Free Falling, As If in a Dream

Esperanza was built at a small local shipyard in Puerto Alcúdia, still owned and run by Ignacio Ballester and his two sons, Felipe and Guillermo. The shipyard has been in the family for generations, and it has always specialized in the area’s local fishing boats, illaut.

This particular customer, however, had special requests, which broke in part with tradition. Among other things he did not want the vertically pointing bowsprit that was mostly a joy to the eye, just like the dragon on the prow of a Viking ship, but at the same time good to be able to hold on to if you were boarding a swaying deck.

Ignacio talked about this with his customer, but he just shook his head. Besides, he said that the Vikings never had dragons on the prows of their boats. That was a latter-day Romantic invention, and if Ignacio didn’t believe him he could always take Felipe and Guillermo, go to Oslo, visit the Viking Ship Museum, and see with their own eyes what Viking sailing vessels really looked like.

Ignacio gave in. The customer presumably knew more about this than he did, and the customer was always right, as long as it didn’t affect the seaworthiness of the boats that he and his sons built.

He didn’t want a mast either. He didn’t intend to sail with Esperanza; instead he would rely on her engine. With a mast a ship rocked more than necessary, and the customer preferred a steady deck under his feet.

On the other hand he did want a number of other things that were not on a regular illaut. Ultrasound, of course, because it was necessary for anyone who dived in unknown waters and good for anyone who chose to fish instead. Radar was discussed, but they came to a joint decision to avoid that, because it would stick out too much and disturb Esperanza’s lovely lines. The navigational equipment that was on board-compass, nautical chart, chart table, and reckoning-were fine according to Ignacio’s customer, and a few years later he complemented it with a modern GPS system.

After a few more years Ignacio had to install a butane grill on board Esperanza. There was no better stove for meat, vegetables, fresh fish, or seafood. For Esperanza’s owner, his guests, and idle, sunlit days at sea. The grill folded against the bulkhead to take up less room when it wasn’t being used, and it was equipped with a stainless-steel cover that resisted weather and wind. The tank was hidden below the deck. Ignacio had to run the hose from the five-gallon butane container inside the wall of the bulkhead to keep the outside nice and clean.

After that not much remained to do on Esperanza. Every spring Ignacio drew her up on the slip, made the annual inspection, and scraped the bottom, which was necessary for all wooden boats and especially in these snail-infested waters.

Esperanza was a very beautiful little boat, and her owner had always taken good care of her.

52

Wednesday, September 12.

Four weeks remaining until October 10.

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

The big boss’s own conference room. At the table sit the usual four. Lars Martin Johansson, Anna Holt, Jan Lewin, and Lisa Mattei. Outside the window autumn has arrived after a long, hot summer that seemed like it would never end. Suddenly, surprisingly, without advance warning. Cut the temperature in half and struck with gale-force winds. Like a street robber pulling and tearing at the trees in the park across the street and throwing itself against the outside of the building.

“A question,” said Holt. “Why does he leave SePo so hastily and strangely? Waltin, that is. According to my papers he is supposed to have applied for and been granted dismissal in May 1988 and left formally at the end of June the same year. He seems to have already left in early June. That’s when he turned in his police ID, his keys, his service weapon and signed all the papers. The only thing I’ve produced is that he applied for and was granted dismissal by his own request.”

“He had no choice,” said Johansson. “The alternative would have been that he would be fired.”

“Why?” said Holt.

“Okay then,” sighed Johansson, looking like the former head of SePo he was. “Assuming that this stays in this room. Briefly and in summary. Lots of financial oddities and some real irregularities. Waltin was also head of the so-called external operation, where the secret police had, among other things, started a private company to use as a cover and control instrument. Waltin seemed to have mostly been interested in making money. The parliamentary auditors went crazy when they found out about it. Justice did an investigation and decided that the whole operation had been illegal from the start. Apart from Waltin’s own efforts as an entrepreneur.”

“So how has SePo solved that today?” said Mattei with an innocent expression.

“Excuse me,” said Johansson. What is it she’s saying? he thought.

“I’m joking with you, boss. Excuse me,” said Mattei, who didn’t seem the least bit repentant.

“Don’t do it again,” said Johansson sternly. What has happened with Mattei? he thought.

“I have a question myself, by the way,” he continued after a moment.

Had they thought about Waltin’s motive, if things were really so bad that he was involved in the murder of the prime minister? True, Johansson himself was no friend of motives. He considered them almost a source of entertainment for the judicial upper classes, and the sort of thing that real police officers seldom made use of when they tried to advance a murder investigation. In fact, or simply in his experience, the motives he had encountered during his life as a police officer were almost always obvious or crazy. Concerning Waltin, however, he could imagine making an exception.

“Possibly he had a role model,” Lewin replied with a cautious glance at Mattei. “Lisa and I are looking at that.”

Then he talked about Claes Waltin’s middle name, the date he was born, and his father’s background. Holt filled in with the story about his to say the least strange will, and his statement that he had murdered his mother.

“Absent father, dominant mother, idealizes the father, hates the mother, classic psychology,” said Holt. “If you want more-”

“Thanks, thanks,” Johansson interrupted. “That’s good enough. I want something to sink my teeth in. Get to the bottom of this fellow. Trace his contacts. Find out who he associated with. How he thought, felt, and lived. Where he stood politically, who and what he loved and hated. What he read, what he ate, what he drank. I want to know everything about the bastard. His dad, by the way. How old is he now?”

“He’ll soon be eighty-eight,” Mattei interjected alertly, before Lewin had time to leaf through his papers.

“Find out if there’s any sense in interviewing him,” said Johansson. “If he was crazy enough to christen his boy Adolf at that point in time, it might very well be worth the bother. People like that usually like to hear their own voice. Who knows? Maybe he was the one holding the revolver. Frisky, happy retiree. Looked considerably younger than he was.”

“I think you can forget that,” said Holt. “He’s too short, for one thing. Five foot eight according to his passport from that time.”

“Good, Holt,” said Johansson. “Embrace the situation. Give me the name of the bastard.”

“Sometimes I get the idea that you have it,” Holt objected.

“Not him,” said Johansson, shaking his head. “Not Waltin. Give me the name of the bastard who did the shooting.”

That evening after dinner Johansson and his wife, Pia, watched a film by Costa-Gavras. It was about a leading left-wing politician who was murdered by the Greek junta’s police. Johansson had borrowed it from Mattei, who in turn had borrowed it from an acquaintance who was studying film. Z-He lives on, thought Johansson, and well worth watching, according to Mattei.

Personally he had a hard time concentrating. Probably because he would soon have bigger problems than any of the others. His suddenly, inexplicably happy co-worker who dared to test his democratic captaincy. What is happening? thought Johansson.

Pia, he thought. Soon he would probably have to talk with her. Although not now. Not now when they were curled up in their separate corners of the couch with legs interlaced, watching a film about a murdered politician while the wind picked up and howled against his very security there in front of the TV in the building where they lived. He and his wife and everything that his life was ultimately about.

“What is it, Lars? You seem worried.”

“It’s nothing,” Johansson lied, smiling at her. “Just a bit much at work.”

Then he leaned over, placed his arm around her and drew her to him. It’ll work out, he thought. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

53

On Wednesday, September 12, Superintendent Anna Holt and Inspector Lisa Mattei held an interview with Gustaf G:son Henning at his office on Norrmalmstorg.

To begin with he had been both guarded and surprised, very surprised, almost unsympathetic. Courteous, to be sure, but mostly because they were women and despite the fact that they came from the police. Pretty soon they softened him up. Holt, at her most attractive with her clean features and white teeth, her black hair and long legs. Mattei, with her blond, innocent admiration for a mature man of the world. Gustaf G:son Henning was irretrievably lost. Despite his white hair, his tailor-made Italian suits, and his seventy years of experience of every form of human intrigue.

How nice, thought Anna Holt, smiling at him. So I avoid having to bring up Juha Valentin Andersson Snygg.

Then he told them everything he had told Bäckström. Speaking more and more comfortably and elaborately the longer the story went on. Exhaustively too and in detail, because he was asked those kinds of questions. A few times he even confirmed the date and what had happened with the help of his old diaries.

Mostly he talked about Claes Waltin. They had met at the restaurant. The old Cecil on Biblioteksgatan where well-off young men at that time would get drunk and socialize with women. A twenty-year-old Waltin and Henning, only ten years older. Told about their first business deal, when Waltin had just received his inheritance and was running around with a lot of money burning a hole in a young man’s pockets. About Waltin’s early interest in pornography-“good pornography”-and about the painting he sold to him when he was barely “dry behind the ears.”

“It was a small oil by Gustav Klimt, and it’s probably the worst deal I’ve made in my entire life. Considering the price it would have commanded today.”

About the years that followed. How they met, or talked on the phone, at intervals of a month or two. Did the occasional deal. Had numerous good dinners together. Talked about art, about the good life, even about women, actually, though personally he only reluctantly talked about women with other men.

“We were not close friends. More like acquaintances, in the positive sense. In addition we were neighbors on Norr Mälarstrand for many years, and we might run into each other on the street on a daily basis when we were both in town.”

“Did he have any close friends that you know about?” asked Holt.

Not that he knew. No family, except his father whom he talked about occasionally. But a frightful lot of women. Beautiful women. Young women. Some very young. Perhaps much too young. He had seen that with his own eyes, not least when they ran into each other in the block where they lived. Claes Waltin with a new woman hanging on his arm.

“On some occasion I recall he said that was how he wanted them. Young, very young. He wanted to take them in mid-leap. His view of women left a great deal to be desired, if I may say so,” Henning the art dealer observed, smiling paternally at Lisa Mattei where she was sitting in her blue pumps and with demurely crossed legs.

“A great deal to be desired, you say,” said Holt.

“Yes,” said Henning, shaking his head. “On some occasion I remember he asked if I was interested in a collection of photos and films. Privately recorded, somewhat rougher things, to say the least. I declined of course.”

The revolver with which the prime minister was supposed to have been shot?

Besides what he had told Bäckström, and now them too, he had one thing he wanted to add. He had forgotten to tell this to Bäckström, but had thought of it when he was ransacking his memory.

“He showed me a picture of the revolver,” said Henning.

“A picture?” asked Holt.

“It was an ordinary photograph. Color photo, enlargement, maybe eight inches by six, with the revolver on top of a copy of Dagens Nyheter from the first of March. The day after the murder. If I remember correctly, the headline was “‘Olof Palme Murdered.’”

“Revolvers of this model usually have a serial number marked on the barrel. Do you recall whether you saw that?”

“No,” said Henning, shaking his head. “I recall that it was shiny, metal-colored, that is. Had a long barrel and a wooden butt. With that kind of hatched grip. Checkered.”

“Checkered?”

“Yes, that’s what it’s called. Probably walnut, according to Waltin. Like I said, I asked about that. And what condition it was in.”

“Do you remember in what direction the barrel was pointing on the photo?” Mattei interjected.

“To the right, it must have been,” said Henning. “The revolver was under the headline. On the photo that is. Parallel with the headline. With the butt to the left and the barrel to the right.”

“You’re sure of that?” asked Holt. With the serial number on the other side, she thought.

“Completely sure,” Mattei repeated. May have been chance too, she thought.

“At least I have a definite recollection of that,” said Henning. “Why are you wondering, by the way?”

“The serial number on a revolver of that model is on the left side of the barrel. Explains why you didn’t see it,” said Holt.

“But he said nothing about how he acquired it,” Holt persisted for the third time, five minutes later.

“He said he had access to it,” Henning clarified. “That it was in good condition. That it had been stored in a secure place. In the lion’s own den. That’s what he said. He was extremely amused when he told me that, so I’m quite sure about it.”

“Waltin was quite certain this was the revolver that was used when the prime minister was murdered?”

“Quite certain,” said Henning. “For whatever reason. I actually tried to joke about it and asked whether he was involved in some way, but he denied that. Then he said something to the effect that if I only knew what he had found out in his job, I would be able to live well on my silence the rest of my life.”

“So how did you interpret that?”

“I knew what he worked with,” said Henning, shrugging his shoulders. “I had no reason to believe he was pulling my leg. That wasn’t the sort of thing he did. I got a definite impression that he could actually produce the revolver, assuming I could find a buyer and do a risk-free deal.”

“So did you do that? Try to find a buyer?” Holt asked.

“No,” said Henning. “Not really. There are certain deals that I would never do. I tried to say that to him too. In as refined a way as that sort of thing can be said.”

“If I understand it correctly, this discussion went on only a month before he died,” said Holt.

“Yes,” said Henning. “It was pretty shocking when I found out what had happened. As I’m sure you understand. Not because I think he was murdered. I’ve never cared much for conspiracy theories. I thought that if anything maybe he had taken his own life.”

“Why did you think that?”

“He was worn-out,” said Henning. “Drank more than he could handle. Was careless about his appearance, even though he had always been careful about that. Waltin was always perfectly dressed. Tailor-made clothes. Had good taste. That he also had a self-destructive side I guess I was convinced of early on. But at the end, and now I’m talking about the last year before he died, there was something unrestrained about him. He said things a person doesn’t say. Not normal people in any event. I know he was sick. He mentioned that he had problems with his liver, but personally I think that was about the alcohol. He drank too much, to put it simply. Way too much.”

“Any examples? Of strange things he said.”

“Yes,” said Henning and sighed. “One evening when we were out having dinner, this must have been six months before he died, he delivered a long monologue about how he would like to stand on his balcony watching Rome burn, but because that wasn’t possible he would have to be content with beating up and dominating any woman who crossed his path.”

“So what did he mean by that?”

“I’m afraid he meant exactly what he said,” Henning said and sighed.

“Anything else that you recall?” asked Mattei.

“He told me a few things about himself. Very vulgar things, actually, that no one would be particularly amused to hear. Personally I wasn’t the least bit amused.”

“Give me an example,” said Holt, with a warning glance in Mattei’s direction.

“When he was studying law at the university he seems to have started a peculiar society with a few of his fellow students at the law school. A somewhat strange name, to say the least. For their society, that is.”

“So what was it called?” asked Holt.

“The Friends of Cunt,” said Henning with an apologetic glance toward Mattei.

“The Friends of Cunt,” Holt repeated.

“Yes,” sighed Henning, “and it might possibly be excused as an eruption of youthful high spirits and general poor judgment, but that wasn’t his point when he was telling the story.”

“So what was his point?”

“That he’d been expelled,” said Henning. “His three friends in the society expelled him. There were only four of them. A small society, I should think. Waltin was expelled by the others. For reasons I’ve already hinted at.”

“That he beat women up before he slept with them,” said Holt.

“More or less,” said Henning. “And a few other things too.”

“Such as?”

“That he would tie them up, among other things. Shave their pubic hair and that kind of thing. Photograph them after he’d tied them up.”

“When was he expelled by the other members of the society?”

“Well. They had a party with a few young women they got hold of. At home with Waltin, if I understand it right. It evidently degenerated, according to the other members. Not according to Waltin. He was very amused as he was telling the story.”

“These other members. Waltin didn’t mention any names?”

“Sure,” said Henning. “That was how he started in on this story. We started talking about one of them in a completely different context, and that was when he said he had once belonged to the same society.”

“So what is his name?”

“A very well-known individual, I’m afraid.”

“I’m listening,” said Holt.

“Nowadays he’s a member of parliament for the Christian Democrats,” said Henning with a deep sigh.

“And his name is?”

“Let me think about that,” said Henning, shaking his head. “This is forty years ago, after all,” he added.

“We can discuss that before we leave,” said Holt.

“Wonder who the other two were?” said Holt in the police car on their way back to headquarters.

“Our member of parliament perhaps remembers,” said Mattei. “I mean, just a small society. He must remember anyway?”

“Shall you or I talk with him?” said Holt.

“I demand to be present,” said Mattei. “Otherwise I’m resigning from the police.”

“Let’s think about it,” said Holt and sighed. “It’s not completely given that this has anything to do with the matter,” she added.

“I think it probably does,” Mattei objected. “If you’re expelled from a society like that, it definitely has something to do with the matter.”

“We’ll think about it,” Holt decided. Sometimes Lisa can be completely merciless, she thought.

Before Anna Holt went home for the day, she called up an old colleague she had met during her time at SePo. Nowadays he was regional head of the local police in a district outside Kristianstad in Skåne, where Claes Waltin’s aged father owned a large estate that had been in the family for several generations.

“Robert Waltin. Of course we know him. Something of a local celebrity down here. Nosy question: Why do you want to talk about him?”

“For informational purposes, about another individual that we’re looking at,” said Holt. “He’s not suspected of anything, but when I discovered how old he is I thought it was best to hear from you whether there was any point in trying to talk with him,” Holt clarified.

“Depends,” said her colleague. “What you want to talk about, that is. I’m sure you know whose father he was?”

“Former superintendent Claes Waltin.”

“One and the same. So the apple didn’t land very far from the pear tree. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the old man’s mind. Still drives around in his old Mercedes spreading terror on the local roads. I’ve tried to talk with him about that. But it was completely meaningless. We tried to take away his driver’s license, but we had to reverse ourselves on that.”

“Do you have any suggestions? If I were to make an attempt?”

“Say that you’ve decided to investigate the murder of his son,” said her colleague. “Then he’s never going to stop talking. He’s been harping about that every single time I or any of my associates has had contact with him because he’s been driving like a lunatic, tearing down the neighbor’s sheep fence, or suing someone for placing a manure pile upwind of his house. All the kinds of things that extremists do to promote neighborly harmony out here in the country. Then he always talks about all the shit we’re involved in to avoid devoting ourselves to essential things. For example, that the socialist administration murdered his son. That’s what he calls them. The socialist administration or the socialist mafia.”

“I get the sense that Claes Waltin drowned,” said Holt.

“In that case you should be careful about saying so. He’s an uncommonly repulsive old bastard,” Holt’s colleague observed. He was born in the district where he was now chief.

54

Bäckström was on the third day of his weeklong imprisonment. The camp to which he had been transported was a former summer camp for children up in Roslagen. A number of barracks-like buildings scattered on a forested hill above a wind-blown reed cove. Complete with a rotted pier and a broken rowboat shipwrecked on the embankment. Paper-thin walls in the buildings where they were staying. Iron beds made for poor children, with banana-shaped bedstead bottoms and old horsehair mattresses from the days of the Second World War. Beds that you had to make yourself. Beds that were lined up in hovel-like rooms you were expected to share with another brother in misfortune.

Although Bäckström had luck. He wound up with a colleague from the traffic police in Uppsala who seemed relatively normal and just like him had escaped all these years until yet another new female police chief sank her claws in him. Besides his roommate had had the foresight to hide a suitcase with beer and aquavit under a nearby outhouse before he registered at reception.

Once there you were lost. Bäckström realized this as soon as he came up to the counter and talked with the attack dyke running the check-in.

“Cell phone,” she said, looking dictatorially at Bäckström. “All course participants must turn in their cell phones.”

“I didn’t think you could bring your cell phone with you,” Bäckström lied with an innocent expression. “I mean, they are extremely annoying if you’re going to be at a course and have to concentrate.” Hope the piece of shit doesn’t ring while I’m standing here, he thought. Especially as he’d stuffed it in his briefs as soon as he got on the bus they drove up in.

“You left your cell phone at home,” said the receptionist, looking at him suspiciously.

“Of course,” said Bäckström. “I mean, it’s extremely annoying if you’re going to be at a course and have to concentrate. A good initiative you’ve taken, I think.” Now suck on that, you little sow, he thought.

“Did you bring along any alcoholic beverages?” asked the receptionist as she glanced at Bäckström’s heavy suitcase.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” said Bäckström, shaking his round head. “Never have, actually. Both my mother and my father were strong opponents of intoxicants, so that’s never been of interest to me. I had that with me from childhood, so to speak,” added Bäckström, with a pious expression. “What I mean is that if you absorb such an important message while you’re still a child, then-”

“Room twenty-two, second building to the left, second floor,” the dyke interrupted, banging the key on the counter.

“Although I missed that bit with the phone,” said his colleague after they had finished the introductory greeting ceremonies between old constables.

“Too fucking depressing, actually,” he added. “I know a lady who lives only six miles from here, when for once I have the old lady at a safe distance.”

“It’ll work out,” said Bäckström, pulling in his gut and fishing his cell phone out of his underwear. “Who the hell doesn’t make mistakes? Personally I thought they had a bar at this place. I mean, who the hell runs a conference hotel without having a big fucking bar?” And my good malt whiskey, which I have in my little suitcase, I do not intend to share with some country sheriff from traffic in any event, he thought.

“Here they apparently do. The ones running the place seem to be some of those anthropologists. Did you see the menu?” His colleague sighed, shaking his head. “Vegetarian shit, all the way through.”

“It’ll work out,” said Bäckström. “It’ll work out. What do you think about a little checking-in shot, by the way? Then you can take the opportunity to call that broad you were talking about and ask if she has a younger girlfriend.” Who wants to sample the Bäckström super-salami, he thought.

Sure. It had worked decently for three days. Despite all the fairies babbling uninterruptedly about gender issues and equality and how you became a liberated man and not just a useless prisoner of your own sex, and why someone who had a cat was a better person than the bastard who stuck to an ordinary dog.

Despite group therapy and relaxation exercises and a crazy old hag who held forth on Rosen therapy and human energy fields and following your inner voice so as to find the way to a higher consciousness, free from inhibiting male hormones and hereditary prejudices.

Despite the food, which was a real Christmas banquet for both guinea pigs and chaffinches with its groaning abundance of mineral water and salad and birdseed and nuts and cleansing root vegetables and unseasoned soy patties and fruit and hot water with milk and decaffeinated coffee for the most daring, who really wanted to get turned on before going to bed.

Bäckström had not betrayed his true sentiments and agreed with everything, and already during the first group discussion he had initiated the dialogue by firing off a juicy fart right in the chocolate kisser of the queer leading the discussion. Fridolf Fridolin, the Stockholm police department’s own psychologist, as well as gender sensitivity manager at the agency. Small, round, and rosy, complete with a Manchester jacket and down on his upper lip.

“There’s a lot of talk about equality and gender issues among our fellow citizens these days, but how serious is this, when we-”

“Fellow citizens?” Bäckström interrupted with raised hands. “Why do you say ‘fellow’? Are all citizens supposed to be guys? Is that what you mean?”

“I hear what you’re saying, Bäckström,” said their discussion leader, smiling nervously.

“Bäckström,” said Bäckström. “I thought we agreed that we should call one another by our first names, and personally I know for sure that during our introduction I said that my friends always call me Eve. Never Bäckström, never even Evert. My friends call me Eve,” said Bäckström, nodding challengingly at his blushing victim.

“Excuse me, Bäck…Eve. Excuse me. Eve.”

“I forgive you, Frippy,” said Bäckström. “It was Frippy you wanted to be called?”

“Fridolf. It was my dad who-”

“Your dad,” said Bäckström accusingly. “But you must have a mom too? What did she used to call you?”

“Little Frippy, although that was-”

“You’re forgiven, Little Frippy,” said Bäckström with a dignified expression.

On the evening of the third day things really went downhill. First the aquavit ran out. Almost, at least, for he had had the foresight to save a drop of his own. Then he and his colleague from Uppsala came extremely close to being caught in the act as they were sneaking home to the hotel after the usual evening orgy at the hot dog stand up by the highway. Once in the safety of the room he listened to his voice messages. GeGurra had called and cursed and sworn like a sailor. Not the least bit like a silver-haired elderly art dealer. More like an ordinary tramp, actually, and it was all apparently that dyke Holt’s fault. As soon as he had been admitted to the gender sensitivity asylum, she had thrown herself on the old homo and evidently scared the shit out of him.

“You gave me your word of honor, Bäckström,” GeGurra repeated on the voice mail. “I look forward to hearing what you have to say in your defense.”

She’s trying to cheat me out of the cash, and now it’s a matter of being quick, thought Bäckström. He packed his little bag, put on a tie, wandered down to reception, pulled on the tie until his skull felt like it was going to burst, eased up on the tie so as not to die for real, and staggered into reception.

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” Bäckström hissed, sitting down on the floor, staring at the dyke receptionist with round eyes and waving his hands in front of his very red face.

Then everything had gone like a dance. The dyke receptionist called the emergency number while she sponged Bäckström’s forehead. To be on the safe side he had assumed a horizontal position on the floor. He was taken by ambulance to the emergency room in Norrtälje. Was admitted for observation overnight by a real Swedish doctor and not some quack in a violet turban. Private room, newly made bed, Finnish blonde who was apparently the night nurse and had a weakness for a real constable from the big city. She came in several times and chatted with him before he finally had a little peace so he could consume the last drops from the bottle he’d brought with him and get the beauty sleep he so heartily needed.

The next day he took a taxi home. Put on sick leave, with a referral to Karolinska in Stockholm to follow up on possible allergies, blood pressure, cholesterol levels, and a few other goodies that worried the dear doctor up in Norrtälje.

Now, Holt, thought Bäckström as soon as he closed the door and fetched a cold pilsner from the fridge. Now this is war.

55

“When did you intend to interview Wiijnbladh?” said Johansson as soon as he appeared at the door to her office.

“Good morning, Lars,” said Holt. “Yes, I’m doing just fine. Thanks for asking. I was just meaning to call him and set a time. Jan and I will hold the interview with him. It will have to be for informational purposes. How are you doing yourself, by the way?”

“For informational purposes?”

“Yes, otherwise how could we set it up? The part about the revolver passed the statute of limitations several years ago. So we don’t have a suspect. Even if it were true.”

“He’s going to be picked up,” said Johansson, glaring at her acidly.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve spoken with the prosecutor. Brought in without prior notice. House search at his residence and at his workplace.”

“On what grounds then?” asked Holt. What’s happening? she thought. Has Johansson talked with the prosecutor? And in that event what am I doing in this case?

“Premeditation for murder,” said Johansson. “That’s not prescribed,” he added, nodding gloomily.

“Premeditation for murder? Wait now. Are we talking about the prime minister, because in that case it’s more likely complicity to murder that we-”

“We’re talking about his former wife, whom he wanted to poison,” interrupted Johansson.

“Neither Jan nor I intend to bring that up,” answered Holt, shaking her head. “There doesn’t seem to even be a report in that matter, by the way.”

“Now there’s a report,” said Johansson. “Which is why you shouldn’t talk about it, but because that was the best the prosecutor and I could come up with, now there’s a report. Before you ask, by the way, it was our usual prosecutor, if you’re wondering, not that skinny woman who takes care of Palme.

“Do as I say for once,” he continued. “See to it that we have him here within an hour. And try for once not to be too nice and understanding. That applies to both you and Lewin.”

And so it turned out. One hour later Wiijnbladh was sitting in an interview room at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation with Holt and Lewin. Very shaken up, and not understanding a thing.

“Why do you want to talk with me?” Wiijnbladh whined, licking his lips nervously.

“About your previous acquaintance with Chief Superintendent Claes Waltin,” said Holt, taking pains to look both friendly and interested.

“He’s dead, you know,” said Wiijnbladh, with a confused look.

“Yes, I know that. But when he was alive it seems that he and you were good friends.”

She got no farther than that, for suddenly Johansson opened the door and simply walked right in. With him he had two colleagues from the bureau’s homicide squad. Rogersson, with his narrow eyes, and then that disgusting bodybuilder whose name I’ve managed to repress, thought Holt. Hardly by chance.

“My name is Johansson,” said Johansson, glaring at Wiijnbladh. “I’m the one who’s the boss at this place.”

“Yes, I know who the boss is,” stammered Wiijnbladh. “I don’t think I’ve had-”

“I want the keys to your home, your pass card to the building here, your computer card, and the codes to your computer,” Johansson interrupted.

“But I don’t understand,” said Wiijnbladh, shaking his head and looking almost imploringly at Holt.

“House search,” said Johansson, holding out his large hand. “Empty your pockets, then I won’t have to ask the officers to do it for you.”

One minute later they left. Remaining were Holt, Lewin, and a terrified Wiijnbladh who was looking at Holt.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said. “I have to-”

“Jan here will go along with you,” said Holt, turning off the tape recorder. I should have listened to Berg, she thought.

He took his sweet time in the bathroom. Wiijnbladh apparently splashed his face with cold water, which seemed to have been of little help. Confused and absent. Doesn’t understand what this is about, thought Holt.

“Now we resume the interview with Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh,” said Holt after she restarted the tape recorder. “Before we were interrupted we were talking about your acquaintance with former chief superintendent Claes Waltin with the secret police. Can you tell us how you knew him?”

“We were good friends,” said Wiijnbladh. “But I still don’t understand.”

“How long had you known him?” asked Holt.

According to Wiijnbladh he had known Waltin since the early eighties. It started as a professional contact, but by and by it had turned into more of a regular friendship.

“I had the privilege of giving him a little general guidance in forensic issues,” said Wiijnbladh, who suddenly seemed calmer. “But otherwise we mostly talked about art, actually. We had that interest in common, and Claes had an excellent art collection. Really excellent, with a number of major works by both Swedish and foreign artists. On one occasion he asked me to look at an etching by Zorn to see if it might be a forgery.”

“General forensic issues, you say,” said Holt. “Did you ever talk about other things in that line, other than the sort of thing that concerned art forgeries?”

“What might that have been?” asked Wiijnbladh, looking at her.

“Firearms,” said Holt. “Did he ask you about firearms?” Just as confused again, she thought.

“He asked me about everything imaginable. About fingerprints and various forensic methods for securing and analyzing clues. Claes, well, Claes Waltin that is, had a very strong interest in education. He simply wanted to learn more. Used to show up and visit me at the tech squad.”

“Let’s return to the subject of firearms,” said Holt. “I’ve understood that in September 1988 you turned over a revolver to him that was stored in your so-called weapons library at the tech squad. It was confiscated in a case from March 27, 1983. A murder-suicide.”

“I know nothing about that,” Wiijnbladh stammered, his gaze wobbling between her and Lewin. “I know nothing about that.”

Unfortunately you probably do, thought Holt. If I were to believe your eyes, then you do.

“But you must remember it anyway,” said Holt. “In the fall of 1988, Claes Waltin asked you to turn over a revolver to him. This revolver, to be more exact,” she said, handing over a photograph of the firearm that was used in the murder-suicide out in Spånga in March 1983.

“One of your former colleagues took the photo,” Holt explained. “Bergholm, if you remember him. He was the one in charge of the technical investigation when the photo was taken.”

Wiijnbladh did not want to pick up the photograph. Didn’t even want to look at it. Shook his head. Turned away. Holt took a new approach and hated herself as she did it.

“I’m getting a little surprised by your answers,” said Holt. “Either you gave a revolver to Waltin or you didn’t. Yes or no, that is, and it’s no more difficult than that. I and my colleague Jan Lewin here have reason to believe that you did. Now we want to know what your position is on this.”

“I’m prevented from saying that,” said Wiijnbladh.

“How can you be?” said Holt. “You have to explain that.”

“With respect to the security of the realm,” said Wiijnbladh.

“With respect to the security of the realm,” Holt repeated. “That sounds like something Claes Waltin said to you.”

“I had to sign papers.”

“You had to sign papers that Claes Waltin gave you. Where do you keep them?”

“At home,” said Wiijnbladh. “At home where I live. In the drawer to my desk, but they’re secret so you can’t look at them.”

“I’ll come back to that,” said Holt. “In September 1988 you turned over the revolver that you see in the photograph sitting in front of you to Claes Waltin. We’ll come back to why you did that, but before that I intend to ask you about a few other things we’ve also been wondering about. The tech squad’s report from the test firing of that revolver is missing. Jan Lewin and I think you were the one who removed it. The second thing concerns a request you addressed to the Defense Factories for scrapping the same firearm. We do not think that the firearm was scrapped. How could it have been? You’d already given it to your good friend Claes Waltin.”

“I know nothing about that,” Wiijnbladh whimpered, staring at the floor.

“I want you to look at me, Göran,” said Holt. “Look at me.”

“What?” said Wiijnbladh, looking at her. “Why?”

“I want to be able to look you in the eyes when you answer,” said Holt. “You must understand that anyway. You’re a police officer yourself.”

“But I can’t answer, I just can’t. If I answer I’m committing a breach of secrecy. It’s in the papers I signed.”

“The papers that Claes Waltin gave you and told you to sign?”

“Yes,” said Wiijnbladh and nodded. “Although I can’t say that either.”

Finally, thought Holt.

“Do you have any questions, Jan?” said Holt, turning to Lewin.

“There are a couple of things I’m wondering about,” said Lewin with a cautious throat clearing. “When you signed these papers, in connection with giving Waltin the revolver, this was in September 1988.”

“I’m not allowed to say that,” Wiijnbladh complained, shaking his head.

“I’m assuming that you were not aware at the time that Claes Waltin had resigned as a police officer.”

“No, that can’t be right,” said Wiijnbladh, staring at Holt for some reason.

“Yes,” said Lewin. “Waltin resigned as a police officer in June of that year. Several months before he got you to turn over the revolver, remove the test firing report, and prepare a scrapping certificate, which was incorrect on at least one point. Claes Waltin was not a police officer when you performed these services for him.”

“That can’t be right,” said Wiijnbladh, shaking his head.

“So why can’t that be right?” asked Lewin.

“I got a distinction. I got a medal too. From the secret police. As thanks for my efforts for the security of the realm.”

“Which you keep in your desk drawer,” Jan Lewin surmised.

“Yes. Yes. I’ve had it there the whole time.”

Poor wretch, thought Jan Lewin.

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.

57

Johansson returned to the interview room in less than two hours. This time he apparently intended to stay, because he was carrying a chair that he could sit on.

“The head of NBCI is entering the room,” said Holt. “We interrupt the interview at-”

“Turn off that piece of shit,” said Johansson, waving toward the tape recorder. “Now we have to have a serious talk, you and me, Göran,” he said, nodding at Wiijnbladh. “You have nothing to worry about,” he added. “So you can be completely calm. But first we’ll have coffee,” said Johansson, looking at Holt for some reason. “Black or with milk, Göran?”

“With cream, if there is any,” Wiijnbladh stammered.

That man defies all description, thought Anna Holt. Wiijnbladh did not seem the least bit calm. Despite Johansson’s assurances, she thought.

Then she got the coffee. What choice did she really have? And saw to it that Wiijnbladh got cream in his, and listened to Johansson while he talked to Wiijnbladh as if he were talking to a child.

“As perhaps you know, I was operations head of the secret police for a number of years,” said Johansson, nodding at Wiijnbladh.

“Yes, that was before the boss…before you became head of the bureau,” Wiijnbladh concurred.

“So what I’m saying to you now is in strictest confidence,” said Johansson. “Before we leave I also want you to sign a confidentiality agreement. The usual, you know, on nondisclosure.”

“Of course,” said Wiijnbladh.

While the maid fetched coffee, the boys had apparently dispensed with formalities, thought Holt.

“As I’ve understood it, it happened in the following way,” said Johansson in a leisurely manner, pretending to read from his papers.

Waltin had tricked Wiijnbladh. Abused his confidence. Blatantly exploited him.

“Let’s get some order into the details,” said Johansson. “What went on when the revolver was turned over?”

First Waltin had called him on the phone. At work. He remembered that distinctly. He needed to see Wiijnbladh immediately. It was a matter of the utmost importance. Wiijnbladh could not talk about it with anyone. He was not to contact Waltin. The matter was so sensitive that Waltin was forced to work outside the police building for a while. For that reason he could not be reached.

“I knew from before that he was head of the so-called external operation, so I assumed he was working on reorganizing that,” Wiijnbladh clarified.

“So it was Waltin who came to see you?”

“He came up on the weekend. It was sometime in the middle of September. I was on after-hours duty, and he asked me to call as soon as I was alone at the squad so we could talk in private. So when my associates, who were on duty with me, had to leave the building I called him. On the secret number he gave me. I think it was a Sunday. Sometime in the middle of September. We had a suspected death out in Midsommarkransen. It turned out to be a suicide.”

“And then he came over to see you?” asked Johansson.

“He came like a shot,” Wiijnbladh confirmed.

Wonder how he pulls it off? thought Holt with reluctant admiration.

Once up at the tech squad Waltin explained his business. The secret police needed to take possession of a certain weapon from the tech squad. Why he could not say, other than that it concerned a story of the utmost importance for the security of the realm.

“He had a complete description of the weapon with him. Serial number and everything. And a photo too.”

“Do you remember what it looked like?” asked Johansson. “Was there anything besides the weapon in the photo?”

“Just the weapon,” said Wiijnbladh and sighed. “Photographed right from above against a white background where the usual measuring stick had been placed to show the size, and a tag with the serial number in the lower corner. I got the impression it had been taken by our colleagues at the tech squad at SePo. But naturally I didn’t ask.”

“What did you do next?” asked Johansson.

First Waltin checked that they actually had the weapon in question. They did. It was in a drawer in the weaponry library along with the bullet that had been used for the test firing plus a cartridge that had not been fired. Wiijnbladh gave him the revolver, the bullet, and the cartridge. Plus the report from the test firing.

“It was very important that all traces of the weapon disappear,” Wiijnbladh explained. “That’s why he wanted me to arrange a scrap certificate.”

“No one at the Defense Factories wondered?”

“They weren’t so careful at that time. Not like today,” Wiijnbladh explained. “I put together some loose gun parts from revolvers. A cylinder magazine, a sawed-off barrel where the serial number was filed off, and a loose butt, among other things. We have a lot of that lying around. Then I put it in a bag and pasted on a regular tag with the serial number of the weapon that Waltin had signed for.”

“Signed for, you say,” said Johansson.

“I was forced to have some kind of receipt,” said Wiijnbladh. “For my own account, that is.”

“And it was then that he gave you this affidavit,” said Johansson, pushing over one of the two papers he had found in Wiijnbladh’s desk drawer.

“Now I realize this is a forgery,” sighed Wiijnbladh, shaking his head. “This is terrible. But what should I believe? An affidavit written on SePo stationery. Signed and everything. I mean, what should I think? I even had to sign a special confidentiality agreement.”

What should he believe? The following week he received a medal besides and a thank-you note from SePo signed by bureau head Erik Berg. Delivered by Claes Waltin personally in connection with an invitation to a “more formal” dinner in his apartment on Norr Mälarstrand.

“The delivery itself happened before dinner,” Wiijnbladh explained. “Then the other guests came to the dinner itself. Although we didn’t talk about my distinction of course.”

“The other guests,” said Johansson, sending a glance in the direction of Holt. “So who were they?”

“An old friend of Claes, he’s dead now too, unfortunately, but I seem to recall that he was a very well-known business attorney when he was alive. Died only a couple years after Claes himself happened to drown. Then there was his old dad too. Very successful businessman at that time. Lived in Skåne, I seem to recall.”

Before Wiijnbladh left he had to sign yet another confidentiality agreement. Johansson kept the medal, receipt, and the thank-you note. Partly because he needed them to be able to write off all suspicions against Wiijnbladh, and he had no objections.

Before Lewin accompanied him back to the lost-and-found squad, Wiijnbladh asked Johansson one last question.

“I sincerely hope it’s not so bad that this has happened in connection with a new crime?”

“There’s nothing that indicates that,” said Johansson with a steady gaze and honest gray eyes. “It came up in connection with the inventory from Waltin’s estate and we wondered, naturally, because he didn’t have a license for it. By pure chance we found out some time ago that the weapon had originally been confiscated by our colleagues in Stockholm. The mills of justice grind slowly. Unfortunately,” added Johansson and sighed.

While you continue to defy all description, thought Anna Holt.

58

“So what do you think about this?” Johansson asked the following day when he and his immediate co-workers had gathered for counsel and the mandatory coffee.

“What do you think?” asked Holt.

“If we take this in order and start with the so-called receipt, then it’s a poor forgery and an even worse joke,” said Johansson, holding up the receipt for the revolver Waltin had given Wiijnbladh.

“According to the letterhead, the receipt comes from SePo’s tech squad,” he continued. “Signed by employee 4711, who unfortunately has an illegible signature. A good photocopier and a little imagination. Waltin seems to have had access to both.”

“The thank-you note from Erik Berg,” said Holt.

“Apart from the fact that such things don’t happen in the material world, the signature is decently composed. ‘To Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh…I wish to express in this way our gratitude for your meritorious efforts for the preservation of the security of the realm…Stockholm, September 15, 1988. Erik Berg. Bureau Head. Secret Police.’ September 15, 1988, was a Sunday, by the way, but Berg worked all the time, so that’s not the end of the world,” said Johansson.

“The medal then,” said Mattei.

“Manufactured by Sporrong’s medal factory. It even says so on it. Copper plated. ‘To Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh in gratitude for meritorious efforts for the security of the realm.’”

“Have you had our technicians look at what was confiscated?” asked Lewin.

“Not really. I’ve done it myself. Out of concern for the security of the realm,” said Johansson.

“So what do you think about this? Other than that our colleague Wiijnbladh is perhaps not God’s gift to forensic science? What do you think, Lisa?” asked Johansson, looking at Mattei.

According to Mattei there were a number of different explanations. These led in turn to several different conclusions that covered a very broad span of conceivable alternatives.

“Such as?” said Johansson.

That this whole story didn’t actually need to have anything to do with the murder of the prime minister.

“Seventy-five percent is actually only seventy-five percent, if we start with the bullet, for example,” said Mattei.

“That Waltin only wanted to get himself a revolver in the cheapest way,” said Johansson. “That he wanted to kill badgers and other vermin on his estate in Sörmland.”

“Well,” said Holt. “The second possibility is still that the revolver that Waltin acquired by trickery had been used to shoot Palme. Seventy-five percent is still three times greater than twenty-five, if I’ve understood this correctly.”

“Two and a half years after the prime minister had already been shot?” asked Lisa Mattei with an innocent expression. “Between March 1986 and September 1988 it’s supposed to have been at the tech squad in Stockholm.”

“In secure storage. In the lion’s own den,” said Lewin for some reason. “If this was the one that was used, it must have been liberated for the murder of Palme and then put back.”

“I’m an old man,” sighed Johansson. “Too old for scientific seminars. Give me the most probable explanation. What do you say, Anna?”

“The revolver is the murder weapon,” said Holt. “Waltin takes it from the tech squad before the murder. According to Wiijnbladh he would show up and visit him up at tech. That’s when he probably seizes the opportunity to take the revolver. Gives it to the perpetrator. The perpetrator gives it back to Waltin after the murder. Waltin replaces it in the tech squad. There can hardly be any safer storage. When the worst has settled down and he’s been fired, he fools Wiijnbladh into giving it to him. It is a trophy he wants to have, at any price.”

“Another possibility is that right or wrong, he gets the idea that this is the murder weapon and that he uses deception to get it to sell to a collector. Not as many twists and turns now, not as complicated,” Mattei objected. “Tallies well with Henning the art dealer’s story.”

“Now we’re there again,” sighed Johansson. “What do you think, Jan?”

“I agree with Anna,” said Lewin.

“Your old parking ticket,” said Johansson.

“Yes,” said Lewin. “Waltin has the weapon in his possession. Don’t ask me how. He gives it to the perpetrator before the deed. Takes it back the day after the deed. The perpetrator spent the night at one of SePo’s secure addresses up at Gärdet.”

“Not a bad conspiracy theory, Lewin,” said Johansson.

“No,” said Lewin. “So we really have to hope it doesn’t add up.”

When Holt returned to her office she had an unscheduled visit from Bäckström. He was sitting on her desk, and presumably trying to read the papers lying there.

“I’m furious,” said Bäckström, glaring at her threateningly.

“Please sit down,” said Holt.

Bäckström was not only furious. He was also disappointed. In Holt, in her associates, in all of humanity, actually. So disappointed that it had affected his health. He had been struck by a heart attack or possibly a minor stroke the evening before, spent the night at the ER, and now he was on sick leave. As soon as he recovered he intended to contact the union to get help with his complaint against the police administration in Stockholm, the bureau, and not least Anna Holt.

“I think you look spry, Bäckström,” said Holt, who did not appear to have been listening.

“For a real policeman like me an informant’s anonymity is sacred,” said Bäckström indignantly. “You and Mattei have gone behind my back. Gustaf Henning called and gave me a good dressing-down, and you should know that I understand him. But I’m not the one who tricked him. You’re the one who tricked me.”

“You’re worried about the reward,” said Holt.

Not really. It was deceitful colleagues that bothered him. The general decline of the police force. A society on a fast track to destruction, a society where an honorable, hardworking person like him could no longer rely on anyone. That was the kind of thing that worried Bäckström. He had never counted on any reward for his drudgery. That’s one thing he’d learned during his more than thirty years with the police.

“Who gave you the tip about the weapon? Who gave you the name of Waltin? Without me you wouldn’t have squat. I was even the one who put you on the track of that secret sect of sex abusers. Friends of Cunt. You can count with your feet what they’ve been up to all these years. A society of perverse lunatics! You can hear it in the name, can’t you?”

“It’s ugly to read other people’s papers without permission,” said Holt, putting the interview with Henning in her desk drawer to be on the safe side.

“What do you have to say in your defense?” asked Bäckström, fixing his eyes on Holt.

“That I’m doing my job,” said Holt. “In contrast to you, who are only running around sticking your nose in other people’s business. Besides, you’re supposed to be on sick leave. Go home and go to bed and rest, Bäckström. And stop reading my papers without permission,” she concluded, fixing her eyes on him.

“War,” said Bäckström, getting up out of the chair and pointing a fat index finger at Holt.

“War?”

“War,” Bäckström repeated. “Now this is war, Holt.”

59

After lunch Holt and Mattei took a flight to Kristianstad to hold an interview with Claes Waltin’s elderly father.

“I had a visit from Bäckström,” Holt reported. “He was sitting in my office when I came back after the meeting with Johansson.”

“That horrible little fatso,” said Mattei with feeling. “So what did he want?”

“Unclear requests,” said Holt. “On the other hand he did declare war against us.”

“In that case I’ll ask Johan to give him a thrashing.”

“Johan?”

“Johan,” nodded Mattei. For the rest of the trip she talked about Johan, and she would have been happy if the flight to Kristianstad had lasted even longer.

Little Lisa is in love, thought Holt with surprise as they got off the plane.

Large estate in Skåne. Whitewashed exposed-timber house, complete with thatched roof, pond, and lane of birches.

So there are people who live like this, thought Anna Holt as their airport taxi stopped on the gravel yard in front of the main building at the “Robertslust” estate.

“The Waltin family has lived here at Robertslust for generations,” their host explained when he’d led them into the “gentlemen’s room” and seen to it that the “ladies” got coffee. Large desk, crossed swords on the wall above, suite of furniture in worn velvet with crocheted antimacassars on the chair backs, old portraits in gold frames, and a hundred years later life still went on.

A really cozy old place, thought Holt.

“Is it named after director Waltin himself?” asked Mattei with a friendly, inquisitive smile.

“Not really,” snorted Robert Waltin. “It’s named after the family ancestor, my great-great-grandfather, estate owner Robert Waltin. Originally the family had the estate as a summer place.”

And you look like you’ve been here the whole time, thought Lisa Mattei. Mean old man, but far from harmless, she thought. Despite the skinny neck sticking up out of a frayed, oversized shirt collar. Certainly an expensive shirt from the days when Robert Waltin was in his prime. Those days were gone; now he seemed mostly interested in complaining about everything and everyone.

“The reason we’re here is that we want to ask a few questions about your son,” said Holt with a formal smile.

“It’s about time. I’ve never believed in that so-called drowning accident. Claes was completely healthy. Swam like a fish too. I taught him myself.”

Before he turned five and you left him to go to Skåne and marry your secretary, thought Holt.

“Taught him when he was just a little tyke and I was still living with that crazy woman who was his mother,” said papa Robert. “Then he used to come here in the summer and we sailed and swam quite a bit, he and I. He was murdered. Claes was murdered. I’ve thought so all along.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Holt.

“The socialists,” said the old man, looking at her slyly. “He knew something about them so they were forced to murder him. He worked with the secret police. He probably knew almost everything about their illegal deals with the Russians and Arabs. Why do you think they were forced to shoot that traitor Palme, by the way?”

“Tell us what you think, director Waltin.”

“Palme was a traitor. Spied for the Russians. It was no more complicated than that. Russian submarines had secret bases far inside our inner archipelago. It was a corrupt political leadership, in which the one at the top was simply a spy for the enemy. Who betrayed the class he came from besides.”

“What makes you think that Olof Palme was a spy for the Russians?” asked Holt. Keep out of the way, she thought.

“Every thinking person understood that,” said Robert Waltin. “Besides I got it confirmed early on, from a secure source. My own son. There were even papers about it with the secret police. Papers they were forced to destroy on direct orders from the highest political leadership. It’s a terrifying story of abuse of power and treason.”

Really, thought Holt, and now how do I get the old guy to change track?

“Really,” Holt concurred. “It would be of great help if you would tell us about your son.”

His dad was happy to do so. His son had been very talented. Had an easy time in school. Always best in the class. Good-looking besides. As soon as he was big enough he didn’t have a quiet moment, because of all the women running after him.

“They were crazy about him. But he handled it with good humor. Was always polite and charming to them.”

“But he never married,” Holt observed. “Never had a family and children of his own.”

“How would he have had time for that kind of thing,” his father tittered. “Besides, I warned him. I knew what I was talking about. I was married to his mother, after all.”

“The one who was killed in the subway?”

“Killed? She was drunk. She was drunk all the time. Had a couple bottles of port a day and stuffed herself with a lot of pills. She was drunk and she staggered over onto the rails, and there was no more to it than that.”

Had he and his son seen each other regularly?

In the summers, of course. At large family occasions on his side of the family, to which he didn’t need to invite his first wife. When their paths crossed, so to speak.

“We talked with another person, a colleague of ours,” said Holt, “who had met you at home with your son at a dinner in the late eighties. In his apartment on Norr Mälarstrand.”

“Was it that little policeman who helped Claes with some forgery that art Jew Henning palmed off on him?” the old man asked. “A wretched character who sat and apologized for his existence the whole time and could barely manage the silverware.”

“That may be right,” said Holt. And personally you’re not much better than Johansson when it comes down to it, she thought.

“I remember that,” said papa Waltin. “As soon as we were rid of that buffoon I asked Claes why in the name of God he associated with someone like that.”

“So why did he?”

“He seems to have been a useful idiot. Lucrative, too, according to Claes. Despite his deplorable appearance.”

“Did he explain why he thought that?” Holt persisted.

“He didn’t go into that,” said Robert Waltin, shaking his head. “As I remember it, my son said only that the most useful idiots were those who had no idea what they were helping out with. That this particular specimen had done both him and the nation a very great service.”

Wiijnbladh and one other guest. Did he recall who that other person had been?

“Yes, I remember him well,” said Robert Waltin. “It was one of Claes’s old classmates. He too became a very successful attorney. A business attorney for some of our most successful companies. Was even on the board at Bofors for several years. He died only a year or two after Claes. His name has slipped my memory, but I seem to recall I sent a card to the widow after the funeral. An excellent individual. They studied law together, as I said, and then they were members of the same society.”

Goodness, thought Holt.

“Society?” she said with an inquisitive smile.

“First they were in Conservative Law Students, but then there was some dispute with the board. This was at the time when the Bolsheviks were trying to take over our universities, so Claes and his good friend started their own society. Law Students for a Free Sweden, I think they called it.”

“Law Students for a Free Sweden?”

“Something like that,” said papa Waltin, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t remember exactly. There were a lot of organizations that my son was a member of at that time, in case you’re wondering.”

“Do you recall any others?” asked Holt innocently.

“None that I intend to talk with you ladies about,” said Robert Waltin.

On the other hand he was happy to talk about his son. A two-hour-long exposition on all his son’s good qualities and merits, which at last they were forced to put a stop to themselves because their taxi was waiting for them.

“I really must thank you, director Waltin,” said Holt, extending her hand in farewell.

“If there is anyone who deserves a thank-you it’s my son,” said Robert Waltin.

“I’ve understood that,” Holt agreed.

“Because he saw to it that traitor was shot,” hissed Robert Waltin, turning abruptly and disappearing into the house where the family had lived for five generations.

“So the old bastard maintains that his son is supposed to have been involved in murdering Palme,” said Johansson. “How does he know that?”

“Unclear,” said Holt. “More a feeling, if I understood it right. In any event, those were his parting words.”

“Feeling,” snorted Johansson, and it was then he decided it was time he talked with bureau head Berg’s old watchdog, Chief Inspector Persson. A real constable who had been involved back in the day.

60

Persson lived in Råsunda. In one of the old fin de siècle buildings just north of the soccer stadium. He had lived in the same little two-room apartment since he got a divorce in the early seventies and could devote himself to being a policeman full-time. The human being he had spent the most time with during his seventy years was the legendary bureau head Erik Berg, operations head of the secret police for twenty-five years. Johansson’s predecessor in the position and Persson’s boss for two-thirds of his police career.

Berg and Persson had known each other since their days at the police academy. They shared the front seat of the same patrol car for a couple years in the sixties. Front seat only; at that time the Swedish police drove around in black Plymouths with rumbling V-8s. Before all the Volvos and Saabs. In another era.

Then Berg moved on, studied law and ended up at SePo, where he quickly made a career. In 1975 he had been named operations head with the secret police; he was the one who in reality controlled the secret police operation. The same day he got his appointment, he called Persson and offered him a job as his henchman and confidant. His only confidant, which naturally went along with the mission.

An hour later Persson resigned from his position as investigator with the Stockholm police burglary squad. He started as a chief inspector with Berg and stayed for the next twenty-four years of his active career until he retired. The following year Berg quit, and shortly thereafter died of cancer. Persson was still alive and had no intention of dying. People like him didn’t die.

“Nice to hear from you, Lars,” he said when Johansson called him. “It’s been awhile.”

“What do you think about getting together and having a bite to eat?” Johansson suggested.

“It’ll have to be at my place,” said Persson. “I never go to restaurants with guys. Besides, I can’t stand the damn music.”

“What do you think about this evening?” Johansson suggested.

“Sounds great. Don’t have anything better going on,” said Persson. “What do you think about salted beef brisket with homemade mashed turnips and potatoes?”

“Sure,” said Johansson. “I could go for that.” Is there anything better? he thought.

“Then let’s say seven o’clock,” Persson decided. “If you want aquavit you’ll have to bring it with you.”

One never ceases to be amazed, thought Johansson a few hours later as he sat in the kitchen in Persson’s small apartment while his host was just pouring a refill in their shot glasses. The eternal bachelor Persson, who was known at work for always having on the same gray suit, yellowing nylon shirt, and mottled tie, regardless of the season.

His place smelled of cleanser and floor polish, and it was as tidy as an old-fashioned dollhouse. Not much bigger either, and because Persson weighed four hundred pounds and was over six feet tall, it was like watching an elephant cruising around in a china shop. An elephant with the coordination of a ballet dancer, and as skilled in the culinary arts as Johansson’s beloved aunt Jenny had been. In the good old days she’d been in charge of the bar at the Grand Hotel in Kramfors and supplied both lumber barons and gamekeepers with the good things of life.

“What is it, Johansson? Are you thinking about buying some furniture from me?” asked Persson, who had evidently noticed him looking around.

“Naw,” said Johansson. “It’s just that things are so orderly here. People like you and me aren’t exactly known for that.”

“I hate disorder,” said Persson. “Ever since I was drafted. So speak for yourself, Johansson.”

“I’m listening,” Johansson nodded, refilling their glasses for the third time.

Persson had done his military service in the navy. After the mandatory ten months he had remained as an NCO for another few years before he mustered out and applied to the police. He was still a policeman, even though he was now a retiree.

“A cop is not something you become,” said Persson. “It’s something you are.”

“If you’re a real constable, yes,” agreed Johansson. “Otherwise who the hell knows. Were you on a submarine when you were in the navy?”

“No,” said Persson. “Why do you think that?”

“The orderliness of your stuff,” said Johansson. “If you leave your jacket lying out on a sub, your bunkmate has to sleep on the floor. According to what I’ve heard at least.”

“Yes,” said Persson. “Pretty damned cramped, and that was probably reason enough for someone like me. Although I’ve been on board a few times. Had a tough time even then wriggling down through the tower. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but who chooses to live in a pair of tight shoes? I mostly stayed on land. Worked as an explosives technician out at the Berga naval base, taking care of the old mines that floated up after the war. In the late fifties and early sixties it might happen a few times a month that we had to go out to rescue some poor wretch who got the wrong catch in his net.”

“Then it was crucial to have order around you,” Johansson observed.

“I’d say so,” Persson agreed. “If you went half a turn too far with the screwdriver, that might be the last thing you did. And if you had the wrong tools with you, it wasn’t the time for trial and error.”

“I can imagine that,” said Johansson.

“You learn,” said Persson, shrugging his shoulders. “Actually it’s not any harder than fixing a block in the drain. It’s in your fingers, once you’ve learned. It’s the consequences that are a little different, if I may put it that way. The last fifty years I’ve mostly dealt with drains and electrical lines, to hold down the household budget, and I’m not one to complain. Besides, workmen make a terrible mess. They lie too. Never come when they promise. How the hell would that work if you have an old German mine tapping against the shell of your boat? Cheers, by the way!”

“Cheers,” said Johansson.

After the food they loosened their belts and sat in the living room to have coffee and talk about what real police officers always talked about. About other real police officers, about those who never should have been police officers, and about hooliganism in general.

“I ran into Jarnebring down in Solna center a month or so ago. Asked him to say hi to you, by the way. He was his usual self, even though he’s become a dad late in life.”

“Jarnebring is Jarnebring,” said Johansson with feeling. “Although maybe a little too much revolves around his little boy.”

“It’s easy for it to get that way,” sighed Persson. “That’s one of the reasons I decided never to have any of my own.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Johansson.

“You get attached to them,” said Persson. “You never started a new brood either?”

“No, it didn’t turn out that way,” said Johansson. “The first two are grown now. I’m a grandfather twice over. It’s a lot easier if you ask me.”

“Yes, you see,” said Persson, “I’ve always thought the business of raising kids was overrated. Most kids are completely incomprehensible. Speaking of overrated, by the way, how’s life at the bureau? Can’t be too much fun to wind up at that place if you’ve had the privilege of working at Sec.”

“Five years at Sec was enough,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders.

“Erik was there for twenty-five,” Persson observed. “Till the cancer took him. For me he could just as well have stayed there for good.”

“Though you quit before he did,” said Johansson.

“Yes,” said Persson. “The year before. But then he was already sick and I couldn’t really take seeing what was happening to him. Not every day, at least. But we had regular contact all the way to the end. We saw each other several times a week, actually. And I probably phoned him every day.

“Are you getting Palme straightened out, by the way? It’s about time,” his host continued, looking at Johansson inquisitively.

“Why do you ask that?” said Johansson.

“Saw something in the newspapers a month or so ago,” said Persson.

“The newspapers,” snorted Johansson. “The Palme investigation doesn’t look too lively, if you ask me.”

“I guess it never has,” said Persson. “That case was already on its back the first day.”

“Though there is one thing I’ve been thinking about,” said Johansson.

“You know what, Johansson,” said Persson, raising his cognac glass. “I almost suspected as much.”

“Waltin,” said Johansson. “What do you think about Waltin?”

“Waltin,” Persson repeated, looking at Johansson and shaking his head. “Now I’m almost getting worried about you.”

“Why is that?” asked Johansson.

Waltin was a dandy, conceited, incompetent. He was also cowardly. Someone like that never could have shot Palme. Besides, he didn’t match the description of the perpetrator. Anyone at all but not Waltin, and not to salvage his reputation. Waltin was certainly capable of coming up with almost anything that had to do with financial irregularities and everything else under the sun where he could make a pile at no risk to himself. At the secret police there had also been a lot of whispering in the corridors about Waltin’s interest in women and the peculiar expressions this allegedly could take.

“Sure,” said Persson. “I’m sure he beat up a lady or two. Several, even. He was the type who did that sort of thing. Did he shoot Palme? Never in my life. Why not? He wasn’t the type. He was completely the wrong type for that sort of thing,” said Persson.

“He doesn’t need to have shot him,” Johansson objected. “That’s not what I’m saying, and so far we’re in agreement. That doesn’t rule out that he might have been involved in some other way.”

“Now I’m almost getting a little worried about you, Lars,” said Persson, shaking his head. “Is he supposed to have been part of a conspiracy, do you mean?”

“For example,” said Johansson.

“He was too cowardly for that,” said Persson. “Besides, he was too lazy to bother planning. Waltin was the type who took the easy way out. Preferably along with others who traveled the same way. Fine folk, with a silver spoon in their mouth since they opened their eyes. Who could that little snob have known who could have done something like that for him?”

“Don’t know,” said Johansson. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“If it’s other police officers you mean, then you’re out on a limb,” said Persson. “None of us would have managed that sort of thing or even picked up someone like Waltin with tongs. Not us. Besides, there’s something you should know. The colleagues who worked for the bodyguards at that time, they actually liked Olof Palme. I don’t think they had any intention of voting for him. But they liked him as a person. Even though he could be pretty troublesome as a surveillance object.”

“So who do you think shot Palme?” asked Johansson.

“Someone like Christer Pettersson,” said Persson. “Some crazy, violence-prone devil who didn’t care about the consequences. Took the chance when he got it. Someone a little more orderly than Pettersson, perhaps. There must be thousands of people like that. All the idiots with a closet full of firearms that we policemen gave them a license for.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” said Johansson.

“Nice to hear,” said Persson. “Do you want a good piece of advice along with it?”

“Advice from a wise man is always welcome,” said Johansson.

“It’s enough if you listen to an old man who’s been around even longer than you,” said Persson as he served them the last drops from the bottle of cognac Johansson had brought along.

“I’m listening,” said Johansson and nodded.

“Drop the thing with Palme,” said Persson with feeling. “That case was lost to us more than twenty years ago.”

“Sure. If I could choose I would like to boil the bastard who did it for glue,” said Johansson.

“Who wouldn’t,” said Persson. “The problem with us policemen is that we can’t do that sort of thing, and in this case we don’t even know who to put in the gluepot.”

Drop it, thought Johansson an hour later as he sat in the taxi on his way home to Söder. If you just stop thinking about it, then at least you’ve gotten something done, he thought.

61

Claes Waltin’s police biography was starting to get content and form. From the birth certificate to the certificate of death. From the announcement in Svenska Dagbladet and the picture of little Claes and his parents to the two investigations into his death by the Spanish and Swedish police that marked the end of his earthly life.

He had not been a shining light at school, as his father Robert Waltin had maintained. More like a rascal. The best schools but mediocre grades throughout. Except in behavior and neatness. He already had low marks for conduct in the second grade.

Only eight years old and even though he was going to private school. I wonder what kind of trouble he got himself into? thought Lisa Mattei.

During his time in the military he changed in an astonishing way. Waltin did his military service with the Norrland dragoons in Umeå, serving in an elite company, the army’s mounted riflemen. When he mustered out as a sergeant after fifteen months it was with the highest marks in all subjects. Then everything returned to normal. It took him eight years to finish his law degree instead of the usual four.

Didn’t Palme finish his degree in two? thought Lisa Mattei.

Waltin seemed to have had many things to occupy his time besides studies. Club activities, for one thing. As soon as he’d enrolled at the law school in Stockholm he became a member of the Conservative Law Students. He left them after only one year and asked to have his reasons added to the minutes. In short, the society was much too radical for his taste.

Along with a few like-minded students, he founded a new society, a breakaway faction that called itself Young Law Students for a Free Sweden. Complete with capital letters and everything, but as a society it was already dormant after three months.

In contrast, the small circle of four young law student friends who formed the Friends of Cunt Society were considerably more persevering than that. The society was established in September 1966, at the start of the fall semester, and remained active the rest of the decade.

Waltin appeared to have been a very active member. He was the society’s “Treasurer” and “Wine Cellar Manager.” He won the title of “Cuntmaster of the Year” in both 1966 and 1968. He was expelled in 1969 for reasons that had left no traces in the minutes and which, almost forty years later, it took the extremely competent detective inspector Lisa Mattei a couple of days to figure out. Without the help of one of the former members of the society, now in the Swedish parliament as a representative of the Christian Democrats and an esteemed member of the Parliamentary Standing Committee on the Administration of Justice.

Mattei asked Johansson for permission to interview the member of parliament but got a point-blank no in reply.

“I’m getting worried about you, Lisa, when you talk like that,” Johansson answered, fixing his eyes on her. “Why do you want to talk with him? I assume you’re aware he worked as a chief prosecutor before he wound up in parliament.”

“To get some sense of Waltin’s personality, his background. I think it’s extremely interesting,” Mattei objected. “I can imagine-”

“That’s pure nonsense,” Johansson interrupted. “A few snotnosed kids and upper-class students in the sixties who totally lacked judgment. What relevance does that have for your case? Forty years later. Why do you think Palme was murdered? Do you think it was an attempted rape that got out of hand, or what?”

“No,” said Lisa Mattei. “I don’t think that. But I do believe interviewing his old friend may give us something about Waltin as a person. Besides, it was barely twenty years later that Palme was murdered. This society was founded in the fall of 1966 and Palme was shot at the end of February 1986.”

“Forget it,” said Johansson, shaking his head and pointing with his whole hand toward the door to his office. “Don’t contradict me,” he said sternly as she got up and left.

Mattei had not forgotten. Johansson’s way of treating her was a guarantee of the exact opposite. Quite apart from whether the issue was relevant or not. Besides, she’d had help from Waltin’s father, without his being aware of it as he sat and bragged about his son’s fine friends from high school and university, and about the one who was the finest of them all, the banker, financier, billionaire Theodor “Theo” Tischler.

May be worth trying, thought Lisa Mattei, and already an hour after the conversation with Johansson she had gotten hold of Tischler by phone and arranged a meeting the next day at his office on Nybroplan without asking Johansson for permission.

As an informant he was unbeatable and improbable. A little square bald man with wide red suspenders and very attentive eyes, who inspected her nonchalantly from the other side of his gigantic desk. The man who gave Tourette’s syndrome a face, thought Lisa Mattei while the tape recorder in the breast pocket of her jacket whirred for all it was worth.

“Claes Waltin,” said Tischler. “What has that pathological liar come up with this time?”

“I assume you know he died a number of years ago,” said Mattei.

“That’s no obstacle to someone like him,” Tischler observed, and within five seconds he brought up the Friends of Cunt Society.

Tischler had not had any contact whatsoever with Waltin since the spring of 1969, when Waltin had spread a malicious rumor about Tischler among the women who constituted the society’s foremost recruiting base: female nursing students from Sophiahemmet, the Red Cross, and Karolinska.

“It was there of course we got the most meat on the bone,” said Tischler. “If it had been today I would have sued him because he tried to mislead the market. I had a miserable time before I could get back in the game.”

“So what did he say?” asked Lisa Mattei.

“That I had a prick the size of Jiminy Cricket’s,” said Tischler, grinning.

Was there any truth to that? thought Mattei as she shook her blond head regretfully.

“Now you’re wondering of course whether there was any truth to that,” Tischler continued.

No truth at all, according to the informant. Just a wicked tongue; Waltin had done everything to prevent the future banker from becoming the rightful winner of the Cuntmaster trophy. Which was why Tischler had ganged up with the society’s two other members and pooled their already considerable economic muscles to bring about the fall of the slimy rumor-spreader Waltin.

“A lie from beginning to end,” said Tischler. “If you don’t believe me I’ll give you the names of a few of my old friends from the Sea Scouts, so they can tell you what I was called back then.

“All the scout leaders at that time were old queers and pedophiles, so we little boys were always forced to swim naked when we were at camp. That was when my buddies nicknamed me the Donkey,” Tischler clarified.

“The donkey?” asked Mattei.

“I’ve been accused of many things but never of having been stupid,” Tischler observed. “It wasn’t the upper part of the donkey, by the way,” he said, nodding in the direction of his crotch, which was hidden by his desk.

Was Waltin a sexual sadist?

Of course, according to Tischler. Yet another reason that he was expelled. Waltin hated cunt, hence his insatiable sexual appetite and the expressions that it took.

“He damaged the society’s name and good reputation,” said Tischler. “Clearly we couldn’t have someone like that.”

Was there anything else worth recounting about Waltin? Other than that he was a sadist?

For the next hour Tischler told in proper order about how Claes Waltin poisoned a dog, made himself guilty of arson, stole things from Tischler’s childhood home, was caught in the act of masturbating with a picture of Tischler’s own mother. Manufactured a revolver in shop class and already the next day shot a classmate in the rear end with the same weapon. Only a sampling from secondary school and high school, according to Tischler. Mattei was welcome to hear as much as she liked, if she could bear listening.

When Waltin first poisoned a dog and then burned down the dog owner’s cottage, he was fifteen years old.

“Waltin’s crazy mother owned a large estate outside Strängnäs. We used to go there sometimes, a few schoolmates, when we wanted to relax. Drink beer, play some good tunes, and squeeze the breasts of the local talent. Mother Waltin was always completely gone so things couldn’t have been better. There were a couple of retirees living in an isolated cottage near there that Claes got worked up about. Among other things because they had a dog that ran loose, but mostly because they lived in such ugly poverty, so to speak. So he decided to change that.”

“What did he do?” asked Mattei.

“First he treated the poor dog to rat poison wrapped in steak that their retarded housekeeper bought for little Claes at the Östermalm market. The dog ate, went home, lay down on the porch, and died. The problem was that his owners didn’t understand a thing. They got another dog. So Claes was forced to take new measures. He snuck over there and set fire to their house while they were asleep. Fortunately they got out in time, but the house and all their possessions burned up. Then they moved.”

“How do you know this?” asked Mattei. Because I’m guessing you weren’t there, she thought.

“He bragged about it at school,” said Tischler. “At first I didn’t believe him, but the next time I was down there I could see what had happened. Only the chimney was left on the shack. I already knew the pooch was dead.”

Two years earlier Tischler and his family had themselves been the victim of classmate Claes Waltin and his unrestrained criminal tendencies.

“Presumably he’d stolen a key to our apartment when he was visiting me and decapitating my tin soldiers. One weekend when we were in the country he came in and stole a few things. Among other things he swiped a nude picture of my mother from a photo album. My dad had photographed her, when mom was swimming nude, and obviously the photo was private.”

“But you continued to associate with him anyway,” said Mattei.

“I caught him a year or two later in the dressing room in the gym, beating off over the photo of my dear mother. Before that we hadn’t discovered anything. He seems to have taken wine and a little jewelry besides. But nothing that my parents missed.”

“So what did you do? When you caught him.”

“I hit him. Took back the photo. Smuggled it back into the photo album. Dad hadn’t even missed it. That was a year or so before they separated. Claes asked for forgiveness. Told a long story about how horrible his mother was and that he loved my mother and so on.”

“So you forgave him?”

“I’ve always been a very nice man,” Tischler observed with a contented sigh. “Much too nice, perhaps. Everyone loved my mother, so I forgave him.”

The thing with the revolver and the schoolmate who was shot in the ass hadn’t damaged their friendship either. Besides, Tischler himself had been involved.

Waltin bought a starter gun in a sporting goods store. He widened the barrel in shop class and transformed it into a.22 caliber revolver. They stole small-bore ammunition from Tischler’s dad, who was a Sunday hunter when he wasn’t seeing all his women.

“I kept watch down in the shop room while Claes stood there and drilled,” said Tischler. “On the other hand I wouldn’t have believed he’d use it to shoot one of our classmates in the butt.”

“So why did he do that?”

“The victim was a real character,” said Tischler. “He’s still a real character, by the way. In class we called him Ass Herman, Nils Hermansson. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s the guy who swindles people out of their money by offering so-called ethical funds. Listen to me, little lady. Alcohol, tobacco, firearms, casinos, and whorehouses have always given the best rate of return. Both in the long and the short term, so watch out for those characters. We wanted to scare him after school. The coward ran away. Claes fired one shot in his butt. I think he was aiming at it. Nisse Hermansson has always had a big ass and a small head.”

“So what happened to him?” asked Mattei.

“We actually helped him pick out the bullet. I guess we were curious too. Took the opportunity to take a closer look since we had the chance anyway. As I said he was called Ass Herman when we were in school. We pulled him into the school restroom and took a few emergency measures. Wasn’t so bad actually. He was wearing a long jacket and thick pants because it was winter. The bullet had gone in less than an inch. He was bleeding a bit, but it was actually no more than that. Fortunately Claes’s revolver was not as remarkable as he’d hoped. Nisse kept his mouth shut for once. Mostly complained about his coat and his pants, but we solved that for him. I had to go through Dad’s pockets one more time. Once I found seven thousand-kronor bills he’d forgotten in the breast pocket of a tuxedo when he was out on a binge. A lot of money at that time.”

Just an innocent boyish prank, thought Mattei.

“So there you have a small sampling. Say the word if you want more. There’s as much as you like,” Tischler concluded.

“I think I’m content for now,” said Mattei, looking at the clock to be on the safe side.

“The trophy,” said Tischler. “How could I forget that? Before you go you really do have to look at our old trophy.”

Tischler had taken the trophy with him when the Friends of Cunt Society eventually dissolved. He was completely within his rights, because he had been the society’s financial backbone. Most of them were done with their degrees and would go on in life. Rumor-spreader Claes Waltin was already expelled.

It was a silver-plated trophy about twelve inches tall. Crowned at the top by the figure of a naked woman who was not the least bit indecent, more like the image of chasteness.

“An ordinary sports trophy. Girls swimming, if I were to guess. Claes bought it at Sporrongs, but they refused to make the engraving, so I had to arrange that with the help of an old goldsmith I knew. He used to put together a lot of knickknacks on the sly for my old man’s various secretaries.”

Wise of Sporrongs, thought Lisa Mattei when she read the text. At the top the name of the society in elegant capital letters: Friends of Cunt Society. Beneath that the name of the member who was “Cuntmaster of the Year”: first Claes Waltin 1966. Then Alf Thulin, nowadays a conservative member of parliament and former chief prosecutor, whom she didn’t have permission to talk to. He had won the title in 1967. Then Claes Waltin again in 1968. The man she was now talking to without asking Johansson for permission, in 1969. A long-dead business attorney, Sven Erik Sjöberg, in 1970.

“Cool thing, huh,” said Tischler, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you know who this is, by the way?” he asked, pointing to the prize winner for 1967.

“Yes,” said Mattei. “If he’s the one I think he is.”

“Always was a fucking hypocrite,” said Tischler. “Looked hideous even back then, but he was completely phenomenal at getting the ladies on their backs. Wonder just how much he might give for this today?”

Wonder what he would give for it? thought Lisa Mattei when she was on the subway on her way back to the police building. And wonder just what Lars Martin Johansson would say if I asked to look at fund manager Nils Hermansson’s ass? she thought.

Instead of asking for permission she wrote a summary of her conversation with Tischler, and before she went home she stopped by Johansson’s office and asked him to read it.

“I thought we were finished with this issue,” muttered Johansson.

“If you’ll just read what Tischler had to say, boss. Before you send me down to the parking garage.”

“Hell,” said Johansson five minutes later. “This is not the usual nonsense. This is something different. I don’t like that part about the poor dog and the arson and Ass Herman. We’ll have to pull out those old witness statements from the shooting on Sveavägen. I want to know everything the witnesses say about the perpetrator’s physical description. Then I want the technical report on the firing angle and the probable height of the perpetrator.”

“I’ve already looked at that,” said Mattei. “You can too, boss, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Why not?” said Johansson.

“It can’t have been Claes Waltin,” said Mattei, shaking her head. “Not a chance. He’s way too short. At least four inches too short.”

“Thanks, Lisa. I forgive you,” said Johansson for some reason. She’s like me, he thought. When she knows something and has that look, that’s just how it is.

“One more thing, if you have time, boss,” said Mattei.

“Of course,” said Johansson. “Why don’t you sit down, by the way?”

“Thanks,” said Mattei.

When Mattei had gone through the testimony of the eyewitnesses about the murder on Sveavägen again, she discovered a circumstance that was possibly interesting considering the previous.

“Listening,” said Johansson.

“I’m sure you remember the witness that Lewin called Witness One in the so-called witness chain. He’s the one who hides among the construction site trailers on Tunnelgatan, sees the perpetrator run past, up the stairs-”

“I remember,” Johansson interrupted.

“The first interview with Witness One was held on the night of the murder. Then he gave his physical description of the perpetrator. After that additional interviews were held with him over the following ten years. Even after the prosecutor’s petition for a new trial was rejected. There are a total of eight interviews, besides the first one.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Johansson. “What’s the problem?”

“That he knew of Christer Pettersson,” said Mattei. “They lived in the same area, and Witness One knew very well who Christer Pettersson was. Knew of him before the murder of Palme, knew what he looked like, knew what kind of person he was.”

“But it wasn’t Christer Pettersson he saw run past in the alley,” said Johansson, smiling for some reason.

“No,” said Mattei. “The first time he mentions Pettersson is more than two years later when he is interviewed about Pettersson in particular. Then he relates that he knew of Christer Pettersson.”

“But that he wasn’t the one he saw on the night of the murder.”

“He’s more careful than that,” said Mattei. “First he says what he did about Pettersson, and then he explains that he did not associate him with the man who ran past. Neither spontaneously in connection with the observation or later when he bumped into Pettersson in the area where he lived. He thinks he ought to have recognized him if it really was him.”

“Good, Mattei,” said Johansson. “In contrast to the nitwit who held the initial interview with him, you have just done a little real police work. You have thereby earned yourself a little gold star.”

“I was hoping for a big one,” said Mattei.

“No way,” said Johansson. “I’ve never believed in Pettersson. Wrong type. I realized that from the start, and the thing with Witness One I discovered myself almost twenty years ago.”

“Thanks anyway, boss,” said Mattei. So why didn’t you say that? she thought.

“It’s nothing,” said Johansson. “That society,” he said, nodding at Mattei.

“I’m listening,” said Mattei.

“Do a search on the ones who were involved and see if you find them in the case files.”

“Any particular reason?”

“No,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders. “I just have a hard time with those kinds of characters.”

In the evening when she and Johan were lying in her bed in the oversized apartment her kind dad had given her, she told him about Claes Waltin, without saying what his name was or why she was compelled to be interested in him. She only told everything she’d heard about him.

“Sexual boundary crossing,” Johan observed. “There’s a lot of role-playing in that area. But not in this case. This is something really bad. Genuine misogyny.”

“Not boundary crossing,” said Mattei, shaking her head. “To me he seems completely lacking in boundaries or perhaps free of boundaries. Not immoral, more like amoral. Completely free of morals. The only restraints he seems to have had were the sort that prevented him from being put in jail.”

“That’s not enough,” said Johan, shaking his head. “We’re talking about an evil human being. An evil and intelligent human being. Are you familiar with Patricia Highsmith’s books about the talented Mr. Ripley?”

“So-so,” said Mattei. “I haven’t read any of them.”

“I have a good film we can watch if you like. With Alain Delon in the lead role as Mr. Ripley. There are several, but this one’s the best if you’re interested in an evil psychopath. Not all psychopaths are evil, as I’m sure you know.”

“We’ll get to that later,” said Lisa Mattei, stretching herself in bed. “Now we’ll move on to something else, I think.” Some regular fun that’s only a little on the edge, she thought.