“Excuse me,” said Johansson. “Are we talking about that nutcase who tried to poison his wife?”
“Yes,” said Holt.
“So how do we know that?” asked Johansson.
“According to Bäckström,” said Holt and sighed.
“Perhaps we ought to attach Bäckström to our little group,” said Johansson. “I’m listening,” he said, nodding encouragingly.
“Sounds like Bäckström,” Johansson observed five minutes later. “I’m really looking forward to seeing that medal that Wiijnbladh is supposed to have got from Waltin.”
“Some form of distinction in any event,” said Holt. “Whatever. What do we do?”
“We’re going to do the following,” said Johansson. He held up his right hand and ticked off the points with his fingers.
“First, we’ll make a compilation of what we know about former colleague Waltin. Without waking any bears among his former co-workers.
“Second,” he continued, “we’ll interview Bäckström’s informant, Wiijnbladh, and Bäckström himself, and we’ll do it in that order.”
“Then we turn it over to the Palme group,” said Holt, who did not intend to give up. Not this time.
“If we have something to turn over, then we’ll do that,” said Johansson. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, he thought.
Before they went their separate ways Johansson confiscated the bullet that Holt quite correctly had in the pocket of her jacket.
Who knows what he’s planning to do with it, she thought.
51
Mattei had been forced to cancel a romantic weekend cruise to Riga to devote herself to the Palme investigation’s police track. Even though Johan was seven years younger than she was, he handled his disappointment like a real man. He could imagine some very different cruise destinations if she were to have a few hours extra.
Now it’s time to read thoroughly, thought Mattei, pushing aside thoughts of anything else. To really be sure that Waltin was not included in the material. At the same time find a conceivable contact for him. If he really was involved, he could not have shot the prime minister in any event. If he had an accomplice there was also a decent chance this man had the same background as Waltin.
It remained to find him, thought Mattei.
Anna Holt, Lisa Mattei, and Jan Lewin started their survey of Claes Waltin first thing on Friday morning. Their quarry had been dead for fifteen years, but that was not an insurmountable obstacle for people like them and the bureau’s intelligence service. By Friday afternoon they had already put together a binder to add to the thousand that existed in the investigation.
Claes Adolf Waltin was born on April 20, 1945, and had died in a drowning accident on north Mallorca at the age of forty-seven, on October 17, 1992. He was born and raised on Östermalm in Stockholm. The only child of estate manager Claes Robert Waltin, born in 1919, and his wife, Aino Elisabeth, née Carlberg, who was four years younger. His parents divorced in 1952. His mother died in an accident in 1969. The father was still alive. Remarried to a woman ten years younger and living on an estate outside Kristianstad in Skåne.
Strange, thought Jan Lewin. What kind of parents name their son Adolf right before the end of the war in 1945?
“Did you know that Waltin was christened Adolf as a middle name?” said Lewin to Mattei, who was sitting on the other side of the table browsing through a sizeable pile of papers. “What kind of parents christen their son Adolf when he’s born on the twentieth of April 1945? That’s only a week or so before the end of the Second World War.”
“Hitler’s birthday,” said Mattei. “His dad and mom probably wanted to give him a model in life. They were probably Nazis.”
“Hitler’s birthday?”
“Adolf Hitler was also born on April 20, in 1889. In the village of Braunau in Austria,” said Mattei. In contrast to General Maternity Hospital in Stockholm, and for God’s sake don’t drag in a Nazi track as thanks for the help, she thought.
“Strange,” said Lewin, shaking his head. “Very strange.”
Sigh, thought Lisa Mattei.
Mattei had not found either Waltin or Wiijnbladh in the part of the Palme investigation’s material that dealt with the police track. No signs either to indicate that they should have been found there but had been cleaned out. However you find that sort of thing, she thought.
For lack of anything better to do she also searched for Detective Inspector Evert Bäckström. Considering the life he had lived he ought to be first-rate material for the same track. But there were no traces of Bäckström. Other than under the second lead file and then in the role of interview leader. One of the Good Guys. However that might be, thought Mattei.
Waltin does not seem to have been a nice, decent guy, thought Anna Holt after she reread the old investigation that Bäckström had given her. The complaint written off as not a crime, according to the decision by the prosecutor. She had not succeeded in finding more of the same or that he had ever been charged with anything whatsoever. Waltin did not appear in the police department registry. Not even for a simple speeding infraction.
Mysterious, thought Anna Holt. The types that had that disposition tended to leave tracks behind them.
Claes Waltin had graduated in 1964 and completed his military service with the Norrland Dragoons in Umeå. In the fall of 1965 he began his legal studies at the University of Stockholm and allowed himself plenty of time. It took eight years for him to earn his law degree with mediocre grades. After that he applied to police chief training. Finished that in the appointed time, and in 1975 he was hired by the Stockholm police department’s legal department as an assistant commissioner.
Two years later he changed jobs and started with the secret police. First as police superintendent, up until 1985 when he was promoted to chief superintendent and the second-in-command to SePo’s operations head, the legendary Berg.
Three years later he suddenly resigned. Another four years later he was dead. At the age of only forty-seven, and completely healthy as it appeared, he suddenly drowned during a vacation on Mallorca.
On Mallorca of all places, thought Holt.
Johansson seemed to have devoted himself to something other than Claes Waltin. On Friday afternoon he had been at a meeting in Rosenbad, and after the meeting he ran into the special adviser, who quickly took him aside and into his office.
“Nice to see you, Lars Martin,” said the special adviser, looking as if he really meant it. “By the way, I read your e-mail.”
“About the deer at Magdalen College. Thanks for the last time, by the way,” said Johansson.
“Life has taught me at least one thing,” the special adviser observed. “Not only about the deer at Magdalen,” he added.
“So what’s that?”
“That even wise people like you often confuse the truth with what you think you know,” said the special adviser, winking at his visitor. “Have you thought about that, Lars Martin?” he continued. “How often does the truth appear with a mask on her face and in clothing that she has not even borrowed but simply stolen from someone else entirely?”
“I thought it was the lie that wore a mask,” said Johansson.
“The truth, too,” said the special adviser, nodding seriously. “Not only do they share a room with each other; they share a bed in a lifelong relationship where the one’s existence is a prerequisite for the other’s survival.”
“You’re in one of your philosophical moods, I’m hearing.” Is he trying to say something or is he just a bad loser? thought Johansson.
“Speaking of the truth,” said the special adviser. “Do you have any desire to come to the Turing Society for our next seminar? As chairman of the society it would please me greatly to have such a wise and well-informed guest as you.”
“What were you planning to talk about?”
“About the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme,” said the special adviser.
Claes Waltin had drowned during a vac
ation on Mallorca in October 1992. He was staying at north Mallorca’s best hotel. He had stayed at the same place at the same time for a number of years. A week in October at the Hotel Formentor was his recurring fall vacation.
Every morning he would go down to the beach for a morning dip. At the hotel’s private beach. Secluded from the hoi polloi and public view. The water was still about fifty degrees so there was nothing strange about that. For someone like Waltin and if you weren’t a Spaniard, that is. Then it was far too cold. Besides he was up far too early in the morning. At the Hotel Formentor all the normal guests were asleep at that time of day. Hence Waltin could always swim alone.
At eight in the morning, this unchristian time of day for any civilized Spaniard, he passed the reception desk. Equipped with a bathrobe and towel and quite clearly en route to his daily morning dip, according to the two employees in reception that the Spanish police had talked with. Señor Waltin had been exactly as usual. A friendly greeting to the male reception clerk, for his female associate the smile and compliment she always got, regardless of who she was. Everything had been exactly as usual on that morning, the last known observation of Claes Waltin while he was alive.
Fourteen days later he was found. What was left of the former chief superintendent was washed up on the beach a few miles from the hotel. Natural death by drowning, according to the Spanish police investigation. They had not found any simple, unambiguous signs of murder or suicide in any event. What thus remained was natural death by drowning.
The Swedish secret police had made their own investigation. The drowning of a former high-ranking boss at a luxury hotel in southern Europe was not something that was taken lightly. Least of all as the medical examination Waltin had undergone only a month before showed that he was in excellent health. Apart from rather high liver function values he seemed to have been in the best condition, but despite this the Swedish investigators had still come to the same conclusion as their Spanish colleagues.
A purely accidental occurrence. Nothing the least bit peculiar about it, and it was only when his will was opened that things got strange. Really, really strange.
At four in the afternoon Lewin started looking at the clock and fidgeting. At first Mattei ignored him, but finally she showed mercy. Personally she intended to work the whole evening, and because she knew the considerate, loyal Lewin, she made his anguish brief.
“Before you go home, Jan,” said Mattei. “I looked into that thing about Adolf for you.”
“Adolf?”
“Claes Adolf Waltin,” Mattei clarified. “His father, Robert, was evidently an organized Nazi during the war. Participated as a volunteer on the German side. From 1942 until the end of the war he was part of the Viking Battalion. That was an SS battalion made up of volunteers from Scandinavia. Swedes, Danes, Norwegians.”
“How do you know that?” asked Lewin, looking at her doubtfully.
“Found it on the Internet,” said Mattei. “He’s included in Hermansson’s dissertation on the Swedish volunteers in the Viking Battalion. Was decorated with the Iron Cross on three occasions. Advanced from regular soldier to lieutenant. Known right-wing extremist and nationalist far into the seventies. Disappears from the Swedish national movement about the same time his son started as a police officer.”
“Peculiar, extremely peculiar,” said Lewin, shaking his head.
Claes Waltin appeared never to have had any financial difficulties. A millionaire at the age of twenty-four since he inherited from his mother. A multimillionaire when he died and left behind the most peculiar will Holt had ever read. As an investigator with the police she had read a number over the years, but nothing even in the neighborhood of former chief superintendent Claes Waltin’s last will and testament.
Either he was off his rocker or else it was worse than that, thought Holt.
The will had been in Waltin’s safe deposit box at SEB. It was handwritten, and according to the police department’s graphology expert Waltin was the one who wrote it.
All the money that Waltin left, and this was several million, was to start a foundation that would support research on hypochondriac complaints among women. This in memory of his mother, and the foundation would also bear her name. A long name: The Foundation for Research into Hypochondria in Memory of My Mother Aino Waltin and All Other Hypochondriacal Old Hags Who Have Ruined the Lives of Their Children.
What a little mama’s boy, thought Holt.
Then it quickly got even worse, venturing far beyond the boundaries that normally applied when a will was prepared. The deceased had attached a long statement of cause that was to be incorporated into the statutes of the foundation according to the “donor’s last will and testament.”
“During my entire childhood my mother, Aino Waltin, was dying of most of the diseases known to medical science. Despite this she never honored her repeated promises of her imminent demise. Because it would not have been possible for me to sue her for ordinary refusal to deliver according to civil law, I finally saw myself compelled to put her to death myself by pushing her off the platform at the Östermalm subway station when she was on her way to one of her daily doctor’s appointments.”
No ordinary mama’s boy, thought Holt.
The will had of course been contested by the closest survivor, Waltin’s father. The district court took his side and found that the will should be invalidated because the testator was obviously not of sound mind when the will was written.
What remained was the peculiar fact that Lewin’s mother had happened to fall down in front of a subway train at the Östermalm subway station, was run over, and died immediately. A pure accident, according to the police, probably brought about by one of her recurring dizzy spells, which one of her many doctors had reported. Dead by accident in June 1969. Her only son and heir was twenty-four years old, a law student at the University of Stockholm, and for him life went on.
There were many accidents in that family, thought Holt.
Puerto Alcúdia on north Mallorca
Esperanza was built at a small local shipyard in Puerto Alcúdia, still owned and run by Ignacio Ballester and his two sons, Felipe and Guillermo. The shipyard has been in the family for generations, and it has always specialized in the area’s local fishing boats, illaut.
This particular customer, however, had special requests, which broke in part with tradition. Among other things he did not want the vertically pointing bowsprit that was mostly a joy to the eye, just like the dragon on the prow of a Viking ship, but at the same time good to be able to hold on to if you were boarding a swaying deck.
Ignacio talked about this with his customer, but he just shook his head. Besides, he said that the Vikings never had dragons on the prows of their boats. That was a latter-day Romantic invention, and if Ignacio didn’t believe him he could always take Felipe and Guillermo, go to Oslo, visit the Viking Ship Museum, and see with their own eyes what Viking sailing vessels really looked like.
Ignacio gave in. The customer presumably knew more about this than he did, and the customer was always right, as long as it didn’t affect the seaworthiness of the boats that he and his sons built.
He didn’t want a mast either. He didn’t intend to sail with Esperanza; instead he would rely on her engine. With a mast a ship rocked more than necessary, and the customer preferred a steady deck under his feet.
On the other hand he did want a number of other things that were not on a regular illaut. Ultrasound, of course, because it was necessary for anyone who dived in unknown waters and good for anyone who chose to fish instead. Radar was discussed, but they came to a joint decision to avoid that, because it would stick out too much and disturb Esperanza’s lovely lines. The navigational equipment that was on board—compass, nautical chart, chart table, and reckoning—were fine according to Ignacio’s customer, and a few years later he complemented it with a modern GPS system.
After a few more years Ignacio had to install a butane grill on board Esperanza. There was no
better stove for meat, vegetables, fresh fish, or seafood. For Esperanza’s owner, his guests, and idle, sunlit days at sea. The grill folded against the bulkhead to take up less room when it wasn’t being used, and it was equipped with a stainless-steel cover that resisted weather and wind. The tank was hidden below the deck. Ignacio had to run the hose from the five-gallon butane container inside the wall of the bulkhead to keep the outside nice and clean.
After that not much remained to do on Esperanza. Every spring Ignacio drew her up on the slip, made the annual inspection, and scraped the bottom, which was necessary for all wooden boats and especially in these snail-infested waters.
Esperanza was a very beautiful little boat, and her owner had always taken good care of her.
52
Wednesday, September 12.
Four weeks remaining until October 10.
Headquarters of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation on Kungsholmen in Stockholm
The big boss’s own conference room. At the table sit the usual four. Lars Martin Johansson, Anna Holt, Jan Lewin, and Lisa Mattei. Outside the window autumn has arrived after a long, hot summer that seemed like it would never end. Suddenly, surprisingly, without advance warning. Cut the temperature in half and struck with gale-force winds. Like a street robber pulling and tearing at the trees in the park across the street and throwing itself against the outside of the building.
“A question,” said Holt. “Why does he leave SePo so hastily and strangely? Waltin, that is. According to my papers he is supposed to have applied for and been granted dismissal in May 1988 and left formally at the end of June the same year. He seems to have already left in early June. That’s when he turned in his police ID, his keys, his service weapon and signed all the papers. The only thing I’ve produced is that he applied for and was granted dismissal by his own request.”
Free Falling, As If in a Dream Page 34