Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“In a way that’s too bad,” she continued. “Someone like you should really have some kind of use for someone like me.”

“I do,” said Johansson.

“In your work I mean,” his wife clarified. “As you’ve certainly already noticed, I would be a very astute detective.”

“Although perhaps a little too eager for discussions,” said Johansson. Be careful not to say “loose-lipped,” he cautioned himself.

“But that would suit you perfectly,” said his wife, looking at him expectantly.

“What do you mean?” said Johansson.

“You’re not exactly talkative,” his wife declared. “In the beginning you were — the first years — but then you got more and more silent, and since you started this new job, well, mute is maybe a harsh word, but you’re almost mute then...”

“I’ll try to pull myself together,” said Johansson. Almost mute — that doesn’t sound good, he thought.

“Good,” she said, leaning forward and taking his hand. “Start by telling me who this famous politician is.”

“Okay then,” said Johansson, throwing out his hands. “If you make coffee, get me a cognac... fluff up the pillows on the couch, and massage my neck while I watch the news on Channel 4, then I promise to tell you who this is about and what it’s about.”

“Are you sure?” said his wife, looking at him. “Do we have a deal here?”

“Definitely,” said Johansson. “You arrange coffee, cognac, neck massage, and pillow fluffing, and I’ll tell you who it’s about.”

“Okay,” said his wife, “but I want a down payment before I go along with the deal.”

“Dost Akbar,” said Johansson as he lowered his voice and leaned across the kitchen table, “member of a secret society known as the Gang of Four.”

“Nice try,” said Johansson’s wife, “but no deal. I’ve read The Sign of the Four by Conan Doyle too.”

“Maybe you should become a police officer anyway,” said Johansson. “I know — apply to the police academy. You’re never too old to apply to the police academy.” Wasn’t that what they said in those recruiting ads he used to see in the newspapers?

“I’m just fine at the bank. I had enough of the public sector when I worked at the post office,” she said curtly, shaking her head. “I’ll make coffee, you fluff up the pillows, you can get your cognac yourself — have I mentioned you’re drinking too much cognac, by the way?”

“Eat too much, drink too much, exercise too little, talk too little — yeah, that sounds familiar.” Johansson nodded in confirmation. I’ll have to do something about that, by the way, he thought. What if he were to start on Monday, it being the first Monday of a new month? Maybe that would be a good day, because starting over the weekend was inconceivable.

“Good,” said his wife. “Then I won’t nag you. Now let’s celebrate the weekend, and if we have to watch TV then I want the remote control.”

“No flipping,” said Johansson. Don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t flip between channels.

“Exactly,” said his wife, nodding.

“Heavens,” said Johansson contentedly, letting his Norrland dialect break through as he said it. Now let’s observe the Sabbath. Just like a typical weekend evening in the log cabin without liquor, food, and TV, he thought.

“Try and talk to me instead,” said Johansson’s wife, looking at him urgently. “You won’t die from it — I promise.”

Sometimes I miss my solitude, thought Johansson. Not right now, but sometimes. But he couldn’t talk about that in any event.

Holt was already at work by quarter to eight, but she still wasn’t the first to arrive. When she stepped into the corridor she could hear the diligent pecking from Mattei’s keyboard.

“There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen,” Mattei called without turning around.

“Do you think it’s too early to call Johansson?” Holt asked hesitantly.

“Johansson,” said Mattei with surprise. “He’s from Norrland and a hunter, so I’m guessing he’s the type who gets up in the middle of the night.”

Johansson was sitting in the kitchen at home on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan reading the second of the two morning papers. In the past he’d been content with Dagens Nyheter , even if he would have preferred Norrländska Socialdemokraten , where at least they could write comprehensibly and had something important to say, but since taking the new job he suddenly and quite unexpectedly received a free subscription to Svenska Dagbladet , so nowadays he read two morning papers instead of one. He turned down the free subscription of course, and instead he paid for the paper himself.

Clever accountants over at Svenskan ’s marketing department, Johansson thought as he scrutinized their stock listings to see how his investments were doing. Just as he was noting that both Skanska and Sandvik stood like solid rocks in a time of change, his phone rang. Holt, thought Johansson.

“Johansson,” he answered. Maybe a little more abrupt than necessary, he thought.

“Anna Holt. I hope I’m not waking you, Boss.” He woke up on the wrong side of the bed, she thought.

“No,” said Johansson. “I assume you’re calling to tell me that you’ve connected Stein with Eriksson.”

“Has Martinez called?” Holt asked with surprise. Must be Linda, she thought, wherever she was hiding herself.

“I’m a cop,” said Johansson, sounding extremely abrupt. “You’re the only one who has called.”

“I see,” said Holt, who had a hard time concealing her surprise. “I was just wondering if—”

“Here’s a little homework assignment for you,” said Johansson, who suddenly sounded considerably more cheerful. “Start by thinking about how often you’ve called me at home before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, and then about what I said to you yesterday.”

“I think I get it,” said Holt. “Yes, I’ve placed them together on the morning of the day he was murdered.”

“So now you want to get her fingerprints to see if you can place her in his apartment,” Johansson surmised.

“Yes,” said Holt. Now he sounds more like what I’d heard about him, thought Holt. Obviously mornings are the best time to talk with him.

“Where are the prints you want to compare hers to?” asked Johansson.

“At homicide,” said Holt. “On the handle of the kitchen knife, and the best of them were left in Eriksson’s blood.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Johansson. What do I do if they’re Stein’s fingerprints?

“April Fool,” said Holt, sounding rather upbeat herself. “Sorry, Boss, I couldn’t help myself. Kidding aside. On the kitchen counter and on the inside of the door under the sink.”

They’re like children, thought Johansson, but naturally he wouldn’t dream of saying that to a female coworker who was a decade younger than he was. No one’s that dense. Not me in any case, thought Johansson.

“So what’s the problem?” asked Johansson. The kitchen counter and the door under the sink will have to do, he thought.

“Is it okay?” Holt wondered.

“Do like we always do,” said Johansson curtly. “Is Martinez there?”

“She’s on her way in,” said Holt.

“Ask her to arrange it,” said Johansson. “Linda’s a whiz at that sort of thing.” I can tell you, he thought, because that’s why I hired her.

When Holt went into the break room the first person she encountered was Martinez, who was gulping down a large glass of water with audible enjoyment.

“Ahh,” said Martinez, wiping her mouth with the back of her sweater sleeve.