Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“In that case the answer is yes,” she said, nodding.

They didn’t bother with champagne. Instead they went home to his fiancée and future wife’s place and played the film backward to the first days of their relationship. When Jarnebring finally fell asleep he felt like the sun was already about to go up on the other side of the curtains, but he must have been wrong because the red digital display on the alarm clock on the nightstand only showed three, and she was resting with her back and behind pressed against his chest and stomach, like a coffee spoon against a soup ladle, Jarnebring thought contentedly. In his world this was exactly as it should be, her head resting on his right arm and his left arm over her side and his hand carefully against her stomach. And when a dream finally took him and led him away he sensed the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, fresh-squeezed juice, scrambled eggs and bacon.

It’s going to work out, thought Jarnebring between sleep and trance, and then he slept just as securely as when he was a little boy and summer vacation had just begun.

Criminal inspector Anna Holt, age thirty-one, had spent the weekend with her son, Niklas “Nicke” Holt, age six. They had gone skating in Kungsträdgården, had junk food at McDonald’s on Norrmalmsgatan, bought a new jacket for Nicke, played games, and been couch potatoes.

“This is the way it will always be for you and me, Mama,” Nicke summarized the weekend when it was time for a bedtime story on Sunday evening.

Criminal inspector Evert Bäckström, age forty-seven, didn’t wake up until Saturday afternoon with what was, even by his standards, a formidable hangover, which he attributed to all the alcohol he had unfortunately happened to pour into himself the evening before. First came malt whiskey, vodka, and cognac, and so far all was well and good. Unfortunately toward the wee hours he had also sampled — mostly out of curiosity — some bottles with contents unknown, which for philanthropic reasons he had rescued from the General Inheritance Fund.

When he went down to the convenience store to shop for a little late breakfast he was met by the major evening tabloid, which reported that an “insane serial murderer” had been running loose in the city for almost a year now and that he had just “butchered his fourth victim.”

Where the hell’d they get that from? Bäckström thought, and contrary to habit bought a copy.

As he read it he saw Jack Daniels before him. It was not a pleasant sight, and he realized it was high time to drag himself off to work and execute a number of preventive measures over the weekend.

Jarnebring didn’t even open a newspaper over the weekend. He and his future wife didn’t leave their bed any more than was absolutely necessary, and when she parted from him outside work on Monday morning he couldn’t remember when he had last felt so good. For breakfast he got fresh-brewed coffee with milk, fresh-squeezed orange juice, two fresh-baked rolls with a crisp crust, lettuce and ham, and a large plate of yogurt with fresh fruit.

I have to call Lars Martin and tell him, he thought as he went through the door to the detective squad.

“Have you seen the newspaper?” Bäckström asked, waving his copy of Saturday’s tabloid as he stepped into Danielsson’s office on Monday morning. Better to forestall than be forestalled. Go ahead, shit your pants, Jack Daniels, he thought with delight when he saw Danielsson’s expression.

There were a number of indications that Danielsson too had seen the newspaper. Among others, there was a copy of the same newspaper in front of him on his desk. But after Bäckström’s opening, the boss did not have much to say. Mostly he sat silently in his chair and glared at Bäckström, his swollen face purple and a vein as large as an earthworm wriggling back and forth on his left temple.

Soon his fuse will blow, thought Bäckström with delight, but of course he didn’t say that. Instead he arranged his face in a worried frown and kept talking according to his carefully prepared strategy.

“My first thought was that the leak came from someone inside,” said Bäckström, shaking his head. “As you know we have a number of new, unknown entities working with us. But then” — Bäckström shook his round head again — “then I actually read this crap, so now I don’t think so anymore.” Bäckström nodded for the third time and looked at his boss credulously.

“So why don’t you think so?” Danielsson grunted, looking askance at his colleague.

“It’s just too stupid,” said Bäckström. “That some religious maniac would run around butchering homos with a... what the hell was it?... samurai sword because he was sexually abused by a male father figure when he was a child. Or so says the psychologist the tabloid talked with.”

“Samurai sword?”

“Yeah, you know, one of those things the saffron monkeys have,” said Bäckström. “You and I and everyone else who knows anything know that Eriksson was stabbed with an ordinary kitchen knife. It’s sitting down in tech for examination.”

And there wasn’t much more to it than that.

“Unfortunately I’ve got to run,” said Bäckström. “I have a meeting with the investigation group.”

Danielsson didn’t say a word. Only stared at him.

“Okay,” said Bäckström, leaning forward in his chair and looking energetically at the detective team assembled in full force in the room. “Let’s start with Eriksson himself. What was he doing before he closed up shop? Jarnebring?”

Something must have happened to Bäckström, thought Jarnebring. Wonder if he’s going to AA.

“We’ve found out a few things,” said Jarnebring, pulling out a paper with handwritten notes summarizing what he and Holt had come up with.

On Thursday, November 30, Eriksson had first been at a SACO conference in City. Then, for reasons that were unclear, he had chosen to leave right before lunch, which was usually served at about ten minutes past twelve. At about three p.m. he had then shown up at the office in time for afternoon coffee. What he’d been up to in between was a blank. At work he had coffee for about half an hour with a number of coworkers, after which he went into his office, closed the door, and did some work. Shuffled papers and talked on the phone according to those sitting closest, if they were to hazard something that at the same time they couldn’t swear to. At five thirty-five, on the other hand, it was certain he left his office. This was shown by the stamp on his time card and was supported by his coworkers in the office next door who saw him on his way out.

Right before closing time — they closed at six — he went into the Östermalm market, where he shopped for a number of food items but none that indicated he was having guests for dinner. Normal weekend purchases for one of the market’s regular, single customers. Then there were a number of things that indicated he had walked directly home carrying his briefcase and a bag from the market: Humlegårdsgatan down to the corner of Sturegatan, then diagonally up through Humlegården to Engelbrektsgatan — Karlavägen, Karlavägen to Rådmansgatan and into the building where he lived. The customary police calculations indicated that he must have arrived home at about six-thirty and that he then began his solitary evening by having a portion of already prepared chicken with rice and curry, which he had purchased an hour earlier. With the chicken he had two bottles of German beer, and after the meal was finished he placed the dishes in the dishwasher and threw the empty bottles into the wastebasket.