Backstrom: He Who Kills the Dragon

by Leif Gw Persson

At nine o’clock that morning Frank Motoele had appeared in the orthopedic surgery department. He greeted his colleagues at the entrance, took the lift up to the seventh floor where Farshad Ibrahim lay locked in a single room with his left leg plastered from his ankle to his crotch.

  “Situation?” Motoele asked, nodding to the officer who was sitting beside the entrance to the ward where Farshad Ibrahim was being looked after.

  “Everything’s fine,” the officer said with a smile. “The patient’s asleep. I spoke to the ward sister a short while ago. They say he’s in a lot of pain and they keep pumping him full of painkillers, so we’re just going to have to deal with that. He spends most of the time asleep. If you want to talk to his little brother, he’s in the thoracic surgery department. Without a knife, this time.”

  “I might just take a stroll and have a look,” Motoele said.

  “Go ahead,” the officer said. “I’m going to hit the smoking room in the meantime. I’m going crazy here. That damn nicotine gum is a complete joke.”

  There’s something not right here, Motoele thought, even before he opened the closed door to Farshad’s room.

  Just to be on the safe side he pushed the door open with his foot, his hand on his pistol. The room was empty, the window was open, the bed had been dragged over to the window, and someone had tied an ordinary climbing rope to its legs.

  Twenty meters to the slope seven floors below. Someone was already standing there, waiting for the man who was trying to lower himself down the rope in spite of his plastered leg. He had only got a few meters when Frank Motoele stuck his head out of the window.

  Motoele grabbed the rope and started to reel it in. A simple task for a man like Motoele, one hundred kilos of muscle and bone, whereas Farshad Ibrahim on the other end of the rope scarcely weighed seventy. Besides, Farshad had made a mistake. Instead of easing his grip on the rope and just sliding down, he was clinging to it, and sliding up almost a meter before Motoele turned his gaze inward and let go of the rope. Farshad let go as well, falling helplessly and landing on his back almost twenty meters below. He died instantly. Only then did Motoele realize that Farshad’s accomplice had drawn a gun and was shooting at him.

  He was a poor shot as well. Motoele, on the other hand, took his time. He pulled his weapon, crouched behind the window frame, aimed high on one leg, put both hands on the gun, both eyes open. Everything according to regulations, and if he was in luck he’d manage to hit the man’s femoral artery. The man below collapsed, dropping his gun and grabbing his wounded leg, screaming in a language Motoele didn’t understand.

  Motoele, who had turned his gaze inward, holstered his weapon and went out into the corridor to meet his fellow officers. He could already hear the sounds of shouting and running.

  Superintendent Honkamäki called Toivonen within thirty minutes and gave him a short status report. Someone had helped Farshad open the window of his room. The same person had given him an ordinary climbing rope, with knots in. About twenty meters long. Motoele had tried to reel him in. Farshad had lost his grip and fell, landing on his back on the slope twenty meters below. One of his accomplices had started shooting at Motoele. Several shots. Motoele had shot back. One shot. It hit high up on the leg. Rendered him harmless. The accomplice had been arrested, identified, and taken to the ER, just a hundred meters from orthopedic surgery. And they also had a good idea of who had helped Farshad with the window and rope.

  “We can’t locate one of the nurses, born in Iran, if you were wondering. She disappeared in the middle of her shift about an hour ago,” Honkamäki reported.

  “What the fuck have you been doing?” Toivonen said, and groaned.

  “Everything according to the rulebook,” Honkamäki said. “What the hell would you have done?”

  “The younger brother, he’s still alive?” Toivonen said.

  “Yes, he’s still alive. But I can see why you might wonder,” Honkamäki said with a crooked smile.

  “Get him to prison,” Toivonen said. “We’ve got to get to grips with security.”

  “I’ve already tried,” Honkamäki said. “They’re refusing to take him. Say they haven’t got the necessary medical facilities.”

  “Drive him to Huddinge Hospital,” Toivonen said.

  “Huddinge?” Honkamäki said. “What for?”

  “I don’t want him in our district,” Toivonen said. “Not while people are dying like flies out here, surrounded by my officers.”

  “Okay,” Honkamäki said.

  “And as far as Motoele is concerned …”

  “It’s sorted,” Honkamäki said. “Forensics are already here, and the internal investigation team are on their way. The only thing we’re missing is probably Bäckström,” he said with a laugh.

  Fucking hell. Three-zero to the Christians, Bäckström thought when he turned on the morning news on television. At last, pancakes and bacon, he thought. Seeing as his warden was evidently busy elsewhere.

  “I can understand that you’re in shock, Motoele,” the internal investigator said.

  “No,” Motoele said, shaking his head. “I’m not in shock. It was all done according to the rulebook.” Respect, he thought, and turned his gaze inward.

  90.

  After lunch on Monday Bäckström was ready to strike. First he spoke to Annika Carlsson and explained the details to her.

  “Bäckström, Bäckström,” Annika Carlsson said, shaking her head. “You’re probably the craftiest officer I’ve ever worked with. I can’t even count the number of evidential details you’re planning to raise in your conversation with this awful person.”

  “Me neither,” Bäckström said. “So you’ll do as I say?”

  “Of course, boss. What are we going to do with Felicia and young Stigson?”

  “Backup,” Bäckström said. “Taking Stigson along is out of the question and if the situation gets critical I don’t want to have to worry about Felicia.”

  “That makes sense,” Annika agreed.

  “They can wait outside in the car, just in case, until we call them in,” Bäckström said.

  Then they set off for number 1 Hasselstigen in two unmarked cars. Stigson and Pettersson pulled up outside the entrance. Bäckström and Annika Carlsson took the lift up. As Annika Carlsson hid on the stairs, Bäckström knocked on the door and, since the meeting had been arranged earlier that morning, the door was opened just after his second knock.

  “Welcome, Superintendent,” Britt-Marie Andersson said, with a wide smile that showed off her sparkling white teeth, and for some reason she ran her left hand down the middle of her generous cleavage.

  “Can I offer you anything, Superintendent?”

  “A cup of coffee would be nice,” Bäckström said. “Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow your loo?”

  “Of course,” Britt-Marie Andersson said. She tilted her head to one side and leaned forward to improve the view. “Why do we have to be so formal, anyway? I’m Britt-Marie,” she said, holding out a suntanned hand.

  “Bäckström,” Bäckström said, responding with a half Harry Callahan.

  “You’re a proper old-fashioned kind of man, aren’t you, Bäckström?” Britt-Marie Andersson said, smiling and shaking her head. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll get us some coffee.”

  Bäckström went into the toilet. As soon as he heard that she was busy in the kitchen he padded out and unlocked the front door. If the situation became critical he didn’t want his colleagues to have to break the door in. Then he flushed, opened the toilet door noisily, went into the living room, and sat down on his hostess’s flowery sofa.

  Britt-Marie Andersson had laid a whole tray. She had even got her little cockroach to be a good Little Sweetie and go and lie down in his flowery little basket. Then she sat down on her pink armchair, pulling it forward so that her suntanned knees were almost touching Bäckström’s well-tailored yellow linen trousers as she poured the coffee.

  “I presume that you take it black,” Britt-
Marie said with a contented sigh.

  “Yes,” Bäckström said.

  “Like all real men,” Britt-Marie said with another sigh.

  Except when I have an espresso, because then I usually have some warm milk on the side, Bäckström thought.

  “Black is fine,” Bäckström said.

  “And can I tempt you with a little cognac? Or perhaps a little whiskey?” Britt-Marie said, nodding toward the bottles on the tray.

  “I was thinking of having a little cognac, myself,” she cajoled. “Just a teeny, tiny little one.”

  “Go ahead,” Bäckström said. “That’s probably a good idea,” he said, without going into the reason why.

  “So tell me,” Britt-Marie said, tilting her head to one side. “I’m practically dying with curiosity. On the phone you said something about wanting to pop in and thank me.”

  “Yes, of course,” Bäckström said. “That’s what I said—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Britt-Marie said, taking a cautious sip with pouting lips, “but I really must compliment you on your outfit. A yellow linen suit, light brown linen shirt, matching tie, dark brown Italian shoes, handmade, I’m sure. Most of the detectives I’ve met usually look like they slept on a park bench before going to work.”

  “Clothes maketh the man,” Bäckström said. “Well, thank you for the compliment, and of course I came here to thank you.”

  “And here’s me, hardly knowing how I could have helped!” Britt-Marie Andersson said.

  “Me neither,” Bäckström said. “But to start with, you tipped us off about my former colleague, Roly Stålhammar. The only thing you forgot to mention was that you used to go out with him some forty or so years ago and that you pretty much fucked each other’s brains out back then. And when he turned out not to be good enough for us, you helped us along the way by identifying the Ibrahim brothers and their unsavory cousin.

  “Mind you,” Bäckström went on. “I do believe you on one point. I’m sure you did see them talking to Kalle Danielsson, and I’m absolutely convinced that the big lout standing by the car did make an obscene gesture at you. But when we still weren’t happy, you managed to persuade one of my most foolish colleagues to believe your story that Seppo Laurén had been a very violent young man for years. Who also happened to hate his father, Karl Danielsson. In fact, for the past fortnight you’ve had my officers running round like a flock of headless chickens. There was really just one thing that you forgot to tell us.”

  “And what might that be?” Britt-Marie Andersson said. She was sitting up straight now, without a trace of a smile or the slightest tremble of her hand as she refilled her little cognac glass.

  “That it was actually you who beat Karl Danielsson to death on that Wednesday evening with his own saucepan lid, and that you strangled him afterward with his own tie just to make sure. Before taking the briefcase containing all the money that he was stupid enough to show you just before. And that on Friday morning, just thirty hours later, you strangled your young lover Septimus Akofeli. Since he seems to have worked out more or less at once that you did it and by Thursday was under the impression that you were acting in self-defense to stop Danielsson from raping you. You must have said something about Kalle Danielsson to him before. Probably that Danielsson had tried to fuck you against your will. And when you met on Friday, you and Akofeli, he wanted you to go to the police and explain what really happened. That you were the victim, not Danielsson.

  “You strangled Akofeli in your bedroom,” Bäckström went on, nodding toward the closed door at the end of the living room. “After you’d fucked his brains out, so that he was suitably docile when you offered to give him a back massage. Before you both went to the police and laid your cards on the table.”

  “That’s the most fantastic story I heard in my whole life,” Britt-Marie Andersson said. “But because it’s deeply insulting to me, I do hope you haven’t told it to anyone else, Superintendent. Because then I’d be forced to report you for slander. Grave defamation of character, as we’re supposed to call it these days. And what would that look like?”

  “Don’t worry. This is strictly between the two of us,” Bäckström lied. “I haven’t breathed a word.”

  “Oh, I am pleased,” Britt-Marie Andersson said, her smile almost back to normal again. “Suddenly I get the impression that you and I will be able to find a solution to this. Birds of a feather flock together, isn’t that what they say, Bäckström?” Bäckström’s hostess said, pouring herself a third glass of cognac.

  “I met your former brother-in-law the other day,” Bäckström said. “He’s a very interesting character.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Britt-Marie snorted. “He’s been an alcoholic for the past fifty years, hasn’t spoken a word of truth in his life.”

  “I thought I might tell you what he had to say anyway,” Bäckström said. “And if I were in your shoes, I’d listen very carefully.”

  91.

  “When I saw the notes in Kalle’s diary I thought you wanted to talk to me about Bea,” Halfy said, pouring a generous measure into his coffee cup. “Then you suddenly started going on about a load of Muslims who haven’t got a thing to do with it. What is this, 9/11, or what?”

  “Bea,” Bäckström said. “Tell me.”

  “My ex-sister-in-law. Britt-Marie Andersson. An old Solna girl, biggest tits in Solna and the best fuck north of the city back in the day, when men were men and before all the fags took over. And what did we get for it? A load of fucking lesbians.”

  “I still don’t follow.”

  “Bea, Britt-Marie Andersson. Known as Bea. Used to run BeA’s Salon, with a capital A. BeA’s Beauty Salon down in Sundbyberg. Did perms for a load of old bags, and if you turned up after hours or called and booked a time in advance, you could get a decent going-over behind the salon curtains. That was actually how my brother met her. Roly put him onto her. Mind you, Roly never had to pay, of course. Perish the thought. Swedish champion, the next Ingemar Johansson, they said in the papers. You should see his tool, Bäckström. If Roly had just dropped his shorts during a match and swung his ass, he could have knocked Ingemar out of the ring.”

  “But your brother ended up marrying her?”

  “Yes, he was crazy about her. It was around the time that Roly was losing his edge and spent most of his time on the canvas, and Bea went and married my brother. She’d got it into her head that my dear brother, Per Adolf, had a load of money. That it made more sense to take a chance on him rather than Roly Stålhammar, who’d soon be staggering around the center of Solna telling everyone about the good old days.”

  “So what happened after that?” Bäckström said. “I saw that your brother died about ten years ago?”

  “Yes, and it was a hell of a relief, frankly. Me and the rest of the lads had already told him to go to hell. One evening when Mario had us all round for a party he called Mario a coon. So we renamed him Råsunda Hitler and told him to fuck off. Per Adolf, you know, and the silly sod had a mustache as well. So my brother married Bea and moved into a nice house up by Råstasjön. Mortgaged up to the eaves, but Bea didn’t know that when she fucked his brains out a few years later and imagined she was going to inherit the lot. But since my brother didn’t have a penny, she ended up in Hasselstigen. So she traded him in for Kalle the Accountant, Kalle Danielsson.”

  “So he had a bit of money?”

  “Things were starting to go well back then,” Halfy said, nodding and pouring himself a fourth glass.

  “So what happened with Kalle Danielsson, then? Between him and Bea, I mean?” Bäckström said.

  “He got just as crazy about her as my brother had been,” Halfy said. “Gave up on little Ritwa and her lad. Shagging Bea was the only thing in his head. It must have cost him a good few million over the years to do it. You’ve read his diary?”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “HA, AFS, FI,” Halfy said. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re a bit t
hick, Bäckström,” Halfy said.

  “I just have a bit of trouble if I try to think,” Bäckström said. “I don’t suppose you feel like helping me?”

  “HA, as in handjob,” Halfy said, illustrating this by playing air guitar above his own crotch.

  “AFS, as in Andersson’s fellatio special,” he went on, pursing his lips.

  “And FI, of course. Full intercourse, for when you fuck like normal people do,” Halfy concluded. Kalle was keeping a diary of when he had sex with Bea. It’s hardly that difficult to grasp? Five hundred for a normal handjob, two thousand for a blowjob. Five thousand for an old-fashioned fuck. It even says he had to pay ten thousand the time he forgot to wear a rubber and went in bare. Kalle can’t have been right in the head toward the end. Paying ten grand for a plain old fuck.

  “Forget the Arabs, Bäckström,” Halfy said, draining his cup in one gulp. “This is all about Kalle Danielsson shagging my ex-sister-in-law, Britt-Marie Andersson. She went back to her maiden name when she realized my brother didn’t have a penny. She was a Söderman for ten years, and no one was happier than me when she changed it back to Andersson.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Bäckström said, thinking hard. “Fellatio? No one really calls it that. What’s that all about?”

  “Typical Kalle,” Halfy said with a grin. “He was always like that. A bit ironic. And Britt-Marie has always tried to make out that she’s better than she is, if I can put it like that. If you went to her, you didn’t get just any old blowjob. No, you got Andersson’s fellatio special, an AFS. Typical Kalle, if you ask me.”

  “I see,” Bäckström said, checking to see that his ears were still stuck to his round head, just in case.

  92.

  “Fellatio,” Bäckström said, pursing his lips as he finished the summary of his conversation with Britt-Marie Andersson’s ex-brother-in-law.

  “Do you know what, Bäckström?” Britt-Marie Andersson said, leaning forward and displaying her undeniably impressive charms as she put her suntanned hand on the inside of Bäckström’s left thigh.