It became very clear when they sat down at the table in her small kitchen that he didn’t need to worry about the food and drink that he hadn’t brought with him. Excellent assortment of pickled herring, gravlax, and smoked eel, an excellent potato casserole with just the right creaminess, golden-brown meatballs, and little sausages that sizzled as the hostess lifted them out of the oven. There was lots of beer and wine besides. She must be rich too, thought Johansson, loading up another spoonful of scrambled eggs with finely chopped fresh chives. Nice to look at and fun to talk with. Prepares food like Aunt Jenny herself, motherly as well, patient, and… probably wealthy.
“I didn’t think people like you existed,” said Johansson, toasting his hostess. “Speak up if you want to meet a real guy.” Wonder if she reads books too, he thought.
“I didn’t think you knew anyone besides me,” said Jarnebring good-naturedly. “What do you think about chasing with a really old gin?” he asked, fishing up a bulging clay jug from the rows of regular bottles.
Wonder where he’s gotten hold of all the liquor? thought Johansson. Regardless of whether she had money, she didn’t seem to be the type to buy liquor for them. Not in such quantities, in any case, and quite apart from how much of a guy she’d now gotten hold of.
“Sounds good,” said Johansson, who’d only had three stiff ones, the effects of which he didn’t feel in the least. Must be some horse, he thought.
Coffee and cognac were set out in the living room, along with masses of liqueurs and other oddities, and when Johansson saw the whole lot he immediately abandoned his theory that his best friend must have won at the track.
“Coffee and cognac will do for me,” said Johansson when his host started rummaging among all the bottles. Now he was feeling the effects of the drinks with dinner and he didn’t intend to pour sugar on the fire.
Jarnebring’s girlfriend and her friend drank cream liqueurs with obvious enjoyment-they probably don’t read books, thought Johansson-and it was then too that he got an answer to his musings.
“God, this is good,” said the female friend from Skövde, letting the tip of her tongue feel her upper lip. “Can you ask your contact to arrange a few bottles for me too?”
“I’ll ask him,” said Jarnebring, smiling and raising his glass.
Hultman, thought Johansson. Wonder what Jarnie has helped him with? he thought, and if Jarnebring hadn’t been his best friend he would certainly have been a little worried.
The time had gotten to be past midnight before Johansson finally stopped to think that it was high time to go home. Not because he felt out of sorts exactly-for the last hour he’d been content simply with mineral water-but in twelve hours he would be sitting at the steering wheel. Best to break up when it was the most fun.
“Now it’s time for me to say thank you,” said Johansson. “You haven’t done this in vain and you must speak up in good time before the wedding so that I can repay you.”
Jarnebring had kept a good face but still rolled his eyes when no one else could see them. The hostess had been giggly and delighted and kissed him right on the mouth, and her friend had clearly also decided to think about getting along.
“I heard you live on the south end too,” she said, giving Johansson a smile and an assessing glance. “If you don’t have anything against it, maybe we can share a cab?”
“Sure,” said Johansson. You’re rolling in it, lad, he thought.
[FRIDAY, DECEMBER 20]
He’d packed his suitcases the day before. His clothes, Christmas presents for his relatives, books to read, plus Krassner’s posthumous papers, if he were to have an extra day and didn’t have anything better to do; everything was in his suitcases. In the morning before he went to work he’d picked up the car that his brother had arranged for him. What remained was to go around at work and wish everyone merry Christmas and drink way too much coffee. He’d decided to eat lunch on the way. Right before the stroke of twelve he gave a Christmas present to his secretary, got a surprised smile, neither more nor less surprised than what he’d counted on, and a cool kiss on the cheek in thanks.
Then he took the elevator down to the garage and sat in the large rented car, which didn’t cost a cent, for his big brother, who was in the business, had seen to that, loaded the tape player with some nice dance-band music, and set a course northward. Just under 240 miles makes just under four hours, thought Johansson as he turned onto Essingeleden, at a good time judging by the sparse northbound traffic.
CHAPTER XIV
And all that remained was the cold of winter
Stockholm in December
December had started unusually well for Bäckström and his colleagues in homicide. At the beginning of Lucia week, they’d taken the boat to Finland for the squad’s traditional Christmas conference. They’d gotten thoroughly primed even before going on board, and when Bäckström and the others went to piss away most of it before sitting down to eat lunch, Danielsson was in his cups on the shit-house stairs, even before they’d passed Lidingö on the way out.
This is, God help me, too good to be true, thought Bäckström. What a fucking phenomenal start!
First he and his colleagues just stood silently and looked at Jack Daniels where he was lying, motionless and with his drunken head at a mysterious angle against his chest, but then Rundberg, that ingratiating bastard, took him by the shoulder and shook him and raved that someone had to fetch a doctor, and then Jack Daniels suddenly sat up ramrod straight and stared at them with his bloodshot eyes.
“You cowardly bastards,” he hissed. “I don’t hear any applause.”
Then everything went back to normal again. At lunch Lindberg started nagging that no one ought to take more than one schnapps, given the afternoon meetings, but then old Jack Daniels, who was also back to normal again, told him to shut up and eat. After that he made a toast with Bäckström. First he just sat and glared at him the way he usually did, but then he suddenly grinned and raised his glass.
“Skoal, Bäckström,” said Jack Daniels. “Better luck next time we go to the can.”
Say what you like about old Jack Daniels, but he’s a tough bastard, thought Bäckström, who was already into his fourth and starting to get a little sentimental.
“Skoal, chief,” said Bäckström, “and I’m not one to complain.”
Clearly that had been the right answer, for Jack Daniels had grinned like an old killer bear and treated him to his fifth.
When they got to Helsinki, Bäckström slipped away from the rest of the company. He called up a Finnish friend, a cop who had good contacts and was made of the right stuff. They went to a nightclub where they picked up two Estonian girls whom they took home to the colleague’s place. Bäckström gave his specimen a real all-round lube job. She was a small, fat brunette with big tits and good speed on her little mouse. Both she and her friend were in Finland illegally, so neither of them had been particularly difficult to negotiate with when they were going to settle the price, and the colleague told them what he and Bäckström did for work. Before they left she even asked Bäckström if they couldn’t meet again sometime. Perhaps in Stockholm?
Dream on, you horny little cunt, grinned Bäckström as he staggered on board again in good time before departure. Out of pure curiosity he’d also trotted down to the meeting room and there sat Lindberg playing the conference game along with Krusberg, another ingratiating bastard, and a couple of the younger talents who probably didn’t have much choice. Bäckström sat down for a while to rest his weary feet, but Lindberg was carrying on about some meaningless statistics that no real policeman could bear filling in. Then he left and looked up the others, who to a man sat gathered in the bar, getting warmed up before departure. Then everything was as normal again.