Another Time, Another Life: The Story of a Crime

by Leif Gw Persson

  “Yes,” said Holt.

  “Yes,” said Mattei.

  “All right then,” said Martinez. “I’ve been looking through the technical reports. But you should know I did it without even glancing at Stein. It was before I knew about that conference where she ran into Eriksson. But while I was waiting for all the rice balls you just stuffed yourselves with I happened to keep thinking about her.”

  “Yeah,” said Holt.

  “Yeah,” echoed Mattei.

  “We have to be able to place her in Eriksson’s apartment,” said Martinez. “I think there are two good chances. For one thing there are a few prints that were picked up but couldn’t be identified. A few of them could be the perpetrator’s. They belong to the same person, and both are sort of semi-good if I can put it that way. One is on the kitchen counter and the other on the inside of the cupboard door under the sink where he kept the wastebasket.”

  “Sounds good enough,” said Holt. You can’t have everything, she thought, and before her she saw the bloodied Sabatier brand kitchen knife.

  “The other thing I was thinking about was that hand towel,” said Martinez. “That’s good too. If the perpetrator threw up in it, it should still be possible to lift DNA from it, because that hasn’t been done. It wasn’t done at the time.”

  Helena Stein’s vomit on Eriksson’s hand towel, thought Holt, and suddenly it became so tangible as they sat talking that she felt slightly nauseous.

  “Assuming that the hand towel has been preserved in a freezer as it should have been, it’s worth a try,” Martinez said.

  “Both the fingerprints and the hand towel are probably down at the tech squad in Stockholm,” said Mattei.

  “Then we’ll have to bring them here so our own technicians can look at them,” said Martinez. “Who’ll call Johansson and ask for permission?”

  “I can do that,” said Holt, feeling instantly more energetic.

  “I guess it will have to be tomorrow anyway,” said Mattei hesitantly. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

  “Sure,” said Holt. “Personally, I was thinking about going home to see the sandman.”

  “Me too,” said Mattei. “I got up at six this morning. Fridays are my jogging day.”

  “If we were real detectives we would go down to the bar and knock back eight beers, do a little arm wrestling, and bring home a real hunk,” said Martinez. “Either of you ladies in the mood for that?”

  Holt and Mattei shook their heads.

  “Typical girls,” Martinez sighed. “Shall I take this to mean that we continue to be useful idiots and meet here first thing tomorrow at eight o’clock? Before you fall asleep you can ponder a practical problem, by the way.”

  “Which is?” said Holt.

  “How we get hold of Helena Stein’s fingerprints and DNA without Johansson having a hissy fit,” said Martinez.

  30

  Friday evening, March 31, 2000

  “You look tired,” said Johansson’s wife.

  “I am tired,” said Johansson. “There’s a little too much going on at work right now.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?” said his wife, who seemed both energetic and suddenly curious.

  Peppy Pia, thought Johansson, smiling unwillingly.

  “Do you want me in jail?” he asked.

  “Let’s assume,” said his wife as she served herself the last drops from the bottle of red wine, “let’s assume that you told me about your job the way I tell you about everything that happens at my job—the sort of ordinary, harmless stuff you tell each other when you live together—about what so and so said and did and what you’re up to right now—what would happen then? Could you end up in jail?”

  “Without a doubt,” said Johansson. Which would have been completely justified considering the rules that applied to him and the papers he’d signed, he thought.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said his wife, shaking her head with astonishment.

  “Actually, it’s better that way,” said Johansson, who had already started to feel a little happier. I’m going to forget about that damned Holt, he thought. Your own wife is better looking, smarter, and funnier, he told himself, so stop feeling sorry for yourself because one of your coworkers doesn’t unreservedly agree with you all the time. “It’s a little hard to talk about,” Johansson continued, clearing his throat. “But let me put it like this: There are even situations where I could end up in jail just for answering yes to the question you just asked.”

  “That still doesn’t make sense,” said Johansson’s wife. “That’s crazy. Do you get any financial compensation for that? Special bonus for marital silence?”

  “I think it’s completely okay if I argue with you,” said Johansson, smiling contentedly. “Just as long as I don’t do it over something that happened at work. Try to imagine the opposite. That we sat here and I babbled about everything to do with my job and it was completely okay for me to do that. That could have terrible consequences. For you personally.”

  “Tell me,” said his wife, putting her head to one side with her right hand as support. “Give me an example,” she said, twirling her wineglass.

  “You can’t get around me that easily,” said Johansson, smiling. “But okay then—I’ll try to describe what I mean. It’s true that I’m tired. I’m worried too—and I think you’ve already figured out that it has to do with work—so I don’t need to answer either yes or no to that. But if I were to be more specific, it would have consequences for a number of individuals, one of whom might also be you.”

  “Enemy agents would carry me off and torture me to get me to tell what you said and then they would murder me,” said his wife, sounding almost expectant as she said it.

  “Definitely not,” said Johansson, “but regardless of whether what I told you was true or false—I don’t know myself, because that’s what I’m in the process of finding out and that’s what’s worrying me. But regardless, if I told you, it would completely change the way you saw certain individuals.”

  “So it’s someone I know about,” said Johansson’s wife, looking slyly at Johansson. “It’s some celebrity then. Some politician of course. It can’t very well be Carola or Björn Borg.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Johansson with a deprecating smile.

  “In a way that’s too bad,” she continued. “Someone like you should really have some kind of use for someone like me.”

  “I do,” said Johansson.

  “In your work I mean,” his wife clarified. “As you’ve certainly already noticed, I would be a very astute detective.”

  “Although perhaps a little too eager for discussions,” said Johansson. Be careful not to say “loose-lipped,” he cautioned himself.

  “But that would suit you perfectly,” said his wife, looking at him expectantly.

  “What do you mean?” said Johansson.

  “You’re not exactly talkative,” his wife declared. “In the beginning you were—the first years—but then you got more and more silent, and since you started this new job, well, mute is maybe a harsh word, but you’re almost mute then.…”

  “I’ll try to pull myself together,” said Johansson. Almost mute—that doesn’t sound good, he thought.

  “Good,” she said, leaning forward and taking his hand. “Start by telling me who this famous politician is.”

  “Okay then,” said Johansson, throwing out his hands. “If you make coffee, get me a cognac … fluff up the pillows on the couch, and massage my neck while I watch the news on Channel 4, then I promise to tell you who this is about and what it’s about.”

  “Are you sure?” said his wife, looking at him. “Do we have a deal here?”

  “Definitely,” said Johansson. “You arrange coffee, cognac, neck massage, and pillow fluffing, and I’ll tell you who it’s about.”

  “Okay,” said his wife, “but I want a down payment before I go along with the deal.”

  “Dost Akbar,” said Johans
son as he lowered his voice and leaned across the kitchen table, “member of a secret society known as the Gang of Four.”

  “Nice try,” said Johansson’s wife, “but no deal. I’ve read The Sign of the Four by Conan Doyle too.”

  “Maybe you should become a police officer anyway,” said Johansson. “I know—apply to the police academy. You’re never too old to apply to the police academy.” Wasn’t that what they said in those recruiting ads he used to see in the newspapers?

  “I’m just fine at the bank. I had enough of the public sector when I worked at the post office,” she said curtly, shaking her head. “I’ll make coffee, you fluff up the pillows, you can get your cognac yourself—have I mentioned you’re drinking too much cognac, by the way?”

  “Eat too much, drink too much, exercise too little, talk too little—yeah, that sounds familiar.” Johansson nodded in confirmation. I’ll have to do something about that, by the way, he thought. What if he were to start on Monday, it being the first Monday of a new month? Maybe that would be a good day, because starting over the weekend was inconceivable.

  “Good,” said his wife. “Then I won’t nag you. Now let’s celebrate the weekend, and if we have to watch TV then I want the remote control.”

  “No flipping,” said Johansson. Don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t flip between channels.

  “Exactly,” said his wife, nodding.

  “Heavens,” said Johansson contentedly, letting his Norrland dialect break through as he said it. Now let’s observe the Sabbath. Just like a typical weekend evening in the log cabin without liquor, food, and TV, he thought.

  “Try and talk to me instead,” said Johansson’s wife, looking at him urgently. “You won’t die from it—I promise.”

  Sometimes I miss my solitude, thought Johansson. Not right now, but sometimes. But he couldn’t talk about that in any event.

  31

  Saturday, April 1, 2000

  Holt was already at work by quarter to eight, but she still wasn’t the first to arrive. When she stepped into the corridor she could hear the diligent pecking from Mattei’s keyboard.

  “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen,” Mattei called without turning around.

  “Do you think it’s too early to call Johansson?” Holt asked hesitantly.

  “Johansson,” said Mattei with surprise. “He’s from Norrland and a hunter, so I’m guessing he’s the type who gets up in the middle of the night.”

  Johansson was sitting in the kitchen at home on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan reading the second of the two morning papers. In the past he’d been content with Dagens Nyheter, even if he would have preferred Norrländska Socialdemokraten, where at least they could write comprehensibly and had something important to say, but since taking the new job he suddenly and quite unexpectedly received a free subscription to Svenska Dagbladet, so nowadays he read two morning papers instead of one. He turned down the free subscription of course, and instead he paid for the paper himself.

  Clever accountants over at Svenskan’s marketing department, Johansson thought as he scrutinized their stock listings to see how his investments were doing. Just as he was noting that both Skanska and Sandvik stood like solid rocks in a time of change, his phone rang. Holt, thought Johansson.

  “Johansson,” he answered. Maybe a little more abrupt than necessary, he thought.

  “Anna Holt. I hope I’m not waking you, Boss.” He woke up on the wrong side of the bed, she thought.

  “No,” said Johansson. “I assume you’re calling to tell me that you’ve connected Stein with Eriksson.”

  “Has Martinez called?” Holt asked with surprise. Must be Linda, she thought, wherever she was hiding herself.

  “I’m a cop,” said Johansson, sounding extremely abrupt. “You’re the only one who has called.”

  “I see,” said Holt, who had a hard time concealing her surprise. “I was just wondering if—”

  “Here’s a little homework assignment for you,” said Johansson, who suddenly sounded considerably more cheerful. “Start by thinking about how often you’ve called me at home before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, and then about what I said to you yesterday.”

  “I think I get it,” said Holt. “Yes, I’ve placed them together on the morning of the day he was murdered.”

  “So now you want to get her fingerprints to see if you can place her in his apartment,” Johansson surmised.

  “Yes,” said Holt. Now he sounds more like what I’d heard about him, thought Holt. Obviously mornings are the best time to talk with him.

  “Where are the prints you want to compare hers to?” asked Johansson.

  “At homicide,” said Holt. “On the handle of the kitchen knife, and the best of them were left in Eriksson’s blood.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Johansson. What do I do if they’re Stein’s fingerprints?

  “April Fool,” said Holt, sounding rather upbeat herself. “Sorry, Boss, I couldn’t help myself. Kidding aside. On the kitchen counter and on the inside of the door under the sink.”

  They’re like children, thought Johansson, but naturally he wouldn’t dream of saying that to a female coworker who was a decade younger than he was. No one’s that dense. Not me in any case, thought Johansson.

  “So what’s the problem?” asked Johansson. The kitchen counter and the door under the sink will have to do, he thought.

  “Is it okay?” Holt wondered.

  “Do like we always do,” said Johansson curtly. “Is Martinez there?”

  “She’s on her way in,” said Holt.

  “Ask her to arrange it,” said Johansson. “Linda’s a whiz at that sort of thing.” I can tell you, he thought, because that’s why I hired her.

  When Holt went into the break room the first person she encountered was Martinez, who was gulping down a large glass of water with audible enjoyment.

  “Ahh,” said Martinez, wiping her mouth with the back of her sweater sleeve.

  What happened to those eight hours of sleep? thought Holt.

  “Sleep well?” asked Holt neutrally as she poured a cup of coffee for herself. “By the way, would you like coffee?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” said Martinez, actually looking a bit guilty. “I’m weak, so it was the bar as usual.”

  “Was it any good?” asked Holt, handing her a coffee cup.

  “It was shiiiit,” Martinez moaned. “Eight beers and no hunks.”

  “I spoke with Johansson,” said Holt. “It’s okay for us to get Stein’s prints. Can you arrange it?”

  Martinez nodded and already seemed considerably more alert.

  “I could do that in my sleep,” she said. “Easy as pie. But you and Mattei have to help me with the practical stuff in the event we’ve got a moving target.”

  “No problem,” said Holt. It will be nice to get outside, she thought. It’s the first real spring day too, sun, blue sky, at least fifty degrees out.

  Johansson and his wife did not have the same biological clock. This was a mild understatement because he seldom got out of bed later than six o’clock, yet his wife could spend the day there if she had the choice, and in any case she was scarcely approachable before ten on a Saturday morning such as this one.

  So he had managed to shower, have breakfast, and read two morning papers in peace and quiet before he tiptoed into their bedroom at nine-thirty. The only thing he saw was a lump under the blanket, a black tuft of hair sticking up under the pillow, which for some reason was covering the face of the person lying there, and a rather small, naked foot sticking out down below.

  “Are you asleep, darling?” said Johansson, who didn’t always act like the police officer he was.

  “Hmmnuu,” moaned his wife.

  “I’ve made breakfast for you,” said Johansson. “Fried ham and pancakes.”

  “What?” said his wife, suddenly sounding wide awake.

  “April Fool,” said Johansson. “If you move over a little then there’ll be room for me, too,” he said. S
he’s fallen asleep again, he thought in amazement. This can’t be true.

  “Pia … honey,” said Johansson. “It’s amazing weather. What do you think about a long walk on Djurgården?”

  “Not right now,” his wife moaned.

  They’re like children, Johansson thought affectionately, making room by her side.

  First Martinez stopped by their tech squad and organized a beer can, specially emptied for the purpose, which she stored in a sealed plastic bag. Then she made a prank call to Stein at home on a prepaid cell phone that couldn’t be traced, and as soon as Stein answered she excused herself, saying it was a wrong number, ended the call, and took Holt and Mattei with her down to the garage.

  “We’ll take my vehicle so we don’t stick out unnecessarily,” said Martinez, opening the door to the driver’s seat of an unbelievably crappy, small, older-model Japanese car of a make unknown to Holt. “Get a move on, ladies, we’re in a hurry,” said Martinez, waving them impatiently into the car.

  “Isn’t it best if I drive?” said Holt doubtfully. Eight beers, she remembered.

  “Fine with me,” said Martinez, shrugging her shoulders. “You’ll have to sit in back, Lisa,” she decided, giving Mattei a critical glance. “Damn, don’t you look tidy,” she said disapprovingly, shaking her head.

  “Excuse me,” said Mattei, guiltily.

  “It’s okay,” said Martinez to smooth things over. “No one’s going to believe you’re a cop anyway, and if you have to get out and move around I have some things in the trunk you can borrow.”

  Johansson gradually breathed some life into his wife, saw to it that she got a cup of coffee and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and then led her out into the beautiful spring weather. They walked down to Slussen and took the ferry over to Djurgården. Johansson stood in the front and let the sea breeze caress his Norrland cheeks while he hummed an old popular song from Jussi Björling’s repertoire. Then they strolled all the way down Djurgården, continued back along Strandvägen, Nybrokajen, and Skeppsbron, and when they got back to Slussen a few hours later, Johansson was in a terrific mood and suggested a late lunch at the Gondola.