“Thank you for joining us, police inspector.”
I’m going to kill you bastards, thought Bäckström.
Oredsson and his comrades had been sitting at a table only a few yards from the bar and they had seen the whole thing. Wonder if he thinks like we do? thought Oredsson. Everything I’ve heard about him seems to add up, and we work at the same place. He felt the excitement growing in his chest.
When Bäckström came out on Kungsgatan it was snowing. Large white flakes floating like moist reminders, unclear of what, from the great infinity up there. Suddenly he started weeping. Hell. He was weeping like a little bastard, like a fucking hag. Bastards, he thought. I’m going to kill those bastards.
“I’m going to kill you bastards,” Bäckström roared straight out toward the empty street and a passing taxi. What fucking people, what a fucking society, and what a fucking life they’re living, he thought.
[SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 24]
Johansson devoted Sunday to writing out his statement on the two missed murder victims. He weighed every word with utmost care, and as such things took their sweet time, it was already seven o’clock in the evening when he returned to his apartment. After that he prepared a simple meal, read a book in English about the international narcotics trade, and at midnight he was sleeping deeply, according to already long-established routine.
You’re starting to get old, thought Jarnebring gloomily as he leafed through the papers on John P. Krassner’s death. The night before, everything had gone without a hitch. They hadn’t even had to dance with each other, but instead had sat at a table in the quietest corner available, while her friend excused herself and slipped away with a well-known local stud from the Södermalm riot squad. Then he had gone home with her. They had walked the whole way in spite of the fact that she lived way up at Gärdet, and when they were finally standing in her doorway there was only one decision he needed to make.
She smiled at him but in her eyes there was another, more evaluating expression.
“Well,” she said, giggling. “What do we do? Will you come up and have a cup of tea? Are you going home? Or do you want more time to think it over?”
First he had considered using having to work the next day as an excuse. Instead he shook his head.
“I’m going home,” answered Jarnebring. “It may be that I’ve got a big hole in my head, but considering… well, I’m sure you know… so I guess I’ll go home.”
She had had difficulty concealing her surprise. Then she had shrugged her shoulders, smiled at him, leaned over, and given him a kiss right on the mouth.
“Suit yourself,” she said and disappeared through the doorway.
You’re a coward, thought Jarnebring as he was walking down the street. Or else you’re starting to get old. That thought, however, was so unpleasant that he immediately dismissed it.
Now he was sitting here, behind a desk where he didn’t need to be. Like a male counterpart to Busy Lizzie-and as a chief inspector and boss he didn’t even get overtime. I’m starting to get like Johansson, thought Jarnebring, leafing further in his papers. There are three possibilities, he thought: murder, suicide, or accident.
It seemed extremely unlikely that this was an accident. Krassner was five feet eight inches tall; the window was relatively high up on the wall and well above Krassner’s waist. Besides, it was equipped with a catch, which meant that it could only be opened a few inches. The same window catch that someone had broken loose with force, and the break marks in the wood seemed brand new. It even smelled of wood in the holes from the pulled-out screws. Assume that he’d had a sudden, compulsive need for a breath of fresh air, broken the catch, and leaned out. Even then he shouldn’t have tipped over and fallen out. Forget that, thought Jarnebring, crossing out the third alternative.
Murder or suicide remained. What argued for murder? Nothing, thought Jarnebring. No signs of trespass, no signs of struggle, no known, visible, or even plausible motive, no murder weapon, hardly even any opportunity. What kind of murderer went into a student room and, without a sound or a trace, murdered the person who was living there? Eight small rooms with thin walls crowded along a common corridor, and a potential murderer could scarcely control the fact that Krassner was the only one there when the whole thing happened. You can just forget murder, thought Jarnebring with a slight feeling of regret that he couldn’t help, occupationally injured as he was.
That left suicide, thought Jarnebring, and what argued for that? Everything we’re aware of, he thought, and it’s not our fault that we don’t know too much about Krassner himself. A vacuum that, by the way, Hultman would be filling for him rather soon. He harbored no doubts on that point. Alone in the room, depressed or on a sudden gloomy impulse, he writes a suicide note-that was still the way it had to be interpreted-breaks the window catch, takes a deep breath, and jumps. There were certainly better ways, not least considering those who would have to clean up afterward, but not for Krassner, not this time. No pills had been found that he might have ingested, no knife or other sharp object that would have worked against wrists or neck, no rope to hang himself with, not even a place where he could have fastened the noose. Definitely no firearm.
Suicide, thought Jarnebring and nodded, and now it was only a matter of straightening out three remaining question marks. The first regarded Krassner as an individual. Who was he and what was he actually doing here? Hultman and the embassy will take care of that, and I’ll chew my service revolver if they come up with anything that makes a mess of things for me, thought Jarnebring.
The second concerned Vindel’s testimony about the victim’s mysterious left shoe, which had come tumbling down a good while after Krassner himself and unfortunately killed Vindel’s best friend. An admittedly old Pomeranian, thought Jarnebring, and even if this was punishable, there was no suspect that could be held responsible.
The distance in time from the moment the victim hit the ground to the time his left shoe did was the question they had talked about most when they questioned Vindel. It was a matter of less than a minute, less than half a minute, but it wasn’t a matter of a mere few seconds and Vindel was quite certain on that point.
“Yes, first I just stood there staring. I was in shock, of course, and it took a few seconds for sure, and it’s not really so strange if it seemed longer to me.” Vindel cleared his throat, sighed, and tried again. “Yes. Then I stood there looking at the guy who fell, and it was not a pretty sight, I can assure you, officers. I’ve only seen something like that once before and it was a good many years ago. A buddy of mine at work who fell down from a bridge span and landed in the cargo hold of a working tug anchored in the river under us. It was up at Älvkarleby. We were doing some maintenance work.”
Vindel sighed again and nodded.
“Ten seconds. Say it took ten seconds before Charlie got the shoe on his head.” Vindel snuffled and his eyes became moist.
When they’d left Vindel and were en route to the embassy they’d discussed the mysterious shoe. Hultman had also come up with an explanation that wasn’t too bad.
“Do you recall that crazy who jumped from his private plane and landed in a flower bed out in Hässelby?” asked Hultman.
Jarnebring remembered him, with a wry smile besides, occupationally injured as he was.
“The guy who was buck naked when he landed,” Jarnebring said, nodding.
“I seem to recall that he had one sock on,” said Hultman. “He had those knee-length ones with garters. I seem to recall that he was some kind of executive.”
Jarnebring nodded again. That was right. He too had made note of the garter.