After the meeting with Johansson, Anna Holt returned to her office at the national liaison office where she’d been working as a superintendent for over a year. She was careful to close the door before sitting down at her desk and exhaling deeply three times. Then she swore loudly and fervently on the theme of adult boys forty pounds overweight with red suspenders and the dual role of country boy comedian and head of the country’s National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. That gave her some relief, but not as much as she’d hoped, so when Lisa Mattei knocked on her door half an hour later she was still in a bad mood.
“How’s it going, Anna?” said Mattei. “You seem a little down.”
“What do you think?” interrupted Anna.
“Don’t get hung up on Johansson,” Mattei said for some reason. “Johansson is who he is, but he’s also actually Johansson. I’ve talked with Flykt, so we can jump right in. He’ll arrange it so we have our own access cards.”
“It’s time to embrace the situation,” said Holt. “High time to resurrect a dead parrot.”
“Exactly,” said Mattei. “You know yourself there’s more than one way to skin a cat, as Lars Martin would say.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” said Holt, sighing and getting up. So now we’re suddenly on a first-name basis with the world’s best Johansson, she thought. Lisa of all people.
Lewin had also returned to his desk. There he sat for a good quarter of an hour, criticizing himself for once again ending up in a situation that he could have avoided. Together with his top boss, Lars Martin Johansson, besides, with whom he tried not to have any contact otherwise.
The man who can see around corners, thought Lewin mournfully. That was how many officers always described him, especially when they had a few shots under their belt. The legend Lars Martin Johansson from north Ådalen in the province of Ångermanland. Policeman and hunter, with the same view of both justice and hunting, regardless of whether he took it out on people or on innocent animals. Johansson with his large nose and uncanny ability to sniff out the faintest scent of human weakness. With his jovial image and human warmth that he could switch on and off as he pleased. Shrewd, hard, and merciless as soon as it mattered, as soon as his prey came within reach and was worth the trouble.
Then he had a twinge of conscience. Johansson was in spite of it all a fellow officer, his boss besides, and who was he to judge a fellow human being he’d never had close contact with and really didn’t know that well?
High time to embrace the situation, Lewin thought. He picked up his desk phone and entered Flykt’s direct number.
“Welcome to the holy of holies,” said Flykt, nodding at the mountain of papers that surrounded Lewin, Holt, and Mattei. Binders and boxes lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Stacks of boxes arranged in neat rows out on the floor. A room of over two hundred square feet that already seemed too small.
“Well, Jan, I know you’ve been here before,” Flykt continued, turning to Lewin, “but for you, Anna and Lisa, this may be the first time?”
“I’ve been here on a guided tour,” said Holt. “True, it was a few years ago, but the piles don’t look any smaller.” If Johansson has been here he’s either blind or crazy, she thought.
“A question,” said Holt to Flykt. “Has Johansson seen this material? At our meeting this morning I got the feeling he hadn’t.”
“I thought so too,” said Flykt, “but a little while ago one of my colleagues here at the group said that evidently the boss stopped by before his vacation. Although I was out so I missed that visit. I also suspect he’s gone through the parts of the material that are with SePo. I remember we got a request for additional information while he was head of operations there. Though perhaps you know better than I do, because you’ve worked there. And we shouldn’t forget that he’s been called in as an adviser to all the government commissions that reviewed how we more humble police officers have conducted ourselves over the years. If you ask me Johansson probably knows more than most of us.”
“God moves in mysterious ways,” Holt answered.
“So true, so true,” Flykt agreed with a smile. “Any questions, anyone?” For some reason he looked at Mattei.
Oy, thought Lisa Mattei, who had a hard time taking her eyes off all the papers. Working with this stuff must be like climbing a mountain. And I’m afraid of heights.
“It’s my first time here,” she said. “It will be interesting to see what you’ve collected.” Like climbing a mountain, she thought again as she let her gaze wander over the rows of binders.
“Yes, it has turned into quite a lot over the years, and there’s still a new binder every week. Mostly so-called crazy tips if you ask me,” said Flykt. “So I guess the least I can do is wish you luck,” he continued. “If you do happen to find something that my colleagues and I have missed, no one will be happier than we will be.”
Sounds like a pretty risk-free promise, thought Holt, who just smiled and nodded.
Unfortunately the age of miracles is probably past, thought Lewin, which of course he didn’t say.
And I’m scared of heights, thought Mattei, but that was not something she intended to tell her colleagues, not even Anna.
Lars Martin Johansson was in a great mood. He was satisfied in general terms and even more so with himself. He was most satisfied that he’d finally decided to do something about the police misfortune that went by the name of the Palme investigation. For more than twenty years the case had been the responsibility of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, for a few years ultimately his own, and it was about time for something to happen. During the last decade, after the last failure with the now deceased “Palme assassin” Christer Pettersson, the group that worked on the case had mostly been engaged in other things.
Identifying the Swedish victims of the tsunami catastrophe in Thailand demanded all their resources for more than a year. After that similar assignments had literally poured in to the Palme investigators. Swedish citizens who were abroad and subjected to political attacks, natural disasters and accidents. The little now being done about the Palme assassination mainly consisted of tending the circle of private investigators, conspiracy theorists, and those whom the police called, regardless of gender, bag ladies. All those who wanted to help and have complete knowledge of what he and his officers might contribute besides. We can’t have it that way, naturally, because then we might as well shut down the whole damn thing, thought Johansson. Then he’d made his decision.
As soon as Flykt left, Holt proposed that they withdraw for some private deliberations. But not in the Palme room—the mountain of papers all around them filled her with physical displeasure, although she didn’t say so of course. Instead perhaps they could go someplace where they could sit more comfortably. No one had any objections. First they got coffee, then they went into an empty conference room and closed the door.
“All right,” said Holt. “So here we are. And it’s time we start embracing the situation, considering what’s waiting. The good news is that if we divide up the material, at least there’ll be less to read.”
“In that case I suggest I take care of the incident itself,” said Lewin. “What Johansson mentioned, with the witness statements from the crime scene, the technical investigation, and the forensic report. At least I thought I could start there.”
“I have no objections whatsoever,” said Holt. “Here’s your chance, Lisa,” she continued. “Is there any particular piece you’re longing for? Now that you’ve got the chance.”
“I don’t know enough about the case,” said Mattei. “I need to get a better overview. All those tracks, or working hypotheses to be correct, that I’ve heard about since I became a police officer. You know—Kurdish terrorists and lone madmen and mysterious arms deals and our colleagues, the so-called police track.”
“Excellent,” said Holt. “I don’t think you’ll have a shortage of reading material.” One of us at least likes the situation, she thought.
“What about you, Anna?” asked Lewin, cautiously clearing his throat.
“I thought I’d supervise and divide the work between you and Lisa,” said Holt.
“Kidding aside,” she continued, “I think I’ll focus on Christer Pettersson. Regardless of what Johansson thinks about my fresh eyes, and even though I don’t know any more about the case than what I’ve read in the newspapers and heard ad nauseam at work, I’ve always thought it was Christer Pettersson who shot Olof Palme. I still think so if anyone’s wondering, but because it has happened before that I’ve been wrong, I’m willing to make a fresh attempt.”
“I see,” said Lewin, nodding. “Then that’s how we’ll do it. To start with at least.”
“Sounds good,” Mattei confirmed, getting up.
“Yes,” said Holt. “Do we have any choice?” Then she sighed audibly and shook her head, despite the promise that Johansson had forced out of her.