“I get the sense that Claes Waltin drowned,” said Holt.
“In that case you should be careful about saying so. He’s an uncommonly repulsive old bastard,” Holt’s colleague observed. He was born in the district where he was now chief.
54
Bäckström was on the third day of his weeklong imprisonment. The camp to which he had been transported was a former summer camp for children up in Roslagen. A number of barracks-like buildings scattered on a forested hill above a wind-blown reed cove. Complete with a rotted pier and a broken rowboat shipwrecked on the embankment. Paper-thin walls in the buildings where they were staying. Iron beds made for poor children, with banana-shaped bedstead bottoms and old horsehair mattresses from the days of the Second World War. Beds that you had to make yourself. Beds that were lined up in hovel-like rooms you were expected to share with another brother in misfortune.
Although Bäckström had luck. He wound up with a colleague from the traffic police in Uppsala who seemed relatively normal and just like him had escaped all these years until yet another new female police chief sank her claws in him. Besides his roommate had had the foresight to hide a suitcase with beer and aquavit under a nearby outhouse before he registered at reception.
Once there you were lost. Bäckström realized this as soon as he came up to the counter and talked with the attack dyke running the check-in.
“Cell phone,” she said, looking dictatorially at Bäckström. “All course participants must turn in their cell phones.”
“I didn’t think you could bring your cell phone with you,” Bäckström lied with an innocent expression. “I mean, they are extremely annoying if you’re going to be at a course and have to concentrate.” Hope the piece of shit doesn’t ring while I’m standing here, he thought. Especially as he’d stuffed it in his briefs as soon as he got on the bus they drove up in.
“You left your cell phone at home,” said the receptionist, looking at him suspiciously.
“Of course,” said Bäckström. “I mean, it’s extremely annoying if you’re going to be at a course and have to concentrate. A good initiative you’ve taken, I think.” Now suck on that, you little sow, he thought.
“Did you bring along any alcoholic beverages?” asked the receptionist as she glanced at Bäckström’s heavy suitcase.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” said Bäckström, shaking his round head. “Never have, actually. Both my mother and my father were strong opponents of intoxicants, so that’s never been of interest to me. I had that with me from childhood, so to speak,” added Bäckström, with a pious expression. “What I mean is that if you absorb such an important message while you’re still a child, then—”
“Room twenty-two, second building to the left, second floor,” the dyke interrupted, banging the key on the counter.
“Although I missed that bit with the phone,” said his colleague after they had finished the introductory greeting ceremonies between old constables.
“Too fucking depressing, actually,” he added. “I know a lady who lives only six miles from here, when for once I have the old lady at a safe distance.”
“It’ll work out,” said Bäckström, pulling in his gut and fishing his cell phone out of his underwear. “Who the hell doesn’t make mistakes? Personally I thought they had a bar at this place. I mean, who the hell runs a conference hotel without having a big fucking bar?” And my good malt whiskey, which I have in my little suitcase, I do not intend to share with some country sheriff from traffic in any event, he thought.
“Here they apparently do. The ones running the place seem to be some of those anthropologists. Did you see the menu?” His colleague sighed, shaking his head. “Vegetarian shit, all the way through.”
“It’ll work out,” said Bäckström. “It’ll work out. What do you think about a little checking-in shot, by the way? Then you can take the opportunity to call that broad you were talking about and ask if she has a younger girlfriend.” Who wants to sample the Bäckström super-salami, he thought.
Sure. It had worked decently for three days. Despite all the fairies babbling uninterruptedly about gender issues and equality and how you became a liberated man and not just a useless prisoner of your own sex, and why someone who had a cat was a better person than the bastard who stuck to an ordinary dog.
Despite group therapy and relaxation exercises and a crazy old hag who held forth on Rosen therapy and human energy fields and following your inner voice so as to find the way to a higher consciousness, free from inhibiting male hormones and hereditary prejudices.
Despite the food, which was a real Christmas banquet for both guinea pigs and chaffinches with its groaning abundance of mineral water and salad and birdseed and nuts and cleansing root vegetables and unseasoned soy patties and fruit and hot water with milk and decaffeinated coffee for the most daring, who really wanted to get turned on before going to bed.
Bäckström had not betrayed his true sentiments and agreed with everything, and already during the first group discussion he had initiated the dialogue by firing off a juicy fart right in the chocolate kisser of the queer leading the discussion. Fridolf Fridolin, the Stockholm police department’s own psychologist, as well as gender sensitivity manager at the agency. Small, round, and rosy, complete with a Manchester jacket and down on his upper lip.
“There’s a lot of talk about equality and gender issues among our fellow citizens these days, but how serious is this, when we—”
“Fellow citizens?” Bäckström interrupted with raised hands. “Why do you say ‘fellow’? Are all citizens supposed to be guys? Is that what you mean?”
“I hear what you’re saying, Bäckström,” said their discussion leader, smiling nervously.
“Bäckström,” said Bäckström. “I thought we agreed that we should call one another by our first names, and personally I know for sure that during our introduction I said that my friends always call me Eve. Never Bäckström, never even Evert. My friends call me Eve,” said Bäckström, nodding challengingly at his blushing victim.
“Excuse me, Bäck…Eve. Excuse me. Eve.”
“I forgive you, Frippy,” said Bäckström. “It was Frippy you wanted to be called?”
“Fridolf. It was my dad who—”
“Your dad,” said Bäckström accusingly. “But you must have a mom too? What did she used to call you?”
“Little Frippy, although that was—”
“You’re forgiven, Little Frippy,” said Bäckström with a dignified expression.
On the evening of the third day things really went downhill. First the aquavit ran out. Almost, at least, for he had had the foresight to save a drop of his own. Then he and his colleague from Uppsala came extremely close to being caught in the act as they were sneaking home to the hotel after the usual evening orgy at the hot dog stand up by the highway. Once in the safety of the room he listened to his voice messages. GeGurra had called and cursed and sworn like a sailor. Not the least bit like a silver-haired elderly art dealer. More like an ordinary tramp, actually, and it was all apparently that dyke Holt’s fault. As soon as he had been admitted to the gender sensitivity asylum, she had thrown herself on the old homo and evidently scared the shit out of him.
“You gave me your word of honor, Bäckström,” GeGurra repeated on the voice mail. “I look forward to hearing what you have to say in your defense.”
She’s trying to cheat me out of the cash, and now it’s a matter of being quick, thought Bäckström. He packed his little bag, put on a tie, wandered down to reception, pulled on the tie until his skull felt like it was going to burst, eased up on the tie so as not to die for real, and staggered into reception.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” Bäckström hissed, sitting down on the floor, staring at the dyke receptionist with round eyes and waving his hands in front of his very red face.
Then everything had gone like a dance. The dyke receptionist called the emergency number while she sponged Bäckström’s forehea
d. To be on the safe side he had assumed a horizontal position on the floor. He was taken by ambulance to the emergency room in Norrtälje. Was admitted for observation overnight by a real Swedish doctor and not some quack in a violet turban. Private room, newly made bed, Finnish blonde who was apparently the night nurse and had a weakness for a real constable from the big city. She came in several times and chatted with him before he finally had a little peace so he could consume the last drops from the bottle he’d brought with him and get the beauty sleep he so heartily needed.
The next day he took a taxi home. Put on sick leave, with a referral to Karolinska in Stockholm to follow up on possible allergies, blood pressure, cholesterol levels, and a few other goodies that worried the dear doctor up in Norrtälje.
Now, Holt, thought Bäckström as soon as he closed the door and fetched a cold pilsner from the fridge. Now this is war.
55
“When did you intend to interview Wiijnbladh?” said Johansson as soon as he appeared at the door to her office.
“Good morning, Lars,” said Holt. “Yes, I’m doing just fine. Thanks for asking. I was just meaning to call him and set a time. Jan and I will hold the interview with him. It will have to be for informational purposes. How are you doing yourself, by the way?”
“For informational purposes?”
“Yes, otherwise how could we set it up? The part about the revolver passed the statute of limitations several years ago. So we don’t have a suspect. Even if it were true.”
“He’s going to be picked up,” said Johansson, glaring at her acidly.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve spoken with the prosecutor. Brought in without prior notice. House search at his residence and at his workplace.”
“On what grounds then?” asked Holt. What’s happening? she thought. Has Johansson talked with the prosecutor? And in that event what am I doing in this case?
“Premeditation for murder,” said Johansson. “That’s not prescribed,” he added, nodding gloomily.
“Premeditation for murder? Wait now. Are we talking about the prime minister, because in that case it’s more likely complicity to murder that we—”
“We’re talking about his former wife, whom he wanted to poison,” interrupted Johansson.
“Neither Jan nor I intend to bring that up,” answered Holt, shaking her head. “There doesn’t seem to even be a report in that matter, by the way.”
“Now there’s a report,” said Johansson. “Which is why you shouldn’t talk about it, but because that was the best the prosecutor and I could come up with, now there’s a report. Before you ask, by the way, it was our usual prosecutor, if you’re wondering, not that skinny woman who takes care of Palme.
“Do as I say for once,” he continued. “See to it that we have him here within an hour. And try for once not to be too nice and understanding. That applies to both you and Lewin.”
And so it turned out. One hour later Wiijnbladh was sitting in an interview room at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation with Holt and Lewin. Very shaken up, and not understanding a thing.
“Why do you want to talk with me?” Wiijnbladh whined, licking his lips nervously.
“About your previous acquaintance with Chief Superintendent Claes Waltin,” said Holt, taking pains to look both friendly and interested.
“He’s dead, you know,” said Wiijnbladh, with a confused look.
“Yes, I know that. But when he was alive it seems that he and you were good friends.”
She got no farther than that, for suddenly Johansson opened the door and simply walked right in. With him he had two colleagues from the bureau’s homicide squad. Rogersson, with his narrow eyes, and then that disgusting bodybuilder whose name I’ve managed to repress, thought Holt. Hardly by chance.
“My name is Johansson,” said Johansson, glaring at Wiijnbladh. “I’m the one who’s the boss at this place.”
“Yes, I know who the boss is,” stammered Wiijnbladh. “I don’t think I’ve had—”
“I want the keys to your home, your pass card to the building here, your computer card, and the codes to your computer,” Johansson interrupted.
“But I don’t understand,” said Wiijnbladh, shaking his head and looking almost imploringly at Holt.
“House search,” said Johansson, holding out his large hand. “Empty your pockets, then I won’t have to ask the officers to do it for you.”
One minute later they left. Remaining were Holt, Lewin, and a terrified Wiijnbladh who was looking at Holt.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said. “I have to—”
“Jan here will go along with you,” said Holt, turning off the tape recorder. I should have listened to Berg, she thought.
He took his sweet time in the bathroom. Wiijnbladh apparently splashed his face with cold water, which seemed to have been of little help. Confused and absent. Doesn’t understand what this is about, thought Holt.
“Now we resume the interview with Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh,” said Holt after she restarted the tape recorder. “Before we were interrupted we were talking about your acquaintance with former chief superintendent Claes Waltin with the secret police. Can you tell us how you knew him?”
“We were good friends,” said Wiijnbladh. “But I still don’t understand.”
“How long had you known him?” asked Holt.
According to Wiijnbladh he had known Waltin since the early eighties. It started as a professional contact, but by and by it had turned into more of a regular friendship.
“I had the privilege of giving him a little general guidance in forensic issues,” said Wiijnbladh, who suddenly seemed calmer. “But otherwise we mostly talked about art, actually. We had that interest in common, and Claes had an excellent art collection. Really excellent, with a number of major works by both Swedish and foreign artists. On one occasion he asked me to look at an etching by Zorn to see if it might be a forgery.”
“General forensic issues, you say,” said Holt. “Did you ever talk about other things in that line, other than the sort of thing that concerned art forgeries?”
“What might that have been?” asked Wiijnbladh, looking at her.
“Firearms,” said Holt. “Did he ask you about firearms?” Just as confused again, she thought.
“He asked me about everything imaginable. About fingerprints and various forensic methods for securing and analyzing clues. Claes, well, Claes Waltin that is, had a very strong interest in education. He simply wanted to learn more. Used to show up and visit me at the tech squad.”
“Let’s return to the subject of firearms,” said Holt. “I’ve understood that in September 1988 you turned over a revolver to him that was stored in your so-called weapons library at the tech squad. It was confiscated in a case from March 27, 1983. A murder-suicide.”
“I know nothing about that,” Wiijnbladh stammered, his gaze wobbling between her and Lewin. “I know nothing about that.”
Unfortunately you probably do, thought Holt. If I were to believe your eyes, then you do.
“But you must remember it anyway,” said Holt. “In the fall of 1988, Claes Waltin asked you to turn over a revolver to him. This revolver, to be more exact,” she said, handing over a photograph of the firearm that was used in the murder-suicide out in Spånga in March 1983.
“One of your former colleagues took the photo,” Holt explained. “Bergholm, if you remember him. He was the one in charge of the technical investigation when the photo was taken.”
Wiijnbladh did not want to pick up the photograph. Didn’t even want to look at it. Shook his head. Turned away. Holt took a new approach and hated herself as she did it.
“I’m getting a little surprised by your answers,” said Holt. “Either you gave a revolver to Waltin or you didn’t. Yes or no, that is, and it’s no more difficult than that. I and my colleague Jan Lewin here have reason to believe that you did. Now we want to know what your position is on this.”
“I’m prevented from saying that,” said Wiijnbladh.
“How can you be?” said Holt. “You have to explain that.”
“With respect to the security of the realm,” said Wiijnbladh.
“With respect to the security of the realm,” Holt repeated. “That sounds like something Claes Waltin said to you.”
“I had to sign papers.”
“You had to sign papers that Claes Waltin gave you. Where do you keep them?”
“At home,” said Wiijnbladh. “At home where I live. In the drawer to my desk, but they’re secret so you can’t look at them.”
“I’ll come back to that,” said Holt. “In September 1988 you turned over the revolver that you see in the photograph sitting in front of you to Claes Waltin. We’ll come back to why you did that, but before that I intend to ask you about a few other things we’ve also been wondering about. The tech squad’s report from the test firing of that revolver is missing. Jan Lewin and I think you were the one who removed it. The second thing concerns a request you addressed to the Defense Factories for scrapping the same firearm. We do not think that the firearm was scrapped. How could it have been? You’d already given it to your good friend Claes Waltin.”
“I know nothing about that,” Wiijnbladh whimpered, staring at the floor.
“I want you to look at me, Göran,” said Holt. “Look at me.”
“What?” said Wiijnbladh, looking at her. “Why?”
“I want to be able to look you in the eyes when you answer,” said Holt. “You must understand that anyway. You’re a police officer yourself.”
“But I can’t answer, I just can’t. If I answer I’m committing a breach of secrecy. It’s in the papers I signed.”
“The papers that Claes Waltin gave you and told you to sign?”
“Yes,” said Wiijnbladh and nodded. “Although I can’t say that either.”
Finally, thought Holt.
“Do you have any questions, Jan?” said Holt, turning to Lewin.
“There are a couple of things I’m wondering about,” said Lewin with a cautious throat clearing. “When you signed these papers, in connection with giving Waltin the revolver, this was in September 1988.”
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