Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“How’s the door knocking going?” asked Bäckström. “If you take care of that, Jarnebring, then Wiijnbladh and I will see to putting some order into the investigation.” And then he only nodded curtly and continued up the stairs.

Say what you will about Bäckström, thought Wiijnbladh with sudden warmth, falling in behind his fat back before the grim reaper could get hold of him.

Jarnebring did not say anything, didn’t move, didn’t even blink. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded at his female colleague. Poor bastard, he thought, and it was not Bäckström or Wiijnbladh that he was thinking about.

Jarnebring and his new, and temporary, female colleague — and that was how he viewed her without the question even being discussed — devoted the majority of the evening of the thirtieth of November to knocking on doors, which had always been their intention, in fact, regardless of what Bäckström thought about it. They spoke with almost all the victim’s neighbors, a total of about twenty people in the building facing the street and ten or so in the back building. Almost everyone who lived there was at home. They were mostly older people, many of them living alone, and with a few exceptions they had been sitting in front of the TV at the time their neighbor was murdered.

When the police rang their doorbells they were without exception friendly and obliging, and in a number of cases truly exerted themselves to answer the police officers’ questions. In a practical sense the door-to-door inquiries went easily and smoothly, but in a factual sense it was an unmitigated catastrophe. No one had seen anything, no one had heard anything, no one knew the victim, the majority did not even seem aware of his existence. The one who seemed to know him best, his closest neighbor Mrs. Westergren, who had called the police, had for the most part only said hello to him on those occasions when they met in the stairwell.

Jarnebring and his female colleague started with her, and Jarnebring suggested that perhaps his partner ought to lead the questioning. The witness was extremely agitated and he had an idea that a woman — despite the fact that she was half the age of the witness — might perhaps make the witness feel more comfortable. Which proved to be true. His younger colleague handled the questioning in an exemplary fashion and Jarnebring just sat there and listened. It felt unusual, but not at all unpleasant. The new generation is taking over, Jarnebring thought philosophically, and concentrated instead on appearing as secure and confidence inspiring as possible.

First they talked about the witness herself, Mrs. Westergren. Then about the victim, her closest neighbor Kjell Göran Eriksson, who had just turned forty-five at the time of his demise, according to the information that Jarnebring had received from the duty desk a while earlier. Only after that did his colleague bring up the events that had led Mrs. Westergren to call the emergency number. The entire conversation was conducted in a careful, systematic, professional manner and the results were as thin as gruel.

Mrs. Westergren herself was sixty-five years old and recently retired from a job as an official at a bank in Stockholm. She lived alone, had no children, and had moved into the building after her divorce some ten years earlier.

“My ex-husband and I had a house out in Bromma,” she explained. “When we separated and sold the house, I bought this apartment. It’s a condominium.”

Then she told what little she knew about Eriksson. He had moved into the building a few years later, and that was when she had her only long conversation with him. She had knocked on his door to welcome him, and he had invited her in for a cup of coffee.

“I was on the association’s board, after all, the condo association that is, and I thought that it was appropriate. Yes... and then he was my closest neighbor too.”

But there had not been much more.

“He introduced himself of course, but I already knew what his name was. I’d seen it on the paperwork when he bought the apartment. Yes... then he said that he worked at the Central Bureau of Statistics. With labor market statistics, as I recall. But he didn’t actually say much more than that. He seemed rather reserved. Yes, not disagreeable or anything, not really, but far from talkative.”

He must have riled up someone in any event, thought Jarnebring, but of course he didn’t say that.

What was he like as a person?

“As a neighbor he was almost ideal, I guess, if you appreciate peace and quiet. He never made any fuss. He never went to the association meetings or anything. I don’t think he knew anyone here in the building.”

Did he have any friends that Mrs. Westergren had noticed?

“No women in any event. I don’t believe I ever saw him with a woman during all the years he lived here. Sometimes I saw that he had visitors, but it was always men his own age. There were some that I’ve seen on at least a few occasions. But it really didn’t happen very often that I saw him having visitors. The last time must have been several months ago. Yes... and this evening then... a few hours ago.” Mrs. Westergren had become noticeably paler.

What was it that made her call the police?

“I heard that he had a visitor. I had just come in the door. I’d been out shopping. It must have been some time around seven. I was standing in the hallway hanging up my coat when I heard someone ringing his doorbell. Yes... he opened the door and said something and then the door was closed.”

Had the visitor said anything? Did she have any idea who the visitor was?

She did not. The murder victim’s mysterious visitor had not only been unseen but unheard as well. The witness herself had not thought any more about it. Besides, why should she? Her neighbor had a visit from someone that he knew, and, true, it wasn’t common, but it was no more than that. She had gone out into the kitchen, made a cup of tea and a warm sandwich, which she brought into the living room. She’d had her sandwich, finished her tea, and then read a magazine she had bought when she was out shopping. She preferred reading, you see, and she almost never watched TV.

“It must have been about then that it started... right before eight o’clock. I remember that I was looking at the clock, because at first I had the idea that it was his TV that I was hearing. But of course it wasn’t that... I realized that. I heard how he was screaming... how he bellowed right out... Then I heard thumps from the furniture as if someone was falling or as if... Yes, as if he was fighting with someone then... Yes, my neighbor, I mean. It was only him that I heard. Not the other one... although they must have been fighting. What is it the lawyers always say — it’s in the nature of things — although that was what was so strange.” Mrs. Westergren shook her head.

What was it that had been strange?

What was so strange was that he had not sounded afraid. Angry, furious, crazy with rage, but not afraid. Their witness had become noticeably paler as she spoke, but at the same time it was very clear that she was truly exerting herself to remember what she had heard.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not afraid, he sounded more like he was angry... or furious... He just bellowed in rage... although I didn’t hear what he was screaming.”

“And you’re certain that it was your neighbor you heard? Not the one who was visiting him?”

“Yes. It was Eriksson who screamed. He sounded completely insane actually. The other one I didn’t hear. He was quiet, I guess.”

But it was only when the neighbor’s bellowing had ceased that she had phoned the police. By then she had heard him moaning loudly, and it sounded as though he was crawling around on the floor in the apartment. It was then that she made her first call to the police.