As soon as Flykt left, Holt proposed that they withdraw for some private deliberations. But not in the Palme room-the mountain of papers all around them filled her with physical displeasure, although she didn’t say so of course. Instead perhaps they could go someplace where they could sit more comfortably. No one had any objections. First they got coffee, then they went into an empty conference room and closed the door.
“All right,” said Holt. “So here we are. And it’s time we start embracing the situation, considering what’s waiting. The good news is that if we divide up the material, at least there’ll be less to read.”
“In that case I suggest I take care of the incident itself,” said Lewin. “What Johansson mentioned, with the witness statements from the crime scene, the technical investigation, and the forensic report. At least I thought I could start there.”
“I have no objections whatsoever,” said Holt. “Here’s your chance, Lisa,” she continued. “Is there any particular piece you’re longing for? Now that you’ve got the chance.”
“I don’t know enough about the case,” said Mattei. “I need to get a better overview. All those tracks, or working hypotheses to be correct, that I’ve heard about since I became a police officer. You know-Kurdish terrorists and lone madmen and mysterious arms deals and our colleagues, the so-called police track.”
“Excellent,” said Holt. “I don’t think you’ll have a shortage of reading material.” One of us at least likes the situation, she thought.
“What about you, Anna?” asked Lewin, cautiously clearing his throat.
“I thought I’d supervise and divide the work between you and Lisa,” said Holt.
“Kidding aside,” she continued, “I think I’ll focus on Christer Pettersson. Regardless of what Johansson thinks about my fresh eyes, and even though I don’t know any more about the case than what I’ve read in the newspapers and heard ad nauseam at work, I’ve always thought it was Christer Pettersson who shot Olof Palme. I still think so if anyone’s wondering, but because it has happened before that I’ve been wrong, I’m willing to make a fresh attempt.”
“I see,” said Lewin, nodding. “Then that’s how we’ll do it. To start with at least.”
“Sounds good,” Mattei confirmed, getting up.
“Yes,” said Holt. “Do we have any choice?” Then she sighed audibly and shook her head, despite the promise that Johansson had forced out of her.
3
Satisfied with himself and the decision he’d made, even though it was the first day after vacation, Johansson decided to leave early and work at home. His secretary thought this sounded excellent, not least considering the beautiful summer weather. She would gladly have done the same if she’d had the opportunity to choose or even express a wish in that direction.
“Sounds wise, boss,” she agreed. “Considering the weather, I mean. Is there anything else I need to know?”
“I’m to be reached only in an emergency. Plus the usual, you know,” said Johansson.
“That I should take care of myself,” said his secretary.
“Exactly. You have to promise to take care of yourself.”
“I promise,” she answered. “Although this evening I hadn’t planned any major adventures. Thought about watering the flower boxes on the balcony when I get home, if that’s all right?”
“Sounds like an excellent idea,” said her boss, whose thoughts already seemed to be elsewhere. “Just so you don’t fall over the railing.”
“I promise,” she said. What could happen to me? she thought as he vanished out the door. I’m fifty years old, single with no children, my only girlfriend on vacation with her new boyfriend, and I don’t even have a cat I can pet.
Johansson walked the whole way home along the city’s wharfs in the pleasant summer breeze that passed over the waters of Mälaren and cooled his Norrland body. An American in Paris, Johansson thought for some reason, and then he started wondering about himself along the same lines. A simple boy from the country, from Näsåker and red Ådalen in north Ångermanland, who had traveled to the royal capital forty years ago to start at the police academy in Solna. Who’d taken his fate in his own hands and borne it on strong arms, who’d done it well and patrolled his way to the top of the police pyramid. A simple boy from the country who was now approaching the end of the journey and would retire about the same time as the murder of the country’s prime minister would pass the statute of limitations. What would be a better finale than clearing up this case before he said goodbye?
In these and equally pleasant musings he walked the whole way along Norr Mälarstrand, Riddarholmen, and up on the heights of Söder. There he made a detour by way of the indoor market to shop for various delicacies for the summer dinner with which he intended to surprise his wife when she came home from her job at the bank. A few goodies, mostly fish, seafood, and vegetables, but still two well-filled bags that he carried home to the apartment on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan.
The rest of the afternoon he was diligently busy as a cook. Because the weather was right, he set the table on their new balcony facing the courtyard; it had been finished just before they went on vacation and could not be inaugurated until now. He made a salad of fresh salmon, avocado, and mild arugula, cut fresh tuna in nice thick slices, placed chopped herbs on top, and put everything back in the fridge until it was time.
Then he scrubbed carrots and potatoes, put them in separate saucepans, and poured in water. He checked the temperature of the dry German Riesling he planned to serve as the main wine. After a brief inner deliberation he also put a bottle of champagne on ice in a table-cooler. Both he and his wife preferred it really cold.
Then he did everything else from the fresh asparagus with whipped butter, to the cheese tray, to the concluding raspberries. Everything in the right order, of course, and while he was still at it he rewarded himself with a cold Czech pilsner. When his wife called and said she’d just left work and would be home in fifteen minutes, he put the saucepans on the stove and made a toast to himself.
Cheers, Lars, thought the head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, Lars Martin Johansson, raising his glass. In all likelihood there’s not a soul on the planet who can say anything other than that you are one outstanding, well-stocked SOB.
“God,” Pia Johansson exclaimed as soon as she stepped into the hall and set her handbag down on the hall table. “I’m so hungry I could devour a boiled puppy. With the fur on.”
“That probably won’t be necessary,” Johansson answered. He bent forward, placed his right hand around her slender throat, his thumb against the hollow in her neck, letting his left hand rest lightly against her right cheek, breathing in her scent while he let his lips brush her hairline.
“What do you say we eat first?” asked Pia.
“Of course,” said Johansson. “Otherwise I would’ve wrestled you to the floor right away.”
“God, this is good.” Pia sighed two hours later when they had arrived at the raspberries and a more frostbitten Riesling that Johansson had up his sleeve for just this purpose. “If I were forty years younger I would have belched.”
“Impossible,” said Johansson. “Only small children belch. And Chinese,” he added. “It’s supposed to be a tradition they have in China to say thanks for the food.”
“You’re lucky I’m the only one listening. Okay then, if I were forty-five years younger, then I would have belched.”
“Children belch; men snore, fart in secret, even let out real juicy ones if they’re alone or feel comfortable with who they’re with. Women do nothing of the sort.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea.” Johansson shook his head. “What do you think about a cup of coffee, by the way?”