Free Falling, As If in a Dream

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

  So now here he was. In the reception area of the big police building, of all places. On the basis of his appearance and even though he was in cinema studies at the university. They must have missed that on his application. Although there wasn’t much time for reading. Not after all the instructions he had been given at the new employee training course. But what would someone like her do with someone like me? he thought.

  The police track was the track that no serious thinking person believed in. That the police themselves didn’t was both human and explicable. At the same time they were in good company. The special adviser had already expressed his condemnation a few years after the murder, when the issue was discussed in the mightiest of all secret societies, where people like him exchanged viewpoints and ideas with one another.

  “The classic conspiracy theory is a thin fabric of poorly conceived ideas, personal shortcomings and ordinary, common slander as…ersatzmittel…for factual circumstances,” he stated in his introductory address. “Or plain nonsense, if you prefer that description,” he added.

  What was called the police track in the mass media was, in the Palme investigation’s materials, the general designation for a number of tips, leads, and theories that individual police officers, groups of police, or the police as an organization in one way or another were involved in the murder of the prime minister.

  In an objective sense—factual, or simply putative—to start with this was about three threads in “the thin fabric of conspiracy.” Policemen who had been on duty during the night of the murder and appeared, or acted, in a strange way; police officers who harbored extreme political opinions, hated the murder victim, and for that reason also would have had motive to kill him; and the operational leadership of the police in Stockholm, who conducted their mission so badly after the murder that it must have been with intent or ill will.

  After that the tips had poured in. About mysterious meetings between police officers, about policemen who said strange things, about policemen who did the Hitler salute and toasted that Olof Palme was finally dead, about policemen who had supposedly vowed to kill him years before he was actually assassinated. Policemen who were observed in the vicinity of the crime, policemen who had a violent past, who had a license for their own Magnum revolvers, policemen who…

  It was the secret police who as early as the second day of the investigation were given the task of investigating the substance of all this. The reason was simple and obvious. Almost all the tips were about policemen who worked in Stockholm, the same police authority that also had responsibility for the investigation of the murder. Placing it with the Stockholm police department’s own department for internal investigations was not an option either. The mission was far too extensive, and those affected much too close to one another.

  The opinion of the leadership of the first investigation had been clear from the start, and to be on the safe side provincial police chief Hans Holmér had yet another memorandum prepared. In reality there was no “police track” that could be investigated. The very thought of such a thing collapsed on its own absurdity. What remained was that it could not be ruled out that the murderer, or one of his accomplices, was or had been a policeman. Just as he might be a doctor, teacher, or journalist. There was thus no police track, as a simple logical consequence of what was stated in the memo. Just as there was no doctor, teacher, or journalist track.

  Even though the police track didn’t exist it ended up with SePo, sufficiently far enough away and sufficiently nearby. But so as not to bring chaos into the overarching detective organization, for once the secret police had to subordinate themselves to their colleagues in the open police operation. The leadership in the Palme investigation also led the investigation of the police track. That was who the secret police reported to. It was there that the final, conclusive decisions were made.

  In concrete terms the police track encompassed about a hundred named policemen. All the way from the first investigation leader, the provincial police chief in Stockholm, whose alibi for the night of the murder was challenged, to the sort of colleagues who had generated complaints for assault on duty, because they had behaved offensively, expressed themselves disparagingly, or simply acted inappropriately in general.

  All the way from the provincial police chief to those who had already been fired, quit voluntarily, or been well on their way to doing so when they wound up in the investigation. Because they’d had problems with their nerves, with alcohol, with wives, with finances. Problems that seldom came alone. Because they drove while drunk, beat up inmates in jail, stole from the till at work, threw a flowerpot at the wife’s head, shot real bullets through a neighbor’s window after a night of partying. Or simply kicked their dog.

  Some seventy of them were identified, investigated, and in all cases removed from the investigation. Remaining were about thirty cases where the policemen who were pointed out could not be identified with certainty. Or even the kind of cases where it was extremely unclear whether the nameless “policeman” that was pointed out was actually the one he was alleged to be. Leads and tips that sometimes had been investigated, sometimes immediately set aside without further action. Tips, leads, cases, which in any event had not resulted in the slightest concrete suspicion that the policemen investigated had been involved in the murder of Olof Palme. In everything else imaginable, to be sure, what came out was hardly flattering to these men or the organization they served, but considered as murder suspects without any substance worth the name. Exactly as might be expected from a track that collapsed on “its own absurdity.”

  Mattei started by making a list of the policemen, arranged them in alphabetical order by surname, and with her customary precision studied the information alleged against them.

  After two hours and a dozen names she opened her bottle of mineral water, drank half, and ate her banana. Another two hours and ten names later she had consumed the rest of the water, eaten her apple, gone to the restroom, and then stretched her legs by walking around the floor where her office was.

  Say what you will, but life as a police officer can be unbearably exciting, thought Lisa Mattei as she returned to her binders and looked at a postcard of one of her former colleagues. After twenty years of work as a policeman he had resigned. A few years later he entered contemporary history as one of the heavy names in the police track.

  The picture on the postcard was a full-length photograph of himself. According to his own information, he also took the picture. Same with the postcard which he, according to the investigation, personally produced and paid for. Civilian clothes, polyester trousers, sport shirt, sandals with brown socks. Summer or late spring in the early eighties. A middle-aged man with a beer belly and early-stage baldness standing at the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin doing the Hitler salute. He’s on vacation. In a week he will return to Stockholm and his work as a police inspector with the first precinct in Stockholm City.

  Intense guy. Almost as handsome as Bäckström, thought Mattei.

  Two hours later and halfway through the police track it was time for her to go home. Why should she do that? thought Mattei. The very best thing would probably be if she brought a cot into the Palme room and didn’t leave before she had the name of “the bastard who did it” and earned a friendly pat on the shoulder from her boss. The same man who was supposed to be able to see around corners, but for unknown reasons avoided personally peeking around this particular one.

  The guard from the morning was still sitting there behind the counter in reception, and as she passed through he again called after her. He appeared at least to have a decent memory.

  “Hello! Inspector Mattei. May I ask you a question?”

  You want to know how to apply to the police academy, thought Mattei, who’d had that question before from people like him.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “You have to promise not to get mad,” he said, suddenly not seeming equally sure of himself.

  “Depends on the question,” said Ma
ttei guardedly.

  “I was wondering if I could invite you to a movie?”

  “To a movie,” said Mattei, who had a hard time concealing her surprise. To watch your favorite, Conan the Barbarian, she thought.

  “Almodóvar’s latest, the one that opened last week,” he clarified.

  Almodóvar, thought Mattei. Wonder if he’s working for Candid Camera, she thought.

  39

  Mattei declined. And regretted it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She tried to save herself with the usual follow-up questions and explanations. New mistakes were added to previous ones; everything went wrong.

  Almodóvar? Are you pulling my leg? thought Mattei.

  “You like Almodóvar?”

  Yes, Almodóvar had touched him. Almodóvar had taught him a few things about “ladies” that he hadn’t been able to figure out himself. Latin ladies at least. Almodóvar was perhaps not his biggest favorite, but he was good enough that he had decided to see his film. Besides, ladies usually like Almodóvar.

  “I’m studying film at the university. This is a moonlighting job,” he explained, shrugging his broad shoulders.

  Still not too late to change her mind. Wrong again.

  “That would have been really nice,” said Mattei. “The problem is that I have to work all weekend. So maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” she added.

  “My day off,” he said, shaking his head and looking downhearted.

  “It’ll have to be another time,” said Mattei.

  “It’s cool,” he answered.

  What would someone like her do with someone like me? he thought as she disappeared onto the street.

  When Mattei arrived at her overly large apartment that had been given to her by her kind father, she was in a lousy mood. Hated herself, hated the apartment, hated dear old dad. First she pulled on her workout clothes and did an extra circuit. She returned pumped up but in an equally bad mood. Instead of stepping into the shower and simply letting the water run, she started cleaning. In a fury she picked up, loaded the dishwasher, vacuumed, and scrubbed. Almost ready to faint, but just as angry, she called out for a pizza, managed to get half of it down even though she hated pizza otherwise. Drank almost a whole bottle of wine with the pizza. Even though she almost never drank. Then she lay down on the couch and flipped among the TV channels. When she finally went to bed her stomach hurt. She wasn’t even drunk. Just angry. What would someone like him do with someone like me? she thought.

  Then she finally fell asleep.

  She woke up with both a headache and an upset stomach. Showered, got dressed, swallowed milk of magnesia and mineral water instead of eating breakfast, went to work.

  And there he was.

  “I thought this was your day off,” said Mattei, smiling to conceal how happy she was.

  “I traded with a buddy,” he said, suddenly looking embarrassed.

  “Okay then,” said Mattei. “But it’ll have to be the late showing because I have lots to do.”

  “Sure,” he said and nodded. “That’s no problem. I’m working until six o’clock so that’s cool.”

  Yes, thought Mattei as she disappeared through the entry passage.

  Yes, he thought as he watched her disappear into the building.

  40

  Concentration, thought Mattei as she opened the binder that she’d made it only halfway through the day before. Everything has its time. What remained were just under fifty policemen, the names of thirty of whom she didn’t even have and who were not necessarily policemen. Eight hours for them, she thought. Then go home, shower, change clothes, and, for once, powder her little nose.

  Then Almodóvar with a man she had only talked to three times and whose name she actually didn’t know. Who had his appearance against him but seemed completely normal and even nice. “Call and find out what his name is,” she wrote on her notepad.

  Then she returned to her list of policemen who had been observed in the vicinity of the crime, who had a violent past, their own Magnum revolvers, harbored extreme political opinions, or simply acted inappropriately in general. Police, police, police, thought Mattei and sighed.

  A few hours later Anna Holt called and asked her to check a name of a former colleague for her.

  “Because I assume you’re at work,” Holt explained.

  “Nothing better for me,” Mattei agreed. Although tonight I’m going to a movie, she thought.

  “Can you see if he’s in the material?” Holt asked.

  “No,” said Mattei. “I’m pretty sure he’s not. Not named, at least. I have the list in front of me and he’s not there. There are about thirty who are supposed to have said they were policemen, or where the informant alleges that they were policemen but where their identity is lacking. If you ask me he’s not one of them either,” said Mattei. That’s just as well, she thought, because according to Holt he was supposed to have been dead for fifteen years, and no bells were ringing in her head.

  “You think so,” said Holt.

  “Yes. He doesn’t tally with the description of any of them. Why are you asking, by the way?”

  “A tip,” said Holt and sighed for some reason. “From our colleague Bäckström,” she said, sighing again.

  “That explains it,” said Mattei. “Lewin told me he’d called,” she clarified.

  “On a completely different matter, since you’re working on it anyway,” Holt continued. “Can you see if there’s anything about lions?”

  “Lions, like in Africa?”

  “Exactly,” said Holt. “The lion’s den, in the lion’s den, where they live or hang out, that is. Lions, that is.”

  “I can try with a plain text search,” said Mattei.

  “Will that work?”

  “Should. Most of this is actually entered on the computer.”

  “This comes from Bäckström too. If you’re wondering.”

  “I’ll call if I find anything,” said Mattei and made another notation on her pad. “Check lion, lion/den, the lion den, the lion’s den, in the lion’s den.”

  The plain text search for “lion” produced twenty hits. All could be traced back to half a dozen colleagues who had been in South Africa on vacation during the eighties and the apartheid regime. Who met with colleagues, visited nature reserves, went on photo safaris, saw lions out in nature, and in addition said the word “lion” when SePo’s investigators held tape-recorded interviews with them.

  The same search for “lion/den” produced one hit among the previous twenty. A Swedish policeman who said that during his visit his South African colleagues had invited him on a real safari—“not the kind of shit where you only get to take pictures”—so that he would get an opportunity to “put a bullet in a lion.” A favor that evidently had not been granted the others, and a shooting opportunity that “unfortunately” did not happen.

  Searches on “lion/den,” “the lion den,” “the lion’s den,” and “in the lion’s den” produced one hit. A small apartment on Luxgatan on Lilla Essingen in Stockholm that did not have the slightest connection with certain colleagues’ choice of politically controversial vacation destinations.

  What’s this now? thought Mattei as she finished reading half an hour later. Then she called Holt back and reported her findings.

  “One hit on the lion’s den,” said Mattei. “Or more correctly stated on ‘the lion den,’ not possessive,” she clarified.

  “Okay. I’m listening,” Holt replied.

  In the eighties there had been an informal association of policemen, a kind of social club, that called itself “Mother Svea’s Lions.” Ten or so policemen, all of whom worked with the uniformed police in City, the majority of them with the riot squad, and many of them also did UN service both in the military and as police officers. That was how the name had come about. During their foreign service they started calling themselves “Mother Svea’s Lions.” Even had their own T-shirts printed, in blue and yellow with a big-busted, lion-like woman and the slogan: Moth
er Svea’s Lions.

  “One of them apparently had a spare apartment out on Lilla Essingen that they used to call the Lion’s Den. Two rooms and a kitchen. A hundred and seventy square feet. They apparently shared the rent, they all had keys to the apartment, and it was there they would congregate and have their so-called meetings. Our former colleagues at SePo even did a house search there a few years after the murder. On October 10, 1988. I’m sitting with the report in front of me, if you’re wondering.”

  “So did you find anything?”

  “No,” said Mattei. “It’s very meagerly furnished, if you ask me. Beds in both rooms but not much more, judging from the pictures.”

  “Sounds like a fuck pad,” said Holt.

  “You probably shouldn’t ask me about that,” said Mattei. “I’ve never had the pleasure,” she clarified.

  “I have,” said Holt. “You haven’t missed a thing. But that’s probably not why they did a search.” Little lady, she thought.

  “No,” said Mattei. “It was because of who had the keys to it.”

  The information that produced the hit on the computer was in an interview with police inspector Berg. Apparently also the informal leader of Mother Svea’s Lions. In addition he was the particular policeman who, by dint of his history, appeared in most of the lead files in the so-called police track.

  “I don’t know if you remember, but he was one of the officers Johansson put in jail in the fall of 1985,” Mattei explained. “The material about him reads like a serial.”

  “I know who he is,” said Holt.

  “But there’s nothing concrete on either him or any of his friends. It’s the usual, a lot of previous reports for excessive force on duty, strange political statements, and private weapon ownership. Plus he actually has an alibi that’s pretty good. His…”