We’ll have to see what Wiklander comes up with, Johansson decided, adjusting the pillow under his head, and a minute later he was sound asleep. On his right side with his right arm under the pillow, as always.
[WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 11]
Johansson’s internal clock had been upset. Normally he always woke up at six in the morning, but now it was only four o’clock and Johansson was both alert and in need of a substantial breakfast. First he showered and got dressed, but creativity was no longer sufficient. He’d polished off the only egg in the house during yesterday evening’s festive dinner, and the remaining filets in the can of anchovies didn’t tempt him, not at this time of day at any rate. So he had to be content with a cup of black coffee and a few slices of hardtack with butter while he read the morning paper.
Damn, thought Johansson, staring crossly at his clock. Only five-thirty despite the fact that he’d almost memorized Dagens Nyheter and even squandered his life by reading the sports section.
He thought about unpacking his suitcases, sorting the laundry, and at least laying Krassner’s papers on the desk in his study, but for reasons that weren’t entirely clear to him he had not yet made up his mind to do that. Instead he took a brisk walk to the office-piercing cold and raw dampness along the piers that bit into his cheeks and the tip of his nose-and when he strode into the reception area on Polhemsgatan right after six a.m. the guard looked both worried and red-eyed.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
“Early to bed, early to rise,” said Johansson with feigned heartiness, despite the fact that his stomach was rumbling and it would be another hour yet before he could quiet it in the cafeteria down by the swimming pool.
When his secretary arrived right before eight o’clock as she always did, he had cleaned his desk, the calendar pages were white as snow, and before him lay an entire workday during which he could wander around in his own corridors and shoot the breeze with his colleagues. As long as nothing especially critical and pressing happened that demanded his elevated participation, of course. Why would that happen, for it never did, thought Johansson, nodding toward his closest female coworker.
“You don’t have a few minutes?” she asked, and from her guilty expression he knew at once what it was about.
She’s changed her mind, he thought.
“Of course,” said Johansson. “Why don’t we go into my office and sit down.”
She had changed her mind, and it took her five minutes of circumlocutions to get it said.
“It’s clear that you should stay here,” said Johansson kindly. “Who knows how long I’ll remain at the personnel office? I hardly know that myself.”
Women, he thought.
“Let me know if you think of someone else,” said Johansson. “I’m not asking for miracles; it’s enough that she’s half as good as you,” he added, with a little extra Norrland in his voice.
It’s all the same, he thought as she went out through his door.
After that he devoted a good hour to looking in on his old colleagues and talking about this and that and mostly about robbers old and new. When ten a.m. approached he excused himself, returned to his office, and called his accountant at the bank’s trust department.
“I want you to sell my Fermenta shares,” said Johansson.
The accountant wiggled like an eel in a saltcellar, but Johansson, who looked out for number one when it came to things that were his, was unrelenting.
“You want me to hold on to them?” asked Johansson.
“I’m sitting here with the latest report from our analysts and they see a continued, very strong growth potential. They’re firmly advising against selling-instead they’re recommending buy even at the current level.”
Wonder if those are the same bean counters who firmly advised me against buying three months ago? Although it’s clear, then I got them for a song.
“Okay,” said Johansson heavily. “Let’s do it like this. I want you to sell all of my shares in Fermenta, and I’m going to stay on the line until it’s done.”
“Now it’s done,” the accountant said sourly after about half a minute of mumbling next to the receiver.
“Excellent,” said Johansson. “I’m sure you know what old man Ford used to say? The one with the Model T?”
“No,” said the accountant. He still sounded hurt.
“Profit is profit,” said Johansson and hung up.
Okay then, thought Johansson. So what do I do now? He looked at his watch and leaned back in his desk chair. Just past ten and nothing to do. First he had a random idea that he should give Wiklander a buzz and offer his services, but then the police superintendent in him immediately put his foot down. He shouldn’t even think about it, for it was altogether too sensitive for a man in his position, and considering the probable significance of the matter, unnecessary as well.
Johansson drummed his fingers on the desk crossly. The policeman in his soul had suddenly come to life, refusing to back down, and he felt a strong urge for a little old-fashioned honest detective work. What was it that piece of shit wrote in that letter, the one I was never supposed to read? thought Johansson. That he’d gotten my home address from a very well-known Swedish journalist? Johansson could only think of one such person, and for lack of anything else it was just as well to get the matter cleared up.
Wendell, the editor of the large evening paper, sounded both flattered and interested when Johansson called and suggested lunch the same day.
“Are you up to something interesting?” asked Wendell with curiosity, because he knew from experience that Johansson usually dealt in hard goods.
“No,” said Johansson. “Just thought it might be nice to get together. It’s been a while.”
“I understand,” said Wendell cryptically. “We’ll discuss it when we meet.”
I doubt that, thought Johansson, but didn’t say it out loud.
All real police officers disliked journalists, and in that respect Johansson was no exception. It was Wendell who was the exception, and Johansson had recognized it many years earlier when he’d started his climb to the top of the police pyramid and felt the need of someone like Wendell. They had started exchanging back scratches with each other and up to now they had both profited from the trades. Wendell was also the only journalist who had gotten Johansson’s home address, strictly for his own use and for sensitive deliveries. But he’d probably betrayed that confidence and turned it over to Krassner, and because Johansson was not about to move on account of Wendell’s loose lips, it was just as well to make an early, clear indication of this.
Otherwise he didn’t have anything against him in particular. He was a pleasant guy, just like Johansson fond of the good things in life, such as food, drink, and women, and just like Johansson he had his own favorite Italian restaurant, where they’d gotten a large tray of mixed Italian cold cuts as a little appetizer before things got serious.
Business first, thought Johansson, leaning forward and nodding amiably at Wendell.
“Do you know an American journalist named Krassner, John Krassner?” asked Johansson.
Wendell suddenly looked rather wary. Then he nodded.
“I’ve met him a few times down at the press club on Vasagatan. He’s working on some project here, writing some book, very hush-hush, but I haven’t seen him in a good while now, so he’s probably gone back to the States. The fact is that we talked about you at some point.”
Johansson nodded to him to continue.