By Ellie of Cameron
Stockholm – 22 September.
Inspector Johansson was a nervous sort, paranoid and not well suited to police work, but it ran in the family. He was desperate, as usual, and had called in the B team to help unravel the case. Lindberg was there, a flighty Irish Setter with an accent, had his hair and nails done twice a week. A stuck up, pedigreed sort—good at sitting, but not much else.
Erickson, the crime team’s bloodhound, was curled up on the couch with a bone in his mouth. Also present were two dachshunds, Fritz and Max, who had connections in low places. They only spoke German, and some bad English, but Johansson could understand most of what they said . . . or pretended to.
“I guess you’ve all guessed why you’re here,” Johansson started out.
Max broke an uncomfortable silence that followed. “Ja, sure. Das herring thing,”
“Exactly. Yes,” Johansson barked. “Twenty tons of herring stolen from Arlanda Airport. It was being shipped to Japan, but never got on the plane.”
“That was almost two months ago.” Erickson dropped his bone in an ashtray and sat up straight, doing his best to look intelligent. He loved attention.
“Ja. Precise!” Johansson sat down on his desk. “The A Team has been working on it, and we have a name.
“Well done!” Lindberg wagged his tail. “We knew you’d get him.”
“But, we didn’t get him . . . yet. The newspapers are hounding me. There was an article in Aftonbladet about the case lasts week. We know who it is, and that’s the problem. Déjà Vu again for me. It’s that infernal kat burglar. Smoothy.”
“Ah. Dat Smoothy is a hard one catching,” Fritz sniffed.
“Tell me about. It’s been eight years and as many thefts. The golden carp stolen from the Uppsala Museum, that copper Dingus from Falun, The Platinum Bone of Contention—taken from the King’s bedroom for God’s sake. I could go on, but you all know the story. The papers are killing me.”
“Well, we all know what newspapers are good for.” Erickson growled.
“The reason I’ve called you here today . . .” Johansson paused as if reluctant to continue. “I am bringing in, The Bitch from Borläng. She’ll be on a short leash, but you’ll have to work with her. I know it won’t be easy, but she may well be our only chance.”
“No way. Are you now forgetting how she friggen bit me,” Lindberg yowled.
“You need to learn to keep it in your fur,” Johansson said.
“I only gave ‘er a bit of a sniff,” the setter argued. “She was in heat, and comin’ on so charmin’ and all.
“She’s a good looking bitch. I’ll giver her that,” Said Erickson.
To Be Continued