“He was cocky, that stuck-up little prick. But sure. We were going in that direction anyway, so he got to ride along.”
“Did anything in particular happen?” asked Holt.
“A sock in the jaw, you mean?” said Berg, smiling wryly. “No, nothing like that,” he said, shaking his head. “But he did say two things that were strange to say the least.”
“So what did he say?” said Holt.
“When we stopped for a red light up at Kungsgatan there was a very old lady with a walker crossing the street. The light happened to change but we stayed there so she could make her way across. Then Waltin leans over and says to the colleague who’s driving that he should step on the gas and turn that cunt of hers into a garage. That the old lady was only pretending.”
“Word for word.”
“Yes, something like…the old lady is only pretending. Step on it and turn that cunt of hers into a garage. He said something like that.”
“So what did you say?”
“I looked at him but didn’t say anything. We were pretty surprised, actually. I mean, what do you say to something like that? I’ve never heard anything like it from another officer. Even though I’ve heard most everything. But this was just a nice little old lady.”
“The other thing,” said Holt. “What was the other thing he said?”
“That was even more peculiar,” said Berg. “Although it took about six months before we understood it.”
According to the forensic physician, Orjala had been run over by a car, fell into the water, and drowned. Blood alcohol concentration over.03. Hit-and-run accident, otherwise nothing to discuss, according to the forensic physician.
For lack of a better idea the zealous colleague took a service vehicle and drove to Hinseberg to talk with Marja Ruotsalainen.
The meeting at Hinseberg between the zealous colleague and Marja had hardly been constructive. She only said a single sentence. Repeated it until the interview was ended and he drove home again.
“Go to hell, fucking pig. Go to hell, fucking pig. Go to hell, fucking pig…”
Zealous as he was, he also wrote a memorandum on the matter and put it in the file.
Zealous as he was he had also visited the Chinese restaurant, brought along pictures of both Orjala and Ruotsalainen and showed them to the personnel. No one remembered either of them. Nothing special had happened otherwise during the evening when the prime minister was murdered, only a few hundred yards from the restaurant. There had been few customers the whole evening. Fewer than they usually had on a Friday evening after payday.
“We dropped him off at Stureplan,” said Berg. “He was going to the bank, I seem to recall that he said.”
“What else did he say?” Holt repeated.
“That was what was so strange,” said Berg. “First he thanks us for the ride. Then he stuck his head in through the window on my side and said that I should take care of myself. Take care of yourself, Berg, he said. Watch out for all the eyes and ears that are on people like me, he said.”
“How did you interpret that?”
“We talked about it. First we thought this was his way of flexing his muscles for us. It was about six months later that we found out that SePo had been investigating us for several years. That was when we started going in and out with those police track investigators in the Palme murder. Then it was in the newspapers too.”
“He was trying to warn you?”
“Yes. I actually think so. A little strange, to say the least, considering who he was and considering his and my previous interactions.”
The zealous colleague had not given up. Based on the anonymous letters and with the help of Orjala’s personal file and his recorded contacts with the detective squad in Solna, he made a description of the unidentified officer that the anonymous letter-writer-probably Orjala-had pointed out. He sent the description to the secret police’s personnel department and got an answer one month later. The one who matched the description best was a previous employee with the secret police who had service code 4711. His employment had ended in 1982. Since then he had resided abroad. The customary internal controls had been carried out. There was nothing that argued that he would have been involved in the murder of the prime minister or even in Stockholm at the relevant point in time.
So the zealous colleague had given up and his top boss, bureau head Berg, wrote off the matter.
Forty-seven eleven, thought Mattei. Where have I heard that? Wasn’t that the awful perfume Dad used to give Mom when I was little? Kölnisch Wasser 4711, she thought. That’s what it was called.
“There was another thing I wanted to ask you about, Holt,” said Berg when they had finished their conversation and were standing by her car to say farewell.
“I’m listening,” said Holt. Suddenly he’s looking very strange, she thought.
“You are an exceptionally appetizing woman, Holt,” said Berg. “So I was wondering if I could invite you out some evening?”
Goodness, thought Holt.
“That would have been nice,” said Holt. “But the way it is now-”
“I understand,” Berg interrupted. “Say hi and congratulations to him from me.”
“Thanks,” said Anna Holt and smiled. An exceptionally appetizing woman, she thought.
64
By exploiting her informal contacts with SePo Anna Holt found a woman who was alleged to have been involved with Claes Waltin at the time of the Palme murder. Jeanette Eriksson, born in 1958, assistant detective with SePo.
A co-worker of Waltin’s thirteen years his junior who quit the police the year after the Palme murder to work as an investigator for an insurance company. She was still there, now head of the department, and she did not sound happy when Holt called her. The day after the meeting with Berg they met at Eriksson’s office.
“I don’t really want to talk about Claes Waltin,” said Jeanette Eriksson.
“Not even a little girl talk?” said Holt. “No tape recorder, no papers, no report. Just you and me, in confidence.”
“In that case then,” said Jeanette Eriksson, smiling despite herself.
Claes Waltin had been her boss at the secret police. In the fall of 1985 they had started a relationship. In March of 1986 she ended the relationship.
“Though by then he was already tired of me, for otherwise he probably wouldn’t have let me go. He already had another woman.”
“I know what you mean,” said Holt. “He seems to have been a full-fledged sadist according to people I’ve talked with.”
“That’s what was so strange,” said Jeanette Eriksson. “Because I don’t have that tendency at all. I’ve never been the least bit sadomasochistic. And yet I ended up with him. To start with I thought it was some kind of role-playing he was involved in, and when I understood how it really was it was too late to back out. He was horrible. Claes Waltin was a horrible person. If he was drinking he could be downright dangerous. There were several times I thought he was going to kill me. But I never had a single bruise that I could show to be believed.”
“You were involved with him for six months?”
“Involved? I was his prisoner for five months and eleven days,” said Jeanette Eriksson. “Before I could get myself free. I hated him. When I was finally rid of him I would sit outside his apartment and spy on him and wonder how I could get revenge on him.”
“But you never did anything,” said Holt.
“I did do one thing,” said Jeanette Eriksson. “When I realized he’d acquired a new woman. When I saw her together with him the second time in a week. Then I found out who she was so I could warn her.”
“You talked with her?” asked Holt.