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

day,” referring to the legendary old squad chief who had closed up shop more than ten years ago. The one who had ended his life by his own hand and with the help of his service revolver to save society unnecessary nursing expenses and himself an undignified life. Although that particular detail was not usually talked about, not even at the time when it was fresh in people’s memory. Back then you could still talk to the crooks, who had surnames that weren’t all consonants, evenif Danielsson chose to formulate that linguistic problem in a different way.
    “Do you remember those days, Jarnie,” said Danielsson, “when you could spell the crook’s name? And understand what he said?”
    “Sure, sure,” said Jarnebring, smiling a little. Although Blackie, Genghis, the Pistol Gnome, and Charlie Cannon weren’t always so fun to deal with either. Sometimes you could keep a straight face.
    “Lars Peter Forsman … and Bosse Dynamite,” said Danielsson dreamily. “Even the Clarkster, that fuckup from Norrmalmstorg, although maybe that wasn’t exactly his fault. Do you remember when they wrote on the front page of
Little Pravda
that they’d given Bosse Dynamite an intelligence test and he had an IQ like a professor? Do you remember how furious Dynamite got? That was one talented guy. Completely normal. He didn’t want to be compared to any crazy academics. He should have sued those bastards.”
    He’s the same as ever, thought Jarnebring, sneaking a look at his watch.
    “Fine lads,” said Danielsson and sighed nostalgically. “And what the hell do we have now? A lot of Yugos and Polacks and Turks and Arabs and guys like that fuckup Bäckström who’s going to take charge of all the misery. And on the shelf there”—Danielsson nodded toward the bookshelf behind his desk—“I have two rows of binders with unsolved murders. Damn, Dahlgren would have killed me if he’d lived. Although he never even swore at you.”
    “Dahlgren was good,” Jarnebring agreed, despite the fact that he was always going on about his diploma, he thought.
    “Sure,” said Danielsson. “And here I am talking shit.”
    Then they went their separate ways. Jarnebring went to his meeting and Danielsson leaned back, looked at the clock, and wondered whether he could slip down to the liquor store before lunch so he could avoid standing in line for hours. In recent years he’d had an awful ache in his knees, and it was the weekend anyway and soon it would be Christmas.…
    The first meeting of the invesitgation team with lead detective Bäckström had astounded all those who knew him. He was alert and freshlyshowered, despite what was for him an early hour, and radiated both effectiveness and a strong odor of menthol-flavored throat lozenges.
    “Okay then,” said Bäckström energetically, opening up his folder of notes. “Allow me to welcome everyone. We have a murder and we have to like the situation.”
    And not make things unnecessarily complicated and mistrust the chance coincidence, thought Jarnebring, something touching his heart at the same time as he thought about his best friend, police superintendent Lars Martin Johansson, and his three golden rules for a murder investigator. I’ll have to call Lars Martin. It’s been awhile. What the hell has happened to Bäckström anyway? He must have put vitamins in his nightcap, thought Jarnebring.
    “Let’s see now, said blind Sarah,” Bäckström said, leafing among his papers with his fat right thumb. “First we have our corpse … Eriksson, Kjell Göran, born in 1944, single, no children, no known relatives whatsoever … that we could produce in any event.” Bäckström gave Holt an inquisitive look.
    “No,” Holt confirmed, without needing to consult her own folder. “No wives, no children, no relatives.”
    This is almost too good to be true, thought Bäckström, feeling how the keys to the victim’s apartment were keeping warm in his right pants pocket.
    “Worked