Free Falling, As If in a Dream

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

  “Of course, boss,” said Johansson’s secretary. Poor, poor Jan Lewin, she thought.

  Johansson’s secretary contacted Lewin by sending an e-mail via the police department’s own variation of GroupWise, a system that was difficult to break into even for a talented hacker. Because Johansson’s secretary was not the least bit like her boss, it was both a courteous and an explanatory message. Obviously formulated as a request. Would Lewin be so kind as to contact Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström, current position with the property investigation squad with the Stockholm police, and find out what he really wanted? This by request of their mutual boss, Lars Martin Johansson, chief of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation.

  What have I gotten myself into? thought Lewin. Only an hour ago, in a moment of weakness that had flapped past his top superior on weary wings, he had had the decision in his hands and a decent chance of putting an end to the whole charade. Now it was too late. Everything was as usual again and probably even worse. After taking three deep breaths he called Bäckström, and just as he’d feared he too was the same as always.

  “Bäckström speaking,” Bäckström answered.

  “Yes, hi, Bäckström,” said Lewin. “This is Jan Lewin. All’s well, I hope. I have a question for you.”

  “Johnny,” said Bäckström loudly and clearly, because he knew that Jan Lewin hated being called Johnny. “It’s been awhile, Johnny,” he continued. “What can I help you with?”

  Lewin steeled himself. Really exerted himself to be polite, correct, and brief. He was calling on the boss’s behalf. The boss wondered what Bäckström wanted and he had assigned Jan Lewin to find out.

  “If he’s so fucking horny about it I suggest he get in touch himself,” said Bäckström.

  “Excuse me,” said Lewin.

  “Now it’s like this, Johnny,” said Bäckström in his most pedagogical tone of voice. “If I were you,” he continued, “I would seriously advise him to call me. I think it’s in his own interest. Considering what he’s up to,” he clarified.

  “I’m interpreting this as that you don’t want to talk with me,” said Lewin.

  “As I said,” said Bäckström. “If I were Johansson I would sure call Chief Inspector Bäckström. Not send you, Johnny.”

  “I’ll convey that,” said Lewin. “Anything else you want said?”

  “If he really wants to put some order in Palme, then he can call,” said Bäckström. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a lot to do.”

  What an exceptionally primitive policeman, thought Jan Lewin.

  Regardless of anyone’s opinion of the prime minister’s own special adviser, he certainly could not be accused of being primitive. On the contrary, he was cultivated far beyond the limits of ordinary human understanding. Johansson called him on his most secret phone number and he answered immediately. Obviously without identifying himself because that, considering his mission and calling, was so to speak in the nature of things.

  “Yes,” said the special adviser with an inquisitive hesitation on the word.

  “Johansson,” said Johansson. “I heard you called, and naturally I’m wondering if there’s anything I can help you with. How are you doing, by the way?”

  “Lovely to hear from you, Johansson,” said the special adviser with tangible warmth in his voice.

  Actually he didn’t want anything in particular. Just a simple “how are you doing these days?” to a good friend with whom he got in touch far too seldom. Personally he was just back from a well-deserved vacation, and as soon as he’d set foot on Swedish soil he was struck by the thought that he had to call his dear old friend Lars Martin Johansson.

  “An almost Freudian symbolism,” observed the special adviser, who seemed to have had vague presentiments of Johansson even an hour earlier, as he sat in the government plane en route from London to Arlanda, but it was only when he set foot “on the native soil that shaped us both” that the pieces fell into place.

  “Nice of you to think of me,” said Johansson. Talk, talk, talk, he thought. Otherwise the special adviser was feeling “really splendid, just as I deserve, and thanks for asking.” He had obviously noted Johansson’s friendly offer of unspecified help, but that was not why he’d called, but simply to invite Johansson to dinner. Socialize, eat a little and drink a little.

  “What do you think?” said the special adviser.

  “Sounds nice,” said Johansson. “It will be a pleasure.”

  “What do you think about doing it as soon as tomorrow?”

  “Suits me fine,” said Johansson.

  This preparedness, this readiness, this obvious capacity…regardless of all of life’s changes…not to mention unforeseen and spontaneous invitations.

  “I envy you, Lars.” The special adviser sighed. “Imagine if I could always be the same. Shall we say seven-thirty at my humble abode in the Uppland suburbs?”

  “Looking forward to it,” said Johansson. Wonder what he really wants? he thought, and personally he also had a question to which he wanted an answer.

  “What did Bäckström want?” asked Johansson as soon as he finished the call and got hold of his secretary.

  “He didn’t want to talk with Lewin in any event,” she replied. “He wanted to talk with you. Lewin suspects that he has a tip about the Palme assassination. Bäckström called again just five minutes ago.”

  “In that case he’ll have to take it up with Flykt,” grunted Johansson.

  “I actually suggested that,” said his secretary. “I told him that if it concerned the Palme assassination, he should call Flykt.”

  “What did he say then?”

  “He demanded to talk with you,” sighed his secretary.

  “The hell he will,” said Johansson, feeling his blood pressure rise. “Call Flykt and tell him to shut the bastard up. Now!”

  “I’ll speak with Flykt,” said Johansson’s secretary. Poor, poor Yngve Flykt, she thought.

  Flykt didn’t send Bäckström an e-mail. All that stuff with IT and computers and networks and all the other electronic hocus-pocus that the younger officers were involved in was not his cup of tea. It was extremely overrated, if you asked him, and in any event he was too old to learn that kind of thing.

  What was wrong with an ordinary, honorable telephone? The classic police resource when you wanted to get in touch with someone, thought Flykt as he dialed Bäckström’s number. Bäckström answered the moment after the first ring.

  “Hello, Henning,” Bäckström hissed. “Where were we when we were interrupted?”

  “I’m looking for Chief Inspector Bäckström, Evert Bäckström,” Flykt clarified. “Have I—”

  “Bäckström speaking,” said Bäckström, sounding just like always again.

  “That’s good,” said Flykt. “Then I’ve called the right number. This is Yngve. Yngve Flykt at the Palme group. Hope all’s well with you, Bäckström. I heard you had something about Palme? I’m all ears.”

  “Do you have a paper and pen?” asked Bäckström.

  “Of course,” said Flykt sincerely, because he’d hit the record button before he phoned. “I’m taking notes,” he lied. This is going like a dance, thought Flykt.

  “Then you can tell your so-called boss that he can call me,” said Bäckström.

  “I understand,” said Flykt. “But he has actually asked me to talk with you. This is my area, my and my colleagues’ area, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” said Bäckström. “So you can tell him I don’t want to talk with you.”

  “Now I think you’re being unjust, Evert,” said Flykt. “If you have something to contribute, it’s actually your duty as an officer—”

  “Listen, Flykt,” interrupted Bäckström, “I don’t want to talk with you. I might just as well call the newspapers. I want to talk with Johansson.”

  “But why?”

  “Ask Johansson,” said Bäckström. “Ask Johansson if he has any ideas about that.”
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  “He seemed completely out of control, if you ask me,” said Flykt five minutes later.

  “You have the call on tape,” said Johansson.

  “Of course,” said Flykt. “First I got a definite impression that he thought it was someone else who was calling, some Henning…You don’t think he may be in contact with that old celebrity lawyer? Henning Sjöström?”

  “I can’t imagine that,” said Johansson. “Sjöström is an excellent fellow. He only defends pedophiles, arsonists, and mass murderers. Someone like Bäckström he wouldn’t touch with a pair of tongs.

  “It’ll work out,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders. “Just e-mail me the conversation.”

  “Obviously, boss,” said Flykt. What do I do now? Best to ask a younger talent, he thought.

  “Now let’s do this,” said Lars Martin Johansson fifteen minutes later, looking sternly at his secretary.

  “I’m listening, boss.”

  “Prepare a memorandum on all previous conversations with Bäckström. As of now I want complete documentation when he calls again. When he’s called five more times, inform me immediately.”

  “Understood, boss,” said his secretary. Poor, poor Evert Bäckström, she thought.

  25

  After the meeting with Johansson, Holt felt a need to leave her office and the police building on Kungsholmen where her desk was only one of several thousand. Simply get out and move around. Work the way she had back when she was a real police officer. Talk with someone who’d been there and had something to tell.

  Lisa Mattei had expressed doubt about Holt and Lewin’s theory about the perpetrator and his escape route, and that was reason enough to check them one more time, two birds with one stone, and who better to talk with in that case than her older colleague from the uniformed police who’d driven her home from the crime scene a few days earlier. The one who’d been there when it happened.

  The colleague was named Berg, and he was now with the uniformed police in Västerort. He had worked more than forty years as a policeman, would soon retire, and was still a police inspector. This could not be blamed on lack of contacts within the corps. His father had been a policeman, his uncle a legendary police officer, bureau head Berg, Johansson’s predecessor as head of the operational unit of the secret police.

  The fault was his own. For more than ten years, from the late seventies to the early nineties, he’d been one of the country’s most investigated police officers. The department of internal investigations with the Stockholm police had been at him thirty or more times due to complaints of mistreatment and other excesses on duty. His own boss, Lars Martin Johansson, had even put him and his colleagues in jail twenty years ago. That time it concerned serious mistreatment of a retiree, which was supposed to have taken place in the holding cells at the Norrmalm district. Nonetheless, the outcome was minimal. Berg and his associates had been released every time.

  The one who put a stop to his career—the one ultimately responsible for Berg’s inability to gain the title of chief inspector—was his own uncle. The year before the prime minister was murdered, he had the secret police make a survey of extreme right-wing officers within the Stockholm police, and before long it became clear that his own nephew was playing a prominent role in that context. When the prime minister was assassinated six months later and the media started digging into the so-called police track, Police Inspector Berg was the individual officer most often mentioned in the various lead files that the Palme investigators were collecting. Never convicted. Indicted and released one time, but no more than that, and for the days his own boss had him held and jailed him, he was later able to collect sizeable damages.

  The night the Swedish prime minister was murdered he’d been the third police officer to set foot on the crime scene.

  Small world, and who could be better than him? thought Anna Holt.

  When Holt got hold of her colleague Berg by phone, he suggested they meet at a café near the police station. Like Holt, he lived in Solna, and because he would be working the afternoon shift, getting together down by the station was best for him. Besides, there were never any people there at that time of day, and they had good coffee and sandwiches too.

  “Iranians,” Berg explained. “But nice people. They’re the ones who’ve taken over the service sector nowadays.”

  “Nice of you to help out,” said Holt half an hour later.

  “It’s cool,” he said, smiling. “Had nothing better to do, to be honest. But there’s one thing I want to say before we start.”

  “Of course,” said Holt.

  Then he’d expounded for five minutes about himself—by way of introduction, pointing out everything that Holt surely already knew—before he got to the payoff. He had not had anything whatsoever to do with the assassination of Olof Palme. He had been as surprised as everyone else. Just as dismayed as everyone else, believe it or not, and if there was anything he wished from his life, it was that he and his fellow officers who’d been there when it happened had succeeded in seizing the perpetrator at the scene.

  “Just so we save time,” said Berg, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I believe you,” said Holt. “I’ve never believed in those characters on TV and their police track.” The fact that I do believe quite a bit of the other things I’ve read is hardly interesting right now, she thought.

  “Nice to hear,” said Berg, looking as though he meant what he said.

  “There’s a completely different matter I wanted to discuss with you,” said Holt. “The reconstruction of the crime that our colleagues made at that time. I had a hard time getting the times to tally.”

  Then for five minutes she recounted her and Lewin’s conclusions that Witness One must have been one and a half minutes behind the perpetrator when he came up from the stairs to Malmskillnadsgatan. And that Witness Two, simply for that reason, could not have seen the perpetrator run across the street “right before.” On the other hand, she did not say a word about the witness Madeleine Nilsson. Holt intended to wait with that bit.

  “If we assume that the murder was committed at 23:21:30,” said Holt, “and that the perpetrator needs a minute to run down Tunnelgatan and up the stairs to Malmskillnadsgatan, then he’s standing up there at 23:22:30.”

  “I know,” said Berg with feeling. “The man who shot Palme must’ve had crazy good luck.”

  Then he recounted his memories of the same course of events, which Holt had devoted hours to reading about.

  “According to the officers at central administration and all the know-it-alls, we got the alarm from Sveavägen almost exactly twenty-four minutes past eleven,” said Berg. “I’ll buy that, plus or minus the usual seconds here or there, ’cause it’s always like that. The time is thus 23:24:00,” he clarified. “Then we were at Brunkebergstorg right by the National Bank, we were coming from the north on Malmskillnadsgatan, so less than a minute earlier we’d passed the stairs up from Tunnelgatan. We must have missed the murderer by only thirty seconds. Palme is down on Sveavägen, a hundred yards to the right of us. He was shot only a minute and a half earlier, and we’re driving past at a leisurely pace up on Malmskillnadsgatan and manage to drive another four hundred yards before we get the alarm. You can go crazy for less.” Berg sighed and shook his head.

  “So how fast were you driving?” said Holt.

  “We were gliding,” said Berg. “The way you do when you want to see all you can from a bus. Gliding down Malmskillnadsgatan at max twenty miles an hour. Calm and quiet out. It was cold and nasty too, I recall. People were trotting along with turned-up collars, hands in their pockets and shoulders hunched. We were sitting there in peace in our warm Dodge until all hell broke loose on the radio.” Berg shook his head.

  “What happened then?”

  “Full speed as soon as we responded to the call,” said Berg. “Gunfire at the corner of Sveavägen and Tunnelgatan, so there wasn’t much more to ask. Blue lights, sirens, first a right from Brunkebergstorg down to Sve
avägen and then five hundred yards straight north to the crime scene. I was the first man out of the bus, and the time must have been somewhere between 23:24:20 and 23:24:30. Would’ve taken us less than half a minute after we responded, so that certainly tallies,” Berg said.

  The riot squad bus had driven down Malmskillnadsgatan one and a half minutes after the murder, and thirty to forty seconds after the murderer stood at the top of the stairs and looked around before he disappeared from Witness One’s view.

  The officers in the Södermalm riot squad had not seen the perpetrator. They hadn’t seen Witness One either, or observed Witness Two, and so far all was well and good, for they shouldn’t have, thought Holt.

  Witness One and Witness Two, thought Holt, but before she could ask him he had anticipated her.

  “I see what’s bothering you, Holt,” said Berg suddenly. “You have the idea that the woman up on Malmskillnadsgatan, the one who’s called Witness Two in that chain all the geniuses at the bureau were harping about, the one who says to Witness One as he comes up on the street that the murderer ran down David Bagares gata, you get the idea that it was someone other than the perpetrator she’d seen.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “That’s what I thought as soon as the picture was clear to me,” said Berg. “How else would it have fit together? Time-wise,” I mean.

  “But you never said anything,” said Holt.

  “Why do you suppose that is?” said Berg. “Assume that someone like me had gone to the fine colleagues at the detective bureau on Kungholmsgatan and said I thought they’d gotten a few things turned around. Something that major, I mean.”

  “I don’t think they would’ve started cheering,” said Holt. “What did you do when you got out of the bus down at the crime scene?” she continued.

  “As soon as the situation was clear to me, this must have been ten seconds at the most, three of the others and I ran down Tunnelgatan. When we got to the stairs up to Malmskillnadsgatan a woman was standing up there, waving and shouting, so I ran up the stairs to the street. That was Witness Two, that woman, I realized later. It might have taken a minute at most for me to run from the crime scene up to Malmskillnadsgatan. As I said to you the last time we talked.”