Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

Cheerless type, thought Jarnebring and sighed.

Holt was through with the victim’s bedroom and bathroom, and had gone through an antique dresser and his closets. Neat, clean, tidy and well organized, expensive and tasteful trousers, shirts, jackets, and suits. Underwear, undershirts, socks, sweaters, ties, suspenders, belts, cuff links, three different watches, and a gold money clip which, in light of everything else, was almost indecent. All of the best quality and arranged in a way that would have made an old submarine officer feel hope and enthusiasm.

Holt had made the find of the day. At the very back of the drawer in Eriksson’s nightstand was a neatly folded handwritten paper containing five hundred-krona bills, attached with a paper clip, and with a few notes made in a slightly crabbed but legible handwriting revealing that the person who kept things clean at Eriksson’s was probably named Jolanta, that she apparently cleaned for him under the table one day a week, that she was due twenty hours’ pay for the month of November, and that her compensation of twenty-five kronor an hour would hardly make her rich. She had a telephone and could probably be identified: “Give directions regarding Christmas cleaning,” Eriksson’s handwriting plus a phone number.

Jolanta, thought Holt. The neighbor Mrs. Westergren had not said a peep about her. Because she was a cleaning lady and didn’t, in Mrs. Westergren’s world, count as one of those Holt and Jarnebring had asked about? Because Mrs. Westergren wasn’t aware of her existence? But why hadn’t Jolanta herself made contact? Judging by the notes, Friday was her regular cleaning day. Had the police scared her away when she came to work? Or was there some other, much more tangible reason that she hadn’t come forward?

“Check this out,” said Holt, handing the paper to Jarnebring, who was trying to screw loose the mirror in the guest toilet.

“Good, Holt,” said Jarnebring. “Call Gunsan and ask her to start with the searches, then we’ll break for lunch. I’m about to starve to death.”

Five hours times two and they had already found a Polish woman who cleaned under the table. We’ll take care of this, thought Holt.

“Tell me about these ‘fag files,’ ” said Holt, pushing aside her coffee cup and looking expectantly at Jarnebring.

“That was before my time,” said Jarnebring evasively as he shook his head. “It’s an old story.”

“Tell me anyway,” said Holt.

Okay, thought Jarnebring, and then he did.

A very long time ago, in the forties or fifties — the history was vague — someone in the big police headquarters on Kungsholmen had set up a registry of male prostitutes and their customers. The reason was that the former sometimes robbed and assaulted the latter, and every year there would usually be at least one murder with such a pedigree.

“Seems to have been a popular sport among the hooligans at that time — knocking off gays,” Jarnebring said, taking a gulp of coffee and continuing.

The registry had consisted of a growing number of boxes with file cards. At first it had been kept in the crime department in the old police headquarters on Kungsholmen, then it had grown legs and wandered over to the homicide squad before finally ending up in the early seventies at the office of the central detective squad, at which stage it contained at least a few thousand names.

“A few thousand names,” said Holt. “Of individuals who amused themselves by knocking off gays?”

Unfortunately it wasn’t as simple as that. Over the years maintenance of the registry had become a bit iffy, and toward the end, before the parliamentary ombudsman suddenly popped up like a bad omen, it mostly contained names of victims as well as any homosexual men who for some reason had attracted interest from at least one member of the force.

“Maybe they just wanted to do some preventive work,” said Holt with salt in her voice.

“It’s said that in the early fifties some playful colleague put Gustav V in the fag files... the old king, you know. It was in connection with those business deals the newspapers were rooting around in at the time. There was a real ruckus so of course they took him out again. But it’s clear... I understand that Bäckström is grieving.”

“Why?” asked Holt.

“He worked in the burglary squad before he wound up in homicide, and he was one of the most diligent suppliers of names to the old fag files. He must feel his work was in vain... Speaking of work by the way,” said Jarnebring, looking at his watch.

“What do we do about Eriksson’s cleaning woman?” said Holt as she got up, finished her coffee, and put on her jacket in a single coordinated motion.

“First we call Gunsan and see if she has produced anything. Then we take the rest of his apartment tomorrow. If there was any justice in this world, little Jolanta would already have been questioned.”

Gunsan had produced the address of the apartment that the telephone number belonged to. It was in Bredäng in the southern suburbs, and the tenant was a Polish woman who had come to Sweden about ten years earlier at the age of thirty and become a Swedish citizen just a few years ago. Her first name was Jolanta and as for her surname, it would not have made Danielsson happy in any event.

“Okay,” said Jarnebring. “Now we’ll go and question her.”

“I have to make a call first,” said Holt, looking at the clock. It’s almost five. What do I do now? she thought.

“In that case, I have a different proposal,” said Jarnebring. “You go and fetch Nicke at day care and I’ll go and question Eriksson’s cleaning woman. Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Are you sure?” said Holt, looking at him.

“Quite sure,” said Jarnebring.

“Watch out you don’t upset my worldview too much, Bo,” said Holt. “But thanks in any case.”

“It’s nothing,” said Jarnebring. I’ve had three kids myself and had to pick them up at day care all the time, he thought, which proved that his memory treated him with a large measure of indulgence. Bo, he thought. She actually used my first name.

First he had checked that she was at home. This he had done in the usual way, without needing to look into the barrel of a shotgun either.

Good-looking, smart, vigilant, he thought as she opened the door after the second ring.

“My name is Bo Jarnebring,” said Jarnebring, holding up his police ID. “I’m a police officer and would like to talk with you about an individual for whom you work.”

Jolanta smiled weakly, shrugged her shoulders, and held open the door.

“Police,” she said. “I never would have thought. Would you like some coffee?”

The rest had been like a dance.

When and how had she come into contact with Eriksson?

Two years ago through an acquaintance of Eriksson’s she was already cleaning for. He worked at TV. What his name was didn’t matter, did it?

“I know what his name is,” said Jarnebring, smiling his wolf smile. Welander, he thought.

“Let’s do this,” Jolanta suggested. “If you don’t tell him that you’ve talked with me, I won’t call him and tell him that I’ve talked with you.”

“Just what I was going to suggest,” said Jarnebring. “Tell me about Eriksson instead. What was he like?”

Apart from the fact that he had been her stingiest and most finicky client there wasn’t much she could say, for the simple reason that she almost never saw him. Their contacts had been managed primarily through the little messages that he posted in the drawer of his nightstand. On a few occasions he had been at home when she came to clean. A few times he had phoned her at home because he wanted to change the time when she would come. Any other practical matters he usually addressed to her answering machine, for she was seldom home.