Another Time, Another Life: The Story of a Crime

by Leif Gw Persson

  “Sounds rather daring given the relations between our respective countries,” said the undersecretary. “But I hear what you’re saying,” he continued. “You don’t think you could be a little more precise?”

  “Not at the present time,” said Johansson. “We have decided to follow up on what we have and provide the usual updates as we go forward, depending on how the whole thing develops.”

  “But that’s just excellent,” said the undersecretary. “Because we are forewarned, we are also forearmed, and if I were Stein I would be the one who was most grateful. In any event she doesn’t need to worry that the Americans will try to yank her chain.”

  And not yours either, thought Johansson.

  “No, neither the Americans nor anyone else is going to yank her chain,” said Johansson. In any case not in that way, he thought.

  “Okay then,” said the undersecretary, who for some reason chose not to question any further what Johansson had just said. “Then I don’t really understand the problem. What obstacle is there to appointing her?”

  “Unfortunately it won’t work,” said Johansson.

  “What do you mean it won’t work?” said the undersecretary, no longer making any attempt to conceal how irritated he was. “Has she murdered someone, or what?”

  “Yes,” said Johansson.

  “What?” said the undersecretary.

  You definitely did not know that, thought Johansson when he saw the undersecretary’s suddenly wide-open eyes.

  Johansson then related what had gone on when Helena Stein stabbed Kjell Göran Eriksson to death almost eleven years ago, basically the same way he had told it to his best friend and to his own investigation team.

  After that he gave an account of the measures he had taken, all the way from the prosecutor’s dismissal with prejudice down to all the top-secret classifications he himself had put in place, not least the little scrap of paper he had put into the shredder with his own hands.

  “What a completely improbable fucking story,” the undersecretary moaned, shaking his head with dismay.

  “Regardless of that,” continued Johansson, who had one more point to clear up before he was finished, “completely regardless of that she represents a risk that we advise your superior in the strongest possible terms not to take,” said Johansson, and he almost felt solemn as he said it. For a simple boy from the country like himself it was almost as though the eagle of history had brushed him with its wing.

  “I see exactly what you mean,” said the undersecretary, looking as though he would like to moan audibly.

  “For both your sake and mine I would still like to go over the risks we envisage. There are four sources of risk here. The first is leaks within our own closed operation,” said Johansson. “It’s true we’re known with good reason for being taciturn, and compared with all the babbling brooks running around in the open police operation, we’re about as talkative as a concrete wall with no cracks. Still I can’t overlook the risk, even if I judge it to be the least serious in this context.”

  “How many at SePo know about Stein?” the undersecretary asked.

  “Eight including myself, plus another seven who know parts of it and might possibly figure out the rest themselves.”

  “And that’s as secretive as you’ve managed to be,” said the undersecretary crossly.

  “As you already know,” said Johansson, grinning. “And with you now, that makes nine.”

  “What are the other three risks, besides ourselves?” he asked.

  Johansson’s colleagues at the detective squad in Stockholm were another risk. The files on Eriksson would be returned in exactly the condition they were in when they were loaned out and with all conceivable discretion. Regardless, it was still an open murder investigation, and sooner or later—this could definitely not be ruled out—it might end up in competent enough hands that someone would be forced to start being interested in Helena Stein.

  “Just imagine if she were the defense minister,” said Johansson. “This would not leak like a sieve. They’d be able to drive her around with a manure spreader.”

  “The media,” Johansson continued. “Here in particular, because there is a very unfortunate possibility that a sufficiently thoughtful investigative reporter might piece together the elements of an already famous, very spectacular event—the occupation of the West German embassy—with Eriksson, Tischler, Welander, and Stein. There is also the remarkable circumstance that one of the members of the ‘gang of four’ was suddenly murdered. Not all journalists are idiots,” said Johansson, “far from it, and with the West German embassy in particular it’s probably the case that many of the older journalists were around at the time it happened, and that they had contacts in those circles the four were involved in.”

  “That’s enough, that’s more than enough,” said the undersecretary shaking his head in dismay. “But there was something else you were thinking about too. You said four risks.… I’ve counted three.”

  There were Stein’s own acquaintances and above all Tischler, who knew down to the slightest detail how things stood. Tischler with his big mouth, his uninhibited indiscretion, and his, to say the least, adventurous life. What might happen the day he became angry at “his charming cousin,” or simply let his tongue wag without thinking, or put himself in a position—in relation to the tax authorities, the police, or both—where he might find it expedient to use her as a negotiating tactic.

  “Someone like Tischler is a walking bomb, as I’m sure you understand,” said Johansson. “We really ought to have someone like him eliminated immediately,” he added, smiling broadly at the undersecretary.

  “No objections,” sighed the undersecretary. “I’ve never liked his type anyway.”

  “Well,” said Johansson, leaning back in his armchair, forming his long fingers into a church vault, and observing the undersecretary. “Are we agreed?”

  “Yes,” said the undersecretary. “But doesn’t someone still have to talk with Stein?”

  So you’ve already talked to her about her becoming a member of the government, thought Johansson.

  “You don’t need to say anything, Johansson,” said the undersecretary deprecatingly. “We have the same problem that you do as far as the undesired distribution of information is concerned.”

  “I had thought about talking with her anyway,” said Johansson.

  “You had?” said the undersecretary with surprise.

  “Anything else would be dereliction of duty on my part,” he explained. “It wasn’t that I forgot to mention her, but it’s obvious that in the situation we’re now in, she constitutes the greatest risk.” She might even be cause for your dear boss to have to return to his childhood home in Katrineholm, thought Johansson.

  “Thanks,” said the undersecretary. “I understand exactly what you mean.” Anyone at all, but not Göran Persson, he thought.

  That evening, before he was to meet Helena Stein, Johansson had dinner with his wife, but because his thoughts were elsewhere not much was said. As soon as he set aside his coffee cup he looked at his watch and nodded at her.

  “I have to go,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “It’s secret, of course,” said his wife, smiling.

  “Yes,” said Johansson, sighing.

  “Is she good-looking?” she asked.

  “I don’t really know,” said Johansson. “I’ve only seen her from a distance and never talked with her. In any event she’s not like you.”

  “That’s what you say,” said his wife.

  “Yes,” said Johansson. “I say that because no one is.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Then you should take care of yourself.”

  “Yes,” said Johansson.

  But of course Stein was beautiful and not only at a distance, thought Johansson when he was finally sitting in her living room looking at her. Beautiful in the same way as her clothes or the room they were sitting in. Beautiful in a different way than what had bee
n beautiful to him during his childhood, youth, and adult life—the sort of thing that was both beautiful and accessible to him. Helena Stein seemed to be beautiful in an inaccessible way, and sometimes, in moments of weakness, he was seized by a longing for that kind of beauty, because he really did want to live a different life than the life that was his.

  “Would you like coffee?” asked Helena Stein.

  “No,” said Johansson. “I’m fine. I won’t be long,” he added, thinking he should try to calm her.

  “Something tells me this is not going to be a pleasant conversation,” she said, looking at him seriously.

  “No,” said Johansson. “I’m afraid not, but I’ve carefully considered the existing alternatives, and this is what I think is best for everyone involved.” And quite certainly for you, he thought.

  “I hear what you’re saying of course,” she said, “but I sense that this is about that time twenty-five years ago when I was a naïve child who thought that I was only helping rescue a few German students from being murdered by the German police.”

  “Yes,” said Johansson. “I guess that’s how the whole thing started.”

  “And if you think I would have done what I did then if I’d understood what they really intended to do, then I don’t think we really have very much to say to each other,” she continued.

  “No,” said Johansson, looking at her seriously. “I have never believed for a moment that you would have cooperated with any such thing.”

  Because of course I haven’t, he thought. Not since he had gone over Berg’s and Persson’s investigation and spent the weekend reading Mattei’s description of Helena Stein’s life.

  “How many people know about this story?” asked Johansson.

  “The ones who were inside the embassy, of course. Four of them seem to still be alive—and they’ve probably been out of prison for many years now. The first one was let out in 1993. Because I met only two of them, on one occasion, a brief occasion, and one of them is dead, I’ve never been worried about them. I don’t even think the ones who are left remember me. How would they even recognize me? I looked like a child at that time—I was a child.”

  “Then there was your cousin, Theo Tischler, Welander, Eriksson,” said Johansson.

  “Yes,” said Helena Stein, smiling bitterly. “Two are dead and one is my cousin. The older brother I never had but always wanted.”

  “Have you told anyone else?” asked Johansson.

  “Yes,” said Stein, and suddenly there was a glimmer in her eyes. “I’ve told two other men. One of them was a man I had a relationship with, and as soon as I told him he left me. I don’t think he’s told anyone, if you’re wondering about that. I actually think he would be the last person to talk about something like that, simply out of concern for himself.”

  “So who was the other man?” asked Johansson.

  “Two years ago, before I got my current job, I found out in a roundabout way that you people at SePo were interested in this story and I asked a friend—not a close friend, but a person I rely on and who knows a good deal about these kinds of things—I asked if it might not be best to simply talk about what had happened. Tell the whole story straight out and let the world decide whether I was fit to serve the country.”

  “What advice did he give you?” asked Johansson.

  “He almost got upset,” said Helena Stein. “It was almost like he’d been involved himself. He advised me firmly against it. According to him, the time wasn’t ripe for that sort of thing, and I could forget about my new job as undersecretary—that it was inconceivable that I would be permitted to continue working in the government offices. So I followed his advice. Was that stupid of me?”

  “Perhaps,” said Johansson. “I don’t know. I think that’s something only you can answer. But because I know who gave you that advice, there’s one thing you should probably know,” he continued. “In case you were to turn to the undersecretary again for advice.”

  Then Johansson told her about the suspicions currently harbored by the secret police that there were advanced preparations “by a foreign power and domestic interests close to this same power” to exert pressure on her in the event that she was given any position worth the trouble. And that it was highly probable that one of those who had helped make the intrusion possible was the very person she had asked for advice.

  “Are you completely sure about all this?” Stein asked, looking doubtfully at Johansson.

  “Yes,” said Johansson. “As sure as you can be in this business.”

  “Good Lord,” said Stein, shaking her head indignantly. “How do you put up with yourself? With the job you have?”

  “It’s my job,” said Johansson. “I knew before I took it that it wouldn’t be easy.” Although I never imagined this, he thought.

  “Fine then,” said Stein. “What do I have to worry about? I have people like you and your colleagues to protect me from people that in my stupidity I thought I could rely on.”

  “There’s one more problem,” said Johansson. For there is something that can’t be put off any longer, he thought.

  “Imagine that,” said Helena Stein. “I suspected as much.”

  “It concerns Kjell Göran Eriksson, whom you also got to know over thirty years ago,” said Johansson.

  “I’d already figured that out,” said Stein, looking hard at Johansson. “He’s the only truly evil person I’ve met in my entire life, including both of those insane Germans who later made their way into the embassy. Compared to Kjell Eriksson they were almost respectable. At least they were driven by political conviction.”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” said Johansson, gently raising his hand in a forestalling gesture. “But before you say anything else there are actually a few things I have to remind you of, and which I presume you as an attorney are familiar with. I’m a police officer,” Johansson continued, “so if people say certain things to me I can be forced to do certain things regardless of whether I want to or not. Therefore I thought I should inform you that we have concluded the investigation of your possible involvement in the murder of Kjell Eriksson. The prosecutor is of the firm opinion that you have nothing to do with his death, and the case has been dismissed. That is his firm, legally grounded opinion. And, true, I’m not much of an attorney, but I share his opinion as far as the law is concerned.”

  “And in your actual role—you are a police officer, aren’t you?” asked Stein. “What is your opinion as a police officer?”

  “Let me put it like this,” said Johansson. “The only possibility of getting you indicted and convicted of Kjell Eriksson’s murder, or even reporting you on reasonable grounds for suspicion, would be if you decided to confess. I know that as a police officer, because it’s as a police officer that I’ve inspected the existing material on the murder of Eriksson. But what I think about it, and this is my purely private opinion, is completely uninteresting.”

  “Not to me,” said Stein, shaking her head firmly. “I really would like to hear what you believe about my involvement in the murder of Kjell Eriksson. And considering that this is about me—and only me, really—I would be very grateful if you would tell me. Strictly privately, and I can assure you that I would not dream of using anything against you, if that’s what worries you. And note that I clearly trust you, despite the fact that we’ve never met before.”

  “Personally, I’m not the least bit worried,” said Johansson, shaking his head. “You’re not that type.” And we have actually met once, at a distance, he thought. I saw you but you didn’t see me, and that’s the difference between us.

  “Okay then,” said Stein. “I want to hear what you think.”

  “On one condition,” said Johansson. “That you just listen. I don’t want you to say anything.”

  “I promise to be completely silent,” said Helena Stein. “I’m used to listening to men,” she added with an ironic grimace.

  And I to women, thought Johansson. Or at least to one woman in part
icular, he thought.

  Okay then, thought Johansson, and then he told Helena Stein what had happened when she murdered Kjell Göran Eriksson.

  “Because you’re asking now, I think it probably was you who stuck the knife in him,” said Johansson, and his Norrland dialect immediately became more apparent as he spoke. “But it was not a murder, and if you had only pulled yourself together and called the police yourself, I am completely convinced that no one would have convicted you of anything more than assault and manslaughter. If the knife wound hadn’t been where it was, I even think you would have had a good chance of getting off completely by maintaining that you administered it in self-defense when he tried to attack you or rape you.”

  “But that wouldn’t have been true,” Helena Stein interrupted. “Because he didn’t—he was completely incapable of any sexual feelings whatsoever—”

  “Sweet Jesus, woman,” Johansson said very slowly and very clearly. “I thought we agreed that I would talk and you would listen. This is for your own sake.”

  “Forgive me,” said Helena Stein and she suddenly looked just as desperate as she had sounded on the almost twenty-five-year-old audio surveillance tape Johansson had listened to a few days before.

  “If I were to begin with the act itself,” Johansson continued, “it occurs about eight o’clock. Eriksson is sitting on the couch in his living room, spewing out his usual foulness. He has sent you out to the kitchen to cut up fresh lemon slices for his gin and tonic. He has probably already suggested that you can be his new, unpaid maid, so he can save on the Polish woman who’s been cleaning under the table for him. And as you’re standing with your lemon slices and his tonic on the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, where he sits with his back to you, waving his glass demandingly without even condescending to turn toward you when he’s talking to you, you suddenly discover that you’re still holding his kitchen knife in your hand, and without even consciously making a decision you simply take a step forward and stick it in his back.”