The petition was submitted in December 1997, and in May of the following year a unanimous Supreme Court rejected it. Three years ago Pettersson himself had departed earthly life, and regardless of what he might have had to bring to the investigation, he took it with him to the grave.
The Palme investigation’s material had been packed up in boxes for years. For several years before that, a dozen investigators in the group were primarily occupied with completely different tasks. Once a week they would meet, have coffee, and talk about their case. About things that had happened before, about old colleagues who had died or retired, about Christer Pettersson, who was still the most common topic of conversation at the table.
And soon they’ll all be dead, thought Mattei, who was only eleven years old at the time when Sweden’s prime minister was murdered.
9
Despite all that had happened on Thursday, Johansson was still looking forward to a quiet weekend. His exemplary clear and unqualified denial on all the major TV stations ought to have made some impression even on the nitwits working at the country’s largest newspaper.
His message seemed to have taken hold in the other media. They’d stopped calling to ask about the Palme investigation anyway. Not so at Dagens Nyheter. On Friday morning his digestion was already disturbed at breakfast by a long editorial with the thought-provoking title “Police Force in Decline.” Obviously unsigned, as usual when things were really bad.
Must be one of those angry women who work there, thought Johansson.
If matters were as the head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation maintained-previous experience had taught the writer that nothing someone like Johansson said should ever be taken for granted, least of all when it concerned the assassination of Olof Palme-the situation was obviously even worse than the newspaper had feared.
The Palme investigation had simply been closed down in secret, even though it concerned perhaps the most important event in postwar Sweden. The case files were packed up in boxes in silence, and the investigators assigned to solve the case had been working on completely different matters. Highly placed prosecutors and police officers had apparently intended to hide this police fiasco in their own basement.
Soon the murder of Olof Palme would pass the statute of limitations. After that the case files would be classified as secret for many years. On that point DN had no doubts whatsoever. The only obvious, definitive conclusion was that it was high time for the government to appoint a new review commission with representatives from all parties in parliament and citizens who had the confidence of the general public. The choice of a chairperson was also a given according to the newspaper, namely the chancellor of justice who, according to Johansson and his colleagues, had made a name for himself by his constant lamentations over the police department’s deficient diligence, sense of order, and morals.
A fate worse than death, thought Lars Martin Johansson, and he was thinking about himself, not the prime minister who was the victim of an unsolved murder that disturbed Johansson’s sense of order.
When he arrived at work it was time for the next variation on the same theme. According to his secretary, Chief Inspector Flykt “insisted” he had to see his boss immediately.
“Okay,” he said. “You can send the SOB in.”
Chief Inspector Flykt did not seem happy. He was even noticeably nervous, his face flushed beneath the otherwise becoming suntan.
“Sit yourself down, Flykt,” Johansson grunted, nodding curtly at his visitor’s chair. Comfortably curled up in his own chair, his hands clasped over his belly, wearing a heavy facial expression. Stop behaving like a fucking first-time offender, he thought.
“What can I help you with?”
Problems, according to Flykt. Two different problems, although there was a connection between them of course.
“I’m listening,” said Johansson, picking at his left nostril with his large right thumb in search of unbecoming strands of hair.
The people at Dagens Nyheter were obviously refusing to give up. Despite the boss’s exemplary clarifying denials, they were still lurking in the bushes. Flykt had personally noticed clear signs.
“Of course,” said Johansson. “What did you expect? We’ll just have to live with it. Rooting out who let their mouths run loose is out of the question. I guess you know that as well as I do?”
Obviously not. Flykt knew that too, but the situation was both worrisome and-
“Forget about DN now,” interrupted Johansson. “They’ll get tired of this as soon as they find some other place to spread their usual dung. What was the other thing?”
“The other thing?” said Flykt with surprise.
“You had two problems,” Johansson clarified. “What’s the other one? The one that was supposed to be tied up with the first one? That’s what you said a minute ago if I remember correctly.”
Of course, of course, and the boss would have to be patient with him if he seemed a little confused. The thing was that for the past twenty-four hours he and his colleagues had been subjected to a veritable bombardment from the various informants and private detectives who had made up their primary workload since the Supreme Court had rejected the petition for a new trial against Pettersson.
In later years most of them seemed to have calmed down, but Johansson had managed to bring them back to life again.
“Yes, that is, not you, boss, but that unfortunate article in DN,” said Flykt. “Right should be right,” he added for some reason.
“The usual bag ladies who send dog shit and old bullet casings they maintain they’ve secured at the crime scene,” said Johansson, grinning.
“Yes,” said Flykt. “And all the messages of course.”
According to Flykt the switchboard had been pretty much jammed. In addition letters were pouring in, and officers careless enough to give out their cell phone numbers were being texted. The mailroom had called to complain. With loads of parcels coming in, their bomb and shit indicators were on overdrive. The internal security department had already issued ten reports related to threats against the officials who were forced to take care of the misery.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Johansson. “But I still don’t understand the problem.” Throw away the shit and blame the post office if worse comes to worst, he thought.
Flykt’s problem was very simple. He lacked the manpower to record, register, evaluate, and analyze this new flood of tips. Normally there were twelve investigators including Flykt, as well as his secretary and another half-time assistant. Right now there were fewer than that. Half of the force was on vacation or had comp time off. Two were at a course in Canada. Three were in the Canary Islands to help with the identification of the Swedish victims of a big hotel fire that had happened ten days earlier. Remaining were Flykt himself, his secretary, and a female colleague who was on half-time sick leave for mental burnout.
“Suggestions?” said Johansson, leaning forward and training his eyes on Flykt. “How do you want me to help you?” Whine, whine, whine, he thought.
Flykt took a run at it. Just a random idea. Could Holt, Lewin, and Mattei possibly take care of the registration until his own personnel returned to the building and could take over?
“Absolutely not,” said Johansson. “How would that look? They’re doing an administrative overview of your procedures for data handling. How could they get involved in your investigative work? That woman at the prosecutor’s office wouldn’t be happy if she could hear you now, Yngve.”