Or Lewin with his complete presence and his shy gaze. Who seemed to have understood most of both his own and others’ lives but would never dream of talking about it. Not since that time when he was only seven years old, had just lost his dad, and it was as if the bottom had gone out of him. If it hadn’t been for those scared eyes. If only he had a little more of Johansson’s unreflective self-confidence. If…
Oh for Christ’s sake, Holt, thought Anna Holt. Pull yourself together.
On Friday Bäckström received an e-mail from his lazy, incompetent colleague at the tech squad. Not because he understood what Bäckström was after, but mostly because Bäckström had nagged him so much and he himself was a decent, helpful colleague who unfortunately had far too much to do. There was Bäckström’s old office furniture, for example, that he and his colleagues still hadn’t had time to tackle.
According to the picture of the revolver that he sent with the same e-mail, it was chrome, had a long barrel, and a butt of checkered wood, which might very well be walnut. Exactly like the weapon Bäckström was asking about.
According to the accompanying text it had been test fired the week after it had been confiscated. A search in the police registry had not produced anything. They had not been able to connect it with any previous crimes. It had not been found in the Swedish weapons registry of legally owned weapons. Nor was it on any lists of weapons that Interpol, Europol, or the police in other countries were searching for.
In order to possibly get an answer to the question of how it could end up behind a refrigerator in Flemingsberg, a routine inquiry had been sent through Interpol to the American manufacturer. Six months later an answer was received. The weapon in question was more than twenty years old. This was evident, in part, from the weapon’s manufacturing number. In the fall of 1985 it had been sold, along with fifty other pistols and revolvers, to their German general agent in Bremen, in what was then West Germany. This was evident from the manufacturer’s own delivery lists, which, according to federal and state legislation, they had to archive for at least twenty-five years. On the other hand if the Swedish police wanted to know more about the weapon’s continued fate, it was the general agent in Germany who should be contacted.
Hell, thought Bäckström excitedly. It was probably so simple that they neglected to compare it with the bullets from Sveavägen simply because it was a Ruger and not a Smith & Wesson. What could you expect from Wiijnbladh and his old colleagues who couldn’t find either their mouth or their ass when they were going to take the daily dose of medicine that they so badly needed? The same colleagues who would doubtless rob him of both the glory and the money if he gave them the chance.
The description of the weapon matched what GeGurra’s informant had said to a T, and it was surely no coincidence that it had been delivered only a few months before it had been used. What the hell do I do now? And here it’s a matter of thinking clearly, thought Bäckström.
A minute later he was already sitting at his computer writing a memo that to be on the safe side he dated the day before he met GeGurra. A little more than a week before he met Holt, and at least one full day before he talked with the tech squad. First a description of the weapon and then a little, but not unessential, addition given the money and the glory. The weapon number that the incompetent lazy ass at the tech squad had just sent him.
What remained was a credible explanation to his female colleague, who would have to carry him on her raised arms into police department glory. A little addition with a few personal, explanatory lines between colleagues.
Dear Holt. At my first meeting with my informant information also emerged in the sense that the informant could remember portions of the referenced weapon’s manufacturing number. After exhaustive searches in the registry, I have decided that it is highly probable this must concern the revolver described in the attached memo. The complete manufacturing number is enclosed. According to my investigations the referenced weapon was confiscated in a house search in Flemingsberg on April 15, 2005. A copy of the initial report is enclosed. The weapon in question has since been stored at the technical squad in Stockholm where unfortunately they seem to have missed doing a ballistic comparison with the bullets that were secured at the crime scene at Sveavägen and Tunnelgatan on the first and second of March 1986. Considering the sensitive nature of the matter I assume that the information I am now giving you is covered by heightened confidentiality and that only I personally will be kept informed on an ongoing basis of the measures that the national bureau carries out. With best regards. Detective Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström
Now you’ve got something good to suck on, you skinny little wretch. Now make sure you take care of yourself, and kind uncle Evert will buy a pair of real knockers for you, thought Bäckström contentedly.
What remained was to figure out how the revolver could have ended up behind a refrigerator out in Flemingsberg with a common thug who had nothing but consonants in his surname, and who was only six years old when Palme was shot. That’s worth thinking about over the weekend, and the old poisoner Wiijnbladh surely has a thing or two to contribute, thought Bäckström. High time to go home as well.
A few hours later, about the same time that Bäckström was deep in thought on his couch with a whiskey and a cold beer nearby, Anna Holt was going through her e-mail as a final task before she took off for the weekend.
Goodness. Now Bäckström has really gone crazy, she thought as she read his memo. Because she still intended to talk with her boss before she went home, she printed out a copy for him.
So Johansson too gets something good to suck on, thought Anna Holt based on a familiar example, as she turned off her computer.
38
On Saturday morning Mattei woke up in the overly large apartment on Narvavägen she’d been given by her kind dad. Personally she would have preferred to live on Söder, but her father just shook his head. Either Östermalm or nothing at all. He would have preferred to see her move home to Bavaria. The Bavaria that was the Mattei family’s homeland. Not like Sweden, which was only a temporary stopping place on the way through life.
What’s wrong with Söder, and what is it that happens to all old radicals? thought Lisa Mattei as she laced up her running shoes.
She ran her usual end-of-the-week circuit on Djurgården. It went better than expected, considering that lately she had started noticeably neglecting her exercise. It’s like there’s no reason to work out, thought Lisa Mattei as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror and squeezed her flat stomach. A pale, thin blonde, thought Mattei, shaking her head at her mirror image.
It had been three months since anyone had kissed her, and that had happened when she made her annual visit to her dad. Because it involved one of her father’s many assistants, she could not rule out that dear old dad had ordered him to do it.
She got dressed. Had a late breakfast. Took a mineral water, an apple, and a banana and went to work. In reception there was a new guard, whom she didn’t recognize. That much too common type, with a shaved head, bulging shoulders, and upper arms as thick as her waist. She nodded curtly, held up her ID, and made a beeline for the entry passage. Then he called out after her.
“Hello! May I look at that,” he said, pointing with his whole hand at her ID.
“Mattei, national bureau,” said Lisa Mattei, holding up the card about a foot in front of his eyes.
“Okay,” he said, suddenly smiling. “I’m new here. Just been at a course for two days, and the only thing they talked about was what would happen to me if I let the wrong person in.”