Free Falling, As If in a Dream

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

  “I know,” Holt interrupted. “His riot squad was the second patrol on the scene when Palme was shot.”

  “The world is full of coincidences,” said Mattei.

  “It sure is,” Holt agreed and sighed for some reason.

  As soon as she hung up the phone rang again. On her landline that she had connected to her cell.

  “Hi,” said the voice on the phone. “This is Johan, Johan Eriksson down in reception. If you want I can pick you up. Otherwise I suggest we meet ten minutes before outside the theater. I’ve got the tickets.”

  “Outside the theater is fine,” said Mattei. Even though her name and address were actually in the phone book, in contrast to the majority of her colleagues. Leading him to her own front door would be bringing him a little too close.

  If he didn’t look like he did you would almost get the idea that he was as courteous as a gentleman of the old school, thought Mattei as she deleted him from her reminder list. Although he sounded a little shy, of course, and gentlemen of the old school probably weren’t, she thought.

  41

  On Sunday Holt was supposed to meet her son, Nicke, and his latest girlfriend. An hour beforehand he called and canceled. They had quarreled and he wasn’t in the mood even to see his mom.

  “You’ll just have to talk with her,” said Holt, and as she put down the receiver she suddenly felt much older than forty-seven.

  The next call came after an hour and was initiated with a cautious throat clearing. Lewin, thought Holt. Now he sounds like himself again.

  “Yes, hi, Anna, it’s Jan. Jan Lewin. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No,” said Holt. “You’re not.” Because as usual I have nothing else going on, she thought.

  Lewin wanted to thank her for the other evening and invite her in return. Not at his place however—cooking was not his strong suit—but at a decent neighborhood restaurant up at Gärdet where he lived.

  “Really good, actually,” Lewin attested.

  “Sounds nice,” said Anna Holt, and regretted it as soon as she’d said it. I hope he isn’t falling in love with me, she thought as she hung up.

  When Mattei left the police building at six o’clock her movie companion had already gone home. To shower and slick back his nonexistent hair, she thought, laughing to herself when she saw his co-worker with the same lack of hair behind the reception counter. A little gruffer type, apparently, who nodded at her curtly.

  “Have a nice evening, police inspector,” he said, managing to sound surly.

  “Same to you,” said Mattei. The type that doesn’t like women police officers, she thought.

  Once she arrived home life got more complicated. She intended to rest for an hour first, but somehow that didn’t happen. Instead she lay down and half watched TV and even called her dad. To get the time to pass, if nothing else. Immediately she regretted picking up the phone, but fortunately he hadn’t answered. Her bad conscience meant the message she left on his answering machine was more tender than intended.

  Lisa, what the hell? thought Lisa Mattei, who never swore. You have to stop behaving like you’re fifteen years old.

  It was a grown-up woman who got into the shower. Who then dressed herself carefully. Not too much, not too little. Discreet dress, low-heeled pumps you could walk in. Who powdered her nose and a number of other places as well. Who regretted the look immediately as soon as she saw the results in the mirror. Tore off the dress and pumps. Threw them in a pile on the floor in the bathroom. Replaced them with jeans, linen shirt, an old jacket, and loafers. Still the same skinny, pale blonde, she thought crossly. Still fifteen years old and right now not much time to play with. She could forget about walking to the theater. It would have to be a taxi, which of course was late, and when she finally got there she was a good ten minutes late.

  There he stood alone on the sidewalk outside the cinema, and when he caught sight of her he looked so relieved that all that had happened before was uninteresting.

  “I was almost getting worried that something had happened,” he said. “I didn’t have your number, so…”

  “You know women,” said Mattei, smiling and shrugging her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I usually keep track of the time, actually.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, brushing lightly against her right arm. He nodded and invited her to go in ahead.

  Just like an old-time gentleman, thought Mattei. Although they probably never looked that shy, of course.

  “Not a word about work,” said Holt as soon as she sat down.

  “You don’t need to worry, Anna,” said Lewin with the usual faint smile. “I talked with our colleague Bäckström a few days ago, so I’ve had my fill for the rest of the year.”

  “Red or white, meat or fish,” he continued, handing her the menu.

  Goodness, thought Anna Holt. What is happening? Lewin of all people.

  “Vegetarian pasta,” said Holt. “With a lot of tomato and basil and a little, little grated cheese. Mineral water and a glass of dry white Italian wine.”

  “Sounds good,” Lewin agreed. “I think I’ll have the same.”

  Now I recognize you again, Jan, she thought.

  Then they talked about everything except work. Holt talked about taking some time off and going to a warmer place as soon as she got the chance. Even though she hadn’t planned the slightest little trip, just as insurance against something she couldn’t even name.

  Then they talked about travels in general. Lewin mostly about the kind that never happened, but the way in which he spoke was completely bearable to listen to.

  “I read a novel many years ago. Unfortunately I’ve forgotten both the title and the author, but it made a deep impression on me.” Lewin shook his head, the same Lewinian smile. “A little too deep, perhaps,” he said and sighed.

  “Tell me,” said Holt. You need to talk, she thought.

  The novel whose title Lewin had forgotten was about a young French nobleman who decided to go to Africa at the end of the nineteenth century on an expedition. First he devoted an entire year to the most careful preparations. Exhaustively depicted in a couple of hundred pages. Then came the great day when he and his servant and attendants left the rural estate en route to the station for further transport to the great harbor city Marseilles, the boat to Africa and all the discoveries that still remained to be made in his life.

  “Then he changed his mind and went home again,” said Lewin. “Why should he go to Africa? He’d already made the entire journey in his own mind.”

  “Jan,” said Anna Holt. “Look at me. That’s a terrible story.”

  “I know,” said Lewin, who suddenly seemed almost exhilarated. “But that’s me.”

  Then they talked about other things, and when they went their separate ways and she was standing down in the subway waiting for the train home the evening caught up with her. He’s in love with me, she thought. It’s your own fault, and what do you do about it? she thought.

  As soon as they were in their seats and the lights in the theater had been turned down, her old-fashioned gentleman, roughly twenty-five years old and a hundred kilos of muscle and bone, stretched, made himself comfortable, sank into his seat, and laced his large hands over his flat stomach. Then he uttered not a sound for ninety minutes.

  Halfway into the film—as if by accident—he placed his right hand on the arm support between them. Mattei happened to graze against it as she tried not to rustle the bag of candy she otherwise never ate. Then he turned up his palm and she set aside the bag of candy and—as if by accident—placed her hand in his.

  It was still there when they stepped out on the street. It had started raining, and Johan looked at her with almost childish delight.

  “It’s raining,” he said. “That’s the surest sign of all.

  “The movie, what did you think?” he continued, squeezing her hand, very lightly, almost imperceptibly, simply like a signal from his own hand. Strong, tan, long fingers, with the veins on the back
of the hand clearly visible.

  “I don’t really know,” said Lisa Mattei, shaking her head. What film? she thought.

  “If you’re very strong then you have to be extremely nice,” said Johan, looking at her seriously.

  “What time do you start work tomorrow?” Mattei asked suddenly.

  “I’m off,” said Johan, shaking his head. “Like I said, I switched shifts with a buddy.”

  “Then I suggest we go to my place,” said Lisa Mattei. “I have to be up early.”

  Wednesday, October 10.

  Canal de Menorca outside Puerto Pollensa on north Mallorca

  In order to avoid the strong currents closest to land, the solitary man on board Esperanza passed the point at Formentor by a good margin. Continued a good cable’s length out in the deep channel, and now it was about time for him to decide. He could change course ninety degrees port toward Cala Sant Vicente on the north side of the island. It was twelve nautical miles, just over an hour’s run, and only a few hours ago that would have been the journey’s destination. With plenty of time and a breeze that cooled considerably better here, out on the open sea. But now it was too late, he thought. Then he entered the new course on his GPS. Two nautical miles north of the Citadel on Menorca and the destination straight ahead. Sixty nautical miles to Menorca, six hours’ run if the good weather held. And then what? he thought. Yet another day and night at sea.

  42

  Five weeks earlier, Wednesday, September 5.

  Headquarters of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation on Kungsholmen in Stockholm

  Two people were at the table in Johansson’s conference room: Jan Lewin and Lisa Mattei. Johansson himself had just let them know he had been delayed half an hour due to circumstances over which he had no control. His secretary served coffee and homemade apple cake as consolation. On the other hand where Holt had gone she didn’t know. Holt had not been in touch with Johansson’s secretary. Possibly she had called Johansson, or vice versa, and otherwise she hoped they would enjoy the cake.

  It was not that Anna Holt had overslept. When Johansson called her an hour before the meeting and reported that he would be delayed half an hour she was already at her desk. That left at least an hour and a half at her disposal, and plenty of time for a visit to the tech squad in Stockholm to look into the tip about the revolver that Bäckström had given her. Question marks that it would be beneficial to straighten out for the meeting with Johansson and the others so they could finally draw a line through Bäckström and move on.

  The head of the tech squad was a few years older than she was. Almost twenty years ago they had been co-workers at the detective squad in Stockholm. A good professional relationship, but nothing else.

  “Just a quick question,” said Holt, sitting down in the chair in front of his desk.

  “I can’t even offer you coffee?”

  “Not even coffee,” said Holt, shaking her head. “This is about a weapons tip that came into the bureau from our colleague Bäckström,” she continued, for the sake of simplicity handing over the e-mail that Bäckström had sent her.

  “Bäckström,” said her colleague and moaned. “What did we do to deserve this?”

  “We’re in complete agreement there, but what I’m wondering about is simply whether you test fired the weapon in question and made a comparison with the bullets from the Palme murder?”

  “No,” said the technician, shaking his head. “We’ve test fired it of course. On the other hand, we haven’t made a comparison with the Palme bullets, for reasons that are easy to see.”

  “So why not?” said Holt.

  “The weapon in question was manufactured in the fall of 1995. Nine years after the Palme murder. You can tell by the manufacturing number, by the way.”

  “According to Bäckström’s e-mail it would have been manufactured ten years earlier. Fall of 1985,” Holt clarified. “It says so in your associate’s e-mail to him too.”

  “Typo,” said her former colleague, smiling acidly. “I promise and assure you. The weapon in question was manufactured at Ruger’s factory in the U.S. in the fall of 1995. A good nine years after the murder of the prime minister. If it had been manufactured in 1985 we would have made a comparison. It’s pure routine these days. That stuff about only comparing the bullets to Smith & Wesson revolvers is history now. That’s a sad story, in itself.”

  “Typo,” said Holt. “The thing about the general agent in Bremen in the former West Germany is also a typo? That’s what it says in the e-mail from your associate.”

  “Childish of him,” said the head of tech and sighed. “He probably wants to mess with Bäckström as thanks for that container of old office furniture he sent us.”

  “I’m listening,” said Holt.

  Then the head of the tech squad recounted the story of the old office furniture and all the other peculiar inquiries from their colleague Bäckström they’d had since he started at property investigation. Earlier too, for that matter.

  “You know how Bäckström is. If he’s suddenly interested in a .357 caliber Magnum revolver, it can only be the Palme weapon. Or more correctly stated, the reward for the Palme weapon that our good friend Bäckström hopes to share with the so-called anonymous informant. As a policeman of course he can’t get any money.”

  “I think like you do,” said Holt.

  “Sorry you were involved,” said the head of the tech squad. “I’ll have a talk with him.”

  “Not for my sake,” said Holt. “But if you’re going to anyway, you can say hello and thank him.” So there, you little fatso, she thought.

  When Lars Martin Johansson returned after forty-five minutes, not thirty as he’d told his secretary, all three of his co-workers were in place and though they’d been sitting a good while not much had been said. Everyone seemed to be doing something.

  Holt made notes in a binder she had brought with her. Mattei was tapping off text messages on her cell phone. Lewin was leaning back without doing anything at all, but at the same time his thoughts seemed far away.

  Maybe in Africa, thought Holt, sneaking a glance at him.

  Johansson started talking before he entered the room.

  “Here you sit,” he noted and sat down. “What do you think about starting, Anna?” he continued. “Give us the latest news about that wretched Bäckström so that we’ll have Lisa and Jan with us.”

  Anna Holt gave a brief description of the tip from Bäckström. She handed out copies of his e-mail to her colleagues and told about her visit to the tech squad. A typical Bäckström, but it wasn’t his fault alone because their colleagues in Stockholm had evidently taken the opportunity to mess with him.

  “In addition he gave us the name of a former colleague who is supposed to have had access to the weapon. I asked Lisa to check that, but he’s not included in the case files.”

  “So what’s his name?” asked Jan Lewin, sighing just as wearily as his colleague at the tech squad had an hour before.

  “His name is Claes Waltin. Or was, correctly stated. He was a former police superintendent with SePo. Resigned from the secret police in the summer of 1988 to go into private business. Died in a drowning accident on north Mallorca four years later. According to Bäckström’s anonymous informant, Waltin supposedly had access to the Palme weapon a month or so before he died,” Holt summarized.

  “And he’s not in the case files,” Mattei interjected. “I’ve checked and checked again.”

  “Strange,” said Lewin, shaking his head. “I’m sure he must be in the material. Assuming we’re talking about the same Waltin, of course,” he added in his meticulous way.

  “Not on my lists,” Mattei persisted. “He’s not there. Why do you think that?”

  “I put him in the investigation myself,” said Lewin. “So he should be there.”

  “You don’t say,” said Johansson.

  “You did,” said Holt at the same moment.

  What is he saying? thought Mattei.


  “I don’t know if you recall it,” said Lewin, “but at our first meeting three weeks ago I talked about all the parking tickets I had the pleasure of going through.”

  “Tell us again,” said Johansson, lacing his fingers over his far from flat stomach and leaning back in the chair.

  “The details I’ll have to come back to, but in broad strokes it went like this,” said Lewin, cautiously clearing his throat.

  On the morning of Saturday the first of March, almost exactly ten hours after the murder, Police Superintendent Claes Waltin incurred a parking fine on Smedsbacksgatan up at Gärdet. The car was his own. A new five series BMW and not a common car among police officers. Lewin had sent a routine inquiry to the colleagues from SePo who had responsibility for the Palme investigation’s police track and received a written answer after about a month.

  “I remember that distinctly. It felt a little strange to ask them the question considering who it concerned,” said Lewin. “Waltin was a high-ranking chief at the secret police. He was directly subordinate to the bureau director, Berg, who was in the investigation leadership and responsible for SePo’s cooperation in the Palme investigation.”

  “I can imagine it must have felt strange,” said Johansson. “So what did they have to say?”

  “I don’t remember the exact wording, but I got a written reply that basically said the vehicle had been used for an official duty concerning supervision of a person who was staying in the neighborhood at one of SePo’s so-called secure addresses.”

  “That was generous of them,” said Johansson. “Personally I would have been content to say that it was an official matter. That thing about supervision of persons who are at secure addresses isn’t something you commit to paper.”

  “It must be there in the material,” said Lewin, looking almost apologetically at Mattei. “A written request from me and a written reply from them. Must be there.”

  “Perhaps you were sloppy with the registration, Jan,” said Johansson. “It can happen to the best of us.”