The police seldom got such an opportunity to rap their private-sector competitors on the knuckles, and in the general delirium unfortunately the officers in the radio car that arrived first forgot to turn off both the blue lights and the siren as they braked outside the entryway. The perpetrator had been scared off, and when the apartment was finally entered it was empty. The thief had sneaked out through the kitchen entry, across the back courtyard, and out to the street on the other side of the block. No one was arrested, but the outcome was good enough because it appeared that he hadn’t managed to make off with anything from the overnight apartment, which could best be described as an “art museum” according to the technicians and experts from the property investigation squad who were called to the scene. This was also the information that the security company gave the customer when he was called at home in Switzerland.
Break-in at the apartment. Now taken care of by additional protective measures. Break-in interrupted. The thief had departed from the scene and it seemed that he hadn’t taken anything with him. No technical clues had been secured. Perpetrator unknown. Only three weeks later, when the crime victim showed up to celebrate Midsummer—“have some pickled herring, a shot or two of aquavit, listen to Evert Taube, and watch the sun go down behind the dear old outhouse”—had they realized the extent of what had happened.
The crime victim’s attorney then contacted both the security company and the Stockholm police to report that the thief had not left as empty-handed as they had asserted. Despite the sirens down on the street, the perpetrator had managed to take with him a small oil painting by Pieter Bruegel the Younger, which the owner of the apartment had hung in his guest toilet to annoy guests who weren’t as rich as he was.
The crime victim was a taciturn man, and neither his security company nor the police made a big deal of it. There was not a word in the newspapers, although the stolen painting had an insurance value of thirty million Swedish kronor. In the greatest possible silence an extensive investigation had begun. Even if clues were completely lacking and despite the fact that in principle the painting was unsellable.
Bäckström heard about it all as he sat in the break room. Personally he didn’t work with art thefts. No paintings, no antiques, not even a pitiful little silver candlestick was allowed to cross his desk for some reason. He had been assigned more substantial things, and since the first day he had been fully occupied with an Estonian freight truck found abandoned in a parking lot up at Norrtälje. Upon closer examination it proved to contain almost two hundred stolen bicycles.
“Here’s something for you to bite into, Bäckström,” said his immediate supervisor as he set the investigation file on his desk.
“What the hell should I do with this shit?” said Bäckström, glaring acidly at the multipage list of stolen goods.
“How about finding the owners?” said his boss with a sneering smile. “Welcome, by the way,” he added.
Now this is war, goddamn it, thought Bäckström, and how the hell do you go about telling two hundred bikes apart? Personally he didn’t know anyone who needed a bike. The only people who bike are homos, dykes, treehuggers, and anorexics. Even the Chinese drive cars nowadays, he thought.
Now it’s a matter of embracing the situation if you’re not going to starve to death, thought Bäckström, and after some pondering he remembered a female acquaintance he’d met on the Internet. She worked as a dental hygienist in Södertälje and surely needed a bicycle. She was a real barn owl who always ran around in home-sewn clothes and gave him a batik T-shirt she’d dyed herself back in the day. If she deals in that kind of shit she probably bicycles too, thought Bäckström. Sitting and rubbing herself on some old saddle, and what the hell did a horndog like that have to choose from? he thought.
A few things as it turned out, as soon as he got hold of her by phone. For one thing her new fiancé, who worked as district chief with the local police in Solna, had given her a car of her own. For another she already had a bicycle. Third, she thought it was a strange coincidence to say the least that Bäckström had a bike to sell. Almost new, and cheap besides. Fourth, she was seriously considering calling Bäckström’s boss and letting him know about this.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” asked Bäckström.
“My guy told me you got a job at the police lost-and-found warehouse,” she replied.
“Hello, little lady,” said Bäckström. “You don’t think I’m so fucking dense that I’m trying to foist a stolen bike off on you?” Now it’s a matter of damming the creek before the shit ends up in the river, he thought.
“Yes,” she said, “I think you really are that dense.” Then she just hung up.
Fucking cunt lips, and what the hell do I do now? thought Bäckström, but because he’d always had a lucky streak it worked out anyway. The very next evening he ran into an old acquaintance he’d gotten to know at his neighborhood restaurant: Gustaf G:son Henning, a very successful and respected art dealer who had offered Bäckström a thing or two over the years in exchange for simpler police confidences. Now seventy years old, slender and well-tailored with silver hair, a large apartment on Norr Mälarstrand, an office at Norrmalmstorg, he was a frequent guest on all the art and antique programs on TV. Among those who knew him he was called GeGurra, and the only mystery was that he would show up regularly at the humble greasy spoon on the wrong side of Kungsholmen that Bäckström frequented basically every day of the week.
When GeGurra was born his dear parents had christened him Juha Valentin. Juha after his maternal grandfather, who had Finnish Gypsies on his side of the family and had great success, as both a rag-and-bone merchant and a scrap metal collector. Valentin after his paternal grandfather, who had been active in the amusement industry and among many things owned a traveling carnival and two porno clubs in Bohuslän back when the industry was new and a real Wild West for anyone who could help themselves. Juha Valentin Andersson Snygg, a name with both ancestry and obligations, and absolutely inconceivable for the hopeful young man who saw a future in the somewhat more elegant trade in art and antiques.
As soon as Juha Valentin became an adult he changed his name. To be on the safe side both his first names and his surname, which he chose according to the snobbiest prejudices to be found in the industry he intended to make his own. He also made an exciting addition as an homage to the most stuck-up of them all. Juha Valentin Andersson Snygg had been transformed to Gustaf G:son Henning in the civil registry and to the public, and to GeGurra among near, dear, and regular acquaintances. Juha Valentin belonged to a time long since past.
It sometimes happened that Gustaf G:son was asked what G:son really stood for. Then he would smile sadly before he answered.
“After old uncle Gregor. Though he’s been dead for many years, as I’m sure you know.”
It was also quite true. His mother, Rosita, had a brother whose name was Gregor who had died under tragic circumstances back in the fifties. The distilling apparatus in his trailer exploded, but he never got that kind of follow-up question.
The day after the failed bicycle deal, GeGurra had again shown up in Bäckström’s life and in the usual way.
“Nice to see you, Inspector,” said GeGurra, patting Bäckström on the shoulder. “Here you stand, philosophizing by the worn-out old bar counter.”
“Really nice to see you, Henning,” said Bäckström, who could also be formal if required. Fucking good luck I haven’t ordered yet, he thought.
“Thank you, thank you. You’re much too kind,” GeGurra acknowledged. “Have you eaten, by the way?”
“Thanks for asking,” said Bäckström. “I was just thinking about having a small bite.” Birdseed and a glass of water, if it’s my own wallet that decides, he thought.
“You know what,” said GeGurra, “then I propose we take a carriage and drive down to the Theater Grill where we can converse in peace and quiet. And I’ll pick up the check.”
“I understand you’ve finally wound up at a
well-laid table,” GeGurra observed fifteen minutes later, raising his glass. “Cheers, by the way.”
“Depends on what you mean by well-laid,” said Bäckström, shaking his head. Twenty minutes ago he’d been at the bar in his squalid regular place. Now he was sitting in the most isolated booth at one of the city’s deluxe restaurants. The personnel tied themselves in knots as soon as GeGurra appeared at the door. Large dry martini for GeGurra, malt whiskey and beer for Bäckström, each with a menu in hand. As soon as they sat their rear ends down and without Bäckström’s host needing to say a word about it.
“You don’t know anyone who needs a bicycle?” Bäckström added and sighed.
“In a rough game you should keep a good face,” GeGurra observed. “Ask me, a simple guppy who shares the aquarium with sharks, piranhas, and ordinary jellyfish. When I see you, dear Bäckström, I get a definite premonition that considerably better times are approaching.”
“You don’t say,” said Bäckström. You don’t say, he thought.
“You see, I have a small problem I think you can help me with,” said GeGurra, sipping his dry martini carefully.
“I’m listening,” said Bäckström.
GeGurra had an old customer. For many years now he’d also been a good friend. It was often that way among friends of art. Great art collector, significant patron, living abroad for many years. A few months ago he’d had a break-in in his apartment in Stockholm. An old Dutchman that wasn’t exactly free had been stolen. True, it was insured for its full value, but what did that help for a true art lover who didn’t care the least about money and besides had more of that commodity than all his spoiled heirs could imagine running through for several generations to come. He wanted his painting back. It was no more difficult than that, and now he’d asked GeGurra for advice.
“What do you think, Bäckström?” said GeGurra. “What do you think are the chances that you and your new associates will succeed in clearing this up and making sure he gets his painting back?”
“You probably shouldn’t ask me that,” said Bäckström. “It’s not my case.”
“Sad, very sad,” said GeGurra and sighed. “You don’t think your associates will put this to rights?”
“Forget it,” said Bäckström. If you don’t believe me I can show you little Wiijnbladh, he thought.
“You wouldn’t be able to check on how it’s going?” asked GeGurra.
“It’s not as easy as you think,” said Bäckström. “There’s a fucking lot of secrecy these days. You’d almost think you were working for a secret sect. If it’s not your case, then you’re screwed if you try to ferret anything out. Back in the day the insurance companies would buy back stolen paintings, but then a lot of fucking teetotalers and clean-living fools came in who made short work of that solution. As soon as some helpful bastard shows up with the painting, he lands right in jail. He can just forget about the reward money, and the insurance companies don’t want to hear about such things anymore.”
“My good friend has a Swiss insurance company,” said GeGurra. “I can assure you that they have a completely different and much more practical attitude.”
“Sure,” said Bäckström. “Tell that to the one who’s going to turn in the goods. He can only dream about the dough while he’s serving four years in the can for receiving stolen goods.”
“Think about it,” said GeGurra. “While we have a bit to eat and a little schnapps so we’ll think better.”
“What’s in it for me?” said Bäckström. Just as well to have it said, he thought.
“In my world no one goes empty-handed,” said GeGurra with a well-tailored shrug of his shoulders. “So what do you say we start with gravlax?”
The following day Bäckström took the opportunity as soon as Wiijnbladh stumbled out the door at three o’clock. All was calm and quiet in the corridor. Not a single soul around because it was both payday and Friday and high time for all hardworking constables to visit the state liquor store before they went home to the little wife and let the struggle against criminality take a weekend rest.
Bäckström started by turning over Wiijnbladh’s desk pad, and the only problem was that he’d taped the reminder slip upside down. Eight digits and eight letters written in shaky handwriting. As a personal code he had chosen Cerberus, and he was probably not the only one in the building to do so. Wonder if he’s thinking about buying new false teeth, thought Bäckström as he entered the codes in his flash drive.
Then he logged in and printed out a copy of the investigation of the art theft on Strandvägen. Put it in his pocket, took a bracing walk from his workplace to GeGurra’s residence on Norr Mälarstrand, and dropped it in his mail slot.
The following week he and GeGurra had a discreet meeting with a Swiss attorney and an English-speaking representative of the Swiss insurance company. It was clear that Bäckström would be able to arrange the retrieval of the painting if he could do as real policemen had always done. No problem, according to the insurance executive and the attorney. One wish remained on Bäckström’s side.
“This meeting never took place and you gentlemen and I have never met,” said Bäckström.
No problem with that either, and what the hell do I do now? thought Bäckström when he returned to work an hour afterward.
One week later the matter resolved itself. Even though it wasn’t his case, Inspector Evert Bäckström received an anonymous tip by phone. A polite young man who did not want to say his name announced that there was a recently stolen car parked on Polhemsgatan outside the entryway to the large police building. Only a hundred yards from Bäckström’s own desk, although he didn’t say that. In the trunk was a stolen painting, and so the police wouldn’t have to waste time, the vehicle had been left unlocked.
Bäckström went to his immediate boss and briefly explained what the whole thing was about. He said that if his boss so desired he would obviously follow up on the phone call and take a look.
“What I still don’t get is why the informant called you, Bäckström,” the chief hissed ten minutes later when they opened the back of the stolen car and saw the just-recovered painting by Bruegel the Younger. “This is not really your investigation.”
“I guess he wanted to talk with a real policeman,” said Bäckström, shrugging his fat shoulders. There’s something for you to suck on, you little bureaucrat, he thought.
One week later Bäckström’s boss gave him a new case to sink his teeth into. The department at the Swedish Economic Crime Authority that dealt with environmental crimes needed help tracing the original owner of fifty-some barrels of apparently toxic waste that the police in Nacka had found in an abandoned factory.
How do you tell such things apart? thought Bäckström. They’re all the same anyway, he thought. A few days earlier he’d met GeGurra, who thanked him for the help, treated him to dinner, and delivered a plain brown envelope without return address plus a promise that more would be coming, peu à peu, as custom dictated, between discreet friends.
You really are a cunning little devil, GeGurra, thought Bäckström when after a good meal he returned to his pleasant bachelor pad on Inedalsgatan, only a stone’s throw from the large police building. Even a half-fairy like Wiijnbladh had to make his contribution without having a clue about it.
Maybe I should buy new false teeth for the little poisoner, thought Bäckström as he mixed an ample evening toddy. The wooden kind, he thought.
Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström, legendary murder investigator in forced exile at the police lost-and-found warehouse. Gustaf G:son Henning, successful art dealer and known from TV. Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh, the police’s own knight of the mournful guise. Three human fates that had turned out differently, to be sure, but that in less than a year would be joined in a way none of them could have foreseen.
33
Almost a year later, on Thursday, August 16, Bäckström was sitting at home in his apartment on Inedalsgatan, having a quiet evening highball. Fruit soda a
nd Estonian vodka he’d bought from a fellow officer who worked with the coast guard and had a few contacts on the other side. Despite the monthly contribution from the good Henning, there had been many holes to fill. Since he’d acquired his new plasma TV with the giant screen, malt whiskey, at least for a time, had to be replaced by simpler fare. I hope it is a temporary problem, thought Bäckström, sighing contentedly. Turning on his new acquisition he almost choked on his drink.
Lapp bastard, he thought, staring at Johansson on the screen. Sitting there telling lies in that drawling Norrland way. Just like all the other Lapp bastards in a coma from too many dumplings.
That put an end to his evening repose. Even though he changed channels almost immediately and even though he tried to extinguish the smoldering fire inside him with another couple of substantial bracers. He didn’t even have the energy to check his e-mail to see if anything new had shown up from that crazy female who preferred “real men in uniform” with “fixed routines and clear orientation” but who at the same time were not unfamiliar with “boundary-crossing activities.”
How the hell does the little sow get that to fit together? thought Bäckström. And the only prospect he could think of personally was a royally drunk Italian customs agent he’d met at a conference a few years earlier.
I’ll kill the Lapp bastard, thought Bäckström, and with these consoling thoughts in his round head he fell asleep almost immediately in his newly purchased Hästens bed.
Free Falling, As If in a Dream Page 24