Backstrom: He Who Kills the Dragon

by Leif Gw Persson

  There had been no trace of a briefcase. Nor Akofeli’s phone. And a lot of the things that are usually missing when someone leaves in a hurry were missing. Clothes, shoes, keys to the apartment, money, ID, and credit cards. The only thing that spoiled that theory was that his passport was still there.

  “It was tucked behind the shoe rack in his wardrobe,” Niemi said. “He evidently kept it hidden there, so he clearly considered it important.”

  “Do you think he’s disappeared of his own accord?” Annika Carlsson asked.

  “Most of the evidence supports that,” Peter Niemi said. “If anything has happened to him, it didn’t happen here. If it did, I’ll eat Chico’s cap,” he added with a wide smile.

  “What about the passport, then? And his computer?”

  “The passport bothers me,” Niemi conceded with a nod. “Of course, he could have had another passport—we’ll have to check if he still has his old Somali passport—but a Swedish passport would be worth its weight in gold if he’s headed off to Europe. The computer doesn’t worry me as much. It was probably a laptop, and he could easily take that with him.”

  “Say hi to Magda,” Felicia said, flashing her eyes at Chico as she and Annika Carlsson left the flat. “Ask her if she fancies a night on the town with the girls.”

  Chico contented himself with giving her the finger.

  “I think Chico’s a little bit stupid,” Felicia said as they were sitting in the car on the way back. “He doesn’t seem to pick up the simplest things. He hasn’t got a clue that I’m hitting on him. I bet he thinks I’m a lesbian who’s after his sister.”

  “A lot of guys are like that,” Annika Carlsson said with a smile. “Not just guys, come to think of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know, a bit slow like that. No radar, saying the wrong things, doing the wrong things. It’s so unnecessary.”

  “Hello, so who’s the world champion, then? Are we thinking of the same man, by any chance?” Felicia said.

  “Well, I know who you’ve got in mind,” Annika Carlsson said with a smirk.

  “I think he’s actually a bit scared of you,” Felicia said. “He probably isn’t as tough as he tries to make out.”

  “You reckon?”

  “You only have to look at him and he straightens up, poor little fatso,” Felicia said.

  “Remember that you’re talking about your boss,” Annika said.

  “Yes, he should be grateful for that,” Felicia said, and snorted. “Otherwise he’d hear a few hard truths.”

  When Niemi returned to the station, Bäckström had evidently already gone home. So he talked to Toivonen instead and gave him a short summary.

  “So you found his passport,” Toivonen said. “And his cell, computer, and all the usual are missing. Have I got that right?”

  “Yes,” Niemi said. “And there are no traces of anything that might have belonged to Danielsson.”

  “What about his newspaper bag? Or the pushchair or whatever he uses when he’s delivering papers. The lad must have to deliver hundreds of papers each day. I presume he doesn’t carry them all under his arm?”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Niemi said with a grin. “There was no bag of that sort, and no cart in the flat. Nor in his storage space either; we looked there and it was completely empty. It doesn’t look like he had his own bike. But now that you come to mention it, I do remember that when I spoke to him in Hasselstigen he had one of those cloth shoulder bags with a strap for his papers. And we haven’t found it anywhere. I suppose he could have used that as a kind of suitcase when he left. Doesn’t look like the lad had many possessions.”

  “And no larger case on wheels? No old stroller? No cart?”

  “No,” Niemi said, shaking his head.

  “Now what the hell would he want to take that with him for?” Toivonen said. “If he really is heading south, I mean.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Niemi said.

  34.

  When Bäckström got home from work it was already eight o’clock in the evening. He was in an excellent mood and had with him a half-empty liter of the finest Russian vodka. He and Nadja had consumed the other half in his office, in pursuit of the truth that could be found only at the bottom of the bottle.

  The search continues, Bäckström thought, and as a first gesture he had gone into the kitchen and poured another large shot, then took a pilsner out of the fridge and made himself a sandwich with a lot of liver pâté and gherkin mayonnaise. He prepared a tray that he placed on the coffee table in front of the television. I must tell the Russian to take some pilsners to work, he thought.

  Then he took off all his clothes and took a shower, then put on some deodorant and brushed his teeth. Often when he brushed his teeth he thought about his mother. It happened again this time, and he never really understood why. Ah, well, Bäckström thought calmly. He went and settled down on the sofa, turned on the television news to enjoy all the domestic and foreign horrors that had occurred over the past twenty-four hours, while partaking of his simple repast.

  Then he must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up it was already two o’clock in the morning and someone was ringing his doorbell.

  It must be that damn neighbor, who had probably finished all the drink he tricked him out of last week, Bäckström thought. He already knew what he was going to say. He could forget about buying any more, and if he tried to touch his Russian vodka he was a dead man.

  It was his colleague, Annika Carlsson. Fully dressed and wide-awake, apparently.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you, Bäckström,” she said. “But your phone is off and we don’t have your home number at work, so I decided to risk it and came round.”

  “No problem,” Bäckström said. “I was about to get up anyway. I usually go for a run early in the morning.” But you haven’t come round to get my phone number, have you? he thought.

  “I realize that you must be wondering—”

  “Don’t say anything,” Bäckström said, interrupting her, raising his hand just to make his point.

  “I’m not stupid,” he added. “Let me put some clothes on.”

  35.

  Axel Stenberg was seventeen years old. He was 185 centimeters tall, well built, and in good shape. Stronger than most grown men and more agile than most, no matter what age they were. A sporting prodigy who was too lazy to train but still one of the best in his school at football, ice hockey, gymnastics, and swimming. All thanks to abilities he had been born with. He and his sports teacher had a complicated relationship. Why didn’t he do something with his great physical prowess and the talent that he had been born with?

  Axel had wavy blond hair, blue eyes, white teeth, and a ready smile. Even when he was in primary school, all the girls had asked if they could be his girlfriend, and it had been the same ever since. With all his teachers, apart from the PE instructor, he had a simple and respectful relationship. How could he not care about his studies? He was far from being without talent.

  Hanna Brodin was seventeen years old. She was 175 centimeters tall, beautiful, well built, in good shape. She had long dark hair, brown eyes, white teeth, and a broad smile. Because she had been top of her class since primary school, she had a simple and excellent relationship with her teachers. Even though the boys had been asking to be her boyfriend for just as long, and in every conceivable way.

  The most recent to have tried was Axel, and because her mom had gone off to a conference with her new workmates, they had ended up back at hers the first time they were alone together, just the two of them. Axel had made the anticipated moves, but she was as familiar as him with the game they had just embarked upon and had blocked all his moves without any problems.

  And because they were each equally interested in the other, it had all taken a very long time.

  “What about a night swim?” Axel said. “First of the year.”

  “Won’t it be a bit cold?” Hanna said. “Besides, I
don’t know where my bathing suit is. Mom and I have hardly had time to unpack yet.”

  “I was thinking of skinny-dipping,” Axel said with a smile.

  “Well, I don’t want to miss that,” Hanna said, smiling back. “But if it’s too cold, you’ll be swimming alone.”

  Then Axel had taken her to his favorite swimming spot. His and his friends’, to be strictly accurate. It was only a couple hundred meters from the house. A large, softly rounded area of rock that tumbled straight into the waters of the Ulvsundasjön. Isolated and discreet, perfect for sunny days, soft crevices with a lot of undergrowth if you wanted to get intimate with someone. Perfect for diving, since the water was four meters deep right up to the rocks.

  Axel had kept his promise. He threw off all his clothes and dived into the water from the rocks, headfirst.

  Hanna had sat down on the rocks to watch him. Midnight, but bright enough to see, and she could fill in the details herself.

  I bet he’s done this before, thought Hanna, who still liked what she saw. Boys, she thought. A bit too predictable sometimes.

  Axel had done this many times before, and always from the same spot. A suitably large gap in the rock two meters above the water, a couple quick steps, push off hard, body taut, arms outstretched, palms pressed together, then just a ripple on the surface, a scarcely audible splash as he disappeared into the water. Then a big kick with both legs, back arched, arms outstretched—that was all he had to do to complete the perfect dive into the water and come back up to the surface.

  But not this time, because suddenly his hand had touched something. Something soft, large, wrapped in cloth or maybe tarpaulin, something swaying and drifting at the bottom, invisible because of the dark water. Axel used his hands. Felt along it, found a handle, then another, reached down, felt a wheel, then another wheel.

  A golf bag, thought Axel, who had an uncle who was a dentist but who would rather spend all day playing golf if it were up to him. He used to use his nephew as his caddy, offering him a beer after the eighteenth hole and giving him a few hundred-kronor notes as they parted, winking at him and telling him not to say anything to his sister. And not to waste the money on nonsense like schoolbooks, or any other books either, come to think of it.

  Axel had always kept his promises. There were an awful lot of girls in the world, more than there was enough money for if you wanted to do something fun that cost money. What sort of idiot would throw a golf bag in the water? His uncle’s bag contained clubs that were altogether worth as much as a secondhand car.

  What the hell is he up to? Hanna thought in irritation. He must have been down there for at least a couple minutes now, she thought. Just as she was standing up to take off her top, he had resurfaced, waving to her.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” Hanna said, annoyed.

  “Some idiot’s chucked a golf bag in here,” Axel said. “Hang on, I’ll show you,” he said, and vanished under the surface once again.

  It wasn’t stuck to the bottom. How could it be, since there was nothing but smooth rock down there until you got twenty meters out? He grabbed the handles and pulled it upward, letting it float under the surface as he swam the ten meters to where the water suddenly got shallower. He didn’t really need to go up for air as he did so. Then Hanna had helped him drag the bag up onto dry land. Only now did he realize how heavy the bag was.

  “What do you mean, golf bag?” Hanna said. “I think it looks more like one of those carts paperboys drag round with them when they deliver the morning papers.”

  Shit, Axel thought.

  “Congratulations, Axel,” Hanna said with a smile. “You are hereby the owner of two hundred waterlogged copies of Dagens Nyheter.”

  Shit, Axel thought. All the pent-up energy, no sex all evening, only a couple gestures in that direction, and now he had made a fool of himself. What was he going to do with the cart now? he wondered. Take a look, he thought, and then drag it up somewhere and dump it in the bushes.

  First he undid the bag, opening the fabric lid. Whatever was inside filled the whole bag and was wrapped in black plastic. He felt it with his hands. Hard, round, definitely not golf clubs, nor newspapers either, for that matter. Then he had torn open the plastic to see what it was.

  “Will there be a reward?” Hanna wondered, squatting down on the rock. This is all a bit childish, she thought.

  “Shit!” Axel shouted, leaping away from the bag. “Shit, shit, shit!” he screamed, waving his hands desperately in the air.

  “What are you doing?” Hanna said, starting to get really annoyed now. “Practicing for an Oscar or what?”

  “Fuck!” Axel said. “There’s a body in the bag.” Then he ran off to get his clothes. Completely naked as well, he thought.

  “What the fuck do we do now?” Axel said, with a nod toward the bag that was still over by the shore. He had no intention of taking another look just to be sure, and the easiest thing would be just to walk away. At least he wasn’t naked anymore. But he was so cold he was shivering. Not to mention his johnson, which suddenly looked like he’d spent all winter in icy water.

  “Let’s just go,” Axel suggested. “Let’s just go,” he repeated.

  “Are you mad?” Hanna said. “We have to call the cops, surely you can see that?”

  Then Hanna Brodin, seventeen years old, had dialed the emergency number, 112, on her phone and got through to the police control room. There hadn’t been any problems, because she sounded just like people like her sounded when they called to say that they’d just found a body in the water.

  “Is it floating in the water by the shore?” the female radio operator had asked. Poor girl, she thought. Bodies in the water are never nice; she knew that from personal experience.

  “It’s in a bag,” Hanna said.

  “In a bag in the water?” the radio operator clarified. What’s she saying? she thought.

  “It was in the water. The bag, I mean. But my boyfriend dived in to go swimming, and that’s when he found it. And we pulled it ashore and looked inside. He looked. Not me.”

  “It’ll be okay,” the radio operator said. “Stay where you are, you and your boyfriend, don’t go back to the bag, don’t hang up, and I’ll get a patrol car to come and help you, and you and I can keep talking until they get there.”

  “Thanks,” Hanna said.

  My boyfriend, Axel thought. It didn’t look like all hope was lost, in spite of what had happened to his dick and the fact that he was so cold he was shivering.

  The first unit on site was a patrol car from the Western District, containing Inspector Holm and Sergeant Hernandez. Neither Hanna nor Axel had been made to put their hands up, spread their legs, or even be searched. Holm had shone his torch on them, nodded amiably, and introduced himself.

  “My name’s Carsten Holm,” he said. “This is my colleague, Magda Hernandez.”

  Then Holm had gone over to the bag, shone his torch at it, nodded toward Hernandez, and took out his radio.

  Hernandez had led Hanna and Axel away with her. She had taken a blanket out of the trunk and suggested that they sit in the backseat.

  “You’ll be warmer in there,” Magda said with a smile. “This will soon be sorted out, and I promise we’ll drive you home.”

  Christ, what a cop, Axel thought. First eleven I’ve ever seen, he thought.

  36.

  Annika Carlsson had summarized the situation as she drove: Two seventeen-year-old kids. A girl and a boy. Lived in Jungfrudansen in Solna, at the top of the hill above the shores of Ulvsundasjön. They had gone down for a swim at about half past eleven at night. Their house lay just a hundred meters from their swimming spot.

  “Apparently the boy dived in on his own while his girlfriend sat on the rocks watching. He more or less dived straight onto a large bag, as far as I understand it,” Annika Carlsson said. “Then he dragged it up to the shore and got it up onto dry land. When he looked in the bag he realized it contained a dead body.”

&nb
sp; “How the hell do we know that it’s Akofeli, then?” Bäckström said. In the middle of the night, black as inside a sack, and a sooty in a bag, Bäckström thought. What do they mean, Akofeli? Hello, out here the place is crawling with sooties, he thought.

  “Holm and Hernandez were the first unit on the scene,” Annika Carlsson explained. “Holm’s pretty sure it’s Akofeli. And he says he recognizes the bag. The same bag that Akofeli used when he was delivering papers. One of those big ones on wheels.”

  “Holm and Hernandez. Second time in a week. A bit much for my liking,” Bäckström said, and snorted. “I wonder if we’re dealing with a couple serial killers in a patrol car?”

  “I doubt it’s quite that bad. Mind you, I can see what you’re thinking,” Annika Carlsson said with a smile. “It’s all due to their rotation, and they don’t organize that themselves. This month they’re working nights every Wednesday to Thursday.”

  “What’s wrong with finding bodies in the daytime?” Bäckström muttered. “Then at least you can see that you’ve found a body.”

  “Sorry I woke you,” Annika Carlsson said. “But I thought it was probably best that you were in on this one from the very start.”

  “Very sensible of you, Annika,” Bäckström said. And you got a chance to see how I live. Just in case, he thought.

  “But you were just about to go for your run anyway,” she said with a smile. “I was actually a bit surprised.”

  “Surprised?”

  “At how nice your flat is. Nice furniture, all neat and tidy. Clean.”

  “I like things to be nice and tidy,” Bäckström lied. Vojne, vojne, he thought, since he had to pay for every single desiccated dust ball in his Hästens bed.

  “Most of the male officers I know who live alone usually live in pigsties,” Carlsson said.