“The one who was killed in the subway?”
“Killed? She was drunk. She was drunk all the time. Had a couple bottles of port a day and stuffed herself with a lot of pills. She was drunk and she staggered over onto the rails, and there was no more to it than that.”
Had he and his son seen each other regularly?
In the summers, of course. At large family occasions on his side of the family, to which he didn’t need to invite his first wife. When their paths crossed, so to speak.
“We talked with another person, a colleague of ours,” said Holt, “who had met you at home with your son at a dinner in the late eighties. In his apartment on Norr Mälarstrand.”
“Was it that little policeman who helped Claes with some forgery that art Jew Henning palmed off on him?” the old man asked. “A wretched character who sat and apologized for his existence the whole time and could barely manage the silverware.”
“That may be right,” said Holt. And personally you’re not much better than Johansson when it comes down to it, she thought.
“I remember that,” said papa Waltin. “As soon as we were rid of that buffoon I asked Claes why in the name of God he associated with someone like that.”
“So why did he?”
“He seems to have been a useful idiot. Lucrative, too, according to Claes. Despite his deplorable appearance.”
“Did he explain why he thought that?” Holt persisted.
“He didn’t go into that,” said Robert Waltin, shaking his head. “As I remember it, my son said only that the most useful idiots were those who had no idea what they were helping out with. That this particular specimen had done both him and the nation a very great service.”
Wiijnbladh and one other guest. Did he recall who that other person had been?
“Yes, I remember him well,” said Robert Waltin. “It was one of Claes’s old classmates. He too became a very successful attorney. A business attorney for some of our most successful companies. Was even on the board at Bofors for several years. He died only a year or two after Claes. His name has slipped my memory, but I seem to recall I sent a card to the widow after the funeral. An excellent individual. They studied law together, as I said, and then they were members of the same society.”
Goodness, thought Holt.
“Society?” she said with an inquisitive smile.
“First they were in Conservative Law Students, but then there was some dispute with the board. This was at the time when the Bolsheviks were trying to take over our universities, so Claes and his good friend started their own society. Law Students for a Free Sweden, I think they called it.”
“Law Students for a Free Sweden?”
“Something like that,” said papa Waltin, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t remember exactly. There were a lot of organizations that my son was a member of at that time, in case you’re wondering.”
“Do you recall any others?” asked Holt innocently.
“None that I intend to talk with you ladies about,” said Robert Waltin.
On the other hand he was happy to talk about his son. A two-hour-long exposition on all his son’s good qualities and merits, which at last they were forced to put a stop to themselves because their taxi was waiting for them.
“I really must thank you, director Waltin,” said Holt, extending her hand in farewell.
“If there is anyone who deserves a thank-you it’s my son,” said Robert Waltin.
“I’ve understood that,” Holt agreed.
“Because he saw to it that traitor was shot,” hissed Robert Waltin, turning abruptly and disappearing into the house where the family had lived for five generations.
“So the old bastard maintains that his son is supposed to have been involved in murdering Palme,” said Johansson. “How does he know that?”
“Unclear,” said Holt. “More a feeling, if I understood it right. In any event, those were his parting words.”
“Feeling,” snorted Johansson, and it was then he decided it was time he talked with bureau head Berg’s old watchdog, Chief Inspector Persson. A real constable who had been involved back in the day.
60
Persson lived in Råsunda. In one of the old fin de siècle buildings just north of the soccer stadium. He had lived in the same little two-room apartment since he got a divorce in the early seventies and could devote himself to being a policeman full-time. The human being he had spent the most time with during his seventy years was the legendary bureau head Erik Berg, operations head of the secret police for twenty-five years. Johansson’s predecessor in the position and Persson’s boss for two-thirds of his police career.
Berg and Persson had known each other since their days at the police academy. They shared the front seat of the same patrol car for a couple years in the sixties. Front seat only; at that time the Swedish police drove around in black Plymouths with rumbling V-8s. Before all the Volvos and Saabs. In another era.
Then Berg moved on, studied law and ended up at SePo, where he quickly made a career. In 1975 he had been named operations head with the secret police; he was the one who in reality controlled the secret police operation. The same day he got his appointment, he called Persson and offered him a job as his henchman and confidant. His only confidant, which naturally went along with the mission.
An hour later Persson resigned from his position as investigator with the Stockholm police burglary squad. He started as a chief inspector with Berg and stayed for the next twenty-four years of his active career until he retired. The following year Berg quit, and shortly thereafter died of cancer. Persson was still alive and had no intention of dying. People like him didn’t die.
“Nice to hear from you, Lars,” he said when Johansson called him. “It’s been awhile.”
“What do you think about getting together and having a bite to eat?” Johansson suggested.
“It’ll have to be at my place,” said Persson. “I never go to restaurants with guys. Besides, I can’t stand the damn music.”
“What do you think about this evening?” Johansson suggested.
“Sounds great. Don’t have anything better going on,” said Persson. “What do you think about salted beef brisket with homemade mashed turnips and potatoes?”
“Sure,” said Johansson. “I could go for that.” Is there anything better? he thought.
“Then let’s say seven o’clock,” Persson decided. “If you want aquavit you’ll have to bring it with you.”
One never ceases to be amazed, thought Johansson a few hours later as he sat in the kitchen in Persson’s small apartment while his host was just pouring a refill in their shot glasses. The eternal bachelor Persson, who was known at work for always having on the same gray suit, yellowing nylon shirt, and mottled tie, regardless of the season.
His place smelled of cleanser and floor polish, and it was as tidy as an old-fashioned dollhouse. Not much bigger either, and because Persson weighed four hundred pounds and was over six feet tall, it was like watching an elephant cruising around in a china shop. An elephant with the coordination of a ballet dancer, and as skilled in the culinary arts as Johansson’s beloved aunt Jenny had been. In the good old days she’d been in charge of the bar at the Grand Hotel in Kramfors and supplied both lumber barons and gamekeepers with the good things of life.
“What is it, Johansson? Are you thinking about buying some furniture from me?” asked Persson, who had evidently noticed him looking around.
“Naw,” said Johansson. “It’s just that things are so orderly here. People like you and me aren’t exactly known for that.”
“I hate disorder,” said Persson. “Ever since I was drafted. So speak for yourself, Johansson.”
“I’m listening,” Johansson nodded, refilling their glasses for the third time.