Sammy Nilsson guessed that there must be more than ten years between Bosse Gränsberg and Lasse Svensson.
He took out a notepad and pen.
“If we start in the upper right,” he said, “that’s Ville Lagerström.”
Then followed the whole team, with the exception of a couple of players Svensson recognized, but whose names he could not recall.
It was confirmed for Sammy that Bo Gränsberg and Anders Brant played bandy together in the 1980s.
“It’s the murder, right? I read about it in the paper, horrible.”
Sammy Nilsson found no reason to deny that it was Bosse Gränsberg who was the reason for his curiosity.
“But what does this gang have to do with the murder?”
“Probably nothing,” Sammy Nilsson answered. “But we’re checking up on everything. Can you tell me a little about the guys in the picture?”
Sammy got biographical information about all of them, some brief, others more exhaustive. Most of them still lived in town.
“Rolle lives in Edsbyn, where he played a few seasons, he met a lady up there. Svenne I don’t know, I seem to recall he actually became a cop somewhere in south Sweden. And Patrik, he was a little special, became something in finance in Norway of all places.”
“Is there anyone you think might have associated with Bosse later on?”
“Doubtful,” said Svensson, after studying the picture awhile. “Bosse went into the construction industry and got married. I’ve met his wife too, a real looker back in the day. I get the idea that he mostly worked, no time left over for bandy. He was a workhorse even on the court. Never gave up, even if we were way behind.”
“This guy,” said Sammy and pointed. “Oskarsson?”
“Well, not a buddy of Bosse directly, not off the court, I mean. Oskarsson works at PEAB, some kind of quality guy.”
“And Brant?”
Svensson shook his head.
“No, definitely not, he’s a journalist, an investigative one. But he was quick, reminded me a little of Alfberg in his skating style, small build too. I actually read something Brant wrote, about Brazil. Do you know I’ve been there twenty-six times? An amazing country.”
“Not too much bandy.”
“But soccer.”
“Jakobsson then? He looks like a real joker.”
“He was too, and still is. He has a gas station, or had, it went broke. But I don’t think he and Bosse had anything to do with each other. Perra has always had a little trouble holding on to his money, but somehow he always lands feet first.”
“In contrast to Gränsberg,” said Sammy. “Jeremias Kumlin?”
“Became a stock guy, or something, accountant maybe. He eats here sometimes. Works with something in Russia, I think he said. Not Bosse’s type. I think Boris knows him, but on the other hand he knows half the city.”
They went through the list name by name. Sammy Nilsson took notes. He looked at the list.
“Work,” said Svensson, who sensed what Sammy was thinking. “It’s like the restaurant, one thing leads to another. You can never relax.”
“That’s not your thing,” said Sammy politely. “Relaxing, I mean. But it’s going well, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” said the restaurateur. “Guldkanten ended up high on White’s list.”
“What’s that?”
“A ranking of restaurants all over the country.”
“Congratulations, that must feel good,” said Sammy Nilsson. “And thanks for the information. I wish everyone could keep track of things like that. If you can squeeze out the names of those last two, I would be grateful.”
He left Åkanten hungry, even though Svensson offered him lunch. He wanted to get back to the police station and his computer. Thirteen names. Among them, Anders Brant.
Twenty
Sammy Nilsson had just logged onto the computer when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver with a sigh. It was Ottosson.
“My office,” he said, and hung up.
Sammy Nilsson stared at the receiver in amazement. He had never been summoned to his chief’s office in such a brusque manner. Ottosson usually poked his head in and tactfully asked whether you had any time to spare.
Sammy Nilsson suspected what this was about. In pure protest he lingered in front of the computer a few minutes and then slowly took the fifteen steps to Ottosson’s lair, actually the smallest office on the unit.
He entered without knocking.
“Well, the staff sergeant is calling.”
“Sit down,” said Ottosson.
Sammy Nilsson sat down, more curious than worried.
“We’ve received a complaint,” Ottosson began.
He saw himself as a servant of the general public, a somewhat antiquated attitude in the opinion of many of his colleagues, and if there was anything that worried him it was complaints.
“Your namesake, Nilsson, first name Konrad, phoned. According to him you conducted yourself shabbily this morning. He feels offended. And I know how you can be. If a building manager is nice and helps out, you have to adapt. And what were you doing there anyway? Going into the apartment once was borderline official misconduct, that could only be justified if we had indications that Brant was in danger, or something like that. But running there every five minutes doesn’t hold up.”
Shabbily, thought Sammy, he makes it sound like I defiled the stairway.
Ottosson observed him gloomily, but Sammy could not take him seriously. He understood that he was now expected to give his version of the incident, but a sudden sense of fatigue came over him. He decided to bypass Konrad Nilsson and overlook Ottosson’s exaggeration.
“I’ve found a connection between Brant and Gränsberg,” he said.
“I see,” said Ottosson. “But you should have spoken with me first, or Fritzén.”
“Sure, but I didn’t have time. Or rather, I had no desire.”
“Desire or not, we should…” Ottosson began, but did not complete the sentence.
Nilsson told about the photograph, the connection between Brant and Gränsberg, and his idea of digging further to perhaps find a thread worth tugging on.
Ottosson listened but looked moderately impressed.
“You called him a Nazi.”
“He is one,” said Sammy.
“He has filed a formal report.”
“He can stick it up his ass.”
“We may have problems, even more so when Brant comes back. He’s a journalist, and if the building manager gets it into his head to rile up the reporter it can get really unpleasant.”
“We’ll deal with it then, Otto,” said Sammy tiredly. “Right now I want to work.”
He got up from the chair. Ottosson seemed to want to say something more about the collision of the two Nilssons but in the end only let out a sigh.
“Have you seen Lindell?” he asked.
“No, she’s probably at the Savoy.”
The Café Savoy was Ann Lindell’s retreat when she needed to collect her thoughts. For many of her colleagues it was a completely inconceivable environment for thinking, with families with screaming kids, retirees eagerly conversing, and the rattle of cups and plates.
Freddy Johansson now looked considerably more docile. He smelled of sweat and his gaze wandered between Lindell and her notepad, which she was browsing in a little absentmindedly.
“Let’s go over this again,” she said. “A witness saw you together with Klara Lovisa walking on the highway at Skärfälten about twelve o’clock on April twenty-eight. You deny it, but will not submit to a lineup. What are you scared of, if it wasn’t really you?”
“There’s so much bullshit,” Freddy mumbled.
“Yes, on your part.”
“I wasn’t there,” he repeated for the fifth time.
Ann Lindell sat quietly a moment. The ceiling light in the interview room flickered and Freddy looked up in fright. His attorney, Gusten Eriksson, coughed.