Free Falling, As If in a Dream

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

  “You don’t say,” said Holt. “Personally I was a trainee with the uniformed police at that time, and it was papers that all the older officers warned me about. Whatever you do, see to it that you don’t stir up a lot of papers you will have to fill out.”

  “I’ll find the investigation,” said Lewin, nodding and getting out of his chair. “As long as it’s still there, I’ll find it.”

  Of course he found it. It was there among all the papers. A bullet from a revolver that apparently had been scrapped twenty years ago. Shining like a gold nugget in a little plastic bag from the tech squad.

  47

  The box with the investigation was in a basement storeroom in the building where the old homicide squad in Stockholm had its offices during the eighties. Lewin himself had been in the building for a number of years and this was not the first time he’d gone down to the squad’s basement storeroom to put away papers or search for them.

  He had no recollection of the double murder from 1983. It had been much too simple a case for him and his associates at the first squad. Not even a murder investigation. Cleared up from the start. If it had been a murder investigation, he would have remembered it, even though during his almost thirty years as a murder investigator he had been involved in more than a hundred.

  At the top of the box was a plastic sleeve with a number of newspaper clippings from the day after the murder. “Tragic Double Murder,” “Family Tragedy,” “Three Dead in Family Drama in Spånga.” Toned-down descriptions of how a middle-aged man shot his teenage daughter and her boyfriend and then took his own life. Nothing about his motives. A family tragedy, quite simply.

  In the binder with the preliminary investigation was the answer.

  The perpetrator was a painting contractor. Together with a partner he ran a small painting company with five employees, with an office and workshop in Vällingby. Three years previously he had become a widower. After a long illness his wife had died of cancer. Remaining were the husband and a then thirteen-year-old daughter who soon after her mother’s death began to have problems. Skipped school, ended up in bad company, started using drugs, was taken to a treatment center several times. That was how she met her boyfriend, seven years older, who was a known petty criminal and drug addict and already had several short prison terms on his record.

  It appeared from the technical investigation at the father’s house in Spånga that she and her boyfriend were evidently there to steal when the father suddenly came home and surprised them. In the hall by the front door there were a couple of paper bags. In the bags were, among other things, the mother’s jewelry box, a pair of silver candlesticks, a few of the father’s shooting trophies, a new toaster, and a couple of small paintings. In the stairway up to the second floor someone had dropped a TV and a video player. Farther down the hall, at the foot of the stairs, the boyfriend was lying flat on his face, shot through the head with one shot. The bullet was in the wall halfway up the stairs.

  The technician in charge was an older colleague whom Lewin remembered well. A very meticulous man, known as a real nitpicker. With the help of various clues he had given a highly probable picture of the course of events.

  The father comes home. Hears someone rummaging around on the second floor. Sneaks down into the basement. Retrieves his revolver from the gun case. Sneaks back up to the hall. The boyfriend is on his way down from the second floor, carrying the TV and the VCR from the father’s bedroom. Tumult.

  Most likely the boyfriend threw the TV and VCR at the father. When he tried to force his way past him in the hall, the father shot him in the head from a distance of about three feet. Basically, the boyfriend was killed instantly.

  The daughter comes running from the kitchen on the first floor. Throws herself at her father, hitting out like a fury. The father drags her into the living room. Bloody tracks from his shoes, the boyfriend’s blood. Throws her on the couch. Tries to hold her down. Another shot goes off. A contact shot that hits the daughter level with her left breast, passes through the heart and out, ends up in the back support of the couch. The daughter expires within the course of a minute or two in the arms of her father. Evidently he has squeezed her so hard that she had cracks and breaks in several ribs.

  Then the father goes out into the kitchen, blood dripping from his shirt. The daughter’s blood. Sits down on the floor with his back against the refrigerator and shoots himself through the head. Entry hole through the palate in the upper jaw. Exit hole in the back of the head. The bullet stops in the refrigerator door. The father dies instantly.

  An elderly female neighbor in the house next door helped the police with the time-related course of events. The first shot. A woman who screams. The next shot, a minute or so after the first one. The neighbor who calls the police emergency number. The call that is taken at 14:25. Then the third shot. Five minutes after the second one. Only seconds before the first patrol car turns onto the street and stops fifty yards from the house.

  The three dead who will soon have company of twenty or so police officers from the uniformed police, the detective bureau, and the tech squad. “Three Dead in Family Drama in Spånga.”

  Lewin’s old colleague from the tech squad was named Bergholm. He had already retired by the late eighties but was still alive, hale and hearty. He lived on Hantverkargatan, a few blocks from the police building, and Lewin had run into him only a month earlier. Treated him to a cup of coffee and talked about old times.

  A meticulous man, known as a real nitpicker, and when he was done with his investigation in Spånga he sent the crime scene report over to the homicide squad to be forwarded to the prosecutor. He had also sent along the report of the test firing, a photograph of one of the comparison bullets where the barrel grooves were marked with arrows. Along with a little plastic bag with one of the two bullets he had used for the comparison.

  For the three bullets from the crime scene he had sent along three photos where he marked the grooves from the barrel with arrows the same way as on the photo on the comparison bullet. The three bullets from the scene of the crime, on the other hand, were still at the tech squad. The one he sent he had fired himself. One of two and a confirmation to the prosecutor that he had done his job.

  Bergholm had also enclosed a handwritten message. If the prosecutor wanted he was welcome to keep the bullet. He had one in reserve for himself. If not, the prosecutor could send it back to the tech squad. If he had any questions it was okay to call.

  A meticulous man, known as a real nitpicker, thought Jan Lewin.

  The prosecutor, on the other hand, seemed to have been like everyone else, and the bullet had ended up in the box with everything else that was no longer needed.

  Which perhaps was just as well, thought Lewin. He sighed and put the plastic bag with the bullet in his jacket pocket.

  Then he sealed the box with tape and attached a handwritten note to it. At the top the date and time. Then a brief explanatory text. “Time as above the undersigned has gone through hereby stored preliminary investigation material. Removed certain materials from the tech squad in Stockholm to head of NBCI for further examination.” Then he signed with his name and title. Detective Inspector Jan Lewin, Homicide Squad, National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Finally he paper-clipped his business card on the cover of the box.

  Jan Lewin too was a meticulous man and known as “a real accountant type.”

  “This isn’t the least bit like the bullet Palme was shot with,” Anna Holt observed with disappointment when an hour later she was sitting with the plastic bag in hand, inspecting Lewin’s find.

  “A different type of ammunition,” said Lewin, who was well-informed as of a few hours ago with the help of Bergholm’s old report. “This seems to be the type of bullet that competitive shooters prefer,” he explained. “It gives clearer target markings. That’s why it’s completely flat in front. It punches a round hole in the target. If several hit close to one another, it’s a lot simpler to see how many hits there ar
e than if you shot with a regular bullet that tapers in front.”

  “Not the same ammunition,” said Holt. “Not one of those metal-breakers that killed Palme?”

  “No,” said Lewin. “At the crime scene investigation in the house in Spånga an unopened and an opened box were found with the same ammunition you have in your hand. It was in the perpetrator’s gun case in the basement. In the revolver that he used were three empty casings and three unfired bullets. Six shots, full magazine, same type of ammunition as in the boxes. Our colleague Bergholm used two of the three unfired bullets in the magazine when he test fired to get his basis for comparison. Better one bullet too many than one too few,” Lewin observed.

  “A bullet of a completely different type than the murder bullet that was fired with a revolver that went to the scrap yard almost twenty years ago,” Holt observed. “What is it that makes me think this is more about Bäckström than about the murder of Olof Palme?”

  “I hope it will be possible to find that out,” said Lewin, shrugging his shoulders.

  “You or me?” said Holt, smiling at him and rocking the chair she was sitting on.

  “You,” said Lewin, smiling back. “Definitely not me. You’re the one who started it, Anna.”

  “Okay then,” said Anna. What do I do now? she thought.

  “I completely understand that I’m going to drive you crazy soon,” said Holt when for the third time in three days she called the head of the tech squad with the Stockholm police.

  “Not at all, Holt,” he answered. “The fact is I was just thinking about you. Why doesn’t she ever call, I was thinking.”

  “This time I’m afraid I’m forced to come over.”

  “Then you have to promise to have coffee with me.”

  “I promise,” said Holt.

  Three calls in three days. That was bad enough, so Holt suggested they have coffee in his office. Besides asking for his silence.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place, Holt,” said her old colleague. “As I’m sure you recall, I’m the strong, silent type.”

  “I know,” said Holt. “Why do you think you’re the one I’m talking to?” I don’t suppose he’s trying to make a pass at me, she thought.

  “There are a few things I hope you can help me with,” she continued.

  “I’m listening.”

  “For one thing, if there are any papers on the scrapping of this revolver that I’ve been nagging you about. If so I want a copy of them.”

  “There was a special form. You can get a copy of our copy. Anything else?”

  “If there are any other traces of the weapon up here at the squad. It was test fired here in April 1983. I already have access to the report. I would still like to have a copy of the copy that must be in your files.”

  “Sure. No problem. As I already said, someone apparently cleaned out those old bullets, but the report should be here. May take awhile to find the right binder, but that shouldn’t be any problem.”

  “I don’t understand a thing, I’ll be damned,” said the head of the tech squad half an hour later when they finally found the right binder. “Seems like someone cleaned out the shooting report too.”

  “You’re sure this is the right binder?” asked Holt.

  “Sure,” he said, turning to the first page. “Here you have the list of all the reports that should be in this binder. Here you have the registration number on the revolver you’re searching for, date of the test firing in April 1983, and then colleague Bergholm’s signature farthest out in the margin. The report should also be here but it’s not. What I can give you is the copy of our request for scrapping. That exists. I’ve seen it myself. When you visited me the first time.”

  According to the copy of the request for scrapping, in October 1988 the tech squad with the police in Stockholm had sent a total of twenty-one weapons for scrapping to the Defense Factories in Eskilstuna. Stapled together with the squad’s request was a confirmation from the Defense Factories in Eskilstuna that the task was carried out.

  Judging by the list of weapons it was also about scrap. Sawed-off shotguns, old hunting rifles, a drilled-out starter gun, a home-constructed revolver, a butcher’s mask, a nail gun. Possibly with one exception. A Ruger brand revolver, manufactured in 1980 judging by the serial number.

  This is getting stranger and stranger, thought Holt when she saw the name of the colleague who had apparently sent off the tech squad’s request.

  Before Lewin went home for the day he returned to the homicide squad’s old basement storeroom. This time he took the whole box with him. He returned to his office and locked it in his cupboard. He had not left the slightest trace behind him even though he was known for being extremely meticulous and very formal.

  48

  On Thursday morning Holt called Bäckström in to talk sense with him.

  First she told him she had figured out what was going on with the revolver found behind a refrigerator out in Flemingsberg. That he got the registration number from the tech squad, that his colleagues had messed with him and given him the wrong year of manufacture, that he in turn had tried to fool Holt.

  “You’ve tricked me, Bäckström,” Holt summarized.

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. There must be some misunderstanding,” said Bäckström. What do you mean tricked? he thought. She was talking to him as if he were a young punk. What was she up to, really? Spying on him, apparently, not to mention those semi-criminal characters at the tech squad who had tried to swindle him.

  “We’ve got to get some order in this now,” said Holt. “I was thinking about having an interview with your informant.”

  “Forget it,” Bäckström snorted. “My informant is sacred to me, and this old man has demanded to remain anonymous. Besides, he’s not easy to get hold of.”

  “And why is that?” asked Holt.

  “Lives abroad,” said Bäckström curtly.

  “I thought the art dealer Henning lived on Norr Mälarstrand,” said Holt with an innocent expression.

  What the hell is going on? thought Bäckström. Can cell phones be tapped? Has she sicced SePo on me?

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Bäckström, shaking his head.

  “Then it won’t do any harm if I talk with him,” said Holt.

  “Listen, Holt, if you really are interested in cooperation, and I sure would be if I were you, I suggest you take care of your business and let me take care of mine. What do you think about taking a peek at this, for example,” said Bäckström, giving her the file he’d taken from the central archive.

  “Where did you get this?” said Holt.

  “Read it,” said Bäckström. There, you’ve got a little something good to suck on, you little sow, he thought.

  “I see,” said Holt when she was through reading. “I still don’t understand.”

  Holt must be stupid, thought Bäckström. Even for a hag, she must be uncommonly stupid.

  “I’m in the process of refining a little profile of our perpetrator. Waltin, that is. I think, among other things, this may be interesting from the standpoint of motive.”

  “From the standpoint of motive?”

  “You betcha,” said Bäckström, nodding emphatically. “I think this may have been about something sexual.”

  “Excuse me,” said Holt. “We’re talking about the assassination of Olof Palme?”

  “We sure are,” said Bäckström with a shrewd expression.

  “Explain,” said Holt. “Who is supposed to have been involved with whom?”

  “I get the idea that Waltin and that socialist may have had the same interests. If I may say so.” She must be even denser than the densest hag, he thought.

  “So why do you think that?” He must have a screw loose, she thought.

  “It struck me that they were actually fucking alike. Those small, skinny upper-class types. Misty eyes. Moist lips. You know how they usually look. As if they’re licking their lips all the t
ime. There are these kind of secret societies for leather boys. I think that’s where we should start rooting around. Both were lawyers, besides.”

  “I’ll be in touch if there’s anything,” said Holt. I have to see to it that he gets some kind of help, she thought. Whoever it would be who could help someone like Bäckström.

  “I’ve thought of one more thing,” said Bäckström.

  “I’m listening,” said Holt.

  “You know Wiijnbladh?” said Bäckström. “That crazy colleague who tried to poison his old lady a bunch of years ago. He and Waltin apparently were also involved.”

  “They’re supposed to have had a relationship too, you’re saying?”

  Holt is completely unbeatable, even if she is an old lady, thought Bäckström. A cabbage is a Nobel Prize winner compared with Holt.

  “Forget it,” said Bäckström, shaking his head. Someone like Wiijnbladh has probably never screwed, he thought.

  “There are other things,” he continued. “He is supposed to have helped Waltin on a few occasions. What that was he didn’t say, but it was apparently fucking secret. Supposedly got some distinction or medal from SePo as thanks for his help.”

  “As stated,” said Holt, “I’ll be in touch if there is anything.” So Wiijnbladh is supposed to have helped Waltin, she thought.

  As soon as Bäckström left, Holt called her acquaintance at the crime lab. She needed help from a weapons technician. Sensitive matter. On an informal basis. Just so you don’t get any ideas in your head, old man, she thought.

  “You can’t be more specific?” he asked.

  “I want you to look at a bullet for me,” said Holt. “Make a comparison with another bullet.”

  “No problem.”

  “See you in two hours,” said Holt.

  Then she put the plastic bag with the bullet in her jacket pocket. She signed for an official vehicle, went past Lewin on the way, retrieved an old shooting report from the spring of 1983, and drove to Linköping.