“Perhaps we should think about moving along,” said Wiijnbladh, and as soon as he opened the door to the kitchen his wife and sister-in-law fell silent. It was his wife who was telling something, he’d heard that, and clearly she’d been laughing till the tears ran while she did so.
“I believe your dear husband will have a lay… too,” said the sister-in-law after a stage pause, and then they both laughed so hard the tears were flying around them.
I ought to kill the both of them, thought Wiijnbladh.
As soon as Waltin came home to his apartment on Norr Mälarstrand, he made a decision and called up little Jeanette.
“Change of plans, my love,” he said. “It looks like we’ll have to celebrate Christmas here in town. A few things have happened at work, so I have to stay within reach,” he clarified.
“When do you want me to come?” asked Jeanette. Lovely, she thought. Then perhaps I can sit normally during the week after Christmas.
Wonder if she’s going to try to make contact with me, thought Waltin. Or if I should make contact with her. And suddenly he became so aroused that he was compelled to take out those old photographs he’d taken of her last spring and go into the bathroom and release himself.
…
What the hell is happening? thought Jeanette with surprise. First champagne and Russian caviar, then foie gras and that sweet French wine she loved, filet of sole and more champagne. Now they were eating black currant sorbet. And he was just as tender, courteous, and entertaining as the first time. And better looking than ever despite the fact that he’d been damn good-looking the whole time.
“Skoal, my love,” said Waltin, raising his glass. “By the way, I’ve bought a Christmas present for you.”
An ankle-length mink coat with a hood, and when can I wear that? she thought. In another life, wonder what it cost? One or two or several years of my salary before taxes, she thought.
“I heard it would be a cold winter,” said Waltin, smiling. “And I don’t want you to have to freeze.”
What is happening? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, who would soon turn twenty-eight.
I must get hold of Hedberg too, thought Waltin while he looked at little Jeanette, who was sleeping in the bed by his side. Unpunished, without being rocked to sleep after a few too many glasses of champagne and with his Christmas present as the only covering over her slender body. Then I must see to it that Berg calms down, he thought. For his own good if nothing else.
Right before midnight Jarnebring mustered his courage and called his best friend to tell him.
“I’ve gotten engaged,” said Jarnebring.
“What’s her name?” said Johansson, who sounded unusually happy and in high spirits and certainly had a few under his belt. “Is it anyone I’ve met?”
“Stop it, Lars,” said Jarnebring, who wouldn’t let himself be disturbed by such boyish nonsense on his great day.
“Many congratulations, Bo,” said Johansson, “and merry Christmas to both of you. And take care of yourself. And of her too,” he added, suddenly sounding serious again.
You sentimental old Lapp bastard, thought Jarnebring when he put down the receiver. Christ, I must’ve gotten something in my eye, he thought, rubbing the corner of his right eye with his fist.
“Was he happy?” asked his fiancée.
“Hmmmm,” said Jarnebring, nodding.
I must get hold of Hedberg, thought Waltin, but then he must have finally fallen asleep, for when he looked up again it had already started to get light outside his bedroom window.
CHAPTER XV
And all that remained was the cold of winter
Sundsvall over Christmas and New Year
Johansson’s oldest brother lived by the sea about ten miles outside Sundsvall in a big old wooden palace that had been erected as a summer place for a rich country squire during the golden years in the middle of the nineteenth century. It hadn’t gotten smaller since his brother had taken over.
Let’s see now, thought Johansson, who was an old detective and had a good memory. He’s asphalted the driveway, extended the parking area, and bought a new car for his wife.
On the morning of Christmas Eve they hunted hares on one of the islands. It was an old tradition from their upbringing at home on the farm outside Näsåker, and the only thing wrong with it had been that the foxhound used to run off more often than not and that Mama Elna was usually good and angry at them when they finally came home, whether they had a hare with them or not.
This time it went better. The sea was not frozen over, so neither the foxhound nor the hare had any choice but to keep on dry land. On the other hand, the dog was still chasing flat out when his brother looked at his watch and reported that it was time to go home if they weren’t going to miss Christmas Eve lunch.
“What do we do with the bitch?” said Johansson, who would happily have stayed behind to shoot one more.
“The hunting boy will take care of that,” said his brother, nodding in the direction of the wooded hillside where their dog driver had been stationed for more than an hour.
“I had no idea there were so many hares out here on the islands,” said Johansson, jerking his chin toward the three chalk-white corpses that lay on the bottom of the boat as they went home.
“Christ, there aren’t any hares out here,” said his brother, grinning.
“Where did these come from, then?” asked Johansson, who had shot one and almost gotten another.
“The boy set them out last week,” said his brother, grinning. “Who do you take me for?”
Nice to hear you haven’t changed, thought Johansson.
The luncheon on Christmas Eve was not just the opening but also the high point of the Christmas celebration at home with Johansson’s oldest brother, and they always ate in the kitchen. By knocking out the ceiling and the walls between the attic, the original kitchen, the serving areas, and the old dining room of the forest squire, his brother had created a great room large enough for the latter-day Viking chieftain that he of course was. The buffet was spread out on the table to avoid unnecessary running, a log fire blazed in the open fireplace, and Johansson’s brother sat as usual in the high seat at the short end with Mother to his right and Father to his left, all of his children along the long sides, and his wife and Lars Martin at the opposite end.
“Merry Christmas to you all,” said Johansson’s big brother, smiling with his strong, yellow horse-trader teeth and raising his brimful schnapps glass.
You haven’t changed, thought Johansson.
Papa Evert and Mama Elna, seven children, three sons-in-law, three daughters-in-law, twenty-one grandchildren, five great-grandchildren, and even with outside additions in the third generation, not even big brother’s kitchen would have been sufficient if they had all come. But despite the fact that annual family reunions had been held at home in Näsåker going back several generations, the majority of the large Johansson family had chosen to celebrate Christmas elsewhere, at their own places, as always happens when family feelings have cooled and other feelings and commitments have intervened, even without serious conflicts or quarrels.
For obvious historical reasons, Johansson’s parents chose to celebrate Christmas with their eldest son when they themselves had gotten too old to gather the family at home with them. That was why Papa Evert sat at his oldest son’s left side. Nowadays he was only half the size of “Little Evert,” and with every Christmas more and more like something that had been hung to dry at home in the sauna on the family farm north of Näsåker.