“Do you mind driving?” he asked.
“Where are you calling from?” asked Waltin. Calm down, he thought.
“From a pay phone down in the vestibule at… well, you know,” replied Assistant Detective Eriksson.
“Okay,” said Waltin. “So do the following. Walk a little ways down toward town and take a taxi to my place, so we can talk in peace and quiet.”
What the hell is going on? thought Waltin.
While Waltin was waiting for little Jeanette he had taken the opportunity to freshen himself up. He had washed himself-hands, face, and armpits-brushed his teeth, and sprayed over any lingering scent of whiskey. Then he’d changed his shirt, to a loose and comfortable cream-colored linen with his monogram embroidered in blue silk on the breast pocket. And while he was polishing his feathers he had been thinking sharply the whole time.
There was a significant risk that the shit would hit the fan, thought Waltin. In addition there were several things that didn’t add up. According to the conversation with Hedberg at approximately a quarter past eight, when he called from the apartment that Waltin had arranged for him, he was supposed to have carried out his assignment without complications, between seven and roughly a quarter to eight. Between thumb and index finger and it will work out, thought Waltin.
…
According to Göransson and Martinsson, a double misfortune that he must do something about at once, Krassner had walked through Forselius’s doorway on Sturegatan as early as twenty minutes to seven, and when they were sent home three and a half hours later he should still have been there.
Truly very peculiar, thought Waltin, because according to the Stockholm police command center, Krassner had fallen out of a window from the sixteenth floor of the Rosehip student dormitory on Körsbärsvägen at five minutes to eight in the evening and approximately half a mile from the place where he was supposed to be sitting shooting the breeze with a confused old bastard from the days of the cold war. Moreover, the information as to time and place were certain, because he himself had checked them, obviously in a completely secure but devious way. Had he even been at Forselius’s at all? The simplest thing would no doubt be to ask directly, thought Waltin, but at the same time that could just as well wait. Having come that far in his thoughts he was interrupted by the discreet signal from the doorway telephone. Little Jeanette, thought Waltin, and he felt both exhilarated and capable of action.
Good Lord, thought Jeanette confusedly as she looked around Waltin’s living room. How can a police officer afford such an apartment? Even if he is a superintendent?
“How are you doing?” asked Waltin. He looked at her, smiling a little but with a touch of seriousness and with a sympathetic wrinkle in his forehead.
“I’m okay,” said Jeanette, nodding. “I understood of course that he was crazy. And I’ve said that. But that he was crazy enough to jump out the window, that I didn’t believe.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” said Waltin soothingly. “Would you like something to eat?”
“No. I ate a while ago.”
“Then perhaps I might offer you something to drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?” Waltin looked at her with the same slightly worried smile.
“A glass of wine would be nice. If you’re having one too.”
“We both probably need one,” said Waltin confidently. So that we can finally get to the point, you and I, he thought.
A quarter of an hour later the pieces started falling into place. Little Jeanette sat curled up on his big sofa; she was already working on her second glass of wine. She seemed collected but at the same time vulnerable and a little dejected in a way that was both attractive and arousing.
“If I’ve understood the matter correctly, you meet M’Boye at the student restaurant a little after seven. Then the two of you walk to a restaurant on Birger Jarlsgatan. Eat dinner for two hours and return to his apartment at the dormitory. You’re there at about nine-thirty.”
Waltin looked at her with mildly inquisitive eyes. Whatever it was you had to do there, you little bitch, he thought.
“Yes,” said Jeanette, nodding. “And that was when we ran into the guys from Stockholm. They were done with Krassner’s room and were just leaving but Dan-M’Boye got angry and asked who they were and what they were doing there. I guess he didn’t realize that they were police. For a moment I was worried that he would attack them.” Jeanette nodded, mostly to herself, apparently, taking a gulp from her wineglass.
“What did they say then?” asked Waltin. “The police,” he clarified.
“Well, there was a rather heated discussion between them and M’Boye. They said that it was a suicide, that they were completely sure of that but they didn’t want to explain why and M’Boye refused to buy it.”
“Do you know why?” asked Waltin. “Why didn’t he believe it?”
“Presumably because they were policemen and because he doesn’t like the police,” said Jeanette, shrugging her shoulders. “Well, and because it was skewed from the start. One of the cops was actually not very nice. The other one was more normal. He was a technician. He even introduced himself.”
“And you?” said Waltin.
“No.” Jeanette shook her head. “I tried to keep myself in the background. I didn’t even need to say my name. They seemed to be in a big hurry to get out of there, actually.”
“And neither of them recognized you,” asked Waltin.
“No,” said Jeanette, and for some reason she smiled.
“And you’re quite certain of that?”
“Yes, quite certain. When they left I heard the one from the after-hours unit, he was the short fat one who was actually rather awful, he called me a typical student whore.”
“Sad,” said Waltin without smiling. “Sad to have such officers. You don’t know their names?”
“The short fat one never introduced himself, but the other one showed his ID.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Yes, his name was Wiijnbladh. Detective inspector.”
This isn’t true, thought Waltin delightedly. Wiijnbladh, that wretched little shit.
“Is it anyone you know?” asked Jeanette.
“No,” said Waltin, shaking his head. “It doesn’t ring any bells. Don’t believe I’ve even heard the name.”
It’s not anything I’m thinking about telling you, in any case, thought Waltin.
“You know what,” he said. “This is a very sad story that we’ve landed in, because of a poor person who actually appears to have been seriously mentally ill, and if there’s anything I blame myself for, it’s probably that I didn’t listen carefully enough to what you said about how bad things were with Krassner…”
“I don’t think you should do that,” objected Jeanette. “Unfortunately I wasn’t especially clear, but…”
Waltin shook his head negatively.
“Jeanette,” said Waltin. “You and I are police officers. Our duty is to protect the security of the realm, and unfortunately it’s the case that most of what we encounter in our job is more or less crazy. But we’re not social workers, we aren’t doctors, and we’re definitely not spiritual advisers. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Clearly, thought Waltin, for she nodded in agreement and looked both serious and collected.
“We won’t get involved in the investigation of Krassner’s suicide,” Waltin continued. “The Stockholm police can take care of that. That will take its own course, even if I will, naturally, see to it that we’re kept informed. But as far as we’re concerned I have a definite feeling that this entire sad story is over. And unfortunately, unfortunately it had a bad ending, but there’s nothing we can do about that. What you and I should do is the following.”
She looked at him and nodded. Attentive, listening, willing to do what he said. Excellent, thought Waltin.