missed it.
Ludvig Johnsson had passed them with a blue flashing light on his head. He was running incredibly fast and waved cheerfully to the happily cheering paedophile hunters.
Superintendent Ragnar Hellberg had ducked under the blue-and-white plastic tape and slipped through a small gap in the string of marathon runners. The group followed behind him. Party-Ragge had been openly waving his ID at the rapidly approaching stewards, who stopped dead in their tracks and allowed the group of police officers to go past on important business. They jogged up Polhelmsgatan.
‘What’s going on now?’ Gunnar Nyberg had panted, his body not exactly made for jogging.
‘Now he’ll be bloody surprised to see us again, up on Fleminggatan,’ Sara had replied.
They had got there just in time to see the unmistakable blue light approaching. Sure enough, Ludvig Johnsson had laughed in surprise, pointed at the blue light and looked accusatively at them.
‘That damned light weighs a couple of kilos,’ Hellberg had laughed sadistically once Johnsson had disappeared out of view.
Then they could relax and have another coffee, before it was time to catch Johnsson down on the other side of the shipyard on Norrmälarstrand. That time, he hadn’t looked quite so fresh, and when they saw him for a second time on Fleminggatan, the blue light had disappeared. They never did find out where it had come off.
The whole group had then jumped into a police car which, blue lights flashing, had set off for Stockholm Stadium, where they stood on the running track, all with blue flashing lights on their heads, cheering home their exhausted marathon hero.
Gunnar Nyberg had felt strange with the flashing light strapped to his head. It was almost five o’clock, and he had been doing his best to join in, to have just as much fun as the others seemed to be having, to avoid thinking that it was for this he had given up his weekend with his grandson Benny in Östhammar.
And when he saw his stick-thin old friend receive the fabulous Sara Svenhagen’s heartfelt hug there in Stockholm Stadium, in the shadow of its fine old clock tower, he had felt like he could almost reconcile himself with it. Her golden hair wonderfully glossy in the gleaming late-afternoon sun.
That was then.
Now it was gone. Sara Svenhagen had chopped it all off. She looked like a different person. Just as appealing, of course, but in a completely different way. More interesting, maybe. Less of a luminary and more of a person. With everything that entailed.
‘What got into your head?’ said Nyberg, straight off.
Ludvig Johnsson didn’t really seem to understand, sitting stick-thin in the café by the police station, wolfing down his third Danish pastry of the day. But Sara understood. She smiled slightly.
‘A fresh start,’ was all she said.
Gunnar Nyberg stared down into his untouched cup of black coffee and had nothing to say. For his part, he’d had enough fresh starts for a while.
Though there was that thing with women, of course . . .
Ludvig Johnsson shifted in his creaky chair on the narrow pavement outside the pleasantly named Annika’s Café & Restaurant by the police station on Kungsholmsgatan.
‘Still going with your ascetic’s coffee breaks, Gunnar?’ he asked.
Johnsson looked almost too fit, with his wiry body and neat bald patch just above his monk-like band of black hair. He was wearing a thin, pale linen suit, a greenish tie and a beige shirt, and he looked at least ten years younger than Nyberg, despite them being the same age, just under fifty. It always grieved him so much to see such a fit and healthy man gobbling down unhealthy food so often.
On the whole, it had been a strange experience to meet Ludvig Johnsson again. They had been very close for a short time twenty-five years ago. Gone through Police College together, virtually lived on top of one another, day in and day out. The division had been clear even then: Gunnar spent most of his time
Ludvig Johnsson had passed them with a blue flashing light on his head. He was running incredibly fast and waved cheerfully to the happily cheering paedophile hunters.
Superintendent Ragnar Hellberg had ducked under the blue-and-white plastic tape and slipped through a small gap in the string of marathon runners. The group followed behind him. Party-Ragge had been openly waving his ID at the rapidly approaching stewards, who stopped dead in their tracks and allowed the group of police officers to go past on important business. They jogged up Polhelmsgatan.
‘What’s going on now?’ Gunnar Nyberg had panted, his body not exactly made for jogging.
‘Now he’ll be bloody surprised to see us again, up on Fleminggatan,’ Sara had replied.
They had got there just in time to see the unmistakable blue light approaching. Sure enough, Ludvig Johnsson had laughed in surprise, pointed at the blue light and looked accusatively at them.
‘That damned light weighs a couple of kilos,’ Hellberg had laughed sadistically once Johnsson had disappeared out of view.
Then they could relax and have another coffee, before it was time to catch Johnsson down on the other side of the shipyard on Norrmälarstrand. That time, he hadn’t looked quite so fresh, and when they saw him for a second time on Fleminggatan, the blue light had disappeared. They never did find out where it had come off.
The whole group had then jumped into a police car which, blue lights flashing, had set off for Stockholm Stadium, where they stood on the running track, all with blue flashing lights on their heads, cheering home their exhausted marathon hero.
Gunnar Nyberg had felt strange with the flashing light strapped to his head. It was almost five o’clock, and he had been doing his best to join in, to have just as much fun as the others seemed to be having, to avoid thinking that it was for this he had given up his weekend with his grandson Benny in Östhammar.
And when he saw his stick-thin old friend receive the fabulous Sara Svenhagen’s heartfelt hug there in Stockholm Stadium, in the shadow of its fine old clock tower, he had felt like he could almost reconcile himself with it. Her golden hair wonderfully glossy in the gleaming late-afternoon sun.
That was then.
Now it was gone. Sara Svenhagen had chopped it all off. She looked like a different person. Just as appealing, of course, but in a completely different way. More interesting, maybe. Less of a luminary and more of a person. With everything that entailed.
‘What got into your head?’ said Nyberg, straight off.
Ludvig Johnsson didn’t really seem to understand, sitting stick-thin in the café by the police station, wolfing down his third Danish pastry of the day. But Sara understood. She smiled slightly.
‘A fresh start,’ was all she said.
Gunnar Nyberg stared down into his untouched cup of black coffee and had nothing to say. For his part, he’d had enough fresh starts for a while.
Though there was that thing with women, of course . . .
Ludvig Johnsson shifted in his creaky chair on the narrow pavement outside the pleasantly named Annika’s Café & Restaurant by the police station on Kungsholmsgatan.
‘Still going with your ascetic’s coffee breaks, Gunnar?’ he asked.
Johnsson looked almost too fit, with his wiry body and neat bald patch just above his monk-like band of black hair. He was wearing a thin, pale linen suit, a greenish tie and a beige shirt, and he looked at least ten years younger than Nyberg, despite them being the same age, just under fifty. It always grieved him so much to see such a fit and healthy man gobbling down unhealthy food so often.
On the whole, it had been a strange experience to meet Ludvig Johnsson again. They had been very close for a short time twenty-five years ago. Gone through Police College together, virtually lived on top of one another, day in and day out. The division had been clear even then: Gunnar spent most of his time
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