Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“But,” said Holt noncommittally.

“But this time it seems to me that he actually is wrong,” said Jarnebring.

“What do you mean?” said Holt.

“What I mean is that just this once it suddenly seems to me that if we can only figure out why Eriksson was murdered then we’re also going to find who did it,” said Jarnebring. “Simple and obvious and in the twinkling of an eye we just go pick him up.”

“You think so,” said Holt.

“Yes,” Jarnebring repeated. “And do you know what’s even more annoying?”

“No,” said Holt. “Tell me.”

“I’m convinced we’ve already stumbled across our perpetrator, but we’ve simply missed him,” said Jarnebring.

“But there isn’t anyone,” said Holt with surprise. “Not Welander, Tischler, or Eriksson’s cleaning woman or—”

“Of course’s there’s someone,” Jarnebring interrupted. “It’s just that we haven’t seen him. It’s no more difficult than that.”

Up at the homicide squad they celebrated Lucia Day according to ancient custom, and during the rest of the day, also according to custom, not much was accomplished. With the exception of Gunsan, who was diligently active at her computer, most of the staff seemed to have sought isolation in their offices.

The flame of diligence was not shining with any marked intensity among the detective squad either. True, Jarnebring had seemed chipper enough when he arrived in the morning, but then he excused himself with a “I have to help the guys with something” and that’s the way it was.

Which left a somewhat listless Holt, who even before lunch was starting to feel the effects of the Lucia celebration at Nicke’s day care, and mostly for lack of anything better was going through the box with Eriksson’s telephone book, photo album, and other private notes.

If the perpetrator is here he’s hidden himself well, Holt thought gloomily, for she had a hard time letting go of what Jarnebring had said when they had been talking the day before. It would be simplest to go through the victim’s notes with someone who knew him, thought Holt, and because it was Bäckström who was the boss and careful about police etiquette, he was the one she would have to ask for permission.

Bäckström sounded surly and distant. But sure, if she wanted to waste her life on that kind of shit then he wasn’t going to stop her. True, he had personally investigated the whole matter, but if that had escaped her... then sure.

“Don’t forget to look extra carefully from A to Y ,” said Bäckström. “On the other hand, you can forget about Z .”

“ A to Y ,” said Holt.

“Yes, in his telephone book. From anal acrobat on up. Look extra carefully under B, F, G, H, P, Q, R, S and—”

“I hear what you’re saying,” Holt interrupted guardedly.

“As in butt-surfer, fairy, gay boy, homophile, pederast, queen, rump gnome, sausage prince... and under V... V as in Vaseline. Call me right away if you find anything,” said Bäckström, who suddenly sounded a good deal more energetic.

“Thanks for the tip,” said Holt, hanging up the receiver. That man is not all there, she thought.

She could forget Welander. She spoke with the secretary at his office, and according to her he was away in connection with a feature story he was working on. He would be home right before Christmas. Thanks for that, thought Holt.

She had better luck with Tischler. When she called the number she found in Eriksson’s telephone book, he was the one who answered. Holt explained her business and asked him to suggest a time because he was certainly a very busy man.

“Now,” said Tischler. “Just give me five minutes so I have time to powder my nose. Do you have the address?”

Five minutes later she had arranged a lift with one of the detective squad’s cars, and in another ten minutes she was walking into his office.

“Please have a seat,” said Tischler, pointing to the antique armchair on the other side of his large desk. “Are you Inspector Anna Holt?”

“Yes,” said Holt. Strange man, she thought. Small, balding, at the same time rugged, his body almost square, with completely attentive eyes that looked at her with undisguised appreciation and without seeming to be the least bit embarrassed on that account.

“I’m Theo,” he said. “May I call you Anna?”

“That’s fine,” said Holt, smiling faintly. Watch yourself, Anna, she thought.

“What can I do for you, Anna?” said Tischler. “You can ask whatever you want, and keep in mind that I am immeasurably wealthy, extraordinarily talented, extremely entertaining, and when need be even quite charming.”

“I want you to help me go through these papers,” said Holt, taking out the file box with Eriksson’s telephone book, photo album, and private notes and setting them on his desk.

“That sounds so dreary,” said Tischler, sighing. “But we certainly have to start somewhere, and if it’s Kjell’s private notes that shouldn’t take all of our life together.

“I forgot to ask if you’d like anything to drink,” said Tischler as he glanced quickly through Eriksson’s handwritten notations. “Champagne, wine... perhaps a glass of fresh springwater.”

“Later,” said Holt. He’s rather dashing in his particular way, she thought.

“Ah,” said Tischler. “A ray of hope scatters the darkness around my unhappy, solitary soul, and as far as these notes are concerned,” he continued soberly, “it looks like Kjell’s own compulsive calculations of the most recent deals he’s made with us here at the firm. He has shown me hundreds of similar calculations over the years, and if you go through all those binders in his little office I’m sure you will find corresponding statements from us. And if you just give me a note from the prosecutor I’ll let our computers do it for you at once.”

“This is good enough,” said Holt. “You confirm what I already thought.”

“The harmony of souls,” said Tischler, sighing romantically. “The harmony of souls.”

The telephone book didn’t take much longer than that.

“This number in Hjorthagen was his old mother’s,” Theo explained. “Although she’s been dead for many years.”

“Did you ever meet her?” asked Holt.

“One time I actually ran into her and Kjell in town,” said Tischler. “He was on his way with her to the clinic at Odenplan. The old lady must have been over eighty. She was certainly no spring chicken when she had little Kjell.”

“Did you get any impression of her?” Holt asked.

“Frightful hag,” said Tischler, smiling happily. “I talked with her for only five minutes but that was enough for me.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Holt.

“Let me put it like this,” said Tischler. “She held her little Kjell in a veritable iron grip. If there’s anyone who puts a face on the dominating mother it would have been Kjell’s dear mama. You didn’t need to be a psychologist to understand that. Strong enough that he would still have had her telephone number even though it’s been many years since she died.”

“Do you have any idea who Eriksson’s father was?” Holt asked.

“No,” said Tischler. “If I were to venture a guess, I’d think after the coupling the old lady immediately murdered him and then devoured him.”

“Well then,” said Holt.

When Tischler saw the photo of the gang of four, he looked like a happy little schoolboy. Extremely charming, thought Holt.

“This is me, Sten, and Kjell. The little lady in braids is my delightful cousin — this must have been during her Pippi Longstocking period — and the photo was taken at the family’s so-called summer paradise out on Värmdö — an establishment completely in August Strindberg’s taste as far as family relationships are concerned.”