Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“Sure,” said Mattei, nodding thoughtfully. “This is a problem I have when I do this kind of job. I have to downplay the literary element of my work. I don’t know how to explain it, but to me it’s often been the case that a really good novel has more to say about what we’re really like as human beings than the gloomy accounts of people and their lives that we compile here.”

“I’m sure Stein would be delighted to know how much you want to cuddle up with her,” said Martinez, smiling wryly. “If she only knew... imagine how happy she would be. Perhaps you should—”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Holt interrupted, nodding seriously at Mattei. “There are some truths about other people that we can only discover by means of our imagination. The problem is this place where we work, because they don’t much like that sort of thing here; in fact they’re actually scared to death of it.” Prejudices on the other hand, she thought. They’re always nice and safe.

“You must be a fortunate person, Linda,” said Holt for some reason, and then they returned to their respective piles of papers, and it was not until it was time to go home that a friendly male colleague called from the tech squad and said that he was now back in the building and was of course at their immediate disposal.

Martinez got up at once, took her beer can and her basis for comparison, and vanished in the direction of the tech squad. Half an hour later she was back, and when Holt saw her come through the doorway to the room where they were sitting she did not even need to ask how the work had gone.

“Yeeesss,” said Martinez, raising her clenched left fist in a victory gesture from the suburb north of Stockholm where she had grown up. “Those are her fingerprints. Both on the kitchen counter and on the door under the sink.”

It was too late to call Johansson and get yet another dose of cynicism and sarcasm, thought Holt as she looked at the clock.

“What do you think about seven-thirty tomorrow morning?” she asked instead.

“No beer, no hunks, fine with me,” Martinez summarized.

“That suits me fine too,” said Mattei. “I’m actually a morning person.”

Instead of going home to sleep, Holt borrowed an unmarked car and took the route past Helena Stein’s residence on Östermalm. Parked discreetly a little way down the street, she sat in the car for an hour while she kept an eye on the windows in Stein’s apartment. There were lights on in there somewhere in the inner regions, and at one point she saw someone go past behind the curtains in the room that she now knew to be Stein’s living room. But she wasn’t able to see whether it was Helena Stein or someone else.

What are you up to? thought Holt with irritation. Then she drove straight home and went to bed. What kind of a life are you living anyway? she thought as she fell asleep.

When Holt reached work on Monday morning she immediately went to see her boss to report on the latest developments. Johansson was not there. According to his cool and correct secretary, the boss might show up after lunch, assuming of course he didn’t have anything else going on. Reaching him on his cell phone was out of the question as well, because he was in important meetings where he could not be disturbed. Johansson’s secretary suggested that perhaps Holt should try speaking with Wiklander instead. And if he wouldn’t do, then she would just have to be patient and wait until Johansson came back.

Wiklander was also conspicuously absent, and because he didn’t have a secretary who refused to say where he was, all that remained were Holt’s closest coworkers, Martinez and Mattei.

“Okay,” said Holt. “The boys are staying out of sight as usual, so what do we do while we’re waiting?”

“I have more than enough of my own work to do,” said Mattei, nodding at the piles of papers towering beside her computer. “But if you want I can help you look for connections between Eriksson and Stein at the time of the murder.”

“Good, Lisa,” said Holt. “If you look for any financial connections — and for God’s sake don’t forget her cousin Tischler — then Linda and I will try to check the phones.”

“Almost eleven years ago,” said Martinez doubtfully, shaking her dark-haired head. “The AXE system wasn’t completely built at that time, and almost nobody had cell phones. I don’t even know how long Telia saves its call lists. Surely not for ten years.”

“We have to at least try,” said Holt. “The lists of Eriksson’s calls are included in the investigation, but if I remember correctly it was like you say, pretty slim. But we have to check again anyway.”

“You do that then since you’re the one who knows the case,” said Martinez, “and I’ll talk with Telia and the other cell phone companies.” It has to be done anyway, she thought, and she might even get the chance to get out and move around.

Chief Inspector Wiklander met with former chief inspector Persson, and it was Johansson who had arranged the contact. The substance of Wiklander’s mission was simple enough. He would interview Persson for informational purposes and make sure that everything Johansson and Persson had talked about that evening when they had brown beans and roast pork — and a drink or two, and as the time passed quite a few — ended up on paper and was read out loud and approved by Persson. Because if Johansson was getting ready for war, he wanted to be well prepared.

The business between them had been taken care of both quickly and painlessly. Considering that Persson looked like an old, red-eyed male elephant who might at any moment drive his tusks through the person he was talking with, he had been both obliging and talkative. Wiklander’s extra assignment remained.

“There was one more thing,” said Wiklander, trying to sound as if he had just happened to think of it. “It was Johansson who asked me,” he added to be on the safe side.

Persson just nodded.

“It’s about your former colleague Claes Waltin. The one who quit a few years after the Palme assassination, when you shut down the so-called external operation.”

Persson nodded again, but without saying anything.

“Johansson was wondering if you had anything interesting to say about why he quit and what happened to him later — they say he drowned,” said Wiklander, and for some reason he felt slightly uneasy when he finally squeezed out the question.

Persson on the other hand reacted in the most unexpected manner. He looked almost delighted, and considering how he usually looked this was a frightening sight for Wiklander.

“I never talk about colleagues,” Persson growled. “I don’t even talk shit about them if I don’t like them, but where that little asshole Waltin is concerned I’ll be glad to. Do you want to know why?”

“Yes, please,” said Wiklander, for he did want to know, and it was one more reason why he was where he was. Besides, Persson wasn’t the type you said no to, regardless of what you wanted personally.

“I never considered him a colleague,” Persson snorted. “Waltin was no policeman; he was an ordinary little gangster dandy with police chief training and good manners. So I hope you have enough tape with you so it doesn’t run out,” said Persson, nodding toward Wiklander’s little tape recorder, which he had set on the table between them.

And then Persson told him about former deputy police superintendent Claes Waltin.

“We actually received the tip from our American friends,” said the colonel. “We get together occasionally and exchange a few common experiences,” he added evasively, “and when we had a session at the beginning of December this case came up. They were the ones who offered it to us actually.”