“I thought he was a handwriting expert,” said Johansson.
“He’s that too, the best,” said Jarnebring with a nod that brooked no contradictions, “and he can dust off a normal fingerprint in his sleep. I took Krassner’s fingerprints along and various handwritten notes that I found among his papers.”
“And?” said Johansson.
“Those are Krassner’s prints, only his, and they’re sitting in the right place, where they should be.”
“Handwriting?” wondered Johansson.
“Also Krassner’s, typically American.”
Johansson looked at the paper one more time and nodded. He understood what Jarnebring meant; the way his title, the numbers, the address were written.
“Krassner seems to have liked you,” said Jarnebring, grinning. “You have no idea why he did?”
“Not the foggiest.” Johansson shook his head. “Might one be allowed to read that letter he wrote?”
“Obviously,” said Jarnebring generously and handed over a white A4 paper in a plastic sleeve. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Did Krassner know Swedish?” asked Johansson with surprise when he saw the typewritten text.
“Nada,” said Jarnebring, shaking his head. “That’s a translation. I haven’t gotten the original back from the tech yet. I got the information on the prints by phone. Fucking lazy asses,” snorted Jarnebring. “Why didn’t they take his clothes along when they were there already checking out the prints?”
“Who did the translation?” asked Johansson.
“Hultman,” said Jarnebring.
“Hultman? Our Hultman?” asked Johansson.
“Yes,” said Jarnebring, “and he’s even more fiendish in English than you are, so you can be completely at ease.”
I am, thought Johansson, and read the short text.
I have lived my life caught between the longing of summer and the cold of winter. As a young man I used to think that when summer comes I would fall in love with someone, someone I would love a lot, and then, that’s when I would start living my life for real. But by the time I had accomplished all those things I had to do before, summer was already gone and all that remained was the winter cold. And that, that was not the life that I had hoped for.
Strange, thought Johansson. Exactly like those poems I used to write when I was young and I burned when I got older.
“Seems to have been the sensitive type,” said Jarnebring.
“He seems to have had good judgment, though, when it comes to Swedish policemen,” said Johansson and got up from his chair with a jerk. “How about having dinner tonight?”
“Gladly,” said Jarnebring. “If you promise not to start throwing the china.”
“Seven-thirty at my neighborhood restaurant,” said Johansson. “I’ll pick up the check so you can relax.”
…
“So this is where you drag all your women,” said Jarnebring, when at the appointed time they were seated at Johansson’s usual table in his favorite restaurant.
“Actually there aren’t that many,” said Johansson.
“So they have Italian chow here,” said Jarnebring, glancing furtively at the menu on the large slate board. He didn’t seem entirely enthusiastic.
“Yeah,” said Johansson, “and you actually ought to try it sometime, but since you’re the one eating with me, I’ve made some special arrangements. You’re going to get barbecued entrecôte with au gratin potatoes and a dessert that I know you’ll appreciate. On the other hand, you don’t get any herring as a starter, that went beyond the restaurant owner’s threshold of pain, but instead a very fine marinated lox. Perfect with aquavit, by the way.”
“I thought they’d never heard of aquavit at a dive like this,” said Jarnebring.
“I come here,” said Johansson, “and I’ve done so since they opened, so they’ve heard of aquavit. I brought a couple of my own aquavit glasses here too, those crystal ones with a tall base that you’ve drunk out of at my place. I inherited a couple dozen from my great-aunt, have I told you about her?” he asked.
In spite of the fact that he’d surely done so more than once, Jarnebring nodded at him to continue.
“She’s one person you should’ve met, Bo,” continued Johansson, “for she was in a class of her own. She ran the hotel in Kramfors back in the ration-book days, so those hold seven and a half centiliters, half a ration in the good old days.” First-rate stuff in that old lady, thought Johansson.
Jarnebring shook his head. He seemed almost a bit taken.
“Lars, my friend, do you know what you are? In heart and soul?”
Johansson shook his head.
“You aren’t some damn bureaucrat at the National Police Board, are you, police superintendent? In heart and soul you’re a Norrland landowning farmer, one of those shrewd bastards with mile-wide forests and a sawmill down by the river. If you’d just been born a hundred years earlier you’d have been drinking with Zorn and the lads down at the Opera Bar, not with a simple constable.”
Make it the Golden Peace, Rydbergs, or Berns, and you’re not talking about me but rather about my grandfather, or my big brother if you disregard the time period, thought Johansson. Besides, you’re wrong about me, but he didn’t say any of that.
“Gentlemen,” interrupted the restaurant owner with a slight throat-clearing and a deep bow. “Marinated lox according to the house recipe.”
He placed the plates before them; large slices of salmon cut on the diagonal, pink with streaks of white, lemon on the side, a splash of olive oil, and a few sprigs of fresh herbs.
“Drinks, gentlemen.” One of his assistants held out a tray with two large beers and two brimming-full shot glasses, which he placed with an expert hand before their place settings, first Jarnebring, then Johansson. Then he took a step back and bowed slightly.
“I wish you gentlemen bon appétit.”
Jarnebring nodded at Johansson and grasped the glass in his right hand.
“Skoal, chief!”
“Completely okay,” said Jarnebring after finishing the appetizer and two large shots from Aunt Jenny’s glass. He had, however, put the vegetables and lemon wedge into the ashtray before he tackled the lox. After that they talked about the old days. Since they were best friends it was both natural and necessary to start before their careers had separated them. While Johansson had climbed higher, Jarnebring had stayed put. It had been years since they shared the same worn-out front seat in a police car and drank the same bitter coffee in the break room at surveillance, and because they could only meet in their free time nowadays, they talked mostly about the time that they had worked together.
The theme was always the same: Things were much better before, at surveillance, at homicide, much better within the police department, to put it simply; even the crooks were understandable in the good old days.
“Do you remember Murder-Otto?” asked Jarnebring. “And the Sheriff?”
“And Dahlgren and Mattson,” continued Johansson nostalgically. “And Little Gösta and Splinter and the Gook and the Knife. Bongos, do you remember Bongos, and Åström and Sally? Do you remember Sally, the one that the uniformed police always arrested first when we’d done a raid? The one we called Chief Inspector Toivonen and looked like an ordinary drunk from Karelia who’d missed the boat back.”
These were all police legends and old bosses who had either closed up shop or disappeared from the story with the help of the general retirement system, but none of their younger colleagues had ever seen them sitting in the park behind the police station feeding pigeons.
“Sour old bastards,” said Jarnebring, “but damn capable police officers.”
“They knew what was good and bad and what was right and wrong, and then they could sort out what was important from pure nonsense,” said Johansson, who was feeling more than slightly affected by Aunt Jenny’s measures and tried to keep the conversation on a respectable level. On a Tuesday, thought Johansson. I can’t get plastered in the middle of the week even if he’s my best friend and things went south last time we met and…