The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared

something here, deleting something there (mainly deleting), and patching and polishing until he felt he had a nicely tidied-up story that would actually work. The only thing that really worried the prosecutor was that the journalists just wouldn’t believe that the hundred-year-old Allan Karlsson already carried the scent of death.
    Then Prosecutor Ranelid had an idea. That damned police dog… Could they blame it all on the dog?
    If Ranelid could make it sound as if the dog was crazy, unimagined possibilities appeared for the prosecutor to save his own skin. The story would then be that there never was a corpse on the inspection trolley in the Södermanland forest, and that’s why it hadn’t been found. But the prosecutor had been fooled into believing the opposite, and that in turn led to a number of logical conclusions and decisions – which had turned out to be completely wrong. But you couldn’t blame the prosecutor for that. It was the dog’s fault.
    This could be brilliant, Prosecutor Ranelid thought. The story of the dog that had lost its touch just needed to be confirmed by another source and then Kicki – was that her name? — had to end her days fast. It wouldn’t do for her to prove her skills after the prosecutor had explained what happened.
    Prosecutor Ranelid had a hold on Kicki’s handler since the time, some years ago, when he had managed quietly to spirit away a case of a police officer suspected of shoplifting at7-Eleven. A police career shouldn’t end because of one muffin that somebody had forgotten to pay for, thought Ranelid. But now it was high time for the dog-handler to repay the favour.
    ‘Bye-bye Kicki,’ said Prosecutor Ranelid and smiled for the first time in ages.
    Shortly afterwards, his telephone rang. It was the county police chief. The autopsy and identity report from Riga had just landed on his desk.
    ‘The compressed corpse at the scrapyard was Henrik Hultén,’ said the police chief.
    ‘Nice to hear that,’ said Prosecutor Ranelid. ‘And a good thing you phoned! Can you connect me to reception? I need to get hold of Ronny Bäckman, the dog-handler…’
     
    The friends at Bellringer Farm had waved goodbye to Prosecutor Ranelid and at Allan’s suggestion had returned to the kitchen table. There was, he said, a question that needed to be resolved.
    Allan started the meeting by asking Chief Inspector Aronsson if he had anything to say about what Prosecutor Ranelid had just been told. Perhaps the chief inspector would prefer to go for a walk while the friends had their meeting?
    Aronsson answered that he thought the account had been clear and sound in every way possible. As far as the chief inspector was concerned, the case was closed, and if they would let him remain seated at the table he would be happy to do so. He himself was not free from sin, said Aronsson, and he was not about to throw the first or even the second stone in this matter.
    ‘But do me the favour of not telling me things that I don’t really need to know. I mean, if there should be alternative answers to those you just gave to Ranelid…’
    Allan promised, and added that his friend Aronsson was welcome to stay.
    Friend Aronsson, thought Aronsson. In his work over the years, Aronsson had made many enemies among the country’s most unscrupulous villains, but not a single friend. He thought it was about time! And so he said that if Allan and the others would like to include him in their friendship, he would be both proud and happy.
    Allan answered that during his long life he had been on comradely footing with both presidents and priests, but not until now with a policeman. And since their friend Aronsson absolutely didn’t want to know too much, Allan promised not to say anything about where the group’s pile of money had come from. For the sake of friendship, that is.
    ‘Pile of money?’ asked Chief Inspector Aronsson.
    ‘Yes, you know that suitcase? Before it contained super slim bibles in genuine leather, it was filled to the brim with five-hundred-crown banknotes. About fifty million crowns.’
    ‘What the devil…’ said Chief Inspector Aronsson.
    ‘Swear if you like,’ said The Beauty.
    ‘Fifty million?’ asked Chief Inspector Aronsson.
    ‘Minus some expenses in the course of our journey,’ said Allan. ‘And now the group has to sort out who owns it. And with that I shall ask Pike to speak.’
    Per-Gunnar ‘Pike’ Gerdin scratched his ear. Then he said that he would like