“There’s one thing that I don’t understand,” she began hesitantly, with the shyly downward look that she realized that her situation now demanded.
“There is so much that you don’t understand,” said Waltin with both warmth and malt whiskey in his voice.
“There was something that Dan-that M’Boye told me that evening when we came back and we discovered that Krassner had killed himself,” she continued.
“Yes,” said Waltin with an irritated wrinkle on his otherwise smooth and suntanned forehead. Wonder if she’s fucked that damn black guy, he thought, but because the very thought was so unpleasant he quickly pushed it aside.
“When he spoke with the cops,” she added quickly. “That Wiijnbladh from tech and that horrible little fat guy from homicide.”
For some reason that she didn’t understand the wrinkles had smoothed out and Waltin suddenly appeared both pleased and curious.
“I’m listening,” he said.
Daniel had arrived late. They were to have met at seven o’clock, but he hadn’t shown up until a quarter of an hour later. In the lobby of the student dormitory on his way out to the meeting with Jeanette he had run into Krassner, who was on his way into the building. The time would have been, oh, about ten or twelve minutes past seven. Briefly and in summary, she couldn’t get those times to agree with the times that the team had planned for carrying out their inspection of Krassner’s residence.
“Well thought out, Jeanette,” said Waltin approvingly. “We actually had better luck there than we deserved.”
Then he related to her how their operative had violated his instructions and had already begun the operation at twenty minutes to seven, while M’Boye was still in his room. Krassner’s home was both small and empty of interesting material, and the house search for which they had set aside an hour had been finished in less than half that time.
“Good thing they didn’t run into each other,” said Jeanette, feeling a genuine sense of relief.
“Must have been a few minutes at most that separated them,” Waltin agreed, looking at her greedily.
Nice try, Hedberg, but you’re not fooling me, thought Waltin, and suddenly he felt as exhilarated as that time when, completely by chance, he’d run into dear Mama as she stood staggering on the Östermalm subway-station platform.
Five minutes later everything was back to normal again.
Naughty, naughty Hedberg, thought Waltin contentedly while he energetically penetrated little Jeanette from behind to the stimulating and muffled sounds that she was emitting through his professionally applied muzzle.
What is really going on? thought Jeanette, for of course she couldn’t say anything.
CHAPTER XIII
And all that remained was the cold of winter
Stockholm in December
[TUESDAY, DECEMBER 10]
Finally home, thought Johansson as he stepped off the plane, feeling real ground under his feet after ten days. His colleague Wiklander had used his police identification to meet up at baggage claim and help him with his suitcases. The rest had been a pure formality, as always when police officers and customs officials meet under collegial conditions, and a quarter of an hour later they were sitting in Johansson’s service vehicle on their way into the city.
“Did you have a good trip, chief?” asked Wiklander as he changed lanes like a car thief.
“Completely okay,” said Johansson. “The food was decent and I learned one or two things that I hadn’t heard about before.” And a few things that I’ll try to forget, he thought.
“I was slaving at the after-hours unit over the weekend,” said Wiklander with an innocent expression. “Some female American cop phoned who wanted to get hold of you at any price.”
“So what was her name?” said Johansson, even though he already knew the answer.
“Detective Lieutenant Jane Hollander, I think she works for the state police in New York,” said Wiklander. “Seemed awfully urgent.”
“I see, her,” said Johansson. “Yes, I spoke with her before I left. On the phone,” added Johansson completely unnecessarily. You’re starting to lose your grip, Lars, he thought.
“She sounded nice,” said Wiklander neutrally. On the phone, sure, give me a break, thought Wiklander, who’d been around awhile.
“She was part of that course at the FBI,” Johansson lied.
“She sounded good-looking,” persisted Wiklander, who among other things was also one of the boys.
“So-so,” said Johansson. “She was nice, that is, but we sure have better here at home,” he declared with a trace more Norrland in his voice. “Moving on,” he continued by way of diversion. “Has anything in particular happened in old Sweden while I was away?”
Not too much, according to Wiklander. Färjestad was way ahead in the hockey standings and had most recently played the pants off Brynäs, which was especially gratifying for a Värmlander such as himself, but otherwise nothing of consequence had happened.
“For the most part I guess that’s all,” Wiklander opined. “Well, and then Edberg creamed Wilander in the final at the Australian Open, but I guess you’ve already heard that.”
No, thought Johansson, and now I’m going to try to forget it.
“How’s the weather been?”
“Cold,” said Wiklander, shaking his shoulders demonstratively. “Damn cold, in fact. The pundits are saying it’s going to be a really severe winter. That old man with the perch fins was on TV the other night and according to him it’s going to be merciless.”
“I was thinking about asking you for a favor,” said Johansson, whose thoughts were elsewhere.
“I’m listening.”
“It’s a little sensitive,” Johansson continued. “A Stockholm matter,” he clarified, to further indicate how sensitive it was to meddle in such things if, like he and Wiklander, you were now working at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation.
“I understand,” said Wiklander, smiling wryly. “What have they come up with this time?”
“It’s already been written up and dismissed as a suicide,” said Johansson.
“You suspect foul play, chief,” said Wiklander, smiling a little more broadly.
“Actually I don’t suspect anything,” said Johansson. “It’s more a feeling that I have.”
“I understand exactly,” said Wiklander, nodding.
He suspects that it’s a murder and that’s not good, since Johansson actually is Johansson. Hooga hooga, thought Wiklander, who viewed his boss as both a spiritual and professional role model.
Judging by the pile on his desk, Wiklander’s description appeared to be more or less correct, and Johansson’s world had definitely not fallen apart despite his absence. In the case of the overlooked Turkish murder victims the doorman had found in the elevator shaft, the ombudsman had acted with unusual speed and issued a reprimand along the lines of on-the-one-hand-on-the-other-hand, which those most closely concerned would certainly be able to live with. So far so good. But new misery had occurred, and this time unfortunately it concerned his own organization.
During an unusually merry company party at one of the squads, one of his chief inspectors was said to have tried to force himself on a female civilian employee. The person making the report was anonymous-as usual, thought Johansson with a dejected sigh-but was quite obviously to be found in their own corridors. The man singled out as the perpetrator had taken sick leave on the advice of his boss, and the alleged victim didn’t want to talk about it at all. The matter had now been turned over to the district prosecutor in Gothenburg-for the usual geographic distance to maintain objectivity-and in any event hadn’t been leaked to the media. And when it finally was, with any luck his successor would be sitting at his desk.