“Yes, actually. In the summer of 1986 she met her old teacher Ossian at a barbeque at her parents’ house in Vaxholm. They sat down and talked and like so many others they naturally got around to the Palme assassination. Then she told him what she had seen.”
“That she’d been out getting a little on the side and missed the Palme murder by a couple of minutes?”
“Yes. She and Ossian seem to talk about most everything. By then she’d also left her husband.”
“You’ve also checked that?”
“Yes. Ossian tells the same story.”
“Then she would also have mentioned Kjell Göran Hedberg?”
“Yes, although mostly as an amusing story. That it almost seemed like a class reunion there on Sveavägen.”
“But it was not until the spring of 1989 that she made contact with the police,” said Johansson.
“Yes, it’s a pretty amazing story,” said Mattei. “I’ve checked it too, and everything she says agrees with our own records.”
“I can hardly contain myself,” said Johansson, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands over his belly.
First there’s the thirty-three-year-old who was arrested fourteen days after the murder, and in that situation it did not even occur to their witness that Kjell Göran Hedberg had anything to do with the murder of the prime minister. Then there was the summer and fall of 1986 when “everyone knows it’s the Kurds who murdered Palme.” Obviously not a thought about him then either.
Not until a year later did she start to think about it. The Kurds were ruled out by that time. Instead the police track had come onto the agenda in earnest. For various reasons she decided not to make contact. She was no longer so certain that it was her old classmate she had seen. Two years had already passed since the murder, and why hadn’t she made contact previously, in that case? To get help and support she talked with her old boss, and lover, about it.
“He did the wave, of course,” said Johansson.
“According to our witness he asked if she meant to kill him. Personally he did not have the slightest memory that they had run into one of her old classmates. How could he have? He was in Denmark at a conference when Palme was murdered.”
“And now the bastard is dead,” Johansson guessed.
“Died in 1997. Heart attack. Checked.” Mattei nodded. Dead a long time like most of the others, she thought.
“But in March of 1989 she got in touch with the investigation,” said Johansson.
“Yes. But not to give a tip about Hedberg, but to report that she had not seen Christer Pettersson when Palme was shot.”
“That she hadn’t seen Christer Pettersson. She calls the Palme investigation to say that she hasn’t seen Christer Pettersson?” This is getting better and better, thought Johansson.
Christer Pettersson has been in jail for several months, suspected of the murder of Olof Palme. At that point “everyone who knows anything worth knowing” also knows that he’s the actual perpetrator. To eliminate the slightest doubt about the matter, the Palme investigation nonetheless puts out an appeal to that great detective, the general public. They say they are interested in speaking with “everyone who was in the area in question at the time in question.” Regardless of whether they’d seen anything or not. Even if they hadn’t seen anything, it might be just as interesting to the police as an eyewitness to the murder itself.
Because Gertrud Rosenberg has seen neither the Palmes nor Christer Pettersson-or even anyone who is the least bit like Christer Pettersson-she decides to unburden her heart and talk. She calls the telephone number she saw in the newspaper. Talks for almost ten minutes with one of the investigators in the Palme group. Tells what she hasn’t seen, without saying a word about her old classmate. Her information ends up immediately in one of the many binders full of so-called crazy tips.
“I have a copy if you want to see it, boss,” said Mattei. “It’s a regular surveillance tip. Handwritten.”
“I’m listening,” said Johansson, shaking his head dejectedly.
“Okay,” said Lisa Mattei. “This is what our colleague wrote. I quote. Informant states that she has not observed Christer Pettersson. In addition she states that she has not observed the Palmes either or made any other observations of interest at the time in question. End quote.”
“Wasn’t that the kind of witness they were looking for? Sounds like an almost ideal witness,” said Johansson.
“The colleague who received it doesn’t seem as enthused as you, boss.”
“So what does he think?”
“Quote. Bag lady. Says she’s a doctor. End quote.”
“So she ends up in the loony binder.”
“Yes, although a more judicious colleague apparently entered her as a witness in one of the computerized registries. That’s where I found her.”
“And then?” asked Johansson.
“Then she never made contact again,” said Lisa Mattei. “I understand her. She gives a very vivid description of that conversation.”
“Conclusion,” said Johansson, looking urgently at Mattei.
“She links Hedberg to the scene of the crime in immediate connection to the time. Probably right before he crosses Sveavägen and positions himself and waits for Olof and Lisbeth at the corner of Tunnelgatan and Sveavägen.”
“I think so too,” said Johansson. “Besides, she’s a doctor, not some ordinary dope fiend who has reason to hate Hedberg.”
“Yes,” said Lisa Mattei. Not an ordinary drug addict, she thought.
“Do you know what one of the foremost signs of a bad boss is?” said Johansson suddenly.
“No,” said Mattei. Now it’s coming, she thought.
“That he has favorites,” said Johansson.
“So there won’t be any more gold stars,” said Mattei.
“Between us I guess there will be,” said Johansson. “If you promise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise,” said Mattei.
“And never do it again.”
“I promise.”
83
Despite his convalescence, Bäckström had not been idle. Now a crisis situation prevailed, and in a crisis situation “danger in delay” always applied. Every real constable knew that, and Bäckström knew it better than all the rest. Once he had been close to missing an open goal, just because he hesitated a little unnecessarily. True, it had worked out in the end. Obviously-what else was to be expected when Bäckström was at the rudder? He didn’t intend to risk it this time, regardless of what the good doctor was harping on about. That he’d suffered a heart attack, minor stroke, or in the worst case both. What can you expect from someone who makes a living by dealing with a lot of malingerers? thought Bäckström.
First he talked with his relative at the police union. He was still sitting like a kind of spider in the police web, gathering in all the information that his members picked up as they were running around town. It was reasonable that someone like him ought to have a few things to say about Palme and his sex life. Even though he hadn’t been one of their associates.
“Palme,” said his relative. “How the hell would I know that? He wasn’t a cop.”
“Our colleagues, then. They must have talked a lot of shit about Palme, didn’t they?”
“You’re calling to ask if our colleagues talked a lot of shit about Palme. Are you joking with me? Are you sick or what? You’re wondering about the guy’s sex life? I guess he was just like everyone else.”
“It seems to be considerably worse than that,” said Bäckström.
“I suppose he took the opportunity,” said his relative. “Who the hell hasn’t? Must be a real shooting gallery if you were in his position.”
“See what you can find,” said Bäckström. You incompetent union bigwig bastard, he thought, slamming down the receiver.
Then he connected to the Internet. This bottomless source of knowledge and cause for rejoicing. Pretty soon he’d also found quite a bit that was both heavy and serious. First a lot of information about a famous female singer his murder victim was supposed to have been involved with. A lady who didn’t appear to be one to play around with, if you believed what you read about her on the Internet.