“You have no other suggestions, boss?”
“Throw the shit away,” said Johansson. “Blame it on the post office if anyone complains.”
The rest of Johansson’s day passed in a relatively normal, dignified manner.
Right before he was to go home Mattei requested admittance, and because Johansson was lying on his office couch and had already started thinking about what he would have for dinner, he was basically his usual contented self when his secretary sent her in.
“Sit yourself down, Lisa,” said Johansson, indicating the nearest chair with his arm. “How are things going for you anyway?”
“You mean with the administrative overview of the Palme material,” said Mattei.
“Exactly,” said Johansson. “Have you found the bastard who did it yet?” Clever girl, he thought. A little like Nancy Drew.
No. Mattei had not found the perpetrator. On the other hand she had a reasonable understanding of why no one else had either. Besides, she was basically done now with what the case files contained.
“In general terms,” Mattei clarified. “The direction and structure itself, if I may say so.”
“So you say,” said Johansson. You little string bean, he thought.
“I thought about trying out an idea on you, boss.”
“Shoot,” said Johansson.
“I was thinking about proposing a small sociological investigation,” said Mattei.
True, Johansson had nodded, but Mattei noted the faint shift in his gray eyes.
A small sociological investigation in which she simply interviewed the officers who for all those years had been involved in the hunt for Palme’s murderer. Those who were still alive and could be talked with. She would simply ask them about who they thought had done it and why the investigation went the way it did.
“You don’t think this is waking a sleeping bear?” Johansson objected, suddenly recalling the morning’s editorial.
On the contrary, Mattei responded. If the assignment really consisted of creating better procedures for processing this gigantic amount of material, then that necessarily required some kind of overarching assessment of it. Who would be better suited to express an opinion on the matter than the ones who’d been doing the job all these years?
“I see what you mean,” said Johansson with a drawl.
“Personally I’d be flattered if I were in their shoes,” she added.
Not you, he thought. Not me either. But almost all the others.
“Sounds good,” said Johansson. “I’ll buy it. Say the word if you need help with anything practical.”
10
Johansson’s first week after vacation ended just as well as it had begun, and he decided to forget all the nonsense in between. On Friday evening he procured leave from socializing with his wife to have dinner instead with his best friend, now working at the county investigation bureau in Stockholm as acting head of investigations, Chief Inspector Bo Jarnebring. The Greatest of the Old Owls.
“That works perfectly,” said Pia. “I have to check in on Dad if we’re going away for the weekend. Say hi to Bo and don’t drink too much.”
“I promise,” Johansson lied.
Johansson and Jarnebring met at the “usual place.” The Italian restaurant five minutes’ walk from his apartment that had been his favorite place for over twenty years. He was a frequent guest, a generous guest, an honored guest, but also one who had left his mark. For several years now he could have his favorite aquavit from his own crystal shot glass, of which he’d brought over a dozen. And enjoy various Italian variations on old Swedish classics like anchovy hash, potato pancakes, and grilled herring besides.
“You look fit, Lars. I think you may have lost a few pounds,” said Jarnebring, as soon as they’d dispensed with the introductory greetings and sat down at the usual table in a secluded corner where, according to established police custom, they could talk in peace and keep an eye on anyone coming and going.
“Depends on what you mean by a few,” said Johansson with poorly concealed pride. “According to the bathroom scale we’re talking double digits.”
“You’re not sick, are you? I got a little worried when I read the paper the other day and saw you’d appointed a new Palme investigation. Thought you had a little touch of Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m as healthy as a horse,” said Johansson. “Now, if you’d seen me on TV-”
“Nicely done,” said Jarnebring. “I saw it. You’re your usual self. Administrating away so that everything’s just so. Say the word when you want a real job and I’ll put in a good word for you down at the county bureau.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Johansson with a streak of melancholy in his voice.
Johansson abandoned that subject to talk instead about more essential things. The menu that he and his Italian restaurateur had jointly composed, in honor of the evening.
“Because we haven’t seen each other all summer I thought we should do a thorough job,” said Johansson. “The whole program, and I’ll pick up the tab. Do you have anything against that?”
“Is the pope a Muslim?” said Jarnebring.
The whole program. First two deft waiters spread out the little smorgasbord that was a necessary prerequisite for having both beer and aquavit. A deplorably neglected part of the otherwise outstanding Italian food culture, but at this particular place set to rights long ago by Johansson.
“Nothing remarkable, a few mixed delicacies, that’s all,” Johansson explained with a deprecating hand gesture. “Those mini-pizzas on the plate over there-”
“No bigger than my thumbnail,” Jarnebring interrupted. “Without the black lines though.”
“Exactly. Small pizzas topped with Swedish anchovies and chopped chives, and baked with Parmesan.”
“Is the pope Catholic?” said Jarnebring.
“Then we’ll have sardines in a marinade of garlic, mustard, capers, and olive oil.”
“The bear shits in the forest…”
“That ham there,” said Johansson. “It’s not Swedish or Italian. It’s Spanish. It’s called pata negra, blackfoot ham. Free-range hogs that wander around eating acorns until they’re slaughtered, salted, and dried. The world’s best pork if you ask me.”
With the fragrance of Sierra Madrona’s green-clad mountains, thought Johansson, picking up the scent with his long nose. He would never dream of saying that. In male company, between real policemen there were certain things you never said, and who was he to worry his best friend unnecessarily.
“Damn good pork, if you ask me,” Johansson repeated, raising his full shot glass.
“Cheers, boss,” said Jarnebring. “Shall we drink or shall we talk?”
When after his second shot Johansson described the impending entrée, Jarnebring expressed a certain hesitation. It was the only time during the evening, and it was mostly out of old habit.
“I thought we’d have pasta as an entrée,” said Johansson.
“Pasta,” said Jarnebring. Is Dolly Parton suddenly sleeping on her belly? he thought.
“With diced grilled ox filet, mushrooms, and a cream and cognac sauce,” Johansson tempted.
“Sounds interesting,” Jarnebring agreed. Dolly must be sleeping the way she always does, he thought.
Three hours later they had finished off the usual. First they talked about their own families and everyone near and dear. Ordinarily that part would be finished in five minutes, so that the rest of the evening could be spent discussing all the idiots they had encountered, regardless of whether they were fellow police officers, hoods, or ordinary civilians. Not so this time, because Jarnebring suddenly started talking about his youngest son and what it was like becoming a dad when you were over fifty and had decided long ago not to have any more children. That this in particular was probably the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. Despite all the crooks he’d arrested over the years.