“You must have had help,” said Johansson. Because you’re already sitting here you can hardly have flown commercial, considering what you were up to this morning, he thought.
“I would never dream of talking about such things,” said Persson. “A good fellow takes care of himself. How the hell would it look if people like you and me didn’t dare stand up for one another?”
When Johansson was in the taxi on the way home a few hours later his red cell phone rang. The cell to which only his closest associates had the number.
“Yes,” said Johansson, who never answered with his name when the red phone rang. Holt, he thought.
“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for hours.” Holt did not sound happy.
“Had a few things to take care of,” said Johansson. “So I turned off the cell.”
“We’ve found Kjell Göran Hedberg,” said Holt. “We think so, at least. We’re pretty sure it’s him.”
“What the hell are you saying?” said Johansson. “Tell me. I’m listening.”
“He’s dead,” said Holt.
“Dead,” said Johansson. “What the hell are you saying?”
100
The Spanish police had acted with uncharacteristic swiftness. Their investigation of the boat accident outside Cap de Formentor arrived by courier from the national bureau’s liaison in Spain only a few weeks later.
In purely technical terms they didn’t have much to go on. Scattered pieces of the boat had been found. The only part of Kjell Göran Hedberg that was found was the lower left leg. Shark-infested waters so it was completely natural. There were even white sharks in the area. Known not to leave much behind when they were finished. That it was Hedberg’s leg was however established beyond any reasonable doubt. Comparisons with the DNA material that had been secured in the house search ruled out that the appendage had been attached to anyone other than him.
The investigators had to rely on eyewitness reports instead. Three individuals, who were standing at the lookout point out on the promontory when it happened, told the police what they had seen. Everything indicated an accident involving gas, caused by leakage from the tank to the grill that was on board. Probably when Hedberg lit it to make his breakfast.
Johansson’s Spanish ally El Pastor made contact via a letter addressed directly to Johansson. He had no reason to suspect foul play. On the contrary, he shared the understanding that his colleagues in the tech squad with the police in Palma had arrived at. It was the kind of unhappy occurrence that unfortunately could obliterate the most well-planned police efforts.
Johansson had the head of his international unit write a brief, friendly thank-you letter. Obviously without saying a word about El Pastor’s loose-lipped associate. How could he say anything about him without getting into problems? Besides, it wasn’t his responsibility.
The right thing in the right place, thought Johansson as he placed the investigation into an interoffice envelope for forwarding to the colleagues at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation who took care of the identification of Swedish citizens who perished in accidents abroad. In reality they should have been investigating the murder of the Swedish prime minister, but the lack of meaningful assignments in that case meant that for several years now they had mostly been engaged in other things.
101
Three weeks after Kjell Göran Hedberg’s demise, Johansson devoted three days to cleaning up after him. First he gathered all the papers that were the result of his and his three associates’ efforts. Most of them he ran through the shredder and the rest he put in a binder. In the evening, when all his co-workers had already gone home, he personally went down to the Palme room and distributed the contents of his binder among the thousand that were already there. Just as in ancient Rome, he was going to let justice rely on chance when all else had betrayed it.
Then he turned off the light and left. Inwardly he also wished future archival researchers good luck.
The following day he had a long lunch with the female chief prosecutor in Stockholm, who was also the head of the Palme investigation. He turned over to her the memo he had asked Lisa Mattei to write about the future registration of the Palme investigation’s material. How this gigantic pile of papers could best be stored for the future, while he and his associates took back the office space they so desperately needed for the things they were actually working on.
“If we could be content with ordinary diskettes and computer memory,” said Johansson. “If we could just transfer all the material to computers and store it according to the latest technology, there is nothing to prevent you from carrying it around with you on a simple cord around your neck,” he said. “Within the foreseeable future in any event,” he clarified.
In order to underscore that he was serious, he fished his computer memory out of his pocket. This one already held ten gigabytes, attached to his key ring, taking up less space than his keys, even though the device could hold a whole wall of binders.
“Although I want an amethyst on mine,” the chief prosecutor replied, smiling at him.
“Of course,” said Johansson. “I’ll treat you to that. If you take care of the confidentiality issues and tell us how you want it implemented in practical terms.”
“Of course,” she said. “Who else would do it? And then I’ll be obligated to inform the government too, naturally.”
“No problem,” said Johansson. Down in the cellar with all the papers, he thought. Twenty-five to forty years of secrecy, regardless of which it no longer concerned him. Hardly anyone else either. Possibly a historian or two with a lot of letters in their little heads.
What remained was the most important thing. That he talk with his co-workers. First Lisa, because that would be easiest. Then Lewin, because that was actually not interesting. Finally Anna Holt, because that could certainly get tricky.
“What do you want to do now, Lisa?” Johansson asked as he personally served her coffee in order to really underscore his goodwill.
“I was thinking about going back to my old job at CIS,” Mattei replied.
“Is that what you really most want to do?” said Johansson.
“Yes,” said Mattei.
“Okay then,” said Johansson. “That’s what we’ll do.”
Nothing more than that was said.
Jan Lewin was not sure he wanted to return to his old job at the bureau’s homicide squad. He had even considered resigning from the police after more than thirty years in service.
“What good would that be?” said Johansson, looking at him with surprise. “Once a policeman, always a policeman. You know that, don’t you, Jan?”
If it really was that way, unfortunately it didn’t apply to him. The profession had taken its toll on him. Besides, maybe he wasn’t suited for it to begin with. In later years he had gotten more and more depressed.
Johansson tried to cheer him up by talking about a dissertation in police research he had just read. According to the author, the slightly depressed investigators were the very best ones. Completely superior to all the thoughtless, excitable colleagues.
“Apparently you shouldn’t be so fucking cheerful and high-spirited,” said Johansson. “Then you would start to lose in precision and reflection.”
“So you say,” said Lewin. “The problem I guess is that it wears you down. It eats you up from inside, if you understand what I mean.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” said Johansson. “Do you know what I think?”
“No,” said Lewin.
“You need a woman,” said Johansson.
Johansson quickly elaborated on his thoughts on Lewin’s actual needs. Every man needed a woman. Good guys needed good ladies. It was no more complicated than that, but to be on the safe side he repeated the message twice.