“Dead,” Mattei interrupted. “Died in 1991 of a stroke, and there doesn’t seem to have been anything strange about the death. Worked with SePo and in the Palme investigation. Moreover he was the one who took care of the kind of matters relating to your question.”
“This is getting stranger and stranger,” said Lewin. “What do you think about all of this?”
“At best what’s happened is that someone, in that case probably Waltin, committed at least two crimes to get out of a parking ticket.”
“And in the worst case?”
“In the worst case, it’s really bad,” said Mattei.
Lewin devoted the rest of the day to unpleasant musings. He did not like the fact that one and the same person showed up in several places in the same investigation without there being a common reason for him or her to do so. A natural, human explanation. Not the kind that had already started to torment him.
Mattei continued as if nothing had happened. As of twenty-four hours ago there were other things going on in her head, and work had to go on as pure routine. First she prepared a page of reminder notes about the mysterious parking ticket that would certainly interest her boss. Then she went to work on the strange special assignment he had given her. Sent a friendly e-mail to the administrative assistant at Magdalen College in Oxford from her private e-mail address, signed by Lisa Mattei, PhD at the University of Stockholm to be on the safe side. And that is really me, she thought.
An hour later she got an answer. Goodness, things are moving fast, she thought.
Dear Dr. Mattei,
Thank you for your kind e-mail. It’s a nice old tale, but I am afraid it’s not true, and there’s never been any actual evidence for it. I rather suspect that it’s a legend that’s been passed around by other colleges-and perhaps even colleagues. It’s true that our deer herd is occasionally culled. However, this has nothing to do…
Good or bad and what is he really looking for? thought Lisa Mattei, and because it was Lars Martin Johansson, and urgent as usual, she called him on his cell phone.
“Lisa Mattei,” said Mattei. “I have an answer to your questions, boss. I’m afraid the whole thing is a tall tale.”
“Brilliant,” said Johansson. “Come over at once, and I’ll tell Helena to put on the coffeepot.”
“Two minutes,” said Mattei. And I’ll tell Helena to put on the coffeepot, she thought, shaking her head.
Lars Martin Johansson was on his thinking couch and waved at the nearest chair.
“I’m listening,” he said.
Not the slightest sign of any coffeepot, fortunately, Mattei thought after a quick look around.
“According to the administrative assistant at Magdalen, a Mr. Edgar Smith-Hamilton, whose official title by the way is bursar, which means he’s in charge of the change purse so to speak, there are presently thirty-two deer in the park behind the college, and they’ve had approximately that many for a number of years. On the other hand the number of fellows is considerably greater than that. More than a hundred, if you include honorary fellows. The deer park is over three hundred years old, but there has never been any rule that the number of deer must tally with the number of fellows. In the old days it seems to have been the case that there were considerably more deer than fellows, but for the past fifty years it’s been the other way around.”
“Phenomenal,” said Johansson, glowing with delight. “Go on, Mattei. Go on.”
Nor was it the case that a deer was shot when a fellow had died. On the other hand a certain amount of shooting was done for reasons of game management, as a rule after rutting, which happened in October each year.
“Although you know about that sort of thing better than I do, boss,” said Mattei.
“Just a guess,” Johansson smiled. “Do continue.”
The part about the dinner didn’t add up either. Dinners in memory of deceased fellows were held twice a year. One in early summer and one in late autumn. To be sure, exceptions had occurred, but then it was for very esteemed members of the college. Most recently a deceased Nobel Prize winner had been honored with a dinner, a theme day with lectures and seminars to discuss his scientific work, plus a Festschrift from Oxford University Press.
“So what do they eat?” asked Johansson eagerly.
“As far as the menus are concerned it does happen that deer from the park may be served at college dinners, but it’s not a mandatory feature of the memorial dinners. Varied menu, in other words. Usual banquet food, as I understood it.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Johansson, sighing contentedly from the couch.
“You’re satisfied with the answers I got, boss?”
“Satisfied,” said Johansson. “Do we celebrate Christmas Eve on the twenty-fourth of December?”
“Yes, that was all I guess,” said Mattei, making an attempt to stand up.
“Just one more thing,” said Johansson, stopping her with a hand gesture. “How did these rumors arise?”
“From what I understood between the lines it was a story that was tended very carefully by those most closely affected. Well, not the deer, that is.”
“I’ll be damned again,” Johansson grunted.
Wonder if he’s checking information in some old interrogation or what, thought Mattei as she left. Johansson was still Johansson, despite his highly suspect view of women, she thought.
45
On Tuesday Inspector Evert Bäckström was engaged in archival research.
The Stockholm police department’s old central archive was in the basement of the big police building and it was there his sensitive nose had led him. Following a scent no stronger than a vague hunch. Impossible to be detected by all his nasally congested colleagues. Concealed from everyone except a seasoned old bloodhound like him.
Besides, he had good memories of this archive. When he had worked overtime at the after-hours unit in the eighties, it was here he would make his way for a moment of reflection and rest. It was necessary so as not to capsize in the tidal wave of common gangsters, lunatics, drunks, and glowworms that the half-apes in the uniformed police ladled in through the duty desk.
A memory from another time. Before computers took over the fine old handiwork. A time when all real constables sorted their thugs in neat hanging folders with cardboard tabs. Where every thug had at least one file, and where the most diligent would be rewarded within a short time with several. Arranged in endless rows by social security number. In different colors over time. Brown, blue, green, light red, red…and already by the change in color Bäckström understood early on what was about to happen.
The dear old central archive. The wellspring of police knowledge, where he himself had both slaked his thirst and refreshed his soul on numerous memorable occasions. This final safeguard and stronghold of knowledge, where literally everything you put your mitts on was collected and never discarded. Regardless of unverified suspicions, dismissal with prejudice, withdrawn indictments, verdicts of acquittal, and all the other nonsense that attorneys were involved in. The crook remained in the central archive. For all time. Once in, you never got out.
Of course he’d been right, he was always right. There he hung, dangling in his blue sixties file. Now I have you, you little leather boy, thought Bäckström, releasing Waltin from his hook.
A thin file with copies of old typewritten forms. Initial report, interview with the plaintiff, personal information about the suspect, interview with the suspect, summons to new interview with the plaintiff, dismissal with prejudice, no crime, and if it hadn’t been for the central archive, Claes Waltin would have been lost to worldly justice for all time.