Another Time, Another Life (52 page)

At the trial the Säter-Man had testified that the suitcase, hand towels, and banana liqueur were not the only things he had stolen from his victim. Besides numerous bottles of Eriksson’s alcohol he had emptied in his solitude up at the hut, he had also devoted himself to a number of
videocassettes and a large number of magazines containing “brutally sadistic violent pornography of a homosexual nature.” He had later brought these pornographic works with him to the hospital after his leave was over, and there they had unfortunately been lost in the general handling. “I guess they were simply read to pieces,” he tearfully explained to the members of the court and other listeners.

Johansson and his wife had celebrated Midsummer in the city. The weather had been excellent, and after a nice dinner out at Djurgården they had walked home at a leisurely pace through the empty summer streets to their apartment on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan on Söder. As soon as they came into the hallway Johansson reached out his hand for the hollow in his wife’s neck and then … when at last they had wound up in bed, and at that point Johansson was already gliding from serene lethargy to deep and undisturbed sleep, his wife had something she absolutely had to say.

“Are you sleeping, Lars Martin?” she asked at the same time as she slowly drew the nails of her right hand through the hair on his neck.

Not any more, thought Johansson, because reality had just jerked him back.

“I was thinking about that Waltin,” she said.

“Yes,” said Johansson. Not now, he thought.

“The one who was murdered on Mallorca,” she continued.

“I remember him,” said Johansson, who was suddenly wide awake. “You mean the one that the Smurfs killed when he was down there swimming?”

“I’m serious,” said his wife. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” said Johansson. What choice do I have? he thought dejectedly.

“You don’t think he might have been involved in the Palme assassination?” his wife asked.

This is, God help me, not true, thought Johansson, sitting up in bed and turning on the light on his nightstand.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Actually I don’t think so. Why in the name of heaven should Waltin have been involved in the Palme assassination?”

“I don’t know,” said his wife, shrugging her shoulders. “It was just a thought that struck me.”

Then everything returned to normal and they didn’t talk about it anymore. Not about Waltin, not about the assassination of the prime minister, who nowadays of course belonged to another time and another life, which had nothing to do with Pia and Lars Martin Johansson’s lives. They talked about other things. About things going on right then, about things in their lives and in their time.