“No,” said Daniel, shaking his head seriously and placing his large hand over hers. “You’re not like other girls I’ve met, but I respect your attitude toward… well, you know.”
Daniel smiled wryly and shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Besides, I like you. A lot,” he added, squeezing her hand and nodding.
Damnation, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson, but she didn’t say it. Instead she just nodded with a shy smile and her gaze directed at the tablecloth. Sort of the way little Jeanette would have done.
Waltin moaned lightly with pleasure and sipped his malt whiskey while the whiplashes echoed from his black Bang & Olufsen speakers and the female protagonist shrieked like a stuck pig.
“There’s more to come, there’s more to come,” Waltin hummed with delight, for he was both exhilarated and the tiniest bit intoxicated, and just then of course his red telephone rang. His secure line.
Typical, thought Waltin, sighing as he paused the film. Quarter past eight, he thought, looking at his watch as he picked up the receiver. It must be Hedberg, and it could only mean that everything had gone according to plan.
“Yes,” said Waltin. “I’m listening.”
“In a little less than three weeks I’m going home,” said Daniel. “Do you want to go along?”
He smiled at her, that big white charming smile, but it was probably mostly to conceal the seriousness of his question, she thought.
“I don’t know, maybe later. I have that exam that I just have to take care of and then I’m going to spend Christmas with my parents.” The latter was true in any case, she thought.
“You must come to South Africa,” said Daniel and smiled. “It’s amazing.”
I’m sure, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson. And how do I get myself out of this? But she didn’t say that either.
“Everything went well?”
“Yes,” said Hedberg.
“Anything interesting?” asked Waltin.
“Nada,” said Hedberg.
“Nada? Nothing?”
“Messy student’s den, a lot of papers, and most of the ones that had something on them lying on his desk. A few miscellaneous handwritten notes.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes,” said Hedberg. “I took a few rolls of what was on the desk. I got the idea that he’s writing some kind of mystery.”
“Mystery? Why do you think that?” asked Waltin.
“I found a page,” said Hedberg. “I have a picture of it. Typewritten. Looked like the cover to a mystery or something. The Spy Who Went East, by John P. Krassner.”
“The Spy Who Went East?”
“Yes, The Spy Who Went East. Supposed to be the Russians, I guess.”
The spy who went over to the east? Strange title, thought Waltin. Went over from what?
“And there wasn’t anything else? I mean the book itself or anything?”
“There were a number of pages with more or less text on them and those I took pictures of. Most of what was there was on the desk, but there wasn’t too much. I got it all on three rolls, so he doesn’t seem to be any great author.”
“Were you able to check the ribbon in the typewriter? How much had he written?”
“Yes. Appeared almost unused.”
An old bastard and his crackpot fantasies, thought Waltin.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Waltin suggested.
“Sounds fine,” said Hedberg. “I was actually planning to go and turn in, so you can call me early if you want.”
…
First Waltin thought about calling the security police’s own central liaison and asking them to inform Göransson and Martinsson that they could call it a day. But then he started thinking about that idiot Martinsson and decided that they might just as well sit where they were, at least until they themselves made contact. It was below zero outside, and in all likelihood it would soon be the same temperature inside that old delivery van he’d loaned out to them. It was only to be hoped that old man Forselius entertained himself half the night with that scatterbrain Krassner while Martinsson froze his dick off on the street outside, Waltin thought contentedly. Besides, he really wanted to see the end of his film. True, he’d seen it more times than he could recall, but it only got better and better every time. So be it, thought Waltin, pouring a fresh malt whiskey and reaching for the remote control.
They sat at the restaurant for almost two hours, and once they came out onto the street she thought about leaving, saying that they could talk tomorrow, and going home, but for some reason that didn’t happen. Instead they walked home to Daniel’s, a brisk walk-they even raced a little-and when they strode in through the entryway to the dormitory he looked at her with his big eyes and his gentle smile and asked if she wanted to have a cup of tea. And she nodded and followed him into the elevator. What is it you’re doing? thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson.
What do you mean, first hour? thought Martinsson, glancing at the blanket-wrapped, snoring bundle in the back of the delivery van. Almost three hours, and the last two hours he’d been cold as a dog despite the fact that he’d wrapped his legs in a blanket and even stuffed a couple of old copies of Expressen under his rump in a desperate attempt to alleviate the cold that forced its way up through the seat.
Like some damn homeless person, thought Martinsson. And that damn Göransson must be built like an Eskimo despite the fact that he’d taken almost all the blankets that they had in the car. And that damn druggie who sat gorging himself in a big Östermalm apartment. He would slice the arms and legs off him as soon as he stuck his nose outside the door and then…
“Jesus!” Martinsson swore out loud and sincerely as he turned the key in the ignition.
As soon as she stepped into the corridor she saw them and all her alarm bells starting ringing in her head. What is going on? she thought. But fortunately Daniel took over so she had time to think. Another Daniel than the one she knew. Big, black, and threatening, a person who didn’t step back and who quite certainly hadn’t grasped that the men whose way he was blocking were police. Jesus, thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson despite the fact that she almost never swore, what is going on and what am I doing here?
The film was over. The whiskey wasn’t, and there was more available if that had been the case, but Waltin didn’t feel like it. A really good red wine is better, thought Waltin. Softer, more balanced, and you didn’t lose your clarity in the same way regardless of the degree of intoxication, but just now he didn’t feel like wine either. The only thing he felt was a slight irritation. Waste of resources, thought Waltin. What was important now was to bring home little Jeanette and see to it that somewhat more essential things were accomplished. And at that moment the phone rang. Past ten, thought Waltin with surprise, for some reason it was that old bastard Forselius that he was picturing. However he might have gotten the number here, thought Waltin, picking up the receiver.
“Yes,” said Waltin. “I’m listening.”
“For Christ’s sake, Martinsson, turn off the engine,” said Göransson, sticking his rumpled head between the seats. “We can’t sit with the engine on, you know that well enough.”
Hope your sleep was good, thought Martinsson, but before he had time to say anything really cutting on the same theme they called them on the radio.
“Yes,” said Martinsson, turning off the engine. “We’re listening.”
“You can call it a day, boys,” said the officer on the radio. “I was just speaking with the Alpha dog.”
“Call it a day,” said Martinsson. This is God help me not true, he thought.
“Yep. He wants you to call it off. Then he wants to meet you tomorrow, but he’ll be in touch early in the morning regarding the time.”
Göransson had already reached out his hand and turned on the ignition, despite the fact that he hadn’t managed to crawl out between the seats.