“Since I’m the one who’s playing the fool here, naturally I wonder what you mean,” said Jarnebring.
“What I mean is that it was Eriksson who was trying to get hold of the perpetrator,” said Johansson. “It was Eriksson who was following the perpetrator, and the perpetrator who was backing up. Not the other way around.”
“The hell it was,” Jarnebring objected. “Not that I met Eriksson while he was alive, but I still got the distinct impression that he was a real little coward.”
“But not this time,” said Johansson, “because he was not physically afraid of this particular perpetrator.”
“I see,” said Jarnebring, smiling broadly. “You’re onto colleague Bäckström’s line, that after all it was a little fairy we’re searching for.”
“No,” said Johansson. “It’s someone else we’re looking for.”
“Someone that Eriksson knew, someone he wasn’t afraid of, but instead someone with whom even Eriksson could feel big and strong,” said Jarnebring.
“Yes,” said Johansson. Unfortunately that’s the way it is, he thought.
“Damn, Lars, say what you want about old unsolved murders, but they’re good for the appetite,” Jarnebring said an hour later as they sat at their usual table at Johansson’s regular place and had just been served a baked sandwich of Parma ham, mozzarella, basil, and tomato as a little prelude to the lamb filet that would come when it was time to get serious.
“Too bad it has to be an ordinary Tuesday,” said Johansson vaguely.
“You’re thinking of a small one,” said Jarnebring.
“What makes you think that?” Johansson asked evasively.
“I’m a cop,” said Jarnebring. “I’ve been a cop my whole adult life—and I’ve known you just as long—and because Pia is out of town anyway and I am free myself, I get the idea that you, in your dark Norrland way, are talking about a little shot, despite the fact that it’s only Tuesday.”
“What the hell should we do?” said Johansson hesitantly. It is only Tuesday after all, he thought.
“Order two good-sized shots and pretend it’s Friday,” Jarnebring decided.
35
Wednesday, April 5, 2000
It was Holt’s suggestion, a sudden idea, a pure hunch that would probably prove to be completely wrong.
“It’s worth trying anyway,” Johansson said, which was why he was sitting with Wiklander in his office early Wednesday morning, refining tactics. Unusually alert and sober besides, despite the previous evening.
“I see you’ve already spoken with our colleague Holt,” said Johansson, nodding toward the little gold pin in the form of a trident that now adorned the lapel of Wiklander’s jacket.
“Old coast commando,” Wiklander nodded, not without pride as it appeared.
“Yes, be happy you don’t have to wear a fake mustache,” said Johansson, who was in the absolute best of moods because he was being let out into the field again. Despite his high rank, and despite all the old rust he was no doubt dragging along with him.
The day before, Holt had suddenly happened to think of Eriksson’s neighbor, the major, about whom she had had her suspicions after she and Jarnebring had interviewed him ten years ago.
“I had the distinct impression he was hiding something from us,” Holt had explained to her boss. “He was a guarded type, very guarded, and he had peepholes in the door and a good view of both the hallway and the stairwell. Because there had been a lot of racket at Eriksson’s the night of the murder, I thought it was more than probable that he had tried to peep out and see what was happening. Possibly he saw the perpetrator when he or she left. At that time I was completely convinced that the person we were searching for was a man,” she clarified. “All of us were, not least Bäckström.”
“Why didn’t the major say so then?” asked Johansson. “About whether he’d seen anything.”
“For several reasons, I think,” said Holt. “First, he clearly seemed to dislike Eriksson. Second, he didn’t like the police. That was probably enough for him to decide to keep his mouth shut. And it may have been much simpler too,” she added.
“What do you mean?” asked Johansson.
“He was extremely anxious to show what an old warrior he was. For a while I almost thought he was going to show us an old bullet wound from the Finnish war he was boasting about. But maybe when he saw something he was just afraid, like anyone else would be, or out of cowardice or laziness he didn’t want to be drawn into something. I’m sure he would rather bite his tongue off than admit to something like that.”
“Yes,” said Johansson, nodding. “But isn’t it still most likely that he didn’t see anything?”
“Yes,” said Holt. “That’s the most likely—that I’m completely wrong.”
“It’s worth trying anyway,” said Johansson. “But why do you want me in particular to do it?” he added. “You should know it’s been a while.” Even if I am flattered that she asked, of course, he thought.
“I think you’re just the right type to pry open that old cuss,” Holt explained.
“Do I look like I might conceivably share his political opinions?” Johansson asked. Think carefully about what you say, Holt, he thought.
“No,” said Holt, looking at Johansson, “but you definitely look like a man with strong opinions.”
“Nice,” said Johansson. And how nice is it on a scale from one to ten, he thought, for he had heard his wife say that.
“He scarcely noticed my presence,” Holt explained. “On the other hand he took note of Jarnebring—who doesn’t,” said Holt, smiling faintly. “But at the same time I think he felt that Jarnebring was maybe a little too simple for him to condescend to take seriously.”
“I think I’m starting to get an idea of the type,” said Johansson.
• • •
So now they were sitting there, at home with the major in his apartment on Rådmansgatan.
“The secret police and the second highest in command if I’ve understood this correctly,” said the major, nodding toward Johansson as he set Johansson’s business card down on the desk, behind which he had settled himself. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“It concerns a neighbor of yours, Major Carlgren, a man who was murdered in 1989,” Johansson explained.
“That little shit,” the major said amiably. “Why in the name of heaven should the secret police be concerned about him? You weren’t interested in him when he was still alive.”
“As you’ll understand, Major, I am prevented from going into any details,” said Johansson, looking sternly at the person he was speaking with. “But my colleague Wiklander here and I are following up a tip that we got from our colleagues in the military intelligence service,” Johansson concluded, nodding in the direction of Wiklander and the fish spear on his jacket. In a way that is what we’re doing, thought Johansson, even if this was the last thing the mysterious informant had had in mind when he brought new life to the Eriksson case.
“Coast commandos,” said the major, nodding with approval toward the lapel of Wiklander’s jacket.
“I am of course well acquainted with your military experience, Major,” said Johansson, who had decided in advance to pour it on thick. “By the way, I had a close relative myself who fought on the Finnish side—”
“So what was his name?” the major interrupted, looking guardedly at Johansson.
“His name was Johansson, Petrus Johansson. He was a commando with the rank of corporal when he fell at Tolvajärvi.”
“Was that your father?” asked the major.
“My uncle,” Johansson lied. It was bad enough that it had been his father’s crazy cousin about whom the older generations in the Johansson family still talked an unbelievable lot of shit whenever they got the chance.
“I know who he was,” said the major, nodding. “I never met him but I know who he was. Corporal Petrus Johansson died a hero’s death and you have my sincere sympathy.”
“Tha
nk you,” said Johansson, who was shaken to his core because an eighty-year-old major had just got the idea that Johansson had been born no later than 1940. I’ll have to start dieting, he thought.
“He did not fall in vain,” said the major, “as the developments of recent years have no doubt illustrated clearly.”
“I would understand completely, Major, if you had seen anything, yet you might nonetheless have chosen to let the whole thing be, considering the victim’s past, and considering that the police officers who spoke with you came from the uniformed police with its unfortunately limited insights into security issues. I can reveal this much,” said Johansson, who had decided to fire up the boilers as he was picking up speed anyway, “that the individuals we are searching for are cut from the same cloth as Eriksson himself.”
“What is it you want to know?” asked the major, who looked as if he had just made a decision.
“I am wondering if you saw the man when he left Eriksson’s apartment,” said Johansson.
“What makes you think it was a man?” asked the major, and in that moment Johansson knew he had succeeded, because every word he had said had been chosen with care.
“What do you mean, Major Carlgren?” said Johansson, acting surprised.
“It wasn’t a man,” said the major, shaking his head. “It was a young woman—twenty-five years old perhaps, thirty at most, well-dressed. She was holding a briefcase or something like that pressed against her chest. She seemed rather upset, slammed the door behind her, ran down the stairs, which wasn’t so strange in the circumstances.”
“Do you recall anything more about her appearance?” asked Johansson.
“She was nice looking,” said the major. “Well dressed, neat, I remember I noticed she had a lot of hair—red or maybe more brownish red—not at all that miserable character Eriksson’s type. He was much older. When I heard what had happened I got the idea that he had tried to rape her and that she was only defending herself. If that was the case I hadn’t the slightest intention of helping the police lock her up,” the major concluded, nodding firmly at Johansson. “Not the slightest,” he repeated.
Then they showed pictures to the major. Pictures of twelve different women, of which one was Helena Stein at the age of thirty and another three depicted women of the same age with approximately the same appearance and hair color.
“I recognize that one,” the major snorted, setting a skinny, clawlike index finger on Eriksson’s cleaning woman, Jolanta. “That’s the Polish whore who cleaned under the table for Eriksson.”
“Is there anyone else who seems familiar?” Johansson asked. The old man isn’t completely gone, he thought hopefully.
The major took his sweet time, spreading out all eleven pictures that remained on his desk. He picked up each and every one of them and inspected it carefully. Then he shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I remember that she had red or in any case reddish-brown hair, so if she’s here it must be one of them, but unfortunately I can’t say more than that.”
You can’t have everything, thought Johansson philosophically, and for him personally it was all the same, because he had already figured out how the whole thing fit together.
“Then I must truly thank you for your help,” said Johansson.
“Who is it then?” asked the major, nodding toward the pictures on the desk. “Which of them is it?”
“We don’t really know yet.”
“I hope she gets off,” said the major suddenly. “Eriksson was not a good person.”
When Johansson returned to work he immediately called in Holt and told her about his conversation with the major.
“I think it’s high time you met Helena Stein,” said Johansson.
“You’ve abandoned the idea of turning it over to Stockholm?” asked Holt.
“Yes,” said Johansson, sounding more convinced than he actually felt. “There’ll just be a lot of unnecessary talk. We’ll question her for informational purposes about her contacts with Eriksson without explaining why we’re interested in him. If she makes a fool of herself and denies having been in his apartment then we’ll call in the prosecutor so he can decide about taking her away.” It’ll be amusing to see his expression, Johansson thought.
“And otherwise we’ll have to see,” said Holt.
“Unless you have a better suggestion,” said Johansson.
“No,” said Holt.
“Okay then,” said Johansson as he got up, looking at the clock, and smiled to soften the whole thing. “Then you’ll have to excuse me. I have another meeting.”
“Helena Stein,” said Johansson’s boss, the general director, nodding contemplatively. “She’s a very interesting woman.”
“I understand you’ve met her,” said Johansson.
“Oh yes,” the GD confirmed. “She came to the ministry during my time there. True, she has never worked under me, but I’ve met her several times. For a while I saw her on a daily basis when she was working in the prime minister’s office.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure,” said Johansson. “What’s she like?”
“Intelligent, highly intelligent, and an extraordinarily knowledgeable, sharp attorney. And she looks good too, in that slightly icy way. And she neatly balances her radical opinions with a blouse, pleated skirt, and high heels in well-chosen color combinations,” the GD summarized, clearing his throat slightly for some reason as he said the last thing.
“But she’s not someone you’d marry—if you were concerned about domestic tranquility,” said Johansson, who in the company of his boss had no problem whatsoever playing the role of simple man of the people.
“You said it,” said the GD. “Personally I would describe her as very intelligent and at the same time very intellectual. And always ready to stand up for her opinions. Razor-sharp and merciless when she does so. A woman whom the majority of men, especially in our generation, seem to have an extremely difficult time managing.”
“Not an easy match for a simple lad from the country,” Johansson said with enjoyment.
“Definitely not,” said the GD, suddenly sounding rather reserved. “And now I’ve understood that she has problems.”
“Yes,” said Johansson. “Now she has problems. The whole thing is rather complicated and hard to understand, and for once we’re not the ones who’ve made it complicated.”
“It’s just complicated?” asked the GD.
“Yes,” Johansson confirmed. “It’s complicated.”
“Then I suggest you take it very slowly,” said the GD. “I have nothing against appearing ignorant in a one-on-one like this, as long as I can be spared more public shortcomings.”
“It concerns three connected problems. The first regards her involvement in the occupation of the West German embassy almost twenty-five years ago. The second concerns a number of strange turns in connection with our handling of that case, and those start when she was appointed undersecretary two years ago. The third concerns the murder of one of her acquaintances from the time before the West German embassy. And I suggest we wait with that part.”
“Why?” said the GD.
“We need to know a bit more,” said Johansson. “On the other hand we probably will fairly soon, so it won’t be a long wait.”
“The West German embassy,” said the GD drawlingly. “She can’t have been very old then?”
“Sixteen,” said Johansson. “She was young, radical, and involved, but exploited and kept in the dark by her boyfriend, who was almost twice her age.”
“In concrete terms,” said the GD, “what did she do and why did she do it?”
“She helped the Germans with somewhat simple practical matters. Nothing remarkable. Loaned out her father’s car, which her boyfriend, the now deceased Sten Welander, used for transport and reconnaissance missions. She didn’t have a driver’s license herself, and her father had moved abroad at that time and left the car behind so it was easily accessible.… Yes … Then sh
e bought food for the terrorists at some point. In addition the Germans stayed for a few days at a summer place that her mother’s family owned.”
“The Tischler family chateau out on Värmdö,” said the GD, who apparently was not completely ignorant.
“Yes,” said Johansson. “But the one who actually took care of that was probably her older cousin Theo.”
“And that was all,” asked the GD.
“Yes,” said Johansson. “That was the whole thing.”
“So why did she do it?” the GD asked curiously. “Did she know what kind of plans the Germans had?”
“No,” said Johansson. “She had no idea about that. She thought it was about helping some radical German students who were wanted at home in Germany to hide from the police. She hadn’t heard a word about any terrorists or any violent actions. It was her boyfriend Welander who got her to believe that.”
“Helped by a combination of youthful ignorance and radical involvement,” the GD added dryly.
“More or less,” said Johansson.
“And we are quite sure about this?” asked the GD. “Both what she did in purely practical terms and why she did it?”
“Yes,” said Johansson. “There’s not the slightest doubt on any of those points.”
“If that’s so,” said the GD while he nodded in the direction of his own ceiling light, “then in Stein’s case this concerns the protection of a criminal. Making a rough estimate, without having checked on this, it must be at least fifteen years since the statute of limitations ran out. Probably twenty years.”
“Something like that,” said Johansson. “Law is not my strong suit.”
“But it is mine,” said the GD, smiling. “Why did we pull the case out of our files two years ago?”
“For several reasons, according to my predecessor, Berg,” said Johansson. “The two who were actively involved, Welander and Eriksson, were both long dead. The statute of limitations had run its course in terms of Stein’s involvement and Tischler’s probably too. Then the truth commission was going to come in, and considering that the West German embassy was a very conspicuous event that is still interesting in terms of politics and the media—I can imagine for example that the German media would have a few ideas about the Swedish part of the drama—among other things there are relatives of the German victims who are still alive—I guess there was simply a desire for peace and quiet.”
Another Time, Another Life: The Story of a Crime Page 35