Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Read online

  A month ago he and a number of colleagues within the surveillance operation had taken the Finland ferry to Helsinki for a work conference. These meetings had long been a tradition and a necessary, recurring element of the planning that must take place, even within so-called surveillance, all the bohemian and impressionistic aspects of the occupation aside.

  As always, it had been pleasant. Nothing but known quantities and guys you could trust. In the morning criminals old and new had been discussed, the usual heroic stories had been told, after which the proceedings were interrupted for a generously ample lunch, something which of course had been taken into account when the afternoon program had been determined. Among the invitees was the head of the detective unit of the Östermalm police, who would recount a few varied experiences from the local surveillance operation. He was a white man, a funny S.O.B., and despite the fact that he had departed from the true doctrine he was still an old detective in heart and soul. As the first item on the program after lunch he was absolutely perfect. He was a very entertaining lecturer, and afterward you could never remember a word he’d said. What the whole thing was about was actually something else: getting to meet friends and colleagues under somewhat more easygoing conditions, and perhaps having the opportunity during the evening to discuss something other than old crooks.

  This time, unfortunately, things had really gone south. In the wee hours the elite few who were still standing on two feet had gathered in the conference leaders’ cabin for a last round, and to make a long and nowadays thoroughly hushed-up story short, Jarnebring had torn the Achilles tendon of the chief of the Östermalm police detective unit. For the latter was not only an entertaining lecturer; he was also known as a strongman and past master at both arm-wrestling and Indian wrestling. Jarnebring was the last one standing, the same Jarnebring who twenty-five years earlier used to run the second leg of the short relay in the Finnish Games and had made it a habit never to give up.

  The official version was somewhat different: During the day’s concluding remarks, one of the lecturers unfortunately happened to twist his ankle when he stood to summarize the discussion up at the blackboard. Everyone had of course been completely sober, but because the rough sea had been annoying at times, misfortune nonetheless managed to rear its ugly head. A typical injury in the line of duty, therefore, which was some consolation at least if you were forced to go around in a cast for a few months.

  Jarnebring was a man who lived by simple and obvious rules. Discretion was a matter of honor. If you got involved in something, you made a point of cleaning up after yourself, and when it really counted was when your buddies were involved. Therefore, for the past fourteen days, he had been filling in as head of the local detective unit with the Östermalm police and that was that.

  Unfortunately, however, this had affected his life. His most recent girlfriend, who worked as a uniformed police officer at Norrmalm, had left early in the morning on a sudden call to duty, so he could forget that type of activity. Exercising was not an option either, for you did that sort of thing while on duty, and as an old elite athlete he knew the value of holding yourself to a carefully determined exercise schedule. Paying a call on his plaster-casted colleague in misfortune was also out of the question. He had taken his wife along and gone to a health resort in Värmland in order to rehabilitate himself in earnest, at the department’s expense.

  After he showered, had breakfast, and leafed through the morning paper, it was still only nine o’clock, and ahead of him stretched an entirely free day, long as a marathon and hardly enticing for an old sprinter like Jarnebring. At that point he decided to call his best friend and former colleague, Police Superintendent Lars Martin Johansson, at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. This decision had demanded a good deal of inner persuasion, for the last time they had met there had been a serious falling-out. Over a trifle, at that, a Yugoslav thug whom Jarnebring and his colleagues, with considerable effort and slightly unconventional methods, had finally succeeded in placing in the criminal detention center where he ought to have been from the very beginning. No big deal in itself, but Johansson, who had shown disturbing signs of wavering conviction since he’d left the field campaign against criminality to take it easy behind a series of ever-larger desks, had gone completely crazy, bawled him out, and marched off in the middle of a nice dinner.

  One time doesn’t count, and I’m not one to dwell on the past, thought Jarnebring generously while he dialed his old friend and colleague’s home number. But no one answered, and before Jarnebring realized it, he was suddenly striding through the doors to the reception area at the Östermalm police station on Tulegatan. He nodded toward the officer in uniform who was sitting behind the counter and in turn nodded back.

  “How’s it going?” asked Jarnebring. “Anything happened?”

  The officer shook his head while he checked off his list. “A few car prowls, fistfights, and property damage at some bar over on Birger Jarlsgatan, an executive on Karlavägen who beat up his wife, although homicide should have taken care of that of course, yes.” He leafed through his papers. “Then we have a suicide too. Some crazy American who jumped from that student dormitory up on Valhallavägen.”

  “American, from the U.S.?”

  The officer in uniform nodded in confirmation.

  “American citizen. Born in ’53, I believe. The papers are in your box. I got them from the after-hours unit this morning.”

  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.

  “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 old
er 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.