Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

For that reason he also had to wander between brief temporary positions as police chief filling in for whichever colleague had most recently bit the dust, as well as serve on more and more study commissions and accept recurring assignments as an expert in the Ministry of Justice and the prime minister’s office. He had certainly not lacked for work, and for the past few months he had been sitting in the Ministry of Justice with a new investigation that Jarnebring had only heard rumors about, despite the extensive police station gossip.

“Tell me, how are things in the corridors of power? Or is it secret?” said Jarnebring with curiosity as soon as they had finished the first schnapps with the baked anchovies au gratin their Italian restaurateur served as an appetizer. Presumably for lack of herring, but damned good anyway, thought Jarnebring.

“It’s not really a secret,” said Johansson in his contemplative Norrland dialect. “You only have to watch TV or read the papers. Although this one came up a bit quickly of course.”

One month earlier the Iron Curtain had suddenly been raised with a bang, just like when you fiddle with an old-fashioned window shade that has stuck. On any TV channel whatsoever in the Western world you could follow, day after day, the stream of refugees from the former Soviet satellite states who were pouring westward and the story about how the inhabitants of the former East Berlin had torn down the wall with their own hands.

“The socialist paradise,” said Jarnebring, smiling contentedly. “Can you imagine how wrong it turned out.”

“Oh well,” said Johansson. “The idea was good in and of itself, and you hardly needed the gift of prophecy to realize that sooner or later something like this would happen. But maybe it went a little fast. A little too fast for my taste,” said Johansson. He smiled and shook his head, seeming despite everything rather contented.

“Yes, up till now we seem to have managed,” said Jarnebring, who preferred not to wind up in any political quarrel with his best friend despite the fact that he certainly was the closet social democrat the majority of his colleagues suspected. “Those Eastern Bloc hooligans we’ve taken in seem mostly to have shoplifted at NK and Åhléns.”

“Yes,” said Johansson. “Although a few of us have an idea that this might be different.”

Continuing along that track they talked politics far into the marinated pork with garlic and pesto that was their entrée, and it was only when Johansson asked what Jarnebring himself was up to now that the conversation returned to normal.

“Now let’s forget about politics,” Johansson decided. “Tell me! What are you doing these days?”

“I’m in the middle of a murder investigation,” said Jarnebring, and just as he said that he saw the momentary regret in his best friend’s eyes.

“I would happily trade with you,” said Johansson. “If it’s not Palme, of course,” he added quickly and smiled. “I have had enough of that mess as it is. I could keep investigating colleagues until I was put in my grave.”

“No, God help me,” said Jarnebring. “No, this is a completely regular Joe Six-Pack, apart from the fact that he seems to have been a nasty character. But it’s hardly the first time.”

“Sounds good,” said Johansson. “Joe Six-Pack and a real character. If I haven’t forgotten everything I learned it sounds a lot like something we usually clear up.” Why don’t I do something smart with my career too? he thought suddenly.

“There are certain problems, however,” said Jarnebring, leaning forward.

“Tell me,” said Johansson. “Start with the biggest one and don’t make things unnecessarily complicated,” he added, suddenly looking rather pleased.

“Bäckström,” said Jarnebring with a sneer.

“Bäckström,” said Johansson. “Do you mean Bäckström at homicide?”

“One and the same,” said Jarnebring. “Bäckström is the leader of the investigation.”

“Sweet Jesus,” said Johansson with feeling. “I ran into that nitwit the other evening, by the way. He came flying out of that club, you know, that’s farther down on the street where I live, and if it hadn’t been him I would have thought he was involved in indecent activities.”

“He has the idea that this is a so-called gay murder,” said Jarnebring.

“I seem to recall he mentioned that too,” Johansson recalled. “Why does he think that? Because it’s Bäckström, or is there any factual reason?”

“There is a noticeable lack of women in the vicinity of the victim,” said Jarnebring. “So the thought even occurred to me—”

“But,” said Johansson, leaning closer too.

“I have the wrong feeling in my fingertips,” said Jarnebring, holding up his big right hand and rubbing his thumb against his fingers. “In gloomy moments I get the idea that this is more complicated than that.”

“Aye, aye, aye,” said Johansson, shaking his head in warning. “Watch yourself carefully now, Jarnie. Don’t complicate things. Never, never complicate things.”

“I get the idea this isn’t about sex at all,” said Jarnebring.

“What is it about then?” asked Johansson.

“Money,” said Jarnebring. “What do you think about money?”

“Money is good,” Johansson agreed. “Intoxication and ordinary insanity are best, then comes sex, and then comes money. Money is not bad at all,” said Johansson, who for some reason raised his wineglass as he smiled and nodded.

“Although my new colleague thinks that it could be more about power. Well, not political power but power over people that you know and mostly for power’s own sake. It’s a woman of course.”

“Imagine that,” said Johansson delightedly, for this had just been his own thought.

“Yes indeed,” said Jarnebring. “Although when I was on my way here I got the idea that maybe she’s right. This victim of ours is actually a really strange little creep. Not anyone I’d want to share an office with.”

“Is she good-looking?” asked Johansson. “Your new colleague, is she good-looking?”

“Yes,” said Jarnebring. “You might say so, a little too thin for my taste maybe... but sure.”

Of course she is, he thought. Anna Holt was a very enticing woman, and the fact that she wasn’t his type wasn’t exactly her fault.

“Thin women are an abomination,” Johansson decided, although he had never met Jarnebring’s new colleague. “What do you think about a little dessert, by the way?”

For dessert they had almond torte. Johansson had some kind of sweet Italian dessert wine, but because Jarnebring did not drink wine on principle and could not really have yet another beer, not with almond torte, he jumped the gun with an ample cognac. As the waiter set it down in front of him he decided that now it was high time to let the marital bomb explode. Johansson seemed to be in a splendid mood — he always was when he got to sit and talk about some old murder that he was now too fine to investigate — and personally Jarnebring felt both calm and collected despite the fact that this was a very serious story. A life-changing step, Jarnebring thought solemnly.

It turned out completely wrong. It was his own fault, and it lay in the fact that he got the idea he should warm Johansson up further, despite the fact that things were fine as they were.

“You seem damned chipper, by the way,” said Jarnebring. “It’s almost as if you’ve lost a few pounds. Have you started working out?” Oh well, thought Jarnebring, the things you won’t do for your best friend.

“Working out,” said Johansson with surprise.

“Your fist,” Jarnebring clarified, nodding toward Johansson’s left hand, which was adorned with an ample adhesive bandage around his ring finger. “I thought you’d caught your little fist in a barbell.”