“Nothing other than that I worked until five in the morning and happened to oversleep,” an offended Bäckström replied. “But now I’m on my way.”
How stupid can you get? he thought smugly. The dolt had even begged pardon.
Now it was just a matter of finding a pair of clean underwear. The ones he’d had on yesterday didn’t smell too confidence-inspiring. Bäckström poked around in the pile of dirty laundry and finally found a pair that didn’t seem to be coming direct from the cheese shop. This is going to work out, he thought. As always when a real pro is at work.
It was true that Jarnebring looked like a badass, talked like a badass, and all too often behaved like a badass, but as a policeman he didn’t leave much to be desired. He was quick, shrewd, efficient, and had the predator’s nose for human weakness. Together with Hultman he made one half of an odd couple. Jarnebring was large and burly, dressed in a winter coat that extended below the waist in order to conceal his service weapon, blue jeans, and shoes with rubber soles that gave a sure footing if he needed to run after someone. Hultman was small and slim, looked younger than his sixty-four years, wore a single-breasted gray suit with a vest and a blue topcoat against the November wind.
While they stood observing the place where Krassner had hit the ground, an older woman stopped on the gravel walk below.
“Are you from the police?” she asked. Jarnebring noticed with a certain enjoyment that it was Hultman who’d received the question.
“Yes,” said Hultman with a competent funeral director’s ingratiating smile. “We’re in the process of investigating a death. But it’s nothing you need to worry yourself about.”
The old lady shook her head mournfully.
“I heard from a neighbor that it was one of those poor students who jumped out the window. It’s just all so sad, isn’t it? Young people.”
Now Jarnebring nodded in the same way as his old mentor. The lady shook her head, smiled weakly, and went on.
In total it had taken them four hours, from the time Hultman picked Jarnebring up outside the Östermalm police station until he dropped him off at the same place; during that time they had accomplished a great deal. First they had visited the place where Krassner had died. After that they had looked in his apartment and spoken with a couple of the students who were living on the same corridor. No one they spoke with had known him especially well. He had only lived there, on a sublease, for a little more than a month and hadn’t appeared to be particularly interested in associating with anyone. In addition he had been considerably older than the others on the corridor. The one they had talked with the most was a South African student who had expressed strong doubt that Krassner had taken his own life, but when Jarnebring pressed him he hadn’t been able to explain why. It was more a feeling that he had.
They had devoted most of their time to searching through Krassner’s apartment. Between the bathroom cabinet and the wall Jarnebring found a plastic bag with five marijuana cigarettes-not the first time in that particular spot-which Bäckström and Wiijnbladh had obviously missed, but otherwise there was nothing sensational to report. Most of the time had been spent gathering together Krassner’s personal belongings and dividing them into two piles. One pile Hultman could take with him to the embassy to send home to Krassner’s relatives in the United States and a significantly smaller pile that Jarnebring needed to retain until the investigation was complete. In the first and larger pile were mostly clothes and in the second, smaller pile mostly personal papers. Hultman had done this before. Jarnebring wrote the confiscation report while Hultman divided the respective piles and dictated what went where. Jarnebring had not had any objections.
After the visit to the apartment they had gone to the home of the witness, Gustav Adolf Nilsson, who lived on Surbrunnsgatan right in the vicinity. Both Jarnebring and Hultman had met Nilsson previously while on duty, but because Nilsson didn’t appear to remember them, they didn’t mention it. Nilsson, or Vindel, as he preferred to be called, had been depressed but at the same time relieved. He had succeeded in arranging a place for his dog at the animal cemetery, and a few of the neighbors would be present at the burial.
“I’ve set him on the balcony for the time being,” said Vindel, nodding toward the balcony door. “Pomeranians don’t like it if it gets too hot,” he added in explanation.
The rest had been purely routine. First they had driven out to the embassy and dropped off those of Krassner’s effects that were not needed for the investigation. True, the police station was closer, but because Jarnebring had accepted with pleasure a guided tour of the embassy, he would have to be dropped off afterward in reverse order. Thus, almost exactly four hours after Hultman had picked him up outside the Östermalm police station, they were back at the same spot.
Hultman stopped. Turned off the motor and smiled amiably toward Jarnebring.
“Scotch or bourbon?” he asked.
“Can’t you get a mixed case?” Jarnebring asked in return. “My lady isn’t too thrilled about whiskey and it’s almost Christmas.”
“No problem. A mixed case. A completely different matter,” Hultman looked at Jarnebring and smiled paternally. “Are you doing anything in particular this evening?”
Jarnebring shook his head.
“You don’t happen to have a suit with a white shirt and a tie?”
Jarnebring nodded. He knew what was coming.
“Then I thought to ask if I might have the pleasure of treating you to a nice dinner.”
“Certainly.” Jarnebring smiled. “Should I bring along a couple of young ladies? Mine is on assignment, of course, but she has a couple of colleagues who are really something.”
“Old memories.” Hultman nodded, mostly to himself, it seemed. “First we talk about old memories, and then you tell me what has happened since I quit while we have a really good dinner. What you do after that doesn’t concern me, as long as you take care of yourself.”
Johansson sat the whole day and worked on his statement about the two missed murder victims. He wasn’t done until about seven-thinking, that is; the actual writing of his viewpoints would have to wait until tomorrow. After that he took a taxi home, prepared a simple meal, and spent the rest of the evening watching TV. At midnight he was sleeping deeply, on his right side with his right arm tucked under the pillow.
Hultman had kept his promise. They started eating at seven-thirty and it was not until just before midnight that Hultman looked at his watch and took out his gold card. They said goodbye on the street outside the restaurant with mutual marks of respect and promises to see each other again soon. After that Hultman went home while Jarnebring wandered further out into the Stockholm night.
…
Stridh woke up just in time for the morning news on the radio. After that he had hash with eggs and red beets and two beers. Now he was lying on the couch again and it was time to start on volume three. Finally, he thought, making himself comfortable, finally time to study the political intrigues in early-eighteenth-century Holland that preceded the battle of Blenheim.
Wiijnbladh’s day had been a day of personal suffering, as was often the case. First he had pondered various ways to put his wife to death, but because none of them was painful enough and certain enough-after all, he couldn’t assume that Bäckström and his colleagues would be in charge of the investigation-it had only granted him minor relief. When he’d finally pulled himself together and driven home, a note from his wife stuck to the mirror in the hall reported that she’d gone to visit her sister in Sollentuna. Wonder what they talk about? thought Wiijnbladh with a shiver.