“Haven’t come up with anything, unfortunately,” said Holt, shaking her head.
“Hell,” said Jarnebring. “Have you been sitting here all night?” He nodded toward the thick bundles of computer printouts on her desk.
“I got here an hour ago,” said Holt, smiling wanly as she shook her head. “Nicke is with his dad this week, so I had nothing better to do.”
I could have fixed that if you’d come by, thought Jarnebring, although mostly from habit and without feeling that old conviction he used to feel before he got engaged. Damn that too, he thought with irritation.
“Nicke,” said Jarnebring questioningly.
“My boy. Haven’t I told you about him? He’s six and he’ll start school next fall.”
“Great age,” said Jarnebring vaguely. “Does he have any siblings?” What was I thinking about just now? he thought.
“Just Nicke,” said Holt. “None on the way and none planned.”
I’ll just bet, thought Jarnebring, who had carried on that discussion on a number of occasions in recent years.
“Well well then,” said Jarnebring, smiling. What the hell should he say? “Has anything else happened?”
“Yes,” said Holt, digging out a yellow message pad. “Our colleague Danielsson at homicide called and wondered if you could go see him before the meeting.”
“I see,” said Jarnebring, taking the slip of paper. Must be that idiot Bäckström, he thought.
“Danielsson,” said Holt. “Is he the guy they call Jack Daniels?”
“Yes,” said Jarnebring, nodding. “Although I don’t understand why. He doesn’t drink more than most of the others and he can hold considerably more, even though he’ll soon be retirement age.”
“See you at the meeting,” said Holt, as she resumed leafing through yet another bundle of papers in the pile on her desk.
“Sit down, Jarnebring,” said Danielsson, nodding toward his visitor’s chair.
“You look energetic, old man,” said Jarnebring with warmth in his voice. There’s a real policeman, he thought.
“What the hell choice do I have,” said Danielsson, “as expensive as schnapps has gotten.” He was just as big and burly as Jarnebring. Twenty years older, sixty pounds heavier, blue-red in the face, and with a tie like a snare around his bull’s neck.
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He must be built like a woodstove, thought Jarnebring, looking appreciatively at the medical miracle before him.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
Nothing in particular as it turned out, just the same old same old. A little talk about this and that between fellow police. An opportunity to thank Jarnebring for wanting to help out. Danielsson was nonetheless the assistant head of the squad.
“Nothing’s the same here since they killed Palme. You may be wondering why our colleague Bäckström is the lead detective. If he starts any foolishness just say the word and I’ll kick some sense into the little bastard.”
“It’ll work out,” said Jarnebring. “I can arrange that myself in any event.”
“I would think so,” said Danielsson, grunting appreciatively. There’s a real policeman, he thought.
Then the old man brought up his favorite subject. Things had been much better before and best of all in “Dahlgren’s day,” referring to the legendary old squad chief who had closed up shop more than ten years ago. The one who had ended his life by his own hand and with the help of his service revolver to save society unnecessary nursing expenses and himself an undignified life. Although that particular detail was not usually talked about, not even at the time when it was fresh in people’s memory. Back then you could still talk to the crooks, who had surnames that weren’t all consonants, even if Danielsson chose to formulate that linguistic problem in a different way.
“Do you remember those days, Jarnie,” said Danielsson, “when you could spell the crook’s name? And understand what he said?”
“Sure, sure,” said Jarnebring, smiling a little. Although Blackie, Genghis, the Pistol Gnome, and Charlie Cannon weren’t always so fun to deal with either. Sometimes you could keep a straight face.
“Lars Peter Forsman … and Bosse Dynamite,” said Danielsson dreamily. “Even the Clarkster, that fuckup from Norrmalmstorg, although maybe that wasn’t exactly his fault. Do you remember when they wrote on the front page of Little Pravda that they’d given Bosse Dynamite an intelligence test and he had an IQ like a professor? Do you remember how furious Dynamite got? That was one talented guy. Completely normal. He didn’t want to be compared to any crazy academics. He should have sued those bastards.”
Another Time, Another Life: The Story of a Crime Page 6