Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

“If he hadn’t thrown it right away I wouldn’t have made it!”

“No, Irene. You wouldn’t have made it.”

Tommy was still holding her, but she felt no comfort and warmth. An icy cold seeped up out of the black depths, and the voices echoed: You wouldn’t have made it! You would have died. Both of you ought to be dead! Nobody can make it in less than four seconds. Four seconds!

Andersson fidgeted uncomfortably. “Stop thinking about what didn’t happen. Don’t get hung up on it; we have to go on with the investigation. Damn it, Irene, you’re a hero who saved Jimmy’s life! And your own. That’s the sort of thing you get a medal for.”

He stood up. Tommy had let go of her. The superintendent aimed a clumsy little pat at her sore shoulder. She flinched but said nothing.

Tommy looked thoughtfully at his boss and said, “Sven, you were pals with Olle ‘Armstrong’ Olsson, weren’t you?”

“I sure was. We were partners for ten years on patrol. Then I went to inspector training and wound up with the Crime Police, while he went into the Canine Unit. He loved his animals-”

He broke off and looked at Tommy for a long time. “I know what you’re getting at,” he said curtly. He cleared his throat and turned to Irene. “Irene, this happened twenty years ago. My old pal Armstrong worked in the Canine Unit. Hell of a talented guy. He was called Armstrong because he loved jazz. But that’s not important. Olle and his dog were called to a burglary alarm at Obs, out in Hisings Backa. It’s a big department store, so Olle took the dog off the leash, as usual. The dog picked up a scent and ran off. There was a shot and when Olle without thinking rushed after the dog, he saw the animal lying on the floor bleeding. He stopped short, with his pistol drawn. Then he felt a gun barrel shoved into the back of his neck and heard the old cliché, ‘Drop the gun!’ He did as he was told. There were two thieves. One of them took his pistol and then they took off.”

The superintendent stopped and his expression turned grim. The words seemed to come from far away when he went on. “That’s all that happened. Except that the dog died and Olle left the force.”

He fell silent and Irene reluctantly felt that she wanted to know more. So she asked, “Quit the force? What did he do then?”

“Got divorced, moved to Örebro, and became a car salesman. He remarried a few years later.”

“Do you ever see him?”

“No. We exchange Christmas cards. It must be fifteen years since we last saw each other.”

Tommy eagerly leaned toward Irene. “It’s shattering to be disarmed and have to surrender. That’s true for everybody, no matter who you are. So don’t feel like you’re nuts or anything. It’s a natural reaction.”

Irene was still looking at Andersson when she asked, “Why didn’t the rest of you help him?”

He gave her a surprised look. “Help him? What do you mean?”

“Help him to stay on as a cop.”

“But what the. . he had a breakdown! What were we supposed to do? He didn’t want to do it anymore!”

“That’s just what I mean. Why didn’t you help him so he’d want to come back?”

“He didn’t want any help! We’re not psychologists, you know!”

“No. But pals.”

He was speechless and glared at her angrily. What the hell had gotten into all the broads in this department? It didn’t make sense to continue this discussion. He tried to pull himself together and smooth it over. “I was only trying to say that we understand that it’s tough to be subjected to. . something like you were subjected to. And you have pals and colleagues around you who are supporting you. You know that. Let’s get those fucking assholes identified so we can bring them in!”

He turned to Tommy and motioned toward the door. “We’ll go another round with Shorty. We’ll have to take turns, try to wear him out. One of us will be back in a while, Irene. Hopefully you’ll have some luck finding someone you recognize.”

Andersson opened up the first folder and tapped urgently on the photos on the first page. Irene sighed but reluctantly started to turn the pages.

Within an hour she had identified Fatso and the Thin Man.

SWEATY AND mad, Andersson came steaming into the room where Irene sat with two plastic photo sleeves before her on the desk. Her arms hung heavily at her sides and her gaze was directed at the dead lily in a pot hanging in the window. Outside it was dark; there was nothing to see. She nodded lamely at the two plastic sleeves on the desk. Her voice sounded toneless when she said, “Those two. The thin one is Paul John Svensson, born ’sixty-four, and Fatso is Glenn ‘Hoffa’ Strömberg, born ’fifty-nine. He’s called Hoffa because he’s vice president of the Hell’s Angels. Paul Svensson has no rank. But a thick rap sheet. Just like Hoffa.”

“We’re making progress on one front at least! That damned Shorty is driving me nuts! All he says is, ‘I haven’t committed any crime. You have to release me.’ But mostly he just sits there in silence and grins.”

He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. It must have hurt, because he didn’t do it again. Having let off steam, he sat in his desk chair, picked up the two plastic sleeves and scrutinized them. Pleased, he said, “Couple of ugly dudes. You couldn’t find the other two?”

She shook her head. “No. Now that I think about it, they didn’t say anything the whole time. Weird. I’m almost positive it was one of them who threw the grenade,” she said thoughtfully.

“You didn’t see any photo that reminded you of them?”

“No. Although I can’t really remember what they looked like. But Fatso and the Thin Man are etched into my brain. Paul John, born ’sixty-four. You think his mama dug the Beatles?”

There was a light knock at the door and Birgitta Moberg came in. She greeted Irene cheerfully, asked how she felt, and was generally sympathetic. Until her gaze fell on the photos. She snatched them up and laughed. “So little Paul shows up here too!”

Her colleagues looked astonished. Andersson recovered first. “Do you know this scumbag?”

“Not personally. But on paper. This is the guy who drove up on the traffic island in the aborted bank robbery in Kungsbacka.”

“In nineteen eighty-two? With Shorty!” Irene exclaimed.

“Precisely. And the one who missed the turnoff to. .” She gave Irene a knowing glance. Both said in unison, “. . the cottage in Billdal!”

The superintendent grabbed the plastic sleeve again. He stared irately at the cards, as if he were trying to hypnotize them into a confession. Angrily he hissed, “Now it stinks like shit again! This is a point of contact, a lead! We have to get the truth out of Shorty!”

“Confront him with this point of contact. Maybe he doesn’t think we can connect him to the Hell’s Angels,” Birgitta suggested.

“The worst thing is that we can’t! Not yet. We have to let Narcotics know. They’re out at Billdal questioning people in the vicinity to find possible witnesses who might have seen Shorty together with the swine from the Hell’s Angels. If we could just get hold of somebody, then the prosecutor can write a detention order. I want Shorty put under strict watch!”

“But we’ve been doing that since last Friday. According to our guys, he’s only been in the shop and around the neighborhood on Berzeliigatan. No trips out to Billdal,” Birgitta pointed out.

“That’s true. But he might have had telephone contact with them,” the superintendent ventured.

Birgitta had a hard time holding back a sigh when she replied, “It’s not something we can prove. There’s no phone at the cottage. No, we have to develop proof that Shorty is mixed up in all this. Otherwise we have to let him go on Friday.”