“Yes,” said Wiijnbladh and nodded. “Although I can’t say that either.”
Finally, thought Holt.
“Do you have any questions, Jan?” said Holt, turning to Lewin.
“There are a couple of things I’m wondering about,” said Lewin with a cautious throat clearing. “When you signed these papers, in connection with giving Waltin the revolver, this was in September 1988.”
“I’m not allowed to say that,” Wiijnbladh complained, shaking his head.
“I’m assuming that you were not aware at the time that Claes Waltin had resigned as a police officer.”
“No, that can’t be right,” said Wiijnbladh, staring at Holt for some reason.
“Yes,” said Lewin. “Waltin resigned as a police officer in June of that year. Several months before he got you to turn over the revolver, remove the test firing report, and prepare a scrapping certificate, which was incorrect on at least one point. Claes Waltin was not a police officer when you performed these services for him.”
“That can’t be right,” said Wiijnbladh, shaking his head.
“So why can’t that be right?” asked Lewin.
“I got a distinction. I got a medal too. From the secret police. As thanks for my efforts for the security of the realm.”
“Which you keep in your desk drawer,” Jan Lewin surmised.
“Yes. Yes. I’ve had it there the whole time.”
Poor wretch, thought Jan Lewin.
56
“So you intend to come along to the poisoner’s home, boss,” said Rogersson, holding the car door open for Johansson.
“You betcha. I need to get out and move around,” said Johansson. “Although I intend to sit in front,” he said. “Falk can sit in back, then he’ll have room.”
“Thanks, boss,” said Falk, grinning and holding open the right door.
“So we don’t need any protective gear,” said Rogersson as they drove out of the tunnel to the police building’s garage.
“Hell no,” said Johansson, shaking his head. “Not us. What we’re looking for are some papers and some fucking medal the bastard is supposed to have received.”
“From the pharmaceutical company,” said Rogersson, grinning.
“If only it were that good,” said Johansson and sighed.
For the past fifteen years Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh had lived in an assisted-living facility for early retirees in Bromma. One room and kitchen with a small bathroom. Four alarm buttons to call for help, if needed. One by the front door, which could be reached even if you were lying on the floor; one in the bathroom between the toilet and bathtub. One in the kitchen by the stove. One by the bed in the only room. It was also equipped with an extension cord, in case he wanted to have it with him when he sat at his desk or in the armchair in front of the TV.
The place was worn-out, musty, with a faint but unmistakable odor of urine. On the floor in the bathroom was an opened package of adult diapers. In the medicine cabinet were twenty-some vials and packages with various medicines. An empty plastic denture case. Shaving razor, shaving cream, and aftershave. On the sink a plastic mug with a toothbrush and a tube of denture cream.
Poor devil, thought Lars Martin Johansson, continuing into the one room.
Rogersson stood rooting in the desk by the window while his colleague Falk dug through the contents of the small dresser that was against the short wall. On the nightstand beside the bed was a framed photograph of Wiijnbladh’s ex-wife. The one who had left him almost twenty years ago when he happened to poison himself, although he only wanted to kill her.
“Is it this you mean, boss?” said Rogersson, holding up a plastic bag with a medal the size of a five-krona coin. “To Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh in gratitude for meritorious efforts for the security of the realm,” Rogersson read.
“I’m afraid it is,” said Johansson.
“Was he some fucking war hero?” asked Rogersson, shaking his head.
“More likely the Man of Steel,” Falk sneered, holding up a pair of white underwear. “A lot of rust in these briefs.”
“Papers,” said Johansson.
“Must be these,” said Rogersson. “Some kind of receipt for a firearm and a mysterious letter of recommendation. From the gumshoes in the B building. Their stationery in any event.”
“I’ll have to see,” said Johansson. How fucking stupid can you be? he thought.
57
Johansson returned to the interview room in less than two hours. This time he apparently intended to stay, because he was carrying a chair that he could sit on.
“The head of NBCI is entering the room,” said Holt. “We interrupt the interview at-”
“Turn off that piece of shit,” said Johansson, waving toward the tape recorder. “Now we have to have a serious talk, you and me, Göran,” he said, nodding at Wiijnbladh. “You have nothing to worry about,” he added. “So you can be completely calm. But first we’ll have coffee,” said Johansson, looking at Holt for some reason. “Black or with milk, Göran?”
“With cream, if there is any,” Wiijnbladh stammered.
That man defies all description, thought Anna Holt. Wiijnbladh did not seem the least bit calm. Despite Johansson’s assurances, she thought.
Then she got the coffee. What choice did she really have? And saw to it that Wiijnbladh got cream in his, and listened to Johansson while he talked to Wiijnbladh as if he were talking to a child.
“As perhaps you know, I was operations head of the secret police for a number of years,” said Johansson, nodding at Wiijnbladh.
“Yes, that was before the boss…before you became head of the bureau,” Wiijnbladh concurred.
“So what I’m saying to you now is in strictest confidence,” said Johansson. “Before we leave I also want you to sign a confidentiality agreement. The usual, you know, on nondisclosure.”
“Of course,” said Wiijnbladh.
While the maid fetched coffee, the boys had apparently dispensed with formalities, thought Holt.
“As I’ve understood it, it happened in the following way,” said Johansson in a leisurely manner, pretending to read from his papers.
Waltin had tricked Wiijnbladh. Abused his confidence. Blatantly exploited him.
“Let’s get some order into the details,” said Johansson. “What went on when the revolver was turned over?”
First Waltin had called him on the phone. At work. He remembered that distinctly. He needed to see Wiijnbladh immediately. It was a matter of the utmost importance. Wiijnbladh could not talk about it with anyone. He was not to contact Waltin. The matter was so sensitive that Waltin was forced to work outside the police building for a while. For that reason he could not be reached.
“I knew from before that he was head of the so-called external operation, so I assumed he was working on reorganizing that,” Wiijnbladh clarified.
“So it was Waltin who came to see you?”
“He came up on the weekend. It was sometime in the middle of September. I was on after-hours duty, and he asked me to call as soon as I was alone at the squad so we could talk in private. So when my associates, who were on duty with me, had to leave the building I called him. On the secret number he gave me. I think it was a Sunday. Sometime in the middle of September. We had a suspected death out in Midsommarkransen. It turned out to be a suicide.”
“And then he came over to see you?” asked Johansson.
“He came like a shot,” Wiijnbladh confirmed.
Wonder how he pulls it off? thought Holt with reluctant admiration.
Once up at the tech squad Waltin explained his business. The secret police needed to take possession of a certain weapon from the tech squad. Why he could not say, other than that it concerned a story of the utmost importance for the security of the realm.
“He had a complete description of the weapon with him. Serial number and everything. And a photo too.”