3. The adversarial relationship in the legal process means that a trial should be a contest between the prosecutor and the defence lawyer. Because the defence led by Claes Borgström did not question the evidence against Quick, the system had collapsed.
After two long and interesting conversations with Jan Olsson, that evening I read the articles he had written over the years. One of the articles published in DN Debatt on 3 October 2002 concludes as follows:
Thomas Quick himself says that he has murdered all these people. All I have to say to him is: Make those of us who doubt you and spread this doubt into the world shut our mouths. Make me stand here, humiliated at having been so wrong to suspect you. You only need to show a single piece of tangible evidence to make it so. One of the body parts you claim to have kept, an object you have stolen from one of your victims. Until this happens I urge the Prosecutor-General to re-examine this case.
I had myself been considering whether I might offer to be an aide to Sture Bergwall, to help him put a stop to the braying of Jan Olsson, Jan Guillou, Leif G.W. Persson, Nils Wiklund and all the others who said that he was just making it up. If Quick really had ‘treasure troves’ of body parts, he could safely reveal these to me without having to ‘give them up’, which, it had been alleged, was the main psychological block to revealing the locations of the bodies. I imagined I might be able to bring some item from a hiding place, have it analysed and then the whole thing would be over.
Caught up in these naive ruminations, I was woken by the phone ringing. From the display I could see it was time for a third conversation with Olsson.
‘Yeah . . . hello . . . It’s Janne. Jan Olsson. I just wanted to mention something that occurred to me. A little piece of advice for you.’
‘Please, go ahead,’ I said.
‘You’re reading all the interrogations with Quick. Think about one thing: has he ever given a single piece of information that the police didn’t already know? I’d say that’s what you ought to be thinking about.’
I thanked him for the advice and promised to stick to it faithfully. It was probably very good advice.
But for the rest of the evening I thought about all the information Thomas Quick had provided during questioning which was supposedly unknown to the police: Therese Johannesen’s eczema scars in the crooks of her arms, the pinpointing of the spot where burnt remains of a child were found, the location of the stab wounds in Appojaure, his shepherding of the police to the place where Gry Storvik was found murdered, all the details about the murder of Thomas Blomgren in 1964. And so on . . .
If the ‘doubters’ knew how Quick could be in possession of all these details, they certainly hadn’t managed to explain it to me yet.
THE HERMIT
AFTER THE CARE assistants had left us alone in the visiting room, Sture Bergwall got out some coffee cups and a Thermos. I produced a few tired-looking cheap pastries from Willy’s in Säter. For a while we indulged in small talk about my drive from Gothenburg, how spring was on its way and other trivialities.
We spoke about how he had been inside these walls since Ingvar Carlsson had become prime minister and Mikhail Gorbachov had been at the helm of the Soviet Union! Sture had arrived at Säter before the first web page on the Internet had been created.
‘I’ve never had a conversation on a mobile phone,’ said Sture, who had understood from watching television that nowadays everyone walked around with a telephone pressed to their ear.
‘How do you survive such a long period of isolation?’ I asked. ‘What do you do with all this time?’
His answer flowed like water, as if he had been waiting a long time to give it.
‘My day starts at exactly 05.29. Usually I just wake up, or else there’s the alarm clock. Then I listen to Ekot [News] on the radio and get up at 05.33. After the morning procedures I walk to the canteen at 05.54 to get coffee and buttermilk. I’m so punctual that the assistants say they can set their watches by me!’
He took a bite of his pastry and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee.
‘At exactly 06.05 I ring the bell to be let outside. On the dot! That’s the only way to survive in here,’ he explained. ‘I have to be incredibly routine-ey. Incredibly routine-ey!’
I nodded, understanding very well what he meant.
‘Today is the two thousand, three hundred and sixty-seventh day in a row that I’ve taken a walk round the exercise yard. I do it every day.’
Sture looked at me as if expecting a reaction.
‘Two thousand, three hundred and sixty-seven days,’ I repeated, impressed.
‘My walk in the exercise yard is for exactly one hour and twenty minutes, in the pattern of a figure of eight. At 07.25 I take a shower and then I have a coffee and read the newspapers. Then I start my work of solving crossword puzzles. I subscribe to a number of difficult crossword magazines. I’ve never left a crossword unsolved. Sometimes it can take days to solve the last few clues, but I always solve them. Often I send them in – I use the name of someone who works here so I don’t attract any attention – and I’ve won small prizes quite a few times, a lottery ticket or something. It’s like a job. The crosswords keep me busy from eight thirty to four in the afternoon. In the daytime I always keep the radio on. Always P1! The programmes I like are Tendens [‘Tendency’], Släktband [‘Family Ties’], Lunchekot [‘Midday News’], Vetandets värld [‘The World of Knowledge’] and Språket [‘Our Language’]. At six in the evening I retire to my room and after that I don’t want to be disturbed by anyone. Then the evening routines begin, and they are mainly about watching television. I go to bed at nine thirty. At ten o’clock I turn out the lights and go to sleep.’
It was exactly as I had suspected. Sture Bergwall had no contact with anyone outside the hospital. No one at all. Hardly even with his fellow patients.
‘Sture, you’ve confessed to a large number of murders. And you’ve been convicted for eight of them. Do you still stand by your confessions?’
Sture looked at me in silence, before answering.
‘The confessions stand firm. They do . . .’
There was a lull in the conversation while we let this decisive prerequisite for our meeting sink in. I looked at the mysterious man sitting before me.
Either he was the worst serial killer in northern Europe, or he was a mythomaniac who had duped the entire Swedish judicial system.
Nothing about the man gave me the slightest clue as to which alternative seemed most likely.
‘You’re living under rigorous security conditions,’ I said, trying to move things along. Sture listened attentively. ‘The clinic seems more or less escape-proof: steel doors, reinforced glass, alarms.’
He mumbled his agreement.
‘I’m wondering . . . What would happen if you were allowed to rejoin society?’
Now Sture was looking at me with incomprehension.
‘Would you fall back into criminality, start murdering and cutting up children again?’
His heavy gaze grew even sadder.
‘No, no, no!’
Slowly he shook his head, then stopped and sat there with his eyes looking down at his lap.
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
I didn’t give up.