“Vegetarian pasta,” said Holt. “With a lot of tomato and basil and a little, little grated cheese. Mineral water and a glass of dry white Italian wine.”
“Sounds good,” Lewin agreed. “I think I’ll have the same.”
Now I recognize you again, Jan, she thought.
Then they talked about everything except work. Holt talked about taking some time off and going to a warmer place as soon as she got the chance. Even though she hadn’t planned the slightest little trip, just as insurance against something she couldn’t even name.
Then they talked about travels in general. Lewin mostly about the kind that never happened, but the way in which he spoke was completely bearable to listen to.
“I read a novel many years ago. Unfortunately I’ve forgotten both the title and the author, but it made a deep impression on me.” Lewin shook his head, the same Lewinian smile. “A little too deep, perhaps,” he said and sighed.
“Tell me,” said Holt. You need to talk, she thought.
The novel whose title Lewin had forgotten was about a young French nobleman who decided to go to Africa at the end of the nineteenth century on an expedition. First he devoted an entire year to the most careful preparations. Exhaustively depicted in a couple of hundred pages. Then came the great day when he and his servant and attendants left the rural estate en route to the station for further transport to the great harbor city Marseilles, the boat to Africa and all the discoveries that still remained to be made in his life.
“Then he changed his mind and went home again,” said Lewin. “Why should he go to Africa? He’d already made the entire journey in his own mind.”
“Jan,” said Anna Holt. “Look at me. That’s a terrible story.”
“I know,” said Lewin, who suddenly seemed almost exhilarated. “But that’s me.”
Then they talked about other things, and when they went their separate ways and she was standing down in the subway waiting for the train home the evening caught up with her. He’s in love with me, she thought. It’s your own fault, and what do you do about it? she thought.
As soon as they were in their seats and the lights in the theater had been turned down, her old-fashioned gentleman, roughly twenty-five years old and a hundred kilos of muscle and bone, stretched, made himself comfortable, sank into his seat, and laced his large hands over his flat stomach. Then he uttered not a sound for ninety minutes.
Halfway into the film-as if by accident-he placed his right hand on the arm support between them. Mattei happened to graze against it as she tried not to rustle the bag of candy she otherwise never ate. Then he turned up his palm and she set aside the bag of candy and-as if by accident-placed her hand in his.
It was still there when they stepped out on the street. It had started raining, and Johan looked at her with almost childish delight.
“It’s raining,” he said. “That’s the surest sign of all.
“The movie, what did you think?” he continued, squeezing her hand, very lightly, almost imperceptibly, simply like a signal from his own hand. Strong, tan, long fingers, with the veins on the back of the hand clearly visible.
“I don’t really know,” said Lisa Mattei, shaking her head. What film? she thought.
“If you’re very strong then you have to be extremely nice,” said Johan, looking at her seriously.
“What time do you start work tomorrow?” Mattei asked suddenly.
“I’m off,” said Johan, shaking his head. “Like I said, I switched shifts with a buddy.”
“Then I suggest we go to my place,” said Lisa Mattei. “I have to be up early.”
Wednesday, October 10. Canal de Menorca outside Puerto Pollensa on north Mallorca
In order to avoid the strong currents closest to land, the solitary man on board Esperanza passed the point at Formentor by a good margin. Continued a good cable’s length out in the deep channel, and now it was about time for him to decide. He could change course ninety degrees port toward Cala Sant Vicente on the north side of the island. It was twelve nautical miles, just over an hour’s run, and only a few hours ago that would have been the journey’s destination. With plenty of time and a breeze that cooled considerably better here, out on the open sea. But now it was too late, he thought. Then he entered the new course on his GPS. Two nautical miles north of the Citadel on Menorca and the destination straight ahead. Sixty nautical miles to Menorca, six hours’ run if the good weather held. And then what? he thought. Yet another day and night at sea.
42
Five weeks earlier, Wednesday, September 5.
Headquarters of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation on Kungsholmen in Stockholm
Two people were at the table in Johansson’s conference room: Jan Lewin and Lisa Mattei. Johansson himself had just let them know he had been delayed half an hour due to circumstances over which he had no control. His secretary served coffee and homemade apple cake as consolation. On the other hand where Holt had gone she didn’t know. Holt had not been in touch with Johansson’s secretary. Possibly she had called Johansson, or vice versa, and otherwise she hoped they would enjoy the cake.
It was not that Anna Holt had overslept. When Johansson called her an hour before the meeting and reported that he would be delayed half an hour she was already at her desk. That left at least an hour and a half at her disposal, and plenty of time for a visit to the tech squad in Stockholm to look into the tip about the revolver that Bäckström had given her. Question marks that it would be beneficial to straighten out for the meeting with Johansson and the others so they could finally draw a line through Bäckström and move on.
The head of the tech squad was a few years older than she was. Almost twenty years ago they had been co-workers at the detective squad in Stockholm. A good professional relationship, but nothing else.
“Just a quick question,” said Holt, sitting down in the chair in front of his desk.
“I can’t even offer you coffee?”
“Not even coffee,” said Holt, shaking her head. “This is about a weapons tip that came into the bureau from our colleague Bäckström,” she continued, for the sake of simplicity handing over the e-mail that Bäckström had sent her.
“Bäckström,” said her colleague and moaned. “What did we do to deserve this?”
“We’re in complete agreement there, but what I’m wondering about is simply whether you test fired the weapon in question and made a comparison with the bullets from the Palme murder?”
“No,” said the technician, shaking his head. “We’ve test fired it of course. On the other hand, we haven’t made a comparison with the Palme bullets, for reasons that are easy to see.”
“So why not?” said Holt.
“The weapon in question was manufactured in the fall of 1995. Nine years after the Palme murder. You can tell by the manufacturing number, by the way.”
“According to Bäckström’s e-mail it would have been manufactured ten years earlier. Fall of 1985,” Holt clarified. “It says so in your associate’s e-mail to him too.”
“Typo,” said her former colleague, smiling acidly. “I promise and assure you. The weapon in question was manufactured at Ruger’s factory in the U.S. in the fall of 1995. A good nine years after the murder of the prime minister. If it had been manufactured in 1985 we would have made a comparison. It’s pure routine these days. That stuff about only comparing the bullets to Smith & Wesson revolvers is history now. That’s a sad story, in itself.”