Free Another Time, Another Life by Leif G. W. Persson Page A

which his fiancée could also be counted. They’re like children, damn it, he thought with irritation as he put the pan on the stove and poured in enough water for both coffee and the eggs.
    Half an hour later he was on the subway en route to work after a breakfast of instant coffee without milk, half a glass of juice, almost an entire tomato, yesterday’s roll with a few shavings of cheese and five soft-boiled eggs. He was prey to conflicting emotions, only partly connected to his first meal of the day.
    • • •
    When he arrived Holt was already in place behind her desk, and evidently she had been sitting there a good while because she had managed to do searches on the victim, his neighbors, and the cars that had been parked on the street.
    “Haven’t come up with anything, unfortunately,” said Holt, shaking her head.
    “Hell,” said Jarnebring. “Have you been sitting here all night?” He nodded toward the thick bundles of computer printouts on her desk.
    “I got here an hour ago,” said Holt, smiling wanly as she shook her head. “Nicke is with his dad this week, so I had nothing better to do.”
    I could have fixed that if you’d come by, thought Jarnebring, although mostly from habit and without feeling that old conviction he used to feel before he got engaged. Damn that too, he thought with irritation.
    “Nicke,” said Jarnebring questioningly.
    “My boy. Haven’t I told you about him? He’s six and he’ll start school next fall.”
    “Great age,” said Jarnebring vaguely. “Does he have any siblings?” What was I thinking about just now? he thought.
    “Just Nicke,” said Holt. “None on the way and none planned.”
    I’ll just bet, thought Jarnebring, who had carried on that discussion on a number of occasions in recent years.
    “Well well then,” said Jarnebring, smiling. What the hell should he say? “Has anything else happened?”
    “Yes,” said Holt, digging out a yellow message pad. “Our colleague Danielsson at homicide called and wondered if you could go see him before the meeting.”
    “I see,” said Jarnebring, taking the slip of paper. Must be that idiot Bäckström, he thought.
    “Danielsson,” said Holt. “Is he the guy they call Jack Daniels?”
    “Yes,” said Jarnebring, nodding. “Although I don’t understand why. He doesn’t drink more than most of the others and he can hold considerably more, even though he’ll soon be retirement age.”
    “See you at the meeting,” said Holt, as she resumed leafing through yet another bundle of papers in the pile on her desk.
    “Sit down, Jarnebring,” said Danielsson, nodding toward his visitor’s chair.
    “You look energetic, old man,” said Jarnebring with warmth in his voice. There’s a real policeman, he thought.
    “What the hell choice do I have,” said Danielsson, “as expensive as schnapps has gotten.” He was just as big and burly as Jarnebring. Twenty years older, sixty pounds heavier, blue-red in the face, and with a tie like a snare around his bull’s neck.
    He must be built like a woodstove, thought Jarnebring, looking appreciatively at the medical miracle before him.
    “What did you have in mind?” he asked.
    Nothing in particular as it turned out, just the same old same old. A little talk about this and that between fellow police. An opportunity to thank Jarnebring for wanting to help out. Danielsson was nonetheless the assistant head of the squad.
    “Nothing’s the same here since they killed Palme. You may be wondering why our colleague Bäckström is the lead detective. If he starts any foolishness just say the word and I’ll kick some sense into the little bastard.”
    “It’ll work out,” said Jarnebring. “I can arrange that myself in any event.”
    “I would think so,” said Danielsson, grunting appreciatively. There’s a real policeman, he thought.
    Then the old man brought up his favorite subject. Things had been much better before and best of all in “Dahlgren’s