Another Time, Another Life: The Story of a Crime

by Leif Gw Persson

  At his place there was the smell of cleanser and polished floors. It was as tidy as a dollhouse, and not much bigger. Given that Persson weighed close to four hundred pounds, he was like an elephant in a china shop. An elephant, however, who had the gracefulness of a ballerina and who was as skilled in the art of cooking as Johansson’s beloved aunt Jenny. In the good old days she’d been in charge of the bar at the Grand Hotel in Kramfors and had supplied both lumber barons and ordinary gamekeepers with the finer things in life.

  “This is damned good,” said Johansson emphatically, and because his wife was at a safe distance at a conference in southern Sweden he was finally free to let loose both his genetically inherited Norrland taste buds and his always tight-fitting belt.

  “Real men should have good food,” Persson muttered, rocking his shot glass meaningfully. “By the way, I heard you got married.”

  “Yeah,” said Johansson. “Although it’s been a while now.” A little over ten years to be more exact. You’re your usual self, thought Johansson, feeling almost moved by Persson’s concern.

  “Personally I’ve had the same thought since I got divorced,” said Persson, as if thinking out loud. “But it never worked out. Though I do have a lady friend I see now and then.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Johansson. What the hell should I say? he thought. I can’t really ask if she’s nice.

  “She’s a good woman,” said Persson, reading Johansson’s mind. “She’s Finnish. Works in home services, but she’s going to retire soon too. We’ve talked about buying something in Spain.”

  “It’s supposed to be a little warmer there.” Persson in Spain, thought Johansson. Where the hell do people get such ideas?

  “Yes, I guess I’m afraid of that,” Persson sighed. “Skoal then.”

  Then they toasted, turned their attention to the food, made coffee, and went to sit in Persson’s living room to talk police work.

  “You’re a good fellow, Johansson,” said Persson. “Aquavit and Grönstedts,” he continued, nodding at his large cognac glass. “It’s risk-free sending you to the liquor store. I knew that all along. What can I help you with?”

  “The West German embassy,” said Johansson. Just as well to get this cleared up now so we can talk old memories, thought Johansson.

  “If you mean the West German embassy in April ’75, well, that was before I came to SePo,” said Persson. “I was working at the old burglary squad at the time. With a lot of tattooed idiots who were high as kites and rummaged around in people’s apartments all day long.”

  “After that,” said Johansson. “Since you came to SePo?” I wonder why he doesn’t ask why I’m asking? he thought.

  “I was in on that case in ’89,” said Persson. “It was Berg who asked me. It was at the very end of ’89, in December.”

  Johansson just nodded. More’s coming, he thought. You couldn’t rush Persson.

  “It was in connection with a murder,” said Persson. “Berg wanted me to check up on a Kjell Göran Eriksson who had been killed on the evening of the thirtieth of November. It was roughly the same time as those bastards were about to burn down the whole city to celebrate that Charles XII was dead.” Persson shook his head and took a substantial sip from his glass.

  “Why was he interested in him?” asked Johansson.

  “It had something to do with the West German embassy,” said Persson. “I don’t know how much you know, but—”

  “A little,” said Johansson, nodding at him to continue.

  “You didn’t have to be much of a policeman to figure out that the Germans inside the embassy must have had help from some of our domestic talents … on the outside. I did that myself when I was working at burglary and trying to knock a little sense into the thieves,” said Persson.

  “How did Eriksson come into the picture?” Johansson asked.

  “He was one of the ones who helped the Germans,” said Persson, looking almost surprised at the question. “Berg figured that out almost immediately. He was a capable cop, Erik. At that time,” said Persson, and for some reason he grinned at Johansson. “Before he became a fine fellow … if you know what I mean, Lars?”

  “I know what you mean,” said Johansson, and he smiled too. “I know exactly what you mean,” he added with more emphasis than he perhaps had intended.

  “Are you wondering why Eriksson didn’t get sent to prison?” asked Persson, who could definitely read minds. “Him and his other buddies.”

  “Yes,” said Johansson. “Why didn’t he?”

  “Yup,” said Persson, sighing. “That was before my time. You should really ask Berg about it, but …”

  “I’m asking you instead,” said Johansson.

  “I know,” said Persson, suddenly looking rather mournful. “Erik’s wife called before you showed up.”

  “How are things with him?” said Johansson.

  “He’s dying,” said Persson. “So … that’s how it is with him. And since you’re asking, as far as I’m concerned he should have been able to live to the end of his life. Sixty-five is no great age, is it?”

  No, thought Johansson. Sixty-five is no great age. Not when you’ve passed fifty, like he had, or would soon turn sixty-seven, like his colleague Persson in the armchair across from him.

  “There were certainly several reasons that Eriksson and his friends were not brought in,” said Persson. “I’m a policeman, so politics has never been my strong suit, but if you ask me …” Persson shook his head and poured another cognac.

  “You went in and looked at the murder investigation,” Johansson reminded him. “Why did you do that?”

  “If you ask me,” said Persson contemplatively, “it was for the same reason we didn’t put little Eriksson away for his collaboration at the West German embassy.”

  “And that was?” asked Johansson.

  “I guess it had become a little awkward for others besides Eriksson,” said Persson. “Because he was working for us—among other things, trying to keep track of all the other student bastards who weren’t content with just throwing tomatoes at people like you and me,” said Persson.

  I thought as much, thought Johansson. It was what had struck him as he sat in the taxi en route to Persson’s place.

  Then they talked about Eriksson’s past as an informant for the secret police, an assignment he had devoted himself to during his entire active period within various parts of the acronym-ridden and lunatic left, counting the time from the late sixties to the mid-seventies.

  “Then they hung him out to dry,” said Persson. “It was after the West German embassy that Berg decided he should be hung out to dry.”

  “But you made no attempt to confront him?” Johansson asked.

  Allowing for the fact that Persson himself had not been involved at that time, he was nonetheless certain that no such attempt had been made. Eriksson had been far too mixed up with the secret police for anyone to dare risk something like that. He had even been on the salary list for so-called external coworkers at Sec for a rather long time.

  “The bastard swindled us out of several thousand in the midst of all this,” Persson sighed.

  “You think he was playing double?” asked Johansson.

  “Yes,” said Persson. “True, I never met him, but I understood from what people said that this guy was a real little dung fly. If there was any shit anywhere, he’d be sure to land on it.”

  “It can’t have been the case that he was the one who infiltrated you all,” Johansson asked. And let you pick up the tab to add a little spice to the arrangement, he thought.

  “No,” said Persson. “He was just the kind of guy who likes to keep his options open. We had other informants too, thank God, and you should have heard what they thought of Eriksson. At the time of the West German embassy takeover it was probably as simple as Eriksson abandoning us because he got the idea that it was probably the Red Guards who would win the day. He doesn’t seem to have been a great political thinker, and he wasn’t exactly f
aithful either.”

  “I understand he wasn’t particularly pleasant,” said Johansson.

  “A jerk,” said Persson with conviction. “Pity he was already protected when I started.”

  But it was good luck for Eriksson, thought Johansson, sneaking a glance at Persson’s right hand wrapped around the cognac glass.

  Eriksson had accomplices. They got off too. Johansson wanted to know why.

  “There was no way to get around Eriksson, it seems,” Persson sighed. “How would that have looked? They didn’t want to bring him in, so the others he’d been in league with get off the hook too. Besides, they weren’t really much to hang on the Christmas tree … well, with one exception of course.”

  “You mean Welander,” said Johansson, who had figured out a few things himself after his conversation with Wiklander.

  “Fucking Red Guard,” said Persson, riled up. “For a long time I was hoping that malignant asshole would take a false step, but he was a clever bastard. He got out while there was still time.”

  “What about the other two,” said Johansson with an innocent expression.

  “Who do you mean?” said Persson, suddenly sounding normal again.

  “Tischler and the fourth guy,” said Johansson as if he had simply forgotten the name.

  “Tischler,” Persson snorted. “He only got involved using his father’s money, mostly because it was an easy way to meet willing ladies. True, I wasn’t the one who did that investigation, but if there’s anything I’ve learned it’s to separate good police work from bad, and there were no major faults with the investigation Berg ordered done. I thought you’d read it?”

  “No,” said Johansson. “I’m guessing it disappeared two years ago when you pulled it out of the file.”

  “Orders from Berg,” said Persson curtly, “and this isn’t me gossiping. He and I have already talked about it. And what do you mean by ‘pulled it out’ anyway? I put together what I was told to put together, placed it in a couple of binders, and gave it to Erik. It’s not my business to have opinions about what he did with it later.”

  “And you have no idea what he did with it?” asked Johansson with an innocent expression.

  “No,” said Persson. “You don’t ask about that sort of thing.”

  Although you seem to have managed to do quite a bit anyway, thought Johansson.

  How had they found out about Eriksson, Welander, Tischler, and that mysterious “fourth man” almost twenty-five years ago?

  “I wasn’t there, like I said,” said Persson. “Not when it started anyway.”

  “But you’ve read the investigation,” said Johansson.

  “Sure,” said Persson. “I’ve spent a few hours looking at it, and like I said it was not a bad investigation. Berg ran it, and at that time he was no slouch. That I can assure you.”

  “Tell me,” said Johansson.

  It had not even been particularly demanding, according to Persson. Welander had evidently driven the car when the terrorists’ messages were turned over to TT and the other news agencies in the Hötorg skyscraper. Eriksson was the one who got to take the elevator up and put the message in the mailbox while Welander stayed behind in the car out on the street and waited.

  “Welander was moonlighting at the TV station at that time, so it was actually a journalist at TT who was working in the Hötorg skyscraper where the TV station had an officer who recognized Welander outside the building and thought it was a strange coincidence. He tipped us off, and then Berg and the other colleagues were on a roll. Erik set up the whole apparatus,” said Persson, seeming not exactly displeased.

  “The whole apparatus,” Johansson nodded, sounding just as delighted as he suddenly felt.

  “The whole apparatus,” Persson nodded, “plus a lot of things that not even you and Jarnebring would have dreamed of trying.”

  “So what did they do besides delivering mail?” asked Johansson. That particular detail must have suited Eriksson to a T, he thought.

  “They were the ones who arranged all the practical details for the Germans,” said Persson. “Room and board, local knowledge, transport, even some of the explosives they used most likely came from their Swedish contacts. It was ordinary Swedish-made Dynamex from Nobel—our technicians figured that out—mixed with that Czech grease they always used. Welander was the boss and Eriksson was the helper, running around like a rat on fire. He also got paid, the bastard. The Germans gave him thousands of deutschmarks to buy food and drink, but for some reason it was mostly hash he put on the table for them.”

  “How does Tischler come into the picture?” asked Johansson.

  “The Germans were staying with him before the embassy occupation. Tischler’s dad owned some big-ass summer place out on Värmdö where they were all having sex while they organized the final details. It was pretty ideally located, isolated and discreet and just half an hour into town by car. Although Tischler’s own role in this whole thing is actually a little unclear.”

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

  “A few weeks after the West German embassy he looked up Welander—by then we already had surveillance on Welander. Tischler was more or less crazed, screaming and yelling that Welander had exploited him.… He was extremely agitated. Our colleagues reported that they didn’t even have to plant any microphones to listen to the conversation. Tischler seems to have been living under the delusion that this plot was about helping some German comrades—the usual student radicals—by keeping them away from the West German police. He had no idea they were going to blow up the West German embassy and try to kill the personnel.”

  “In any event he seems to have figured out how things stood afterward,” said Johansson.

  “Sure,” said Persson. “In that regard he was a hell of a lot smarter than the member of parliament who helped Kröcher escape, because he had no idea what he was mixed up in, and after having read the interrogations with him I think I believe him. Even though it goes against my usual inclinations,” said Persson. “He seems to have been your typical aspiring socialist member of parliament,” he summarized, chuckling so that his massive belly was jumping.

  “The fourth man then,” said Johansson.

  “Even more unclear than Tischler,” said Persson. “I would go so far as to say I would have left him out if it had come down to it.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” said Johansson.

  “More or less,” said Persson. “There were slightly unusual circumstances. Besides, in that case you should probably talk with Berg,” Persson concluded.

  “It’s pointless to ask you about it,” said Johansson.

  “Yes … even you couldn’t manage to bring that much aquavit here,” said Persson.

  Don’t say that, thought Johansson, but naturally he didn’t say it. Better to come back, he thought.

  Why had Berg decided to remove the two names from the file two years ago? For a couple of reasons, according to Persson. They were linked to an investigation that had been stone dead for more than twenty years and that no one wanted to touch anymore, for one.

  “Times are a little different now,” said Persson.

  Although the Germans could probably still keep from laughing if they found out about Eriksson’s background and his involvement in the occupation of the West German embassy, thought Johansson. But he hadn’t come to Persson’s place to quarrel, so he decided instead to wrap things up and get what he came for.

  “Welander and Eriksson were put back in the file again a few months ago,” said Johansson. “Were you aware of that?”

  “No,” said Persson, sounding genuinely surprised. “I had no idea. I don’t know why Erik would go along with that.”

  “Why do you think he did?” asked Johansson.

  “Maybe because they were the ones it was really all about,” said Persson. “The other two were just along for the ride. Welander was the driving force and Eriksson was his assistant. That Welander was one unpleasant bastard. There was
a good deal of material on him that wasn’t about the West German embassy, and there was no question that he had some very peculiar contacts.”

  “With West German terrorists?” asked Johansson.

  “With the circles around them in any case. Their sympathizers, and there were quite a few at that time. Besides, our counterparts at counterespionage were pretty sure he had contacts with the East Germans … well, with the Stasi then. So he was lucky he got a job in TV, because that way he was safe from us,” said Persson, sighing. “If you only knew, Johansson …” Persson shook his head. “For a while we could have put handcuffs on half the workforce at that fucking place. If we were to believe what was in our own papers, that is.”

  “Exactly what I’m avoiding,” said Johansson.

  “What else would you expect?” said Persson with conviction. “If Berg promised he would clean up for you, he will. If he has put Welander and Eriksson back in the file, he must have had good reason for doing so.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Johansson piously. I’ll believe it when I see it, he thought.

  “Well …” said Persson with a sigh, taking the opportunity to fill his glass again.

  “They were dead anyway, which is a good thing if you want peace and quiet in the midst of a disclosure. The truth commission …” Persson snorted. “A lot of crazy academics who don’t know a rat’s ass about police work.”

  “One more question,” said Johansson, saving the last drop in his glass. “You’ll have to excuse me for harping on about this, but who was the fourth one? The fourth man?”

  “So that’s what you’re wondering about,” said Persson, grinning. “It was pure chance that we stumbled on the fourth one in the group, and it actually happened in my time. If we were going to put the first three in jail, naturally we would have done so right from the start. But we didn’t do that of course.”