Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“Nice old guy,” Holt giggled when they were in the car en route back to the office. “What do you think? I wonder, by the way, how many times he’s told that hero story for his audience in the officers’ mess.”

A time or two, even if that’s not what it’s really about, thought Jarnebring, but naturally he hadn’t said that to Holt, because she still wouldn’t have understood.

“I don’t think he killed Eriksson, even though he certainly could have managed it,” he said instead. “It’s as though there isn’t space for that, and Eriksson already had a visitor when the old man returned home after having said his Heils for the evening.”

“I get the feeling he knows something,” said Holt.

“Or else it’s just that you don’t like him,” said Jarnebring, who had been around considerably longer than Holt.

“I think he’s holding something back,” Holt persisted.

“Or else he’s just generally delighted that someone got rid of a guy like Eriksson,” Jarnebring countered.

“I still think he’s holding something back,” Holt repeated.

“Possibly,” said Jarnebring. “If that’s so, I don’t think he intends to help by telling us in any event.”

“Gloomy type,” said Holt.

What do you know about that? You were never drafted, were you? thought Jarnebring.

“Where did you do your military service, Holt?” asked Jarnebring, smiling his wolf grin.

Despite what he had promised, Bäckström never had the chance to scare the shit out of anyone this gray afternoon at the beginning of December. When with his colleague Alm in tow he stepped unannounced into Tischler’s tastefully decorated office down at Nybroplan, the receptionist told him that the banker was not available. Because Bäckström wasn’t the type to take no for an answer, he persisted and finally got to speak with Tischler’s own secretary. A stylish woman in her fifties who went well with the decor. She apologized, but the banker himself was in New York at a meeting and was not expected home until Friday morning.

“I know he is very anxious to speak with you gentlemen,” said the secretary. “So I suggest that you call me on Friday at midday, and I will try to arrange a time for you as soon as possible.”

Fucking stuck-up bitch, thought Bäckström. Who the hell do you think you are?

He and Alm did not have much better luck when they visited the TV building on Oxenstiernsgatan where Welander was to be found. The guard in reception paid hardly any attention to their police IDs, and after some negotiating they were at last allowed to talk to yet another secretary, but this time only on the phone. Sten Welander was occupied. He was in an important meeting and could not be disturbed. If they wanted to meet Sten Welander, she suggested they call to arrange a time, and it would surely be fine. After that she simply hung up.

Fucking communist cunt, thought Bäckström. Who the hell do you think you are?

In the car en route back to police headquarters that blockhead Alm started whining and coming up with a lot of suggestions about what they should have done instead.

“I told you, Evert, we should have called ahead,” Blockhead moaned.

Fucking idiot, thought Bäckström. Who the hell do you think you are?

When Alm was about to drive the car down into the garage Bäckström jumped out on the street, hailed a taxi, and went straight home. What a fucking society we live in and what fucking people there are, thought Bäckström, leaning his full weight back against the seat.

As soon as Jarnebring returned to his and his prospective wife’s pleasant little apartment on Kungsholmen he called up his best friend, police superintendent Lars Martin Johansson.

Johansson answered on the first ring and sounded almost elated when he heard who it was.

“Good thing you called, Bo,” said Johansson. “I’ve tried you a few times, but I suppose you’ve been working, as usual.”

“Yes,” said Jarnebring. “There’s been a—”

“What do you think about having a bite to eat on Friday?” interrupted Johansson. “My usual place at seven o’clock. Can you?”

“Yes,” said Jarnebring. “I’d actually been thinking that—”

“Excellent,” said Johansson. “Then that’s settled. I have a few things to tell you.”

I see, thought Jarnebring. Wonder what that could be? He hasn’t heard anything, has he?

Holt was already at work before seven o’clock on Thursday morning. Nicke had spent the night with his dad, who would take him to day care. Holt woke up as usual, showered, had breakfast, and even managed to read the paper in peace and quiet, but when she was done with that she was still an hour ahead of her usual schedule. She went to work, and for lack of anything better to do while she was waiting for Jarnebring, she resumed her investigations of the mysteriously dedicated books she had found in Eriksson’s bookcase.

After half an hour of searching she found the addresses for all four of the recipients of dedication copies that she had been able to identify, and the mystery deepened further.

One of them, a woman born in 1935, had died a few years ago, but her husband was still living in the residence they had shared on Strandvägen. In the year 1974 a far-from-unknown author and member of the Swedish Academy had dedicated his newly published novel to her. The author was still alive, he was considerably older than his now dead “muse,” and the two of them had probably had a relationship at the time he had given her his book.

Oh my goodness, thought Holt, continuing to search in her files.

All the other three recipients lived in the same area. One, now an eighty-year-old bank executive on Narvavägen, had received a book about the Kreuger crash of 1932 written by another well-known financier. An executive on Djurgårdsvägen had received a book about Swedish chapbooks from a historian to whom he had evidently given a research grant. Finally, a very well-known publisher who also lived on Djurgården had received a book of poems from a poet unknown to Holt; the poet did not make a secret of the fact that he was thinking of changing publishers.

One woman and three men, all fine people at fine addresses in the same limited area of Stockholm: Strandvägen, Narvavägen, Djurgården.

This is a real detective mystery, Holt was thinking just as Jarnebring came into the office, his large body positively quivering with zest for work, as can easily happen when you’ve started the day by first, at full throttle and high volume, having sex with the woman you love, and then gobbling down a perfectly formidable breakfast.

“Good morning, Inspector,” said Jarnebring. “Have we captured any suspects yet?”

“Not yet,” Holt replied, quickly hiding her papers under a pile of regular searches.

Why did I do that? she thought.

During the morning they talked with Eriksson’s coworkers again. The tongues of several of them had now loosened, and in all essentials they confirmed what the doorman had already told them, though their choice of words was different. Eriksson had not been a good person. He had been sufficiently bad that none of them had had any desire to associate with him, but at the same time not so terrible that there was any reason to kill him.

“Just an extremely unpleasant person,” one of Eriksson’s female coworkers summarized. “He really did nothing but snoop around.”

None of them had socialized with him, none of them even seemed to have known him outside of work, and none of them had had motive and occasion to bump off Eriksson at home in his own apartment.

How is this possible? No man is an island, thought Holt as they drove back to police headquarters on Kungsholmen.