Free Falling, As If in a Dream

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

  “He had no choice,” said Johansson. “The alternative would have been that he would be fired.”

  “Why?” said Holt.

  “Okay then,” sighed Johansson, looking like the former head of SePo he was. “Assuming that this stays in this room. Briefly and in summary. Lots of financial oddities and some real irregularities. Waltin was also head of the so-called external operation, where the secret police had, among other things, started a private company to use as a cover and control instrument. Waltin seemed to have mostly been interested in making money. The parliamentary auditors went crazy when they found out about it. Justice did an investigation and decided that the whole operation had been illegal from the start. Apart from Waltin’s own efforts as an entrepreneur.”

  “So how has SePo solved that today?” said Mattei with an innocent expression.

  “Excuse me,” said Johansson. What is it she’s saying? he thought.

  “I’m joking with you, boss. Excuse me,” said Mattei, who didn’t seem the least bit repentant.

  “Don’t do it again,” said Johansson sternly. What has happened with Mattei? he thought.

  “I have a question myself, by the way,” he continued after a moment.

  Had they thought about Waltin’s motive, if things were really so bad that he was involved in the murder of the prime minister? True, Johansson himself was no friend of motives. He considered them almost a source of entertainment for the judicial upper classes, and the sort of thing that real police officers seldom made use of when they tried to advance a murder investigation. In fact, or simply in his experience, the motives he had encountered during his life as a police officer were almost always obvious or crazy. Concerning Waltin, however, he could imagine making an exception.

  “Possibly he had a role model,” Lewin replied with a cautious glance at Mattei. “Lisa and I are looking at that.”

  Then he talked about Claes Waltin’s middle name, the date he was born, and his father’s background. Holt filled in with the story about his to say the least strange will, and his statement that he had murdered his mother.

  “Absent father, dominant mother, idealizes the father, hates the mother, classic psychology,” said Holt. “If you want more—”

  “Thanks, thanks,” Johansson interrupted. “That’s good enough. I want something to sink my teeth in. Get to the bottom of this fellow. Trace his contacts. Find out who he associated with. How he thought, felt, and lived. Where he stood politically, who and what he loved and hated. What he read, what he ate, what he drank. I want to know everything about the bastard. His dad, by the way. How old is he now?”

  “He’ll soon be eighty-eight,” Mattei interjected alertly, before Lewin had time to leaf through his papers.

  “Find out if there’s any sense in interviewing him,” said Johansson. “If he was crazy enough to christen his boy Adolf at that point in time, it might very well be worth the bother. People like that usually like to hear their own voice. Who knows? Maybe he was the one holding the revolver. Frisky, happy retiree. Looked considerably younger than he was.”

  “I think you can forget that,” said Holt. “He’s too short, for one thing. Five foot eight according to his passport from that time.”

  “Good, Holt,” said Johansson. “Embrace the situation. Give me the name of the bastard.”

  “Sometimes I get the idea that you have it,” Holt objected.

  “Not him,” said Johansson, shaking his head. “Not Waltin. Give me the name of the bastard who did the shooting.”

  That evening after dinner Johansson and his wife, Pia, watched a film by Costa-Gavras. It was about a leading left-wing politician who was murdered by the Greek junta’s police. Johansson had borrowed it from Mattei, who in turn had borrowed it from an acquaintance who was studying film. Z—He lives on, thought Johansson, and well worth watching, according to Mattei.

  Personally he had a hard time concentrating. Probably because he would soon have bigger problems than any of the others. His suddenly, inexplicably happy co-worker who dared to test his democratic captaincy. What is happening? thought Johansson.

  Pia, he thought. Soon he would probably have to talk with her. Although not now. Not now when they were curled up in their separate corners of the couch with legs interlaced, watching a film about a murdered politician while the wind picked up and howled against his very security there in front of the TV in the building where they lived. He and his wife and everything that his life was ultimately about.

  “What is it, Lars? You seem worried.”

  “It’s nothing,” Johansson lied, smiling at her. “Just a bit much at work.”

  Then he leaned over, placed his arm around her and drew her to him. It’ll work out, he thought. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  53

  On Wednesday, September 12, Superintendent Anna Holt and Inspector Lisa Mattei held an interview with Gustaf G:son Henning at his office on Norrmalmstorg.

  To begin with he had been both guarded and surprised, very surprised, almost unsympathetic. Courteous, to be sure, but mostly because they were women and despite the fact that they came from the police. Pretty soon they softened him up. Holt, at her most attractive with her clean features and white teeth, her black hair and long legs. Mattei, with her blond, innocent admiration for a mature man of the world. Gustaf G:son Henning was irretrievably lost. Despite his white hair, his tailor-made Italian suits, and his seventy years of experience of every form of human intrigue.

  How nice, thought Anna Holt, smiling at him. So I avoid having to bring up Juha Valentin Andersson Snygg.

  Then he told them everything he had told Bäckström. Speaking more and more comfortably and elaborately the longer the story went on. Exhaustively too and in detail, because he was asked those kinds of questions. A few times he even confirmed the date and what had happened with the help of his old diaries.

  Mostly he talked about Claes Waltin. They had met at the restaurant. The old Cecil on Biblioteksgatan where well-off young men at that time would get drunk and socialize with women. A twenty-year-old Waltin and Henning, only ten years older. Told about their first business deal, when Waltin had just received his inheritance and was running around with a lot of money burning a hole in a young man’s pockets. About Waltin’s early interest in pornography—“good pornography”—and about the painting he sold to him when he was barely “dry behind the ears.”

  “It was a small oil by Gustav Klimt, and it’s probably the worst deal I’ve made in my entire life. Considering the price it would have commanded today.”

  About the years that followed. How they met, or talked on the phone, at intervals of a month or two. Did the occasional deal. Had numerous good dinners together. Talked about art, about the good life, even about women, actually, though personally he only reluctantly talked about women with other men.

  “We were not close friends. More like acquaintances, in the positive sense. In addition we were neighbors on Norr Mälarstrand for many years, and we might run into each other on the street on a daily basis when we were both in town.”

  “Did he have any close friends that you know about?” asked Holt.

  Not that he knew. No family, except his father whom he talked about occasionally. But a frightful lot of women. Beautiful women. Young women. Some very young. Perhaps much too young. He had seen that with his own eyes, not least when they ran into each other in the block where they lived. Claes Waltin with a new woman hanging on his arm.

  “On some occasion I recall he said that was how he wanted them. Young, very young. He wanted to take them in mid-leap. His view of women left a great deal to be desired, if I may say so,” Henning the art dealer observed, smiling paternally at Lisa Mattei where she was sitting in her blue pumps and with demurely crossed legs.

  “A great deal to be desired, you say,” said Holt.

  “Yes,” said Henning, shaking his head. “On some occasion I remember he asked if I was interested in a collection of photos and fil
ms. Privately recorded, somewhat rougher things, to say the least. I declined of course.”

  The revolver with which the prime minister was supposed to have been shot?

  Besides what he had told Bäckström, and now them too, he had one thing he wanted to add. He had forgotten to tell this to Bäckström, but had thought of it when he was ransacking his memory.

  “He showed me a picture of the revolver,” said Henning.

  “A picture?” asked Holt.

  “It was an ordinary photograph. Color photo, enlargement, maybe eight inches by six, with the revolver on top of a copy of Dagens Nyheter from the first of March. The day after the murder. If I remember correctly, the headline was “‘Olof Palme Murdered.’”

  “Revolvers of this model usually have a serial number marked on the barrel. Do you recall whether you saw that?”

  “No,” said Henning, shaking his head. “I recall that it was shiny, metal-colored, that is. Had a long barrel and a wooden butt. With that kind of hatched grip. Checkered.”

  “Checkered?”

  “Yes, that’s what it’s called. Probably walnut, according to Waltin. Like I said, I asked about that. And what condition it was in.”

  “Do you remember in what direction the barrel was pointing on the photo?” Mattei interjected.

  “To the right, it must have been,” said Henning. “The revolver was under the headline. On the photo that is. Parallel with the headline. With the butt to the left and the barrel to the right.”

  “You’re sure of that?” asked Holt. With the serial number on the other side, she thought.

  “Completely sure,” Mattei repeated. May have been chance too, she thought.

  “At least I have a definite recollection of that,” said Henning. “Why are you wondering, by the way?”

  “The serial number on a revolver of that model is on the left side of the barrel. Explains why you didn’t see it,” said Holt.

  “But he said nothing about how he acquired it,” Holt persisted for the third time, five minutes later.

  “He said he had access to it,” Henning clarified. “That it was in good condition. That it had been stored in a secure place. In the lion’s own den. That’s what he said. He was extremely amused when he told me that, so I’m quite sure about it.”

  “Waltin was quite certain this was the revolver that was used when the prime minister was murdered?”

  “Quite certain,” said Henning. “For whatever reason. I actually tried to joke about it and asked whether he was involved in some way, but he denied that. Then he said something to the effect that if I only knew what he had found out in his job, I would be able to live well on my silence the rest of my life.”

  “So how did you interpret that?”

  “I knew what he worked with,” said Henning, shrugging his shoulders. “I had no reason to believe he was pulling my leg. That wasn’t the sort of thing he did. I got a definite impression that he could actually produce the revolver, assuming I could find a buyer and do a risk-free deal.”

  “So did you do that? Try to find a buyer?” Holt asked.

  “No,” said Henning. “Not really. There are certain deals that I would never do. I tried to say that to him too. In as refined a way as that sort of thing can be said.”

  “If I understand it correctly, this discussion went on only a month before he died,” said Holt.

  “Yes,” said Henning. “It was pretty shocking when I found out what had happened. As I’m sure you understand. Not because I think he was murdered. I’ve never cared much for conspiracy theories. I thought that if anything maybe he had taken his own life.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “He was worn-out,” said Henning. “Drank more than he could handle. Was careless about his appearance, even though he had always been careful about that. Waltin was always perfectly dressed. Tailor-made clothes. Had good taste. That he also had a self-destructive side I guess I was convinced of early on. But at the end, and now I’m talking about the last year before he died, there was something unrestrained about him. He said things a person doesn’t say. Not normal people in any event. I know he was sick. He mentioned that he had problems with his liver, but personally I think that was about the alcohol. He drank too much, to put it simply. Way too much.”

  “Any examples? Of strange things he said.”

  “Yes,” said Henning and sighed. “One evening when we were out having dinner, this must have been six months before he died, he delivered a long monologue about how he would like to stand on his balcony watching Rome burn, but because that wasn’t possible he would have to be content with beating up and dominating any woman who crossed his path.”

  “So what did he mean by that?”

  “I’m afraid he meant exactly what he said,” Henning said and sighed.

  “Anything else that you recall?” asked Mattei.

  “He told me a few things about himself. Very vulgar things, actually, that no one would be particularly amused to hear. Personally I wasn’t the least bit amused.”

  “Give me an example,” said Holt, with a warning glance in Mattei’s direction.

  “When he was studying law at the university he seems to have started a peculiar society with a few of his fellow students at the law school. A somewhat strange name, to say the least. For their society, that is.”

  “So what was it called?” asked Holt.

  “The Friends of Cunt,” said Henning with an apologetic glance toward Mattei.

  “The Friends of Cunt,” Holt repeated.

  “Yes,” sighed Henning, “and it might possibly be excused as an eruption of youthful high spirits and general poor judgment, but that wasn’t his point when he was telling the story.”

  “So what was his point?”

  “That he’d been expelled,” said Henning. “His three friends in the society expelled him. There were only four of them. A small society, I should think. Waltin was expelled by the others. For reasons I’ve already hinted at.”

  “That he beat women up before he slept with them,” said Holt.

  “More or less,” said Henning. “And a few other things too.”

  “Such as?”

  “That he would tie them up, among other things. Shave their pubic hair and that kind of thing. Photograph them after he’d tied them up.”

  “When was he expelled by the other members of the society?”

  “Well. They had a party with a few young women they got hold of. At home with Waltin, if I understand it right. It evidently degenerated, according to the other members. Not according to Waltin. He was very amused as he was telling the story.”

  “These other members. Waltin didn’t mention any names?”

  “Sure,” said Henning. “That was how he started in on this story. We started talking about one of them in a completely different context, and that was when he said he had once belonged to the same society.”

  “So what is his name?”

  “A very well-known individual, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m listening,” said Holt.

  “Nowadays he’s a member of parliament for the Christian Democrats,” said Henning with a deep sigh.

  “And his name is?”

  “Let me think about that,” said Henning, shaking his head. “This is forty years ago, after all,” he added.

  “We can discuss that before we leave,” said Holt.

  “Wonder who the other two were?” said Holt in the police car on their way back to headquarters.

  “Our member of parliament perhaps remembers,” said Mattei. “I mean, just a small society. He must remember anyway?”

  “Shall you or I talk with him?” said Holt.

  “I demand to be present,” said Mattei. “Otherwise I’m resigning from the police.”

  “Let’s think about it,” said Holt and sighed. “It’s not completely given that this has anything to do with the matter,” she added.

  “I think it probably does,” Mattei objected. “If yo
u’re expelled from a society like that, it definitely has something to do with the matter.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Holt decided. Sometimes Lisa can be completely merciless, she thought.

  Before Anna Holt went home for the day, she called up an old colleague she had met during her time at SePo. Nowadays he was regional head of the local police in a district outside Kristianstad in Skåne, where Claes Waltin’s aged father owned a large estate that had been in the family for several generations.

  “Robert Waltin. Of course we know him. Something of a local celebrity down here. Nosy question: Why do you want to talk about him?”

  “For informational purposes, about another individual that we’re looking at,” said Holt. “He’s not suspected of anything, but when I discovered how old he is I thought it was best to hear from you whether there was any point in trying to talk with him,” Holt clarified.

  “Depends,” said her colleague. “What you want to talk about, that is. I’m sure you know whose father he was?”

  “Former superintendent Claes Waltin.”

  “One and the same. So the apple didn’t land very far from the pear tree. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the old man’s mind. Still drives around in his old Mercedes spreading terror on the local roads. I’ve tried to talk with him about that. But it was completely meaningless. We tried to take away his driver’s license, but we had to reverse ourselves on that.”

  “Do you have any suggestions? If I were to make an attempt?”

  “Say that you’ve decided to investigate the murder of his son,” said her colleague. “Then he’s never going to stop talking. He’s been harping about that every single time I or any of my associates has had contact with him because he’s been driving like a lunatic, tearing down the neighbor’s sheep fence, or suing someone for placing a manure pile upwind of his house. All the kinds of things that extremists do to promote neighborly harmony out here in the country. Then he always talks about all the shit we’re involved in to avoid devoting ourselves to essential things. For example, that the socialist administration murdered his son. That’s what he calls them. The socialist administration or the socialist mafia.”