“Arrest Palme for drunkenness?” Mattei asked, sneaking a glance at her tape recorder to be on the safe side.
“The most common wet dream among our colleagues at that time.” Bäckström grinned, and for some reason looked at the clock. “Now you have to excuse me, Mattei, but I have a few things to do too.”
“Of course,” said Mattei, getting up with all the desired speed. “I really must thank you for participating.”
“A few more things,” said Bäckström. “For the sake of order. I see that this is a confidential conversation, and I assume that what I’ve said stays between us.”
“As I said by way of introduction, all interview subjects are anonymous.”
“Like I believe that,” said Bäckström with a sneer.
“There was something else you wanted to say,” Mattei reminded him as she put away the tape recorder, paper, and pen in her bag and closed the zipper.
“You don’t need to greet the surströmming eater from me,” said Bäckström.
“I promise,” said Mattei. “You don’t need to worry.”
“I never worry,” said Bäckström. “It’s not my thing.”
Lisa Mattei’s little investigation had taken five days, and she had drawn her conclusions even before she started. The material in the Palme room was the result of these colleagues’ work, and with two exceptions they believed in what they’d done.
The support for the police track was limited to Bäckström’s general musings, and the material collected was not particularly extensive.
The great exception was the so-called Kurd track, for which the police investigations generated even more paper than for Christer Pettersson. In round numbers, two hundred man-years for a year, and it turned out an enormous number of binders. One investigator out of thirteen was left who believed in what was there, and surely the proportion wouldn’t vary much with all the hundreds she hadn’t contacted.
In the evening after the final interview she stayed at work until late and wrote a short memo about what she had come up with. Two pages, in contrast to Jan Lewin’s twenty-five. Then she e-mailed it to Johansson. Only to Johansson, because she thought it was his business to decide whether anyone else should read it.
What do I do now? thought Mattei as she shut off her computer. It needs to be something quite specific, and it’s time I had a talk with my dear mom, she decided.
17
As usual, Johansson arrived first at his office. The hour before his secretary showed up he would usually use to have an extra cup of coffee in peace and quiet, read his e-mail, and do all the other things he never had time for during the rest of the day.
A model of brevity and well written, thought Johansson as he read the memo Mattei had e-mailed him. That little string bean is hardworking too, he thought. According to the date and time the memo had arrived in his mailbox shortly after eleven the night before.
But the memo was hardly exciting, because he already knew everything that was in there, he thought. So all hopes were dashed from the start that any of the old owls would have a new, exciting, concrete lead to offer.
Although you knew that too, thought Johansson and sighed. The remaining consolation was that at least one of the older colleagues seemed to be thinking along the same lines as he was. A minor conspiracy in the victim’s vicinity and a highly capable perpetrator who took care of the practical aspects.
Must be Melander, he thought. Melander had been his and Jarnebring’s mentor when they started at the central detective squad in Stockholm more than thirty years ago. Wonder how the old geezer’s doing? he thought just as Anna Holt stepped in through his open door, knocked on the doorjamb, and showed her white teeth in a smile.
“Knock, knock,” said Holt. “Isn’t that what you always say when you barge into someone’s office?”
“Sit down, Anna,” said Johansson, nodding toward his couch. “What are you doing at work this time of day?” She’s actually a really nice-looking lady, he thought. On the thin side, perhaps, and a little tedious sometimes, but…
“Have to hurry along,” said Holt, shaking her head. “Just a quick question.”
“Shoot,” said Johansson.
“If you’d shot Palme, run down Tunnelgatan and up the stairs to Malmskillnadsgatan, which way would you have gone after that?”
Mercy, thought Johansson.
“I have three options,” he answered. “I can go left on Malmskillnadsgatan toward the park by St. Johannes Church, I can cross the street and go straight ahead, as it is alleged that the perpetrator did, continue straight across Brunkebergsåsen that is. Or I can turn right on Malmskillnadsgatan in the direction of Kungsgatan.”
“So which way would you have gone?”
“Personally I would go right,” he said, nodding in emphasis, “take the stairs down to Kungsgatan, melt in among all the others walking there, and then disappear down into the subway.”
“Why?” said Holt.
“Because it’s best,” said Johansson.
“Thanks,” said Holt. She nodded, smiled, turned on her heel and left.
Wonder what she’s after? thought Johansson, and though it was said he could see around corners, he had no idea that Holt too had shared his speculations for almost a day now. Wonder if little Mattei has shown up yet? he thought suddenly, looking at his clock. Worth a try, he thought, entering her number.
“Sit down, Lisa,” said Johansson, indicating the chair on the other side of the desk.
“Thanks, boss,” said Mattei, doing as she was told. Be on the alert, Lisa, she thought.
“Thanks for the e-mail,” said Johansson. “A model of brevity. And well written,” he added.
“Thanks,” said Mattei. “Although I’m afraid there weren’t any new ideas.”
“No,” said Johansson. “But neither of us thought there would be. Speaking of new ideas, by the way, I’d hoped maybe you would have some.”
Sink or swim, thought Mattei, and if it were to sink and go completely down the toilet it would still be a point in her favor if Johansson knew about it in advance.
“I actually have an idea,” said Mattei. “I don’t know, but-”
“Go on,” said Johansson, nodding encouragingly.
“I was thinking about what you said at our last meeting. About the Palmes going to the movies. I share your understanding, boss. I think he might very well have talked about it before, and that his plans might have been known among his co-workers, and that the people at SePo might also have heard talk of it.”
“So now you’re thinking about having your mother invite you and a now retired head of personal security to dinner and let all the good food and drink take care of the rest,” Johansson observed. That girl can go as far as I have, he thought.
“Roughly like that,” said Mattei. He can see around corners, though I already knew that, she thought.
“How long has she been at SePo now? Your mother, that is,” Johansson clarified.
“Since I was in preschool,” said Mattei. “Almost thirty years. Now she has a position as director of constitutional protection. She’s retiring next year.” My mom will be a retiree, she thought.
“Although you can’t really say that kind of thing,” said Johansson, who had been operational head of the secret police himself before he wound up at the national bureau. “I have the idea that she was with personal security too?”
“In the eighties, actually. She was there for several years, including when Palme was assassinated. She was responsible for the queen and the children in the royal family,” said Mattei. “If I dare say that.” What else would a woman be doing at that place? she thought.