Per Karlsson was white.
Hjelm and Holm tried to make sense of the information.
‘You saw a lot for someone who didn’t see anything,’ said Hjelm.
‘Don’t keep going on about that,’ Per Karlsson said sullenly.
‘A whole crowd managed to get out?’ Holm asked. ‘Hammarby fans?’
‘Mostly. Some others, too.’
‘How many?’
‘I was mostly looking at… the victim…’
The victim.
Hjelm shuddered.
Per Karlsson said: ‘About ten Hammarby fans cleared out, I’d say. Him first. The perpetrator.’
The perpetrator.
Pseudo-terminology finding its way into his language in order to distance himself from reality. The witness. The victim. The perpetrator.
‘With the handle of the beer mug in his hand?’ asked Holm.
‘Yeah,’ said Per Karlsson.
‘This one?’ asked Hjelm, holding up a plastic bag containing the handle of a beer mug. The blood was smeared and clotted over the inside of the bag.
Per Karlsson wrinkled his nose and nodded.
‘We found it a short distance away on Folkungagatan. That means he must’ve run round the corner, past the Malmen hotel and past the entrance to Medborgarplatsen metro station. His fingerprints aren’t in the database, so it’s of the utmost importance that you can help us to identify… the perpetrator. You didn’t hear them say anything about where he might have gone?’
‘No,’ said Per Karlsson.
‘Let’s go back a few steps,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘How many sneaked out before the doormen blocked the door? Ten or so Hammarby fans, you said, but also a number of others?’
‘I think so. Some of the people who’d been sitting at the table next to the door disappeared, and a few others, too.’
‘As you can imagine, we’re looking for impartial witnesses who disappeared. The people sitting at the table next to the door weren’t Hammarby fans?’
‘No, they were already there before it happened, when the game was still on. But there were a few tables between the one where I was sitting and theirs, and they filled up pretty quickly. There were five men. Now that I think about it, one of them stayed behind, a guy with a shaved head and light-coloured moustache.’
‘But the others disappeared after… the killing?’
‘I think so.’
‘What did they look like? A group of workmates?’
‘Maybe. I didn’t look too closely. They weren’t exactly talking to one another.’
‘Weren’t talking? What, were they reading Ovid’s Metamorphoses?’
‘Lay off! Look, one of them stayed behind, didn’t he? The one with the shaved head. Talk to him.’
‘OK. Who else? You were sitting at the table second from the window, second from the right-hand wall, as seen from the bar. This group was sitting on the far left, on the other side of the aisle. What about the tables in between?’
‘Like I said, they filled up before the Hammarby fans came in. As far as I remember, there weren’t any seats left for the Hammarby fans, except next to me. A bunch of them sat down at my table. A few of them managed to leave after it happened.’
‘And over by the window out onto Tjärhovsgatan? You were facing that way, weren’t you?’
‘A group of girls. They were taking up both tables over in the corner. A hen party, I think, having a last few drinks. They were pretty drunk – and pretty damn shocked afterwards. None of them left, they could hardly bloody walk.’
‘Right next to you? Against the right-hand wall?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t remember.’
‘You can’t remember? You seem to remember quite well otherwise.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. There might’ve been some people sitting there, but I never looked in that direction.’
‘Fine. Behind you, then? Towards the bar? You said you turned round a few times?’
‘At one table there was a man by himself, staring at me. Closest to the bar. Really tall, in his fifties. Gay, I’d guess. But you have his name, he stayed behind. He must’ve been closest to it. I don’t remember the rest of the tables too well. A group of amateur musician types who stayed behind. Two middle-aged couples. I’ve got no idea about the tables further in.’
Per Karlsson fell silent. Hjelm and Holm fell silent. Eventually, Holm said: ‘Shall we sum up, then? We’ll draw a little sketch. The crime scene, the bar, is set back in the room, against the wall on the other side to the door. In a straight line from the bar, there are a number of tables at the rear. You don’t know anything about them, you were sitting too far away. The periphery looks like this, as seen from the bar. Straight ahead, the window out onto Tjärhovsgatan. To the left, the door. Next to the door, one table, running longways. Then the aisle, then three rows of three big tables, with you sitting at the right-hand side of the middle one, facing the window. Before the Hammarby fans poured in just after nine, the following people were present. On the row of tables along the window, the hen party group were sitting at the two to the right. Then, at the window table nearest the door…?’
‘I don’t know. There was a group sitting there, but I’ve got no idea who they were. They were there afterwards, in any case.’
‘The middle row, then, the row of tables you were sitting at?’
‘I don’t know about the table on the far right, like I said. Then me, and after a while seven or eight Hammarby fans. There was a group of students sitting at the table to the left of mine, I think.’
‘And the row nearest to the bar?’
‘Christ, OK. At the first table, furthest to the right, nearest the bar: those two couples and the tall gay guy who was staring at me. Second table: the musician types, four of them. The third table: no idea. Then the single table by the door: the group of five men. Four of them disappeared.’
‘Well, then,’ said Hjelm. ‘Time for the perpetrator.’
He felt pleased at being able to say the word without having to pause first.
‘It’s mostly the Hammarby scarves that I remember, actually,’ said Per Karlsson. ‘One of them had a banner, too; rolled up, green and white squares. The perpetrator had medium-long, pretty blond, pretty dirty hair. I almost only saw him from behind. I think he had a little moustache, too. I don’t know, he looked like a mechanic or something, if you get what I mean. I was born and raised in Danderyd, and out there, he was one of those people you’d immediately assume was from the southern suburbs. A Farsta type.’
Hjelm and Holm stared at him.
‘Judgemental, I know,’ he said. ‘I live in the south myself now. Unemployed and uneducated, living in the southern suburbs. Judgemental, but it’s the best I can do.’
‘No, one more thing,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘Come with me to the police artist. He does it all on computers now, so it won’t take long.’
She stood up. Per Karlsson stood up. She was taller than he was, Hjelm noticed irrelevantly.
‘You don’t have anything else to add, Per?’ he asked.
Per Karlsson shook his head and gave him a furtive glance. That peculiar, paradoxical clarity in his eyes.
‘Well, thanks for your help.’