Free Falling, As If in a Dream

“O blessedness to be young in morning light at sea,” thinks the young count Malte Moritz von Putbus on his journey to the West Indies with the three-masted barque Speranza. We are traveling in a novel by Sven Delblanc, and the journey takes place the same year Gustav III was murdered at the Opera masquerade in Stockholm. The protagonist of the book is Malte Moritz, called Mignon by his friends. Young, idealistic, yearning for freedom, and still he has not discovered that Speranza carries a load of slaves. Much less has he given a thought to the fact that a hard fate can also put the freest man in fetters or completely destroy him. What the solitary man on board Esperanza thinks and feels more than two hundred years later we do not know. There is little to suggest that he is much like Malte Moritz as an individual, but seen from a distance, and in the morning light at sea, there is still much to suggest that he, at least at this moment, thinks and feels the same way. The calm breathing of the sea, the rustling of the waves against the stern, the sun smoke that encompasses him, the salt-drenched breeze that cools body and head. Then the rudder, controlled by his will and resting in his hands. At any time at all he can change course or completely redirect it. Security, freedom, “O blessedness…”

90

Ten days earlier, Monday, October 1.

Headquarters of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation on Kungsholmen in Stockholm

On Monday the first of October, Anna Holt and Lisa Mattei traveled to Mallorca to try to find Kjell Göran Hedberg, and Lars Martin Johansson showed a new side of himself. And did so in a wordy, roundabout way.

During the time Lars Martin Johansson had been a detective in the field he had also-quite literally-put his mitts on numerous murderers and violent criminals. The majority by sending letters or calling them and asking them to appear at the police station for a little talk. A few scattered times he and his associate Jarnebring had made home visits without asking for permission first. Normally he and his best friend were enough, and during his entire active duty neither of them ever needed to reach for his service weapon. One time, “means one time,” Johansson clarified, there was a “crazy Yugoslav” who had “behaved a little stupidly” and started wrestling with Jarnebring, who in turn solved the problem with the classic police chokehold, “you know the one that was prohibited thirty years ago,” while Johansson put the handcuffs on him.

“He was mostly sorry, the wretch,” said Johansson. “Who wouldn’t be if you killed your best friend because you got everything turned around?”

It had always been like that. It was still that way, in all essentials, and it would be in the future as well if Johansson had his way. Every drawn service weapon, every siren turned on, all harsh words, even every hasty, unplanned movement, was nothing other than an expression of police shortcomings that fortunately and almost never belonged to reality. Possibly with one exception. A former colleague whose name was Kjell Göran Hedberg.

“So be careful, ladies, and call home if anything happens,” said Johansson.

“Above all,” he said, raising an extra warning finger, “don’t come up with any risky moves. Hedberg is a malignant bastard. If he shows up and starts making a fuss, shoot him.”

“Are you saying we should take our service weapons along?” said Holt.

“You can always arrange that on-site,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders. “You can’t drag along that kind of shit on an airplane, especially these days when you can’t even take a bottle of aftershave or a can of liverwurst. It’s probably better if you fix that when you get there. I’ve already notified them about that, by the way.”

Then he gave them a real bear hug. Put his arms around their shoulders and squeezed. The right one around Mattei and the left around Holt, and no particular ulterior motives were involved.

Lewin would stay in Stockholm to put order into all the papers. What Johansson would do was less clear. Look after his own business, presumably, and in other words everything was exactly as usual.

“He’s actually kind of sweet,” said Mattei as soon as their plane lifted off from Arlanda. “Johansson, that is.”

“Oh well,” said Holt. “Not only.”

“He smells good too,” said Mattei, who didn’t seem to be listening. “He smells like safety in some way. Clean clothes, aftershave-he smells like a real old-fashioned guy in fact.”

“Lisa,” said Holt, looking at her.

“Yes?”

“Give it up now,” said Holt.

“Okay,” said Mattei, taking out her pocket computer. If you’re going to be that way, she thought.

91

Their Spanish guardian angel, El Pastor, was obviously a man who took his assignment with the greatest seriousness. As soon as their plane landed and taxied up to the gate, he was standing there, right outside the door to the plane, and when he caught sight of Holt and Mattei he nodded to them and took them aside to the little electric airport vehicle that was waiting.

A tall, skinny man in his sixties with jet-black hair, friendly, watchful eyes, and not the least like the Fernandel character who haunted Holt’s fantasies. A few feet behind him stood his two assistants, half his age, who would apparently take care of the practicalities. They were several inches shorter, considerably broader, with narrow, expressionless eyes and hands crossed over their jeans-clad crotches.

Not like Hans and Fritz-the Katzenjammer Kids-more like Hans and Hans, and the only thing missing was the writing on their foreheads that clearly stated what they did, so you didn’t confuse them with a couple of professional Mediterranean hit men.

Holt and Mattei did not see any trace of Spanish indifference either. Fifteen minutes later they were already in an unmarked police car en route from the airport to their hotel in central Palma.

“I assume that first you’ll want to check in,” said El Pastor, smiling courteously.

“Then I thought I would suggest a visit to my office where we can discuss your needs. After that, a simple dinner at a nearby restaurant that I often frequent myself, and where quite excellent seafood is served. Assuming you ladies don’t have other wishes, of course?”

Holt immediately accepted the terms. Find Hedberg, she thought. Work on your tan along the way. That’s how it will be.

The seafood and suntan were going better than the assignment. Escorted by Hans and Hans, they visited countless addresses in Palma and the surrounding smaller towns and villages, where they might possibly find Hedberg or perhaps someone who could give information about where he was.

The first address they visited was the one that Hedberg had provided to the Swedish authorities the last time he emitted a sign of life. Over seven years before, when he applied for a new passport. The address he provided proved to be a simple boarding establishment on Calle Asunción, in old Palma. The man in reception only shook his head when their Spanish assistants started asking him about Hedberg.

Bars, hotels, brothels, leasing firms, brokers and agents for all conceivable services. The usual squealers, informants, petty crooks, and the occasional ordinary person who might possibly have run into Hedberg. All simply shook their heads.

Only after five days, on Friday afternoon the fifth of October, did they finally get a tip that was worth the name.

92

As soon as Holt lifted off from Arlanda, Lewin suddenly had a lot of help from an unexpected direction. When he arrived on Monday morning he found a copy of his own list of fifteen points. It was lying on top of a considerable pile of papers. Plus a brief greeting from his colleague Rogersson: “From the Boss. Rogge.” From the date he realized that the papers had been on his desk for over twenty-four hours, while in his usual solitude he had survived yet another empty weekend. I might just as well have been at work, he thought.

After another hour his colleague Falk knocked on his door and handed over a list of the transactions that had been made on Birgitta Hedberg’s credit card during the past year. An ordinary Visa card that she used even more seldom than her home phone. One line was underlined in red. In early March, seven months earlier and a month after she had renewed her passport, she had booked a trip to Spain and paid with the card. A week with hotel and half-board. But not to Mallorca, to the Spanish Sun Coast. Either Hedberg has moved or else he simply chose to meet her there, thought Lewin.

The thought that she might have gone there on her own initiative did not even occur to him. Birgitta Hedberg is not the type to waste a week of her life swimming, sunbathing, or socializing with people she doesn’t know. She wouldn’t do it even just to relax, thought Jan Lewin. He realized that as soon as he saw the expression in her eyes on her passport photo.

“Thanks,” said Jan Lewin.

“No problem,” Falk replied, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s more coming in a while.”

“Before you go,” said Lewin. “Just so we don’t duplicate our efforts unnecessarily.”

“I’m listening,” said Falk, without sitting down.

“I’ll make sure our colleagues down there get the information about her trip,” said Lewin. “Ask that they check whether Hedberg possibly flew from Palma at the same time. What else might I do that you aren’t already doing or have already arranged for me?” said Lewin, nodding amiably to soften what otherwise might be perceived as criticism.

“I think you can forget about that,” said Falk. “We’ve already checked it, with the help of our colleagues at Europol. No Hedberg on the relevant plane from and to Palma, which doesn’t necessarily mean a thing because we’re talking about Spanish domestic flights and their procedures. What his sis was doing on vacation I also think you can forget about, simply because that will take too much time. Think about her cell phone instead,” said Falk. “If you have any good ideas about how we can get the number.”

“If she even has one,” said Lewin, sounding as if he was thinking out loud. Although of course she does, he thought. He understood that from the expression in her eyes.

“She does,” said Falk. “I’ve seen it myself. Most recently this morning.”

“Do tell,” said Lewin. Now we’re moving, he thought.

“You probably have it in your e-mail,” said Falk, looking at the clock for some reason. “Our colleague Wiklander is supposed to be sending you a memo.”

Now things are really moving, thought Lewin.

Wiklander was the top boss of the National Bureau’s intelligence department, the so-called CIS squad. For more than twenty years he had been Johansson’s confidant, and most of all he was known for his discretion. Wiklander gathered information about the sort of things that were of interest to the police. About high and low, and the higher the better. From everyone who had anything to offer, and if there was anyone who wanted something in return, it was crucial to show that you had very good reasons. Otherwise it was Wiklander and his staff of analysts who decided how the knowledge they were sitting on would benefit their colleagues, regardless of whether they had asked for it or not. Wiklander was a man according to Johansson’s taste. A person he could sit and talk with quite openly about the most sensitive matters, because he always knew that the conversation had never taken place, if the wrong person were to ask.

Lewin had apparently passed through the eye of the needle. At least where finding out the number to Kjell Göran Hedberg’s sister’s cell phone was concerned. It’s always something, thought Lewin, printing out the e-mail from Wiklander, because he preferred to read something he could hold in his hand and make notes on.

The external surveillance of Birgitta Hedberg had already started on Friday the week before, carried out by a group from the bureau’s own detective squad under the command of Rogersson, even though he really worked in homicide. By Saturday morning they had already found a suitable “nest.” It was a small apartment across the street from Birgitta Hedberg’s residence and offered a full view into her bedroom, dining room, and kitchen. An ideal nest that was being sublet by an aspiring female police officer in her last semester at the police academy, who was completely unacquainted with Birgitta Hedberg, and obviously had no idea why they were interested in her unknown neighbor. She was burning with enthusiasm at the chance to help her future colleagues. At the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, besides.

By Saturday afternoon she had signed the usual confidentiality agreements and for the time being was being lodged at a hotel in the vicinity and got a decent gratuity for the inconvenience. Then Rogersson fixed his eyes on her and told her sternly not only to keep her mouth shut but also to stay away. Not only from her apartment, but from the whole area.

While Rogersson took care of the aspiring police officer and the judicial and social details, his detectives settled into her apartment and got their equipment in place.

“External surveillance from premises as per description above was initiated at 14:00 hours, Saturday September 29,” Wiklander noted in the first point of his surveillance memo, and by Saturday evening things had already started happening.

After having a simple dinner at six-thirty, Birgitta Hedberg disappeared into her living room to watch TV. Not because she could be seen-her living room was on the “wrong” side of the building-but rather because her TV could be heard by means of the microphone aimed at her kitchen window right across the street. However that might be, considering that parliament was still struggling with the issue of whether to approve the use of so-called concealed monitoring by the police.

Regardless of which, first she watched the news on TV4. Then she returned to the kitchen. Made coffee, took a bag of cookies from the pantry, and after ten minutes-when the coffee was ready-took both coffee and cookies with her and disappeared in the direction of her living room. Then surfed between various channels for over fifteen minutes before she finally started watching a Swedish movie on TV2 that started at eight o’clock.

When that was over she changed channels and watched the late news on TV4. Then she turned off the TV in the middle of the sign-off from the news program. At exactly thirty-seven minutes past ten she again became visible in her kitchen. Now in a white terry-cloth bathrobe, hair let down, without makeup, teeth brushed and ready for a night’s rest. The sensitive microphone even captured the sound of tooth brushing and a medicine cabinet being closed, opened, and closed again. Of the water she ran in the sink, and three minutes later the flushing of the toilet.

On the other hand, the details of what she’d been doing on the toilet were unclear because any natural human sounds, the use of toilet paper and the like, were drowned out by the sound from the faucet in the sink that was still running. Then that too fell silent, and less than a minute later, thirty-seven minutes past ten that is, Birgitta Hedberg came back into the kitchen. With the coffee mug in her right hand and the bag of cookies in her left. After putting the cookies back in the pantry, she rinsed the coffee mug under running water, placed it in the dishwasher, sat at the kitchen table, and started working the crossword puzzle in that day’s Svenska Dagbladet. After writing and erasing for over half an hour, she put down the pen, sighed with a bad-tempered expression, folded up the newspaper, got up, and disappeared in the direction of the hall.

“Excruciatingly exciting,” observed Inspector Joakim Eriksson with the bureau’s detective squad as he stood behind the camera under cover of darkness in their little nest.

“It hardly gets better than this,” agreed his female colleague, Inspector Linda Martinez.

At the same moment Birgitta Hedberg came back into the kitchen with a red cell phone in her right hand.

“There it is,” Eriksson observed as his motor camera with telephoto lens whirred into action and took the obligatory still pictures at a velocity of ten pictures per second.

Birgitta Hedberg then turned off the light in the kitchen, went straight to her bedroom, turned on the lamp on her nightstand beside the bed, placed the red phone by the bed lamp, turned off the ceiling light, went over to the window, and pulled down the shade. Ten minutes later she also turned off the bed lamp. The room behind the shade was in darkness. That didn’t matter, because Martinez had already redirected the microphone toward her bedroom window.

From the audio recording it appeared that she had already fallen asleep within fifteen minutes. That she snored a few times during the night, audibly relieved the pressure in her bowels shortly after three o’clock, and woke up three hours later. When she pulled up the shade at six-fifteen in the morning she had already put on her bathrobe, and when she took the cell phone from the nightstand to put it in her pocket, officer Falk was already there and could see it with his own eyes.

During Sunday the same cell phone had been observed on another three occasions, and according to the memo that Lewin was reading, by Monday morning the team was already clear about her peculiar cell phone procedures. She did not seem to use it for her own calls. Nor did anyone call her. At the same time she made sure that it was always nearby. When she left her residence on Sunday to do a few errands on two occasions, she had it with her in her handbag. When she was at home it was in her pocket or near her. Apparently she made sure it was always charged. It was an ordinary, standard model Nokia supplied with a simple red plastic case. One of the most common cell phones in Sweden, but less common in Spain, and so far so good. What remained was to find out the cell phone number, so as to find her brother. If Jan Lewin was interested in tactical discussions in connection with this cell phone surveillance, he was welcome in Johansson’s office at ten o’clock.

Two minutes ago, thought Jan Lewin. Getting up he straightened his tie, put on his jacket, and turned off his computer.

In Johansson’s office the atmosphere was high-pitched. Johansson, Wiklander, Rogersson, Falk, Martinez, and Eriksson were there, and even before Lewin opened the door he was met by happy laughter from the other side.

“Sit yourself down, Jan,” said Johansson before Lewin could apologize for his late arrival. “Have some coffee,” he said, pointing to the tray on the table. “But be careful with the cookies. Linda just told us about the risks of eating too many cookies. Especially before going to bed. Increases audible intestinal activity in an unpleasant manner.”

Linda Martinez, thought Lewin, nodding at her. Same age as Lisa Mattei, just as street smart as Lisa Mattei was wise. As an investigator in the field, there were few like her. Which perhaps was lucky, considering everything he’d heard about her escapades, thought Jan Lewin, sitting down.

“Okay,” said Johansson. “The Hedberg woman has a cell phone. Almost everything suggests she has it for only one reason. To keep in contact with her dear brother. How do we get the number? Preferably immediately. Give me some bright-eyed suggestions.”

“If we only want to get hold of her number, I can arrange that during the day,” said Linda Martinez.

“How?” asked Johansson.

“By stealing it,” said Martinez, shrugging her shoulders. “As soon as she goes out I can lift her cell, and in the worst case I’ll have to grab her handbag too. But considering what I think you really want I would definitely advise against that. But, sure.” Martinez threw out her hands in an expressive gesture to show her goodwill.

“There is a completely legal possibility too,” Lewin objected with a cautious throat clearing.

“What’s that?” said Johansson, who suddenly looked rather suspicious.

“That the prosecutor lets us bring her in and confiscate her cell phone.” Like all normal police do, a hundred times out of a hundred, he thought.

“No way, José,” said Johansson, shaking his head. “If we let Linda steal it straight up and down, and considering how she looks these days she could pass for an addict who just snatched one more bag, then the Hedberg woman is probably going to call her brother anyway and tell him she’s lost her cell. By means of some other phone that we aren’t aware of either.

“It’s the same thing with your solution, Lewin,” he continued. “As soon as she gets the chance she’s going to warn him. Then we’re definitely cooked, considering that we’ve brought her in. Besides, we can’t rule out that they have some established security procedure we don’t know about. That she calls at regular intervals to confirm that everything is calm.”

Although of course there are no differences otherwise. Purely legally and such, and never in Johansson’s world, thought Jan Lewin.

The latter-some kind of security procedure-Wiklander had already thought about. For that reason at that very moment his co-workers were installing a special mobile monitoring device aimed at her residence. If her cell phone emitted a sign of life the monitoring device was ready. Likewise if Hedberg made contact with her. At the same time the problem was apparent. They were short on time. Assume they only communicated once a week. Or even worse. Once a month. Or never, if there was no particular reason to do so.

They could also forget about pinging cell phone towers. Because they didn’t have her number, that was practically hopeless. Monitoring calls from cell phones in the vicinity of her residence made to recipients on Mallorca-if that was even where Hedberg was-wasn’t a meaningful way to search for the number either. The apartment on Andersvägen was wall-to-wall with the north approach to Stockholm and denser cell phone traffic than in that area could hardly be found in the whole country.

“I hear what you’re saying,” Johansson interrupted. “What do we do?”

“If we can just call from her cell phone to one of our special cell surveillance numbers, we can get her number directly. Then we can start searching for what numbers she has called. Our computers are going to have a hard time of it, considering the extent of traffic. If we can get a certain day or a certain time too that would be a great help.”

“So you say,” said Johansson.

“In that case I propose the fifteenth of August of this year,” said Lewin.

“Why then?” asked Falk.

“It’s his birthday,” said Lewin. “I think she’s the type who’s meticulous about calling her older brother and only relative on his birthday. Even if he might prefer that she didn’t.”

“I think so too,” Johansson agreed. Every thinking colleague must understand that, he thought, glaring at Falk.

“If we ping from the relevant cell towers for the fifteenth of August this year we’ll be sitting with tens of thousands of calls,” said Wiklander. “Considering all calls made from cars en route to and from Arlanda, thousands of them are going to be calls abroad. It’s going to take months to follow them up. We’ve got to have her number. Otherwise it won’t work. If we just have the number, we’ll manage it in a few hours tops. Assuming she’s called, of course.”

Birgitta Hedberg was a disability pension recipient and as such she had the right to home services. And she’d had run-ins with those same home services since the first day. The current controversy was over a promised major cleaning that had not yet happened. The primary reason was that the majority of those who worked with home services would have rather quit than set foot in Birgitta Hedberg’s apartment.

Wiklander tugged on a few of the usual threads. Almost immediately he found a colleague at the Solna police who had a wife who worked as a supervisor with the municipal home services. Discretion a matter of honor. Already by Tuesday afternoon the colleague’s wife had called Ms. Hedberg and reported that they could initiate the promised major cleaning as soon as the following morning.

High time, according to Birgitta Hedberg, and she could receive the long-promised help herself as early as eight o’clock the following morning. Then she hung up without a word of thanks.

Hope the old bag gets life, thought the Solna colleague’s wife, because her dear husband’s involvement in this particular home services matter gave her some hope on that score.

“Well, well then,” said Birgitta Hedberg for some reason when on Wednesday morning she opened the door to her apartment and scrutinized Linda Martinez. The same Martinez who nonetheless did her best to play the role of submissive immigrant in the service of Swedish Cleanliness.

For the next two days Linda Martinez scurried around like a white tornado in Birgitta Hedberg’s three-room apartment. Swept and scrubbed so that even Cinderella in the classic Disney film looked like a real shirker in comparison. On the third day she was then granted all the favor that someone like Birgitta Hedberg could offer someone like her. First she was allowed to go along with her to do the shopping and carry all the bags. Then she stood outside the bank and waited while her new matron did errands that didn’t concern someone like her. Finally they went to a nearby bakery where Birgitta Hedberg bought two Napoleon pastries. Once back in the apartment Martinez first had to help with lunch. Then set out the coffee. Two cups this time, and a pastry for each.

When the coffee was finished Martinez was given additional instructions for the rest of the day. Then Birgitta Hedberg went to the bathroom and left her handbag behind on the kitchen counter.

As soon as she shut the door, Martinez fished the red cell phone out of the bag. She entered the number Wiklander had given her, and then ended the call the moment after she’d made contact with the recipient. Deleted the call from the phone’s memory. Put it back in the handbag and proceeded to clean away the traces of their little kaffeklatsch.

Hope the old bag gets life, thought Linda Martinez, even though she had no idea why Birgitta’s cell phone number seemed to have almost decisive importance for her top boss.

Fifteen minutes before Jan Lewin meant to go home for the day, Wiklander stepped into his office and his contented smile was answer enough to the question Lewin had had in mind for the past week.

“The fifteenth of August at zero eight zero two hours Birgitta Hedberg made a call outside the country from her prepaid cell phone to a Spanish prepaid cell phone. The same time there as here,” Wiklander clarified. “The last cell tower that forwarded the call is on north Mallorca. A little over a mile from a little town called Puerto Pollensa. The call went on for seventeen minutes. You have both numbers and all the rest of it in your e-mail.”

“I’ll call Holt immediately,” said Lewin.

“Do that,” said Wiklander.

93

On Friday morning the fifth of October, Holt, Mattei, and their Spanish colleagues finally detected a sign of life from Kjell Göran Hedberg. True, it was seven months old, but compared with what they’d had before this was fresh produce. It was irritating that the tip had been there all along. Not at the detective squad in Palma, but instead with the so-called terrorist squad at Guardia Civil’s headquarters in Madrid.

In early March Hedberg had rented a car at the Hertz office at the airport in Málaga. It was the day after his sister had arrived there on vacation and checked into a hotel in the vicinity. Three days later he called Hertz and reported that the car had been stolen. They asked him to come to their main office in central Málaga. There a theft report had been filled out. A photocopy of Hedberg’s passport had been made and he told the little he knew.

In the evening he had left the vehicle at the parking spot outside the hotel where he was staying. When he came out in the morning it was gone. That was all, and if they wanted to discuss it further they could reach him at his residence at 189 Calle Asunción in Palma de Mallorca.

In the tourist country of Spain thousands of rental cars were stolen every year, and for many years such crimes had been routine matters in the pile. Something that the car rental company, the police, and the insurance company handled without involving the person who rented the car. In later years this had changed. Domestic and international terrorism was the cataylst. The Basque separatists in ETA, the Islamist terrorist bombing at the railroad in Madrid where two hundred Spaniards had lost their lives.

Rental cars that were stolen, and especially those that were rented by foreign nationals, suddenly became interesting as a so-called pre-incident crime, one of several stages in the preparations for a terrorist attack. The registry that had been built up to sort out both stolen rental cars and those who had rented them already included tens of thousands of vehicles and individuals.

One week earlier, Friday the twenty-eighth of September, the terrorist squad in Madrid had received an inquiry from their counterparts with the intelligence department at the Swedish National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. A fast-track inquiry because their own top boss had already been in contact and given orders that everything that came from that Swedish agency should be handled with the highest priority. For the time being at least.

The basis for their questions was also nicely detailed. They were interested in the female Swedish citizen Birgitta Hedberg, age sixty, and her brother, Kjell Göran Hedberg, three years older. Birgitta Hedberg was said to have been in south Spain between the third and the tenth of March, where she stayed at the Aragon Hotel outside Marbella. On the other hand, where her brother was to be found was unknown, but at the same time his whereabouts were extremely interesting.

They found Birgitta Hedberg immediately. Inquiries at the scene indicated that she had stayed at “the hotel in question during the week in question.” The computers in Madrid had already found her brother the following day in the registry of stolen rental cars. On the other hand he had not stayed at the Aragon Hotel in Marbella, as he had stated in his theft report to Hertz. There was no registration in his name in any event, and if he had shared a room with his sister, this must have happened in secret and in an ordinary twin bed. Considering that the car was picked up at the airport in Málaga, it was also strange to say the least that the man who rented it could not be found in the lists of flight passengers. Neither from Palma nor from any other destination on the day in question.

His home address in Palma did not seem to tally either. On Thursday the case had therefore been sent on to the colleagues in Palma with a request for help. Considering the sender, it crossed El Pastor’s desk right before he was to go home to prepare for the evening’s dinner with his delightful Swedish colleagues. Suddenly there he was, the man he had been looking for in vain for more than a week, and not because he’d asked the ones whose help he had requested but because they were asking him. As sometimes happens when the one hand isn’t clear about what the other hand is up to.

First El Pastor had given free rein to his Spanish temperament. Called his counterpart in Madrid and told him what he thought. Then he unleashed the remainder of his frustration on his incompetent co-workers.

As soon as he’d regained his balance he had Holt and Mattei picked up from their hotel, conveyed them to yet another seafood restaurant by the blue sea, and did not say a word about what had happened the whole evening. Why ruin an otherwise pleasant evening with that kind of thing? thought El Pastor, looking deep into Anna Holt’s eyes as he raised his glass. What an amazing woman, he thought. As beautiful as a young gypsy from Seville, in Bizet’s opera.

The following morning Hans and Hans drove back to the boarding house on Calle Asunción. Took the man in reception aside and in Holt’s and Mattei’s absence had a serious talk with him. It hadn’t helped. He still shook his head and refused to acknowledge any Kjell Göran Hedberg.

“Nada,” said Hans and Hans with a joint shrug of the shoulders when they returned to the office in the afternoon to give a report to the dark Swede.

“Nada,” Holt repeated with a faint smile just as her cell phone rang.

“Hi, Anna,” said Lewin. “How’s the weather?”

“Excellent,” Holt replied. “Are you thinking about packing your bathing trunks and coming down for the weekend?” You might be challenged to a duel by El Pastor, she thought.

“If it were only that good,” said Lewin and sighed. “We’ve found her number now. She has made only one call, as it appears. The fifteenth of August this year. Hedberg’s birthday, as I’m sure you recall, and you have all the information in your e-mail. The call went via a tower that’s a few miles from a town called Puerto Pollensa on north Mallorca, but I don’t know exactly where that town is located. Probably simplest if you ask one of our Spanish colleagues.”

“Can you wait a second, Jan?” said Holt, setting down her cell phone on her desk and turning around in the office where she was sitting. I knew it, she thought. I knew it. He’s been here the whole time.

“Puerto Pollensa,” said Holt. “Is that anywhere near here?”

“It’s sixty-five miles north. Takes about an hour, depending on the traffic,” answered Pedro Rovira, who spoke considerably better English than the other colleague, Pablo Ballester.

94

Bäckström had almost immediately seen about instilling some manners and style into his so-called support person Little Frippy. He was even getting sort of fond of the bastard, though he looked like a painful animal experiment and sounded like a bad book.

Reminds me a little of Egon, after all, thought Bäckström. Though not as taciturn, of course.

Egon was his dear goldfish, which an unusually malevolent colleague unfortunately had taken the opportunity to put to death when Bäckström was out in the countryside on a murder investigation. Then the colleague got rid of the body by flushing it down Bäckström’s toilet. Although that fate probably won’t befall Little Frippy, I hope, thought Bäckström. Because he-as stated-was starting to get attached to him.

After only a few days Little Frippy had asked Bäckström to stop calling him Little Frippy.

“Okay then,” said Bäckström. “If you’ll stop calling me Eve, I promise that your name will be Fridolin in the future.”

“I thought you were called Eve,” said Little Frippy with surprise. “Don’t all your buddies call you Eve?”

“I lied. I’ve never had any buddies,” said Bäckström. He shook his head and knocked back a little good malt.

“That’s sad,” said Fridolin, sipping his beer and sounding like he meant what he said.

“Do you want some good advice, Fridolin? From a wise man.”

Fridolin nodded.

“Whatever you do, don’t ever get yourself any buddies. You see, in this fucking world you can’t rely on a single fucking person.”

With that the ice had been broken, and together with his now faithful squire Bäckström discussed how they would get his message out to the general public, whom all the shady powers that be had kept in the dark for more than twenty years.

Fridolin got straight to the point and suggested that he should speak with the provincial police chief in Stockholm. He “had her ear” and was pretty sure he could arrange a meeting in which Bäckström could make a presentation about the truth behind the Palme murder.

Nice to hear it’s not a more vital body part, thought Bäckström.

“What’s the point of that?” he asked.

According to Fridolin it was well worth trying. There were three good reasons. People like Waltin and his companions were at the top of Ms. Police Chief’s own political agenda. Fridolin had-as stated-her ear, and besides it was an open secret that she was being considered as the next national police commissioner.

“Okay then,” said Bäckström. If it’s war, then so be it, he thought.

95

Puerto Pollensa on north Mallorca. They already knew this on Friday afternoon, and the fact that the cell tower that had finally conveyed the birthday call to Kjell Göran Hedberg was only a few miles from the place where former chief superintendent Claes Waltin had been found drowned fifteen years earlier had not surprised Anna Holt and Lisa Mattei in the least.

Nor El Pastor, as it appeared.

“I remember that a high-ranking colleague of yours from the Swedish secret police drowned up there many years ago,” he said for some reason when he, Holt, and Mattei were having lunch on Saturday.

“Yes,” said Holt. “Yes,” she repeated, with a broader than usual smile.

“I understand,” El Pastor replied, bowing his head slightly. “It’s very important to move ahead carefully,” he said. “I have a feeling he’s still there. Right in the vicinity, and soon we’ll arrest him.”

Though not on Sunday. Not on Monday and not on Tuesday. Even though the activity around them increased by a hundred percent and even though neither Holt nor Mattei understood a word of anything their Spanish colleagues said to one another.

“Patience.” El Pastor consoled them when he had them driven home that Tuesday evening. “Patience, my ladies.”

At six o’clock the next morning he called Holt at her hotel, and because she had long been prepared she was already wide awake when she answered on the second ring.

“We’ve found him,” said El Pastor. “Right now he’s at home asleep in his residence. If you want to be present at the arrest I can pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll see you in reception,” said Holt, rushing to the shower.

Mattei was already waiting when Holt came down. At about the same time the police car braked outside the hotel entrance.

“Have you thought about one thing, Anna?” said Mattei, looking at her watch.

“What’s that?” said Holt, heading for the entrance.

“Today is Wednesday the tenth of October. Only eight weeks since we were rolling our eyes at Johansson and all his strange ideas.”

“No,” said Holt. “I hadn’t thought about that. Right now we have other things to think about.”

96

Driving to Puerto Pollensa was out of the question. Not even with flashing lights and a siren and even though at this time of the morning the trip took less than an hour.

Only half a mile north of the hotel their car drove right out onto the beach, where a helicopter was waiting.

El Pastor had of course helped them into the cabin, made sure their seats were okay and that they were properly secured in them. They were joined by El Pastor, Rovira, Ballester, and another three colleagues from the detective squad in Palma. Filled with the seriousness of the moment and equipped to meet it. Protective vests, automatic weapons, silent, closed faces.

El Pastor helped Anna put on her vest, offered her a holster with a pistol, which she fastened to her belt with a metal clip. Lisa Mattei had to help herself and in addition declined the weapon that their colleague Rovira tried to slip her.

“Okay, Lisa,” said Rovira. “As long as you keep behind me. Promise?” he asked with a broad smile.

“Promise,” said Mattei, smiling back. God, how exciting, she thought. Just like everything Johansson had warned them about. Besides the fact that they were with the Spanish colleagues who were known to keep their hands closer to the trigger than did all her co-workers at home.

Two minutes later they had company in the darkness above. The lights from another helicopter that positioned itself right alongside them. Also from the Guardia Civil and the largest model.

“Our SWAT force,” El Pastor explained. “Two groups of six men. We’ll have him soon,” he said, patting Holt on the hand. “We’ll land in fifteen minutes, and we plan to make a forced entry into his house in no more than forty minutes, quarter past seven at the latest,” he clarified, indicating with his watch.

“Is he still there?” asked Holt, who felt a certain unease. Not least considering what Johansson had said when he said goodbye to them.

“To be sure,” said El Pastor, nodding.

Then he told them. Late yesterday evening they got the decisive tip from one of their local informants. Only a few hours ago they had found the house where he lived. Hedberg lived in a small gatekeeper’s cottage on a large estate, apparently owned by a wealthy English couple who were seldom there. The estate was well isolated from the rest of the settlement up in the mountains, six miles southwest of Puerto Pollensa. Hedberg could live there for free in exchange for keeping an eye on the property, and apparently he had been living there for the past two years. What he was occupied with otherwise was still unclear.

“Enjoying the good life, perhaps,” said El Pastor, smiling and shrugging his shoulders.

“I talked with my colleagues up there only half an hour ago,” he continued. “Just after they located his house. The light above the outside door is on. The shades in the bedroom are pulled down. His car is parked in the yard outside. He has no watchdog to warn him. He’s sleeping, and there’s not a chance in the world he can escape.”

In the end it still turned out just as Johansson had feared, thought Anna Holt half an hour later. She was squatting behind some bushes only fifty yards from the little gatekeeper’s yellow-pink limestone cottage where it was hoped that Kjell Göran Hedberg was getting his beauty sleep. Everything indicated that. Silent and peaceful. The light on above the outside door. The car in the yard. The shades pulled down. Just like El Pastor said.

The twelve colleagues from the Spanish SWAT team silently approached from all directions. Shadows of black, impossible to make out in the darkness that surrounded them. Black overalls, boots that went up to their thighs, helmets, bulletproof vests, automatic weapons. Then suddenly completely quiet.

“Now,” whispered El Pastor where he squatted by Holt’s side, and at the same moment all hell broke loose.

The whole thing was over in ten seconds. The sound of the outside door being knocked down as all three windows were smashed. The four shock grenades that were thrown in. The blasts, the flashes of light and the roars from those who came after. Then silence again, and for some reason Holt happened to think of Bäckström.

After half a minute the response leader came out the door, now sagging to one side. Taking off his helmet, he rubbed his hand over his stubby hair and shrugged his shoulders regretfully.

“Nada,” he said to El Pastor and shook his head.

97

Late on Tuesday evening the ninth of October Johansson got an unexpected call at home in his residence on Söder. It was Persson, and this was the first time he had ever called Johansson at home.

“Persson,” said Johansson. “Nice to hear from you. All’s well, I hope.” He’s hard to hear, he thought. Poor reception. Must be all the cell phone traffic out in Solna that Wiklander keeps on harping about.

“Feeling great,” Persson confirmed. “I’m not even calling to borrow money. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“When were you thinking?” said Johansson. Sounds serious, he thought.

“Tomorrow evening if you have time. I have a few things to arrange beforehand. Thought about inviting you to a little dinner out in the country. I’ve got a little cottage down in Sörmland. It’s less than an hour south of town. Down by Gnesta.”

“I thought you’d bought a house in Spain,” said Johansson.

“Did that too,” said Persson. “Sold it after a couple years. The only thing you can do down there is drink and play golf. I don’t play golf and I prefer to drink at home.”

“Wise,” said Johansson. “What time were you thinking?”

“Come around seven,” said Persson. “Then we’ll have time to take a sauna before we eat. Actually thought about serving fresh perch. If you eat fish? Otherwise we can have something else.”

“Perch is good,” said Johansson. Almost as good as whitefish, he thought.

“You don’t even need to bring any aquavit along,” said Persson. “For once I’ve got some at home. There’s only one thing you need.”

“What’s that?” said Johansson.

“Directions,” said Persson. “Do you have the work GPS with you?”

“Always,” said Johansson. Anything else would be dereliction of duty, he thought.

“Give me the number, then I’ll send over the coordinates,” said Persson.

“You can text them straight to my cell,” said Johansson.

These are different times now, thought Johansson as he hung up. Wonder what he wants? he thought.

Red cottage with white corner posts, one large and one small outbuilding, a lake fifty yards south of the house. Dock with a sauna down by the lake. Persson met him in blue pants and sweater and a becoming suntan.

“Welcome, Lars. I see you have your henchman with you,” he said, nodding at Johansson’s service vehicle and his driver who was in the front seat talking on his cell phone.

“Considering the aquavit with the perch,” said Johansson. “He’s probably sitting there telling his wife how I’ve ruined his evening.”

“Wise,” said Persson. “We may need a few hours given that we’re going to sauna, talk, and eat.”

“I’ll send him home,” said Johansson. “There must be taxis even out here in the wilderness.”

“Wise,” Persson repeated. “You see, I need to talk to you face-to-face.”

Wonder what he wants? thought Johansson.

A well-fired sauna. A lake that you could cool off in. Just jump right out from the dock down into the water that was still forty-eight degrees, even though it was well into October. A string bag with beer placed to cool in the lake.

“You didn’t get that suntan here at home,” said Johansson once they were sitting on the sauna platform, each with a beer in hand. Not at this season, even if the summers are getting more and more tropical.

“I took a week,” said Persson, wiping the beer foam from his lip.

“Greece, Spain, Turkey?” Johansson suggested.

“Mallorca,” said Persson. “There was something I was forced to do.”

“Mallorca,” said Johansson. How was it he hadn’t already sensed it as he got out of the car?

“Fine this time of year,” said Persson. “The best time, actually. Warm without being hot. Cool at night so you can sleep.”

“Curious coincidence,” said Johansson. “I actually sent a couple of my co-workers down to Palma as recently as Monday of last week.”

“I know,” said Persson. “Holt and Mattei, who are supposed to try to find Hedberg.”

“So you know that,” said Johansson. Although I guess I sensed that too, he thought.

“You can bring them home,” said Persson. “It’s already been arranged.”

“Tell me,” said Johansson. What’s happening? he thought.