56

“So you intend to come along to the poisoner’s home, boss,” said Rogersson, holding the car door open for Johansson.

“You betcha. I need to get out and move around,” said Johansson. “Although I intend to sit in front,” he said. “Falk can sit in back, then he’ll have room.”

“Thanks, boss,” said Falk, grinning and holding open the right door.

“So we don’t need any protective gear,” said Rogersson as they drove out of the tunnel to the police building’s garage.

“Hell no,” said Johansson, shaking his head. “Not us. What we’re looking for are some papers and some fucking medal the bastard is supposed to have received.”

“From the pharmaceutical company,” said Rogersson, grinning.

“If only it were that good,” said Johansson and sighed.

For the past fifteen years Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh had lived in an assisted-living facility for early retirees in Bromma. One room and kitchen with a small bathroom. Four alarm buttons to call for help, if needed. One by the front door, which could be reached even if you were lying on the floor; one in the bathroom between the toilet and bathtub. One in the kitchen by the stove. One by the bed in the only room. It was also equipped with an extension cord, in case he wanted to have it with him when he sat at his desk or in the armchair in front of the TV.

The place was worn-out, musty, with a faint but unmistakable odor of urine. On the floor in the bathroom was an opened package of adult diapers. In the medicine cabinet were twenty-some vials and packages with various medicines. An empty plastic denture case. Shaving razor, shaving cream, and aftershave. On the sink a plastic mug with a toothbrush and a tube of denture cream.

Poor devil, thought Lars Martin Johansson, continuing into the one room.

Rogersson stood rooting in the desk by the window while his colleague Falk dug through the contents of the small dresser that was against the short wall. On the nightstand beside the bed was a framed photograph of Wiijnbladh’s ex-wife. The one who had left him almost twenty years ago when he happened to poison himself, although he only wanted to kill her.

“Is it this you mean, boss?” said Rogersson, holding up a plastic bag with a medal the size of a five-krona coin. “To Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh in gratitude for meritorious efforts for the security of the realm,” Rogersson read.

“I’m afraid it is,” said Johansson.

“Was he some fucking war hero?” asked Rogersson, shaking his head.

“More likely the Man of Steel,” Falk sneered, holding up a pair of white underwear. “A lot of rust in these briefs.”

“Papers,” said Johansson.

“Must be these,” said Rogersson. “Some kind of receipt for a firearm and a mysterious letter of recommendation. From the gumshoes in the B building. Their stationery in any event.”

“I’ll have to see,” said Johansson. How fucking stupid can you be? he thought.