She’d sat down on the sofa and started hitting the bottle, teasing him because he didn’t want any, and because he’d felt the need he’d suddenly gotten extremely angry. Taken the whiskey and poured out what was left into the sink and told her to leave. Then she’d attacked him and tried to smack him with a vase and he’d taken hold of her and gradually he’d succeeded in carrying her out.
“And you didn’t screw her?” asked Bäckström, who was eager to be clear about that little detail. And besides, it was the reason he was sitting here wasting his young life.
Of course he’d screwed her, although not for six months, not since he’d left her, but before that he used to be on her approximately five or six times a day. Perhaps a little more when it was a holiday and they’d partied really hearty.
There, there now, thought Bäckström, who hadn’t gotten any since he’d greased up that little Estonian whore with the big knockers, and feeling a certain draft in his crotch.
“Why’d you smack her, then?” asked Bäckström, who didn’t mind being a bit direct about things if it would save time.
“Hell, I didn’t smack her,” said their host, looking at them with honest blue eyes.
“Lay off,” said Bäckström. “I talked with her half an hour ago, and her face looked like a Lappland owl.”
“She did when she came here too,” said their host, “but when I asked her she didn’t want to talk about it. You can ask my neighbor, by the way. He was the one who helped me get her out of my apartment.”
Then they talked to the neighbor, and when they’d done that they thanked him for the visit, got in the car, and drove back to the after-hours unit.
“My God, what fucking whores there are,” said Bäckström with feeling. “I’ve got a good mind to give her a going-over myself.”
“Think about what you’re saying,” said his colleague indignantly. “It’s not appropriate to say that kind of thing if you’re a policeman.”
“Shit in your pants, you fucking amateur politician,” said Bäckström, for he’d thought about saying that for a long time, and when he looked at his watch it was already a quarter past twelve in the morning and his Christmas celebrating was over for this year.
Early on the morning of Christmas Eve, Berg had been compelled to get into a taxi and go down to Rosenbad to inform the special adviser of an embassy case that had taken an unexpected turn. The special adviser seemed to be in an excellent mood despite the early hour. He offered him coffee, and the case itself went both quickly and painlessly.
“Okay then,” said Berg, making an effort to get up. “Then I guess I should wish you merry Christmas and hope that I don’t have to disturb you anymore this year.”
“I wish the same to you,” said the special adviser. “And good luck with the reorganization. It must be the best Christmas present you’ve gotten in a long time,” he said, looking unusually cheerful.
What does he mean? thought Berg, sinking back into the sofa.
“Now I don’t understand,” said Berg.
“Then you aren’t aware either that the Kurds are thinking about murdering the prime minister,” said the special adviser, pouring more coffee for them both.
The Stockholm chief constable had phoned a few days earlier and wanted to speak with the prime minister at any price. Because it wasn’t the first time and the prime minister had more important matters on his hands, he had to be content with the special adviser. The story that the chief constable had told went in brief along the lines that “he’d gotten reliable information from a completely reliable and intimate source that the PKK was planning to murder the prime minister.”
“So I thanked him for the tip,” said the special adviser, “and to myself I congratulated you for finally getting rid of them both.”
“I’m afraid they’re probably still with us,” said Berg, sighing. And perhaps it wasn’t this that I’d imagined, he thought.
“It’ll work out,” said the special adviser, raising his coffee cup.
…
Then Berg took a taxi back to his wife and the house in Bromma. They had lunch together with his sister and brother-in-law, and after that all four of them drove to Roslagen to celebrate Christmas Eve with his aged parents. A calm and pleasant family Christmas, thought Berg when he was back in Bromma and he and his wife had gone to bed, each with a book that they’d given one another as a Christmas present. Then he fell asleep and for some reason dreamed about the child that they’d never had, and at three o’clock in the morning he had to get up as usual and take a leak.
Oredsson and his comrades had celebrated Christmas in the country. A real midwinter sacrifice according to ancient Swedish custom. They’d managed to rent an entire vacation establishment with a lodge and everything up in Hälsingland, and despite the fact that there were almost twenty of them, the majority of them police of course, they’d had plenty of room. First Berg, who was their leader, had called a general meeting where Oredsson had informed them of what their colleague Martinsson had told him.
“As I’m sure you know,” said Berg, looking at them seriously, “that traitor at SePo is my own uncle, and if there are any of you who have a problem with that then I’d like us to take that up now. Personally I can only apologize for the relationship.”
No one had any problems. On the contrary, all of them took the opportunity to express their sympathies and indicate their loyalty.
“Good,” said Berg. “So what do we now? Do you have good suggestions? Thanks to Oredsson, here, we are of course forewarned and thereby armed.”
They agreed to lie low for the time being.
“We lie low, we close ranks, and we keep our eyes and ears open,” Berg summarized, and then they ate whole roast pig and drank a great many beers. Perhaps a few too many in some cases, considering that joint exercises had been planned for both Christmas Day and the day after Christmas.
…
As the wee hours approached, Berg took Oredsson aside and thanked him for his good contribution. Then he told him about his father, who had also been a policeman and was killed in an accident when Berg himself was only a child. In a car chase he’d lost control of the vehicle that he was driving, ended up in the water, and drowned. Service car with bad brakes, two crooks in a stolen car who succeeded in getting away and were never caught, a policeman who died on duty. Things can be so different, thought Oredsson, clearly moved by what Berg had related. Two brothers, one who died a hero’s death and one who became a traitor.
Oredsson’s colleague Stridh had taken a good many comp days over the holidays. He’d celebrated Christmas Eve with his sister, who was his only living relative and an excellent human being. She was also single, worked in accounting at a small advertising agency, and was both bookish and interested in cooking.
A pity really that she’s my sister, thought Stridh as he took yet another portion of her home-preserved Christmas herring. For otherwise we might have gotten married.
Bo Jarnebring had celebrated Christmas as a twosome, the other person being his new girlfriend. Sort of new; after all, they’d been together since last summer and it had only gotten better the whole time. A few weeks earlier they’d decided to get engaged on New Year’s Eve, but for reasons he wasn’t really clear about he hadn’t told Johansson, despite the fact that he’d had more opportunities than in a long time.
Why is that? thought Jarnebring. Because you’re a coward, thought Jarnebring.
“Darling,” said Jarnebring, going out to the kitchen where she stood, cheeks red from the heat. “I’ve been thinking about something.”