“Some form of distinction in any event,” said Holt. “Whatever. What do we do?”
“We’re going to do the following,” said Johansson. He held up his right hand and ticked off the points with his fingers.
“First, we’ll make a compilation of what we know about former colleague Waltin. Without waking any bears among his former co-workers.
“Second,” he continued, “we’ll interview Bäckström’s informant, Wiijnbladh, and Bäckström himself, and we’ll do it in that order.”
“Then we turn it over to the Palme group,” said Holt, who did not intend to give up. Not this time.
“If we have something to turn over, then we’ll do that,” said Johansson. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, he thought.
Before they went their separate ways Johansson confiscated the bullet that Holt quite correctly had in the pocket of her jacket.
Who knows what he’s planning to do with it, she thought.
51
Mattei had been forced to cancel a romantic weekend cruise to Riga to devote herself to the Palme investigation’s police track. Even though Johan was seven years younger than she was, he handled his disappointment like a real man. He could imagine some very different cruise destinations if she were to have a few hours extra.
Now it’s time to read thoroughly, thought Mattei, pushing aside thoughts of anything else. To really be sure that Waltin was not included in the material. At the same time find a conceivable contact for him. If he really was involved, he could not have shot the prime minister in any event. If he had an accomplice there was also a decent chance this man had the same background as Waltin.
It remained to find him, thought Mattei.
Anna Holt, Lisa Mattei, and Jan Lewin started their survey of Claes Waltin first thing on Friday morning. Their quarry had been dead for fifteen years, but that was not an insurmountable obstacle for people like them and the bureau’s intelligence service. By Friday afternoon they had already put together a binder to add to the thousand that existed in the investigation.
Claes Adolf Waltin was born on April 20, 1945, and had died in a drowning accident on north Mallorca at the age of forty-seven, on October 17, 1992. He was born and raised on Östermalm in Stockholm. The only child of estate manager Claes Robert Waltin, born in 1919, and his wife, Aino Elisabeth, née Carlberg, who was four years younger. His parents divorced in 1952. His mother died in an accident in 1969. The father was still alive. Remarried to a woman ten years younger and living on an estate outside Kristianstad in Skåne.
Strange, thought Jan Lewin. What kind of parents name their son Adolf right before the end of the war in 1945?
“Did you know that Waltin was christened Adolf as a middle name?” said Lewin to Mattei, who was sitting on the other side of the table browsing through a sizeable pile of papers. “What kind of parents christen their son Adolf when he’s born on the twentieth of April 1945? That’s only a week or so before the end of the Second World War.”
“Hitler’s birthday,” said Mattei. “His dad and mom probably wanted to give him a model in life. They were probably Nazis.”
“Hitler’s birthday?”
“Adolf Hitler was also born on April 20, in 1889. In the village of Braunau in Austria,” said Mattei. In contrast to General Maternity Hospital in Stockholm, and for God’s sake don’t drag in a Nazi track as thanks for the help, she thought.
“Strange,” said Lewin, shaking his head. “Very strange.”
Sigh, thought Lisa Mattei.
Mattei had not found either Waltin or Wiijnbladh in the part of the Palme investigation’s material that dealt with the police track. No signs either to indicate that they should have been found there but had been cleaned out. However you find that sort of thing, she thought.
For lack of anything better to do she also searched for Detective Inspector Evert Bäckström. Considering the life he had lived he ought to be first-rate material for the same track. But there were no traces of Bäckström. Other than under the second lead file and then in the role of interview leader. One of the Good Guys. However that might be, thought Mattei.
Waltin does not seem to have been a nice, decent guy, thought Anna Holt after she reread the old investigation that Bäckström had given her. The complaint written off as not a crime, according to the decision by the prosecutor. She had not succeeded in finding more of the same or that he had ever been charged with anything whatsoever. Waltin did not appear in the police department registry. Not even for a simple speeding infraction.
Mysterious, thought Anna Holt. The types that had that disposition tended to leave tracks behind them.
Claes Waltin had graduated in 1964 and completed his military service with the Norrland Dragoons in Umeå. In the fall of 1965 he began his legal studies at the University of Stockholm and allowed himself plenty of time. It took eight years for him to earn his law degree with mediocre grades. After that he applied to police chief training. Finished that in the appointed time, and in 1975 he was hired by the Stockholm police department’s legal department as an assistant commissioner.
Two years later he changed jobs and started with the secret police. First as police superintendent, up until 1985 when he was promoted to chief superintendent and the second-in-command to SePo’s operations head, the legendary Berg.
Three years later he suddenly resigned. Another four years later he was dead. At the age of only forty-seven, and completely healthy as it appeared, he suddenly drowned during a vacation on Mallorca.
On Mallorca of all places, thought Holt.
Johansson seemed to have devoted himself to something other than Claes Waltin. On Friday afternoon he had been at a meeting in Rosenbad, and after the meeting he ran into the special adviser, who quickly took him aside and into his office.
“Nice to see you, Lars Martin,” said the special adviser, looking as if he really meant it. “By the way, I read your e-mail.”
“About the deer at Magdalen College. Thanks for the last time, by the way,” said Johansson.
“Life has taught me at least one thing,” the special adviser observed. “Not only about the deer at Magdalen,” he added.
“So what’s that?”
“That even wise people like you often confuse the truth with what you think you know,” said the special adviser, winking at his visitor. “Have you thought about that, Lars Martin?” he continued. “How often does the truth appear with a mask on her face and in clothing that she has not even borrowed but simply stolen from someone else entirely?”
“I thought it was the lie that wore a mask,” said Johansson.
“The truth, too,” said the special adviser, nodding seriously. “Not only do they share a room with each other; they share a bed in a lifelong relationship where the one’s existence is a prerequisite for the other’s survival.”
“You’re in one of your philosophical moods, I’m hearing.” Is he trying to say something or is he just a bad loser? thought Johansson.
“Speaking of the truth,” said the special adviser. “Do you have any desire to come to the Turing Society for our next seminar? As chairman of the society it would please me greatly to have such a wise and well-informed guest as you.”
“What were you planning to talk about?”
“About the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme,” said the special adviser.
Claes Waltin had drowned during a vacation on Mallorca in October 1992. He was staying at north Mallorca’s best hotel. He had stayed at the same place at the same time for a number of years. A week in October at the Hotel Formentor was his recurring fall vacation.
Every morning he would go down to the beach for a morning dip. At the hotel’s private beach. Secluded from the hoi polloi and public view. The water was still about fifty degrees so there was nothing strange about that. For someone like Waltin and if you weren’t a Spaniard, that is. Then it was far too cold. Besides he was up far too early in the morning. At the Hotel Formentor all the normal guests were asleep at that time of day. Hence Waltin could always swim alone.