Something must have happened to Bäckström, thought Jarnebring. Wonder if he’s going to AA.
“We’ve found out a few things,” said Jarnebring, pulling out a paper with handwritten notes summarizing what he and Holt had come up with.
On Thursday, November 30, Eriksson had first been at a SACO conference in City. Then, for reasons that were unclear, he had chosen to leave right before lunch, which was usually served at about ten minutes past twelve. At about three p.m. he had then shown up at the office in time for afternoon coffee. What he’d been up to in between was a blank. At work he had coffee for about half an hour with a number of coworkers, after which he went into his office, closed the door, and did some work. Shuffled papers and talked on the phone according to those sitting closest, if they were to hazard something that at the same time they couldn’t swear to. At five thirty-five, on the other hand, it was certain he left his office. This was shown by the stamp on his time card and was supported by his coworkers in the office next door who saw him on his way out.
Right before closing time—they closed at six—he went into the Östermalm market, where he shopped for a number of food items but none that indicated he was having guests for dinner. Normal weekend purchases for one of the market’s regular, single customers. Then there were a number of things that indicated he had walked directly home carrying his briefcase and a bag from the market: Humlegårdsgatan down to the corner of Sturegatan, then diagonally up through Humlegården to Engelbrektsgatan–Karlavägen, Karlavägen to Rådmansgatan and into the building where he lived. The customary police calculations indicated that he must have arrived home at about six-thirty and that he then began his solitary evening by having a portion of already prepared chicken with rice and curry, which he had purchased an hour earlier. With the chicken he had two bottles of German beer, and after the meal was finished he placed the dishes in the dishwasher and threw the empty bottles into the wastebasket.
At about seven, according to his closest neighbor, he had a visitor. Someone rings his doorbell, he opens the door and lets the visitor in. The witness’s story and the little that had been produced about Eriksson so far strongly indicated that the person who came to visit was someone he knew. Probably also that the visit was prearranged.
“We’ll have to see if we find any notes at his apartment or if his phone records might give us something. We can forget his office because all the calls go through the same switchboard. They’re working on dumping the records,” said Jarnebring.
“His office,” said Bäckström, who was suddenly struck by a thought that he had forgotten to investigate. “His office, was there anything there?” Efficient and managerial. Something must have happened to him.
Maybe he’s met someone, poor guy, thought Jarnebring.
“No,” said Jarnebring, shaking his head. “No private notes in any case. Some that dealt with his job, mostly meetings that were noted on his desk calendar. But nothing exciting that we can see.” Jarnebring exchanged a glance with Holt, who nodded in confirmation.
“So what’s next?” said Bäckström, leaning back comfortably in his chair.
• • •
A prearranged visit from someone he knew, but that was all they had. No witnesses or technical observations that pointed to any specific individual. Eriksson’s private socializing seemed exceedingly meager. Up to now two individuals had made contact and said that they were personal acquaintances. Both had known Eriksson for more than twenty years, both had met him at the university, and all three had spent time together. The one who made contact first by calling the homicide squad on Friday morning was named Sten Welander. He worked as a project coordinator at the TV editorial offices in the big building on Oxenstiernsgatan at Gärdet.
“I’m sure you all know who that is,” said Gunsan, looking delightedly at the others in the room.
The reactions to her comment were mixed and hesitant.
“It’s that red-bearded guy who produced that program about the police last spring,” Gunsan continued. “That terrible person …”
“Is it that creep who looks like Gustav Vasa?” Alm asked.
“But skinny,” Gunsan giggled. “Do you remember the ruckus after that program?”
“Leave it for now,” Bäckström interrupted. “If he’s the one who did it, I promise I’ll treat you to cake and coffee. Who’s the other one who called?”
Something definitely must have happened with Bäckström, thought Jarnebring. If he goes on like this there’s a major risk we’ll soon have someone sitting in the slammer.
The other one who had called was the director and principal owner of a stock brokerage firm with an office on Birger Jarlsgatan down at Nybroplan. Theodor Tischler, born and raised in Sweden but with a German name. Generally known as “Theo” among family and friends, and in financial circles, according to the all-knowing Gunsan, he was known as “TT.”
“He seems to be rich as hell,” said Gunsan.
“Good for him,” said Bäckström curtly. “Jarnebring, do you have anything
else? What’s the story with our corpse after he chows his last meal?”
Eriksson’s visitor had arrived around seven. At around eight a quarrel broke out, according to the witness, Mrs. Westergren. What had the victim and the perpetrator been doing between seven and eight? They’d had coffee, according to the technicians, and one of them had also had cognac.
Then the coffee cups, cognac glass, and coffeepot had been carried out to the kitchen, placed in the sink, and rinsed off. After which one of the two had a gin and tonic with lemon. The traces were found partly in the kitchen—a lemon that had been cut into strips, the empty ice cube tray that was normally in the refrigerator, an empty tonic bottle—and partly on the floor in the living room, where a half-empty bottle of Gordon’s Gin was found with the cap screwed on, along with an unsealed bottle of tonic and a crystal highball glass. And the wet patch on the floor from gin, tonic, and perhaps melted ice.
“The drink was probably sitting on the table in front of the couch where they were drinking, and then ended up on the floor when the fight broke out and the table was overturned,” Wiijnbladh stated, while looking portentous.
“Bravo, Wiijnbladh,” Bäckström drawled. “Do we have any idea who was drinking these noble beverages?” Besides me, of course, but you can forget about that, thought Bäckström, giggling with self-satisfaction.
Judging by the fingerprints it was the host himself. On the other hand, whether his guest drank anything, and in that case what, was not clear from the evidence.
“Probably he took the glass, wiped off the fingerprints, and put it back in the cupboard. Eriksson had a very large collection of different glasses, by the way,” said Wiijnbladh.
“It doesn’t seem very likely,” said Bäckström. “How the hell could he see which glass was his if they’d ended up on the floor in the general confusion? There was only one lemon slice if I remember correctly. Did he wipe off and dispose of his own lemon slice too? Either he drank something else or it was out of a different glass or he didn’t drink anything
at all. Compare that with the coffee cups. By the way, have you found any prints on them?”
Wiijnbladh looked offended.
“They were in the sink. They were rinsed off,” he said indignantly.
“There, you see,” said Bäckström contentedly.
The little fat boy has turned into a regular Sherlock Holmes, thought Jarnebring with surprise.
An hour together which, judging by the technical evidence, passed in at least relative harmony. You have coffee, one of you, probably Eriksson, has cognac as well, you clean up and proceed to further consumption. The host at least has a gin and tonic with ice and lemon. But then something must have happened.
“Thanks, Jarnebring,” said Bäckström without taking the least notice of Wiijnbladh. For a half-monkey you did really well, he thought. “Well, Wiijnbladh,” Bäckström continued, looking at his victim with delight, “may we hear what science has to say? What happened when things boiled over?”
“Quite a bit,” said Wiijnbladh indignantly. “We have already produced quite a bit and quite a bit is in progress, as I said. I have received a preliminary report from our forensic physician,” he continued, peeking in his folder. “The protocol is in process.”
“Did Esprit de Corpse do it?” asked Bäckström.
“Unfortunately no,” said Wiijnbladh. “It was some new, younger talent, some woman I’ve never seen before. But I contacted Engel. He and I have met and gone through the whole thing, and he has promised to keep a watchful eye on our case.”
“Sounds good.” Bäckström chuckled. “Esprit is supposed to have an eagle eye. What does he say?”
“That the victim Eriksson was killed with a violent knife thrust that was delivered from behind at an angle and struck him high in the back, penetrated into the chest cavity, cutting apart the heart, left lung, and aorta,” Wiijnbladh summarized.
“Nothing else?” Bäckström looked almost a little disappointed. “No signs of a struggle? No other observations about our corpse and his little body?”
“No signs of a struggle,” said Wiijnbladh, shaking his head. “No wounds at all except for the one that killed him.”
“This woman that peeked at him … does she have the same keen eyesight as Esprit?” Bäckström asked, grinning.
“I reserve judgment on that,” said Wiijnbladh stiffly. “Do you mean do either of them have any thoughts about the victim as a person?”
“Exactly,” said Bäckström expectantly. “Did either of them have any?”
“Yes, Engel was of the opinion that the victim was homosexual,” said Wiijnbladh.
“Imagine that,” said Bäckström. “The same thought struck me when I saw the crime scene and the way he lived.”
“Although his younger colleague, the woman who did the autopsy, thought that it was hard to find any physical signs of it,” said Wiijnbladh. Best to say what’s right, he thought.
“So I’ve heard,” said Bäckström. “As for how things really stand, our local policeman will surely figure it out.”
“I’m listening,” said Jarnebring, who had toyed with the same thought himself.
“My gut feeling tells me we have an ordinary homo murder here,” said Bäckström.
It’s nice that you’re starting to sound like yourself again, thought Jarnebring.
“I’m still listening,” said Jarnebring.
“Single man, forty-five years old, no children, not a woman as far as the eye can see. Lives like a queer, eats like a queer, drinks like a queer, dresses like a queer. By the way, did you see those berets on the hat rack out in the hall? A whole bunch of fairy caps. He sits on the little couch with his boyfriend and has a few drinks and then they have a falling out and the little fiancé fetches his knife and sneaks up from behind and sticks it in. Then the perpetrator waltzes off to the kitchen, throws the knife in the sink, and hops into the bathroom where he throws up.”
“Did he throw up in the bathroom?” said Jarnebring, looking questioningly at Wiijnbladh.
“We have secured a vomit-soiled hand towel,” said Wiijnbladh evasively. “It has gone to the lab for analysis.”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘we,’ ” said Bäckström.
“I see,” said Jarnebring. There was actually a lot in what the fat little toad was saying, he thought. Eriksson did not exactly seem to have been a normal man, not like Jarnebring and the other guys on the squad. “You’re the boss,” said Jarnebring. “How do you want us to proceed?”
“Let’s do this,” said Bäckström, leaning on his elbows, balancing forward on his seat. For a moment he almost looked like a bulldog, thought Jarnebring.
“I think we’ll hold off on his social circle,” said Bäckström. “We have to try to get more meat on the bones first. It’s meaningless to go after types like this if you don’t have anything substantial to beat them up with.”
Couldn’t have said it better myself, thought Jarnebring.
“You guys from tech done with the crime scene?” asked Bäckström, looking inquisitively at Wiijnbladh.
“Yes,” said Wiijnbladh. “We’ve been done since Saturday.” What is he looking for now? he thought.
“You seem to be a whiz at finding things, Jarnebring,” said Bäckström. “Take Holt with you and turn his pad inside out. Who was Eriksson, who did he get together with, and which of them stabbed him to death? It’s high time we find that out, and since we haven’t gotten anything for free, it’s probably best to start at his home.”
“Sure,” said Jarnebring. Just what I would have done myself, he thought.
“And in the meantime, we should see if the rest of us can’t produce something more about his so-called orientation.” Bäckström grinned and wiggled his fat little finger meaningfully. “You can bet your sweet ass that if we still had our old fag files we would have cleared this up already.”
“Talk with the parliamentary ombudsman,” said Jarnebring. “He’s the one who told us to toss them.”
“I should damn well think so,” said Bäckström. “Typical gay lawyers. If it had been me I’d have carried them down to the basement without letting on. Fifty years of police work gets sent to the dump because the fairies don’t want us to keep tabs on them.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” said Jarnebring abruptly, making
a move to get up. “If that’s everything … who has the keys to Eriksson’s pad?”
“You must have them, Wiijnbladh,” said Bäckström innocently. Which is why I gave them to you before the meeting, he thought with delight. So that you could give them to Jarnebring. He was already done with what he had to do, at Eriksson’s home at least.
“Okay then,” said Jarnebring, taking the extended keys from Wiijnbladh, nodding curtly, and leaving the room along with his new colleague Holt.
“Have you ever done a proper house search?” Jarnebring asked when he and Holt were on the scene in the hall of Eriksson’s apartment.
Holt shook her head.
“I’ve been around and helped out a few times but …” She shook her head again. “Nothing like this, no.”
“The whole thing is simple as hell,” said Jarnebring, “and there’s only one important part. It’s going to take time, because if we don’t do this properly we might just as well forget about it. When you and I leave here, there shouldn’t be a dead louse we haven’t found and checked.”