Free Cinderella Girl by Carin Gerhardsen Page B

on to Portofino on Brännkyrkagatan. The restaurant was full and they did not have a reservation. Sandén, however, ate at the excellent little Italian restaurant often, so Marco, the owner, managed to conjure up a table for them at lightning speed. After a superb pasta meal with wine and grappa with coffee, they found themselves at the Cadier Bar at the Grand Hotel of all places, shortly before midnight. Sjöberg had suggested a simple beer at some place like Akkurat on Hornsgatan, where they had a number of varieties to choose from. But Sandén was in an extravagant mood and was determined to spend the rest of the evening at a piano bar. Because these days there was only one left in Stockholm, they ended up at the Grand Hotel.
    Together, they had endless topics of conversation. They had a long shared history because they had worked together ever since the police academy. Their families happily socialized a good deal too. Sandén’s daughters no longer lived at home, but the jovial Sandén and his wife, both fond of children, were not bothered by the presence of the Sjöberg children at family gatherings.
    The pianist was playing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, and the tipsier members of the audience sitting closest to the keyboard were singing along. Sjöberg and Sandén stood further away at the bar, each with a beer. The noise, the music and the relaxed atmosphere that prevailed inSandén’s company surrounded Sjöberg like a warm embrace, and he found himself feeling euphorically free of demands. With Jens he could just talk, there was no attitude, no scrutinizing glances. They had already taken each other’s measure twenty-five years before and there were no personality analyses left to make. And besides, Sandén was fun. The laughs came often when he got going, and Sjöberg could already feel how hoarse he would be in the morning. His bad dreams, his obligations were pushed from his thoughts. He was just taking in life with all his senses.
    It was then that Margit Olofsson emerged from the throng of people over by the piano and approached them.
    ‘Hi, Conny!’ she called happily, to make herself heard over the buzz and the music.
    ‘Look who’s here!’ Sjöberg answered in surprise, spontaneously putting his arm around her. The way you do when you meet an acquaintance in a crowded bar, he told himself. Sandén looked, perplexed, from one to the other. He knew he recognized the woman, but the connection between her and Sjöberg was an unsolvable equation.
    ‘Don’t you recognize Margit, the nurse? Ingrid Olsson’s benefactor?’ said Sjöberg, with a friendly pat on her shoulder.
    ‘Exactly! It’s you!’ Sandén exclaimed, still looking a trifle perplexed.
    ‘We met yesterday, at Huddinge,’ Sjöberg helped out. ‘When I was there with my mother.’
    ‘That explains it,’ said Sandén cheerfully. ‘I was starting to wonder whether you were on a friendly footing with all the old witnesses and murderers and victims and relatives …’
    ‘Jens …’ said Sjöberg urgently.
    ‘Jens Sandén,’ said Sandén, extending his hand to Margit Olofsson.
    ‘Yes, I recognize you too,’ said Margit, still smiling. ‘Are you out celebrating a solved murder, or …?’
    ‘We’re celebrating Conny’s recovered youth,’ Sandén answered quickly. ‘He’s a temporary bachelor and enjoying his freedom without five snot-nosed kids around his ankles.’
    ‘And you?’ Sjöberg added.
    ‘We’re a group of nurses celebrating a birthday. Not mine,’ she added, raising her hand in a deprecatory gesture.
    ‘Is he here, that eighty-year-old guy in a nurse’s uniform?’ Sandén asked in his customary outspoken manner.
    ‘Gunnar? Sure! He’s not one to say no to a party,’ Margit laughed. ‘He’s sixty-three, I should point out, and it’s his birthday. He wanted to go to a piano bar and this seems to be the last one in town.’
    Sjöberg treated her to an Irish coffee and the three of them remained standing,