Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“He’s dead anyway,” said Bäckström. They always have to talk back, he thought. Thank the Lord he had resisted the pressure and was still a free man.

“Where, when, and how,” said Jarnebring, looking encouragingly at Bäckström. So we can get out of here sometime, he thought.

“Exactly, exactly,” said Bäckström with newfound energy. “The scene of the crime is the victim’s residence. More precisely, the living room in his apartment on Rådmansgatan. Of that point we can be completely certain.”

Wiijnbladh nodded in agreement, without Bäckström condescending to give him a glance.

“So then there is the time,” Bäckström continued. “If we’re to believe our witness and the call she makes to the colleagues down in the pit, the whole thing seems to have gotten going about eight o’clock, quarter after eight, yesterday evening.” Bäckström let his gaze sweep across those assembled, but no one seemed to be of a different opinion.

“Cause of death... one or more knife wounds in the chest area... from the back. Wiijnbladh?” Bäckström looked inquisitively at Wiijnbladh, who nodded obligingly.

“Yes, well, I’ll be meeting the forensic doctor later today, but that’s my definite opinion as well,” said Wiijnbladh. “And I believe we’ve found the knife.”

“Okay then,” said Bäckström, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands over his fat belly. “Then only two questions remain out of six. Who did it and what’s the motive. As far as the latter is concerned I already have my ideas, but there are a few things I’ve asked Wiijnbladh to check before I get back to that. We still have to flush out the perpetrator, and I don’t think that will take very long.” Bäckström looked shrewdly at those gathered.

Nice to hear, thought Jarnebring, for personally he had been part of more impressive detective teams than this one.

The smaller of the two conference rooms at the homicide squad held a total of nine individuals that morning, considerably fewer than would usually be at the first meeting of a new murder investigation: lead detective Bäckström and his little squire Wiijnbladh, who would take care of the technical aspects; Jarnebring and Holt; one of Bäckström’s coworkers in the squad, whose name was Alm but who was generally known as Blockhead and was not considered a shining light; a female civilian office worker, Gunsan, who would take care of filing the preliminary investigation material; plus three younger talents who were on loan from the uniformed police. The idea was that they would do all the other things that weren’t very important but still had to be done, and because all of them were almost jumping with eagerness despite the fact that they were still sitting down, evidently none of them had figured out what had been planned.

“Okay then,” said Bäckström, closing his folder. “Any questions?”

“Should we work this weekend?” asked Jarnebring.

“I’m sorry,” said Bäckström, making a brave effort to look gloomy. “We’re still short on cash since they shot that socialist down on Sveavägen, so there’s no question of overtime.” In any case not so it extends to you, you incompetent bastards, thought Bäckström, having already filled out the overtime forms for the weekend on his own account. “So we’ll have to meet on Monday morning. Unless something comes up. Then I’ll be in touch.” You can forget about that, he thought.

“Yes?” Bäckström looked questioningly at Wiijnbladh, who had actually raised his hand. A careful little wave of his little handsy-pandsy, typical for that half-fairy, thought Bäckström.

“Are you coming to look when we undress the body, Bäckström?” Wiijnbladh asked. The question was not as strange as it sounded because it had been a tradition since old Dahlberg’s days that at least one of the squad’s heavy-duty murder investigators was there for the autopsy.

“Thanks for asking but I have to pass,” said Bäckström, who had other, more important matters in mind. “You and I can talk later.”

The survey of the victim’s personal characteristics is the very hub of the steadily rolling wheel of a murder investigation, and considering this particular victim’s appearance, Jarnebring and Holt had decided to start with his coworkers, without even needing to discuss the matter in more detail.

First they talked to the head of the department at the Central Bureau of Statistics where Eriksson had worked. Naturally he was shocked. The whole thing was inexplicable, for according to him, Eriksson had been not only an ideal colleague but also an extraordinary and generally well liked individual. Besides which he had been active in the union at work, with a strong, genuine commitment.

Who at the bureau had known him best? Was there anyone he socialized with outside of work?

Eriksson’s boss had given them two names. A woman and a man who sat next to Eriksson and were part of the same statistics-producing unit. But he couldn’t think of anyone else. And as far as things outside the workplace were concerned, perhaps it was best to ask his coworkers directly. Personally he had not seen Eriksson outside work. Had never even run into him in town, now that he thought about it.

Holt questioned the male colleague and Jarnebring the female one, and considering what they said about Eriksson it would have been enough to speak with either one of them.

Neither of them had anything bad to say about Eriksson. He had done his job, even if his union obligations naturally occupied a good deal of his time. Neither of them had socialized with him privately. Neither of them had seen him at all outside of work, and they could not name anyone else who had either. Eriksson had always been correct, maintained a certain distance from his surroundings, was courteous of course but at the same time a man of high integrity.

You don’t say, thought Jarnebring.

You don’t say, thought Holt.

On the way out through the reception area, when it was time to return to police headquarters, they finally got a lead. A doorman in his fifties who was standing bent over a copy machine behind the counter in the lobby had given them that lingering gaze that every true detective learns to recognize early on.

Jarnebring slowed his pace, smiled and nodded amiably, giving the doorman the extra moment that such people always need. Medium height, slender build, with thin medium blond hair and forward-leaning body posture, Jarnebring noted without even thinking about it.

“I heard that Eriksson was killed,” the doorman said without looking at them, as he filled a carton with paper.

“You knew him,” said Jarnebring, and this was more a statement than a question.

“Hmm,” said the doorman, nodding.

“Should we meet down in the cafeteria in five minutes,” said Jarnebring, and this was more a suggestion than a question.

“There’s a café in the Radio and TV building,” said their prospective informant. “It’s quieter there. Give me ten minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting by themselves in the most remote corner of the café, each with a cup of coffee. Holt started their conversation with a police-style scissors kick.

“With or without filters?” said Holt, smiling at their prospective interview victim even before he started digging in his pockets with his skinny, nicotine-stained fingers.

“Preferably with,” the doorman said, and Holt immediately conjured forth a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter. Then everything went like clockwork.

Holt doesn’t smoke, thought Jarnebring with surprise, and on that point he was almost certain.

What had Eriksson been like as a person?