Stockholm in late November. It gets dark not much beyond lunchtime, this far north, this time of year. It was now three pm and the sky was pitch black. I strolled alone in the snow, huddled figures around me, down the main road of the Old Town, full of souvenir shops I bought a Viking plastic helmet with artificial Helga pigtails attached to the rim for my colleague at the newspaper back in London. I crossed a bridge into Kungstrdgrden, a park-like large square that used to be the King's Garden, hence the name, with Christmas stands, cradles of lightness and family in the inky late November darkness, selling fluffy toys, glazed peanuts amber jewellery, raffle tickets, soft toy Santas and Swedish straw goats. I walked up Sveavgen and stopped. Pedestrians flowed past, ignoring the plaque on the ground which shone dully in the bright lights of a nearby shop. Here, at the junction of Sveavagen street and Tunnelgatan street, the assassination of Olof Palme, Swedish prime minister, took plac