Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

Jarnebring and Holt thanked her and went to a nearby restaurant to get some food in their stomachs themselves. While they were waiting, Holt leafed through the papers they had received from the conference organizer.

“Well,” Jarnebring said, grinning, “find anything interesting?”

“The chairman gives a welcome, the head of legal affairs at the labor ministry reports on some developing trends in Swedish labor law during the eighties, the secretary of the labor law committee reports on the requested oversight of the Codetermination Act—”

“Thanks, thanks,” Jarnebring interrupted. “I understand exactly why he left before lunch.”

“Lunch, yes,” said Holt. “For lunch there were veal roulades with boiled potatoes and lingonberries. And a vegetarian alternative for those who wanted it.”

“Veal roulades can be damn good,” said Jarnebring, who five minutes earlier had ordered beef patties with fried onions and felt how his stomach was growling precariously. “Are there any interesting names on the list of presenters and attendees?”

“Besides the already mentioned head of legal affairs and the secretary of the labor law committee, both men of course, we actually have a female lawyer who lectured on a recently concluded case in the Labor Court as well as a whole pile of ombudsmen from every nook and cranny... and Kjell Eriksson as an invited guest from TCO.”

“Good, we’ll deal with that later. Let’s not talk with our mouths full,” Jarnebring decided, catching sight of a waiter who had a steaming plate in each hand and his eyes trained on their table.

Over coffee they talked about other things. The list of who had been at the conference did not seem particularly exciting, and regardless of that any further research could wait until the excellent Gunsan had looked up the names on the police department’s computer. Instead Jarnebring brought up Holt’s somewhat bewildering smoking habits.

“I’ve never smoked,” said Holt, shaking her head when Jarnebring asked the question. “Why should I do that? It’s pure craziness to smoke.”

“So the ciggies you offer are just a tactical instrument in police work,” Jarnebring marveled. “Something you learned at a course when you were working with the felt slippers in Building B?”

“You might put it that way,” said Holt. “Although it was not in a course. It must have been something I saw on a detective show or something like that. Isn’t there anything you use when you’re going to talk with people you meet on the job?”

“No,” said Jarnebring, trying out his wolf grin. “I don’t meet any people on the job. I only meet crooks. Plus a loaded Joe Six-Pack or two, and they’re often the worst to deal with.”

“What do you do when you want to develop a rapport with them?” Holt asked curiously.

“Scare the shit out of them,” said Jarnebring. “And then when I’m nice to them they look like they’ve gotten a whole carton of cigarettes.” Jarnebring nodded and did not appear at all dissatisfied with his approach. “Cheap and good, and it saves time too.”

“That’s the difference between you and me,” said Holt. “Not even if I wanted to, which I don’t, would I be able to do it like that.”

“Feminine wiles,” said Jarnebring.

“No,” said Holt. “I’m just that way. It’s nothing I’ve chosen.”

Like I believe that, thought Jarnebring.

“I’m a bad person myself, so what do you think about trying to make glue out of the culprit we’re looking for,” said Jarnebring, looking at his watch.

“Track down and arrest the perpetrator,” said Holt. “Sounds like an excellent idea.”

When Wiijnbladh finally left the medical examiner’s office in Solna he was worried, agitated, and confused. The first thing he did when he sat down at his desk was to call his old friend Dr. Engel to find out how he was doing.

Under the circumstances, well, according to the patient himself. Wiijnbladh told him about the unfortunate meeting with his colleague Birgit — “simply Birgit” — and the serious concerns for the progress of the investigation he had subsequently felt. Unfortunately the more he thought about his concerns the more serious they looked, and it was even more gratifying to find that Milan completely shared both his perception and his apprehensions.

“You are completely right,” Engel agreed. “She is not sane. She is crazy. She lives with other women. She is a fucking dyke. She is totally lacking in judgment. She is—”

“If you want I can bring the documents over and see you,” Wiijnbladh interrupted cautiously.

Which he did. Half an hour later he was sitting with Dr. Engel in his pleasant bachelor’s pad on Sveavägen, analyzing the particular circumstances of Bureau Director Eriksson’s woeful demise only twenty hours earlier. Just as Wiijnbladh had suspected all along, Engel shared his view of how it had happened down to the slightest detail. Translated into comprehensible Swedish, in any event, according to the doctor’s opinion — based on science, common sense, and proven experience — the victim was “a typical closet gay who picked up a big, strong and above all very tall, violence-prone bum boy who stabbed him from behind with one of his own kitchen knives.”

In addition Engel had made a completely unique, independent contribution to the investigation that not even Wiijnbladh himself had thought of.

“You said him Eriksson lived Rodmansgatan op by ze church?” Engel asked, squinting sharply at Wiijnbladh.

“Exactly,” said Wiijnbladh. “At the corner at Karlavägen.”

“Hommelgarden,” Engel said emphatically.

“Hommelgarden?” What does he mean? thought Wiijnbladh.

“Hommelgarden where all ze bum boys go pick up closet gays. Rodmansgatan is right in the vicinity.”

“You mean Humlegården,” said Wiijnbladh, suddenly feeling the same familiar excitement he had felt so many times before when a breakthrough in an investigation was near at hand. Why didn’t we think of that? he thought.

“An interesting thought you have there, Milan,” said Wiijnbladh carefully, because he was reluctant to relinquish anything unnecessarily.

“It vas nothink,” said Dr. Engel modestly. “Dat’s my treat.” After his nourishing lunch in town, Bäckström spent the remainder of the afternoon in peace and quiet, going through the victim’s apartment on Rådmansgatan. It was an interesting experience in a number of ways, and productive in at least two. Bäckström was no expert on interior decorating, but he did understand that the furniture in Eriksson’s apartment did not get there by chance and that it must have cost a lot of money. Everything from the paintings on the walls and the draperies on the windows to the gleaming copper pans in his kitchen and the thick terry-cloth towels in his bathroom. It was hardly surprising considering how types like Eriksson usually were, thought Bäckström.

Besides looking through shelves of books and neatly organized binders of papers in what was evidently his office, items that Blockhead or another one of his simpler colleagues could start digging through after the weekend, Bäckström contented himself with a quick sweep in his hunt for more interesting artistic works. Strangely enough he did not find the least trace of what he was looking for: no videocassettes in anonymous packaging with innocuous handwritten labels, no videocassettes whatsoever. No scrupulously concealed bundles of magazines with oiled-down butt princes in leather, chains, and shiny four-color printing. Nothing at all in that line, actually.

Wonder where he hid them? thought Bäckström, for they must be somewhere. But because he found so many other things of interest he decided to let this matter rest until after the weekend.