Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End

CHAPTER XIII

And all that remained was the cold of winter

Stockholm in December

[TUESDAY, DECEMBER 10]

Finally home, thought Johansson as he stepped off the plane, feeling real ground under his feet after ten days. His colleague Wiklander had used his police identification to meet up at baggage claim and help him with his suitcases. The rest had been a pure formality, as always when police officers and customs officials meet under collegial conditions, and a quarter of an hour later they were sitting in Johansson’s service vehicle on their way into the city.

“Did you have a good trip, chief?” asked Wiklander as he changed lanes like a car thief.

“Completely okay,” said Johansson. “The food was decent and I learned one or two things that I hadn’t heard about before.” And a few things that I’ll try to forget, he thought.

“I was slaving at the after-hours unit over the weekend,” said Wiklander with an innocent expression. “Some female American cop phoned who wanted to get hold of you at any price.”

“So what was her name?” said Johansson, even though he already knew the answer.

“Detective Lieutenant Jane Hollander, I think she works for the state police in New York,” said Wiklander. “Seemed awfully urgent.”

“I see, her,” said Johansson. “Yes, I spoke with her before I left. On the phone,” added Johansson completely unnecessarily. You’re starting to lose your grip, Lars, he thought.

“She sounded nice,” said Wiklander neutrally. On the phone, sure, give me a break, thought Wiklander, who’d been around awhile.

“She was part of that course at the FBI,” Johansson lied.

“She sounded good-looking,” persisted Wiklander, who among other things was also one of the boys.

“So-so,” said Johansson. “She was nice, that is, but we sure have better here at home,” he declared with a trace more Norrland in his voice. “Moving on,” he continued by way of diversion. “Has anything in particular happened in old Sweden while I was away?”

Not too much, according to Wiklander. Färjestad was way ahead in the hockey standings and had most recently played the pants off Brynäs, which was especially gratifying for a Värmlander such as himself, but otherwise nothing of consequence had happened.

“For the most part I guess that’s all,” Wiklander opined. “Well, and then Edberg creamed Wilander in the final at the Australian Open, but I guess you’ve already heard that.”

No, thought Johansson, and now I’m going to try to forget it.

“How’s the weather been?”

“Cold,” said Wiklander, shaking his shoulders demonstratively. “Damn cold, in fact. The pundits are saying it’s going to be a really severe winter. That old man with the perch fins was on TV the other night and according to him it’s going to be merciless.”

“I was thinking about asking you for a favor,” said Johansson, whose thoughts were elsewhere.

“I’m listening.”

“It’s a little sensitive,” Johansson continued. “A Stockholm matter,” he clarified, to further indicate how sensitive it was to meddle in such things if, like he and Wiklander, you were now working at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation.

“I understand,” said Wiklander, smiling wryly. “What have they come up with this time?”

“It’s already been written up and dismissed as a suicide,” said Johansson.

“You suspect foul play, chief,” said Wiklander, smiling a little more broadly.

“Actually I don’t suspect anything,” said Johansson. “It’s more a feeling that I have.”

“I understand exactly,” said Wiklander, nodding.

He suspects that it’s a murder and that’s not good, since Johansson actually is Johansson. Hooga hooga, thought Wiklander, who viewed his boss as both a spiritual and professional role model.

Judging by the pile on his desk, Wiklander’s description appeared to be more or less correct, and Johansson’s world had definitely not fallen apart despite his absence. In the case of the overlooked Turkish murder victims the doorman had found in the elevator shaft, the ombudsman had acted with unusual speed and issued a reprimand along the lines of on-the-one-hand-on-the-other-hand, which those most closely concerned would certainly be able to live with. So far so good. But new misery had occurred, and this time unfortunately it concerned his own organization.

During an unusually merry company party at one of the squads, one of his chief inspectors was said to have tried to force himself on a female civilian employee. The person making the report was anonymous-as usual, thought Johansson with a dejected sigh-but was quite obviously to be found in their own corridors. The man singled out as the perpetrator had taken sick leave on the advice of his boss, and the alleged victim didn’t want to talk about it at all. The matter had now been turned over to the district prosecutor in Gothenburg-for the usual geographic distance to maintain objectivity-and in any event hadn’t been leaked to the media. And when it finally was, with any luck his successor would be sitting at his desk.

Ten days, thought Johansson hopefully. Then he would have vacation over the Christmas, New Year’s, and Epiphany weekends, and when he finally returned he would just clean out his office before he left for a more tranquil existence at the personnel office of the National Police Board. And a nice dinner or two with the old comrades from the union, thought Johansson, who in spirit was already sitting in his own neighborhood restaurant with his counterpart, making toasts with Aunt Jenny’s crystal shot glasses.

After lunch-because he hadn’t felt especially hungry he had been content with a cup of coffee and a sandwich-the jet lag caught up with him and struck with full force. True, he’d slept a few hours on the plane home, and where he was sitting it was only two o’clock, but in his head it was suddenly bedtime after a long, strenuous day.

“Now I’m going to go home and turn in before I faint,” said Johansson to his secretary. “If you can call a taxi for me, then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

At home on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan everything was as usual. The neighbor had watered the plants, fed his two fish, and sorted his mail. The pile of newspapers was much higher, but that could wait. Instead he set the suitcases down in the hall, went straight to his bedroom, took off his clothes, crept down between the sheets, and fell asleep at once. When he woke up, it was eight o’clock in the evening and he was as frisky as a squirrel. He was ravenously hungry too, despite the fact that the contents of his refrigerator offered a man with his appetite faint hope. Beer, mineral water, and way too much aquavit, thought Johansson gloomily, and what do I do now?

First he thought about pulling on his clothes and slipping down to his beloved neighborhood restaurant, but instead he got into the shower and let the water run so he could think better, and an hour later it had all resolved itself for the best. All that had been required was a systematic ransacking of the refrigerator, freezer, and pantry, and a little creative thinking as well as various practical measures à la Kajsa Warg, thought Johansson contentedly as he filled the coffeemaker and poured a tall cognac as a reward.

First an open-faced sandwich with egg and anchovies on hardtack; after that a few slices of moose filet, which he’d thawed quickly in the microwave and simply turned in a hot iron skillet so that they were still thoroughly red and juicy under the browned crust; add to that raw-fried potatoes and homemade garlic butter, all in all a classic Swedish meal worthy of a genuine Norrlander who had once again returned to his native soil after completing exertions abroad.

After that he pulled out the phone jack in order to be in peace, and took his coffee, cognac, and the thick bundle of newspapers into the living room, where he lay down on the sofa in order to evaluate, in peace and quiet, his colleague Wiklander’s summary of what had taken place in the realm during his absence.

Färjestad had taken a comfortable lead in the ice hockey finals and it had been unusually cold for that time of year. Some days the temperature in Stockholm had been between 10 degrees above and 10 degrees below zero, but as for the rest everything seemed to have been rolling along as usual at this time of year.

Christmas sales should break records-on this point merchants and consumers were in touching agreement-despite the fact that the times obviously could have been better. The minister of finance, on the other hand, was unusually optimistic, and in a widely publicized interview he maintained that Sweden was now finally on its way to removing itself from the ensnaring debt the country had landed in due to the previous conservative administration’s mismanagement.

The minister of finance was a popular person and possibly the chief explanation for why things were going well for the ruling party. In Sifo’s December opinion polls, support for the social democrats had risen to forty-four percent, an increase of one percent over the previous month, despite the fact that an overwhelming majority of the party’s supporters simultaneously “completely or partially lacked confidence in” the leader of the same party, the country’s prime minister.

Poor devil, it can’t be easy for him, thought Johansson with a sympathy that in any case was uncharacteristic of the rest of the police in the nation. News reports, political analyses, editorials, cultural articles, humor columns, and the usual gossip, page up and page down, all shared a common preoccupation with the prime minister’s character deficiencies and various human shortcomings.

During the short time that Johansson had been away, the prime minister had managed to be assessed for back taxes and promised “an impending tax charge of considerable proportions”; had “seriously damaged Nordic cooperation by his arrogance”; had “expressed opinions that are completely alien to a unionized democratic philosophy”; and had “vacillated disquietingly” when information about the Russians’ shameful treatment of their political dissidents was demanded of him.

In addition he had “incited a struggle against the tax collectors” when, at a lunch with a number of journalists, he had discussed the latest turns in his own tax case. But in contrast to anyone else, who would have been met with standing ovations, by the next day the evening papers had already forced him into full, disorderly retreat. “An unfortunate joke at a private, informal gathering,” the prime minister explained.

How the hell does he keep it up? thought Johansson from the depths of his police experience; the only possible consolation in the misery was that there were others in the same arena who didn’t seem to be having it so easy either. The Center Party’s nominating committee had fired its party leader six months before the convention, which mortified Johansson even more, for two reasons. For one thing, they were both natives of the province of Ångermanland-according to Johansson’s firm conviction there were far too few representatives from Ångermanland in national politics-and also because he seemed to be a decent fellow.

True, Johansson had never met him, but he’d seen him on TV, and you didn’t need to be a policeman to understand that he was decent, honorable, and completely normal. In contrast to most others in the same business, thought Johansson, who was clearly irritated despite the fact that he would never dream of voting for the Center Party, for there were more than enough others in his family who did so. This country is in the process of going completely to hell, thought Johansson gloomily, consoling himself by pouring another splash of cognac into his almost empty glass.

Within the so-called cultural sector, on the other hand, the picture was more divided and at first glance not particularly easy to understand. The Charter Trip II was still the number one movie, in its fourth week now with over a million viewers, while the country’s second most esteemed director was in a state of severe personal brooding due to a lack of financing for his next film. The planned staging of Swan Lake at the Stockholm Opera had had to be postponed because of a simple broken leg, and at the same time Sidney Sheldon and the Collins sisters were topping the Christmas best-seller charts and selling more books than “almost all serious authors combined.”

High time to go to bed, he thought, as the jet lag again made itself known, resulting in a large yawn.

…

Krassner can wait, thought Johansson as he brushed his teeth. He could unpack his suitcases tomorrow, because apart from Krassner’s posthumous papers they contained mostly clothes that needed to be laundered, and as far as Krassner’s papers were concerned he already had a gnawing premonition of what was there, and the only thing he felt about that was a growing unease.

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.

“Don’t know how we got onto that subject. I seem to recall that he asked me if there were any honorable cops here.” Wendell smiled weakly and raised his beer glass before he took a gulp.

“So what did you say?”

“I seem to recall that I said something to the effect that I knew one at any rate,” said Wendell. “I no doubt mentioned your name too-in fact, I’m sure I did. It was right at the time when you were making headlines in the media as the foremost champion of justice.”

“Why did he want to get hold of someone like me?” said Johansson. “Was there some information that he wanted to get?”

Wendell shook his head doubtfully.

“Don’t think so. Just between us he’s a mysterious type. It was never really clear to me what he was doing, other than that it was a great revelation, of course.” He shook his head in sympathy, then asked, “Has he been in contact with you? If I were you I’d be a bit careful with the good Krassner.”

“He sent me a mysterious letter,” said Johansson. “I actually didn’t understand a thing, but because he sent it to my home address I thought I should ask.”

Wendell shook his head dismissively. “Forget it,” he said. “I would never dream of giving out your home address. All he got was the address to your office. To the bureau, the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I think I said it was in the phone book.”

Hmm, thought Johansson.

Then they talked about other things besides Krassner, had pasta with veal, and tiramisu for dessert.

In addition they drank both beer and wine, and at coffee Wendell excused himself as usual.

“Small bladder,” said Wendell, smiling wryly. “Shall we have one more small grappa?”

As usual too he’d hung his sport coat on the back of the chair, and as soon as he left to go to the restroom Johansson stuck his hand in and fished his address book out of the inside left pocket. Well organized and neat handwriting, and he himself was under “J” with his home address, the address of his office, and all three of his telephone numbers.

The details are starting to fall into place, thought Johansson. He put the address book back and tried to make eye contact with a waiter.

“Can we each get a grappa?” said Johansson just as Wendell came back, and then they continued talking about everything else but Krassner.

It had been really nice. Johansson insisted on paying, and afterward he indicated that it was on his own account by leaving the check behind on the table. Then he’d excused himself to go to the restroom before they left, and Wendell had of course palmed it the way he always did. The newspaper could easily take this, and to his credit it should be said that he never wrote the names of his various informants on the back. Wendell was just looking out for number one; besides, it was almost Christmas and in this case it didn’t hurt any poor people.

When they separated, Wendell returned to the newspaper office while Johansson took a taxi and went home. Regardless of the fact that it was almost Christmas he had no intention of returning to his workplace to exhale strong beer, wine, and grappa on his coworkers. Others besides him could do that, in other places with other rules than the ones that applied to him.

Finally he unpacked his suitcases. He sorted the dirty laundry, dividing it between the two laundry baskets in the bathroom, hung up what didn’t need to be washed in the closet, and set the Christmas presents he’d bought on the desk in his study. Remaining were Krassner’s papers; the unease he’d felt earlier had not lessened after the meeting with Wendell. When he’d packed his suitcase at the hotel in New York he had put them into the plastic bag that he’d gotten when he bought his new shoes, and they were still there.

What do I do now? thought Johansson, weighing the bag in his hand, a few pounds at the most. He still had the same unpleasant premonition of what he would find when he finally made up his mind to read through them. He didn’t want to take them to work, for they had no business being there, and besides, they were his. He’d gotten them from the person who had inherited all of Krassner’s earthly belongings, and that if anything made them a legal acquisition.

Problems, thought Johansson, and since they didn’t concern him they might just as well wait. I’ll take them with me up to my big brother’s, he decided. Then I can read them in peace and quiet. If he was going to do it anyway it was just as well to do it thoroughly. That’s how it will be, he decided. Folded up the bag and laid it on the bookshelf in his study alongside the books that he’d also thought about taking with him to read during the Christmas holiday. He’d found what he was looking for, he’d had the good fortune to do so, and now it wasn’t going to run away from him, so the work that remained could just as well wait until he felt ready for it.

Having the luck to find what you’re looking for: among archival researchers-a profession that is best practiced as a calling-this is something so great and unusual that there is a special word for it: Finderglück. A German expression that can’t readily be translated but whose original meaning is that you have the luck that is also required for your efforts to be crowned with success. On the other hand it doesn’t mean that you’re going to be happy once you do, for that’s far from always the case.

For a professional archival researcher, Johansson’s reaction was not especially noteworthy. Researchers are well aware of the feelings that usually surface when this uncommon grace befalls you: the ambivalence, the doubt, the spiritual hangover or, in severe cases, even anxiety and remorse that can appear when you’re sitting there with the find in your meager hands. And obviously the possibility that what you’ve found will unfortunately show that you’ve had it all wrong with your theories or hypotheses.

Johansson was no archival researcher, but during his years as a detective he had devoted hundreds of hours to what in police talk is called internal surveillance: seeking the truth or traces of the truth in various police and other registers, and he was well acquainted with the feelings that went along with both the uncommon successes and the constant failures. One time he had even found a murderer that way, and because the victim was an especially big son of a bitch while the perpetrator was an ordinary and pleasant person, afterward-and to himself-he’d cursed the union of intuition and judicious precision that had led him correctly where all his other colleagues had gone astray. Without even needing to leave his office and while his colleagues were as usual running around out in the field.

Those papers aren’t running away from you, Johansson repeated to himself, nodding in confirmation in his solitude. Besides, he needed to take a little nap, after the time change and the heavy Italian lunch, which he’d paid for with his own money to boot. He’d already done the necessary shopping for his survival on his way home to Wollmar Yxkullsgatan.

When he woke up it was only seven o’clock in the evening but he was both alert and clear in the head and didn’t give a thought to Krassner and his papers. Then Jarnebring called as he stood in the shower, and because it was almost Christmas he continued the entertainment program already under way and invited him to dinner at his very good neighborhood restaurant. Jarnebring didn’t have any particular objections but rather contented himself with suggesting the same menu as the last time so as not to take any unnecessary risks, and a good hour later they were sitting across from each other, raising Aunt Jenny’s crystal glasses over a very good baked toast with anchovies, tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella.

“Brilliant,” said Jarnebring, aahing audibly after the shot. “These spaghetti guys aren’t your usual gooks.”

No, thought Johansson. They’d probably never dream of serving boiled sausage with white bread and shrimp salad.

“Tell me,” said Jarnebring while bolting yet another anchovy toast and nodding knowingly toward his empty glass. “Spare me no details, like Bogart used to say.”

So Johansson told about his visit to the FBI and the meeting with the police in New York, but as to the rest he didn’t say a word about meeting Krassner’s old girlfriend Sarah Weissman or about Krassner’s posthumous papers that he’d brought home with him.

“You gave up on that crazy American?” asked Jarnebring.

“Sure,” said Johansson. “I’ve given up on that, although yesterday I figured out how he got hold of my home address, and you were just about right there. He got it from one of our Swedish talents. I talked with him today. Krassner clearly wanted to make contact with the Swedish police. Not that I understand why, but he clearly did.”

“They always do, damn guys,” snorted Jarnebring, who hated journalists. “You should have made glue out of that bastard who gave out your home address.”

“I let mercy precede justice,” said Johansson, smiling wanly, “so he was allowed to live. How’s it been going for you, by the way?”

The sun was shining on Jarnebring’s home front. The colleague with the Achilles heel had shown promising signs of recovery and should be coming back half-time after the holidays. Someone other than Jarnebring could take care of the other fifty percent, so he would get back to the bureau and a little real work. And his live-in-for that was no doubt the way he had to view her, since he mostly lived at home with her, despite the fact that hers was the only name on the apartment lease-had been unusually kind and good recently.

Hultman had also offered a happy surprise. It wasn’t enough that he’d shown up with the promised mixed case. He’d also had the good taste to supplement all the liqueurs and other shit that women were so fond of with a whole carton of Jarnebring’s favorite bourbon. But naturally he hadn’t mentioned that to Johansson. True, Johansson was his best friend, but in the thin air where his friend was living nowadays there were a few things that he would feel better about not knowing. Instead Jarnebring chose a different solution and invited him home for a small pre-Christmas dinner.

“What do you think about next Thursday? Me and my old lady are both off then. I’ve bought two kinds of aquavit,” Jarnebring assured Johansson, for that was another way of looking at the matter.

“Suits me fine,” said Johansson, for it did.

“She has a damn pretty girlfriend too.” Jarnebring for some reason lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “A colleague, working temporarily at Norrmalm. What do you think about that?”

“Well,” said Johansson. “It sounds nice. Is it anyone I know?” What should I say? he thought.

“Don’t think so,” said Jarnebring. “She’s been put on duty for a few months. Works in Skövde with the uniformed police, fresh gal, no kids, nothing steady.”

“How old is she?” asked Johansson.

“Well,” said Jarnebring, shrugging his shoulders. “Like mine, in her prime.”

So that’s how it is, thought Johansson, and for unclear reasons he suddenly became a little depressed. Perhaps it was his tightening pants lining and his still only half-eaten and in and of itself extraordinarily good-tasting roast pork with marsala sauce and polenta. It must have been something.

“That’ll be nice,” Johansson repeated.

It’ll have to be the swimming pool early tomorrow, he decided, pushing his plate to the side.

“If you’re not having any more I can take that,” said Jarnebring greedily.

They remained sitting, talking, and drinking until the restaurant closed, and then Johansson called off the traditional follow-up, pleading a combination of jet lag and early business matters. Jarnebring’s protests were surprisingly mild.

“You work too much, Lars,” he said. “And exercise too little. Come along and work out sometime, why don’t you?”

Then he did something highly unusual. He leaned over and put his burly arms around Johansson’s shoulders and gave him a hug.

“Take care of yourself, Lars. We’ll see you in a week.”

It must be the Italian food, thought Johansson with surprise.

When he came home and went to bed he had a hard time falling asleep for once. A feeling of depression that didn’t want to go away. Women, thought Johansson. Must get myself a woman. Then he dropped off as usual.

[THURSDAY, DECEMBER 12]

Johansson had started his day at work with an hour in the swimming pool, but when he emerged from the sauna after an additional half hour his waist measurement unfortunately appeared to be the same as before. On the other hand he’d acquired a ferocious appetite that he felt obligated to alleviate at once. He had two cups of coffee and a substantial slice of rye bread with meatballs and red-beet mayonnaise down in the cafeteria in order to put a stop to the worst of it before he sat down behind his desk.

Muscle-building, thought Johansson; he would certainly be able to solve the woman problem during the course of the day. First he thought about the post office manager he’d met when he was poking around on the fringes of the Krassner case. A really splendid woman, who seemed wise as well, whom he’d already made use of in his fantasies on a few occasions when he followed big brother’s advice, but the practical problems were considerable.

You can’t just call her up and ask if she wants to go to bed, thought Johansson. However much you’d like to. Besides, that was inappropriate for other reasons as well. Consider, for example, if the Krassner case were to take an unfortunate turn and get new life and she were to be called in as a witness in a new investigation, and he himself were to be… something he’d rather not imagine. You’ve chosen the wrong profession, thought Johansson, feeling the despondency coming back with renewed force, and what was that wretched Wiklander up to anyway? Almost two full days since he’d told him to check on whether the pieces in Jarnebring’s investigation really were in place, and since then he hadn’t heard a peep from him.

Six weeks without naked skin, thought Johansson. And the fact that he was crawling in his own hide wasn’t so strange. In a week he would be meeting the female friend from Skövde that Jarnebring had announced, but quite apart from the fact that that was an eternity away, his feelings about this encounter were, to say the least, mixed. Say what you will about his best friend, his view of women was different from Johansson’s.

After lunch he sneaked away from the office to shop for Christmas presents, and when he came home it was already evening and he was dead tired. First he had a simple dinner alone and idly watched TV for an hour. Then he went to bed and fell asleep without any fuss, and during the night his post-office manager visited him in his dreams and it was quite obvious that she didn’t work for the police.

[FRIDAY, DECEMBER 13]

When Johansson woke up he was in an excellent mood despite the fact that no candle-adorned Lucia appeared to sing for him; in the shower he followed big brother’s advice. Seeing that it was Friday the thirteenth, when no one ought to stick his neck, or any other body part, out unnecessarily, this was, moreover, a risk-free and attractive form of erotic practice. While he made coffee he hummed an old Sven-Ingvars song, great fan of dance-band music and real policeman that he was, in contrast to those fictional opera lovers who seemed to populate every single made-up police station from Ystad to Haparanda. Despite the ominous combination of date and weekday, he felt instinctively that this was going to be a really good day.

…

When he got to work his faithful coworker Wiklander was already sitting in the corridor outside his office waiting for him, but before he let him in he sent him to fetch coffee for both of them. There had to be some system; he himself had fetched numerous cups of coffee for older colleagues when he was Wiklander’s age.

“Let’s hear it,” said Johansson, leaning back in his desk chair and sipping the day’s second cup of coffee. Freshly brewed, thought Johansson contentedly, biting into a saffron bun with raisins. Good, he thought, despite the fact that he didn’t really like saffron buns with raisins.

“It’s a suicide,” said Wiklander. “On that point I’m in complete agreement with our colleagues.”

“I’m listening,” said Johansson and nodded.

True, the initial measures that the police in Stockholm had carried out left a great deal to be desired-everything, actually, if you wanted to be that way-but then their colleague Jarnebring, acting head of the local detective unit at Östermalm, had gone in and brought order into the case. Wiklander’s line of reasoning and conclusions sounded in other respects quite like that which Johansson had heard from his best friend fourteen days earlier.

“Jarnebring is really good, so you don’t get past him too readily,” Wiklander observed. “Though for that matter, chief, you know that better than I do.”

“Was there anything at all strange?”

“Well,” said Wiklander, smiling wanly. “The gumshoes in the building next to us have also gone in and checked.”

SePo, thought Johansson.

“You’re quite sure of that?”

“Yes,” said Wiklander. “Do you remember Persson, chief? The one who worked on aggravated thefts down in Stockholm a bunch of years ago? He’s working at SePo now. Big, fat guy, surly type, though good, really good policeman. I know one of the gals in the archive and she told me that Persson had been down last week and copied the file and told her to keep her mouth shut because otherwise there’d be hell to pay.”

“But she didn’t do that,” said Johansson.

“No,” said Wiklander, grinning. “She doesn’t like Persson. Thinks he’s an uncommonly surly old geezer.”

But she clearly likes you, thought Johansson.

“Was it Krassner they wanted to check on?”

“I thought so at first,” said Wiklander. “But I’m not so sure anymore. Where I’m leaning is that it was someone else they were interested in. A foreign student from South Africa, a black guy who’d gotten a scholarship from the union federation. Belongs to some radical group of civil-rights activists down in South Africa. That’s no doubt why they brought him here. The union, that is.”

“What does he have to do with Krassner?” asked Johansson.

“Nothing,” said Wiklander. “They were just living in the same corridor. Don’t seem to have known each other.”

“And why do you think that it was him they were interested in? The colleagues at SePo, that is?”

“They seem to have put an overcoat on him,” said Wiklander.

“Huh?” said Johansson.

Wiklander had among many other things made a few discreet inquiries among the students who lived on the same corridor as Krassner. That was how he’d found out that one of them had a girlfriend who came by often. Louise Eriksson, nice-looking girl, around twenty, who’d said that she was studying criminology or some similar easily digested trendy subject, when she wasn’t together with Daniel M’Boye.

She and M’Boye had clearly run into each other more or less by chance in the middle of October. After that they’d started getting together regularly, and they’d kept on that way at least through November. Although then the whole thing seemed to have run into the sand and lately he’d only spoken with her on the phone. Young Miss Eriksson herself had disappeared out to the fringes, according to her own information to go home to her parents and take care of her sick mother.

“Have you spoken with this M’Boye?” asked Johansson.

“Yes,” said Wiklander. “Although he’s actually rather difficult to talk to. Especially as it concerns that girl Eriksson. Unrequited love, perhaps,” said Wiklander, smiling wryly.

“Is there any reason for us to bring him in?” said Johansson. Whatever that would be, he thought.

“That would be rather difficult, I’m afraid,” said Wiklander. “He went home to South Africa yesterday morning.”

Sigh, thought Johansson. “The girlfriend,” he said. “Louise Eriksson, is she a police officer, does she work at SePo, or does she just freelance?”

“Jeanette Louise Eriksson, twenty-seven years old,” said Wiklander. “Left school six years ago and disappeared almost immediately to SePo. I’m guessing she’s in their detective unit. Really good type, actually, looks like she just left preschool. First name Jeanette, except when she’s studying criminology at half speed at the university, for there she calls herself Louise.”

“You’re quite certain,” Johansson persisted.

“Yes,” said Wiklander, his voice not sounding the least bit offended. “You can be completely calm, chief. She works at SePo, lives alone in an apartment in Solna, studies criminology at half speed. The home telephone number she gave to M’Boye ceased to exist only a few hours after he’d departed from Arlanda. Secret number from the start and now they’re just shaking their heads at the phone company. Typical SePo account and a heavy-duty sign that she’s done with what she was supposed to do. I’ve checked on her mother too. She’s as healthy as a horse, and if the passport photo matches she looks like she’s her daughter’s age.”

“Do you have a picture of Officer Eriksson?” asked Johansson.

“Yes,” said Wiklander with a somewhat broader smile. “Absolutely up to date. Took them myself the other day.”

Wiklander handed over a bundle of photos taken with a telephoto lens and at a secure distance.

Nice-looking girl, thought Johansson, and she doesn’t appear to be a day over seventeen.

Jeanette Louise Eriksson, stepping out of the doorway of the building in Solna where she lived. The same Jeanette Eriksson getting out of a car in the garage of the police headquarters in the basement in the Kronoberg block. Little Jeanette in the courtyard of police headquarters, facing toward the restaurant Bylingen within the courtyard, despite the fact that she looked as though she were on her way to school when the camera captured her obliquely from above.

“And you think that they put her on M’Boye,” said Johansson. “As a girlfriend, with all that that entails these days?”

Doesn’t that take a bit of gall even for those crazies? thought Johansson, who had a past within the police union and was still protective of his colleagues’ work environment.

“Yes,” said Wiklander, smiling broadly. “I actually asked M’Boye if she’d been anything special in bed but then he got a totally offended look. He’s a really burly type, so I only asked once.”

“And there’s no possibility that M’Boye might have had something to do with Krassner’s death?” persisted Johansson, who just happened to think of the letter that he actually shouldn’t have read.

What was it that he’d written, the piece of shit? That if he died he would have been murdered either by the Swedish secret police or by the Swedish military intelligence service or by the Soviet military intelligence service GRU. By the way, didn’t the Russians used to make use of operatives from African resistance movements when they were going to be really nasty out in Western Europe? In the back of his mind he had a vague memory that he’d read something like that in some classified memorandum that the gumshoes in the adjacent building had decided to share with their colleagues within the open operation.

“No,” said Wiklander, shaking his head.

“Why then?” said Johansson. “They can’t have got everything wrong, can they?” Every time, he thought.

“He has an alibi,” said Wiklander and chuckled. “When Krassner jumped out the window, M’Boye and Eriksson from SePo were sitting in a Mexican restaurant down on Birger Jarlsgatan.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“I’ve checked with the owner. He’s a Spaniard and doesn’t seem to be particularly fond of blacks, if I may say so. He remembered them, maintained that he’d actually thought about phoning in a tip to the police, a big burly black guy and a little Swedish girl who looked like she was still in school. Where he came from there was the death penalty for such things. It took a good while when I talked with him before he realized that she hadn’t been murdered.”

This is too much, thought Johansson. SePo? Scarcely believable even in his gloomiest moments when he was still a young radical and had drunk too much red wine. For a policeman, that is. The Russians? Possibly, for everything he’d heard and read couldn’t simply be nonsense? SePo and GRU. Impossible, thought Johansson. Not even the TV news editors would come up with something so preposterous.

“What do you think is going on?” demanded Johansson, looking challengingly at his younger colleague.

Krassner’s suicide and SePo’s interest in M’Boye had nothing to do with each other. It was a pure coincidence. Krassner had taken his own life. Beyond crazy, he drank and did drugs too. Plus there were all the other objective police circumstances that became known through the technical investigation and the forensic medical report. Not least the suicide note he’d left behind.

“A perfectly clear-as-a-bell suicide,” Wiklander declared. “You can think what you want about our colleagues at SePo, but that’s not in their repertoire. Besides, they would never carry it out that well if any of them got the idea to try.”

“Do you have any idea why SePo was so interested in M’Boye?” said Johansson.

“Well, black, South African, a student, young, radical, member of some local resistance movement, here on money from the union federation-that’s more than enough for them, I guess.”

Yes, thought Johansson. I’m sure it is. Typical Friday the thirteenth, and now it had started to snow too. As if the snow they’d already gotten wasn’t enough, even though it wasn’t yet Christmas.

Before Johansson left work he phoned a female colleague who worked at the foreign nationals unit in Stockholm. She was the same age as him, divorced like him, with children who would soon be adults just like his. He’d called her a few months ago on a similar errand.

“What do you think about that?” said Johansson with a touch more Norrland in his voice.

“Sure,” she said, and sounded clearly delighted, although with a Stockholm accent.

“Shall we say the restaurant at seven o’clock?” said Johansson.

“What do you think about at my place in an hour?” she said, and giggled. “Then we can eat dinner afterward? I think you get so tired from all that Italian food.”

Easy as pie, thought Johansson, suddenly feeling just as young as when he used to think like that.

[SATURDAY, DECEMBER 14-SUNDAY, DECEMBER 15]

Johansson had spent the weekend with his two children. They would be celebrating Christmas and New Year’s abroad with their mother and her new husband, “new” for the past ten years. This weekend offered the final chance to safeguard the remnants of tradition their present circumstances had left them. Apart from that they’d had a nice weekend. On Saturday they’d taken a walk in the city. True, it was cold, but with sparkling sun from a clear, pale-blue sky; his children had appreciated it in a way he hadn’t expected. It turns out that way, I guess, if you live in a big house in Vallentuna, thought Johansson.

Then they’d shopped for food in the Östermalm market, had lunch at McDonald’s on Nybrogatan, and bought a Christmas tree at Maria Square that they carried home to Wollmar Yxkullsgatan, where they decorated it with red glass balls and silver garlands. True, a small and rather sad-looking tree that was already shedding seriously, but it smelled like Christmas, in any case, and the youngsters were satisfied and happy. They’d made dinner together and his son had shown unexpected domestic talents while his daughter set and decorated the table. No Christmas food, for neither Johansson nor his children were especially fond of it. Good Swedish food, quite simply, which they all helped each other select and prepare. Favorites in reprise, Johansson had thought contentedly while he carefully turned the veal burgers in the frying pan and his son attacked the potatoes with the potato masher.

First a little Swedish smorgasbord with a discriminating selection of domestic classics: smoked eel, lightly salted lox, caviar, and a few well-chosen types of herring. Johansson had taken shots, one for each leg, from Aunt Jenny’s glass, and when he noticed that his son was glancing furtively at him as he raised the first glass he realized that sooner or later he would have to ask the question. The boy would, after all, soon turn seventeen.

“Would you like a half shot?” Johansson had asked. It is Christmas, he’d thought.

“No, good Lord,” his son had said with genuine feeling.

“You shouldn’t swear, you little bastard,” Johansson had said prudishly. “Though it’s good if you can leave the aquavit alone as long as possible,” he’d added paternally.

After the meal they’d exchanged Christmas presents in front of the tree and both his daughter’s and son’s eyes had twinkled. The decal-inscribed sweatshirts that he’d bought at the FBI had aroused especially great enthusiasm. Considerably more than the metal-studded leather jackets that for good money he’d dragged home from the suggested shop on Fifth Avenue in New York. He himself had received a Vikings’ greatest hits collection and a book that, judging by the back cover copy at least, ought to be completely readable. Plus a padded hunting vest with leather facing and large pockets, which was a present from both of them and had certainly dug deep holes in their collective capital.

“So dear old Dad can keep on exterminating all the animals in the forest,” said his daughter, smiling gently.

On Sunday the youngsters had slept the whole morning while Johansson idled around the apartment in last Christmas Eve’s dressing gown. He’d showered, had coffee, read the newspaper, and thought a bit about Krassner and the remarkable coincidence of his suicide and SePo’s interest in his neighbor from South Africa. But despite his own cherished rule that in situations like this you ought to hate chance, it must nevertheless still be a pure coincidence. The exception that proves the rule, he decided in order to finally get some quiet in his head, and because the youngsters had started to show signs of life he prepared a substantial American breakfast instead.

Pancakes with maple syrup and juniper-smoked bacon. His son had been just as delighted as his dad and loaded in double portions despite his sister’s vociferous warnings about cholesterol and being overweight and high blood pressure and sudden, premature death.

“I don’t understand how you can eat that kind of thing,” she’d said, stirring her breakfast yogurt. “It’s not enough that it tastes disgusting, it smells disgusting too, and it’s pure poison besides. Don’t you understand that you can die?”

“Although it is awfully good,” Johansson had said gently, stroking her on the cheek.

In the afternoon he’d sent them home to Vallentuna in a taxi, and because he’d gotten his statement of account from the bank for his stock sale the day before, he hadn’t even thought about what it cost for two teenagers to go home that way.

It’s clear they should have it good, thought Johansson. I have it good myself, and it will be theirs by and by anyway. Then he drew a hot bath, mixed a giant highball with a little gin and a lot of ice and Grappo, which he placed within comfortable reach before he himself stepped in to relax, not to wash himself, as it was best with hot water, an ice-cold drink, and plenty of time.

What a splendid weekend, thought Johansson contentedly. It had started well too. True, not with a great lifelong love, but shared urges were clearly good at putting temporary loneliness to flight. They hadn’t even gone to the restaurant afterward. A simple sandwich and a glass of wine at the kitchen table had been every bit as good as an Italian three-course dinner.

Wonder if you can live that way? thought Johansson, drawing more hot water in order to preserve his philosophical state of mind. Life as a bearable division of pleasure and tedium with occasional temporary efforts as soon as loneliness became too marked? Although in the long run it probably wouldn’t work, thought Johansson, taking a sip of his highball. It has to lead to something more lasting. How was it he’d put it, the poet Vennberg? “Cry of loon and knife toward open eye / anything at all just not the same loneliness anew.”

He’s a good poet, that Vennberg, thought Johansson. He wasn’t alone in thinking that, either. He was the prime minister’s favorite poet too, for hadn’t he read that in some book whose author and title he’d otherwise forgotten? Some political journalist at Aftonbladet, and types like that were a dime a dozen at that rag, thought Johansson. Although Vennberg was all right. He’s probably never shot a loon, thought Johansson and smiled, for he himself had shot a good many, even when he was a little boy-he could still hear Papa Evert’s curses ringing in his ears when he’d come home with his illegal contribution to the dinner table.

Wonder if the prime minister has ever shot a loon, thought Johansson, and in that moment he understood exactly what had happened when Krassner died.

When Johansson climbed out of the bath he dried himself extra carefully, for now was not the time for rushing ahead. Then he put on his dressing gown and went into his study and took out the plastic bag with Krassner’s papers. Set them on the desk and decided to start with the bundle that contained the manuscript to Krassner’s book, “The Spy Who Went East.”

He found it almost at once. First the title page with the author’s name. Then a table of contents with chapter headings that extended over two pages, still incomplete and with handwritten corrections and additions. Then he found what he was looking for. On a page of its own, a quote that served as an introduction to the text that followed in the first chapter.

Johansson translated as he read, which was no great art because for the most part he could reproduce the short passage by heart both in the English original and the Swedish translation.

“I have lived my life caught between the longing of summer and the cold of winter. As a young man I used to think that when summer comes I would fall in love with someone, someone I would love a lot, and then, that’s when I would start living my life for real. But by the time I had accomplished all those things I had to do before, summer was already gone and all that remained was the winter cold. And that, that was not the life that I had hoped for.”

Now there was an additional reference. On a separate page with footnotes that had been inserted after the chapter: “Extract of letter from Pilgrim to Fionn, April 1955.”

Johansson put the manuscript aside and took out paper and pen. What was it that she’d said, Sarah Weissman, that extraordinarily talented woman, when they’d met? Only a week ago, but it already seemed like an eternity. This was nothing that Krassner had written himself; on the other hand it might very well be something he’d pinched from someone else. On that point she’d clearly been quite right, and now when Johansson was sitting with the key-or at least the start of a key-it didn’t seem as if he’d intended to conceal that relationship, either. The author was clearly a person who’d chosen to call himself Pilgrim and who, more than thirty years ago, had written a letter addressed to another pseudonym, Fionn.

What else had she said about the author? That it was a man, obviously, for women didn’t write like that; a man who was neither American nor British but who spoke the language fluently for the most part; an educated, talented man with a poetic disposition, or rather a poetic ambition, perhaps. Johansson had an excellent memory, this memory in particular was recent, and without having made any notes he recalled that this was exactly how she’d expressed herself.

“I have lived my life caught between the longing of summer and the cold of winter…”; “Cry of loon and knife toward open eye / anything at all just not the same loneliness anew.” Vennberg’s poem must be of considerably later date, thought Johansson, but that was actually quite uninteresting, for this dealt with something else, a poetic disposition, a poetic ambition, a way of seeing, experiencing, and formulating, and a favorite poet was not something that you chose by accident.

The prime minister, thought Johansson. This he’d already understood, and it was a conviction so strong as to leave no room for other alternatives. The prime minister was Pilgrim, or more exactly… he had been, more than thirty years ago.

…

And who is Fionn? thought Johansson. Who was it that Pilgrim was writing to? Easy as pie, thought Johansson, for he’d already figured that out, and when he pulled out the relevant volume of The Swedish Reference Book from the bookshelf it was mostly to get confirmation in print. Finn, he thought. Fionn must be Finn in English.

“Finn, Anglicized form of the Gaelic name Fionn, hero in ancient Irish saga literature, see Finn cycle,” Johansson read.

John C. Buchanan, Krassner’s uncle, he thought, who in the spring of 1955, when the cold war was at its coldest, must have had his ass full as a CIA agent in Europe and Sweden. How was it Sarah had described him? One of those shrewd, lying, really thirsty, and naturally prejudiced Irishmen. But he must have had something else, thought Johansson, for this was certainly no shabby agent he’d managed to recruit.

This is the only reasonable explanation, he thought, for it was a farewell letter sure enough, but hardly a farewell to life. Only a former external collaborator with the world’s fourth-largest security organization who, in an educated, talented, and, considering the context, unusually poetic manner, was stating that he no longer wanted to be part of it. A still-young man who had other plans for his future life.

What do I have to do with this? thought Johansson with irritation, looking around for his highball, which he must have left behind in the bathroom. Not a thing, for regardless of what Pilgrim and Fionn had been up to more than thirty years ago, it was still a good five years too late for someone like Johansson to even lift his little finger. Statutes of limitation are not a stupid invention, thought Johansson. They save a lot of unnecessary running around. So what should he do now? For a police officer like himself there was actually only one problem remaining, and that was Krassner himself. What was it Sarah had said? That he would rather die than take his own life, and on that point she had probably been right as well, thought Johansson. What remains is just to find out how it really happened.

Obviously it was Krassner that SePo was interested in the whole time, and quite certainly it was pure coincidence that M’Boye got to function as a hanger for Krassner’s overcoat. Not even the secret police were so dumb that they didn’t understand that it was a matter of a tiny window of happiness for the white regime in South Africa, and that someone like M’Boye might very soon be sitting in the new government. The trade federation has clearly realized that, for otherwise why would they have brought him here? Presumably SePo hasn’t even given a thought to him, thought Johansson, and from what he’d heard from Wiklander he didn’t seem to have realized anything either.

Rule number one, thought Johansson, leaning back in his desk chair. You have to like the situation. During his more than twenty years as a policeman he could not recall any situation that he disliked as intensely as the one in which he now found himself.

Rule number two, thought Johansson. Don’t complicate things unnecessarily. He hadn’t encountered anything as complicated as Krassner’s so-called suicide, either. And what the hell do I say to Jarnie? he thought with a deep sigh. Quite apart from the fact that he’s my best friend, he’s going to think I’m not all there.

Rule number three, thought Johansson. Hate chance. There at least it seems that you were quite right. He gave a wry smile toward Krassner’s pile of papers on his otherwise well-organized desk. And because that pile was now his own, he could start by finding out what it was really about. What was it he’d written in that letter that he’d probably never seriously believed Johansson would ever receive? So I can see to it that justice is served in my own country, thought Johansson.

[MONDAY, DECEMBER 16]

On Monday morning right before eight o’clock Johansson phoned his secretary and reported that he planned to sit at home and work during the day and that he preferred not to be disturbed.

Unless all hell breaks loose, of course, although why would that happen? thought Johansson.

“Yes, unless something totally new comes up,” he said.

“But you’ll be in tomorrow?” asked his secretary.

“Sure,” said Johansson. “I’m coming on Tuesday morning as usual.” Quit nagging, he thought.

“And you haven’t forgotten that you’re going to a conference on total defense on Tuesday and Wednesday?” she continued.

“No,” said Johansson, and finally he could put down the receiver.

It took him a couple of hours to go through Krassner’s manuscript. If even a portion of what was written in it was true and could be substantiated, it would be tricky enough for the person it dealt with, but just now it wasn’t the actual contents of the papers that interested him. What started the police alarm bells ringing in his head was the extent, the volume, and above all else the structure of what Krassner had written, combined with the imagined contents of what he still hadn’t had time to write.

What was there was just under one hundred fifty typewritten pages that dealt with the book’s protagonist, the prime minister, and regardless of whether what was written there was true or false-for that was a later, subsidiary question-it was a manuscript in sufficient condition that a professional editor could manage to make a book out of it. A book of roughly two hundred fifty to three hundred printed pages, assuming the author had been able to realize the ambitions that he had recorded in his table of contents and transform what remained to be done into written text.

Even more interesting was what was still unwritten. What that would deal with was evident from a rather detailed outline, which seemed to assimilate all the chapters with headings and brief descriptions underneath, and last but not least from the frequent handwritten notations that Krassner had made in his manuscript. Thus, among what was missing were chapters that would deal with Swedish social democracy and the history of social democracy, previous social democratic leaders and their wheelings and dealings, Sweden’s role in the Second World War, the Swedish policy of neutrality, the security situation in northern Europe, and the threat from the great neighbor to the east.

A background description, plain and simple, thought Johansson, and he also realized from the handwritten notes under the still-unwritten chapters that Krassner had intended to complete that part of the work in situ-that is, in Sweden. It stood there plainly in a number of places and in Krassner’s own, barely legible handwriting, “Sweden!” “to be written in Sweden,” “write in S.,” and there were also handwritten references to the places he would be seeking his material: “Labor Movement Archives,” “Social Democratic Archives,” “Parliamentary Protocols,” “Kungliga Biblioteket (Royal Library, Humlegarden),” and so on.

Most interesting of all was the conclusion that followed from the fact that the manuscript on his desk, with the exception of about twenty pages, consisted of photocopies. There must be an original and possibly one or several copies somewhere else. Those pages that weren’t copies showed up more or less randomly in the running text; possibly it was as simple as that they’d just landed in the wrong pile when Krassner sorted them after copying.

True, Johansson was not an author, but if he had been one and had flown four thousand miles to write an already-determined background description for a book that he, both mentally and in terms of content, surely thought he was already pretty much done with… if such had been the case, thought Johansson, then I would have so help me God brought along what I’d already written. In order to have a baseline when I was writing those final obvious sections that nonetheless needed to be there so that it would look one way and not another if you’d gotten it into your head to write a book.

Hence the alarm bell that was ringing in his head. When his colleagues had done the house search at Krassner’s place right after he was supposed to have jumped out the window, it had simply and summarily been swept clean of the sort of things that ought to have been found there, namely Krassner’s collected working materials. What he’d brought with him from the States and what he’d gathered together during his six weeks in Sweden. True, he didn’t expect any great feats from Bäckström and Wiijnbladh-he was well acquainted with both of them and if he’d had any say neither of them would have been a police officer-but they weren’t completely blind. Besides, Jarnebring had been there and the only, obvious conclusion from the fact that he hadn’t found any papers either was that there weren’t any to find. And who in that case had cleared them away? For Johansson was completely convinced that they’d been there from the start.

The guys at SePo, thought Johansson, and, considering what had happened since, there were two alternatives that appeared more credible than any others. In the first case someone had taken the opportunity to do a so-called covert house search while Krassner was out running around town, on his own initiative or because someone had lured him away, and this someone had gathered up his papers and taken them along when they’d left the place. And so far all was well and good and most likely even legal. True, Johansson had no particular insights into the classified legislation that governed the more sensitive aspects of the work of the secret police, but the little he knew still suggested that that was how it had been.

Then Krassner comes home right after seven, for Jarnebring himself had told him about that, which suggested strongly that it was probably true. And when he comes into his room and discovers that all his papers are gone, he becomes so depressed that he steals a few last farewell lines, from the protagonist in his work in progress, and jumps out the window. The same prime minister who, according to Krassner himself in several places in his manuscript, “makes me wanna puke” gets the honor of formulating his last words in life?

Forget that, thought Johansson. Not Krassner, who has multiple copies of all the essentials in his safe-deposit box back home in Albany and most likely an original too that he’s tucked away somewhere else. Not Krassner, who has a loaded, unsecured automatic weapon in his bedroom in Albany. Not Krassner, who even in his youth was capable of beating up the woman in his life. Not SePo either, for that matter, for what would be the point of doing a covert house search if the person you did it to would discover it as soon as he came home? In that case there were other, considerably easier solutions. Concoct a suitable suspicion, arrest the piece of shit, and put him in jail while you go through his belongings in peace and quiet. Johansson himself had done that more than once, so here he had solid ground under his feet.

But… what if despite everything there hadn’t been any papers? Perhaps he stored them some other place? What if the secret police had never done a covert house search? What if Krassner quite simply had taken his own life? If, if, if, thought Johansson with irritation. Maybe a necessary prerequisite for getting any reasonable order into all of these reservations would be for him to go there and speak to the former neighbors. Forget that too, thought Johansson, for apart from everything else he simply didn’t have time.

Instead he phoned Wiklander, who had already been there and was not completely incapable as a police officer.

“I’m home,” said Johansson. “I want to talk with you. You’ll get a cup of coffee.”

Fifteen minutes later he and Wiklander were sitting in Johansson’s living room, each with a mug of freshly brewed coffee. He had closed the door to his study.

“There’s one thing I’m wondering about,” said Johansson, sniffing the steam rising up from the mug.

Wiklander contented himself with nodding. What is it he knows that I don’t know? he thought.

“That evening when Krassner jumped out the window,” Johansson continued, “how many of them were living on that corridor?”

“Seven, including Krassner,” said Wiklander. “Normally there would have been eight but one seems to have moved home. There was some relative who had suffered an accident. His father, I think. Or maybe it was his mother?”

“How many of them were at home?” said Johansson. “When he jumped, I mean.”

“At home,” said Wiklander, looking as though he was thinking intently. “Krassner himself was out on the town of course. He came home around seven. That black guy must have run into him when he was on his way out. I have the idea that there’s something about that in the investigation. Yes. So there was him, the black guy, M’Boye, who was on his way to the restaurant to meet his girlfriend, our colleague Eriksson.” Wiklander smiled wryly.

“The other five, then,” said Johansson.

“Three of them seem to have gone home over the weekend. The students living there were mostly from the country,” said Wiklander, who himself was from Värmland and went home to his dear mother in Karlstad whenever he had the chance.

“That leaves two,” said Johansson. “Were they at home?”

“No,” said Wiklander. “They were supposed to have been… wait now, this is how it was. First they were going to go to some concert, but then they didn’t get any tickets, and then they had planned to start partying a little at home before they went out later… but then they got tickets anyway…”

“It wasn’t by any chance our colleague Eriksson who arranged that detail for them?”

“Now that you mention it,” said Wiklander. “I recall that I thought that she must have worked pretty hard to weasel her way in. Although I doubt if she paid-it was probably the firm that did.”

So it was empty in the corridor when Krassner died, thought Johansson. And it was our colleague Eriksson who saw to that. Nothing so complicated.

“What’s the problem?” said Wiklander, looking tentatively at his boss. What is it he’s keeping to himself? he thought.

“No problem at all,” said Johansson, smiling. “Now I have all the pieces in place, many thanks to you, by the way.”

That leaves alternative two, thought Johansson when he’d let Wiklander out after the anticipated quarter hour of coffee-drinking and police chitchat about this and that. Alternative two was not a pleasant alternative. Lunch, thought Johansson, but first a refreshing walk so I can clean out the dross I have in my skull.

The hills of the South End, the water and the city below, were cold and windy with snow in the air; but it could scarcely be more beautiful than this in a person’s life, thought Johansson. Krassner had had his papers at home, the guys at the secret police had made a covert house search. For reasons that Johansson didn’t understand they had taken his papers with them. Then Krassner is supposed to have written his suicide note, with words he’d borrowed from someone else-and on a completely new, unused typewriter ribbon, despite the fact that in all likelihood he already had the same text in his manuscript, all ready and written out, and despite the fact that in all likelihood he ought to have typed many thousand keystrokes during the time he’d been here. And no used typewriter ribbon in the wastebasket either, despite the fact that cleaning was hardly his strongest suit.

Something must have gone completely to hell, thought Johansson while a cold hand brushed against his heart. He considered it out of the question that a Swedish secret police officer would have murdered Krassner in cold blood and feigned a suicide. That just doesn’t happen, thought Johansson. We’re talking about Sweden, for God’s sake. And considering who Krassner was out to get in his book, and if it was really SePo that grabbed his papers, it was a complete mystery why his manuscript wasn’t already in circulation as a best-selling news item in all of the media, thought Johansson with a certain heat. There must be another explanation, and the only one he himself could imagine was that one or more of the operatives who carried out the operation itself had made such an awful mess of things that a feigned suicide was the only solution at hand.

That would explain the silence in the media. It wasn’t out of solicitude for the person that Krassner was out to get in his book, it was about their own rear ends. That would also explain the considerable dexterity required to transform the murder of Krassner into a suicide. Wonder who their chief operative was, thought Johansson. Jeanette Eriksson was out of the question. This he realized from the pictures he’d seen-and besides, she had an alibi. M’Boye. Think how strange it can get, thought Johansson with a wry smile. Besides, she was completely the wrong type.

What do I do now? thought Johansson and sighed. If I talk about what I believe, everyone, including my best friend, will think I’ve gone completely screwy. There’s no one I can ask, and if I trot over to SePo and do so anyway, I’ll be sitting in the parking bureau in Västberga the next day. And I don’t have the least legal basis for even the tiniest bit of surveillance, despite the fact that I’m still the head of the country’s most powerful detective organization. At least on paper.

All I have are my own papers, thought Johansson. For they’re mine and mine alone.

Plus I’m hungry, he thought. Really hungry, the way you get when you’ve already done a whole day’s work in the morning and you still haven’t gotten a bite to put in your stomach. I can take care of that, in any case, thought Johansson, setting a course toward his beloved neighborhood restaurant, where excellent lunches were served even on a normal Monday a week before Christmas.

After lunch Johansson returned to his office, set Krassner’s manuscript and other notes to one side, and instead went through the remaining files. That was how he found the letter that Pilgrim had written to Fionn in April 1955, or more correctly stated, a copy of that letter.

It was a very old copy, certainly not much younger than the letter, on thin, shiny, yellowed photo paper. It was taken with a copying machine from the time when you took a picture with a regular camera firmly mounted onto a copying table, processed the film, and copied the pictures at the desired size.

It was with a number of other, similar copies in an old red cardboard binder that had a white label pasted in the upper-right-hand corner. The label had three lines. On the first someone had written the owner’s name with ink and nib in a neat, old-fashioned handwriting: “Col. John C. Buchanan.” On the line below and in the same handwriting, what was intended to be stored in it: “private notes, letters, etc.” Damp stains that had dried at various times were on the cover, rings from glasses-probably whiskey, thought Johansson with a grin, visualizing the pyramid of bottles in the colonel’s basement.

Pilgrim’s letter to Fionn was handwritten in ink with a fountain pen, the handwriting expressive and aggressively slanted forward, yet completely legible; there was no location and no date. The paper was unlined and folded horizontally in two places with the same distance between the folds, the paper quality unknown but judging by the folds probably high. There was a notation written in ink on the letter in a neat, old-fashioned handwriting, and this with a steel nib as well: “April 1955, exact date unknown, arrived during my visit to G.” The colonel, thought Johansson, without knowing why; despite the fact that the lack of an envelope bothered him, he also had an idea that Pilgrim had sent the letter to Fionn’s home address.

The text was direct, yet it also had a literary touch, a poetic tone, and if the poet in him had been uppermost as he held the pen he still hadn’t forgotten what he wanted to get said. It was a short letter. Scarcely ten or so lines longer than the concluding portion that Krassner had quoted in the book he was writing and that someone else most probably had used as his final words.

Johansson translated the entire text into Swedish and wrote it down on a piece of paper. Then he read it and carefully pondered what was written there, and only after that did he draw his conclusions. The man didn’t want to be involved anymore, thought Johansson. For he had clearly been involved for some years at least, and it appeared to have been a rich life as well if you could really take him at his word.

Fionn,

I would be a scoundrel if I pretended that your generous offer didn’t make me both happy and moved, and a liar if I even suggested that those years that I’ve worked together with you-for a great and noble cause-haven’t also been the ones which have meant the most to me and my purely personal development. A few times it has even been so exciting and so critical that when the whole thing was finally done and I’d come out the other side, I’ve been a different person than when I went in. And at least once I’ve been granted the grace, while still young, to fall freely, like in a dream.

But everything has its time. My decision is irrevocable and is simply due to the fact that my task has also taken over my life and hasn’t left anything else behind. For that’s how it’s turned out. I have lived my life caught between the longing of summer and the cold of winter.

As a young man I used to think that when summer comes I would fall in love with someone, someone I would love a lot, and then, that’s when I would start living my life for real. But by the time I had accomplished all those things I had to do before, summer was already gone and all that remained was the winter cold. And that, that was not the life that I had hoped for.

Pilgrim

You can really accomplish a lot with small means, thought Johansson; specifically it was the altered paragraph division in the quotation that irritated him, even if it had improved the poetic substance.

The spy who gave notice, thought Johansson. For being a mere twenty-seven years old when he did that-Johansson had looked up the prime minister’s year of birth in one of his many reference books-he seemed truly sardonic. Buchanan could probably keep from laughing, and if he’d been the way Sarah had described him, Pilgrim’s eloquence had probably been wasted effort.

After that he gathered together Krassner’s papers and put them back in the bag. The rest that was there could well wait, because he was a policeman, not a historian. Perhaps they ought to be donated to the archives of the labor movement, thought Johansson. Or I could forget about the whole thing, have a tall highball, and call up some nice woman, for this of course wasn’t the life I had imagined either. Wonder if they’ve gone home at the foreign nationals unit? he thought, looking at his watch.

[TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, TO WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 18]

It was the Defense College that acted as host for the conference where questions of total defense were to be discussed from and including luncheon on day one until and including luncheon on day two. An exclusive affair with only a dozen hand-picked delegates who ordinarily worked as high-level bosses within the media sector, industry, and the governmental administrative apparatus.

The first meetings had been held as early as the late 1940s; according to the official history it was then-prime minister Tage Erlander himself who had hatched the idea of gathering representatives of both private industry and the public sector under the aegis of the defense department for the purpose of strengthening the country’s defenses. Thus the new concept of “total defense”: a Europe crisscrossed by new borders, new alliances and power constellations, a cold war between East and West, a strongly questioned Swedish policy of neutrality. In that situation it seemed both logical and obvious that the country’s prime minister would decide to try to create peace in his own backyard at least.

This time they would be gathering at a comfortable and well-situated conference center in the archipelago south of Stockholm, and for some reason it was Wiklander who was to drive Johansson there.

He wants to talk about Krassner, thought Johansson, but because he himself didn’t intend to open that discussion, he sat in the backseat and read through his conference material. It was only when they’d started heading east at Järna, and there wasn’t much time left to play with, that Wiklander spoke up.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” said Wiklander. “If you have time to listen, chief?”

“Of course,” said Johansson, making the effort to sound as though he really did.

“It struck me when we left each other yesterday. I don’t know if I’m on the wrong track, but your questions got me thinking. I suddenly got the idea that maybe the colleagues at SePo took the opportunity to do a little house search in that guy M’Boye’s room and that was why our colleague Eriksson had carted him away to the restaurant.”

“The same thought struck me,” said Johansson. “That was why I asked you.” Only a half lie, he thought.

“And while they’re doing that, that wretch takes the opportunity to jump out his window,” said Wiklander, his voice actually sounding rather gloomy.

“I’ve thought about that too,” said Johansson, trying to slip in a little extra authority in the service of the lie and of credibility. “They did their thing and Krassner did his and then they left without having any idea that Krassner had already jumped or was just about to jump out his window.”

“Can it really be that bad?” said Wiklander doubtfully. “I mean, they must have had people outside keeping an eye on the situation, don’t you think?”

“They must have been standing outside the entrance at the back in that case, while Krassner jumped out on the front side,” said Johansson, who had decided to preserve Wiklander’s misunderstanding.

“Yes. Well,” said Wiklander, but he didn’t sound especially convinced. “It doesn’t appear to have been very professional.”

“I think we’re in complete agreement about that,” said Johansson without needing to sound uncertain, “but personally I think they probably never did a house search.”

“You mean…” said Wiklander.

“That Eriksson and M’Boye went out and ate and that was all,” said Johansson.

“Hmm,” said Wiklander, nodding. “That’s sort of what I’ve been thinking. That it’s a coincidence, plain and simple.”

“And I also think that was why they wanted to check out the investigation of Krassner’s cause of death,” said Johansson. “To be sure that M’Boye didn’t have something to do with Krassner in some mysterious way.”

“Well,” said Wiklander, sounding considerably happier. “There’s probably no doubt he took his own life. There’s simply no other possibility.”

“No,” said Johansson. It’s nice to hear that you’ve arrived at that insight, he thought.

Johansson was the only police officer at the conference, and when he’d read through the list of participants a few days earlier he’d thought that by God this wasn’t cat shit they’d scraped together-with certain reservations about himself. The list contained two chief executives, a supreme court justice, six managing and deputy managing directors from industry, two editors in chief, plus a police superintendent who, to be on the safe side, had been propped up with the addition of “and head of the Swedish Bureau of Criminal Investigation.” All in suits and ties, of course, because it was only the Scots who made war in skirts.

It had been a very civil affair. True, it had started with a war game where first the participants drew lots and swapped occupations, not in order to go to the front lines but rather to see to it that communications, the food supply, and the medical and legal systems were functioning. In other respects as well the conference had primarily dealt with just that: how you got roads and telephones, electricity and water, to function, how you saw to it that people didn’t starve to death and that they had clothes on their backs. And how you got them to behave like “people” even if the worst were to occur.

The final morning had been devoted to a seminar drill under the leadership of a “special adviser to the prime minister,” the latter’s own éminence grise, who also bore the highest responsibility for security questions affecting the government and the central administration. Considering that, he’d been unusually specific when he handed out his assignment. He wanted the course participants to write down the names of the three living Swedes who ran the greatest risk, ranked by likelihood of personal attack. Not just anybody, obviously, but those who were in high positions in politics, industry, or the bureaucracy. Or were celebrities for other reasons such as, for example, the queen, Astrid Lindgren, or Björn Borg.

In total the delegates had written down twenty-some names, and the country’s prime minister had landed overwhelmingly in first place, having received twice as many risk points as the remaining names combined. All of the delegates had placed him topmost, and one managing director of a large fashion company, himself far from unknown, had written the prime minister’s name three times to be on the safe side. Despite their seminar leader’s title.

“So the result appears to be quite unambiguous,” said the special adviser as he began the concluding discussion. “It would be interesting to hear your reasons,” he continued while he observed the delegates behind half-closed eyelids and with a sardonic smile.

Peculiar type, thought Johansson. If he hadn’t been so fat you could easily take him for a viper lying in the hot sun, only pretending to be asleep.

“Politicians of course often become a bit controversial,” one editor in chief began tactfully, because someone had to begin.

“Good God,” moaned one of the executives, who, judging by his complexion, ought to do something about his blood pressure. “If people like you read what you yourselves were writing, you must surely understand that he doesn’t seem the least bit controversial. You just have to read back what you’re writing.”

“What do you mean?” said the editor in chief with a faint smile.

“I think it’s touching that you all appear to agree that the fellow is a real son of a bitch. I myself have no idea, for I’ve never met him,” he added, glaring acidly at the editor in chief.

“Which I have,” clarified the editor in chief, looking for some reason rather superior.

“So he is a real son of a bitch, then,” said the executive, and the ensuing laughter drowned out the weak protests of his opponent.

Then things had broken loose in earnest: “arrogant,” “upper-class type,” “rotten,” “malicious,” “holds a grudge,” and “very un-Swedish.” In addition he was “much too intelligent,” “much too educated,” “much too verbal,” “much too talented,” and all in all “much too unreliable.”

“And let’s not forget that he’s obviously spying for the Russians too. How he manages that between all his tax evasions,” said the executive with the blood pressure, looking sternly at the second editor in chief for some reason.

The only one who hadn’t said anything was Johansson. He hadn’t even changed his expression but was content to surreptitiously observe their seminar leader, whose body language, apart from the wry smile and the lowered eyelids, was not completely unlike his own. But now he had the chance.

“I think that’s all nonsense,” said Johansson suddenly, and because he was who he was and looked the way he did, the room suddenly went completely quiet.

“What do you mean?” said the special adviser, with a faint twitch of the eyebrow.

Good, thought Johansson. Here’s a nibble, and it’s the big fish who’s circling the hook.

“Well,” said Johansson leisurely and with a lot of Norrland in his voice. “Quite apart from all the logical and rational reasons that argue against that… and you know that sort of thing better than someone like me,” he added good-naturedly, nodding toward the rest of the assembly.

“Speak up, man,” hooted one of the younger executives who’d been on a survival course abroad. “If you’ve said A then you have to say B.”

“Purely from a police perspective, then,” said Johansson hesitantly in order to secure the bait thoroughly around the sinker and the line. “Purely from a police perspective, then… he’s simply the wrong type, as we say. The type who would never spy for the Russians. Not him, no.” Johansson shook his head heavily and everyone who saw him understood that the very thought was impossible.

“It is quite nice to hear that opinion from such an esteemed representative of the police,” said their chairman. “It’s not always what I’ve heard being whispered among his colleagues.”

“What do you mean?” asked Johansson.

“That the prime minister would not be a spy,” said the special adviser with clear emphasis.

“I didn’t say that,” said Johansson with well-acted astonishment while he carefully traced the line between his thumb and index finger.

“I thought you said he was completely the wrong type?” Now the prime minister’s special adviser had hoisted up his eyelids at least halfway.

“No, there I think you’ve got me wrong,” said Johansson like a peasant, shaking his head. “As a spy he’s probably a rather good type, at least when he was younger. Today no doubt he has too much to do, and then he’s probably pretty much under observation too. If it’s the case that he has spied for someone, then I believe that it was long before he became prime minister. And he would never dream of doing it for the Russians.”

“That is very nice to hear. You don’t have any tips on who it might have been in any case?” asked the special adviser.

“Quite certainly for the Americans,” said Johansson. “For the CIA, if I were to speculate.”

And there you bit, thought Johansson when he saw the shift in the special adviser’s look.

“I’ve understood that within the police your political preferences differ from mine and my boss’s,” said the special adviser, sounding a little bit too offended for someone like him.

“Well,” said Johansson and nodded. “That’s no doubt correct. Although I personally think that he appears both educated and… well, intelligent.”

“But a spy? For the CIA?” said the special adviser, and got a few giggles as reward.

“It’s so easy to get into things,” said Johansson, letting him savor his heaviest police look. “And the kind of intelligence I’m thinking of here doesn’t have anything to do with it. On the contrary. What attracts a person the most is the sort of thing you’re already suited for; otherwise it would be no big deal to abstain. It’s easy to get into things, but it can be considerably trickier to get out.” Johansson nodded again, mostly to himself as it appeared, and in the room where he was sitting it was dead silent.

“I don’t believe we’ll go any further than this,” said the special adviser with a light hand movement and a suave expression. “Besides, I understand from the agreeable aromas wafting their way in from the kitchen that it’s almost time for lunch. I think it’s high time to adjourn. Gentlemen… personally I think that this has been both extraordinarily pleasant, interesting, and even exciting, and if I now may…”

What if I were to ask him to extend greetings from Fionn? thought Johansson as he gathered up his notes. Although that’s probably not necessary, for now he could read him like an open book. Despite his heavy, unmoving face, his reclining posture, the half-closed eyelids, despite all of his body language, his phlegmatic self-assuredness and well-formulated speech, Johansson could see that he appeared truly terrified. Wonder how much he knows? he thought.

[THURSDAY, DECEMBER 19]

When Johansson came to work on Thursday morning, it was as if the pre-Christmas calm had been blown away and a state of total war prevailed between his own narcotics squad and its counterpart at the provincial police department in Dalarna. They’d been working together on a large case for several weeks. The head honchos were in Borlänge and Falun, and it was there that it had started, but the case had quickly expanded and appeared to have offshoots both in the rest of the country and abroad. Finally the chief constable in Dalarna had slammed his fist on the table and put his foot down. No more travel or surveillance outside their own turf, and it was high time to bring in a partner if he wasn’t going to get the auditors around his neck.

After an agitated meeting, in which the head of the province’s narcotics squad had called his chief, the chief constable, “a fucking accountant,” the commander had nonetheless had the last word, and for the past three weeks the case had been divided between the police authorities in Dalarna and Johansson’s own national bureau. And no one was happy.

As far as the police in Dalarna were concerned, it was their biggest narcotics case since the gold rush years in the midseventies, and they had no intention of sharing the returns on their own efforts and exertions with some “Stockholm-area-code hotshots.” So the collaboration might have been better.

At the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation it wasn’t the travel allowance or even the budget in general that constituted the inhibiting factor, for in that respect new angles kept popping up. There was nothing wrong with their creativity, either, and because “the peasant police out in the sticks” were always just “scratching the surface,” the joint case had grown like a mold culture until it finally landed “in the competent hands of real policemen.”

“This could become a really big deal,” explained Johansson’s traveling companion from his visit to the United States.

“But the colleagues in the province want to go in now?” asked Johansson.

“Sure, so they can celebrate Christmas in peace and quiet, those lazy bastards,” said the head of the bureau’s narcotics squad with a certain heat.

“Still, I’m thinking they must have some other reason,” said Johansson, who’d been around awhile and had heard this and that before.

“A few of the local crooks are heading to Thailand over Christmas. Those provincials have gotten it in their heads that they intend to stay there for good, which is pure rubbish, and besides they’re not the ones who are interesting. It’s our usual guys who are behind this, the Turks and then those Polacks I was telling you about, they’ve been with us of course for several years now. Those damn Dallanders are just retailers,” snorted the head of the bureau’s narcotics squad, who was from Stockholm and didn’t know better.

“Let Dalarna bring them in then, if they aren’t of interest to us,” said Johansson.

For the sake of household peace-and our own crooks don’t seem to be running away from us either, he thought.

“But it’s going to spoil our own job with the real head honchos,” objected his former traveling companion, and he didn’t sound at all the way he had the last time they’d met.

“I hear what you’re saying,” said Johansson.

And I’ve heard it ad nauseam, he thought.

“It’s been their case from the start,” said Johansson, “so it’s hard for me to see how we would be able to stop them.” Or why, he thought.

“Well, you’re the one who decides, of course,” said the narcotics chief inspector sourly, standing up.

“Yes,” said Johansson and contented himself with smiling with his mouth only. I’m the one who decides. And sometimes that’s awfully practical, he thought.

Childishness, thought Johansson, which had taken the entire morning from other things that he’d needed to do instead. Such as slipping out and shopping for a few backup provisions as a present to Jarnebring, who would surely require extra contributions of both liquid and dry goods for dinner, despite his energetic protestations to the contrary. Besides, he himself needed more exact information as to the time and place.

Now that had been solved, at any rate. Jarnebring had phoned after lunch and given the address of his latest girlfriend.

“I was thinking it’s more practical that way,” said Jarnebring. “You know girls, they love to fuss. And then I’ve loaned out my pad too. To Rusht, if you remember him?”

“Is there anything I can bring?” asked Johansson. To Rusht, he thought with surprise. Wasn’t he that long-fingered character with the bad breath who managed the coffee fund at the bureau? Surely that was going too far, despite the fact that he was a colleague.

“No,” said Jarnebring. “I’ve arranged everything. His old lady kicked him out,” Jarnebring clarified, “and I can’t really let the poor bastard celebrate Christmas at the local mission. Besides, I’ve hidden the silverware in my toothbrush case, so he’ll never find it.”

“And you don’t need any aquavit?” said Johansson, who was not one to take risks and especially not right before Christmas.

So our colleague Rusht had a girlfriend, despite the fact that he reeked like a cadaver in a well and had six fingers on each hand, he thought.

“No,” said Jarnebring emphatically. “I’ve got lots of liquor at home. Well, at home with my girlfriend, that is, I’m not stupid that way, and he seems to have something more permanent going for the week after Christmas. Rusht, that is,” he clarified.

“Decent of you,” said Johansson, who had always thought that Rusht was a real son of a bitch regardless of the season.

“So you don’t need to think about aquavit,” Jarnebring concluded.

Strange, thought Johansson as he put down the receiver. Wonder if he’s won on one of those horses he bets on?

That Jarnebring had a new girlfriend was nothing strange. He almost always did; to be on the safe side he usually recruited them from his own ranks. Considerably younger than he, strawberry blonde, high-busted colleagues who as a rule were doing service with the uniformed police when they weren’t fussing around Jarnebring. And so far that added up this time as well, thought Johansson when she opened the door after the second ring and smiled broadly at him. More interesting was the fact that this particular example had clearly survived spring, summer, and autumn, and that this time Jarnebring seemed to have brought pillowcase and blanket with him and, at least for awhile, abandoned his own bachelor pad in Vasastan. She’s probably both motherly and patient, despite the fact that she looks like she does, thought Johansson.

Her friend from Skövde who’d been called in was also on the scene, and as far as her exterior was concerned she might very well have been a sister of the evening’s hostess. When they said hello he also noted interest in her eyes. Wonder if it’s something she’s heard, he thought, or if it’s just my blue eyes? For it can’t be due to the fact that I exercise too little and eat too much. Because of my blue eyes, Johansson decided, and as soon as he decided that it turned into a very pleasant evening.

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.