Olle Hultman, thought Jarnebring and brightened up. It’ll soon be Christmas, after all.
Johansson had already been at work for more than an hour when Jarnebring phoned him at home. Christmas was drawing near, soon he would be changing jobs, and both old and new needed to be in order before then. I’m living in a time of change, he thought while he leafed through the pile of papers on his desk. First he had cleared up the final planning of his trip. This was something he was looking forward to. Flight from Stockholm to New York, direct connection to Washington, D.C., and after that pickup by car for transport to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Five-day-long conference on the most up-to-date methods in the struggle against the steadily increasing crime rate-that’s what it said in the program, anyway-and then back to New York, where he had the weekend free. Johansson was already rubbing his hands with delight. He liked New York. He’d been there once before. Undeniably certain differences compared to both Näsåker and Stockholm, but just right for a person who was trying to expand his awareness.
After that he started writing a statement in connection with the investigation of a triple murder in Stockholm’s southern suburbs just over a year before. The investigators and technicians of the Stockholm police had unfortunately missed two of the corpses. The third was lying in the building elevator, so they had found that one, but because the elevator was rather small the perpetrator had dumped the other two in the elevator shaft, and unfortunately it was the building superintendent who had found them a few days later. To make matters worse, the police department ombudsman got wind of the matter and for once he was so well informed that there was reason to suspect that a fifth columnist was running loose like a mad dog, striking wildly around himself in his own flock. He hadn’t been found either.
“It’s probably someone who feels he’s been passed over,” Wiijnbladh had suggested as they were having coffee at the technical squad, and all the officers had nodded in agreement. Even that idiot Olsson, who got the position as assistant head of the squad that Wiijnbladh should have had. If there had been any justice in this world.
The ombudsman had in turn requested a statement from the National Police Board: Could this be considered consistent with professional police work?
The chief of national police was a highly placed attorney with a background in government, and he didn’t know a thing about police work; nor did anyone around him, for that matter.
“Perhaps we should ask Johansson,” suggested the chief of national police. “They say he was something of a legend during his time at the bureau.” No one in the group had raised any objections whatsoever.
The chief of national police was delighted with Johansson. Not only was he a “real policeman,” he looked like a real policeman, and even spoke with a Norrland accent. In addition he was completely understandable both when he spoke and when he wrote. A remarkable man, the chief of national police had thought on more than one occasion. He even seemed… well… educated.
Johansson was completely unaware of these bureaucratic considerations as he plowed his way with a groan through the files that the Stockholm Police Department had handed over: a balancing act between the frying pan of collegiality and the fire of professionalism. Maybe I could make a joke of it, thought Johansson. The three victims were Turks, as was the perpetrator; what it concerned was what was summarized in police-speak as a showdown in narcotics circles. Turks, as was well known, tended to be small, dark, and hard to discover, especially in an elevator shaft. Here was an excellent occasion, after ten years’ absence, once again to share a front seat with Jarnebring and meet his other old comrades from surveillance. Johansson sighed, clasped his hands behind his head, and tipped his chair back. I have to weigh every word with the utmost care here, he thought.
Olle Hultman was an old detective, of course. What else would you expect? A detective of the really old school who not only knew every crook by name and number but also every tattoo on their needle-marked arms. When Jarnebring was new to surveillance, Olle Hultman had become his mentor, and the generally accepted opinion was that Hultman would live and die with his squad.
“When he’s been kicked out after retirement he’ll sit in the park outside the police station and feed the pigeons, and within half a year he’ll be dead,” his boss declared in confidence to Jarnebring. “So take the opportunity and learn. People like Olle don’t grow on trees.”
But his boss had been wrong. Completely wrong. Olle Hultman had taken the first opportunity for retirement at fifty-nine and immediately started working in the porter’s office at the American embassy. There he had soon made himself indispensable in matters both large and small; for several years now he had been the informal head of the embassy’s so-called cigar-and-delicatessen department. Regardless of what annoyances might afflict embassy personnel and American citizens on Swedish soil, Olle Hultman was the Right Man to deal with them. Olle knew absolutely everyone and everyone liked him. All police officers did of course, but in addition he had strategic contacts all the way from the coast guard and customs through the tax and enforcement authorities and down to the street department’s meter maids.
This time she’d come home at three-thirty in the morning and it took a good while before she came into the bedroom and crept into bed. Wiijnbladh pretended to sleep; by and by he must have done so for real. He woke up by eight o’clock and despite the lack of sleep he felt completely clear in the head. His wife slept deeply. She snored a little and had drooled on the pillow. I ought to kill her, thought Wiijnbladh, silently collecting his clothes. He slipped out into the living room and got dressed. He decided to go to work, despite the fact that it was still many hours before he needed to head for his after-hours shift.
At approximately the time that Wiijnbladh woke up, Stridh set aside his book, adjusted himself on the couch, and fell asleep. In spite of the fact that he looked like King Oscar II he felt like a prince. In his dreams he intended to visit Blenheim Palace, wander through the high, light halls, stop for a while in the room where Winston had been born, and then have a nourishing lunch at a nearby pub.
Jarnebring had called Hultman’s pager and within a minute Hultman had phoned back. After another minute Jarnebring had told him what it was about: dead American citizen, white, born in ’53, and according to as of yet unconfirmed reports, possibly active as a journalist; a press pass had been found among his belongings. According to the after-hours unit it was a suicide, but he had nevertheless decided to take a look at the matter himself, and if Hultman wanted to come along that would be just fine. Services and counter-services, thought Jarnebring.
“You suspect something fishy?” asked Hultman.
“No,” answered Jarnebring, “but I have nothing better to do.”
“I’ll gladly tag along,” Hultman said warmly. “You should know that sometimes I wish I were back. I suggest we take my car, in case he has things that I can drive to the embassy. I can be there in ten minutes.”
“See you outside,” said Jarnebring and hung up. He got up, flexed his broad shoulders, took the holster with his service weapon, and snapped it securely to his left thigh. There now, he thought, grinning contentedly.
Bäckström woke up at roughly the time when he should have been at work. He had felt better. The bedroom reeked of sweat and old binges, and when he tested his breath against the palm of his hand he realized that the situation was critical. I’ve got to shower, thought Bäckström, in spite of the fact that only homos showered more than once a week: tooth-brushing, gargling, throat lozenges, at least one pack in his pocket. At work the same nondenominational preacher/chief inspector that he’d been forced to schmooze with the night before was waiting, and Bäckström was not one to take unnecessary risks. What the hell do they want? he thought while the water sprinkled over his white body. Here you work the whole night and what do you get for that? At the same moment the phone rang. It was the preacher calling. His voice sounded acid and he wondered if something had happened.