Юнас Юнассон - The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

And then he placed his Swedish diplomatic passport on the table.

The woman looked at it. Then opened it. At first, she said nothing. Then: ‘And a steady income? You must understand, sir, that—’

‘Naturally I have not taken an income in Sweden,’ said Julius, who felt that he was really getting into the swing of it. ‘Please search for me in the Bank of Investments in the Seychelles, and I’m sure you will find what you’re after.’

Fortunately for Julius, the woman capitulated at once. He had made up the name of the bank, and he couldn’t have spelled ‘Seychelles’ if she’d asked.

‘I believe I understand the dilemma, sir,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Please hurry, I’m jetlagged,’ said Julius. ‘Just back from a quick trip to the Swedish embassy in New York. I mean Washington.’

She spoke with her boss for under a minute. However odd it was for a diplomat to wish to reside in Rosengård, the housing authority would welcome him. Furthermore, it was a feather in their cap.

‘We’ve decided to overlook the fact that you can’t provide proof of income, Mr Diplomat. You’re welcome to rent the unit in question for three months’ advance rent. That’s not too much, I hope?’

The two-bedroom apartment was on the first floor of a five-storey building. One room for Allan, one for Julius and Sabine, a kitchen, and a living room that would function as a location for séances and spiritual exercises. They bought furniture second-hand; it took two full hearse-loads before everything was at home. Prior to this, Julius and Sabine had carried the white coffin with red roses into the apartment, under cover of darkness.

‘It looks nice in the séance room,’ Sabine said, pleased.

‘I can’t decide where I want to sleep,’ said Allan. ‘There are blinds in my room, but on the other hand I’ll miss the coffin. Then again, I can always close the lid…’

‘You will sleep in the bed we bought for you,’ said Sabine. ‘With the door closed.’

When it was a weekday again, Inspector Viktor Bäckman with the Märsta police contacted his colleague Holmlund in Eskilstuna, who didn’t even have the energy to be surprised when he heard that the coffin people had been shot at. In fact, he felt a certain amount of sympathy for the perpetrator. Consequently, he answered his colleague’s questions politely and accurately and wished him good luck.

Allan Karlsson, Julius Jonsson, Sabine Jonsson.

Viktor Bäckman absorbed this new information.

Two were members of the Swedish diplomatic corps. At least two had also been involved with the coffin shop in Märsta. Which had been fired upon with at least sixty shots. Whereafter the diplomats had not reported the incident to the police, but taken off for Eskilstuna, only to land at a traffic checkpoint. With one of the three lying in a coffin. Extremely alive.

What was going on?

None of the three was suspected of any crime, but Inspector Bäckman wished to question them for information.

Sabine Jonsson and Allan Karlsson were listed as living at the same address as the shop in Märsta, while Julius Jonsson had, earlier that day, listed himself at an apartment in Malmö. A visit for clarification purposes was in order. But first he wanted to finish digging through what was available for digging.

Viktor Bäckman elected not to contact the Security Service; they never responded to the regular police’s questions anyway. Instead he called the Ministry for Foreign Affairs to confirm that there truly were diplomats by the names of Allan Emmanuel Karlsson and Julius Jonsson, no middle name.

The inspector was transferred from the operator to someone else and then another someone else. Then he had to wait one minute, and then another three. At last his call was taken.

‘Margot Wallström, how may I be of service?’

Inspector Bäckman was perfectly astonished, but recovered quickly. He began by apologizing for bothering the minister for foreign affairs; that had not been his intention. It was just that he needed to confirm two identities, those of Diplomats Karlsson and Jonsson.

It wasn’t as if Margot Wallström picked up the phone for each incoming call to the ministry, but her ears had pricked up when Karlsson and Jonsson’s names began bouncing off the walls and the civil servants couldn’t find them in the system. She found it best to break in before anything unmanageable broke out.

‘I can confirm that those gentlemen exist and that they are diplomats,’ said Margot Wallström. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘No, no,’ said Inspector Bäckman. ‘Just that someone seems to have shot at them with an automatic weapon, and they have been missing ever since.’

Margot Wallström was immediately struck by a vision of her career falling to pieces. Should she have left those strange beings to their fate in Pyongyang? No, no matter what was happening now. The alternative would have been that Kim Jong-un risked being supplied with more powerful weapons than he already had. That must be of more value than…

‘What did you say? Shot at them? Did they shoot back?’

Inspector Bäckman explained in greater detail. The diplomats hadn’t fired any shots. Neither was there any indication that they had been harmed. However, eight coffins had been perforated. Plus a laptop.

The story was as unbelievable as its main characters. A good offence is the best defence, Margot Wallström thought, praying to a higher power that she would land on her feet.

‘Bäckman, is that the name? Great. First, I will tell you, Inspector Bäckman, that in my capacity as minister for foreign affairs I have no intention of doing your job for you. If Diplomats Karlsson and Jonsson are under suspicion of any crime, it is certainly your right – or, rather, duty – to investigate further. If not, I have a bit of discreet information to share.’

Inspector Bäckman reiterated that, for the moment, the gentlemen were not suspected of anything, but that he would appreciate the opportunity to speak to them.

‘Unfortunately I can’t help you there,’ said Margot Wallström. ‘The last time I saw either of them was during a secret meeting with President Trump in New York. You are, of course, free, Inspector, to do whatever you see fit with that information. But I will permit myself to hope that you keep it to yourself, in the name of world peace.’

Viktor Bäckman regretted his call to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. Margot Wallström had just placed the responsibility for world peace at his feet, and that was more than he would wish upon his worst enemy. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Madame Minister,’ he said. ‘Once again, since the diplomat gentlemen are not suspected of any crime, I have no reason to begin a search for them. May I just take the opportunity to ask if you might have any suspicion about who would have shot at them?’

The truth was, Margot Wallström had no idea. ‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘But I would consider checking with President Trump and Secretary General Guterres to see if they know. Shall I ask either of them to contact you, Inspector, if it turns out that they do?’

She was taking a chance. But it worked.

‘Oh, shit, no,’ Viktor Bäckman let slip.

Enough was enough! Viktor Bäckman was recently engaged. He and his girlfriend were planning a golfing trip to Portugal. In his free time he coached a girls’ football team for Märsta IK, which, the previous autumn, had found success in the Märsta Games tournament. Once a week he attended an evening class in leadership and organizational theory, in the low-key hope that this would help him secure a promotion in the future. On the last Saturday of each month he and the guys met for an evening of beer and poker.