“If he’s so fucking horny about it I suggest he get in touch himself,” said Bäckström.
“Excuse me,” said Lewin.
“Now it’s like this, Johnny,” said Bäckström in his most pedagogical tone of voice. “If I were you,” he continued, “I would seriously advise him to call me. I think it’s in his own interest. Considering what he’s up to,” he clarified.
“I’m interpreting this as that you don’t want to talk with me,” said Lewin.
“As I said,” said Bäckström. “If I were Johansson I would sure call Chief Inspector Bäckström. Not send you, Johnny.”
“I’ll convey that,” said Lewin. “Anything else you want said?”
“If he really wants to put some order in Palme, then he can call,” said Bäckström. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a lot to do.”
What an exceptionally primitive policeman, thought Jan Lewin.
Regardless of anyone’s opinion of the prime minister’s own special adviser, he certainly could not be accused of being primitive. On the contrary, he was cultivated far beyond the limits of ordinary human understanding. Johansson called him on his most secret phone number and he answered immediately. Obviously without identifying himself because that, considering his mission and calling, was so to speak in the nature of things.
“Yes,” said the special adviser with an inquisitive hesitation on the word.
“Johansson,” said Johansson. “I heard you called, and naturally I’m wondering if there’s anything I can help you with. How are you doing, by the way?”
“Lovely to hear from you, Johansson,” said the special adviser with tangible warmth in his voice.
Actually he didn’t want anything in particular. Just a simple “how are you doing these days?” to a good friend with whom he got in touch far too seldom. Personally he was just back from a well-deserved vacation, and as soon as he’d set foot on Swedish soil he was struck by the thought that he had to call his dear old friend Lars Martin Johansson.
“An almost Freudian symbolism,” observed the special adviser, who seemed to have had vague presentiments of Johansson even an hour earlier, as he sat in the government plane en route from London to Arlanda, but it was only when he set foot “on the native soil that shaped us both” that the pieces fell into place.
“Nice of you to think of me,” said Johansson. Talk, talk, talk, he thought. Otherwise the special adviser was feeling “really splendid, just as I deserve, and thanks for asking.” He had obviously noted Johansson’s friendly offer of unspecified help, but that was not why he’d called, but simply to invite Johansson to dinner. Socialize, eat a little and drink a little.
“What do you think?” said the special adviser.
“Sounds nice,” said Johansson. “It will be a pleasure.”
“What do you think about doing it as soon as tomorrow?”
“Suits me fine,” said Johansson.
This preparedness, this readiness, this obvious capacity…regardless of all of life’s changes…not to mention unforeseen and spontaneous invitations.
“I envy you, Lars.” The special adviser sighed. “Imagine if I could always be the same. Shall we say seven-thirty at my humble abode in the Uppland suburbs?”
“Looking forward to it,” said Johansson. Wonder what he really wants? he thought, and personally he also had a question to which he wanted an answer.
“What did Bäckström want?” asked Johansson as soon as he finished the call and got hold of his secretary.
“He didn’t want to talk with Lewin in any event,” she replied. “He wanted to talk with you. Lewin suspects that he has a tip about the Palme assassination. Bäckström called again just five minutes ago.”
“In that case he’ll have to take it up with Flykt,” grunted Johansson.
“I actually suggested that,” said his secretary. “I told him that if it concerned the Palme assassination, he should call Flykt.”
“What did he say then?”
“He demanded to talk with you,” sighed his secretary.
“The hell he will,” said Johansson, feeling his blood pressure rise. “Call Flykt and tell him to shut the bastard up. Now!”
“I’ll speak with Flykt,” said Johansson’s secretary. Poor, poor Yngve Flykt, she thought.
Flykt didn’t send Bäckström an e-mail. All that stuff with IT and computers and networks and all the other electronic hocus-pocus that the younger officers were involved in was not his cup of tea. It was extremely overrated, if you asked him, and in any event he was too old to learn that kind of thing.
What was wrong with an ordinary, honorable telephone? The classic police resource when you wanted to get in touch with someone, thought Flykt as he dialed Bäckström’s number. Bäckström answered the moment after the first ring.
“Hello, Henning,” Bäckström hissed. “Where were we when we were interrupted?”
“I’m looking for Chief Inspector Bäckström, Evert Bäckström,” Flykt clarified. “Have I-”
“Bäckström speaking,” said Bäckström, sounding just like always again.
“That’s good,” said Flykt. “Then I’ve called the right number. This is Yngve. Yngve Flykt at the Palme group. Hope all’s well with you, Bäckström. I heard you had something about Palme? I’m all ears.”
“Do you have a paper and pen?” asked Bäckström.
“Of course,” said Flykt sincerely, because he’d hit the record button before he phoned. “I’m taking notes,” he lied. This is going like a dance, thought Flykt.
“Then you can tell your so-called boss that he can call me,” said Bäckström.
“I understand,” said Flykt. “But he has actually asked me to talk with you. This is my area, my and my colleagues’ area, as I’m sure you understand.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” said Bäckström. “So you can tell him I don’t want to talk with you.”
“Now I think you’re being unjust, Evert,” said Flykt. “If you have something to contribute, it’s actually your duty as an officer-”
“Listen, Flykt,” interrupted Bäckström, “I don’t want to talk with you. I might just as well call the newspapers. I want to talk with Johansson.”
“But why?”
“Ask Johansson,” said Bäckström. “Ask Johansson if he has any ideas about that.”
“He seemed completely out of control, if you ask me,” said Flykt five minutes later.
“You have the call on tape,” said Johansson.
“Of course,” said Flykt. “First I got a definite impression that he thought it was someone else who was calling, some Henning…You don’t think he may be in contact with that old celebrity lawyer? Henning Sjöström?”
“I can’t imagine that,” said Johansson. “Sjöström is an excellent fellow. He only defends pedophiles, arsonists, and mass murderers. Someone like Bäckström he wouldn’t touch with a pair of tongs.
“It’ll work out,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders. “Just e-mail me the conversation.”
“Obviously, boss,” said Flykt. What do I do now? Best to ask a younger talent, he thought.
“Now let’s do this,” said Lars Martin Johansson fifteen minutes later, looking sternly at his secretary.
“I’m listening, boss.”
“Prepare a memorandum on all previous conversations with Bäckström. As of now I want complete documentation when he calls again. When he’s called five more times, inform me immediately.”
“Understood, boss,” said his secretary. Poor, poor Evert Bäckström, she thought.
25
After the meeting with Johansson, Holt felt a need to leave her office and the police building on Kungsholmen where her desk was only one of several thousand. Simply get out and move around. Work the way she had back when she was a real police officer. Talk with someone who’d been there and had something to tell.
Lisa Mattei had expressed doubt about Holt and Lewin’s theory about the perpetrator and his escape route, and that was reason enough to check them one more time, two birds with one stone, and who better to talk with in that case than her older colleague from the uniformed police who’d driven her home from the crime scene a few days earlier. The one who’d been there when it happened.