“Premeditation for murder,” said Johansson. “That’s not prescribed,” he added, nodding gloomily.
“Premeditation for murder? Wait now. Are we talking about the prime minister, because in that case it’s more likely complicity to murder that we-”
“We’re talking about his former wife, whom he wanted to poison,” interrupted Johansson.
“Neither Jan nor I intend to bring that up,” answered Holt, shaking her head. “There doesn’t seem to even be a report in that matter, by the way.”
“Now there’s a report,” said Johansson. “Which is why you shouldn’t talk about it, but because that was the best the prosecutor and I could come up with, now there’s a report. Before you ask, by the way, it was our usual prosecutor, if you’re wondering, not that skinny woman who takes care of Palme.
“Do as I say for once,” he continued. “See to it that we have him here within an hour. And try for once not to be too nice and understanding. That applies to both you and Lewin.”
And so it turned out. One hour later Wiijnbladh was sitting in an interview room at the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation with Holt and Lewin. Very shaken up, and not understanding a thing.
“Why do you want to talk with me?” Wiijnbladh whined, licking his lips nervously.
“About your previous acquaintance with Chief Superintendent Claes Waltin,” said Holt, taking pains to look both friendly and interested.
“He’s dead, you know,” said Wiijnbladh, with a confused look.
“Yes, I know that. But when he was alive it seems that he and you were good friends.”
She got no farther than that, for suddenly Johansson opened the door and simply walked right in. With him he had two colleagues from the bureau’s homicide squad. Rogersson, with his narrow eyes, and then that disgusting bodybuilder whose name I’ve managed to repress, thought Holt. Hardly by chance.
“My name is Johansson,” said Johansson, glaring at Wiijnbladh. “I’m the one who’s the boss at this place.”
“Yes, I know who the boss is,” stammered Wiijnbladh. “I don’t think I’ve had-”
“I want the keys to your home, your pass card to the building here, your computer card, and the codes to your computer,” Johansson interrupted.
“But I don’t understand,” said Wiijnbladh, shaking his head and looking almost imploringly at Holt.
“House search,” said Johansson, holding out his large hand. “Empty your pockets, then I won’t have to ask the officers to do it for you.”
One minute later they left. Remaining were Holt, Lewin, and a terrified Wiijnbladh who was looking at Holt.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said. “I have to-”
“Jan here will go along with you,” said Holt, turning off the tape recorder. I should have listened to Berg, she thought.
He took his sweet time in the bathroom. Wiijnbladh apparently splashed his face with cold water, which seemed to have been of little help. Confused and absent. Doesn’t understand what this is about, thought Holt.
“Now we resume the interview with Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh,” said Holt after she restarted the tape recorder. “Before we were interrupted we were talking about your acquaintance with former chief superintendent Claes Waltin with the secret police. Can you tell us how you knew him?”
“We were good friends,” said Wiijnbladh. “But I still don’t understand.”
“How long had you known him?” asked Holt.
According to Wiijnbladh he had known Waltin since the early eighties. It started as a professional contact, but by and by it had turned into more of a regular friendship.
“I had the privilege of giving him a little general guidance in forensic issues,” said Wiijnbladh, who suddenly seemed calmer. “But otherwise we mostly talked about art, actually. We had that interest in common, and Claes had an excellent art collection. Really excellent, with a number of major works by both Swedish and foreign artists. On one occasion he asked me to look at an etching by Zorn to see if it might be a forgery.”
“General forensic issues, you say,” said Holt. “Did you ever talk about other things in that line, other than the sort of thing that concerned art forgeries?”
“What might that have been?” asked Wiijnbladh, looking at her.
“Firearms,” said Holt. “Did he ask you about firearms?” Just as confused again, she thought.
“He asked me about everything imaginable. About fingerprints and various forensic methods for securing and analyzing clues. Claes, well, Claes Waltin that is, had a very strong interest in education. He simply wanted to learn more. Used to show up and visit me at the tech squad.”
“Let’s return to the subject of firearms,” said Holt. “I’ve understood that in September 1988 you turned over a revolver to him that was stored in your so-called weapons library at the tech squad. It was confiscated in a case from March 27, 1983. A murder-suicide.”
“I know nothing about that,” Wiijnbladh stammered, his gaze wobbling between her and Lewin. “I know nothing about that.”
Unfortunately you probably do, thought Holt. If I were to believe your eyes, then you do.
“But you must remember it anyway,” said Holt. “In the fall of 1988, Claes Waltin asked you to turn over a revolver to him. This revolver, to be more exact,” she said, handing over a photograph of the firearm that was used in the murder-suicide out in Spånga in March 1983.
“One of your former colleagues took the photo,” Holt explained. “Bergholm, if you remember him. He was the one in charge of the technical investigation when the photo was taken.”
Wiijnbladh did not want to pick up the photograph. Didn’t even want to look at it. Shook his head. Turned away. Holt took a new approach and hated herself as she did it.
“I’m getting a little surprised by your answers,” said Holt. “Either you gave a revolver to Waltin or you didn’t. Yes or no, that is, and it’s no more difficult than that. I and my colleague Jan Lewin here have reason to believe that you did. Now we want to know what your position is on this.”
“I’m prevented from saying that,” said Wiijnbladh.
“How can you be?” said Holt. “You have to explain that.”
“With respect to the security of the realm,” said Wiijnbladh.
“With respect to the security of the realm,” Holt repeated. “That sounds like something Claes Waltin said to you.”
“I had to sign papers.”
“You had to sign papers that Claes Waltin gave you. Where do you keep them?”
“At home,” said Wiijnbladh. “At home where I live. In the drawer to my desk, but they’re secret so you can’t look at them.”
“I’ll come back to that,” said Holt. “In September 1988 you turned over the revolver that you see in the photograph sitting in front of you to Claes Waltin. We’ll come back to why you did that, but before that I intend to ask you about a few other things we’ve also been wondering about. The tech squad’s report from the test firing of that revolver is missing. Jan Lewin and I think you were the one who removed it. The second thing concerns a request you addressed to the Defense Factories for scrapping the same firearm. We do not think that the firearm was scrapped. How could it have been? You’d already given it to your good friend Claes Waltin.”
“I know nothing about that,” Wiijnbladh whimpered, staring at the floor.
“I want you to look at me, Göran,” said Holt. “Look at me.”
“What?” said Wiijnbladh, looking at her. “Why?”
“I want to be able to look you in the eyes when you answer,” said Holt. “You must understand that anyway. You’re a police officer yourself.”
“But I can’t answer, I just can’t. If I answer I’m committing a breach of secrecy. It’s in the papers I signed.”
“The papers that Claes Waltin gave you and told you to sign?”