“What is it, Lars? You seem worried.”
“It’s nothing,” Johansson lied, smiling at her. “Just a bit much at work.”
Then he leaned over, placed his arm around her and drew her to him. It’ll work out, he thought. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
53
On Wednesday, September 12, Superintendent Anna Holt and Inspector Lisa Mattei held an interview with Gustaf G:son Henning at his office on Norrmalmstorg.
To begin with he had been both guarded and surprised, very surprised, almost unsympathetic. Courteous, to be sure, but mostly because they were women and despite the fact that they came from the police. Pretty soon they softened him up. Holt, at her most attractive with her clean features and white teeth, her black hair and long legs. Mattei, with her blond, innocent admiration for a mature man of the world. Gustaf G:son Henning was irretrievably lost. Despite his white hair, his tailor-made Italian suits, and his seventy years of experience of every form of human intrigue.
How nice, thought Anna Holt, smiling at him. So I avoid having to bring up Juha Valentin Andersson Snygg.
Then he told them everything he had told Bäckström. Speaking more and more comfortably and elaborately the longer the story went on. Exhaustively too and in detail, because he was asked those kinds of questions. A few times he even confirmed the date and what had happened with the help of his old diaries.
Mostly he talked about Claes Waltin. They had met at the restaurant. The old Cecil on Biblioteksgatan where well-off young men at that time would get drunk and socialize with women. A twenty-year-old Waltin and Henning, only ten years older. Told about their first business deal, when Waltin had just received his inheritance and was running around with a lot of money burning a hole in a young man’s pockets. About Waltin’s early interest in pornography-“good pornography”-and about the painting he sold to him when he was barely “dry behind the ears.”
“It was a small oil by Gustav Klimt, and it’s probably the worst deal I’ve made in my entire life. Considering the price it would have commanded today.”
About the years that followed. How they met, or talked on the phone, at intervals of a month or two. Did the occasional deal. Had numerous good dinners together. Talked about art, about the good life, even about women, actually, though personally he only reluctantly talked about women with other men.
“We were not close friends. More like acquaintances, in the positive sense. In addition we were neighbors on Norr Mälarstrand for many years, and we might run into each other on the street on a daily basis when we were both in town.”
“Did he have any close friends that you know about?” asked Holt.
Not that he knew. No family, except his father whom he talked about occasionally. But a frightful lot of women. Beautiful women. Young women. Some very young. Perhaps much too young. He had seen that with his own eyes, not least when they ran into each other in the block where they lived. Claes Waltin with a new woman hanging on his arm.
“On some occasion I recall he said that was how he wanted them. Young, very young. He wanted to take them in mid-leap. His view of women left a great deal to be desired, if I may say so,” Henning the art dealer observed, smiling paternally at Lisa Mattei where she was sitting in her blue pumps and with demurely crossed legs.
“A great deal to be desired, you say,” said Holt.
“Yes,” said Henning, shaking his head. “On some occasion I remember he asked if I was interested in a collection of photos and films. Privately recorded, somewhat rougher things, to say the least. I declined of course.”
The revolver with which the prime minister was supposed to have been shot?
Besides what he had told Bäckström, and now them too, he had one thing he wanted to add. He had forgotten to tell this to Bäckström, but had thought of it when he was ransacking his memory.
“He showed me a picture of the revolver,” said Henning.
“A picture?” asked Holt.
“It was an ordinary photograph. Color photo, enlargement, maybe eight inches by six, with the revolver on top of a copy of Dagens Nyheter from the first of March. The day after the murder. If I remember correctly, the headline was “‘Olof Palme Murdered.’”
“Revolvers of this model usually have a serial number marked on the barrel. Do you recall whether you saw that?”
“No,” said Henning, shaking his head. “I recall that it was shiny, metal-colored, that is. Had a long barrel and a wooden butt. With that kind of hatched grip. Checkered.”
“Checkered?”
“Yes, that’s what it’s called. Probably walnut, according to Waltin. Like I said, I asked about that. And what condition it was in.”
“Do you remember in what direction the barrel was pointing on the photo?” Mattei interjected.
“To the right, it must have been,” said Henning. “The revolver was under the headline. On the photo that is. Parallel with the headline. With the butt to the left and the barrel to the right.”
“You’re sure of that?” asked Holt. With the serial number on the other side, she thought.
“Completely sure,” Mattei repeated. May have been chance too, she thought.
“At least I have a definite recollection of that,” said Henning. “Why are you wondering, by the way?”
“The serial number on a revolver of that model is on the left side of the barrel. Explains why you didn’t see it,” said Holt.
“But he said nothing about how he acquired it,” Holt persisted for the third time, five minutes later.
“He said he had access to it,” Henning clarified. “That it was in good condition. That it had been stored in a secure place. In the lion’s own den. That’s what he said. He was extremely amused when he told me that, so I’m quite sure about it.”
“Waltin was quite certain this was the revolver that was used when the prime minister was murdered?”
“Quite certain,” said Henning. “For whatever reason. I actually tried to joke about it and asked whether he was involved in some way, but he denied that. Then he said something to the effect that if I only knew what he had found out in his job, I would be able to live well on my silence the rest of my life.”
“So how did you interpret that?”
“I knew what he worked with,” said Henning, shrugging his shoulders. “I had no reason to believe he was pulling my leg. That wasn’t the sort of thing he did. I got a definite impression that he could actually produce the revolver, assuming I could find a buyer and do a risk-free deal.”
“So did you do that? Try to find a buyer?” Holt asked.
“No,” said Henning. “Not really. There are certain deals that I would never do. I tried to say that to him too. In as refined a way as that sort of thing can be said.”
“If I understand it correctly, this discussion went on only a month before he died,” said Holt.
“Yes,” said Henning. “It was pretty shocking when I found out what had happened. As I’m sure you understand. Not because I think he was murdered. I’ve never cared much for conspiracy theories. I thought that if anything maybe he had taken his own life.”
“Why did you think that?”
“He was worn-out,” said Henning. “Drank more than he could handle. Was careless about his appearance, even though he had always been careful about that. Waltin was always perfectly dressed. Tailor-made clothes. Had good taste. That he also had a self-destructive side I guess I was convinced of early on. But at the end, and now I’m talking about the last year before he died, there was something unrestrained about him. He said things a person doesn’t say. Not normal people in any event. I know he was sick. He mentioned that he had problems with his liver, but personally I think that was about the alcohol. He drank too much, to put it simply. Way too much.”