“It’s about embracing the situation,” said Johansson sternly. “As long as the statute of limitations hasn’t passed, we’re going to keep at it.” He hadn’t said a word about the fact that for many years his investigators had essentially been occupied with other things.
“An obvious courtesy to a high-standing politician who was murdered,” agreed his English companion, and obviously the only one imaginable or indeed appropriate, should anyone ask his opinion. Moreover a necessary measure to preserve political stability in every constitutional state and democracy. Despite the fact that police officers were actually above politics.
Possibly, nodded Johansson. Perhaps he hadn’t thought about this because political theorizing left him cold. He hadn’t even been involved in the investigation until much later, and then in the role of the government’s technical expert in the various commissions that had been appointed. At the same time, if it was the police’s failure that was to be explained, he wanted to underscore an observation he’d made, and from his listener’s changed body language he understood that the occasion had arrived.
His well-mannered tormentor had obviously fallen into the trap, coming to a halt in Johansson’s field of fire with his broad side toward the shooter. This was extraordinarily interesting and he wanted to hear more about it at once.
“It is essential for complicated police investigations to be run by real police officers,” said Johansson as he smiled just as amiably, leaned forward, and patted his adversary on the shoulder.
According to Johansson’s firm opinion, it was completely dangerous, not to say a guaranteed total fiasco, to turn such things over to all those attorneys and bureaucrats who populated the upper echelons of most modern Western police organizations nowadays, and this unfortunately had been done at the time when his own prime minister was assassinated.
“Touché, Lars,” replied the colleague from New Scotland Yard, seeming almost more amused than the happy faces around him. Sure, it was no secret that he personally had not patrolled his way up through the corps that he now led. It was not until he turned fifty that he had risen from the judge’s high bench in the criminal court at the Old Bailey to take his place in the executive suite on Victoria Street. For all that, the judge’s seat he’d left for the police could be of use in that context. Especially as he worked mostly with finance and personnel issues and “would never dream of sticking my long nose in a murder investigation.”
“You’re the one who started it,” grunted Johansson.
Then it continued as it always did; this time the acting police chief in Paris was talking about the city’s problems with “all the statues of great Frenchmen, the plentiful occurrence of pigeons, and not least the fact that the pigeons in Paris shit like crazy.”
According to Johansson’s French colleague, the Swedish Palme investigation was an extraordinary example of basically the only thing that the police could do. Failure or no. Actually Johansson and his Palme investigators played the same decisive role for the maintenance of Respect for Authority in Sweden as the fifty-some persevering workers with the municipal cleaning company in Paris, who tried to keep all the statues in the city free of pigeon shit.
“Respect for a great nation stands and falls with respect for the great leader,” he said. He himself wanted to take the opportunity to make a toast to his Swedish colleague who, with indefatigable zeal and self-sacrifice, and without the least regard for his own comfort, had shouldered this task.
High time to call it an evening, thought Lars Martin Johansson as soon as the volleys of laughter subsided, and two hours later, as he was lying in bed in his hotel room, he made up his mind. Then he fell asleep. Just like he always did when he was at home. Lying flat on his back with his hands clasped over his chest. Quickly falling asleep while he thought about his wife and that he left her far too often for things that were actually unimportant and only stole their lives from them both.
24
“Has anything happened?” Johansson asked his secretary as soon as Lewin had left him.
“Things happen here all the time,” she answered.
“Has anyone called?”
Just like always calls had been coming in the whole time. Not that the whole world wanted to talk with her boss, but a good share of those who were interested in the darker side seemed to experience a strong need to get in touch with him in particular. Just like always she’d taken care of these calls herself and given the person who called what he or she needed without having to disturb Johansson. With two exceptions so far on this Wednesday morning.
“That secretive character down in Rosenbad called, the one who never says his name.”
“So what did he want?” The prime minister’s own special adviser, Sweden’s own Cardinal Richelieu, thought Johansson.
“Are you making fun of me, Lars?” she answered. “He wouldn’t even spit out whether he would call again or if you should call him.”
“I’ll talk with him,” said Johansson. “Who was the other one?”
“Probably nothing important,” his secretary answered, shaking her head.
“He doesn’t have a name either?”
“Well, he’s called several times. Last Friday, actually, but because I didn’t want to disturb the weekend for you I thought it could wait.”
“Name,” said Johansson, snapping his fingers.
“Bäckström,” said his secretary and sighed. “He called the first time last Friday, and since then he’s called another half a dozen times. Most recently just this morning.”
“Bäckström,” repeated Johansson skeptically. “Are we talking about that fat little creep I kicked off the homicide squad?” It can’t be possible. That was only a year ago, he thought.
“I’m afraid it is. Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström. He demanded to speak with you personally. It was extremely important and enormously sensitive.”
“So what was it about?” asked Johansson.
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Tell Lewin to call him,” said Johansson.
“Of course, boss,” said Johansson’s secretary. Poor, poor Jan Lewin, she thought.
Johansson’s secretary contacted Lewin by sending an e-mail via the police department’s own variation of GroupWise, a system that was difficult to break into even for a talented hacker. Because Johansson’s secretary was not the least bit like her boss, it was both a courteous and an explanatory message. Obviously formulated as a request. Would Lewin be so kind as to contact Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström, current position with the property investigation squad with the Stockholm police, and find out what he really wanted? This by request of their mutual boss, Lars Martin Johansson, chief of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation.
What have I gotten myself into? thought Lewin. Only an hour ago, in a moment of weakness that had flapped past his top superior on weary wings, he had had the decision in his hands and a decent chance of putting an end to the whole charade. Now it was too late. Everything was as usual again and probably even worse. After taking three deep breaths he called Bäckström, and just as he’d feared he too was the same as always.
“Bäckström speaking,” Bäckström answered.
“Yes, hi, Bäckström,” said Lewin. “This is Jan Lewin. All’s well, I hope. I have a question for you.”
“Johnny,” said Bäckström loudly and clearly, because he knew that Jan Lewin hated being called Johnny. “It’s been awhile, Johnny,” he continued. “What can I help you with?”
Lewin steeled himself. Really exerted himself to be polite, correct, and brief. He was calling on the boss’s behalf. The boss wondered what Bäckström wanted and he had assigned Jan Lewin to find out.