Intense guy. Almost as handsome as Bäckström, thought Mattei.
Two hours later and halfway through the police track it was time for her to go home. Why should she do that? thought Mattei. The very best thing would probably be if she brought a cot into the Palme room and didn’t leave before she had the name of “the bastard who did it” and earned a friendly pat on the shoulder from her boss. The same man who was supposed to be able to see around corners, but for unknown reasons avoided personally peeking around this particular one.
The guard from the morning was still sitting there behind the counter in reception, and as she passed through he again called after her. He appeared at least to have a decent memory.
“Hello! Inspector Mattei. May I ask you a question?”
You want to know how to apply to the police academy, thought Mattei, who’d had that question before from people like him.
“Sure,” she said.
“You have to promise not to get mad,” he said, suddenly not seeming equally sure of himself.
“Depends on the question,” said Mattei guardedly.
“I was wondering if I could invite you to a movie?”
“To a movie,” said Mattei, who had a hard time concealing her surprise. To watch your favorite, Conan the Barbarian, she thought.
“Almodóvar’s latest, the one that opened last week,” he clarified.
Almodóvar, thought Mattei. Wonder if he’s working for Candid Camera, she thought.
39
Mattei declined. And regretted it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She tried to save herself with the usual follow-up questions and explanations. New mistakes were added to previous ones; everything went wrong.
Almodóvar? Are you pulling my leg? thought Mattei.
“You like Almodóvar?”
Yes, Almodóvar had touched him. Almodóvar had taught him a few things about “ladies” that he hadn’t been able to figure out himself. Latin ladies at least. Almodóvar was perhaps not his biggest favorite, but he was good enough that he had decided to see his film. Besides, ladies usually like Almodóvar.
“I’m studying film at the university. This is a moonlighting job,” he explained, shrugging his broad shoulders.
Still not too late to change her mind. Wrong again.
“That would have been really nice,” said Mattei. “The problem is that I have to work all weekend. So maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” she added.
“My day off,” he said, shaking his head and looking downhearted.
“It’ll have to be another time,” said Mattei.
“It’s cool,” he answered.
What would someone like her do with someone like me? he thought as she disappeared onto the street.
When Mattei arrived at her overly large apartment that had been given to her by her kind father, she was in a lousy mood. Hated herself, hated the apartment, hated dear old dad. First she pulled on her workout clothes and did an extra circuit. She returned pumped up but in an equally bad mood. Instead of stepping into the shower and simply letting the water run, she started cleaning. In a fury she picked up, loaded the dishwasher, vacuumed, and scrubbed. Almost ready to faint, but just as angry, she called out for a pizza, managed to get half of it down even though she hated pizza otherwise. Drank almost a whole bottle of wine with the pizza. Even though she almost never drank. Then she lay down on the couch and flipped among the TV channels. When she finally went to bed her stomach hurt. She wasn’t even drunk. Just angry. What would someone like him do with someone like me? she thought.
Then she finally fell asleep.
She woke up with both a headache and an upset stomach. Showered, got dressed, swallowed milk of magnesia and mineral water instead of eating breakfast, went to work.
And there he was.
“I thought this was your day off,” said Mattei, smiling to conceal how happy she was.
“I traded with a buddy,” he said, suddenly looking embarrassed.
“Okay then,” said Mattei. “But it’ll have to be the late showing because I have lots to do.”
“Sure,” he said and nodded. “That’s no problem. I’m working until six o’clock so that’s cool.”
Yes, thought Mattei as she disappeared through the entry passage.
Yes, he thought as he watched her disappear into the building.
40
Concentration, thought Mattei as she opened the binder that she’d made it only halfway through the day before. Everything has its time. What remained were just under fifty policemen, the names of thirty of whom she didn’t even have and who were not necessarily policemen. Eight hours for them, she thought. Then go home, shower, change clothes, and, for once, powder her little nose.
Then Almodóvar with a man she had only talked to three times and whose name she actually didn’t know. Who had his appearance against him but seemed completely normal and even nice. “Call and find out what his name is,” she wrote on her notepad.
Then she returned to her list of policemen who had been observed in the vicinity of the crime, who had a violent past, their own Magnum revolvers, harbored extreme political opinions, or simply acted inappropriately in general. Police, police, police, thought Mattei and sighed.
A few hours later Anna Holt called and asked her to check a name of a former colleague for her.
“Because I assume you’re at work,” Holt explained.
“Nothing better for me,” Mattei agreed. Although tonight I’m going to a movie, she thought.
“Can you see if he’s in the material?” Holt asked.
“No,” said Mattei. “I’m pretty sure he’s not. Not named, at least. I have the list in front of me and he’s not there. There are about thirty who are supposed to have said they were policemen, or where the informant alleges that they were policemen but where their identity is lacking. If you ask me he’s not one of them either,” said Mattei. That’s just as well, she thought, because according to Holt he was supposed to have been dead for fifteen years, and no bells were ringing in her head.
“You think so,” said Holt.
“Yes. He doesn’t tally with the description of any of them. Why are you asking, by the way?”
“A tip,” said Holt and sighed for some reason. “From our colleague Bäckström,” she said, sighing again.
“That explains it,” said Mattei. “Lewin told me he’d called,” she clarified.
“On a completely different matter, since you’re working on it anyway,” Holt continued. “Can you see if there’s anything about lions?”
“Lions, like in Africa?”
“Exactly,” said Holt. “The lion’s den, in the lion’s den, where they live or hang out, that is. Lions, that is.”
“I can try with a plain text search,” said Mattei.
“Will that work?”
“Should. Most of this is actually entered on the computer.”
“This comes from Bäckström too. If you’re wondering.”
“I’ll call if I find anything,” said Mattei and made another notation on her pad. “Check lion, lion/den, the lion den, the lion’s den, in the lion’s den.”
The plain text search for “lion” produced twenty hits. All could be traced back to half a dozen colleagues who had been in South Africa on vacation during the eighties and the apartheid regime. Who met with colleagues, visited nature reserves, went on photo safaris, saw lions out in nature, and in addition said the word “lion” when SePo’s investigators held tape-recorded interviews with them.
The same search for “lion/den” produced one hit among the previous twenty. A Swedish policeman who said that during his visit his South African colleagues had invited him on a real safari-“not the kind of shit where you only get to take pictures”-so that he would get an opportunity to “put a bullet in a lion.” A favor that evidently had not been granted the others, and a shooting opportunity that “unfortunately” did not happen.