Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“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.

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.”

He’s the same as ever, thought Jarnebring, sneaking a look at his watch.

“Fine lads,” said Danielsson and sighed nostalgically. “And what the hell do we have now? A lot of Yugos and Polacks and Turks and Arabs and guys like that fuckup Bäckström who’s going to take charge of all the misery. And on the shelf there” — Danielsson nodded toward the bookshelf behind his desk — “I have two rows of binders with unsolved murders. Damn, Dahlgren would have killed me if he’d lived. Although he never even swore at you.”

“Dahlgren was good,” Jarnebring agreed, despite the fact that he was always going on about his diploma, he thought.

“Sure,” said Danielsson. “And here I am talking shit.”

Then they went their separate ways. Jarnebring went to his meeting and Danielsson leaned back, looked at the clock, and wondered whether he could slip down to the liquor store before lunch so he could avoid standing in line for hours. In recent years he’d had an awful ache in his knees, and it was the weekend anyway and soon it would be Christmas...

The first meeting of the invesitgation team with lead detective Bäckström had astounded all those who knew him. He was alert and freshly showered, despite what was for him an early hour, and radiated both effectiveness and a strong odor of menthol-flavored throat lozenges.

“Okay then,” said Bäckström energetically, opening up his folder of notes. “Allow me to welcome everyone. We have a murder and we have to like the situation.”

And not make things unnecessarily complicated and mistrust the chance coincidence, thought Jarnebring, something touching his heart at the same time as he thought about his best friend, police superintendent Lars Martin Johansson, and his three golden rules for a murder investigator. I’ll have to call Lars Martin. It’s been awhile. What the hell has happened to Bäckström anyway? He must have put vitamins in his nightcap, thought Jarnebring.

“Let’s see now, said blind Sarah,” Bäckström said, leafing among his papers with his fat right thumb. “First we have our corpse... Eriksson, Kjell Göran, born in 1944, single, no children, no known relatives whatsoever... that we could produce in any event.” Bäckström gave Holt an inquisitive look.

“No,” Holt confirmed, without needing to consult her own folder. “No wives, no children, no relatives.”

This is almost too good to be true, thought Bäckström, feeling how the keys to the victim’s apartment were keeping warm in his right pants pocket.

“Worked as some kind of bigwig down at the Central Bureau of Statistics over on Karlavägen. Isn’t that the monstrosity at the intersection down by the Radio and TV building?”

New nod from Holt, although more hesitant this time.

“Not exactly a bigwig,” she said. “He was bureau director, hardly a bigwig.”

Typical, thought Bäckström. Fucking attack dyke. As soon as you’re a little nice to them and extend a hand, they try to tear off your whole arm.

“Yes,” said Bäckström. “Bureau director. Wasn’t that what I said?”

“I don’t recall,” said Holt, “but a bureau director is hardly a bigwig,” she clarified. “That must be the lowest management position they have. Like a detective inspector with us.” Watch out, you fat little schmuck, she thought.