Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

At about seven, according to his closest neighbor, he had a visitor. Someone rings his doorbell, he opens the door and lets the visitor in. The witness’s story and the little that had been produced about Eriksson so far strongly indicated that the person who came to visit was someone he knew. Probably also that the visit was prearranged.

“We’ll have to see if we find any notes at his apartment or if his phone records might give us something. We can forget his office because all the calls go through the same switchboard. They’re working on dumping the records,” said Jarnebring.

“His office,” said Bäckström, who was suddenly struck by a thought that he had forgotten to investigate. “His office, was there anything there?” Efficient and managerial. Something must have happened to him.

Maybe he’s met someone, poor guy, thought Jarnebring.

“No,” said Jarnebring, shaking his head. “No private notes in any case. Some that dealt with his job, mostly meetings that were noted on his desk calendar. But nothing exciting that we can see.” Jarnebring exchanged a glance with Holt, who nodded in confirmation.

“So what’s next?” said Bäckström, leaning back comfortably in his chair.

A prearranged visit from someone he knew, but that was all they had. No witnesses or technical observations that pointed to any specific individual. Eriksson’s private socializing seemed exceedingly meager. Up to now two individuals had made contact and said that they were personal acquaintances. Both had known Eriksson for more than twenty years, both had met him at the university, and all three had spent time together. The one who made contact first by calling the homicide squad on Friday morning was named Sten Welander. He worked as a project coordinator at the TV editorial offices in the big building on Oxenstiernsgatan at Gärdet.

“I’m sure you all know who that is,” said Gunsan, looking delightedly at the others in the room.

The reactions to her comment were mixed and hesitant.

“It’s that red-bearded guy who produced that program about the police last spring,” Gunsan continued. “That terrible person...”

“Is it that creep who looks like Gustav Vasa?” Alm asked.

“But skinny,” Gunsan giggled. “Do you remember the ruckus after that program?”

“Leave it for now,” Bäckström interrupted. “If he’s the one who did it, I promise I’ll treat you to cake and coffee. Who’s the other one who called?”

Something definitely must have happened with Bäckström, thought Jarnebring. If he goes on like this there’s a major risk we’ll soon have someone sitting in the slammer.

The other one who had called was the director and principal owner of a stock brokerage firm with an office on Birger Jarlsgatan down at Nybroplan. Theodor Tischler, born and raised in Sweden but with a German name. Generally known as “Theo” among family and friends, and in financial circles, according to the all-knowing Gunsan, he was known as “TT.”

“He seems to be rich as hell,” said Gunsan.

“Good for him,” said Bäckström curtly. “Jarnebring, do you have anything else? What’s the story with our corpse after he chows his last meal?”

Eriksson’s visitor had arrived around seven. At around eight a quarrel broke out, according to the witness, Mrs. Westergren. What had the victim and the perpetrator been doing between seven and eight? They’d had coffee, according to the technicians, and one of them had also had cognac.

Then the coffee cups, cognac glass, and coffeepot had been carried out to the kitchen, placed in the sink, and rinsed off. After which one of the two had a gin and tonic with lemon. The traces were found partly in the kitchen — a lemon that had been cut into strips, the empty ice cube tray that was normally in the refrigerator, an empty tonic bottle — and partly on the floor in the living room, where a half-empty bottle of Gordon’s Gin was found with the cap screwed on, along with an unsealed bottle of tonic and a crystal highball glass. And the wet patch on the floor from gin, tonic, and perhaps melted ice.

“The drink was probably sitting on the table in front of the couch where they were drinking, and then ended up on the floor when the fight broke out and the table was overturned,” Wiijnbladh stated, while looking portentous.

“Bravo, Wiijnbladh,” Bäckström drawled. “Do we have any idea who was drinking these noble beverages?” Besides me, of course, but you can forget about that, thought Bäckström, giggling with self-satisfaction.

Judging by the fingerprints it was the host himself. On the other hand, whether his guest drank anything, and in that case what, was not clear from the evidence.

“Probably he took the glass, wiped off the fingerprints, and put it back in the cupboard. Eriksson had a very large collection of different glasses, by the way,” said Wiijnbladh.

“It doesn’t seem very likely,” said Bäckström. “How the hell could he see which glass was his if they’d ended up on the floor in the general confusion? There was only one lemon slice if I remember correctly. Did he wipe off and dispose of his own lemon slice too? Either he drank something else or it was out of a different glass or he didn’t drink anything at all. Compare that with the coffee cups. By the way, have you found any prints on them?”

Wiijnbladh looked offended.

“They were in the sink. They were rinsed off,” he said indignantly.

“There, you see,” said Bäckström contentedly.

The little fat boy has turned into a regular Sherlock Holmes, thought Jarnebring with surprise.

An hour together which, judging by the technical evidence, passed in at least relative harmony. You have coffee, one of you, probably Eriksson, has cognac as well, you clean up and proceed to further consumption. The host at least has a gin and tonic with ice and lemon. But then something must have happened.

“Thanks, Jarnebring,” said Bäckström without taking the least notice of Wiijnbladh. For a half-monkey you did really well, he thought. “Well, Wiijnbladh,” Bäckström continued, looking at his victim with delight, “may we hear what science has to say? What happened when things boiled over?”

“Quite a bit,” said Wiijnbladh indignantly. “We have already produced quite a bit and quite a bit is in progress, as I said. I have received a preliminary report from our forensic physician,” he continued, peeking in his folder. “The protocol is in process.”

“Did Esprit de Corpse do it?” asked Bäckström.

“Unfortunately no,” said Wiijnbladh. “It was some new, younger talent, some woman I’ve never seen before. But I contacted Engel. He and I have met and gone through the whole thing, and he has promised to keep a watchful eye on our case.”

“Sounds good.” Bäckström chuckled. “Esprit is supposed to have an eagle eye. What does he say?”

“That the victim Eriksson was killed with a violent knife thrust that was delivered from behind at an angle and struck him high in the back, penetrated into the chest cavity, cutting apart the heart, left lung, and aorta,” Wiijnbladh summarized.

“Nothing else?” Bäckström looked almost a little disappointed. “No signs of a struggle? No other observations about our corpse and his little body?”

“No signs of a struggle,” said Wiijnbladh, shaking his head. “No wounds at all except for the one that killed him.”

“This woman that peeked at him... does she have the same keen eyesight as Esprit?” Bäckström asked, grinning.

“I reserve judgment on that,” said Wiijnbladh stiffly. “Do you mean do either of them have any thoughts about the victim as a person?”

“Exactly,” said Bäckström expectantly. “Did either of them have any?”