“Put it on the chair,” said Jarnebring and took the receiver. “Jarnebring,” he answered curtly and waved out Oredsson with a left hand that brooked no contradictions. The people they let in these days, he thought, irritated.
“The police superintendent is out and about,” answered Johansson’s secretary with her usual cool voice. “He had some urgent business he had to take care of. No, he’s not coming back today. He can be reached tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Yes, I promise to tell him that you called.” She put back the receiver and made a note on a message pad. “Detective Chief Inspector Bo Jarnebring phoned. He wants you to call him back as soon as possible. Important, and you have the number.” She looked at the clock, 3:33, and wrote the time and date on the slip of paper. Jarnebring, she thought. How could he have become a chief inspector?
Jarnebring’s face was slightly red around the cheeks and earlobes. This was due to the fact that he was very surprised, and he was almost never surprised. He was often furious, but he regarded surprise as a form of enjoyment for children and intellectuals. On the table before him sat a transparent plastic bag with the seal torn open; in it was a strong, bootlike right shoe. To the side of the bag was a left shoe and closest to him on top of the desk was an open illustrated magazine which actually ought not to be found in a police station. In addition, a key that looked as though it went to a safe-deposit box or a safe, along with a small slip of paper containing two lines of handwritten text. Jarnebring stared at the slip of paper. What the hell is this? he thought. It must be some bastard who’s fooling with me. With us, he corrected himself.
[TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 26]
Johansson woke up late. At the time he was rolling up the window shade in his bedroom he would usually already be on his way to work. Outside a pale morning sun was shining against a blue sky and the thermometer on the windowsill showed a few degrees above freezing. Excellent, thought Johansson, and high time to start living like a human being. First shower, then breakfast and morning paper, and after that an invigorating walk to the office. The same office that allowed you to succeed even if you did a good job, like himself, for example. Bureau head, he thought contentedly. If I start acting willful, I’ll get traveling testimonials and become chief of the national police by summer.
…
Johansson had set a new record on the route from his residence on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan when he entered the National Police Board on Polhemsgatan. Must be the swimming, thought Johansson with surprise and checked his watch one more time as he came into his secretary’s office. Same cool smile, he thought as she handed over the day’s mail and various other things. Nothing that seemed threatening, however.
“The chief of the national police has let it be known that he is very satisfied with your statement,” she said.
Obviously, thought Johansson.
“There’s an Inspector Bo Jarnebring who has called several times,” she continued. “He phoned yesterday afternoon and he’s called twice already this morning. It sounded very urgent.”
Jarnebring, thought Johansson with mixed feelings. Still his best friend, although things hadn’t gone too well last time.
“Phone him, and I’ll take the call,” said Johansson. Boss’s privilege, he thought as he sat down behind his desk.
“Long time no see,” said Jarnebring. He sounded unexpectedly cheerful. His voice is almost exhilarated, thought Johansson with surprise.
“Yes, perhaps we should meet,” said Johansson.
“Exactly,” said Jarnebring.
“When did you have in mind?” Johansson asked, taking a quick glance at the calendar on his desk. Just as well to clear the air, he thought.
“In fifteen minutes in my office,” said Jarnebring. “I can ask one of the boys to drive you if you want a change of pace and a ride in a police car instead of a taxi.”
“Has something happened?” asked Johansson with surprise.
“Frankly speaking I don’t really know,” answered Jarnebring. “I hope you can help me on that. So if the police superintendent will be so kind as to convey himself here I’ll put the coffee on in the meantime.”
Someone or something must have touched his heart when he saw his best friend coming toward him in the corridor, and the bear hug he got instead of a handshake didn’t make things better.
“We’ll go into my office,” said Jarnebring with a wolfish grin. “I don’t want the personnel to see me if I start blubbering.”
“You’ve grown, Lars,” said Jarnebring, looking at his visitor. “You’re starting to get real superintendent muscles. If that button on your suit coat should pop loose and hit me in the skull, Bäckström and those other geniuses in homicide will suspect you of murder.”
Johansson set his coffee cup aside and smiled more neutrally than he’d actually intended.
“Okay, Bo,” he said. “Let’s skip the bull, as the Americans say. Tell me now. Before you burst.”
Jarnebring nodded and took a thin case folder from the pile on his desk.
“John P. Krassner. Jonathan Paul Krassner, born in fifty-three, American citizen, according to as yet unconfirmed sources some sort of freelance journalist from Albany in the state of New York, said to be a few hours north of the city with the same name.” Jarnebring took a fresh look at his papers. “Came to Sweden six weeks ago.”
“I see,” said Johansson with surprise. And what does this have to do with me? he thought.
Jarnebring leaned forward over the desk, supported on his burly arms, while he looked at Johansson.
“How do you know him?” he asked.
What’s the point? thought Johansson.
“Not the faintest idea,” said Johansson. “No one that I know, as far as I know no one I’ve met, and I don’t even recall having heard the name. How would it be if you-”
“Easy, Lars.” Jarnebring smiled and raised his hand with a defensive gesture. “Forget it, and before you get as mad as last time I suggest you lean back, listen to me, and we’ll help each other out.”
“Why is that?” said Johansson as he made himself comfortable in the chair.
“This is going to take all of five minutes,” said Jarnebring, “but I actually need your help.”
“Okay,” said Johansson. “Tell me.”
…
“Approximately five minutes before eight last Friday evening the aforementioned Krassner fell from his room on the sixteenth floor in that student skyscraper up on Valhallavägen. He was subleasing it-it seems some international housing agency for students arranged it. Got the name of it in my papers. Anyway,” said Jarnebring and looked at the ceiling while trying to collect his thoughts.
“Murder, suicide, accident,” said Johansson. “What’s the problem?”
“Most likely suicide,” said Jarnebring. “Among other things he left behind a letter. Tech called this morning and let it be known that his prints are on the letter. Right where they should be if he’d written it himself.”
“You mean the corpse’s fingerprints,” said Johansson. “You mean that the corpse’s prints are where they ought to be, but how do you know that the corpse’s prints are his?”
“They’re his prints,” said Jarnebring. “I already got that on the fax from the embassy yesterday.”
“They had Krassner’s fingerprints? Does he have a record?”
Jarnebring shook his head.
“No, but they seem to have taken prints on almost everyone over in the States. They’d taken his when he was working extra at check-in at some airport. They haven’t said a peep about whether or not he might have some criminal past. Seems to have been a completely ordinary gloomy bastard.”
“Suicide,” repeated Johansson. “What’s the problem?”
Jarnebring shrugged his shoulders.