Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End Page 2

  “I’ve got a corpse for you, Bäckström. Seems to be lying on the walkway below that student skyscraper above the parking lot at Valhallavägen and Frejgatan. I’ve talked with Wiijnbladh at tech. You can ride with him.”

  Bäckström lightened up a little and nodded. A do-it-yourselfer, he thought. One of those student reds who jumped because he didn’t get his welfare on time. I’ve still got a good chance to finish my shift before the bars close.

  . . .

  It took a good long while before Bäckström and Wiijnbladh showed up—a do-it-yourselfer wasn’t going to run away from you, and an extra cup of coffee was never a bad thing—but neither Stridh nor Oredsson had been idle. Oredsson had cordoned off the area around the place where the body was lying. At the criminal technology course at school he’d learned that police officers almost always cordoned off too small an area, so he’d used a little extra and the blue-and-white-striped barricade tape was neatly stretched between suitable light posts and trees. A few curiosity seekers had arrived while he was doing that, but after a quick look at the dead body all of them had turned and gone away. He had of course not touched the body. He’d learned that in the same course.

  In the meantime Stridh consoled Vindel. After some coaxing he had persuaded him to sit in the backseat of the car, allowing him to bring the dog with him. They had also helped wrap the mutt in Stridh’s own blanket, which he always brought with him on long nighttime work shifts, for reasons that he shared with no one. There was a plastic sheet in the car that was usually spread out in the backseat when they transported drunks, but that was nothing you would wrap a dead body in, especially not in sight of a near relation.

  “His name is Charlie,” Vindel explained with tears in his eyes. “He’s a Pomeranian, although I think there’s a little foxhound in him too. He turned thirteen last summer but he’s a frisky rascal.”

  Vindel snuffled and fell silent while Stridh squeezed his shoulder. After that he began his initial questioning.

  “Vindel” was not his real name. He was just called that. His name was Gustav Adolf Nilsson; he was born in 1930 and had come to Stockholm in 1973 to go to a retraining course at AMS—an unemployed construction worker from Norrland and that’s the way it remained, for he never got a new job.

  “It was my buddies at the course,” Vindel explained. “You see, I was born and raised in those parts and we talked quite a lot about how it was at home. So then it became Vindel. As in the Vindel River, you know?”

  Stridh nodded. He knew.

  Vindel explained that he and Charlie lived nearby, two floors above the courtyard at Surbrunnsgatan 4. After they’d eaten their dinner and before it was time to watch the evening news on TV, they would take their usual evening walk. They always took the same route. First across Valhallavägen at the intersection with Surbrunnsgatan, then the walkway parallel to Valhallavägen down to Roslagstull, where they would turn and walk home again. If it was nice weather, however, they might walk farther.

  On the slope below the Rosehip dormitory Charlie had one of his favorite trees, so that’s where they would take their first lengthy stop.

  “It’s important that they have time to nose around properly,” Vindel explained. “For a dog that’s like reading the newspaper.”

  Just as they were standing there and Charlie was reading his newspaper, Charlie had suddenly raised his head and looked straight up along the façade of the building. Suddenly Vindel was thrown backward with a powerful jerk of the leash.

  “I was just about knocked to the ground. If Charlie hadn’t looked up and pulled me to the side, that damn thing would’ve hit me right in the skull and I wouldn’t be sitting here now.” Vindel nodded emphatically.

  “Do you believe that he heard some sound that he reacted to?” Stridh made a mark in his notebook.

  “Naw.” Vindel shook his head with even greater emphasis. “He’s completely deaf in both ears. It must have been that sixth sense they have. Certain Pomeranians have it. A sixth sense.”

  Stridh nodded but said nothing.

  If Charlie had had a sixth sense, it had in any case failed immediately afterward, when the victim’s downward-falling left shoe struck him in the neck and killed him on the spot.

  “This is too terrible,” Vindel said, and he started snuffling again. “We’re standing there, Charlie and I, looking at the damn thing, and suddenly his shoe comes falling.”

  “It came right after the body?” Stridh asked.

  “Naw, not really. We stood there and watched. It took a good while.”

  “A minute, two minutes?”

  “Naw. Not a minute, it didn’t take that long, but it probably took ten, twenty seconds in all. It took that long.”

  “Ten to twenty seconds, you say. You don’t think it could have been even shorter?”

  “Well. I’m sure maybe it feels longer when you’re standing like that, but probably it took quite a few seconds.”

  Vindel snuffled audibly and blew his nose in his hand.

  . . .

  While Stridh was talking with Vindel, Oredsson took the opportunity to use his blue eyes. He discovered the shoe immediately; it was lying only a few yards from the body and probably belonged to the victim, as he was missing a left shoe and the right shoe, which was still on his foot, was suspiciously like the one lying on the incline. For a moment he considered fetching a plastic bag from the car and placing the shoe in it, of course at the same spot and in the same position where it was now lying, but he abandoned that thought. In the course on criminal technology, nothing in particular had been said about the handling of shoes, but because he assumed that it should be handled like a clue in general, he let it lie where it was. There was nothing in either the weather conditions or the surrounding environment to justify a departure from the golden rule in the form of so-called special clue-securing measures.

  So be it, thought Oredsson, and felt quite pleased with his decision. He would go with the golden rule about touching as few things as possible and leaving the search to the technicians.

  Instead he proceeded to inspect the façade along an imagined vertical line from the place where the body had landed straight up the building. Somewhere on the fifteenth or sixteenth floor—the building foundation was on a slope, which made him uncertain how best to calculate—a window appeared to be standing open despite the cold. Approximately fifty yards’ vertical drop, thought Oredsson—who was the best shot in his class and a crackerjack at judging distance—which agreed rather well with the deplorable condition of the corpse. Oredsson looked at his watch. A good half hour had elapsed since the command center promised to send the after-hours unit and technician. What are they up to? thought Oredsson with irritation.

  Bäckström was small, fat, and crude, while Wiijnbladh was small, slender, and dapper, and together they complemented each other splendidly. They were also happy working together. Bäckström thought that Wiijnbladh was a cowardly half fairy—you didn’t even need to raise your voice, he still did what he was told. Wiijnbladh, in turn, viewed Bäckström as mentally challenged and bad-tempered—a pure dream to work with for anyone who preferred having complete control of the situation. Because they were both solidly incompetent, no disagreements arose either on factual or other professional grounds, and to sum up, they made a real radar unit.

  Exactly one hour after they received the assignment, they were on the walkway below the Rosehip, although in all fairness it should be noted that at this time of day it takes almost ten minutes to drive from the police station on Kungsholmen to the parking lot right in front of the intersection of Valhallavägen and Frejgatan, where they had chosen to position their car.

  “What the hell is this?” said Bäckström, tugging crossly at the barricade tape in front of the corpse. “Have we landed in some damn war or what?” He fixed his eyes on both his uniformed colleagues.

  “It’s a barricade tape,” Oredsson answered calmly. His blue and strangely pale eyes scrutinized Bäckström. He stood mo
tionless with legs wide apart and with his burly arms hanging by his sides. “There’s a whole roll in the car if you need more.”

  My God, what a sick bastard, thought Bäckström. That’s not a policeman; he looks like he’s acting in some old Nazi movie. What gives? Are they letting them into the corps nowadays? He decided to quickly change the subject.

  “There was supposed to be a witness here. Where the hell has he taken off to?” He glared crossly at the two in uniform.

  “I drove him home half an hour ago,” answered the older, considerably fatter clod, who was standing next to the younger Nazi type. “He was in a bit of shock and wanted to go home; I’ve already talked with him. I have the name and address if you want to question him again.”

  “It’ll work out; it’ll work out,” said Wiijnbladh diplomatically. “Without getting ahead of ourselves, I think this looks suspiciously like a suicide. Did you gentlemen know, by the way, that there are twenty suicides for every murder in this city?”

  Judging by the shaking of their heads, they didn’t seem to be aware of that fact, nor particularly interested in pursuing the matter further.

  “There’s a window standing wide open on the fifteenth or possibly the sixteenth floor, depending on how you calculate.” Oredsson pointed up toward the façade of the building. “It’s been standing open since we got here. Despite the cold.”

  “But that sounds just great,” answered Wiijnbladh with genuine warmth in his voice. “My good men, let’s take a look at the corpse. Maybe if we’re lucky he has something in his pockets. Hurry down and get my camera.” Wiijnbladh nodded encouragingly toward Oredsson. “It’s in the backseat. Bring the bag from the trunk too.”

  Oredsson nodded without answering. In due course we’ll take care of your type, he thought, but for the time being I’m only a simple soldier and it’s a matter of placing yourself in the ranks without being noticed. But in due course.…

  Something doesn’t add up, thought Johansson. He had talked about Italian food, about a recent long trip to Southeast Asia, and in answer to a direct question, he had told her about his growing up in Norrland. He had done so in a quiet and humorous way, and for anyone who could read between the lines it was obvious that Lars Martin Johansson was educated, talented, and pleasant, successful, with money in the bank, and—most important of all—unmarried and unattached as well as highly capable in the purely physical relations between man and woman.

  His dinner guest seemed both pleased and interested, the signals she gave were clear enough, but still something didn’t add up. She had responded by sharing her own background: daughter of an attorney in Östersund, mother a housewife, one older and one younger sister, studied law in Uppsala, practiced for a time with the prosecutor’s office, became interested in police work and applied to police chief training. For anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear with it was quite obvious that she was beautiful and educated, talented and pleasant, and certainly a very agreeable partner in the purely physical relations between woman and man.

  You’ve got a guy, thought Johansson, and the reason you don’t want to talk about it is that you’re a bit too well-brought-up, a bit too conventional, and a bit too inclined to bet on the sure thing. You could imagine a discreet affair, but if you should venture beyond that, you’d first want to be sure you were going to get more out of it in the end than you already have.

  Johansson could certainly imagine a discreet affair—he had even carried out one or two—but when it concerned female police officers there were obvious complications. Almost all female police officers went out with male police officers, and because there were ten men to every woman within the corps, the pressure from the demand side was both huge and insatiable. Johansson’s oldest brother was a property owner and car dealer. He was rich, shrewd, uneducated, and crude and could see right through both friends and foes. Once Johansson had teased him about his beautiful blonde secretary. Well? What was the real story?

  “Let me give you some good advice.” His older brother looked at him seriously. “You should never shit where you eat.”

  High time for a so-called table-turning, thought Johansson. Such a tactic might work even on hardened criminals, so there was really no reason why it shouldn’t work on a female interim police superintendent from Sundsvall as well.

  “A completely different matter,” said Johansson with a relaxed smile. “How’s it going with your guy nowadays? I haven’t seen him for a long time.”

  She took it well. Concealed her surprise nicely, with the help of the wineglass. Looked at him and smiled with a little worried wrinkle on her forehead.

  “I’m sure things are going well with him. I didn’t know that you knew each other.”

  “Did he get that job he applied for?” countered Johansson, who wanted to quickly feel solid ground under his feet.

  “Do you mean as assistant county police chief?” No more wrinkle.

  Johansson nodded.

  “He started last summer. He’s as happy as a fish in water. I don’t know if that’s due to the distance between Växjö and Sundsvall. … I can’t really say that it has exactly contributed to developing our relationship, but perhaps that was the idea.” Now she smiled again.

  “We don’t know each other that well.” Johansson raised his glass. How can you stay with that idiot? he thought.

  . . .

  On the walkway below the dormitory Bäckström and Wiijnbladh speedily and vigorously began their investigation of the cause of death. First Wiijnbladh flashed off a few photos toward the dead body and as soon as he lowered the camera and started mumbling something inaudibly into a little pocket tape recorder, Bäckström started rooting through the corpse’s clothing. This was quickly done. The body was dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and over that a dark-gray V-neck pullover, on the right foot a sock and a powerful bootlike shoe, on the left foot only a sock. In the right side pocket of the jeans Bäckström found a wallet. He looked through the contents while he smacked his lips with delight.

  “Come here, boys, and see.” Bäckström waved toward Stridh and Oredsson. “I believe we have an investigative breakthrough in the making.”

  Bäckström held up a plastic ID card with photo.

  “John P. Krassner … b period … that probably means ‘borned’ … July fifteen one thousand nine hundred fifty-three,” Bäckström read in bad English. John P. Krassner, born July 15, 1953, he translated with satisfaction. “Obviously some damn American who decided to close up shop. Some damn professional student who lost his way in all those books.”

  Stridh and Oredsson contented themselves with nodding neutrally, but Bäckström didn’t give up. He leaned forward and held up the ID card against the head of the body. Clearly it was the head that had taken the first impact against the ground. It appeared to have been crushed diagonally from above, from the crown toward the chin; face and hair were covered with dried blood, the face pressed together and the facial features impossible to make out. Bäckström grinned delightedly.

  “What do you say, boys? I’d say they’re as alike as two peas.”

  Stridh made a grimace of displeasure but said nothing. Oredsson stared at Bäckström without changing expression. Swine, he thought.

  “Okay.” Bäckström straightened up and looked at his watch. Already 9:30, he thought. Now it was crucial to put the machinery in motion. “If you boys see to it that we get the corpse on its way to the coroner’s office, then Wiijnbladh and I will take a look at that apartment.”

  “What do we do with the shoe?” wondered Oredsson.

  “Put it in a bag and send it with the body,” Wiijnbladh said before Bäckström had time to say anything and create unnecessary problems. “And since you’ll be talking with the dispatcher anyway … see to it that they send someone here from the street department who’ll clean up.”

  “Exactly,” Bäckström agreed. “It looks like hell. And you”—he looked at Oredsson—“don’t forget to take that fucking barri
cade with you.”

  “Sure,” Oredsson said, and nodded. One day I’m going to get you in town for drunkenness, he thought. And when you start messing around and whining that you’re a policeman I’ll stuff a whole roll of tape up your rear end. “Goes without saying.” Oredsson smiled, and nodded at Bäckström, “Remove the barricade. I got it, sir.”

  That guy is not all there, thought Bäckström. God help you if you were an average citizen and met up with that idiot.

  According to the bulletin board in the lobby, the room behind the open window was on the sixteenth floor: one of eight student rooms along the same corridor and with a common kitchen. In spite of the fact that it was Friday evening, the command center managed to get hold of the building superintendent, who was sitting in his little office in an adjacent building only a hundred yards from there. He sighed—it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened—and promised to show up in a jiffy. Five minutes later he was opening the corridor door to the area where the room was. He pointed at the door in question and gave the key to Wiijnbladh.

  “You’ll get along fine without me, won’t you?” he asked rhetorically. “I want the key back when you’re through.”

  It was Wiijnbladh who opened. Inside the door was a coat closet and to the right a bathroom with a shower. Straight ahead a smaller room where the only window was wide open. Altogether it might amount to at the most sixty square feet.

  “You may as well talk to his neighbors while I take a few pictures.” Wiijnbladh looked inquiringly at Bäckström.

  Bäckström nodded in agreement. This suited him fine. It was cold as an Eskimo’s asshole in there and damned if he was going to get pneumonia on account of a crazy window jumper.

  While Wiijnbladh took his pictures Bäckström’s luck continued to hold. He looked in the kitchen—empty—and, to be on the safe side, in the refrigerator. Nothing appeared especially tempting, however, and the milk cartons, plastic-wrapped cucumbers, and various cans with contents unknown were all labeled with the names of students. My God, what pigs, thought Bäckström. Not even a beer or a soda for a thirsty policeman. He knocked and tried all the doors. They were locked, and if there was anyone home, he or she clearly didn’t intend to open the door in any event. Luck was still on his side.