Johansson was present both at the funeral and at the cemetery, Norra Kyrkogården, as well as at the ensuing luncheon at Grand’s French restaurant. Persson had been there too, and when they were through eating and said goodbye to the closest mourners, they went home to Johansson’s to have a memorial highball to the dead man and talk in peace and quiet.
“What does your wife have to say?” asked Persson as they were in the taxi on their way to Johansson’s both pleasant and spacious apartment on Söder.
“Not a smidgen,” said Johansson. “She’s at a conference. Won’t be home until this evening.”
Johansson did not waste any time on small talk. Led his guest into the office, mixed two ample highballs for them, offered him the larger armchair and sat down on the couch himself.
“I got a little worried when I read the investigation into the cause of death,” said Johansson. “Are things so bad that your sense of orderliness has started running amok?”
“Forget it,” said Persson, shaking his head. “Neither you nor your associates have anything to worry about. Our mutual friend ate himself to death. Burned his candle at both ends. To be on the safe side he lit a fire in the middle too, and it’s no more complicated than that.”
“Nice to hear,” said Johansson. “So what do you think about Bäckström? I heard from Jarnebring, when we talked last week, that he’s more or less climbing the walls when he’s not hovering like a blimp due to all the conspiracy theories he’s full of. There was some journalist at TV4 who called Bo to ask whether he knew anything about the mysterious sex track in the Palme murder that Bäckström has been raving about.”
“Couldn’t be better,” Persson grunted. “If Bäckström is saying it, then even those lunatics on TV should understand that there’s no truth to it. Besides, isn’t he on sick leave? And at a guess, the little fatso is going to stay that way for a good long while.”
“So you say,” said Johansson. “On a completely different matter. So when did you figure out how things stood?”
“The fall of 1992. When we got word from the Spanish colleagues that Waltin drowned in Mallorca. Then Berg decided we should do a home search at Waltin’s. If he hadn’t done it, I would have done it anyway,” said Persson, nodding.
“I ran it myself,” Persson continued. “Neat and tidy. No carelessness. His apartment in town, his estate down in Sörmland, three different safety deposit boxes, an extra apartment at the top of the building on Norr Mälarstrand where he lived. Registered to some company that he owned.”
“So did you find anything interesting?” said Johansson, without sounding the least bit curious.
“No,” said Persson, shaking his head. “Just a bag of old clothes, shoes and winter clothes, a knit cap. I burned it the same day. Nothing to trace. The clothes weren’t even washed. Some other trash of no interest that mostly concerned little Waltin’s special orientation went into the same fire.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing you want to hear about,” said Persson. “That particular part I took care of when I and the woman I’m involved with took the boat over to Finland. Somewhere on a level with Landsort where it’s supposed to be three hundred feet deep. She’s Finnish, by the way, so we were going to see her elderly parents. Old as the hills, frisky as squirrels. Must be the sauna.”
“Berg,” said Johansson. “Did you tell him?”
“No,” said Persson. “Why would I do that? He had enough troubles of his own.”
“So why did you wait fifteen years with Hedberg? Couldn’t you just as well have left it at that?”
“Your fault, Lars,” said Persson. “When you showed up at my place a few months ago and started asking about Waltin, I realized the hour had come. You’re the man who can see around corners,” said Persson and grinned.
“So it was really my fault,” said Johansson.
“Depends on what you mean by fault,” said Persson, shrugging his shoulders. “True, you did say to me that you wanted to boil the bastard for glue, but I really did it for Erik’s sake.”
“For Erik Berg’s sake?”
“Who else?” said Persson. “What do you think would have happened to his reputation if you’d dragged Hedberg into Stockholm District Court? What do you think would have happened to the organization? To you too for that matter. You were operations head with us for six years. If Erik had still been alive, he would surely have ended up in jail too. I did it to be on the safe side, if nothing else. I think you would have been able to keep from laughing when the media vultures started feasting on you. Because you don’t really think they would have been content with Waltin and Hedberg?”
“I understand what you mean,” said Johansson, and as he said that he thought of his wife.
“So who helped you?” said Johansson. It’s over now, he thought.
“Last question,” said Persson. “Are we agreed on that?”
“Yes,” said Johansson. “After this we draw a line through this.”
“Cheers to the deceased,” said Persson, raising his glass. “That man was more than just a mouth.”
“Cheers to him,” said Johansson. You already knew that, didn’t you? he thought.
“I have a present for you, by the way,” said Johansson. He stuck his hand in his pants pocket and handed over the copper-sheathed lead bullet he had brought with him from work when he went to the funeral.
“The renowned seventy-five-percenter,” said Persson, holding it up between his thumb and index finger in his improbably large hand.
“So you know that,” said Johansson.
“Our deceased friend told me,” said Persson. “He had pretty good ears, you know.”
“I’ve understood that,” said Johansson.
“I have three brothers and three sisters,” said Persson. “Combined they’ve collected a dozen kids. Have I told you that?”
“No,” said Johansson. “I actually have three brothers and three sisters too.” Combined we have even more children than you all, he thought.
“I know that too,” said Persson, studying the bullet he was holding in his hand. “My nephews and nieces are grown now, although when they were little I used to do magic tricks for them. Whenever they had a party, Uncle Åke would do magic for them. I got pretty good, actually. Probably could even have supported myself doing that. It’s in your fingers, and once you learn it, it never goes away.”
“I believe you,” said Johansson.
“Good,” said Persson. “How would it be otherwise? If people like you and me couldn’t trust each other.”
“Not so good. Really bad, maybe. I believe that,” Johansson agreed, sipping his highball.
“So what do you think about this?” said Persson. He pulled down the sleeve on his right arm, showed the bullet he was holding in his fingers, raised his hand, clenched it, turned his giant fist before he opened it again and showed his empty hand.
“Abracadabra,” said Persson.