Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

But no one seemed to be home at Johansson’s, and apparently his friend had still not acquired an answering machine. I’ll have to call him at work tomorrow, Jarnebring decided. Wonder if he’s still at the Ministry of Justice. The last time they had met Johansson had told him he had an urgent investigation assignment for the department.

Before Bäckström left the homicide squad to scout for gays on his own, he had first considered taking his service revolver with him, but that was a weakness he almost immediately pushed aside. Besides, it would have been stupid considering that he’d decided to slink down to the usual dive afterward and knock back a beer or two and eyeball the ladies a little. If there’s trouble you can crumple the fairies with your left hand, thought Bäckström, flexing his fat shoulders before he pulled on his big coat and put a photo of Eriksson in his pocket.

He took a taxi. This was a murder investigation after all, and he had more than enough taxi coupons. For investigative reasons he told the taxi driver to stop a little way down the street so he could walk discreetly to the address in question. And what normal person would take a taxi to a gay club?

There was evidently an entrance directly from the street, but the windows were shuttered, and the place appeared to be closed with the lights off inside. Not being one to immediately fall for such simple tricks, he pushed the doorbell for a while, and just as expected a man finally came and opened the door. He was a big, burly type in a checked flannel shirt, worn blue jeans, and a crew cut. A little reminiscent of those boys on the Marlboro ads minus the hat and horse, so he was probably the building manager or something, thought Bäckström.

“We’re closed,” said the man, glaring at Bäckström.

“I’m a policeman, so leave it,” said Bäckström, glaring back. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

Apparently that was enough, for the man suddenly became interested and seemed almost exaggeratedly courteous as he held open the door for the detective inspector.

“Come in then,” said the type. “I’ll see if I can help you, Constable.”

Something doesn’t add up, thought Bäckström.

Oh hell, what a place, thought Bäckström, looking around the dark room. A real torture chamber. What kind of a country are we living in? Hooks on the ceiling, chains and cables and dangling shackles, the walls chock-full of whips and a lot of other shit the use of which he preferred not to guess. This kind of thing should be prohibited, Bäckström thought indignantly.

The man sat down on a thronelike chair, nodded toward a stool at his feet, and looked at the detective with interest. Something here is damn strange, thought Bäckström.

“Sit down,” said the man, nodding toward the stool.

“As I said, I’m a policeman,” Bäckström repeated. “And there’s something I’m wondering if you can help me with.” Who the hell does he take me for? he thought.

“I’ve helped a lot of policemen,” said the man, and suddenly he looked rather amused.

Maybe he’s a normal informant, thought Bäckström. This place must be a gold mine. Although there seems to be something mysterious going on.

“Do you recognize this person?” Bäckström asked, giving him the photo of Eriksson.

The man took a proper look. Even turned and rotated the picture. Then he shook his head and handed it back.

“Not my type,” said the man. “I have a hard time with anything that skinny. He looks like Jiminy Cricket, poor thing.”

“So this is not someone you recognize,” said Bäckström. Damn, he thought, glancing at the door behind his back, for there was definitely something here that didn’t add up.

“No,” said the man, devouring Bäckström with his eyes. “I like to have a little something to work with.”

“Let’s take it fucking easy here,” Bäckström shouted, holding up his hand to stop a possible attack. “Fucking easy!”

“I’m calm,” said the man, grinning. “It’s the little cop who is upset.”

What a fucking place, thought Bäckström, taking a deep breath as soon as he had escaped onto the street again. And just as he was standing there breathing out, that fucking Lars Martin Johansson came striding down the street with some dark broad on his arm. What the hell is he doing here? thought Bäckström confused. And if he was on his way here, this is no place you’d drag a broad to, is it?

Johansson stopped and looked at him, and for whatever reason Bäckström suddenly remembered that some of his colleagues in police headquarters called him the “Butcher from Ådalen.” Safest to lie low, thought Bäckström.

“Good evening, Bäckström,” said Johansson, and he was grinning too, the bastard. “Are you out cultivating your more sensitive side?” Johansson nodded meaningfully toward the closed door behind Bäckström’s back.

Bäckström collected himself lightning fast.

“Murder investigation,” Bäckström said curtly. “We’re working on a gay murder right now.” Bäckström nodded to give further emphasis to what he had just said.

“Yes, I thought I saw something in the newspapers,” said Johansson with a sneer. “You’d better take care, Bäckström.” And then the bastard simply nodded and kept going with the girl on his arm. And as if that wasn’t enough, she started giggling violently a little farther down the street, but what Johansson had said to her Bäckström never heard.

Lapp bastard, thought Bäckström with feeling, and then he hailed a taxi and went down to the bar.

Eriksson’s office held lots of papers, neatly arranged in binders, organized chronologically with small labels on the spine indicating what they contained. As far as his extensive stock holdings were concerned, there were twenty or more binders that took up two entire shelves on the bookcase in the office. Binder after binder with sales notes and account statements from his good friend Tischler’s brokerage firm, showing that in recent years he had made hundreds of stock trades large and small, and that he almost always managed to do so at a profit. Large trades with very small margins, and as a rule done in the course of a day.

“The guy seems to have been a real financial genius,” Jarnebring observed. “Buys and sells shares the same day for hundreds of thousands, even millions of kronor, and when he hits the sack in the evening he’s always earned a few thousand-kronor bills. Talk about taking risks.”

“We must have misjudged him,” said Holt smiling. “He seems to have been a real stock exchange matador. Completely unrestrained.”

“I have a friend who works in the fraud unit at the crime bureau,” Jarnebring said meditatively.

“Call him then,” said Holt, “and ask him to come here.”

“Brilliant, Holt,” said Jarnebring. “Then you won’t have to carry sacks of binders to the office.”

The colleague at the fraud unit had nothing better to do. He had been working on the same tax case for the past seven years, so the prosecutor he worked for should allow him a morning off here or there. Besides, he didn’t intend to tell her about it. Within an hour he was sitting at the kitchen table in Eriksson’s apartment, thumbing through his binders while Holt made coffee and Jarnebring snooped around in the victim’s office.

“Coffee’s ready,” said Holt, and evidently the colleague from the fraud unit was too.

“Is it okay to smoke in here?” he asked, nodding toward a crystal ashtray on the kitchen counter.

“Talk,” said Jarnebring, nodding and sipping his fresh-brewed coffee. “Go ahead and smoke,” he said. “I doubt if the corpse will have any objections, and my colleague Holt here is loaded with cigarettes.”