CHAPTER XXIII
And that wasn’t the life that I had imagined
Stockholm, March 12
When, on his birthday, Johansson turned on the TV to look at the daily press conference about the latest police progress in the hunt for the murderer of the prime minister, he understood immediately by the body language of the chief constable as he took his place at the podium that great things were in the making.
“Yes,” said the chief constable, smiling his usual solemn smile. “Today I have the pleasure of reporting that we have taken a person into custody as a suspect in the murder of the prime minister. It will be requested later today that he be arrested. This is a man in his thirties with connection to a known extreme right-wing organization…”
And when Johansson suddenly caught sight of Bäckström, who was clearly about to burst with delight, at the outer edge of the TV screen, he understood both how it had gone and that it couldn’t possibly be true. So he turned off the TV and decided that it was high time that he took himself by the collar if he was going to straighten out the loneliness that was actually in process of leading him away from himself.
It doesn’t cost anything to ask, thought Johansson, and considering that it’s your own birthday and not even the kids have called to congratulate you, you really don’t have much to lose. So he took a taxi to the little post office on Körsbärsvägen, and as soon as he strode in he caught sight of her and she of him. In addition she looked happy when she did so, and she immediately stood up and went to the counter.
She is no doubt the most beautiful woman I’ve seen up to now, thought Johansson, and she still has no ring on her finger, and the worst that can happen is that she says no.
“Police superintendent,” she said, smiling. “Come, let’s go into my office so we can talk in peace and quiet.
“I was listening to the radio,” she continued. “Perhaps I should say congratulations. I heard that you’ve gotten hold of the man who did it.”
“Well,” said Johansson. “You never know.” And we can take that up later, he thought, for regardless of everything else that doesn’t concern me anymore. “I didn’t come here to talk about that,” he said, and for some strange reason he almost sounded as if he were still living up in that out-of-the-way spot in Ådalen where he’d grown up.
“Why’d you come here, then?” she asked, looking at him with her big dark eyes.
Sweet Jesus, thought Johansson, and despite the fact that he had after all made the occasional hazardous arrest in his day, this was almost too much.
“I thought about asking if I could invite you to dinner,” said Johansson. It’s my birthday, he thought, but naturally he didn’t say that. For you didn’t say such things.
And as soon as he saw the expression in her eyes he understood how she would answer.
“That would have been really nice,” she said, “but I already have other plans.” I’ve actually met a new guy, she thought, but naturally she didn’t say that. For you didn’t say such things.
“That’s too bad. Perhaps another time,” said Johansson, smiling. He felt as if someone were bracing himself against his rib cage, trying to tear his heart out of his body. Then he smiled and nodded and left the place, and considering that all he’d gotten was a no, and a very friendly no besides, he understood how little it took to do him in.
…
What a peculiar man, thought Pia Hedin, looking after him. And as different as they could be, despite the fact that they were both police officers. First that big burly Norrlander with his attentive eyes and his slow-moving manner, who never got in touch, even though she thought she’d given the clearest of signals that time they’d met more than three months ago. And then Claes, her new love, whom she’d met at the bar just a week ago when she was out with a girlfriend and had almost started to give up hope of ever meeting a normal guy. Claes with his perfect exterior and his devastating charm and all that sensitivity deep down inside, which she already knew was there the first time they looked at each other.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Leif GW Persson has chronicled the political and social development of modern Swedish society in his award-winning novels for more than three decades. Born in Stockholm, Persson has served as an adviser to the Swedish Ministry of Justice and is Sweden’s most renowned psychological profiler. He is a professor at Sweden’s National Police Board and is considered the country’s foremost expert on crime.
