Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

I have to talk with someone, thought Johansson, and considering what he needed to discuss there was basically only one person he could turn to, his own general director and highest superior. It’ll have to be Monday, he thought after a quick look at his watch. It was late Friday afternoon, and usually high time to call it a day, but he had people waiting for him, both in the conference room a few doors down the corridor and at home on Söder.

My wife still comes first, thought Johansson, and called her to say that he would be a few hours late and that he hoped she wouldn’t be upset.

“Not if you do the grocery shopping,” said Pia.

It was a reasonable price to pay, thought Johansson as he hung up. In the worst case he could have his driver wait out on the street while he rushed into the Söder food hall and picked up the weekend necessities.

They were running short on time, he thought. In a few hours it would be exactly three weeks and three days until the statute of limitations ran out and the case lost its status as a practical legal matter — and, at least in theory, as the basis for indictments for complicity to murder and various other atrocities. Finally the case files would become something else, source material for research in history and political science. Forget the West German embassy, thought Johansson. Regardless of what had happened there he didn’t intend to put a manure fork in that heap of shit, and in Helena Stein’s case he hoped her entanglement was mainly a matter of youthful indiscretion.

The government offices wanted to have a background check done at the highest security clearance for the designated cabinet minister candidate in ten days latest, and evidently there was such assurance that she would get a green light that the undersecretary in charge of security in the prime minister’s cabinet did not even seem to react when Johansson called him and said that unfortunately — for various practical reasons, heavy workload, events over which one had no control, and so on and so forth — he could not promise to deliver until the very last day.

“I see,” the undersecretary said. “We’ll have to try to live with that.” Then he wished Johansson a pleasant weekend and put down the receiver, despite the fact that normally he could be both inquisitive and demanding.

What are you really up to? Johansson asked himself as he sat down at the narrow end of the conference table. Chasing figments of your imagination? You’re doing your job, he thought, for now it was a matter of liking the situation. You’re doing your job without sneaking a glance upward or downward or to the right or the left, with a clean desk, unsullied by history, with the greatest conceivable competence, in the national interest and in the good spirit of the new era, so you’re sitting here because you intend to do your job.

“Welcome,” said Johansson. “There’s something I wanted to ask you to help me with. I hope I’ve got the whole thing turned around, but in any event I wasn’t going to miss a chance to ruin your weekend.” That sounded pretty good, he thought. Pleasant and democratic, and everyone already sitting around the table waiting suddenly appeared both happy and expectant. What a great guy that Johansson is, thought Johansson.

Not too many, not too few, and only the best, he had told Wiklander before he had left to meet Berg, and he hoped it was that directive and that alone that explained why there were only four people waiting for him and why three of them were women. Besides Wiklander, there were Detective Chief Inspector Anna Holt and Police Inspectors Lisa Mattei and Linda Martinez. Or maybe it was a reflection of the new era, thought Johansson, feeling almost hopeful.

First he gave a brief explanation of why they were sitting there.

“We’ve taken over a security classification from the folks at background checks,” Johansson began. “It concerns an undersecretary in the defense department by the name of Helena Stein. Without knowing for sure, we have reason to believe that the intention is to promote her by appointing her as a member of the government, and so far all is well and good,” said Johansson as he served himself a cup of coffee, apparently without the slightest thought of passing the coffeepot on to any of the others.

“Where was I,” Johansson continued. “Yes... the reason that Stein ended up with us is that our esteemed colleague Wiklander here discovered by pure chance that in her youth Stein featured in the occupation of the West German embassy — as one of the four Swedish citizens who at that time were suspected of complicity. In that connection she is now acquitted and has been eliminated. My predecessor Berg conducted an, as far as we can judge, unobjectionable investigation that shows that in all probability she was unaware of what it was all about and she was possibly exploited as well. She was only sixteen years old at the time, and considering that the statute of limitations on the embassy case will run out in less than a month I have no intention of taking up that matter in this context.”

Nor in any other context for that matter. God preserve us all, he thought.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re sitting here,” said Johansson, smiling amiably at his coworkers. “I hope the reason,” he continued, “is only that I’m starting to get old and tired and occupationally injured and paranoid and have begun seeing ghosts in the light of day, but regardless of all that — and not least considering that I want to be able to sleep at night — before we put a grade A stamp of approval on Ms. Stein, I still want to be sure she’s not carrying any old skeletons in her baggage.”

“You have nothing specific, Boss?” asked Inspector Martinez.

“Not at all,” said Johansson with more conviction than he actually intended to show. There was an unpleasant feeling growing in the back of his head that he intended to keep to himself for the time being. “Wiklander, perhaps you should explain what we’ve been thinking,” said Johansson, nodding at the person who had started the whole thing.

“There were four Swedes identified in connection with the West German embassy occupation,” said Wiklander. “It seems two of them were actively involved, Sten Welander and Kjell Eriksson. The other two, Theo Tischler and the just-named Stein, were probably not, and as far as Stein is concerned it appears, as the boss has already said, quite certain that she wasn’t.” Although God knows where Tischler is concerned, thought Wiklander, who was a real policeman with an old-fashioned view of things. He took the opportunity to pour fresh coffee for himself and of course passed the coffeepot on as soon as he’d done so.

“Two of those involved are dead. One of them, Kjell Eriksson, was murdered in 1989. The case is still unsolved, and I thought we should go over his murder if only for the reason that both Tischler and Welander appear in the investigation. Neither of them is a suspect, however, and anyway Sten Welander died of cancer in 1995. In addition, it so happens,” said Wiklander, nodding at Holt, “that Anna here was involved in that investigation from the beginning, so I thought she could outline the case for you.”

“How nice,” said Johansson with surprise. I had no idea, he thought. Could Holt have been around already at that time? Jarnebring of course... whatever that has to do with it, he thought.

“Oh,” said Holt, smiling hesitantly. “True, I remember Eriksson, because that was my first murder investigation, but I don’t really think it was all that successful.”

“But Stein wasn’t part of the Eriksson investigation,” said Mattei. “Have I got that right or not?”

“No she wasn’t,” said Holt. “Given that the investigation left a lot to be desired, and based on my own memory — it was more than ten years ago — I’m pretty sure about that. Stein was not mentioned at all in the investigation.”