Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

Congratulations, thought Jarnebring. Now I’m starting to recognize you.

“Doesn’t sound completely unlikely,” said Jarnebring. “Considering the fact that it was empty, I mean,” he continued innocently.

“It doesn’t take an hour and a half to empty a safe-deposit box, does it?” said Bäckström. “And five hours later some bastard kills him,” Bäckström continued, sounding as though he was thinking out loud.

Always mistrust chance, thought Jarnebring, but because this kind of thinking was certainly too advanced for the little tub of lard, he had chosen to express this in a different way.

“Considering that it had been more than a month since he was there the last time, this is undoubtedly a strange coincidence,” said Jarnebring.

“How the hell do you know that?” Bäckström asked suspiciously.

“I asked the manager,” said Jarnebring. While you were trying to hit on that little teller, he thought.

Then he dropped Bäckström off outside the homicide squad’s offices on Kungsholmsgatan, took the car down to the garage, hurried past his office at the squad to see if anything had happened — which it hadn’t — and because his stomach had started growling ferociously he chose the simple way out and went down to the police department’s restaurant and had a late lunch.

There he ran into a couple of his old colleagues who were now working at the national homicide squad. One thing led to another, they ended up in the break room at the squad, and when he finally returned to Eriksson’s apartment on Rådmansgatan it was already late afternoon.

“How’s it going with the books?” Jarnebring asked as he stepped into the living room in Eriksson’s apartment.

“Good that you came,” said Holt. “I just finished.”

I’ll be damned, thought Jarnebring, but of course he didn’t say that.

“That was quick work,” he said. “Find anything interesting?”

“I don’t know,” said Holt, “but it’s strange anyway. How did things go for you, by the way?”

“Eh,” said Jarnebring with feeling. “We’ll discuss that later. Tell me now.”

“I’ll take it from the start,” said Holt. “ ’Cause otherwise I’m afraid it’ll seem a little strange.”

Do that, thought Jarnebring. So that you’re quite certain that old uncle Bo understands what you’re saying.

“I’m listening,” he said.

Holt had leafed through all the books on the shelves to see if they contained notes or interesting inserted papers. None of them had. In purely general terms it was an ordinary, standard Swedish collection that could be found in any sufficiently prosperous, educated, middle-class home: all the great Swedish authors in bound collected editions, a number of classics such as Dostoyevsky, Balzac, Proust, Musil, Mann, Hemingway, and so on; a majority of the most celebrated modern Swedish and foreign literary authors; quite a bit of history with the emphasis on biographies of famous people, and obviously a few major reference works. In this respect everything was completely in harmony with Eriksson’s taste in decor and clothing, eating and drinking habits. Of course the books were arranged in alphabetical order by the author’s last name.

“What is so strange then?” asked Jarnebring.

“Those,” said Holt, pointing to a pile of about twenty books that she had set on the table in front of the couch.

Bäckström was not one to let himself be discouraged by the fact that he had drawn a blank in the bank vault, and as soon as he sat behind his desk he assured himself that the investigations he had initiated the day before were being pursued with undiminished force.

Because those fairies at the parliamentary ombudsman’s office had done away with that excellent fag file, for lack of anything better he told Gunsan to see if Eriksson could be found in the general plaintiff registry. Colleague Blockhead had been given the task of talking to the folks who worked at burglary, the detective squad, and the liquor commission about whether Eriksson showed up in any interesting, sexually deviant context. The three younger idiots from the uniformed police had finally been sent out to show pictures of Eriksson at the usual dives and clubs where the bum boys, butt princes, and all the other disease spreaders flocked together as soon as the lights were turned off. The results had been meager.

If Eriksson had been the victim of any crime during recent years he had not reported it. According to Gunsan, he was nowhere to be found in the police department’s register of plaintiffs. What the hell use are old ladies? thought Bäckström.

Colleague Blockhead had nothing to say whatsoever, so on that point it was exactly what Bäckström had expected from the get-go. Someone like that you should just kill, thought Bäckström.

One of the three little shits from the uniformed police did eventually come up with something. At a club on Sveavägen one of the customers seemed to recognize Eriksson by the photo he had been shown. He also gave a tip about a place Eriksson might be expected to have frequented.

“He thought he reminded him of a leather queen he met last summer,” the younger colleague explained. “They say they hang out at an S&M club up on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan on Söder. It’s for those types that like a little harder stuff,” he explained.

Fucking idiots, thought Bäckström, and those he had in mind were not the ones who featured in his clues but rather those sitting on the other side of his desk.

“I’ll do it myself,” said Bäckström. “Give me the paper with the address.”

All the books on Eriksson’s coffee table were dedicated by the respective authors to various recipients. All the authors were Swedish, and all the recipients also appeared to be Swedes. Or at least their names suggested that. The majority of the books were literary, but there were also a few biographies of famous Swedes, one historical work, and a few nonfiction books.

“Maybe he bought them at a used bookstore,” Jarnebring suggested. “Aren’t there people who collect dedication copies?”

“I thought so too at first,” said Holt as she shook her head. “But there’s something that doesn’t add up.”

“What’s that?” said Jarnebring, and he couldn’t keep from smiling as he said it.

“For one thing, all the books were written between 1964 and 1975,” said Holt. “Second, it seems like no one has read them or even turned the pages, with a few exceptions,” she continued. “And third — though I have to admit that I’m not a book collector — they cover extremely different areas. Aren’t collectors usually focused on certain particular subjects?”

“No idea,” said Jarnebring.

“Me neither,” said Holt, “so I thought I would take them to the office while I think about it.”

Whatever this has to do with the case, thought Jarnebring, for it did seem pretty far-fetched.

“Do that,” he said. “Put the shit in a sack, then we’ll call it a day and pick up again tomorrow.”

When Jarnebring returned home to his and his prospective wife’s cozy little den he had to eat dinner alone. No big deal in itself, because his beloved worked nights, but before she left the house she had prepared food for him, put a dish of delicacies in the oven and set a loving list of instructions on the kitchen table.

When he had eaten he sat down in front of the TV to watch sports after the news, but he didn’t get any real peace because Eriksson kept on showing up in his thoughts.

Strange character, thought Jarnebring. What had he really been up to? And having come that far in his thoughts he happened to think of his best friend, police superintendent Lars Martin Johansson. Have to call Johansson, thought Jarnebring. It had been over a month since they had seen each other and there was a lot to discuss.