‘So I give her my ticket, but she doesn’t give up. Wants to see ID. I explain to her, I haven’t got any damn ID. Your mates took my driving license away ten years ago. My passport was in a drawer at home. Anyway, who the fuck takes their passport if they’re going to Sundsvall? But I try to keep calm. Explain that I’ve been a full Swedish citizen for seventy years or so. And as long as I’m in Sweden and not causing any trouble, I don’t have to show my ID. Not to fly to Sundsvall on an internal flight with a Swedish airline. It’s in the constitution if you care to look. But fuck me, two of them turned up,’ he said, nodding in Stigson’s direction. ‘So there was no trip to Sundsvall.’
‘What a shame,’ Alm said, shaking his head. ‘Those terrorists have really messed things up for us.’
‘Bullshit,’ Halvar Söderman said. ‘How much do I look like fucking Osama bin Laden?’
‘Not much,’ Alm said with a slight smile. ‘But—’
‘That was when I decided,’ Söderman interrupted. ‘To play silly idiot right back. If you and your colleagues could find the slightest bit of evidence to say that I was the one who beat Kalle Danielsson to death, then you wouldn’t be sitting here going on about my alibi. I’d be sitting up in Crime if you had anything. Not for the first time either, but I’m sure you know that already.’
‘What makes you think he was beaten to death?’ Alm said. ‘There are other ways to kill someone.’
‘From what I’ve heard, someone got hold of a saucepan lid and whacked him in the head with it,’ Söderman said.
‘Who did you hear that from?’ Alm asked.
‘I’ll give you a piece of advice,’ Söderman said. ‘I’ve lived out here all my life. I’ve hung around Valla and Råsunda and all the bars out here, seven days a week, for as long as I’ve lived here. I’ve sold hot cars to policemen, I’ve sold white goods and television sets to policemen. I’ve shifted their stuff when their wives have thrown them out or they’ve just found a new piece of skirt. I’ve always given them the usual discount. How many cops do you reckon I know in the Solna station?’
‘Quite a few,’ Alm said.
‘So I’m afraid we’re not going to get a lot further. I didn’t beat Kalle to death. Why would I? He had his moments, Kalle, but don’t we all? And if I’d wanted to put his lights out, I wouldn’t have needed any fucking saucepan lid. Anyway, I’ve got an alibi, but since I don’t have to tell you, I don’t feel like telling you. But if you all sort things out so I can get to Sundsvall without having to show my passport, you’re welcome to come back. Then we can talk like reasonable people.’
Söderman had held his ground. Even though Alm had sat there for another half-hour, they hadn’t got any further. When they were sitting in the car, on their way to see Grimaldi, Stigson had broken the silence.
‘That’s insulting a public official,’ Stigson said. ‘Calling someone a monkey.’
‘Chimpanzee,’ Alm said with a sigh. ‘I was the one who said monkey.’
‘Yes, but we’re colleagues,’ Stigson said, looking at him in surprise. ‘That’s completely different.’
‘You’ve never thought about changing your hairstyle?’ Alm said for some reason.
‘We should have dragged the old bastard to the cells and twisted his arm,’ Stigson said, apparently not listening.
‘If that’s what you really think, I suggest you change jobs,’ Alm said.
Grimaldi had been the exact opposite of Söderman. He answered his phone when they called to make an appointment. Opened the door on the second ring, shook them by the hand, and asked them into his well-kept home.
They had sat down on the three-piece suite in the living room. Faithful to his roots, Grimaldi had offered mineral water, lemonade, Italian coffee, an aperitif. Or perhaps a glass of red wine? He had opened a bottle for lunch and most of it was still there, so it wouldn’t be any trouble.
‘Thanks, but we won’t be long,’ Alm said.
What had Grimaldi been doing on Wednesday evening last week, when his good friend Karl Danielsson was murdered in his own home? Just one kilometer from Grimaldi’s own home?
‘I don’t remember,’ Grimaldi said. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say I was at home. I’m at home most of the time these days.’
‘You don’t remember?’ Alm repeated.
‘Let me explain,’ Grimaldi said.
One year earlier he had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Since then he had been on medication to slow the development of the disease. In spite of the drugs, his short-term memory had deteriorated noticeably over the past few months. If they wanted to talk to his doctor, they were welcome to call the health center in Solna. But he had forgotten his doctor’s name. But he had the prescription and the pills. They were in his bathroom cabinet, and they were welcome to look.
‘You’ve never thought about keeping any sort of notes, like a diary?’ Alm suggested.
He hadn’t. If anyone had ever suggested it to him, he would doubtless have forgotten that as well. Would have sat there wondering what he was doing with pen and paper in his hand.
‘And there’s no one close to you who would know things like that?’ Alm said. ‘How you spend your days, I mean?’ he clarified.
‘Fortunately not,’ Grimaldi said with a smile. ‘Fortunately I am entirely alone in life. Who would want to subject someone they love to the sort of person I’ve become?’
They hadn’t got any further than that. On the way out they looked in his bathroom cupboard and made a note of the names on the boxes of medication and the name of his doctor from the prescription.
‘Some Godfather,’ Stigson said as they were sitting in the car on the way back to the police station. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the old fart’s body at all. What was his name, that Mafia boss in New York? The one who tried the same trick, pretending to be crazy? Whatever was his name?’
‘Don’t remember,’ Alm said.
33.
When Annika Carlsson and Felicia Pettersson arrived at Akofeli’s flat, Niemi and Hernandez were already there.
‘Come in, come in. We’re as good as finished,’ Niemi said. ‘I tried to call you on your cell about an hour ago but it was switched off. Toivonen sent us. He doesn’t like it when important witnesses vanish from his murder investigations. Unless he’s just getting more human in his old age and is worried because of that.’
‘We had our phones switched off,’ Annika said. ‘Felicia and I wanted to be able to talk in peace and quiet.’
‘Girly talk, you know,’ Felicia said, flashing her eyes at Chico Hernandez.
‘About me, I presume,’ Chico said with a self-conscious shrug that didn’t seem entirely put-on.
‘About the loveliest officer in the whole station,’ Felicia said with a sigh. ‘About Magda, your sister. Nice cap you’ve got there, by the way, Chico. Did you steal it from the supermarket deli?’
The cap in question was disposable, made of white plastic. Obligatory headwear for every responsible forensics officer who didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene with his own hair and dandruff. Wearing it under any other circumstances, such as a night out in a bar when you fancied meeting someone, or if you were just taking part in one of all those incredibly popular television series about forensics officers, wouldn’t have done anything for either your appearance or expectations. You’d end up going home alone late at night or getting half the usual viewing ratings.
‘Well, it’s not the cap that’s the main attraction,’ Chico said with an expressive shrug, then returned to examining the innards of Akofeli’s fridge.