Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“Oh that,” said Johansson self-assuredly, holding up a hand that in size could almost compare with his best friend’s. “Depends on what you mean by little... no... not an exercise injury exactly... It’s more like it concerns my heart, I guess.”

“You haven’t been sick, have you?” said Jarnebring, exerting himself not to show how worried he had suddenly become. “I’ve told you, you have to think about getting some exercise.” Advice which of course you’ve completely ignored, he thought.

“Never felt better,” said Johansson, pulling away the adhesive bandage and showing the broad gold ring on his left ring finger. “I just didn’t want to spoil your appetite, so I decided to wait until we were through eating.”

“Huh,” Jarnebring exclaimed. “Are you engaged?” What the hell is happening? he thought in confusion. Is this Candid Camera or what?

“No,” said Johansson, shaking his head contentedly. “I got married.” Engagements are for the cowardly and irresolute, he thought, but naturally he would never dream of saying that to his best friend, who more or less made a habit of getting engaged to avoid taking the great, life-changing step.

“You got married?” Jarnebring repeated with equal emphasis on every word and syllable in that short question.

“Yes,” said Johansson, with manly firmness.

“Is it anyone I know, a colleague?” This is not true. Say that it’s not true, thought Jarnebring.

“No,” said Johansson. “No one you know, not a colleague.”

“When did you meet her then?” asked Jarnebring incredulously.

“Fourteen days ago,” said Johansson with delight.

“Fourteen days ago? Are you pulling my leg?” In his haste Jarnebring was about to treat his best friend to the same look that he normally reserved for the worst sort of hooligans.

“I talked to her briefly a few years ago; it was in the line of duty,” Johansson said evasively. “But then I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her until I ran into her down at the grocery store fourteen days ago and then we got married a week ago. I actually called to tell you but you weren’t home.”

This is not true, thought Jarnebring. What the hell do I do now?

Jarnebring did not get home until the wee hours and he wasn’t sober, not drunk either for that matter, but rather considerably sloshed.

“You seem to have had a good time,” his impending wife giggled.

“Yeah,” said Jarnebring, sounding even more absent than he felt.

“Did you tell him about us?” asked his impending wife curiously.

What the hell do I say now? thought Jarnebring, and suddenly, when he needed it the most, his poor head was completely empty.

“No,” said Jarnebring. It’s as though there never was the right time for it, he thought.

This time Bäckström took no chances. He personally called Tischler’s secretary and set up a time for a meeting on Monday morning, and as he was sitting in the taxi on his way there with his tape recorder as his only companion, he congratulated himself on getting rid of that grinning idiot Alm.

The interview was held at Tischler’s lavish office, and their conversation flowed easily and was unforced as happens so often when two men of the world meet to converse with one another, allowing for the fact that in this case they had gathered their experiences from somewhat varying spheres of human activity, Bäckström philosophized.

Tischler proved to be a pleasant fellow. He was sitting in shirtsleeves with his collar unbuttoned, tie loosened, and dressed in wide red suspenders where he evidently placed his flat thumbs while he pondered. A rugged, slightly balding man in his prime, certainly accustomed to being in the thick of things and not completely unlike himself, thought Bäckström. Not reminiscent in the slightest of that pansy he had met at the TV station the week before.

In contrast to Welander, Tischler was also both frank and open, confirming in all essentials what Bäckström had already understood from the very start, and he was not one to toss out a lot of rubbish in Latin either. When Bäckström brought up the subject of Eriksson’s sexual orientation, Tischler winked at Bäckström, leaned back in his leathered desk chair, and almost compassionately shook his head.

“I can imagine what Sten said. It can’t be easy to work at a place where the hags wear both trousers and skirts.”

Then he quoted an Icelandic saga.

“I’m sure you know what the Icelandic Vikings said: One thing I know that never dies... the reputation of a dead man. That’s the unvarnished truth,” Tischler declared.

Personally he could very well imagine that Eriksson lived a secret life in his own little closet, but because he did not understand the sort of people who had such inclinations he didn’t waste his time wondering about their motives or how they arranged their business.

“I’ve been to his home a few times and seen how he lives.” Tischler smiled wryly and wiggled the palm of his hand a little. “Not really my taste, if you know what I mean.”

“You don’t have the name of anyone he may have spent time with?” Bäckström asked carefully.

Tischler shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Kjell was a secretive type, so if he was doing any butt-surfing at home in the bedroom then I’m sure he was careful to pull down the shades first.”

An amusing fellow, and rich as a troll, Bäckström thought with delight.

Then Bäckström naturally brought up Eriksson’s finances, and there was nothing strange there at all according to Tischler. It was clear that he was the one who had helped Eriksson. No big deal about that either, and he had done it despite the fact that Eriksson had really been Welander’s friend to begin with. If he could help someone with such simple means then he made no distinction between friends and those who were only friends of a friend.

“You shouldn’t exaggerate the level of difficulty,” said Tischler. “Up to this point in the eighties the companies on the Swedish stock exchange have increased in value by almost a thousand percent. That’s what you would have earned if you had closed your eyes and thrown a dart at the stock exchange list. Personally I usually squint a little with one eye,” said Tischler, “so those companies that we’ve worked with here at the firm have doubtless improved on that.”

Why am I not a buddy of this man? thought Bäckström with genuine regret.

“Kjell was a rather frugal type, if I may say so,” Tischler continued, grinning. “When he came to me about ten years ago he had scraped together ten, twenty thousand that he had in a savings account — watch out for savings accounts, by the way, because they’re pure robbery. I loaned him some money and bought a few shares for him. Of course he had to leave those as security — and then I guess it has just rolled on from there. We have bank confidentiality at this place, but if you just pick up the papers from the prosecutor, I’ll tell my coworkers to give you a proper analysis of his finances.”

It would be better if you loaned me some money and gave me some good tips, thought Bäckström, and for a brief moment he even thought about asking Tischler flat out.

“That probably won’t be necessary,” he said instead. “It’s not that he’s suspected of anything.”

“It’s never a mistake to have a little money,” Tischler grunted, looking as though he knew what he was talking about. “You and I both know what women cost... and without knowing about it in detail — I haven’t seen this with my own eyes — then I imagine that if one were to prefer little boys in sailor suits that’s not free either.”