“The kid’s as healthy as a jay,” the doctor summarized after his patient returned to the waiting room.
“But you don’t think he needs glasses? There must be some help,” Evert persisted.
“About as much as a hawk, if you ask me,” said the doctor.
“But what about all the reading? The boy seems possessed. You didn’t find anything wrong in his head?”
“I guess he likes to read. Some people do,” said the district medical officer, sighing for some reason. “The worst thing that can happen is that he’ll become a country doctor,” he observed and sighed again.
Then Evert and his youngest son drove home to the farm and never talked about the matter again. Ten years later Lars Martin went to Stockholm to become a cop and so that he would be able to read in peace. Mostly about crime as it turned out, mostly gathered from reality, less often from the world of imagination. A considerable detour it might seem, but not all journeys are simple, and there are often more routes than one that lead to the journey’s end.
After some rooting in his shelves, Johansson at last found the book he was looking for. Volume seven, on the Gustavian period, of Carl Grimberg’s classic work on Swedish history: The Marvelous Destiny of the Swedish People. A beautiful little book that could be sensuously weighed in the hands, first edition, leather bound, gold tooling on the spine.
This is what the computer wizards have missed, despite all the networks and search engines, thought Johansson contentedly as he poured the last drops of wine from dinner into his glass, made himself comfortable on the couch, and started reading about the assassination of Gustav III and the times in which he lived. It was as close as he could get to his own murder victim and a comparable Swedish crime case, he thought.
The reading had taken an hour, most of it he already knew, and then he took out paper and pen to make notes while he thought.
The masked ball at the Royal Opera House in Stockholm on March 16, 1792. A circle of perpetrators in the victim’s vicinity who hated him and what he stood for. Aristocrats, courtiers, members of the king’s own guard. A circle of perpetrators whose opportunity was served up on a silver platter. With a personal invitation and far enough in advance to make the most of it. A circle of perpetrators who were expected to wear masks even before they set to work.
A circle of perpetrators who had access to firearms. Johansson smiled wryly as he made a note of this. One of them was motivated enough to approach the victim, draw his weapon, aim, and fire. Motive, opportunity, and means, Johansson summarized the same way his colleagues at that earlier time must have done.
A victim who was hated by many-aristocrats, military officers, rich citizens. Fine people, in brief, who held power in their swords, their moneybags, their history, and feared that an absolute monarch would take it away from them for good. A victim who was loved by many. By poets and artists, for the shimmer they maintained was a result of King Gustaf’s reign, and for them in particular on good economic grounds, thought Johansson.
The fact that large segments of the peasantry also seemed to have liked their king was not as easy to understand. Plagued as they were by constant wars that drove the finances of the realm to the bottom, and suffering all the everyday misery of crop failure, starvation, epidemics, and common diseases. People must not have known any better, thought the farmer’s son Johansson, sighing.
Hated by many, loved by many, but with no room for many feelings in between. What more can one ask of a so-called motive, Johansson summarized as he brushed his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror after a day of hard work, an excellent meal he’d made himself, and a little reading purely for the sake of enjoyment. At best I’ve learned something too, he thought.
Ten minutes later he was asleep. With a smile on his lips but otherwise exactly as usual. On his back with his hands clasped over his chest, with manly snoring, secure in his own body, free from dreams. Or in any case the kind of dreams he would remember, even vaguely, when he woke up the next morning.
Most often it was Lars Martin Johansson who fell asleep last and woke up first, but for once his wife had evidently gotten up before him. It was the faint aroma of coffee that alarmed his sensitive nose and woke him. Although it was only seven o’clock it was still a few hours late compared to his usual routine. His wife, Pia, had already had time to set out breakfast-“I’ve labored like a beast to start paying you back for dinner last night”-and in passing she alerted him to the morning paper with an innocent smile.
“You’re in the newspaper, by the way,” said Pia as she poured coffee for him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“About what?” asked Johansson as he splashed warm milk in his coffee cup.
“That you’ve appointed a new Palme investigation.”
What the hell are you saying, woman? thought Johansson, who would never dream of saying that out loud. Not to his beloved wife and after almost twenty years of marriage. The fact that all days hadn’t been good weighed easily against the fact that many had been good enough and several far better than anyone had the right to ask for, even from his wife.
“What is that you’re saying, dear?” said Johansson. What the hell is it she’s saying? he thought.
“Read it yourself,” said Pia, handing over the copy of Dagens Nyheter that for some reason she had chosen to set on the floor next to her own chair.
“Sweet Jesus,” Johansson moaned, glaring at the unflattering picture of himself on the front page of the country’s largest morning paper.
“High time if you ask me,” said his wife. “A new Palme investigation, I mean,” she clarified. “Though maybe you should make sure they get a better picture of you. You’ve actually lost quite a bit of weight since they took that one.”
4
When Johansson had finished his breakfast, he showered then dressed with care. No linen shirt open at the collar, no red suspenders. Instead a gray suit, white shirt with discreet tie, black polished shoes: the necessary armor for someone like him when it was time to take the field. Then he went to the kitchen, folded up the newspaper, stuck it in his jacket pocket, and went to work. He hadn’t read the article. Didn’t need to, because a quick glance was enough for him to know what was in it.
Once at work he greeted his secretary amiably, waved the newspaper deprecatingly, went into his office and closed the door. Only then did he read through, carefully and with pen in hand, what was the day’s major media event. That the head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation had appointed a “new, secret investigation of the assassination of Olof Palme.” Was I right or was I right? thought Johansson, sighing because everything in it confirmed his misgivings.
Even the picture. A few years old with a Lars Martin Johansson forty pounds heavier glaring at the camera. Obviously such a character could not be reached for comment; instead the newspaper’s two anonymous sources had been allowed to carry on freely and tell about all their sufferings. Inadequate resources, unsympathetic bosses, and now their jobs had been taken from them.
The fat, mean boss who takes out his own shortcomings on his poor, innocent employees, thought Lars Martin Johansson.
“Seems like we have a lot to get to work on,” said Johansson to his secretary as soon as she sat down on the opposite side of his big desk.
“There are a number of persons who have called wanting to talk with you,” she replied with an expression as innocent as his wife’s.
“So what was on their minds?”