Wonder what he would give for it? thought Lisa Mattei when she was on the subway on her way back to the police building. And wonder just what Lars Martin Johansson would say if I asked to look at fund manager Nils Hermansson’s ass? she thought.
Instead of asking for permission she wrote a summary of her conversation with Tischler, and before she went home she stopped by Johansson’s office and asked him to read it.
“I thought we were finished with this issue,” muttered Johansson.
“If you’ll just read what Tischler had to say, boss. Before you send me down to the parking garage.”
“Hell,” said Johansson five minutes later. “This is not the usual nonsense. This is something different. I don’t like that part about the poor dog and the arson and Ass Herman. We’ll have to pull out those old witness statements from the shooting on Sveavägen. I want to know everything the witnesses say about the perpetrator’s physical description. Then I want the technical report on the firing angle and the probable height of the perpetrator.”
“I’ve already looked at that,” said Mattei. “You can too, boss, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“Why not?” said Johansson.
“It can’t have been Claes Waltin,” said Mattei, shaking her head. “Not a chance. He’s way too short. At least four inches too short.”
“Thanks, Lisa. I forgive you,” said Johansson for some reason. She’s like me, he thought. When she knows something and has that look, that’s just how it is.
“One more thing, if you have time, boss,” said Mattei.
“Of course,” said Johansson. “Why don’t you sit down, by the way?”
“Thanks,” said Mattei.
When Mattei had gone through the testimony of the eyewitnesses about the murder on Sveavägen again, she discovered a circumstance that was possibly interesting considering the previous.
“Listening,” said Johansson.
“I’m sure you remember the witness that Lewin called Witness One in the so-called witness chain. He’s the one who hides among the construction site trailers on Tunnelgatan, sees the perpetrator run past, up the stairs-”
“I remember,” Johansson interrupted.
“The first interview with Witness One was held on the night of the murder. Then he gave his physical description of the perpetrator. After that additional interviews were held with him over the following ten years. Even after the prosecutor’s petition for a new trial was rejected. There are a total of eight interviews, besides the first one.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Johansson. “What’s the problem?”
“That he knew of Christer Pettersson,” said Mattei. “They lived in the same area, and Witness One knew very well who Christer Pettersson was. Knew of him before the murder of Palme, knew what he looked like, knew what kind of person he was.”
“But it wasn’t Christer Pettersson he saw run past in the alley,” said Johansson, smiling for some reason.
“No,” said Mattei. “The first time he mentions Pettersson is more than two years later when he is interviewed about Pettersson in particular. Then he relates that he knew of Christer Pettersson.”
“But that he wasn’t the one he saw on the night of the murder.”
“He’s more careful than that,” said Mattei. “First he says what he did about Pettersson, and then he explains that he did not associate him with the man who ran past. Neither spontaneously in connection with the observation or later when he bumped into Pettersson in the area where he lived. He thinks he ought to have recognized him if it really was him.”
“Good, Mattei,” said Johansson. “In contrast to the nitwit who held the initial interview with him, you have just done a little real police work. You have thereby earned yourself a little gold star.”
“I was hoping for a big one,” said Mattei.
“No way,” said Johansson. “I’ve never believed in Pettersson. Wrong type. I realized that from the start, and the thing with Witness One I discovered myself almost twenty years ago.”
“Thanks anyway, boss,” said Mattei. So why didn’t you say that? she thought.
“It’s nothing,” said Johansson. “That society,” he said, nodding at Mattei.
“I’m listening,” said Mattei.
“Do a search on the ones who were involved and see if you find them in the case files.”
“Any particular reason?”
“No,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders. “I just have a hard time with those kinds of characters.”
In the evening when she and Johan were lying in her bed in the oversized apartment her kind dad had given her, she told him about Claes Waltin, without saying what his name was or why she was compelled to be interested in him. She only told everything she’d heard about him.
“Sexual boundary crossing,” Johan observed. “There’s a lot of role-playing in that area. But not in this case. This is something really bad. Genuine misogyny.”
“Not boundary crossing,” said Mattei, shaking her head. “To me he seems completely lacking in boundaries or perhaps free of boundaries. Not immoral, more like amoral. Completely free of morals. The only restraints he seems to have had were the sort that prevented him from being put in jail.”
“That’s not enough,” said Johan, shaking his head. “We’re talking about an evil human being. An evil and intelligent human being. Are you familiar with Patricia Highsmith’s books about the talented Mr. Ripley?”
“So-so,” said Mattei. “I haven’t read any of them.”
“I have a good film we can watch if you like. With Alain Delon in the lead role as Mr. Ripley. There are several, but this one’s the best if you’re interested in an evil psychopath. Not all psychopaths are evil, as I’m sure you know.”
“We’ll get to that later,” said Lisa Mattei, stretching herself in bed. “Now we’ll move on to something else, I think.” Some regular fun that’s only a little on the edge, she thought.
Mallorca, present day
Esperanza was not just a boat. Esperanza was also an insurance policy that would protect him if something unwanted happened. Esperanza, which was strong enough, durable enough, to take him to the mainland on the Spanish, French, or African side. Or to Corsica where there were many like him, and at least one whom he trusted unconditionally. A constant reminder of the only mistake he had made in his life.
Only fools trusted in fate. Only fools put their lives in the hands of someone else. Personally he had always been his own master. Always capable of mastering any unexpected situation and quickly regaining control over his life. Paddle your own canoe; his father had taught him that. He had lived that way too. Until the day he trusted another person and made himself dependent on him. Actually put his life in his hands. The only mistake worth the name in his entire life.
Naturally he had corrected that. Decided to do it as soon as he sensed that the one he was dependent on was starting to descend into his own self-inflicted misery and could no longer be trusted. The eternal observation, which even the hoods in Hells Angels had the good sense to adopt as their rule of conduct. That three people might very well keep a secret if two of them were dead. For him it had been simpler than that, because there were only two of them to start with. Then he solved his problem. Regained his solitude, took back power over his life, and the worry that at first remained he handled by having Esperanza built. As an insurance policy against the undesired and as a constant reminder not to repeat his mistake.