THE STREET WAS DESERTED IN THE HEAVY DRIZZLE, BUT BEHIND the magnificent brick facade the lights were on. At Kungsholmen’s police station, the major crimes team were working overtime. Chief Inspector Jöback and his men were having a meeting.
“Now we’re damn well back to square one,” sighed Jöback poking his ear with a cotton bud. “Who the hell brought the Old Fellows Gang into this? They usually use weapons during their robberies, and these jokers at the Nordea bank didn’t.”
“The Old Fellows Gang? I’m afraid it was you yourself who—” said his colleague Jungstedt but he was silenced when he saw the look on Jöback’s face.
“Can’t they install better alarm systems at the banks, so we won’t have to deal with this sort of thing?” Muttering, Jöback threw the cotton bud into the waste-paper bin. “More than ten million kronor missing and we don’t have anything to go on.”
“That lady who phoned right after the robbery, what about her? She had been out with her dog and caught sight of Elton John and Margaret Thatcher outside Nordea bank. She could be an important witness,” Jungstedt suggested.
“An old woman, seventy plus? Are you mad? Grumpy old ladies—no, no damn way.”
“But she said something about Pavarotti too.”
“He’s dead!”
“But the robbers could have been wearing masks. Remember that gang who always wore masks years ago, you know—”
“No, they disguised themselves as police officers, that’s a hell of a difference.” Jöback clasped his hands over his stomach and couldn’t stop a yawn.
“The Gorbachev robbery, then? Those guys who stayed on at the SE-bank after closing time and then looted the vaults. They came out in the morning with drawn weapons dressed up as Gorbachev.”
“Gorbachev, ah yes, the old lady must have remembered that well-known robbery and then her imagination did the rest. No, women should stick to baking and cooking. Not involve themselves in police investigations.”
“And speaking of baking. When Blomberg was here with his cakes he talked about the League of Pensioners who stole those paintings from the National Museum . . .” Jungstedt began.
“Ugh,” Jöback cut him off. “Taking a few small paintings off the wall at the National Museum is one thing, but breaking into a bank vault is quite another. Not a snowball’s chance in hell that a bunch of seniors could use explosives.”
“Don’t be so sure . . .”
The discussion was interrupted by a knock on the door and lab tech Knutson came in. In his hand he held a numbered clear plastic bag containing a little chip of dark wood.
“The tests on the samples from the bank are finished, and they show what we suspected.”
“Oh yes?” Jöback twisted around on his chair and picked up a new cotton bud.
“The chip is from a wooden object, and the wood is hazel.”
“Oh, right. Splinter from a wooden object.” Jöback poked deep into his ear.
“We believe it comes from the handle of a walking stick.”
“A walking stick? So the bank was robbed by Pavarotti with a walking stick? Except he’s dead.” The irony in Jöback’s voice was not to be missed.
“Well, you see, it’s from one of those sticks made from hardwood with a decorative handle that elderly ladies use.”
“Like Margaret Thatcher perhaps? And she is dead too.” Jöback threw the cotton bud away and put his hands behind his neck.
Jungstedt gave a resigned glance at the unfortunate lab tech and cleared his throat.
“A walking stick could indicate that some elderly people are involved in the robbery. It could be the League of Pensioners. I think we should contact Blomberg again and hear what he has to say. He knows a great deal about that gang of seniors.”
“Ugh, the walking stick must have come from a bank customer . . .”
“But there is something mysterious about this chip of wood. It has been subject to considerable force.”
“If you say it came flying into the room as a torpedo, then I’m giving in my notice and resigning!”
The lab tech pretended not to hear. He put on some white gloves and took the chip of wood out of the bag, holding it up for all to see.
“The chip of wood has crashed with something at full force. There are traces of concrete in the wood. There are scratches too and in those we found microscopic remains of garbage. I don’t understand it at all. We found the chip on the floor inside the bank vault.”
Jöback pressed his fingertips against each other and hummed for a long time.
“That sounds complicated. How on earth could it have gotten there? No, this is nothing for us.”
“But we have a budget for external services. Why not let Blomberg look into this? A splinter of wood from the handle of an old walking stick, that ought to keep him busy for quite a while,” Jungstedt proposed, as he too didn’t feel like working on this particular clue.
“But what if he comes every day with his cakes again?”
“No risk. This way we can keep him at a distance. We simply say that we don’t want him to come back until he has solved the case. And until then he won’t get any more assignments.”
“Wow, Jungstedt, you’re a genius. Why didn’t we think of that before? That way we’ll be rid of him. Hurrah!”
Jöback laughed, got up and signaled to the tech to leave. When he had gone, he turned toward Jungstedt.
“I don’t think either the Old Fellows Gang or the Gorbachev robbers are behind this Nordea robbery. But you know what, there could be something in what the old lady said about those masks. The guys behind the Gorbachev robbery might have turned to Pavarotti and Thatcher masks this time.”
“Yes, and Buttericks is the obvious place to buy a mask. They must know which masks they have sold over the last six months. And to whom they have been sold.”
“I know. We can send Blomberg to Buttericks,” Jöback exclaimed with a satisfied grin. “There he can look through all the robbers’ masks and whoopee cushions as much he wants.”
“Um, Blomberg is smarter than people think. Don’t underestimate him.”
“Blomberg smart? First time I’ve heard that! No, we’ll let him do the grunt work and we can concentrate on what’s important.”
“But what if he catches the robbers?”
“Blomberg? Ha, ha.” Jöback roared with laughter and dropped the whole packet of cotton buds on the floor.
Jungstedt got down on his knees and helped him pick them up. He couldn’t make heads or tails of him. The new boss didn’t seem to take anything seriously. At least not tips from elderly ladies. From that moment on, Jungstedt decided to keep track of everything himself. If Jöback made a fool of himself, that was one thing, but he didn’t want to fall into the same trap. He had a career to think about and he wanted to catch those Nordea bank robbers, and that was that. Whatever it cost. He picked up the last of the cotton buds, got up and went to his office. For a long time he sat behind his desk and stared at the telephone. Then he lifted the receiver and dialed Blomberg’s number. Like he’d said, Blomberg was much more cunning than Jöback realized. In actual fact, a great deal smarter than his own boss.