“An old Russian proverb,” Bäckström said.
“Definitely not,” Nadja said, and snorted. “If you uttered that sort of proverb in those days you ended up with the KGB. But if you like, we could have a little bet, for a bottle of vodka,” Nadja said with another smile.
“Then I’m betting my bottle on receipts and betting slips,” Bäckström said. “What about you, Nadja?”
“A pot of gold,” Nadja said, suddenly seeming all melancholic. “Not because it would ever fit in such a small deposit box, but because hope is the last thing that we Russians let go of.”
Shrewd, fucking shrewd, Bäckström thought. But just as mad as all Russians.
Afterward he had asked Annika Carlsson to drive them. Who the hell could bear to listen to an incest victim from Dalarna as he sat and droned on about a fat old blonde? Bäckström thought. Carlsson at least had the good sense to keep quiet as she drove, and just a quarter of an hour after leaving the Solna police station she pulled up outside the bank.
The female official had been very obliging. She had taken a quick look at their IDs, then went with them down into the vault, unlocked the box using her own and Bäckström’s keys, took out the little metal tray, and put it on a table.
“One question before you go,” Bäckström had said, stopping her with a smile. “Danielsson visited the box about a week ago. I believe you were the person who helped him? Do you remember anything about that visit?”
A hesitant shake of the head before she answered.
“We’re under bankers’ confidentiality here,” she said apologetically.
“In which case you know that we’re here because of a murder, and that bankers’ confidentiality no longer applies,” Bäckström said.
“I know,” she said. “Well, I remember the visit.”
“Why?”
“He was the sort of customer that you tended to notice, even if he wasn’t here very often,” she said. “Always rather grand, slightly exaggerated gestures, and he used to smell of drink as well. I remember us laughing about it after he’d been here once. How long it would be before the Financial Crime Unit turned up in our branch.”
“Do you recall if he had a briefcase with him at all? An attaché case in light brown leather, with brass detailing?” Annika Carlsson asked.
“Yes, I remember that. He always had it with him. Even last week when he was here to get things out of his box.”
“Why do you say that?” Annika Carlsson asked. “That he was here to get things out of the box, I mean?”
“As I was getting the box he opened up his briefcase. It was completely empty. Well, apart from a notebook and some pens.”
“Thank you,” Bäckström said.
“What do you think about these?” Annika Carlsson asked when the official had left them, holding up a pair of plastic gloves.
“What, to look at a little box that’s already got a load of bank officials’ prints on it?” Bäckström said, shaking his head. “No point. We’ll leave that to Niemi and his chums.” Betting slips and old receipts, he thought.
“Okay, Annika,” Bäckström said, grinning and weighing the box in his hand. “What do you think about a little bet?”
“A hundred, no more,” Annika Carlsson said. “I don’t usually bet. Okay, I reckon it’s betting slips and receipts. What about you, then, Bäckström?”
“A pot of gold. You know, Annika. At the end of every rainbow there’s always a pot of gold,” Bäckström said, and opened the box.
Fuck, he thought, as his eyes grew as round as his head. Why the fuck didn’t I come here alone? I’d never have had to wipe my own ass again for the rest of my life, he thought.
“Are you psychic, Bäckström?” Annika Carlsson said, looking at him with wide-open eyes that were just as round as his.
24.
About six months earlier the head of the National Criminal Investigation Department, Lars Martin Johansson, had called one of his colleagues, police chief Anna Holt, and asked if he could invite her to dinner.
“That sounds nice,” Anna Holt had said, trying not to show her surprise. The first time, even though we’ve known each other for more than ten years, she thought. I wonder what he wants this time. From past experience she knew that Johansson always had a motive for what he did, and almost always a hidden agenda.
“When did you have in mind?” Holt asked.
“Preferably tonight,” Johansson said. “Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Tonight is fine, actually,” Holt said. I wonder what he wants from me this time, she thought. Must be something more than the usual.
“Splendid,” Johansson said. “We’ll meet at seven o’clock. I’ll mail you the address of the place I’m thinking of taking you. Take a taxi and get a receipt, and I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t worry,” Holt said. “One question, though, out of curiosity. What do you want me to do this time?”
“Anna, Anna,” Johansson said with a sigh. “I want you to have dinner with your boss. I hope you’ll have a nice time. In answer to your question, no, I’m not going to ask a favor of you. But I am thinking of telling you a secret. And it’s not about anyone apart from me, so you don’t have to worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Holt assured him. “It’ll be nice to see you.” He’d make a good salesman too, she thought, as soon as she had hung up.
I wonder what he really wants, she thought, as she got into the taxi to go and meet him. In spite of his assurances to the contrary, she couldn’t quite let go of the idea that this was about something else other than his telling her a secret about himself. Johansson simply wasn’t the type to tell secrets. He had no problems at all keeping them, particularly if they related to him.
Some six months before, he had got her and a growing number of her colleagues to secretly go through the findings of the Palme Inquiry to see if they could find anything that everyone else had missed.
Considering that the amount of material was immense and that the whole project should have been declared dead from the outset, something that could only be described as a miracle had occurred. They had discovered two previously unknown but highly likely suspects. One who had planned the murder and one who had held the weapon. The former had been dead for many years, but the second seemed to be alive still. His whereabouts were unknown, since he had seemed to be lying low. But they had suddenly come up with a narrative of what had really happened.
They had found a number of troubling circumstances that counted against their two suspects. They had even found witnesses and technical evidence that supported their suspicions. And eventually they had located the suspect who was still alive. During the hours before they were going to arrest him he had suffered an inexplicable accident. He had been blown to pieces on his boat in northern Majorca, and everything that Holt and her colleagues had deduced had followed him into the depths. In the real world where Anna Holt, her colleagues, and her boss actually lived, the investigation of the murder of the prime minister was now a closed chapter.
If this was what Johansson intended to talk about, then it was a secret that he shared with other people. The belief that had become their truth but which could never be proved with the evidence at their disposal. And even if they were wrong, they would still never be able to let anyone know.
Reveal a secret about himself? My ass, Anna Holt thought, as she climbed out of the taxi outside the restaurant.
They had met in Johansson’s own neighborhood restaurant. A small Italian place that lay just a few blocks from his home on Södermalm. Excellent food, even better wine, and a Johansson who was in his most amiable mood. And staff who treated him like the king he presumably was in that place, and her as if she had been his crowned escort.
He must have told them in advance, Holt thought. That they were colleagues and that it wasn’t “some damn lover” that he was taking there.
“I told them before you arrived that we work together,” Johansson said with a smile. “So they
didn’t get any ideas in their little heads.”
“I thought as much,” Holt said, smiling back. The man who can see around corners, she thought.
“Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it, Holt?” Johansson said. “That I can see around corners, I mean.”
“It’s a bit creepy, actually,” Holt said. “But right now I’m having a lovely time,” she added. Besides, it isn’t always true, she thought.
“A wanderer and seer,” Johansson said, and nodded. “But it isn’t always true, you know. Sometimes I get things wrong.”
“Was that the secret you were going to tell me?”
“Definitely not,” Johansson said with a hurt expression. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you anything like that. Then all my northern Swedish credibility would vanish in a flash.” Johansson smiled again and raised his glass.
“You’re very entertaining, Lars. When you’re in this mood. But because I’m dying with curiosity—”
“I’m leaving,” Johansson interrupted. “I’m leaving in a week. I’ve handed in my notice, with immediate effect.”
“I hope nothing’s happened?” Holt said. What’s he up to now? she thought. What’s he saying?
Nothing, according to Johansson. Nothing had happened and he wasn’t up to anything. He had simply come to a realization. A purely personal insight.
“I’ve done my bit,” Johansson said. “Really, I should be going in eighteen months, but because I’ve done my bit, after forty years or so I’m done with my life as a police officer, and there’s no point in hanging around just marking time.
“I’ve spoken to my wife,” he went on. “She thinks it’s an excellent idea. I’ve spoken to the government and the national head of police. They tried to persuade me to see out my time. I thanked them for the vote of confidence but declined politely. I’ve also turned down a number of offers of other jobs and projects.”
“When were you thinking of mentioning it at work?” Holt asked.
“It’ll be public knowledge on Thursday after the cabinet meeting.”
“What are you going to do instead?” Holt asked.
“I’m going to grow cabbages and try to grow old gracefully,” Johansson said, nodding thoughtfully.
“Why are you telling me this? Before everyone else at work, I mean.”
“Because I’ve got a question as well,” Johansson said.
I knew it, Holt thought. I knew it.
“But because you look the way you look right now, I thought I might start by reassuring you. I haven’t asked you here in order to propose to you. Definitely not. By the way, how is your colleague, Jan Lewin?”
“Fine,” Holt said. “How is your dear wife, Pia?”
“The best of me, you mean?” Johansson said, suddenly dead serious. “She’s like a pearl of gold.”
“The question, then,” Holt said. “You had a question.”
“Ah, yes, that,” Johansson said. “I must have some sort of short circuit in my head these days, because as soon as I change the subject …”
“Be serious for a minute, Lars. Try to be serious.”
“Do you want to be police chief of the Western District?” Johansson said.
Police chief of the Western District? She already had a job. A job that she was happy with. Colleagues she liked, one of whom she had started a relationship with a month previously. This latter fact actually the only reason to change jobs, Holt thought. Workplace relationships took their toll on love, she thought. Took their toll in other ways too, come to that.
Twenty thousand more each month in salary. Walking distance to her new workplace from her home. A well-run police district. One of the best in the county. The challenge would be the chance to lead hundreds of police, some of whom were reckoned among the smartest in the country. But apart from all this, there was just one reason why Johansson was asking her in particular.
“There’s only one reason why I’m asking you,” Johansson said. “One,” he said, holding up his long index finger.
“And what’s that?”
“You’re the best,” Johansson said. “It’s no more complicated than that.”
“One practical question,” Holt said. “Are you really in a position to make this kind of offer? Isn’t it the higher-ups in Stockholm Police who decide this sort of thing?”
“These days it’s the government,” Johansson said. “In conjunction with the National Police Board and, in this case, police officials in Stockholm. The Stockholm County police chief will be contacting you, by the way. Completely independently of anything you say to me here and now. Think about it.”
“I promise,” Holt said. She knew she was good, and unlike far too many of her sisters, she had no problem saying so if it proved necessary. But as for being the best? And hearing that from Johansson? It’s a bit much, considering how much I’ve argued with him over the years, she thought.
“Good,” Johansson said with a smile. “Well, enough of that, we’re here to have a good time. No more business. Back to pleasure. You choose the next subject, Anna.”
“Tell me,” Holt said. “Tell me why you’ve suddenly decided to stop being a police officer.”
“As I said,” Johansson said, still cheerful. “It’s time to have fun. No more business. But if you like, I could tell you why I became a police officer. How it all started, so to speak.”
“Why did you become a police officer?” He hasn’t changed, Holt thought.
“Because I like working things out,” Johansson said. “That’s always been my great passion. That and Pia, of course. The incomprehensible happiness of finding the woman of your life more than halfway through your time on earth.”
And now that you know who killed the prime minister, it isn’t so much fun finding things out anymore, Anna Holt thought. Which leaves your wife, because, after all, you still love her, she thought.
25.
One week later the Stockholm County police chief had called and asked if he could invite Holt for lunch. Preferably as soon as possible.
“That sounds lovely,” Anna Holt said. Because they were both on the board of the same network for female police officers, because they liked each other, respected each other, and because there wasn’t the slightest reason to say no.
“That sounds lovely. When did you have in mind?” Holt asked.
“Can you do Friday next week?” the county police chief had asked. “I thought we might eat in my office so we won’t have to deal with all those strange men.”
“Sounds like an excellent idea,” Holt agreed.
Fortunately someone who wasn’t the slightest bit like Johansson, she thought, as she hung up.
On Friday the next week she had been asked the same question.
“Would you like to become police chief of the Western District? I’d be very happy if you said yes.”
“Yes,” Holt said, and nodded. “I’d love to.”
“It’s a deal, then,” said the county police chief, who didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised.
Anna Holt’s appointment had been made public at the start of January, and on Monday, March 3, she had started her new job. The mills of bureaucracy ground slowly. This time they had ground faster than they usually did.
Considering the job she had chosen, her honeymoon had lasted considerably longer than she had any right to expect. After six weeks as police chief of the Western District the county police chief had contacted her once more.
“We have to meet, Anna,” she said. “At once, ideally. I want to ask you for a favor.”
Why am I suddenly thinking that you sound almost like Johansson? Anna Holt wondered.
“You wanted to ask me for a favor?” Anna Holt said when she was sitting in the county police chief’s office a couple hours later.
“Yes,” she said, and looked as if she was getting ready to take the plunge.
“Out with it, then,” Holt said with a smile.
“Evert Bäckström,” the county police chief said.
�
��Evert Bäckström,” Anna Holt repeated, not even trying to conceal her astonishment.
“Are we talking about the same Evert Bäckström who is currently with the Stockholm Police property tracing department? The Evert Bäckström, so to speak?”
“I’m afraid so,” the county police chief said with a smile. Well, she made a good attempt at smiling, at any rate. A smile that she had to struggle to achieve.
“You have a vacant superintendent’s post in the Western District. I want us to put Bäckström in it,” she clarified.
“Considering that we know each other and that I respect you …”
“The respect is mutual, you know,” the county police chief interjected.
“… I can only assume that you have very good reasons.”
“I’ll say,” the county police chief said with feeling. “If only you knew. To deal with the practical side first, I was thinking that we could put him there for the time being, on a temporary placement, which means that we’d avoid any formal difficulties and still have our hands free if it turns out that isn’t working. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Hang on,” Holt said, holding up her hands in a blocking gesture. “Before we do anything, I think I’d like to hear your arguments.” A month or so into this new job, Holt thought. Then suddenly Bäckström tumbles from the sky. Right into my arms. Like a fallen angel, or rather a middle-aged, broken-winged, and very fat cherub.
“I’ve got several arguments if you can bear to hear them,” the county police chief said, getting ready to take the plunge again. “If you can bear it?”
“Yes. Of course. I’m listening,” Holt said.
To start with, Bäckström had a senior post. After all, he had actually been a superintendent with the National Criminal Investigation Department’s own murder unit until his most senior boss had kicked him out and had him transferred back to Stockholm, where he had his basic post.
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