Sometimes I miss my solitude, thought Johansson. Not right now, but sometimes. But he couldn’t talk about that in any event.
Holt was already at work by quarter to eight, but she still wasn’t the first to arrive. When she stepped into the corridor she could hear the diligent pecking from Mattei’s keyboard.
“There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen,” Mattei called without turning around.
“Do you think it’s too early to call Johansson?” Holt asked hesitantly.
“Johansson,” said Mattei with surprise. “He’s from Norrland and a hunter, so I’m guessing he’s the type who gets up in the middle of the night.”
Johansson was sitting in the kitchen at home on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan reading the second of the two morning papers. In the past he’d been content with
Dagens Nyheter
, even if he would have preferred
Norrländska Socialdemokraten
, where at least they could write comprehensibly and had something important to say, but since taking the new job he suddenly and quite unexpectedly received a free subscription to
Svenska Dagbladet
, so nowadays he read two morning papers instead of one. He turned down the free subscription of course, and instead he paid for the paper himself.
Clever accountants over at
Svenskan
’s marketing department, Johansson thought as he scrutinized their stock listings to see how his investments were doing. Just as he was noting that both Skanska and Sandvik
stood like solid rocks in a time of change, his phone rang. Holt, thought Johansson.
“Johansson,” he answered. Maybe a little more abrupt than necessary, he thought.
“Anna Holt. I hope I’m not waking you, Boss.” He woke up on the wrong side of the bed, she thought.
“No,” said Johansson. “I assume you’re calling to tell me that you’ve connected Stein with Eriksson.”
“Has Martinez called?” Holt asked with surprise. Must be Linda, she thought, wherever she was hiding herself.
“I’m a cop,” said Johansson, sounding extremely abrupt. “You’re the only one who has called.”
“I see,” said Holt, who had a hard time concealing her surprise. “I was just wondering if—”
“Here’s a little homework assignment for you,” said Johansson, who suddenly sounded considerably more cheerful. “Start by thinking about how often you’ve called me at home before eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, and then about what I said to you yesterday.”
“I think I get it,” said Holt. “Yes, I’ve placed them together on the morning of the day he was murdered.”
“So now you want to get her fingerprints to see if you can place her in his apartment,” Johansson surmised.
“Yes,” said Holt. Now he sounds more like what I’d heard about him, thought Holt. Obviously mornings are the best time to talk with him.
“Where are the prints you want to compare hers to?” asked Johansson.
“At homicide,” said Holt. “On the handle of the kitchen knife, and the best of them were left in Eriksson’s blood.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Johansson. What do I do if they’re Stein’s fingerprints?
“April Fool,” said Holt, sounding rather upbeat herself. “Sorry, Boss, I couldn’t help myself. Kidding aside. On the kitchen counter and on the inside of the door under the sink.”
They’re like children, thought Johansson, but naturally he wouldn’t dream of saying that to a female coworker who was a decade younger than he was. No one’s that dense. Not me in any case, thought Johansson.
“So what’s the problem?” asked Johansson. The kitchen counter and the door under the sink will have to do, he thought.
“Is it okay?” Holt wondered.
“Do like we always do,” said Johansson curtly. “Is Martinez there?”
“She’s on her way in,” said Holt.
“Ask her to arrange it,” said Johansson. “Linda’s a whiz at that sort of thing.” I can tell you, he thought, because that’s why I hired her.
When Holt went into the break room the first person she encountered was Martinez, who was gulping down a large glass of water with audible enjoyment.
“Ahh,” said Martinez, wiping her mouth with the back of her sweater sleeve.
What happened to those eight hours of sleep? thought Holt.
“Sleep well?” asked Holt neutrally as she poured a cup of coffee for herself. “By the way, would you like coffee?”
“Sorry, sorry,” said Martinez, actually looking a bit guilty. “I’m weak, so it was the bar as usual.”
“Was it any good?” asked Holt, handing her a coffee cup.
“It was shiiiit,” Martinez moaned. “Eight beers and no hunks.”
“I spoke with Johansson,” said Holt. “It’s okay for us to get Stein’s prints. Can you arrange it?”
Martinez nodded and already seemed considerably more alert.
“I could do that in my sleep,” she said. “Easy as pie. But you and Mattei have to help me with the practical stuff in the event we’ve got a moving target.”
“No problem,” said Holt. It will be nice to get outside, she thought. It’s the first real spring day too, sun, blue sky, at least fifty degrees out.
Johansson and his wife did not have the same biological clock. This was a mild understatement because he seldom got out of bed later than six o’clock, yet his wife could spend the day there if she had the choice, and in any case she was scarcely approachable before ten on a Saturday morning such as this one.
So he had managed to shower, have breakfast, and read two morning
papers in peace and quiet before he tiptoed into their bedroom at nine-thirty. The only thing he saw was a lump under the blanket, a black tuft of hair sticking up under the pillow, which for some reason was covering the face of the person lying there, and a rather small, naked foot sticking out down below.
“Are you asleep, darling?” said Johansson, who didn’t always act like the police officer he was.
“Hmmnuu,” moaned his wife.
“I’ve made breakfast for you,” said Johansson. “Fried ham and pancakes.”
“What?” said his wife, suddenly sounding wide awake.
“April Fool,” said Johansson. “If you move over a little then there’ll be room for me, too,” he said. She’s fallen asleep again, he thought in amazement. This can’t be true.
“Pia … honey,” said Johansson. “It’s amazing weather. What do you think about a long walk on Djurgården?”
“Not right now,” his wife moaned.
They’re like children, Johansson thought affectionately, making room by her side.
First Martinez stopped by their tech squad and organized a beer can, specially emptied for the purpose, which she stored in a sealed plastic bag. Then she made a prank call to Stein at home on a prepaid cell phone that couldn’t be traced, and as soon as Stein answered she excused herself, saying it was a wrong number, ended the call, and took Holt and Mattei with her down to the garage.
“We’ll take my vehicle so we don’t stick out unnecessarily,” said Martinez, opening the door to the driver’s seat of an unbelievably crappy, small, older-model Japanese car of a make unknown to Holt. “Get a move on, ladies, we’re in a hurry,” said Martinez, waving them impatiently into the car.
“Isn’t it best if I drive?” said Holt doubtfully. Eight beers, she remembered.
“Fine with me,” said Martinez, shrugging her shoulders. “You’ll have to sit in back, Lisa,” she decided, giving Mattei a critical glance. “Damn, don’t you look tidy,” she said disapprovingly, shaking her head.
“Excuse me,” said Mattei, guiltily.
“It’s okay,” said Martinez to smooth things over. “No one’s going to believe you’re a cop anyway, and if you have to get out and move around I have some things in the trunk you can borrow.”
Johansson gradually breathed some life into his wife, saw to it that she got a cup of coffee and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and then led her out into the beautiful spring weather. They walked down to Slussen and took the ferry over to Djurgården. Johansson stood in the front and let the sea breeze caress his Norrland cheeks while he hummed an old popular song from Jussi Björling’s repertoire. Then they strolled all the way down Djurgården, continued back along Strandvägen, Nybrokajen, and Skeppsbron, and when they got back to Slussen a few hours later, Johansson was in a terrific mood and suggested a late lunch at the Gondola.
“Awesome,” said his wife, who was influenced by the many young coworkers at the bank where she worked. “I’m dying of hunger.”
And I am a fortunate man, Johansson thought, who had already decided to have both an appetizer and an entrée, since he must have burned tons of calories while he and his wife made their way around half the inner city at a brisk pace.
At the same time Martinez was carrying out her mission with all the accuracy that made her famous, and right before the eyes of Holt and Mattei.
Helena Stein lived on Kommendörsgatan in Östermalm, at the end where it met Karlaplan. When Martinez saw that Stein’s car was parked outside the building where she lived she quickly decided how to proceed.
“Stop here,” she said to Holt. “Then drive down a bit, but stay close enough so you can keep an eye on the outside entrance. I’ll try to get it over with so we don’t have to waste half the day.”
“It’s cool,” said Holt. I was working as a detective before you started at the police academy. Who do you take me for? she thought.
Martinez walked down the street, and as she passed Stein’s car two
things happened so fast that neither Holt nor Mattei had time to understand what had taken place.
Suddenly the beer can was on the roof of Stein’s car, and the car alarm was going off.
A minute later a woman in her forties came out of the building. It was apparent that the car alarm had brought her out. After looking up and down the street, she caught sight of the beer can on the roof of her car, shook her head, turned off the electronic alarm, and carefully lifted the beer can off the roof with an ungloved right hand.
“Record time,” said Martinez contentedly from the backseat into which she had crawled half a minute earlier.
Helena Stein, thought Holt. It was a strange feeling seeing her with her own eyes. She was a trim, good-looking woman, forty-two years old, Holt’s own age, and just like Holt she looked younger than she was. Her thick red hair was pinned up in a bun at her neck, and she might have been planning to spend the day outside, because she was dressed in jeans, sturdy walking shoes, a checked shirt, and a jacket that she must have draped over her shoulders when the car alarm lured her out onto the street. She wore good-looking, expensive, discreet clothing, the kind that Holt could only dream of owning. Clearly she was a conscientious citizen too, for instead of simply tossing the beer can away in the gutter she placed it in a trash can at the crosswalk more than twenty yards farther down the street. Then she went back with quick steps and disappeared into the building where she lived. I hope I’m wrong, Holt thought suddenly, and the thought was so unpleasant that she immediately dismissed it. Pull yourself together, Anna, she thought.
“Okay,” said Martinez, “drive around and pick me up at the next intersection, and I’ll bring home the bait.”
She patted Holt on the shoulder before she got out of the car, stopped at the crosswalk, and then, after a quick glance in each direction for cars that weren’t there, crossed the street and disappeared around the corner out of their field of vision.
“Linda is just unbelievable.” Mattei sighed. “She could get a job as a witch.”
• • •
Johansson did not get an appetizer, and it was his wife, Pia, who explained why he couldn’t.
“I don’t care how many calories you’ve walked off. It’s completely meaningless if you’re going to stuff yourself with caviar and potato pancakes.”
“No fish, please,” said Johansson, putting his head to one side and trying to look like a little boy from the great forests north of Näsåker in the province of Ångermanland.
“You can have grilled beef and boiled potatoes,” his wife declared from behind a menu. “Doesn’t that sound good?”
“What’s wrong with au gratin potatoes?” said Johansson, sounding whinier than he intended. Other than that they taste so much better? he thought.
“They’re bad for you,” said his wife. “And because I love you so much I want to protect you from dangerous things. We’re very much alike in that regard, you and me,” she declared without raising her eyes from the menu.
“Okay then,” said Johansson manfully. “Grilled beef, boiled potatoes, and a strong beer.”
“What’s wrong with light beer?” his wife objected. “Or plain water for that matter?”
“Don’t contradict me, woman,” said Johansson, “or I’ll order a shot of aquavit too.”
“All right then,” she said. “Personally, I think I’ll have fish. And a glass of white wine.”
“Fine by me,” said Johansson. “Have fish, dear.” You’re a woman, he thought.
When the three investigators returned to the police station, Martinez took her beer can trophy—now bearing Helena Stein’s fingerprints—and disappeared to the tech squad to arrange the remaining practical matters.
Mattei went back to her computer, and Holt sat down in the break
room to have another cup of coffee while she pondered how she should proceed. At the same time her thoughts started wandering off again in a direction she didn’t like.
Assume that she’s the one who did it, thought Holt, who had suddenly started having doubts in a situation where she reasonably ought to have been strengthened in her spontaneous conviction. Then we’re going to crush her for the sake of someone like Eriksson. What was it he’d said, that doorman at Eriksson’s office that she and Jarnebring had talked to more than ten years ago? That Eriksson was both the absolute smallest person and the absolute biggest asshole he had ever met. From the little she’d seen of Helena Stein, she didn’t seem to match that description, thought Holt.
Boiled potatoes are actually not that bad, thought Johansson. Not if they are really fresh like the ones he’d just had. True, French new potatoes are not in a league with Swedish ones, but these were completely edible. What did you expect at this time of year, and what did the French know about potatoes anyway?
“There was something I was thinking about,” said Johansson’s wife, looking at him with her spirited dark eyes.