At eight in the morning, this unchristian time of day for any civilized Spaniard, he passed the reception desk. Equipped with a bathrobe and towel and quite clearly en route to his daily morning dip, according to the two employees in reception that the Spanish police had talked with. Señor Waltin had been exactly as usual. A friendly greeting to the male reception clerk, for his female associate the smile and compliment she always got, regardless of who she was. Everything had been exactly as usual on that morning, the last known observation of Claes Waltin while he was alive.
Fourteen days later he was found. What was left of the former chief superintendent was washed up on the beach a few miles from the hotel. Natural death by drowning, according to the Spanish police investigation. They had not found any simple, unambiguous signs of murder or suicide in any event. What thus remained was natural death by drowning.
The Swedish secret police had made their own investigation. The drowning of a former high-ranking boss at a luxury hotel in southern Europe was not something that was taken lightly. Least of all as the medical examination Waltin had undergone only a month before showed that he was in excellent health. Apart from rather high liver function values he seemed to have been in the best condition, but despite this the Swedish investigators had still come to the same conclusion as their Spanish colleagues.
A purely accidental occurrence. Nothing the least bit peculiar about it, and it was only when his will was opened that things got strange. Really, really strange.
At four in the afternoon Lewin started looking at the clock and fidgeting. At first Mattei ignored him, but finally she showed mercy. Personally she intended to work the whole evening, and because she knew the considerate, loyal Lewin, she made his anguish brief.
“Before you go home, Jan,” said Mattei. “I looked into that thing about Adolf for you.”
“Adolf?”
“Claes Adolf Waltin,” Mattei clarified. “His father, Robert, was evidently an organized Nazi during the war. Participated as a volunteer on the German side. From 1942 until the end of the war he was part of the Viking Battalion. That was an SS battalion made up of volunteers from Scandinavia. Swedes, Danes, Norwegians.”
“How do you know that?” asked Lewin, looking at her doubtfully.
“Found it on the Internet,” said Mattei. “He’s included in Hermansson’s dissertation on the Swedish volunteers in the Viking Battalion. Was decorated with the Iron Cross on three occasions. Advanced from regular soldier to lieutenant. Known right-wing extremist and nationalist far into the seventies. Disappears from the Swedish national movement about the same time his son started as a police officer.”
“Peculiar, extremely peculiar,” said Lewin, shaking his head.
Claes Waltin appeared never to have had any financial difficulties. A millionaire at the age of twenty-four since he inherited from his mother. A multimillionaire when he died and left behind the most peculiar will Holt had ever read. As an investigator with the police she had read a number over the years, but nothing even in the neighborhood of former chief superintendent Claes Waltin’s last will and testament.
Either he was off his rocker or else it was worse than that, thought Holt.
The will had been in Waltin’s safe deposit box at SEB. It was handwritten, and according to the police department’s graphology expert Waltin was the one who wrote it.
All the money that Waltin left, and this was several million, was to start a foundation that would support research on hypochondriac complaints among women. This in memory of his mother, and the foundation would also bear her name. A long name: The Foundation for Research into Hypochondria in Memory of My Mother Aino Waltin and All Other Hypochondriacal Old Hags Who Have Ruined the Lives of Their Children.
What a little mama’s boy, thought Holt.
Then it quickly got even worse, venturing far beyond the boundaries that normally applied when a will was prepared. The deceased had attached a long statement of cause that was to be incorporated into the statutes of the foundation according to the “donor’s last will and testament.”
“During my entire childhood my mother, Aino Waltin, was dying of most of the diseases known to medical science. Despite this she never honored her repeated promises of her imminent demise. Because it would not have been possible for me to sue her for ordinary refusal to deliver according to civil law, I finally saw myself compelled to put her to death myself by pushing her off the platform at the Östermalm subway station when she was on her way to one of her daily doctor’s appointments.”
No ordinary mama’s boy, thought Holt.
The will had of course been contested by the closest survivor, Waltin’s father. The district court took his side and found that the will should be invalidated because the testator was obviously not of sound mind when the will was written.
What remained was the peculiar fact that Lewin’s mother had happened to fall down in front of a subway train at the Östermalm subway station, was run over, and died immediately. A pure accident, according to the police, probably brought about by one of her recurring dizzy spells, which one of her many doctors had reported. Dead by accident in June 1969. Her only son and heir was twenty-four years old, a law student at the University of Stockholm, and for him life went on.
There were many accidents in that family, thought Holt.
Puerto Alcúdia on north Mallorca
Esperanza was built at a small local shipyard in Puerto Alcúdia, still owned and run by Ignacio Ballester and his two sons, Felipe and Guillermo. The shipyard has been in the family for generations, and it has always specialized in the area’s local fishing boats, illaut.
This particular customer, however, had special requests, which broke in part with tradition. Among other things he did not want the vertically pointing bowsprit that was mostly a joy to the eye, just like the dragon on the prow of a Viking ship, but at the same time good to be able to hold on to if you were boarding a swaying deck.
Ignacio talked about this with his customer, but he just shook his head. Besides, he said that the Vikings never had dragons on the prows of their boats. That was a latter-day Romantic invention, and if Ignacio didn’t believe him he could always take Felipe and Guillermo, go to Oslo, visit the Viking Ship Museum, and see with their own eyes what Viking sailing vessels really looked like.
Ignacio gave in. The customer presumably knew more about this than he did, and the customer was always right, as long as it didn’t affect the seaworthiness of the boats that he and his sons built.
He didn’t want a mast either. He didn’t intend to sail with Esperanza; instead he would rely on her engine. With a mast a ship rocked more than necessary, and the customer preferred a steady deck under his feet.
On the other hand he did want a number of other things that were not on a regular illaut. Ultrasound, of course, because it was necessary for anyone who dived in unknown waters and good for anyone who chose to fish instead. Radar was discussed, but they came to a joint decision to avoid that, because it would stick out too much and disturb Esperanza’s lovely lines. The navigational equipment that was on board-compass, nautical chart, chart table, and reckoning-were fine according to Ignacio’s customer, and a few years later he complemented it with a modern GPS system.