Free Falling, As If in a Dream

by Free Falling, As If in a Dream (retail) (epub)

  “There were less than half as many of us at the police department at that time, but I bought the argument lock, stock, and barrel. Suddenly getting a family with seven thousand members who backed you up in all kinds of weather. That argument hit home with someone like me,” Lewin observed.

  “Then you discovered that not everyone in the family was fun to deal with,” Holt put in.

  “I guess it’s like that in all families, and I discovered that the very first day,” said Lewin. “The first thing I discovered was that almost all the people in the family were men, young men, and that not all of them were fun to deal with, and that basically none of them was like me.”

  “But you chose to stay anyway,” said Holt. Why didn’t you leave? she thought.

  “Yes,” said Lewin. “I was of course already me, so naturally I chose to stay. On the other hand, just quitting and telling them where to go, that wasn’t me.”

  Jan Lewin stayed on. An odd character, but good enough at sports not to be bullied for the usual reason at that place and at that time. In addition, he was good to have around when there were tests looming in law and other theoretical subjects.

  “Believe it or not,” said Lewin, “I was actually a pretty good runner at that time and a passable marksman.”

  “Although you were best in the theoretical subjects,” said Holt.

  “Yes,” said Lewin. “The competition was not exactly murderous. Not in the late sixties at the police academy in Solna,” he said, suddenly looking cheerful.

  “Our police instructor took a liking to me,” he continued. “Already after the first course he came up and said that it had been years since he’d had such a promising student. Who do you think his last promising student was, by the way?”

  “Johansson,” said Holt. “Although according to the story I heard in the building, you should have been better.”

  “More precise,” said Lewin, nodding. “The only thing our old teacher had to say against Lars Martin Johansson was that he had a bohemian nature. That he wasn’t humble enough and wasn’t even afraid to talk back. But what did it matter if you were like him?”

  The years after school had simply rolled by, and Jan Lewin fell into line and followed along. His old teacher from the academy had not forgotten him. As soon as Lewin fulfilled the mandatory years with the uniformed police, his mentor called and offered him a position with the homicide squad in Stockholm, and it couldn’t get better than that.

  “It was not by chance that the homicide squad at that time was called the first squad, and the chief inspector with the first squad who dealt with murder investigations was C-I-1, chief inspector one,” Lewin clarified.

  “Those were the happiest years in my life actually,” said Lewin. “We had a boss at homicide who was just as big a legend at that time as our own Johansson is today.”

  “Dahlgren,” said Holt.

  “Dahlgren,” Lewin confirmed, nodding. “When he welcomed me and we had a so-called private conversation, he told me that he was the only one on the squad who had his diploma, from Hvitfeldtska secondary school in Gothenburg to boot, and that he had noticed that now there were two of us. And even if Södra Latin in Stockholm couldn’t compare to Hvitfeldtska, still, even more was expected from people like him and me than from the ordinary, somewhat simpler officers. Dahlgren was a good person. He was educated, humorous, a very unusual policeman even at homicide. Which should have the best in the corps anyway.”

  Even so he took his own life, thought Holt. Because she didn’t intend to say that.

  “Even so he took his own life,” said Lewin suddenly, “but maybe you knew that.”

  “Yes,” said Holt. “I heard he got sick, was disabled, and as soon as he came home he took his own life.”

  “It was his heart. He couldn’t imagine such a life,” said Lewin. “Being a burden to others was inconceivable to him.”

  So it was better to shoot himself. Because regardless of how educated and humorous he might have been, he was still the man he was, thought Holt. How damn stupid can they really be? she thought.

  “Then I got my first big case,” said Lewin. “I remember that. Just as well as I remember the summer when Dad died.”

  Now he looks that way again, thought Holt.

  “It was 1978, in the fall,” said Lewin. “I was barely thirty, and it wasn’t common that such a young investigator got to run a murder investigation, but that particular fall we were really busy. It was Dahlgren who decided it, and that’s how it was, and if I had problems I could always come to him.

  “Of course there were problems,” Lewin continued, sighing. “Although of course I hadn’t foreseen them.”

  A young Polish-born prostitute had been murdered in her studio in Vasastan. One of the major murders of that time, headline material in the tabloids. In a police sense it was cleared up and carried down to the basement the moment the prime suspect committed suicide.

  “The Kataryna murder,” said Lewin. “The victim was named Kataryna Rosenbaum. I don’t know if you’re familiar with it? The perpetrator had treated her very badly. A very intense assault.”

  “I’ve read about it,” said Holt. And heard about it, she thought. About how Jan Lewin basked in police department glory.

  “The one who was finally arrested, he was in prison for a few months, and according to the tabloids he was of course the one who did it. He was a man who knew her. They met at a restaurant, started a relationship; he didn’t know she was a prostitute. According to him she said she ran a secretarial agency. He was a completely ordinary man. Divorced, true, but almost everyone was at that time. Had a child with his ex-wife, a little girl, lived alone in a large apartment out in Vällingby, engineer, orderly circumstances, good finances.”

  “From the little I’ve read it seems pretty clear that it was him,” said Holt.

  “Yes, I actually believe that,” said Lewin. “When he realized his new woman was a prostitute, something snapped inside him and he beat her to death. According to what I arrived at myself, at least.”

  “But the evidence wasn’t sufficient and the prosecutor let him out.”

  “Yes,” said Lewin. “Before my associates and I had time to have another go at it, he took his own life. On Christmas Eve of all days,” said Lewin.

  “But that’s hardly anything you can be blamed for,” Holt objected. “If you’re a more or less normal person and you’ve murdered someone, that’s probably reason enough. To take your life, I mean.”

  “He doesn’t think so,” said Lewin, making a grimace.

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

  “Not when he visits me in my dreams,” said Lewin.

  “So what does he say?” asked Holt.

  “That he was innocent,” said Lewin. “That it was my fault that he took his own life. That I was the one who murdered him.”

  “I can imagine what your psychiatrist said about that.”

  “Yes,” said Lewin. “She was very clear on that point. It wasn’t even about him. It was about me.”

  “I agree with her,” said Holt.

  “I don’t know,” said Lewin. “But it helped to talk about it.”

  “It helped?”

  “Yes,” said Lewin. “Now it’s been awhile since he visited me last. What do you think about a quick stroll, by the way? These therapy sessions can be a strain. My legs fall asleep.”

  “Sure,” said Holt. “We can finish that when we come back,” she said, nodding at the wine bottle on the table. Now he’s smiling again. Maybe you should switch jobs, Anna, she thought.

  Wednesday, October 10.

  The bay outside Puerto Pollensa on north Mallorca

  Just under an hour’s run and the Volvo Penta marine diesel engine that is Esperanza’s heart has taken her twelve nautical miles out into the bay. Past Platja de Formentor, Cala Murta, and the excellent fishing spots outside El Bancal where you can catch sea perch, octopus, and skate almost year-round. Less than
a nautical mile remaining to the tip of the peninsula at Cap de Formentor and then straight out in the deep channel toward Canal de Menorca. Heaving swell with foam on top, a good deal deeper under her keel, parry with the rudder, soon time to make the final decision and shift course. The sun like a flaming ball halfway toward the zenith. High enough to burn off the haze and keep it 90 degrees in the shade. A hot day even here where it is normally almost 70 degrees during the day long into the fall. Other boats in sight and Esperanza is no longer alone on the sea.

  21

  Six weeks earlier, Wednesday, August 29.

  The headquarters of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation on Kungsholmen in Stockholm

  “Flykt is no longer among us,” said Johansson. “Tips are pouring in, so the Palme group has its hands full. We’ll have to get by without him, and I thought that you, Lisa, could start,” said Johansson, nodding at Mattei.

  “Okay,” said Lisa Mattei. “As I already told the boss, I saw Söderström last week. As I’m sure you know, he was the head of the bodyguards when Palme was assassinated.”

  “I’m listening,” said Johansson solemnly, clasping his hands over his belly and sinking down in his own chair. The one that was twice as big as all the others around the table in his own conference room. The one that had neck support, arms, a foldable footrest, and built-in massage function.

  Mattei reported what Söderström had said. That the prime minister, the day he was murdered, mentioned that he had tentative plans to go to the movies, or perhaps meet the family outside his own residence. Plans, Mattei underscored. The actual decision to go to the movies, and then kill two birds with one stone by also seeing their son Mårten and his fiancée, had been made only half an hour before Olof Palme and his wife left their apartment.

  “I see then,” said Johansson. “How many of the officers up at SePo were aware of his plans before he decided?”

  “If I may add something before I touch on that,” said Lisa Mattei, with a careful glance at her boss.

  “Of course,” said Johansson with a generous hand gesture.

  “I’ve read the interviews with both his wife and his son. The decision to go to the movies was made that evening. What decided the issue was probably his conversation with his son about eight o’clock. He had, however, talked about plans to do that earlier the same day.”

  “Which of the colleagues at SePo knew about it, his plans, that is?” asked Holt.

  “First the two officers who were assigned to him that day,” said Mattei. “They were his usual bodyguards. The two colleagues the newspapers at that time always called Bill and Bull,” said Mattei. “Criminal Inspector Kjell Larsson and Detective Sergeant Orvar Fasth. When at noon the prime minister told them he didn’t need them anymore, Larsson called Söderström and reported how things were. Söderström went directly to his superior, bureau head Berg, and informed him; thus so far there are four people at SePo who were already aware of the whole thing at twelve noon.”

  “After that,” said Lewin.

  “Then it gets trickier,” said Mattei. “Because Söderström might need to reorganize and send in two replacements for Larsson and Fasth, he informed the officer on duty during the evening. He in turn, at least this is what Söderström thinks, talked with the six guards on the on-duty list for the weekend. Another seven colleagues and now we’re up to eleven,” Mattei summarized.

  “Which probably means the whole squad must have known about it by that time,” Lewin observed.

  “Not everyone,” Mattei objected. “That’s not what I think at least.”

  “Why not?” asked Holt. “Even at the time I was working there they had a break room.”

  “Certainly more than eleven.” Mattei nodded. “Some of them must have said something to someone. But at the same time we have to be clear that this was not exactly a big sensation. The victim already had a history of similar behavior, if I may say so. Sometimes he simply wanted to be left alone.” Who doesn’t, she thought.

  “Twenty,” Johansson suggested with a slight wave of his right hand. “About twenty of our colleagues in the bodyguards knew that the prime minister had vague plans to go out and do something.”

  “Sounds about right,” said Mattei. “In total there were thirty-eight officers working there at that time.”

  “Okay,” said Johansson. “How many at the victim’s office knew about it?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Mattei, shaking her head. “My contacts in the government offices are still small, or more precisely, nonexistent. I’ve read the interviews with the people who worked there.”

  “So what do they say?” said Johansson.

  “The question about possibly going to the movies was not asked at all.”

  “What kind of nonsense is that?” said Johansson. “It’s clear they must have asked about that.”

  “No,” Mattei persisted. “The closest you get is that a few were asked whether the prime minister said anything about leaving his residence that evening. That’s not really the same thing,” she observed.

  Certainly not, thought Johansson.

  “All three who were asked replied that he did not,” said Mattei. “On the other hand, no one was asked about any plans.”

  “I do have a contact in the government offices,” said Johansson. “He was around back then. I think I’ll talk to him and then get back to you.”

  “The special adviser, later undersecretary, the government’s éminence grise, the man without a name, Sweden’s own Cardinal Richelieu,” said Mattei.

  “Oh well,” said Johansson. “It’s probably not all that remarkable. His name is actually Nilsson.” So you’re aware of him in any event, he thought.

  “He was interviewed too,” said Mattei.

  “So what does he say?” asked Johansson.

  “Nothing, basically absolutely nothing,” said Mattei. “He simply has nothing to say. He actually says that. That’s almost the only thing he says. Out of consideration for the security of the realm, he can’t say anything. Out of consideration for the security of the realm he also can’t explain why he can’t say anything. It’s completely meaningless. When he gets that routine question in the beginning about confirming that he is who he is, name and address and social security number and all that, he tells the interviewer to stop fooling around. Stop fooling around, next question, constable. Word for word, that’s what he says.”

  “So what does the officer who interviewed him say?” asked Johansson.

  “He apologizes. He’s probably about to pee his pants,” said Mattei.

  “I’ll talk to him,” said Johansson with an authoritative expression. “Then I’ll get back to you.”

  “About twenty at SePo, an unknown number at his office, but at least one—”

  “Who’s that?” interrupted Johansson.

  “The special adviser,” said Mattei. “Bureau head Berg confirmed that in his memos from the day of the murder. They’re incorporated into the case files, and according to Berg’s notes he discussed various security issues with him, including the prime minister’s personal protection, at around three in the afternoon. What this concerned in concrete terms, according to Söderström, was the prime minister’s plans to possibly go to the movies that evening.”

  “But the officer who questioned him still must have asked about his conversation with Berg,” said Johansson.

  “He did, too. But out of consideration for the security of the realm, blah blah blah, and next question, please. Amazing interview,” said Mattei.

  “What remains is the victim’s family,” she continued. “His wife, his son Mårten, and the son’s then girlfriend. That makes three, and according to the interviews none of them talked with anyone else. Moreover, both the wife and the son seem pretty security conscious, if I may say so.”

  “Friends and acquaintances then,” Johansson persisted.

  “According to the interviews with former cabinet minister Sven Aspling and party secretary Bo Toresson,
besides the son the only ones he talked with on the phone from home that same evening, he didn’t say anything about this.”

  “They were asked the question anyway,” said Johansson.

  “Yes,” said Mattei. “They were.”

  “So basically the whole world may have known about his plans, at least five or six hours before he even decided,” sighed Johansson.

  “A maximum of fifty persons, if you’re asking me. Twenty at SePo, perhaps as many at his office, plus ten as a margin of error. Makes fifty tops,” said Mattei.

  It’s always something, thought Johansson. The date and time of the masquerade at the Stockholm Royal Opera House in March 1792 were known by several hundred people months in advance. A hundred of them received written invitations two months before, and at least ten of those who were there had been involved in the assassination of Gustav III.

  “High time for a little leg stretch,” said Johansson, getting up suddenly.

  22

  After the leg stretch Holt declared that she no longer believed either in Christer Pettersson as the perpetrator or in the escape route that the Palme investigators had decided on early in the investigation. On the other hand, she did believe in the witness Madeleine Nilsson and even in Johansson’s description of the perpetrator.

  “You’ve finally seen the truth and the light,” said Johansson.

  “Call it what you want. I’ve changed my opinion,” answered Holt.

  “Although it took awhile, Anna,” Johansson teased.

  Mattei seemed to have taken on Holt’s doubts. With all respect for Holt and Lewin’s calculations, she was generally skeptical of witness statements. Essentially the only thing they had accomplished was to cast doubt on the earlier investigation’s theories and promote a new hypothesis instead. Not an antithesis even, only a hypothesis.

  “But we can’t be any more certain than that,” said Mattei. “A dramatic, muddled situation. Seconds here or there, that means nothing to me,” she declared, shaking her blond head.