“Typo,” said Holt. “The thing about the general agent in Bremen in the former West Germany is also a typo? That’s what it says in the e-mail from your associate.”
“Childish of him,” said the head of tech and sighed. “He probably wants to mess with Bäckström as thanks for that container of old office furniture he sent us.”
“I’m listening,” said Holt.
Then the head of the tech squad recounted the story of the old office furniture and all the other peculiar inquiries from their colleague Bäckström they’d had since he started at property investigation. Earlier too, for that matter.
“You know how Bäckström is. If he’s suddenly interested in a.357 caliber Magnum revolver, it can only be the Palme weapon. Or more correctly stated, the reward for the Palme weapon that our good friend Bäckström hopes to share with the so-called anonymous informant. As a policeman of course he can’t get any money.”
“I think like you do,” said Holt.
“Sorry you were involved,” said the head of the tech squad. “I’ll have a talk with him.”
“Not for my sake,” said Holt. “But if you’re going to anyway, you can say hello and thank him.” So there, you little fatso, she thought.
When Lars Martin Johansson returned after forty-five minutes, not thirty as he’d told his secretary, all three of his co-workers were in place and though they’d been sitting a good while not much had been said. Everyone seemed to be doing something.
Holt made notes in a binder she had brought with her. Mattei was tapping off text messages on her cell phone. Lewin was leaning back without doing anything at all, but at the same time his thoughts seemed far away.
Maybe in Africa, thought Holt, sneaking a glance at him.
Johansson started talking before he entered the room.
“Here you sit,” he noted and sat down. “What do you think about starting, Anna?” he continued. “Give us the latest news about that wretched Bäckström so that we’ll have Lisa and Jan with us.”
Anna Holt gave a brief description of the tip from Bäckström. She handed out copies of his e-mail to her colleagues and told about her visit to the tech squad. A typical Bäckström, but it wasn’t his fault alone because their colleagues in Stockholm had evidently taken the opportunity to mess with him.
“In addition he gave us the name of a former colleague who is supposed to have had access to the weapon. I asked Lisa to check that, but he’s not included in the case files.”
“So what’s his name?” asked Jan Lewin, sighing just as wearily as his colleague at the tech squad had an hour before.
“His name is Claes Waltin. Or was, correctly stated. He was a former police superintendent with SePo. Resigned from the secret police in the summer of 1988 to go into private business. Died in a drowning accident on north Mallorca four years later. According to Bäckström’s anonymous informant, Waltin supposedly had access to the Palme weapon a month or so before he died,” Holt summarized.
“And he’s not in the case files,” Mattei interjected. “I’ve checked and checked again.”
“Strange,” said Lewin, shaking his head. “I’m sure he must be in the material. Assuming we’re talking about the same Waltin, of course,” he added in his meticulous way.
“Not on my lists,” Mattei persisted. “He’s not there. Why do you think that?”
“I put him in the investigation myself,” said Lewin. “So he should be there.”
“You don’t say,” said Johansson.
“You did,” said Holt at the same moment.
What is he saying? thought Mattei.
“I don’t know if you recall it,” said Lewin, “but at our first meeting three weeks ago I talked about all the parking tickets I had the pleasure of going through.”
“Tell us again,” said Johansson, lacing his fingers over his far from flat stomach and leaning back in the chair.
“The details I’ll have to come back to, but in broad strokes it went like this,” said Lewin, cautiously clearing his throat.
On the morning of Saturday the first of March, almost exactly ten hours after the murder, Police Superintendent Claes Waltin incurred a parking fine on Smedsbacksgatan up at Gärdet. The car was his own. A new five series BMW and not a common car among police officers. Lewin had sent a routine inquiry to the colleagues from SePo who had responsibility for the Palme investigation’s police track and received a written answer after about a month.
“I remember that distinctly. It felt a little strange to ask them the question considering who it concerned,” said Lewin. “Waltin was a high-ranking chief at the secret police. He was directly subordinate to the bureau director, Berg, who was in the investigation leadership and responsible for SePo’s cooperation in the Palme investigation.”
“I can imagine it must have felt strange,” said Johansson. “So what did they have to say?”
“I don’t remember the exact wording, but I got a written reply that basically said the vehicle had been used for an official duty concerning supervision of a person who was staying in the neighborhood at one of SePo’s so-called secure addresses.”
“That was generous of them,” said Johansson. “Personally I would have been content to say that it was an official matter. That thing about supervision of persons who are at secure addresses isn’t something you commit to paper.”
“It must be there in the material,” said Lewin, looking almost apologetically at Mattei. “A written request from me and a written reply from them. Must be there.”
“Perhaps you were sloppy with the registration, Jan,” said Johansson. “It can happen to the best of us.”
“Not me,” said Lewin, shaking his head.
“I’ll check again and see if I’ve missed it,” said Mattei.
“Do that,” said Johansson. “You, Lewin, go through your boxes and, you, Lisa, go through the rest. Then Anna, you’ll take care of the remainder of the Bäckström message so that I can finally get rid of him. That part about the weapon in question supposedly being used in a total of three murders and a suicide sounds undeniably hair-raising. If we don’t count the prime minister that still leaves two murder victims and one who’s taken his own life.”
“Sounds like a typical Bäckström, if you ask me,” said Holt.
“Or a typical murder-suicide, if you ask me,” said Johansson. “The classic case where dad, who’s a hunter and marksman, shoots his wife and only child and ends by shooting himself. Jealousy, alcohol, and misery. Much too common, unfortunately, but too common to be able to check.”
“Noted,” said Holt. Sounds like a typical Johansson, thought Holt. Whatever this has to do with an ordinary registration review, she thought.
After the meeting Johansson took Mattei aside.
“I have a little special assignment for you, Lisa,” said Johansson. “I’ve got the idea that it’s your department, if I may say so.”
“I’m listening, chief,” said Mattei. I have to call Johan, she thought.
“There is said to be a college at Oxford University called Mohdlinn College. Spelled ‘Magdalen’ without an ‘e’ at the end. Pronounced Mohdlinn.”
“That’s right,” said Mattei. “Said to be one of the oldest and finest. Founded in the Middle Ages. Named after Mary Magdalene, Mary from Magdala. Who according to the Bible is supposed to have washed Jesus’s feet on some occasion.” Yet another exploited sister, she thought.
“Exactly,” said Johansson with unexpected emphasis. “Then there was the rumor that they might have been involved too? Jesus and her, that is.”
“More than what I know,” said Mattei. Whatever this has to do with it, she thought.
“All the same,” said Johansson. “There’s another thing I’m thinking about.”
“I’m listening, chief,” said Mattei. Preferably today, she thought.