Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

On Wednesday the twenty-seventh of December, Wiijnbladh received a courier package from the National Laboratory of Forensic Science in Linköping. In it was the hand towel that his colleague Bäckström had found at the bottom of the laundry basket in Eriksson’s apartment on Rådmansgatan.

With the package also came a written report that confirmed what Wiijnbladh had already figured out by using his nose, namely that someone had vomited in the hand towel. Knowing that a relatively short time before vomiting this individual evidently had consumed a meal consisting of fish, potatoes, vegetables, and a cup of coffee would scarcely advance the investigation, thought Wiijnbladh. Nor would the findings that the hand towel also bore traces of a lot of chemical rubbish that no normal person would have the faintest idea about, but that he, through practical experience, knew was always found on hand towels and similar places where people dried themselves off.

Stuck-up academics. What use are such people in the police department? thought Wiijnbladh sourly, setting both the package and the report aside. He himself had more important things to do. For some time he had been gathering considerable information about the element thallium. Unfortunately this research was still only theoretical and thereby unusable in a purely practical sense, but soon... soon, thought Wiijnbladh, it would be time to take the next step.

Criminal Inspector Bo Jarnebring went to work on Wednesday morning and would be filling in as the on-duty chief inspector until the day before New Year’s Eve, after which he had requested vacation to make the life-changing move and enter into marriage with his beloved fiancée. He had forgiven his best friend for secretly getting there ahead of him, and police superintendent Lars Martin Johansson and his spouse would be witnesses and honored guests at the wedding.

Jarnebring had not given further thought to the now dormant investigation of the murder of Kjell Göran Eriksson. Naturally he’d heard the story about Bäckström, who had unfortunately saved his skin owing to Danielsson’s bad knees; it was already a classic in the Kronoberg block. Jarnebring had even called Danielsson to offer his own legs in the event Danielsson considered it necessary to try again. Even though it had been more than twenty years since he last represented Sweden on the national team in the four-hundred-meter relay, he did not think catching Bäckström would pose any serious problems.

“On one condition,” Danielsson had chuckled. “That you just catch the bastard for me. I want to tear him apart myself.”

Because there was a lot to do despite the Christmas week lull, Jarnebring had lunch at the restaurant in the courtyard of police headquarters. It was basically empty, so he chose a table in a far corner where he could leaf through the newspaper in peace and quiet with his coffee. As he was sitting there an older colleague who worked with the patrol cars came up and asked if he might sit down and exchange a few words.

Wasn’t his name Stridh? thought Jarnebring, searching in his memory files. He never forgot a face but it was starting to take longer to come up with the names.

“Stridh,” said Stridh and sat down. “We met when you were the head of the bureau at Östermalm, if you remember that.”

“Have a seat,” said Jarnebring, nodding at a vacant chair.

Stridh had an errand. Jarnebring had figured that out even before his colleague sat down, but it had taken a good deal of hemming and hawing and beating around the bush before he spit it out.

“Do you remember our colleague Persson who worked in break-ins, who went to SePo later?” Stridh asked.

Do I remember? thought Jarnebring, nodding. A real policeman and one of the surliest colleagues he’d ever met.

“I remember him,” said Jarnebring. “Why do you ask?”

“I had a visit from him last week,” said Stridh, leaning forward as he said this. “Strange,” he added, shaking his head.

“I’m listening,” said Jarnebring, setting aside his newspaper.

Stridh twisted uncomfortably and looked around.

“Actually I can’t say anything,” said Stridh, “but I thought I should talk to you anyway.”

Do it then, thought Jarnebring, even if he wouldn’t have done it if he had been in Stridh’s place and Persson had told him to keep his mouth shut. Persson was not the type you did that sort of thing to, thought Jarnebring.

“Am I suspected of spying?” Jarnebring asked, grinning.

“No, not at all,” said Stridh deprecatingly. “It wasn’t about you at all.”

“What did he want then?” said Jarnebring. I don’t have all day, he thought.

“He wanted to talk about the West German embassy,” said Stridh. “Yes, you were there too, I guess,” he added. “Didn’t you almost get shot by the way?”

“People talk a lot of shit,” said Jarnebring.

“Yes, that was a dreadful story,” said Stridh, almost looking as though he was thinking out loud.

“What does this have to do with me?” asked Jarnebring. There must still be a hundred officers here in the building who were there at the West German embassy, he thought.

“Nothing so far as I understand,” said Stridh, shaking his head. “It was about another matter. That homosexual murder on the thirtieth of November,” said Stridh. “Isn’t that your investigation?”

“Bäckström’s,” said Jarnebring curtly. It’s just senseless how much shit gets talked about here in the building, he thought. “It’s Bäckström’s investigation. If you want to talk about it, then he’s the one you should take it up with. I’ve been taken off the case.”

“Bäckström,” said Stridh hesitantly. “Isn’t that a real misfortune?”

“Do Turks have brown eyes?” said Jarnebring, smiling.

“I know what you mean,” said Stridh, and he smiled too. “Although I actually read somewhere that lots of Turks have blue or gray eyes.

Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

No, thought Jarnebring.

“What can I help you with?” said Jarnebring briefly, sneaking a glance at the clock to be on the safe side.

“Here I sit taking up your time,” said Stridh, shaking his head. “Most of what you hear is just gossip,” he continued. “But this is still not cleared up... that murder from the thirtieth of November I mean,” Stridh clarified.

“No,” said Jarnebring. If it had been, I’d have heard about it, he thought.

“Was he homosexual then,” asked Stridh, “the victim, that is?”

“People talk too much,” said Jarnebring, shrugging his shoulders, “but if you ask our colleague Bäckström, he has no doubt had that thought.”

“Him, yes,” said Stridh. “But what about you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Jarnebring.

Stridh sighed again and looked almost unhappy.

“You don’t think it was something political then?” Stridh asked carefully.

Political, thought Jarnebring. “What do you mean?” he asked. What is this guy after? he thought.

“Whatever. Let’s forget it,” Stridh said, shaking his head deprecatingly.

I see, thought Jarnebring, looking at the clock. We’ll forget it. What’s five minutes when you have an entire life, he thought.

“Well,” said Stridh, sighing. “That West German business was a shocking story. They were caught napping out there at the embassy. The ones who worked there I mean.”

“Yes,” said Jarnebring. “I guess it was all a little too easy for my taste.”

“It was in the newspapers that the guys at SePo had received a tip long before that something was up,” said Stridh. “But apparently the Germans didn’t pay attention.”