Another Time, Another Life (46 page)

“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.

This particular evening he had made his way to the door near the serving area. Basically the only people who had anything to say to him were the waitstaff constantly hurrying past with routine apologies despite the fact that he was the one in the way. One of the ambassador’s many bodyguards gave him a discreet, collegial nod and a faint smile of silent mutual understanding, emanating from the fact that he knew who Johansson was and that he himself was obvious enough in his dark suit, broad shoulders, earpiece, and large hands clasped in the ready position on a level with his crotch.

The only person Johansson really talked with during the evening was
his boss, the general director, who came up to him and asked if he was having a nice time. He was having a nice time himself and apologized that he hadn’t thought about arranging an invitation for Johansson earlier. But because here he was now anyway, his boss realized that everything had worked out for the best.

“It’s mostly us Swedes who were invited here tonight. It’s probably meant as a networking opportunity for us and them. And the fact that we’re in the ambassador’s home is another way for them to send a positive signal,” the GD explained.

Exactly, thought Johansson, who would never have dreamed of letting the hoi polloi into his home on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan and completely understood why the American ambassador in Stockholm obviously felt the same way he did.

“Exactly,” said Johansson. The crowd was almost strictly old men, military, executives, and diplomats. What the hell could he say about that? He couldn’t very well say that the whole affair looked just like the political gatherings in the Arab world he saw on CNN. Apart from the differences in clothing, of course, which were strictly a reflection of climate. But he couldn’t very well say that either, even if it was obvious to an old detective like himself.

“Do you want to talk with her?” asked the GD, nodding discreetly toward Helena Stein in the middle of the room.

“No,” said Johansson, smiling. “I came here mostly just to look at her. But if you speak to the ambassador you can say hello and thank him for the invitation. I hope I haven’t caused any practical problems for him and his wife?”

“Not in the slightest,” said the GD. “The ambassador and I are actually old friends. It wasn’t any problem at all.”

A small world, thought Johansson, and after having observed it for another hour he went home to Pia.

“Did you have a nice time?” Pia asked, and as usual her eyes looked like a squirrel’s as soon as she had asked the question.

“So-so,” said Johansson. “Mostly just a lot of strange people.”

“I want you to question Bäckström,” said Johansson when he ran into Wiklander in the corridor at work early Friday morning. “I have to run down to Rosenbad for the usual weekly presentation to the government.”

“Bäckström,” said Wiklander, who had a hard time concealing his surprise. “Boss, do you mean—”

“Exactly,” said Johansson, smiling. “It’d be nice to hear what ideas he has about the murder of Eriksson—it was his investigation, after all—so I have what he thinks about it on paper.”

“But what if he wants to know … why we want to know,” said Wiklander hesitantly.

“Say we’ve uncovered a gigantic homosexual conspiracy,” said Johansson. “Or whatever else he might swallow whole. Just don’t offer him any aquavit.”

“I think I get it,” said Wiklander.

So Wiklander questioned Bäckström about the Eriksson case, and what Bäckström said exceeded Johansson’s wildest expectations. Bäckström was his usual self. The only thing that had really changed was that a few months earlier he had left the homicide squad in Stockholm and was now working as a chief inspector at the National Bureau of Investigation’s homicide commission.

“You want to know what I think about the Eriksson case,” said Bäckström, nodding heavily.

“Yes. Perhaps you’re wondering why,” said Wiklander.

“Actually I think I’ve already figured it out,” said Bäckström, nodding even more heavily. “You only have to turn on the TV to realize what’s been going on for a long time now. A person doesn’t need to be working for you to understand.”

So you don’t need to do that, thought Wiklander.

“Queers, queers, queers,” said Bäckström and sighed. “They’ve taken over the whole thing.”

Well, maybe not the late-night cable broadcasts, thought Wiklander, who never watched TV himself but had heard a few things in the break room.

“Eriksson,” he reminded him. “What do you think about it?”

“Typical homosexual murder,” said Bäckström, nodding. “Besides, it was part of a whole series of homo murders—you might not remember them. Some crazy fairy was running around with a big fucking knife hacking down other sausage riders who worked at various porno dives. It was a real samurai sword actually. In total there were five butt princes cut down if I’m not mistaken, and Eriksson was the fourth.”

“None of them seem to have been solved, if I’ve understood the matter correctly,” said Wiklander carefully.

“I should damn well think not,” said Bäckström. “I was trying to convince the bosses to go further, but it was like banging your head against the wall. Although I haven’t let it go. There are certain things I have going now,” he added cryptically.

“Yes,” said Wiklander, nodding in agreement, “I know what you mean.” Bullshit, he thought.

“You see, they aren’t afraid of using brute force,” said Bäckström with emphasis. “They don’t just appear on TV acting like queens. It’s nice to hear that at least someone in this building finally gets what’s going on.”

“Yes,” said Wiklander in agreement. “If you’re ready, then, I thought I’d turn on the tape recorder so we can get a few questions and answers down in print.”

“Always ready,” said Bäckström, nodding confidently.

• • •

What will Johansson do with this? thought Wiklander an hour later after Bäckström had left and he was sitting listening to the tape of the interview. Maybe he’ll try to get him admitted to the nuthouse, thought Wiklander hopefully, because he was an optimistic soul. That’s probably it, he thought. Johansson must have blown his stack when he saw what Bäckström had come up with in the Eriksson investigation, and now he’s decided to do something about it, Wiklander surmised.

Johansson had no inkling of Wiklander’s speculations regarding his intentions vis-à-vis colleague Bäckström. He was sitting among fine folk down in Rosenbad at the presentation SePo held every week for representatives of the Ministry of Justice and the government. In Berg’s time it had almost always been Berg himself who represented the secret police, but nowadays the top-level bosses at SePo took turns, and Johansson, who was no great friend of meetings, would usually be there at most a couple of times each month.

The minister of justice was usually the chair, and he always had his director general for legal affairs with him to keep the minutes, which were classified. Sometimes the prime minister’s own security adviser would show up, as he did on this occasion. Not only Johansson but others as well immediately noticed the security adviser’s attendance and were intrigued because none of the issues scheduled at the meeting seemed particularly exciting. Pure routine, no surprises. Mostly status reports on the standard assortment of long-term projects.

Could it be me he wants to talk with? Johansson wondered.

Johansson and the undersecretary had met for the first time fifteen years ago, concerning various papers Johansson had acquired but wanted to relieve himself of as quickly as possible. At that time the undersecretary was the special adviser at the prime minister’s disposal, and he was involved with issues affecting national security including among other things the activities of the secret police.

When his boss was assassinated the undersecretary left Rosenbad. Where he ended up was somewhat unclear—although among those who considered themselves well informed and close to power there was wild speculation. In any event he could not have been sent out into the real cold, because he had come back again quickly and nowadays he was on his third prime minister and things had gone better and better for him. Prime minister number two had retired with a pension and in the best of health, and number three, the undersecretary’s current boss, positively glowed with vitality. This special adviser had the same duties he had always had, with a somewhat more elegant title than before and with a suitably harmless nametag he could show to anyone who wondered what he was really up to.

“Research and future planning on behalf of the government offices,” he would answer on those few occasions when anyone had the chance to ask. “Mostly future planning actually,” he would add, if the person who wondered didn’t give up.

Apparently it was Johansson he wanted to meet, because he scarcely opened his mouth during the meeting for anything but the usual sarcasm, but as soon as it was over he took Johansson aside and requested a conversation in private.

“How’s it going with Stein?” asked the undersecretary. “No problems, I hope?”

“What do you mean?” asked Johansson, looking roughly like his older brother (who dealt in property and cars) did when he preferred not to answer.

“I was thinking about her youthful sin in connection with the West German embassy,” the undersecretary explained.

“Oh yes, that,” said Johansson. “I thought you and Berg had cleared that up two years ago.”

“Yes,” said the undersecretary. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“I completely share Berg’s opinion on that point, and as you know an investigation was done of the matter,” Johansson said. “Quite apart from the fact that she was only a child when it happened, she was almost a victim, exploited by her old fiancé, or whatever you want to call him, who was twice her age.”

“We human beings live different lives,” the undersecretary declared philosophically. “We live one life at one time and another life at another.”

“Not everyone,” said Johansson, thinking of his old parents and all the other relatives from his home district in northern Sweden. They’ve been living the same life the whole time, he thought with feeling.

“I understand what you mean,” said the undersecretary, who was being almost inexplicably sensible. “The kind of person I was thinking of, to be a little more precise, was rather the intellectual, financially independent, urban type … Helena Stein, for example.”

Or you, thought Johansson.

“Sure,” Johansson grunted. “My understanding is that in those circles you can manage a number of different lives.” Because such people seem to have nothing better to do, he thought.