Free Falling, As If in a Dream Read online

  The first witness in the chain, a man in his thirties, is the only one who claims to have seen the perpetrator run up the stairs to Malmskillnadsgatan. That it was the perpetrator he had seen he also realized because he had heard the two shots and understood at least part of the course of events.

  The perpetrator ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. At the top of the stairs, at Malmskillnadsgatan, he stopped for a moment. To get oriented, catch his breath, or see if he was being followed. This is according to the suggestions the witness himself stated at the initial interview. Then the perpetrator disappeared from the witness’s field of vision.

  The witness then followed him. In the interviews he makes no secret of the fact that he was extremely upset and was not in any great hurry. When he himself comes up onto Malmskillnadsgatan, he encounters the second witness, a woman, and asks her whether she has seen anyone running.

  She had. She’d seen a man who disappeared down onto David Bagares gata in the direction of Birger Jarlsgatan. She hadn’t seen much more than that, however, and when the first witness looks down the same street he in any event doesn’t see the man who had run up the stairs.

  When the perpetrator rounds the corner of David Bagares gata and Regeringsgatan, according to the third and fourth witnesses, a woman and a man, he literally ran into witness number three. The perpetrator comes running from behind, the woman hears someone coming, turns her head, and slips. The perpetrator runs into her, and she yells a few insults at him. The perpetrator takes no notice of this but instead continues running and disappears almost immediately out of their view.

  The fifth and final link in the chain was the one who aroused the greatest public attention and the one about whom Lewin himself was most doubtful. A woman, who in the media came to be called “the Cartoonist,” had observed a mysterious man in Smala gränd, approximately fifteen minutes after the murder and hardly five hundred yards from the scene of the crime. The man is walking hunched up with his hands in his pants pockets, and when he discovers that the fifth witness is looking at him—obviously without her having any idea what has happened to the prime minister—he looks “terrified,” turns around, hastens his steps and disappears in the direction of Birger Jarlsgatan and Humlegården.

  Regardless of all the doubtful aspects in connection with the observation itself, the suspect had however made a deep impression not only on the witness but also on the leadership of the investigation. A phantom image was made of him, which was published in the media the week after the murder, and which according to the leadership of the investigation depicted a man who “possibly could be identical with the perpetrator.”

  “Although hardly anyone believes that anymore,” said Lewin. Personally I never did, he thought.

  “A nosy question,” said Johansson with an innocent expression. “That woman our perpetrator supposedly ran into when he rounded the corner at David Bagares gata and onto Regeringsgatan. The one who shouted insults at him. What was it she shouted?”

  “Look out you fucking gook,” said Lewin with a shy glance in the direction of Anna Holt.

  “Gook,” said Johansson. “What did she know about that sort?”

  For some reason Jan Lewin seemed embarrassed by the question.

  “She is extremely definite on that point. That was what she shouted at him. Her exact choice of words and the reason for it, she maintains, according to what she says in the interview, was that he looked like a—quote—‘typical gook’—end quote. To answer your question. Well, I get the impression that she has a definite understanding of how such a person looks in any event. Her story is also corroborated in the interview with the man who accompanied her.”

  “She did of course get to look at the pictures of Christer Pettersson, everyone’s Palme assassin,” said Johansson.

  “Yes,” said Lewin. “Though as I’m sure you know, boss, that wasn’t until the fall of 1988. It took over two years before Pettersson became a central figure in the Palme investigation.” It’s Anna he’s after, thought Lewin.

  “And?”

  “No,” said Lewin, shaking his head. “She didn’t recognize Pettersson.”

  “Now when you say it,” said Johansson, “I have a faint recollection of that interview. Isn’t it the case that in response to a direct question of whether it was Christer Pettersson who ran into her, she answers approximately…that in that case she wouldn’t have shouted ‘fucking gook’ at him?”

  “Yes,” said Lewin. “Something like that. I don’t recall her exact words. But that issue is brought up. It’s there on the tape. Not in the transcript, because that part of the interview has only been summarized.”

  “So what would she have said instead?” interrupted Holt, looking at Johansson. Sloppy of me to miss that interview, but that’s not Jan’s fault, she thought.

  “She thinks Pettersson looks like a typical Swedish drunk, a genuine Swedish bum. Definitely not a gook,” Johansson observed.

  “Which conveniently leads us to the next item on the program, namely Christer Pettersson, and if I’ve understood things correctly you have a good deal to say about that, Anna,” he continued with an innocent expression.

  “Yes, I do have a few things,” Holt agreed. She had decided to play along and put a good face on it.

  “Then let’s do that,” said Johansson. “But first I would like to propose a leg stretch of about fifteen minutes. I have to make a few calls.”

  14

  Holt and Lewin went to Lewin’s office so they could talk undisturbed.

  “I owe you an apology, Anna,” said Lewin.

  “For what?” asked Holt. You have to stop apologizing, Jan, she thought.

  “I saw the material about Pettersson you brought with you. It was that documentation that was the basis for the indictment against him, and that witness that the perpetrator ran into, the one who shouted at him, she’s not in there.”

  “It’s really not your fault,” said Holt. “Just a nosy question. Are there other witnesses like her who weren’t included when Pettersson was indicted?”

  “It was done the way it’s always done, I guess,” said Lewin. “You include what supports the indictment and the rest you choose to overlook. It’s a real mess.” Lewin looked at her gloomily. “When the suspicions about Pettersson came out in the media and he became a national celebrity, suddenly a lot of information came in about him. He’d been seen all over the area. At times I’ve thought that in this case there are witnesses about literally everything and everyone. Pointing in all conceivable and inconceivable directions.”

  “But from the beginning,” said Holt. “If we stick to Christer Pettersson.”

  “From the beginning,” said Lewin, nodding meditatively. “Well, none of the witnesses to the murder identify him in particular. Not so strange perhaps, because the majority are ordinary, decent people who don’t know people like him. As I said, the first pictures of him were not shown to the witnesses until the fall of 1988, two and a half years after the fact. Several of them then claim to see a certain resemblance with Pettersson, but it’s nothing more than that. Not then. In connection with the new trial, additional witnesses emerged who claimed to have seen Pettersson in particular, persons in the same situation as he was, the kind who know him, and it was at this time that several of the earlier witnesses seem to have decided that it probably was Christer Pettersson they’d seen after all. With one exception. The only one who pointed him out the first time she saw him was Lisbeth Palme. It was at that famous, or should I say infamous, lineup on December 14, 1988.” Lewin slowly shook his head.

  “I’m sure you remember it,” said Lewin.

  “Yes, sure,” said Holt. “But I’m listening. What’s your understanding of that?”

  “Well, first she says, Lisbeth Palme that is, that it’s easy to see which one is the alcoholic. That good-for-nothing prosecutor told her before the lineup that the suspect was an alcoholic. Then she says, well, it’s number eight, he fits my description, the s
hape of his face, his eyes and his shabby appearance. As you know, Christer Pettersson was number eight in the lineup.”

  “Just how sure do you think she was?”

  “Well, I don’t know. First there’s that unfortunate statement from the prosecutor. Then there’s the lineup video itself. It’s a strange story. Pettersson undeniably stuck out. Compared with the others he looked really shabby. Unfortunately. I don’t really know.”

  “The evidence is not as strong as pointing someone out,” said Holt.

  “Could have been better, of course,” said Lewin.

  “I have one more question,” said Holt. “If you’re able?”

  “Of course,” said Lewin, smiling and nodding.

  “Why did it take so long before anyone started getting interested in Pettersson? It was more than two years. Even though he was on the list of people of interest only two days after the murder, and even though a number of tips about him came in during the spring of 1986. I noticed that a routine interview was held with him at the end of May 1986. He was asked what he was doing on the evening of the murder. But it was never more than that. Not until two years later did it get going in earnest.”

  “That’s a good question,” Lewin agreed. “But I’m afraid there’s no good answer. Maybe the investigators had other interests those first two years.”

  “So what do you think?” said Holt.

  “In the worst case it’s as simple as that he wanted to make sure he ended up there,” said Lewin.

  “You have to explain that,” said Holt.

  “Yes, strangely enough the media seems to have missed this, but the fact is that only a few months after the crime, tips started coming in that Christer Pettersson was running around town and maintaining, or hinting, both saying and hinting, that he had shot Olof Palme. There were tips from various persons in his vicinity, and more and more as the reward got larger.”

  “But nothing was done about it then?”

  “No,” said Lewin. “I guess they were completely occupied with other things judged to be more interesting. He wasn’t alone in running around bragging that he was the one who shot Olof Palme either. There were several with the same background doing that. But as I said it took awhile before he was taken at his word—not until the summer of 1988. Then they started checking what he was up to. They discovered he was at an illegal gambling club in the vicinity of the crime scene the same evening Palme was murdered. That his dealer had an apartment on Tegnérgatan in the vicinity of the Grand cinema. One thing leads to another, and suddenly it’s all about him. It’s a strange story.”

  “So what does he say about it in the interviews? That he himself supposedly ran around saying that,” said Holt.

  “He denies it categorically, flatly denies it,” said Lewin. “The police didn’t make a big deal of it either. Probably considering their informant. Their informant was one of those types Pettersson associated with. By the way, it’s time we return to our dear boss,” said Lewin with a glance at his watch.

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘dear,’” said Holt.

  “Okay then,” said Johansson, looking expectantly at Holt as soon as she sat down at her usual place. “Now we’ll hear the truth about Christer Pettersson.”

  “I don’t think I can promise that,” said Holt. “But I promise to say what I think.” You should get a taste of your own medicine, she thought.

  “I’m listening devoutly,” said Johansson, sinking back in his chair with his hands clasped over his stomach.

  “It was Christer Pettersson who shot Olof Palme,” said Anna Holt.

  “Without further ado, just like that,” said Johansson.

  “Of course,” said Holt. Call it what you want, she thought.

  “You don’t have the desire to be a little more, well, specific?” Johansson had lowered a few more inches in his chair.

  “Of course,” said Holt. “I’ve even written a little memo about it.” She took a plastic sleeve from her binder, opened it, and passed out a letter-size piece of paper. First to Johansson, then Lewin, and then Mattei. One page with five points, and less than one line written for each point.

  “A model of brevity,” said Johansson after a quick glance at the paper. “I’m listening,” he said, nodding at Holt. I must have overestimated Holt or else she just wants to mess with me, he thought.

  15

  The first point on Holt’s list had the heading “Perpetrator Description.”

  According to the eyewitnesses, the perpetrator must have been at least six feet tall and between thirty and fifty years old. He was wearing a dark, longish jacket or short coat, reaching halfway down his thigh. His movement patterns were described as “clumsy,” “loping,” “limping,” “rolling,” “like an elephant.”

  “That agrees pretty well with Pettersson if you ask me,” Holt summarized.

  “Yes, this is a really amazing description,” said Johansson with an innocent expression. “By the way, what do you think about those witnesses who describe the perpetrator as being as nimble as a large bear, as someone with powerful, controlled movements, who gave an impression of agility and strength as he ran away, who took two stairs at a time when he ran up the stairs to Malmskillnadsgatan? Not to mention our gook witness, the only witness who had physical contact with the perpetrator. Or everyone outside the Grand who’d seen a lunatic with an intense gaze. Or that small-boned artistic type our so-called Cartoonist saw down at Birger Jarlsgatan. The man in the first phantom picture. The woman who was supposed to be some kind of artist in civilian life. Do you want me to continue?”

  “That’s enough,” said Holt, smiling. “Some of that information may also be consistent with Pettersson.”

  “The face, the hair?” Johansson looked even more innocent.

  “Apart from Lisbeth Palme, none of the witnesses has been able to provide any such information,” said Holt.

  “No, exactly,” said Johansson. “Sometimes our murderer is wearing a cap and sometimes he’s bareheaded, and when you look at the times it seems he was seen simultaneously. With Lisbeth I think it’s so bad that she never saw the perpetrator. I think he was standing in her dead spot, pardon the expression, at an angle behind her.”

  “I intend to come back to Lisbeth Palme,” said Holt. “Now let’s move on to the next point. Point number two.”

  “I’m listening,” said Johansson.

  At the time before the murder Christer Pettersson had been in the immediate vicinity of the crime scene. According to what he himself had admitted, he’d been at the illegal gambling club called The Ox up on Malmskillnadsgatan.

  “So he’s been there at least,” said Holt. “Then we have other witnesses who saw him at the Grand cinema. By the way, one of his dealers had an apartment on Tegnérgatan.”

  “Everyone in the country’s dealer at that time, Sigge Cedergren,” said Johansson. “Nowadays no longer among us, and just like all the other drugged-out nutcases from Grand—more and more certain of their story the more years have passed since the murder. ’Cause at that time they didn’t have much to say.”

  “Granted,” said Holt. “But there is a logic to it. There are actually good prospects that he might run into Olof Palme completely by chance. He used to hang out in those parts, and it wasn’t to go to the movies and see The Mozart Brothers.”

  “On that last point we’re in complete agreement,” said Johansson. “Personally I think the perpetrator ends up at the Grand and then by and by at the crime scene because his victim leads him there. I think he followed him from Old Town, and it was no more coincidental than that.”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” said Holt. “My third point,” she continued, holding up her paper. “There are several pieces of information to the effect that Christer Pettersson at least periodically had access to a revolver of the type used in the murder. Among others from Sigge Cedergren, who is said to have lent him one like that.”

  “A gun that he and the others near and dear in Pettersson�
��s circle of friends think up ten years or so after the murder. Which they denied at first, and then remembered, and then took back again. In that context there are two completely different things that struck me,” said Johansson.

  “Yes?” asked Holt.

  “That there isn’t a smidgen about Christer Pettersson using a firearm during his more than twenty-year criminal career before the murder. Not afterward either. There’s only Cedergren’s and the others’ mixed memories ten years after the assassination of Palme.”

  “The second thing,” said Holt. “What was the other thing that struck you?”

  “That I’m hell and damnation convinced that our perpetrator is both a practiced and a skillful shot with so-called single-hand weapons, pistols or revolvers. Pettersson wasn’t. He hardly knew front from back on a revolver.”

  “The perpetrator is a skilled shooter? Even though he misses Lisbeth Palme from a distance of three feet?”

  “Believe me,” said Johansson. It was meaningless to sit and argue with a woman about this, he thought.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” said Holt. But I still don’t agree with you. I can shoot too, she thought.

  “I’m beginning to sense we’re not in agreement,” said Johansson. “This fourth point? That Lisbeth Palme supposedly pointed out Pettersson. I assume you know what happened when she did that?”

  “Yes,” said Holt. “I still think she makes a strong identification.”

  “Why in the name of God?” said Johansson with some heat. “First there’s that crazy prosecutor who raves about the perpetrator being an alcoholic. Then there’s that so-called lineup that would be a pure Santa Claus parade if one of them wasn’t limping around in beard stubble, running shoes, and a dirty old sweatshirt.”

  Holt had been struck by two other circumstances. That Lisbeth Palme became noticeably upset when she saw Christer Pettersson.