“Didn’t say a thing?”
“Not a damned word! We kept at him for several hours-nothing.”
“That’s weird.”
“Weird? You can bet your. . boots!”
He changed the end of the sentence abruptly after a curt knock was followed by the door opening. Prosecutor Inez Collin made her entrance and filled the small room with her authority and the scent of Chloë. She was slim and almost as tall as Irene. Her long blond hair was worn in a tight French roll. The hairdo and the high-heeled pumps with the dark gray suit made her look even taller. Her makeup was discreet, but the bright red silk blouse and her manicured nails were the same color. She smiled and said, “Hello. Excuse me for interrupting, but there’s a little problem with Lasse Johannesson.”
Andersson nodded and said courteously, “Hello. There’s always been a problem with Lasse Johannesson.”
“No doubt. It has to do with his arrest. From what I understand, there are no grounds for requesting detention of Johannesson, correct?”
“It’s not so damned. . not so easy to detain somebody when you don’t know what crime he’s committed. Just that he’s done something!”
“Correct. But admit that there would be problems if we began taking away the freedom of everyone who fulfilled that criterion. Unfortunately I couldn’t get away this morning when you were questioning Johannesson. I just went to talk with him. He didn’t answer. The only thing he said was, ‘You can’t keep me here. I haven’t committed any crime.’ My question is: Has he?”
“But it’s obvious that he has!”
“Then what? Do we have proof of any crime? Are there any grounds for detention?”
Andersson’s face slowly began to assume that unbecoming tomato-red shade. Controlling himself, he said, “He and his cousin Bobo Torsson were up to some monkey business!”
“What was it?”
“We don’t know! Something with the Hell’s Angels out in Billdal. Drug deals!”
Inez Collin raised one discreetly penciled eyebrow and asked, “Do we know whether Johannesson had anything to do with the motorcycle gang? Any evidence?”
“Bobo did.”
“But you don’t know whether Johannesson had any contact with them. No evidence, that is.”
“He was partial owner of the cottage! Along with Torsson!”
“That’s not much evidence. I’m waiting with the detention order. We’ll try to hold him for five days. ‘Interfering with a criminal investigation’ or ‘risk of removal of evidence,’ or the like. But if any legal representative starts yelling, I’ll have a hard time justifying it. Within ninety-six hours I want hard evidence of a crime committed by Lasse Johannesson. Otherwise we’ll have to release him. We have to try to keep in daily contact for a while now. I’m also dealing with the investigation of the bomb that killed Bo-Ivar Torsson. The top brass thought it would be practical. Now I won’t disturb you any longer. Excuse me for interrupting.”
She turned to go. At the door she stopped and turned back to the superintendent.
“Speaking of the top brass, Chief Bergström was chuckling about how well informed he was about the von Knecht case. I pressed him a bit to find out how that could be. It came out that he had asked you ‘to please submit ongoing confidential reports.’ I told him that all ‘confidential reports’ from here on have to come through me. Just so you know. See you later!”
She swept out leaving a cloud of Chloë.
Tommy sniffed the air and sighed, “What a woman!”
“Oh yes!”
The superintendent sounded as if he agreed, but Irene could tell that their reasons were not the same. To hell with it; the point now was not to delay any longer. Reluctantly, she slid over the first folder and started to page through it. But the pictures began to blur before her eyes and without being able to stop herself she asked, “How long do you have?”
“What? Time? As long as you need,” the superintendent said generously.
Irene sounded like she was a crying for help. “No! Not the photo ID! How much time do you have from when the pin on a hand grenade is pulled until it detonates?”
The silence was intense and unpleasant. Finally Andersson said, “Don’t think about it. Everything turned out all right.”
“No! It did not turn out all right! I’ve been blown to bits! In my soul!”
Andersson gave her an uncertain look. Was she having a breakdown? Maybe women couldn’t stand such rough stuff. But Irene was a hardened cop who had been through plenty of trying situations. He had never seen this kind of reaction from her before. At a loss, he said, “What do you mean? Why?”
“Why? The feeling of being totally at the mercy of these shitbags! The helplessness! Knocked unconscious and disarmed, then attempted murder with a hand grenade! Pissed on and degraded! And we couldn’t do a thing. No, I did do one thing. I threw the grenade out the window. And that’s what keeps going through my mind. What would have happened if I’d missed? Imagine if I hadn’t grabbed it right away. Imagine if it had rolled away into the room. I know the answer to those questions, but I can’t let go of one thing: How long have you got?”
Tommy stood up and went over to Irene. To Andersson’s astonishment he bent over and put his arms around her. He leaned his head on hers and said, “Four seconds. He threw the grenade as soon as he pulled the pin, without holding on to it. They were in a hurry, he was probably stressed. That’s why you made it. The throw must have taken at least half a second. Subtract that from the original four and a half. You had four seconds max.”
“If he hadn’t thrown it right away I wouldn’t have made it!”
“No, Irene. You wouldn’t have made it.”
Tommy was still holding her, but she felt no comfort and warmth. An icy cold seeped up out of the black depths, and the voices echoed: You wouldn’t have made it! You would have died. Both of you ought to be dead! Nobody can make it in less than four seconds. Four seconds!
Andersson fidgeted uncomfortably. “Stop thinking about what didn’t happen. Don’t get hung up on it; we have to go on with the investigation. Damn it, Irene, you’re a hero who saved Jimmy’s life! And your own. That’s the sort of thing you get a medal for.”
He stood up. Tommy had let go of her. The superintendent aimed a clumsy little pat at her sore shoulder. She flinched but said nothing.
Tommy looked thoughtfully at his boss and said, “Sven, you were pals with Olle ‘Armstrong’ Olsson, weren’t you?”
“I sure was. We were partners for ten years on patrol. Then I went to inspector training and wound up with the Crime Police, while he went into the Canine Unit. He loved his animals-”
He broke off and looked at Tommy for a long time. “I know what you’re getting at,” he said curtly. He cleared his throat and turned to Irene. “Irene, this happened twenty years ago. My old pal Armstrong worked in the Canine Unit. Hell of a talented guy. He was called Armstrong because he loved jazz. But that’s not important. Olle and his dog were called to a burglary alarm at Obs, out in Hisings Backa. It’s a big department store, so Olle took the dog off the leash, as usual. The dog picked up a scent and ran off. There was a shot and when Olle without thinking rushed after the dog, he saw the animal lying on the floor bleeding. He stopped short, with his pistol drawn. Then he felt a gun barrel shoved into the back of his neck and heard the old cliché, ‘Drop the gun!’ He did as he was told. There were two thieves. One of them took his pistol and then they took off.”
The superintendent stopped and his expression turned grim. The words seemed to come from far away when he went on. “That’s all that happened. Except that the dog died and Olle left the force.”
He fell silent and Irene reluctantly felt that she wanted to know more. So she asked, “Quit the force? What did he do then?”