Free Falling, As If in a Dream

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

  “After much consideration I want to convey the following. I have a former boyfriend who, after being trained as a security guard, moved to Stockholm and got a job at a security company there. For the past several years he’s said to have lived in Old Town right in the vicinity of the street where Palme lived…”

  Mattei had a simple matrix she held them up against—about forty years old, about six feet tall, dark-colored hair without streaks of blond or gray, relatively sturdy body build, familiar with the area, familiar with the use of firearms, access to legal weapons—and at a rate of ten per hour she then put them aside.

  In nine cases out of ten the lead file that her colleagues had prepared consisted exclusively of the tips they’d received. A letter, often anonymous, a telephone call, or even a personal visit to the police. Often a courier was used because the informant himself dared not risk appearing because the perpetrator would then immediately realize who had told on him. In nine cases out of ten it had never been more than that.

  In one case out of ten things had happened. The police had done searches on the person pointed out in various registries, interviews had been held with him and persons who knew him. On several occasions he had even been tailed. It was unclear why, because these individuals were oddly similar to a number of others on whom nothing more had been done than receive the tip, give it a serial number, open a new lead file, put the papers in a binder, and put the binder on a shelf.

  What’s the use of this? thought Lisa Mattei and sighed. The only consolation was that none of them seemed especially like the perpetrator that Lars Martin Johansson or Anna Holt had talked about. No acuity, no presence of mind or merciless capacity for practical action; not familiar with the area; no interesting contacts. What remained were chance encounters with the victim, where the probability was so slight that it could scarcely be calculated. The same chance that both Johansson and Holt had dismissed early on. Why in the name of heaven should a person who had lived his entire life in a small community in northern Värmland suddenly get in the car and drive four hundred miles one way to Stockholm, wander around the city, and quite unexpectedly run into the person he hated more than anyone in the world?

  He’d been away that weekend. No one had talked with him before he left. When he came back on Sunday evening he was a different person. He made hints to people around him…he’d shown one of them his gun…

  But you leave me cold, thought Mattei, putting him back in the same binder where he’d been the whole time.

  27

  Already by Thursday evening Bäckström had used up the grace Johansson had measured out to him. A quickly escalating activity in which Bäckström sounded more and more like Bäckström with every new call and expressed himself downright offensively in the last one. Pure telephone terror, and Johansson’s secretary was not only sick and tired of him; she hated him deeply and heartily.

  Now you’ve had it, you little butterball, she thought as she knocked on Johansson’s door.

  Now you’ll get yours, you fat little slob, thought Lars Martin Johansson five minutes later. Then he called Holt and told her he wanted to meet with her immediately.

  “So you mean to say he called Helena cunt-lips?” asked Holt ten minutes later.

  “Sure,” said Johansson. “We have it on tape. Along with all the other indecencies he spewed out.”

  “If he did that he’ll be immediately removed from duty,” said Holt.

  “Sure,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders. “Talk with our attorney if you need to. Do what you want with him. Boil the bastard for glue, if you want. But before you do it, I want to know what he wants, and when I know that I want him to stop calling.”

  “I’ll arrange it,” said Holt. “But before I do that there’s another thing I have to talk with you about.”

  “I’m listening,” said Johansson. “With excitement,” he added.

  “I talked with an old acquaintance of yours. Officer Berg who works with the uniformed police in Västerort.”

  “Depends on what you mean by acquaintance,” said Johansson, who no longer seemed pleased. “The only Berg I know is dead. Erik Berg, his uncle. My predecessor at SePo and an excellent policeman. Not the least like that neo-Nazi he’s unfortunately related to.”

  “I’ve read his file in the Palme material,” said Holt. “But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

  “You wanted to tell his version of what happened at the jail one evening more than twenty years ago,” said Johansson.

  “Yes,” said Holt.

  “You don’t need to,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve already heard it through the usual grapevine. If you’re interested, on the other hand, I can tell you why I did what I did back then.”

  “That would be nice,” said Holt.

  “Sure,” said Johansson, and then he told her why he’d visited Berg in his cell more than twenty years before, only six months before the prime minister was shot. Whatever that had to do with the matter.

  The interrogation was on its third day. Berg had been confronted with a number of serious suspicions. He lacked all factual counterarguments. He was hanging by a thread, according to Johansson.

  “The bastard was hanging by a thread, in brief, and earlier in the day he had mostly sat there and protested what a capable policeman he was and bragged about his dad and how much he’d meant to him and how he had had to sacrifice his life on duty and all that bullshit. I never met his father, but from what I’d heard I realized he was the spitting image of his son. Plus he drank like a fish. Lazy, incompetent, a bully, petty criminal, wife beater, drunk…and a policeman. We can’t have it like that, Anna.”

  “But why did you show the investigation of cause of death to his son?” asked Holt.

  “I’ll get to that,” said Johansson. “To show him that he could spare us that bullshit. To pull the rug out from under him. But it wasn’t news to him. He’d known for a long time what had really happened when his dear dad closed up shop.”

  “Then there was no purpose in telling him that, was there?” Holt objected.

  “Sure there was,” said Johansson. “The purpose was to show that there were others besides him who knew. It hit home, if you ask me. If he could have chosen he would surely have admitted almost anything, just to avoid hearing that I knew the truth about his dad.”

  “I still think it was both cruel and unnecessary,” said Holt.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” said Johansson. “I don’t think like you. Someone like Berg should never have become a policeman. Nor his dad either, and if I’d had anything better to hit him with than his hero of a dad of course I would have used that instead.”

  “You were never worried he might kill himself?”

  “Not in the least,” said Johansson. “Unfortunately he’s not the type. He’s the type who gladly kills other people. On the other hand, when it comes to himself he’s both gentle and understanding.”

  “I think he’s changed considerably, actually. I’m pretty sure he’s a completely different and better person today.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment,” said Johansson. “You, on the other hand, are a good person. An excellent police officer, a decent person. Too weak for someone like Berg, because you’re a little too decent.”

  “What about you?” said Holt. “According to Berg—”

  “I know,” interrupted Johansson. “If you’re wondering on your own account. Sure, I’m a consistent person. Good to the good, hard to the hard, and bad to the bad. Once upon a time when I was dealing with that sort of thing I was an excellent police officer too. One of the very best, actually. But if you’re so worried about my character, I don’t understand why you don’t ask Lewin what he thinks of Berg.”

  “Lewin?”

  “Your colleague Jan Lewin was around at that time. He was there and questioned Berg the same day that I visited him in jail later in the evening.”

  “But then he wasn’t along,” said H
olt.

  “No,” said Johansson. “I would never dream of subjecting him to that, but if it’s your meeting with that shitty little character Bäckström that’s worrying you, I can take care of that myself.”

  “No,” said Holt. “I’ll arrange it.”

  “Excellent,” said Johansson. “Find out what he wants and then you can boil the bastard for glue. Someone like Bäckström shouldn’t be a policeman either.”

  What is going on? thought Bäckström. Here you try to help a lot of incompetent colleagues to finally put a little order in the Palme investigation and the only thing that happens is that they set police officers on you. Besides that nonentity who was his boss down at lost-and-found.

  “Like I said, Bäckström, you will report immediately to Superintendent Holt at the bureau,” said Bäckström’s boss. This is the best day in a very long time, he thought. Finally a decent chance to get rid of that criminal little fatso his own boss had foisted off on him.

  “If she wants to chat with me she can come here,” said Bäckström. Fucking dyke, he thought.

  “Like I said, Bäckström. This is not a general wish on my part. This is an order. You must report immediately to Police Superintendent Anna Holt at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation,” repeated Bäckström’s boss. This is the best day of the whole summer, and I wonder just what he’s thought up this time? he thought.

  “Hello,” said Bäckström, raising his hand in a deprecating gesture. “She can’t give me any orders. I’m working in Stockholm. Has the national bureau taken over the Stockholm police district, or what? Have we had a fucking military coup?”

  “Like I said, Bäckström. I’m the one who’s giving you an order. I work here, in case you missed that. An order on duty. You must report immediately to Police Superintendent Holt at the national bureau.” This is getting better and better, he thought.

  “I promise to think about it,” said Bäckström. “Now you’ll have to excuse—”

  “Go now, Bäckström,” said his boss. “Otherwise I’m afraid you’re going to spend the night in jail.”

  “Lay off. What for?” What the hell is this fairy saying? he thought.

  “Johansson,” said his boss. “Holt called on behalf of the boss.” The butcher from Ådalen, he thought, and this was definitely the best day he’d had since he’d first met Bäckström.

  “Why didn’t you say that right away?” said Bäckström, getting up. Finally the Lapp bastard has understood his own best interest, he thought.

  “Where’s Johansson?” asked Bäckström ten minutes later, as soon as he sat down in the chair across from Holt. You skinny little wretch, he thought.

  “Not here in any case,” said Holt. “I’m the one you’ll be talking with.”

  “I prefer to talk with Johansson,” said Bäckström.

  “I understand that,” said Holt. “But it’s like this,” she continued. “You can talk with me and tell me what you want. If you don’t want to we can go our separate ways and you will immediately stop harassing Johansson’s secretary. If not, then we’re going to file a complaint against you for unlawful threat, sexual assault, and official misconduct, so at a guess you’ll be brought in for questioning later today.”

  “Lay off, Holt,” said Bäckström. What the hell is that dyke sitting there saying? he thought.

  “We have all your calls on tape,” said Holt. “Our attorney has listened to them. According to him it’s more than enough for a summons.”

  “What’s in it for me?” said Bäckström. What do they mean by taping people secretly? That’s criminal, damn it, he thought.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” said Holt. “You’re going to be reported as suspected of a crime, removed from duty, convicted of sexual assault, unlawful threat, and a number of other things. Believe me, Bäckström, I’ve listened to you on the tapes. Then you’re going to get fired from the agency. The alternative is that you stop calling Johansson’s secretary and tell me what you want to say. Maybe then I can convince Johansson not to file a complaint against you.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Bäckström. “So it’s like this. I’ve received a tip from one of my informants that concerns the weapon that was used when Palme was shot.”

  “That sounds like something you should talk about with Flykt,” said Holt.

  “Sure,” said Bäckström. “So we can all read about it in the newspaper tomorrow.”

  “Hundreds of tips have come in about the Palme weapon,” said Holt. “You know that as well as I do. What makes this tip so special?”

  “Everything,” said Bäckström with emphasis. “The informant’s identity, to start with.”

  “What’s his name?” said Holt.

  “Forget that, Holt. I would never dream of exposing any of my informants. I’d rather go to jail. Forget about my informant. What counts is that the informant has the name of the man with the weapon,” said Bäckström.

  “Of the perpetrator?” asked Holt.

  “Of the one who took care of the weapon,” Bäckström clarified. “The spider in the web you might say.” There, you got something good to suck on, you disturbed little sow, he thought.

  “So give me a name.”

  “Forget it,” said Bäckström, shaking his head. “You would never believe me if I told you.”

  “Try, Bäckström,” said Holt, looking at the clock.

  “Okay then,” said Bäckström. “Blame yourself, Holt, but this is the way it is according to my informant, and who he is you can just forget. I know who he is. He’s a white man. So forget about him now.”

  “I’m listening,” said Holt. “Tell me what your anonymous informant has already told you. What he said about the weapon, who he’s fingering, and how he knows it.” A white man, thought Holt.

  28

  The special adviser lived in a palatial villa in the Uppland suburb of Djursholm, where the crème de la crème in the vicinity of the royal capital had the highest fat content. Twenty-plus rooms, 2,100 square feet, stone, wrought iron, brick, and copper. A hundred-yard-long asphalt driveway, an acre of lawn with shading oaks that weren’t allowed to obscure the view. Not a vulgar waterfront location obviously, simply high and well-situated enough for morning sun and a clear view across Stora Värtan and Lidingö to the east. The special adviser would never have dreamed of swimming down in Framnäs bay where the IT billionaires and property swindlers held court.

  Officially he didn’t even live where he did. The villa was owned by his first wife—“clever as a poodle and faithful as a dog”—who had bought it thirty-five years earlier, only a few months before she was divorced from the man who had always lived there. Not a bad deal for a young woman who worked as a secretary at the military headquarters at Gärdet, earned 3,000 kronor a month at that time, and evidently didn’t need to borrow a cent to execute the deal.

  The special adviser himself was listed as living on Söder. A simple apartment with two rooms and a kitchen, and he was even in the telephone directory. Anyone who didn’t know better could call there and talk with his answering machine or send a letter that would never be answered. The special adviser preferred a secret life, assembled of all the particular secrets that the truly initiated love to talk about, and he gladly contributed his share.

  The rumor was…that the special adviser was immensely wealthy. At the same time he lacked assessed property. He took no deductions, and his stated income agreed to the krona with the salary he had drawn from the government offices for almost thirty years. “I don’t understand what people are talking about. I’m an ordinary wage earner. I’ve always been thrifty, but you don’t get rich on that.”

  According to rumor…the special adviser had an art collection that would make the financier Thiel and Prince Eugen green with envy. “It’s nice to have a little color on the walls. Most of this is actually on loan from my first wife.” The same wife who’d moved to Switzerland thirty years earlier and was as quiet as a basenji. Immensely wealthy besides, according t
o the official information that the Swiss authorities unwillingly surrendered.

  The rumor stated…that the special adviser had a wine cellar that, apart from the contents, could only be compared with Ali Baba’s treasure chamber. “I appreciate a good glass of wine over the weekend and especially in the company of good friends. Because I’m extremely moderate of course I’ve accumulated a few bottles over the years.”

  The special adviser had been a member of the Social Democratic Party since he was a teenager attending high school. In his wallet he still carried his first party book, no photo, just his name, the party branch he belonged to, and old, handwritten receipts for the dues he’d punctually paid. “That’s what characterizes us real Social Democrats. That we have both our hearts and our wallets to the left.” He gladly showed the evidence that he carried in his left inside pocket, and presumably it was completely true.

  According to the brief information in the National Almanac, Who’s Who, and the National Encyclopedia, he was born in Stockholm in 1945, earned a doctorate in mathematics at Stockholm University in 1970, and was appointed professor in 1974. The following year he started as a technical adviser in the government offices (“technical adviser government offices 1975–76”), returned to the university and his professorship during the conservative administration of 1976–1982, then back as “special adviser at the disposal of the prime minister 1982–91,” another pause during a three-year conservative administration when he worked as a visiting professor at MIT, back as “undersecretary 1994–2002.” Since then he had evidently slowed down, “technical adviser in the government offices since 2002.”

  Finally a short recitation of his more important academic appointments: “Member of the Board of Directors of the Royal Academy of Science since 1990; Visiting Professor at MIT 1991–94; Honorary Fellow at Magdalen College, Oxford University, since 1980.”