What do you mean, early-retired? thought Bäckström. Social Swedish for a drunk who didn’t want to pay his way, but was still able to cheat the pants off some naïve socialist bastard at the unemployment office. Up yours, thought Bäckström as he dialed Vindel’s home number.
A quarter of an hour later the whole thing was signed, sealed, and delivered, as always when a real pro was at work. Bäckström pulled the report from the cylinder of the typewriter and made corrections with his ballpoint pen while he read the brief, clarifying text, in which, by the way, there was not the least trace of an as yet unburied dog.
“Upon questioning by telephone the witness Nilsson states the following in summary. Circa 19:50 the witness found himself below the student dormitory the Rosehip on Körsbärsvägen. The witness states that at that point he became aware of a sound from one of the upper stories of the building. When he looked up he observed the body of a male person who had jumped out of a window, fallen straight down along the façade of the building, and struck the ground only a few yards from the place where the witness was standing. The witness has had this questioning read to him by telephone and has approved it.”
The last was a complete lie, but because Nilsson was hardly the type who recorded his telephone conversations with the police, no damage was done. In addition, the old fart had sounded completely confused when Bäckström was talking with him. He ought to be grateful that someone helped him put the pieces in place, thought Bäckström, while he put the papers into a plastic sleeve and applied a handwritten slip of paper for the officer in charge at Östermalm.
Bäckström looked at the clock. Five past one but still there was no great hurry. There was even time to carry out a little idea he’d had while he wrote out the interview with Nilsson. A stitch in time, thought Bäckström, as he folded up his overcoat and hid it in an empty binder that he’d found on the bookshelf. Bäckström took the binder under his arm and the plastic sleeve in his other hand, sneaked out to reception, and placed the plastic sleeve farthest down in the pile in the Östermalm police in-box. After that he stuck his head in through the door to the on-duty chief inspector’s office.
“It’s about that suicide you sent me out on.” Bäckström nodded toward the binder, which he was carrying under his arm.
“Are there any problems?” The on-duty chief inspector wrinkled his brow.
“No. It’s completely clear that it’s a suicide, but it concerns an American citizen and that can be sensitive, you know. There are a few things I was thinking about checking in the register.”
“What’s the problem?” The on-duty chief inspector looked inquiringly at him, but the wrinkle in his brow was gone.
“I was thinking about overtime. I should have gone off duty more than an hour ago.”
“It’s okay. Put down whatever time it takes.”
I’ll be damned, thought the on-duty chief inspector, looking after Bäckström’s quickly vanishing backside. Of all the chiselers. Maybe he’s gotten religion, he thought, but at the same moment the phone rang and he had other things to think about.
Finally free, thought Bäckström as he slipped out through the gate to Kungsholmsgatan and set out toward the bar. He tossed the empty binder into the nearest garbage can.
…
At midnight Lars Martin Johansson was already in his bed on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan, listening to the bells ring in Maria Church. A nice-looking woman, he thought. She was nice to talk with too, although a police officer, of course. Wonder if she’s married to that idiot in Växjö or if they only live together? You can’t have it all, thought Johansson and sighed. Or can you? Perhaps you can have it all? This new thought cheered him up markedly. Tomorrow was a new day, he thought, and then perhaps he would have it all? Johansson stretched out his arm and turned out the bed lamp, lay on his right side with his arm under the pillow, and within a few minutes he was sleeping as soundly as he always did.
Vindel was standing in the parlor. He’d lifted Charlie’s basket up onto the oak table by the window. He stroked the soft fur and Charlie lay as quietly as if he were sleeping. Tomorrow he would arrange the funeral. Time will tell, thought Vindel, although just now it didn’t feel so merry. He wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. Best to open the window a little, he thought. Pomeranians don’t like it when it gets too warm.
Police Assistant Stridh had gone home directly after his shift. Made himself a substantial and nutritious sandwich, topped with a well-considered mixture of the goodies to be found in his generously supplied refrigerator. Plus a cold beer. Now he was lying on the sofa in his living room, reading Winston Churchill’s biography of his ancestor the Duke of Marlborough. It was in four volumes and almost three thousand pages long, but because he didn’t need to be at work before Monday afternoon he had all the time in the world. A great man, thought Stridh, in contrast to that mustache-wearing lunatic who tried to set the whole world on fire and would just about have succeeded if it hadn’t been for old Winston. Strange that he wasn’t a bachelor, thought Stridh, while he made himself comfortable on the couch and looked up the place in the second volume where he’d stopped reading the last time he’d gone off duty.
…
His young colleague Oredsson had changed into workout clothes after his shift and gone straight down to the gym in the cellar. There the lights were always off this time of day; lifting weights after completed service had become like a purifying bath for him. It helped him to arrange all the new impressions and experiences into a larger context. He’d understood from the first day that it was foreigners who were responsible for almost all crimes being committed in today’s Sweden, but how could the problem itself be solved? Just sending them home, which would have been the simplest, was unthinkable in the current political climate. But what should be done instead, and how could they achieve a political climate in which necessary changes would even become possible? That was worth thinking about, thought Oredsson, and discussing with trusted colleagues. Because he had also understood on that first day that he was not alone.
At home in his bedroom Wiijnbladh lay and masturbated while he thought about what his wife had been doing that night. He’d figured out several years ago that she wasn’t out with her girlfriends. Then he’d borrowed a service car and followed her. She had gone straight home to a recently divorced colleague out in Älvsjö, and because the lights in his apartment were turned out almost immediately you didn’t need to be a policeman to understand that this wasn’t a first visit. He had remained sitting there half the night in the cold car while he stared at the black windows and thoughts were coursing like tracers in his head. Then he’d driven home, never said a word on the subject, and never showed by his expression what he knew and thought.
He didn’t know where and with whom she was tonight. She wasn’t with his colleague in Älvsjö in any event, for he’d hanged himself half a year ago, and it was Wiijnbladh who’d had the exquisite pleasure of cutting him down from the pipe in the ceiling of the laundry room where he’d secured the rope. A heavy duty, even for the hardened investigators on the tech squad. But necessary, and Wiijnbladh had volunteered.
How could something that started so well end so damn badly? thought Bäckström, staring drunkenly down into the beer glass that he’d succeeded in grabbing hold of at the bar while the rightful owner was out on the dance floor. He’d gone to a place with good prospects down on Kungsgatan that was mostly frequented by police and an assortment of firemen, security guards, and ambulance drivers. Plus a hellish lot of hospital orderlies, and for a scarred champion like himself the competition hardly seemed overwhelming.