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“All of his clothes peeled off on the way down from the draft.”

“On that occasion it was a fall of six hundred yards,” said Hultman, “before all his clothes were pulled off. This time we’re talking about fifty yards. Fifty yards ought to be enough to pull off a shoe, shouldn’t it?”

“I think so too,” said Jarnebring, nodding in agreement. “But how do we explain the difference in time? I’ve only seen the shoes in pictures, but they seem to be sturdy things, boots almost. Ought to fall just as fast as a body. If they hadn’t hit… Jarnebring was thinking out loud but Hultman was there first.

“For example, a window ledge or something else on the way down,” Hultman concluded.

“Not at all unlikely,” said Jarnebring.

“Highly probable, if you ask me,” said Hultman.

The third question mark remained. There were four witnesses to the occurrence itself; four known witnesses. First Vindel, then the three who had contacted the command center, and as far as the time was concerned they were of one voice and were quite certainly correct. About four minutes before eight in the evening Krassner had begun his fall, and scarcely four seconds later he hit the ground. Think if you were able to fall free for the time it took to run a hundred yards, thought Jarnebring. That would give the others something to chew on.

In addition there was a fifth witness. A student from South Africa who was living on the same corridor as Krassner. Some time about six-thirty in the evening he had greeted Krassner as the latter was on his way out. They hadn’t spoken with each other, only said hello. Dressed in outdoor clothes, Krassner had then disappeared through the door to the elevators, while the student himself had gone into his room. Half an hour later-approximately-the witness had left the corridor. He was going to meet a girl at seven o’clock at a student restaurant that was in an adjacent building and he was leaving at the last moment.

“Unfortunately I often arrive late, even if it’s someone I like,” he had added with an apologetic smile.

Once out on the street he had almost run into Krassner, who was on his way into the building again. Dressed in the same outdoor clothes, according to the witness’s recollection. Krassner had said hello, shaken his head, and said something in English about a bad memory being good if you wanted to keep your legs in good shape. “A bad memory keeps your legs in good shape.”

“He smiled at me and didn’t appear at all like he was going to rush up and take his own life,” the witness had concluded, and that observation was also his point.

Jarnebring sighed. He goes out at six-thirty. Comes rushing back a half hour later, and less than an hour after that he decides to jump out the window. What is going on? thought Jarnebring, looking out his own window. At least it had stopped snowing, temperature several degrees above freezing, slushy and slippery. An impulse? “No, to hell with this. No more beers at the bar for me. High time I scurry home and jump out the window.” And he’d been happy too, if that black guy was to be believed, thought Jarnebring gloomily. What if I were to phone Lidman? He was a professor, after all, and had written some sort of dissertation about what went on in the heads of all do-it-yourselfers. Jarnebring had heard him give a lecture about his findings, and regardless of the subject he had never listened to such an elated lecturer. Lidman had bubbled with enthusiasm, and the pictures he had shown had been a bit much even for the hardened policemen who made up his audience.

Jarnebring looked up Lidman’s number, phoned him, talked with him for close to half an hour, of which the last five minutes were spent getting him to stop, but when he was finally able to put down the receiver he was in almost as high spirits as Lidman himself. So it wasn’t any more difficult than that, thought Jarnebring contentedly. A rather classic behavior in someone who is just about to take his own life; the only thing that bothered him now was that that wretched Bäckström had come to the same conclusion as himself. Albeit in his own case it had been preceded by thorough and competent police work. How the hell can someone like that become a police officer? thought Jarnebring. Whatever, he thought. Now it was high time to drive home and meet the little lady and perhaps he ought to go by way of Åhléns department store and buy a pound of shrimp and some other foreplay goodies. Jarnebring looked like a badass, talked like a badass, and all too often behaved like a badass, but as a policeman he didn’t leave much to be desired. He was quick, shrewd, efficient, and had the predator’s nose for human weakness. When he left the Östermalm police quarters on Tulegatan, on the afternoon of Sunday, November 24, he was in a really good mood. Suicide, he thought, and just in time for Christmas he would cash out a well-earned mixed case from his old buddy Hultman.

[MONDAY, NOVEMBER 25]

When Lars Martin Johansson’s secretary arrived at work at the National Police Board at eight o’clock on Monday morning her boss had already been sitting behind his desk for more than an hour, and he was in an excellent mood.

“I have a statement here,” Johansson said, handing over a plastic folder with papers. “Three things: I want you to read it, see to it that it’s comprehensible, and print it out. Any questions?”

His secretary took the papers, smiled coolly, and shook her head.

“Personally I’m going to go swimming,” said Johansson cheerfully.

He must have met someone new, thought his secretary.

Johansson found running for exercise difficult. What bothered him was not the physical activity itself but simply the fact that he couldn’t think while he ran: a pure waste of time, in other words. On the other hand, he thought very well while walking-this applied to brisk walks as well-and he did his very best thinking while swimming. Besides, things were so practically arranged in the large police station on Kungsholmen that they had their own pool.

Johansson was an excellent swimmer. He had learned it early in a simple and unsentimental way. The summer when he was five years old his oldest brother, who was fifteen, had taken little Lars Martin with him to the laundry pier down at the river, thrown him into the water, and from the pier given him the necessary instructions.

“You shouldn’t flounder so damn much, try and swim like Tarzan.”

Tarzan was the family’s elkhound and a past master of dog-paddling, clearly better than Johnny Weissmuller, and before the week was over, Lars Martin was swimming almost as well as the mutt.

“I’ll be damned, you’re a real man of talent,” his big brother concluded proudly. “Now you’ll learn how to swim like people.”

After an hour in the pool, plus five minutes in the shower and twenty in the sauna, an alert and rosy Lars Martin Johansson returned to his office. His good mood didn’t get any worse from the fact that his secretary had done exactly what he’d asked her to do.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” said Johansson, “and you know what I mean. May I treat you to lunch as a thank-you?”

He’s met someone new, thought his secretary, smiling and nodding.

The lunch had been excellent; what else was to be expected on a day like this? Johansson had fried bacon with potato pancakes and uncooked lingonberries, and when he ordered a large glass of cold milk with his meal, his secretary looked at him almost lovingly. Discreetly, of course, but still; as usual, she pecked at her vegetables and boiled fish.

“There has to be milk,” explained Johansson. “Although it’s important that it’s cold. I saw some lunatic on TV who maintained that it took away the vitamins in the lingonberries, but he’s got that turned around.”

“I’ve decided,” she said. “I’m going with you to the personnel bureau.”

“Good,” said Johansson and raised his milk glass in a toast. “It’s a kick upward for me and I’ll see to it that there’ll be something for you too.”