Лейф Перссон - Another Time, Another Life

“No,” said Holt, shaking her head. “No one has alleged that. We’re just trying to talk with everyone who knew him.”

“Yes, but that’s just what I’m trying to say,” said Stein, with controlled heat in her voice now. “I didn’t really know Eriksson. I only met him a few times when I was young. I can’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen. Eriksson must have been twice as old as I was then — Sten and Theo’s age — and they were the ones he socialized with.”

Considering that all Eriksson is supposed to have done was get murdered, it’s pretty strange you’re spending so much energy talking about how little you knew him, thought Holt.

“So Eriksson was Sten Welander’s and Theodor Tischler’s acquaintance,” said Holt, who had decided to let Stein think the worst was over.

“Yes,” said Stein, nodding in confirmation. “I know they still saw him up until the time he died. I sometimes talk with Theo and I’m certain he mentioned that to me. We talked about that horrible thing that happened to him, of course. It would be strange otherwise,” said Stein.

Just as strange as that you’re avoiding the word “murdered” despite having worked as an attorney for almost twenty years, thought Holt.

“If you could really make an effort to remember,” Holt continued, “when was the last time you saw Eriksson?”

“As I said,” said Stein, “it must have been twenty-five, thirty years ago. Sometime in the mid-seventies.”

“Well,” said Holt, smiling amiably, “considering we’ve already talked with people who associated with him at the time he was murdered — it was the thirtieth of November 1989, by the way — it seems you’re not the right person to ask.”

“No, I’m really not,” said Stein. “Even at that time it must have been fifteen years since I’d seen him last.”

“Yeah,” said Holt, smiling again. “In that case, my colleague and I apologize for taking up your time.”

“That was all?” asked Stein, suddenly having a hard time concealing her surprise.

“Yes,” said Holt. And now you’re trying desperately to figure out if you said anything wrong, she thought.

“Let me think,” said Stein suddenly. “There is something floating around in the back of my mind.”

“Yes?” said Holt expectantly.

“It suddenly occurs to me there was another time later on that my cousin and I ran into him,” said Stein hesitantly.

“Uh-huh,” said Holt amiably. So this is suddenly occurring to you, she thought, exchanging a glance with Wiklander, who seemed completely oblivious.

“But when was it?” Stein shook her head as though really exerting herself to remember.

“Seventies, eighties?” Holt suggested.

“Definitely the eighties... in the late eighties even, because I remember I was working at the law firm. Theo had invited me to dinner. I had helped him with some legal matter... I don’t remember what. Then he called and invited me to dinner. It was some Italian restaurant — I think it was in Östermalm.”

How close to the truth are you willing to go? wondered Holt.

“Sometime in the late eighties your cousin Theo Tischler invites you to dinner, at an Italian restaurant in Östermalm — and you run into your cousin’s old friend Kjell Eriksson,” Holt summarized. Now’s your chance, she thought.

“Did I say that?” Stein said suddenly. “No, it was like this, we were going to walk home from the restaurant or else take a taxi into town and then continue on foot — Theo likes to party — but when we were walking — I think it was on Karlavägen — Theo pointed out one of the buildings we were going past and said that Kjell lived there — yes, Kjell Eriksson. Then he suggested we ring his doorbell and let him offer us a drink. I guess I wasn’t very amused, but that’s how it was,” said Stein. “Strange I didn’t think of that,” she said, shaking her head.

Undeniably, thought Holt, who just nodded and smiled.

“You said you and your cousin went to Eriksson’s place,” Holt clarified.

“Yes,” said Stein. “We dropped in and I think he offered us wine or something... I think I drank wine, and not that I remember but I’m guessing Theo had whiskey because he always does.” Stein smiled, shaking her head as if the difficulty of recalling her cousin’s alcohol habits was her biggest problem right now.

“How long were you at Eriksson’s?” asked Holt.

“We just dropped in, half an hour, forty-five minutes maybe... at the most,” said Stein.

“You don’t remember more precisely when it was — you said late eighties,” Holt clarified.

“No,” said Stein, suddenly sounding very sure. “Any more precisely than that I don’t remember.”

“Autumn, winter, spring, summer?” Holt suggested.

“Not summer,” said Stein, shaking her head. “Autumn or winter, but that’s just a guess. I think it was winter.”

Sufficiently close, sufficiently far away, thought Holt.

“Of course you could always ask Theo,” Stein suggested. “I’m pretty sure he makes notes of dinners and things like that in his datebook, and he didn’t go out to dinner with me very often. Talk with Theo; maybe he can help you. I’m pretty sure he saves his calendars too... I remember he told me that for him they also functioned as diaries.”

Why is that so important now, wondered Holt. Because if what you’re saying is true, it’s totally uninteresting to us.

“You wouldn’t happen to have his phone number,” asked Holt. Not on you in any event, she thought.

“Not on me,” said Stein. “I have it at home of course. If you want I can arrange for you to get it tomorrow. This evening unfortunately I won’t have time,” she added, looking at her watch to be on the safe side. “I promised to go to a reception in a little while.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Holt, shaking her head. “It’s Eriksson we’re interested in. We thank you for your help and we truly apologize for having bothered you unnecessarily.”

“It’s no problem,” said Stein, smiling. “I was just a little surprised, as I’m sure you understand.”

Scared to death is what you are, thought Holt. Not surprised.

“She is scared,” said Wiklander as they were sitting in the car en route to the office.

“Yep, but she managed,” said Holt.

“She seems to have,” said Wiklander. “If we don’t come up with anything better, of course.”

In the evening Lars Martin Johansson met Undersecretary Helena Stein. True, they didn’t talk with each other or even exchange a glance, but he had an opportunity to observe her at a distance, and for him that was good enough. Helena Stein was standing under the crystal chandelier in the middle of a large room, surrounded by men her own age or older. Well-dressed, successful men, conspicuously many of whom were glistening like roosters in their tailored suits, and unlike him they never seemed to need to pull down the cuffs on their shirts or be content with buttoning only the bottom button of their jacket.

Helena Stein in black dress, black jacket with velvet trim, and multi-stranded pearl necklace, smiling and listening, happy but also serious and very alert. Courted the whole time by the men who came and went. He hadn’t seen the slightest trace of the deep ideological battles over defense policy that his boss had told him about.

Noblesse oblige, thought Johansson. He’d read that in a book, long after he’d left the worn-down front seat he’d shared with his best friend during his time with the Stockholm Police Department’s central detective squad. And if this was what it was like to make your way up in life, he had come a long way, yet he still remained off to one side, watching.