Another Time, Another Life (22 page)

“The whole thing seems both cowardly and random. Just a stab from behind … normally he wouldn’t even have died from it. And then the perpetrator darts into the bathroom and vomits, making a nice little mess. Doesn’t seem to be one of our motorcycle-riding friends exactly.”

“No,” said Holt, who had been thinking along the same lines.

“So what have we got?” Jarnebring continued.

A lonely person, a scared and suspicious person, a dissatisfied person, a person who felt unjustly treated by life, a person who should have had considerably more if there had been any justice in this world and if he himself had been the one to decide.

“A snoop,” said Jarnebring.

“Someone who wanted to acquire power through snooping, to get emotional power over people around him by ferreting out their weaknesses,” Holt continued.

“Who exploited the friendship and feelings of others, who even profited from them if he got the chance,” Jarnebring added.

“It’s certainly not out of the question that he extorted money from them if he felt sufficiently confident,” Holt concluded.

“Snoop, profiteer, extortionist,” Jarnebring summarized. Not the type I’d want to share an office with, he thought.

“I have a buddy,” said Jarnebring, sounding pretty much as if he was thinking out loud. “He’s also my best friend. We shared a front seat here on the squad a helluva lot of years ago … and a lot of other things for that matter, but we can leave that aside.”

“I can almost guess who it is,” said Holt. “What is it our colleagues at the riot squad call him? The Butcher from Ådalen? Police superintendent at the National Police Board, Lars Martin Johansson.”

“People here in the building talk too much shit,” said Jarnebring. “Do you know what’s remarkable about Lars Martin?”

“No,” said Holt. “Tell me. I’m listening.”

“He’s downright fiendish at figuring out how things stand,” said Jarnebring. “Sometimes it’s uncanny.”

“What are we waiting for?” said Holt, nodding toward the telephone. “Call him and get him over here.” It’s never too late to meet God, she thought, and if only half of what she had heard about Johansson were true then it was high time.

“I don’t think so,” said Jarnebring. Even if it would be fun to see Bäckström’s face, he thought. “One thing that Lars Martin always used to nag about where murder investigations are concerned is that you should forget about the motive.”

“You shouldn’t worry about the motive?” Holt was surprised.

“Nope,” said Jarnebring. “According to Lars Martin, the motive is either something obvious or else some out-and-out craziness that you would never figure out in a million years no matter how much you thought about it, and uninteresting in any event. Johansson used to say that it’s like the cherry on the cake, and the court can put it there if it’s really necessary once the cake is baked and ready. It doesn’t help us police officers. Other than in thrillers and TV series and that kind of shit.”

“Sounds maybe a little too simple,” Holt objected, being seriously fond of at least two police series that were showing on TV.

“Lars Martin is a very simple man,” said Jarnebring, smiling contentedly. “That is what’s so strange about the whole thing. I mean with the head that he has. Lars Martin is almost always right,” said Jarnebring. “We’ve talked through dozens of these kinds of cases over the years and I cannot think of a single time when he was wrong.”

“But,” said Holt noncommittally.

“But this time it seems to me that he actually is wrong,” said Jarnebring.

“What do you mean?” said Holt.

“What I mean is that just this once it suddenly seems to me that if we can only figure out why Eriksson was murdered then we’re also going to find who did it,” said Jarnebring. “Simple and obvious and in the twinkling of an eye we just go pick him up.”

“You think so,” said Holt.

“Yes,” Jarnebring repeated. “And do you know what’s even more annoying?”

“No,” said Holt. “Tell me.”

“I’m convinced we’ve already stumbled across our perpetrator, but we’ve simply missed him,” said Jarnebring.

“But there isn’t anyone,” said Holt with surprise. “Not Welander, Tischler, or Eriksson’s cleaning woman or—”

“Of course’s there’s someone,” Jarnebring interrupted. “It’s just that we haven’t seen him. It’s no more difficult than that.”

Up at the homicide squad they celebrated Lucia Day according to ancient custom, and during the rest of the day, also according to custom, not much was accomplished. With the exception of Gunsan, who was diligently active at her computer, most of the staff seemed to have sought isolation in their offices.

The flame of diligence was not shining with any marked intensity among the detective squad either. True, Jarnebring had seemed chipper enough when he arrived in the morning, but then he excused himself with a “I have to help the guys with something” and that’s the way it was.

Which left a somewhat listless Holt, who even before lunch was starting to feel the effects of the Lucia celebration at Nicke’s day care, and mostly for lack of anything better was going through the box with Eriksson’s telephone book, photo album, and other private notes.

If the perpetrator is here he’s hidden himself well, Holt thought gloomily, for she had a hard time letting go of what Jarnebring had said when they had been talking the day before. It would be simplest to go through the victim’s notes with someone who knew him, thought Holt, and because it was Bäckström who was the boss and careful about police etiquette, he was the one she would have to ask for permission.

Bäckström sounded surly and distant. But sure, if she wanted to waste her life on that kind of shit then he wasn’t going to stop her. True, he had personally investigated the whole matter, but if that had escaped her … then sure.

“Don’t forget to look extra carefully from
A
to
Y
,” said Bäckström. “On the other hand, you can forget about
Z
.”

“
A
to
Y
,” said Holt.

“Yes, in his telephone book. From anal acrobat on up. Look extra carefully under
B, F, G, H, P, Q, R, S
and—”

“I hear what you’re saying,” Holt interrupted guardedly.

“As in butt-surfer, fairy, gay boy, homophile, pederast, queen, rump gnome, sausage prince … and under
V … V
as in Vaseline. Call me right away if you find anything,” said Bäckström, who suddenly sounded a good deal more energetic.

“Thanks for the tip,” said Holt, hanging up the receiver. That man is not all there, she thought.

She could forget Welander. She spoke with the secretary at his office, and according to her he was away in connection with a feature story he was working on. He would be home right before Christmas. Thanks for that, thought Holt.

She had better luck with Tischler. When she called the number she found in Eriksson’s telephone book, he was the one who answered. Holt explained her business and asked him to suggest a time because he was certainly a very busy man.

“Now,” said Tischler. “Just give me five minutes so I have time to powder my nose. Do you have the address?”

Five minutes later she had arranged a lift with one of the detective squad’s cars, and in another ten minutes she was walking into his office.

“Please have a seat,” said Tischler, pointing to the antique armchair on the other side of his large desk. “Are you Inspector Anna Holt?”

“Yes,” said Holt. Strange man, she thought. Small, balding, at the same time rugged, his body almost square, with completely attentive eyes that looked at her with undisguised appreciation and without seeming to be the least bit embarrassed on that account.

“I’m Theo,” he said. “May I call you Anna?”

“That’s fine,” said Holt, smiling faintly. Watch yourself, Anna, she thought.

“What can I do for you, Anna?” said Tischler. “You can ask whatever you want, and keep in mind that I am immeasurably wealthy, extraordinarily
talented, extremely entertaining, and when need be even quite charming.”

“I want you to help me go through these papers,” said Holt, taking out the file box with Eriksson’s telephone book, photo album, and private notes and setting them on his desk.

“That sounds so dreary,” said Tischler, sighing. “But we certainly have to start somewhere, and if it’s Kjell’s private notes that shouldn’t take all of our life together.

“I forgot to ask if you’d like anything to drink,” said Tischler as he glanced quickly through Eriksson’s handwritten notations. “Champagne, wine … perhaps a glass of fresh springwater.”

“Later,” said Holt. He’s rather dashing in his particular way, she thought.

“Ah,” said Tischler. “A ray of hope scatters the darkness around my unhappy, solitary soul, and as far as these notes are concerned,” he continued soberly, “it looks like Kjell’s own compulsive calculations of the most recent deals he’s made with us here at the firm. He has shown me hundreds of similar calculations over the years, and if you go through all those binders in his little office I’m sure you will find corresponding statements from us. And if you just give me a note from the prosecutor I’ll let our computers do it for you at once.”

“This is good enough,” said Holt. “You confirm what I already thought.”

“The harmony of souls,” said Tischler, sighing romantically. “The harmony of souls.”

The telephone book didn’t take much longer than that.

“This number in Hjorthagen was his old mother’s,” Theo explained. “Although she’s been dead for many years.”

“Did you ever meet her?” asked Holt.

“One time I actually ran into her and Kjell in town,” said Tischler. “He was on his way with her to the clinic at Odenplan. The old lady must have been over eighty. She was certainly no spring chicken when she had little Kjell.”

“Did you get any impression of her?” Holt asked.

“Frightful hag,” said Tischler, smiling happily. “I talked with her for only five minutes but that was enough for me.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Holt.

“Let me put it like this,” said Tischler. “She held her little Kjell in a veritable iron grip. If there’s anyone who puts a face on the dominating mother it would have been Kjell’s dear mama. You didn’t need to be a psychologist to understand that. Strong enough that he would still have had her telephone number even though it’s been many years since she died.”

“Do you have any idea who Eriksson’s father was?” Holt asked.

“No,” said Tischler. “If I were to venture a guess, I’d think after the coupling the old lady immediately murdered him and then devoured him.”

“Well then,” said Holt.

When Tischler saw the photo of the gang of four, he looked like a happy little schoolboy. Extremely charming, thought Holt.

“This is me, Sten, and Kjell. The little lady in braids is my delightful cousin—this must have been during her Pippi Longstocking period—and the photo was taken at the family’s so-called summer paradise out on Värmdö—an establishment completely in August Strindberg’s taste as far as family relationships are concerned.”

“Do you remember when this was taken?” Holt asked. He actually is rather entertaining, she thought.

“End of the sixties, early seventies. I don’t really recall. If you want we can drive out and take a look at the guest book. If we find Kjell then the mystery is solved. He was there only one time as far as I remember. We sailed out to the island on Papa’s boat. It was in Saltsjöbaden. Sten, Kjell, and I and a frightening quantity of jars and bottles.”

“So little Pippi wasn’t along,” said Holt.

“What a sight that would have been,” said Tischler. “No, not really, she was on land with her mom and dad and all the other relatives from nine to ninety who were always hanging around out there.”

“The gang of four?” asked Holt.

“Ah,” said Tischler. “You intend to convict me of youthful radicalism, Inspector. Chinese opposition politicians, conspiracies against the Great Helmsman Mao, and so on.”

“Why would I do that?” said Holt, letting her gaze sweep across the furniture in the room in which they were sitting.

“But here I’m afraid it was much simpler,” Tischler interrupted. “My
dear cousin was at that time insanely fond of mysteries and adventure novels, she was rather precocious for her age, and the gang of four, I think, alludes to that novel by Conan Doyle … 
The Sign of the Four
, I believe it’s called. The gang of four was a secret society that the master detective Sherlock Holmes was tracking down.”

“Who took the picture?” Holt asked, mostly to change the subject.

“It was taken with a self-timer, and my dear cousin got the camera from her kind uncle Theo, as she called me. She ran around for days taking the most unflattering pictures. At times there seems to have been sheer panic out there. I remember that her mother—my aunt, that is—scolded me. Personally I kept away as much as possible. It was hardly suitable for a young radical to spend his summer in the country villas of the bourgeoisie. But certainly sometimes I was weak, much too weak.”

“Maybe it’s not really so bad,” said Holt, smiling, “but I know what you’re talking about.” Maybe a little tedious, she thought.

“I know what you mean too and I confess unreservedly,” said Tischler. “All reasonable young people were radical at that time. We were socialists and communists with all the imaginable acronyms. We were always marching to the American embassy, and then there was quite a lot of balling too. Excellent for the health, both of them, and driving your old father up the wall was a pure bonus.”

“I saw in our papers that Kjell Eriksson was politically committed,” said Holt. Balling, she thought. When had she last heard someone use that word? A hundred years ago?

“Oh well,” said Tischler, smiling. “We actually called him the wet thumb, so maybe it wasn’t just commitment.”

“What do you mean?” asked Holt.

“There was a certain amount of opportunism, perhaps,” said Tischler thoughtlessly, “and perhaps certain problems with timing. I remember when he became a social democrat in the spring of 1979 and went on and on for a whole evening about how as soon as the election was over his union fortune would finally be made and now the bourgeoisie would be gone. Whereupon they won with a tie-breaking vote in parliament and stayed until 1982.”