Free Falling, As If in a Dream

by Free Falling, As If in a Dream (retail) (epub)

  The following day was like all other days at his new job. Old bikes, shithouse barrels, and for a week now half an office that a practical-minded entrepreneur had dumped on a wooded hillside on an old aristocratic estate twelve miles north of Stockholm. A lot of worn-out computers, wobbly desks, and dilapidated desk chairs. A method of disposal both practical and cheap if you couldn’t make it to the dump, and what the hell did the police have to do with this? thought Bäckström.

  Although he did realize it was the wrong wooded hillside. The fine people who lived on the estate had been extremely indignant and took the chief constable aside when he was at dinner with their old friend His Majesty the King. Already the next day the case was on Bäckström’s desk. Serious environmental crime with highest priority from the highest police leadership and necessary assistance required from the lost-and-found warehouse’s most experienced property investigator, that is, Bäckström.

  “So I guess you’ll have to borrow a service vehicle, Bäckström, and do a little investigating on the scene. Sounds like there’s a lot of nutritious technical clues out there if I’m correctly informed,” said his immediate boss as he gave him the assignment and set the complaint on his desk. “By the way, don’t forget to take along a pair of rubber boots,” he added thoughtfully. “The ground is supposed to be pretty damp this time of year.”

  The case had mostly been going nowhere, but Bäckström did his best to get things moving and was even invited to a restorative lunch by the crime victim himself when he interviewed him about the probable time of the crime. Basically whenever, according to the plaintiff, because these days he spent most of his time in his house on the French Riviera where fortunately he didn’t own any wooded hillsides he had to worry about.

  “Probably one of those bankruptcies,” the landowner suggested, saluting his guest with his schnapps glass. “Unless you have any better ideas, chief inspector?”

  “I’m thinking about having the whole pile of shit hauled to the tech squad,” said Bäckström.

  “Sounds like an excellent idea,” his host observed. “I assume the police will cover the expense.”

  “Of course,” said Bäckström.

  His boss had not been equally amused. Especially not after his conversation with the head of the tech squad, but Bäckström stuck to his guns and if this was to be war, so be it.

  “So now I’m suddenly supposed to forget about a serious environmental crime,” said Bäckström indignantly. “Even though that fucking greenhouse effect will be the death of both old ladies and children. You have kids, don’t you?” With an exceptionally ugly old lady, he thought.

  “Of course not, Bäckström, of course not,” his boss protested. “Yes, I have three kids so I understand exactly. What I mean is simply that perhaps we shouldn’t expect that tech will treat this as a priority. You haven’t tried to trace the things yourself?”

  “Bookshelf ‘Billy,’ office chair ‘Nisse,’ and a lot of old broken computers that were bought over the counter ten years ago. Though I did find at least two hard drives among the other mildew, and if the boys at tech just focus on those I think we’ll be home free,” said Bäckström. That gives you a little something to suck on, you effeminate little binder carrier, thought Bäckström.

  Then his old benefactor GeGurra called him on his cell phone and suddenly there was hope in his life again.

  “Do you have time for dinner next week?” Gustaf G:son Henning wondered as soon as they were finished with the introductory courtesies. “I have a very interesting story, and I think we can be of mutual benefit and use to each other, if I may say so. Unfortunately I have a lot of work right now, so what do you think about the Opera Cellar on Monday at seven o’clock?”

  “Of course,” said Bäckström. “You can’t give me a clue?” Now this is starting to look like something, he thought. That fucking office furniture they could almost lamentably shove up their rear ends if they asked him.

  “Big things, Bäckström,” said GeGurra. “Much too big to be discussed on the phone I’m afraid.”

  Wonder if they’ve pinched that old Rembrandt at the National Museum, thought Bäckström. The one with all those bastards sitting and boozing while they swore some fucking oath.

  “Worse than that, I’m afraid,” said Gustaf G:son Henning, looking at his guest seriously as they sat down in the usual out-of-the-way corner and each got a refresher while they studied the menu.

  “What do you know about the weapon that was used when Olof Palme was shot?” he continued, as he nibbled carefully on the large olive that the waiter had set on a dish alongside his dry martini.

  Goodness, thought Bäckström. Now we’re talking.

  “Quite a bit,” said Bäckström, nodding with all the dignity that suits anyone who was there when it happened. Now the Lapp bastard will have to watch out, he thought. The honorable Henning was unquestionably a man who dealt in hard goods. Not an ordinary glowworm who let his jaw run on its own.

  “Do tell,” said Bäckström.

  “I have a few questions first, if you’ll excuse me,” said his host.

  “I’m listening,” said Bäckström.

  “They say there’s a reward?”

  “The socialist government put a price tag on the bastard. Fifty million tax free provided he’s delivered in travel-ready condition.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Ready for further transport to the courts and our dear criminal justice system.” Bäckström grinned, taking a gulp of his life-giving malt.

  “What if he’s dead?”

  “Still fifty million if it can be proved that it was him,” said Bäckström. “On the other hand, if you can only deliver the weapon he used, you’ll have to be content with ten million,” he continued. “Because we have the bullets from the crime scene to compare with, it’s also pretty easy. If you find the right weapon, that is. Proving that it was the one that was used, I mean,” Bäckström clarified.

  “What would happen if you were to show up with the weapon? Or mentioned where your colleagues could find it?”

  “I wouldn’t get any money in that case,” sighed Bäckström. “I am a cop after all, so I’m expected to do that sort of thing for free.” On the other hand I would have guaranteed hell from the Lapp bastard and probably wind up in jail as thanks for clearing up his shit, he thought.

  “What if the tip came from me?” asked GeGurra.

  “Then you’d get pure hell,” said Bäckström, nodding in emphasis.

  “Anonymously then? Assuming I gave an anonymous tip?”

  “Forget it,” said Bäckström. “We’re talking about the assassination of Olof Palme, so you can forget anonymity. Jail! That’s where you’ll end up. Out of pure reflex, if nothing else.”

  “Even if I can prove that I wasn’t the least bit involved?” his host persisted.

  “Then you can still forget about being anonymous. This is no ordinary lottery winnings we’re talking about,” said Bäckström. “Some of my fellow officers are as taciturn as a tea strainer. Give out more than you pour in, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sad,” said GeGurra and sighed. “Personally I’ve done considerably larger deals than this without saying a word about either the seller or the buyer.”

  “Sure,” said Bäckström. “It’s a completely different matter, since I’m the one who’s the cop in this company.”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think if I ask the questions and you answer?” said Bäckström.

  “Of course,” said GeGurra and nodded. “Then I’ll tell you what I heard from an old acquaintance almost fifteen years ago.”

  “Wait now,” said Bäckström, making a deprecating gesture. “Fifteen years ago? Why haven’t you said anything until now?”

  “It was as if it never happened,” said GeGurra, shaking his head. “But then I saw in the newspaper a week or so ago that the head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation apparently opened a new secret investi
gation. Because the crime will soon pass the statute of limitations, I thought perhaps this was the right time to speak out.”

  “Okay, I’m listening,” said Bäckström. Talk about danger in delay, he thought.

  Almost fifteen years earlier, an old acquaintance, who “was in the same line of work as Bäckström,” told Gustaf G:son Henning about the weapon used to murder Olof Palme. Because he had kept a diary for many years, Bäckström could of course get an exact date for their conversation if he so desired.

  “Why did he tell you that?” asked Bäckström. A fellow cop. That’s the shits, he thought.

  “He wanted to know what it might be worth if it was sold on the international art and antiques market,” GeGurra explained. “People collect the strangest things, you know,” he said, shaking his head. “A few years ago I sold an old pair of flannel pajamas that had belonged to Heinrich Himmler, the old head of the Nazi SS, as I’m sure you recall, for three hundred fifty thousand kronor.”

  “What kind of answer did he get? Your acquaintance, I mean.”

  “That it would probably be extremely difficult to find a buyer. Considering that it concerned a still unsolved murder of a prime minister. A million, tops, at that point in time. But that the potential price could obviously change radically as soon as the murder was past the statute of limitations, assuming the weapon was not criminally acquired, of course. The limitations period for receiving stolen goods is a bit complicated, as I’m sure you know. In any event, after the end of that period this would surely be a matter of millions.”

  “More than ten?”

  “Certainly.” GeGurra nodded. “Assuming that you find the right buyer, and I know several who would reach down pretty far to add a showpiece like that to their collections.”

  “The Friends of Palme Haters,” said Bäckström and grinned.

  “Yes, one of them, at least.”

  “Did he tell you anything else about the weapon?”

  “Yes. Among other things he said that this did not concern a Smith and Wesson revolver as has always been maintained in the media. Instead it concerned a different, American-manufactured revolver, a Ruger. The model is called Speed Six and has a magazine that holds six bullets. Chrome, silver-colored, with a long barrel, ten inches I seem to recall he said, a .357 caliber Magnum. Wooden butt made of walnut with a checkered grip. In perfect condition. I remember I asked about that, by the way. That kind of information is important to someone like me.”

  “Did he say anything else?” said Bäckström. “Did he have any registration number on the weapon?” The model may actually correspond, he thought.

  “Not that he gave me anyway. On the other hand the weapon was ready for delivery, in the event of a deal. It had been stored in a very secure place for a number of years.”

  “So where was that?” asked Bäckström.

  “In the lion’s own den,” said GeGurra, smiling faintly. “Those were his own words. That it had been stored in the lion’s own den.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “I’ve no idea. But he seemed extremely amused when he said it.”

  “Did he say anything else?” asked Bäckström.

  “Yes, actually. One more thing. Pretty strange story, in fact. According to what he alleged, the same weapon had been used for another two murders and a suicide. A few years before it was used to shoot the prime minister. I definitely remember that he said that. That this was a weapon with a long history. It had been used not only to shoot a prime minister who spied for the Russians, but also to clear away more ordinary riffraff. He expressed himself more or less like that, actually.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Who?” said GeGurra, with a modest smile.

  “Your informant. The one who was in the same line of work as me. Does he have a name?”

  “Yes,” said GeGurra. “But hardly a name that you discuss at a place like this. So you’ll have to be patient for a few hours. I asked one of my co-workers to place a discreet envelope in your mail slot. The usual monthly amount for our old deal plus a little extra to defray your expenses in connection with what we’ve just discussed, which I hope can be our next project. Plus a slip of paper with the name of my old acquaintance.”

  “Sounds good,” said Bäckström. “By the way, how did you get to know him?”

  “Like most of the others,” said GeGurra. “He bought a painting from me. A Zorn, actually.”

  “Goodness,” said Bäckström. “That wasn’t cat shit.” Wonder what a colleague like that had worked out? he thought. Must have been better than the lost-and-found warehouse.

  “A rather unusual Zorn,” said GeGurra. “When the great painter of women was in his most exhilarated mood, his female studies could be rather penetrating, if I may say so. Not just skin, hair, and water. An unknown side of Zorn, or perhaps a side not readily discussed by art historians, but which suited my acquaintance’s somewhat special taste. Like hand in glove, if you will.”

  “He painted her pussy,” Bäckström concluded.

  “The best-painted cunt in Swedish art history,” GeGurra concurred with unexpected emphasis. “What do you say to an ample slice of meat, by the way, and a decent bottle of red?”

  Bäckström remained sitting at the restaurant longer than he intended. He had yet another project to attend to. Besides an envelope that waited on his own hall mat.

  GeGurra really is an old brick, thought Bäckström as he sat on his couch, counting up the monthly stipend, plus the to say the least generous incentive to support the new project. Although personally he wouldn’t have given many kopeks for the name of the informant on the enclosed slip of paper.

  What do you mean “colleague”? No way did that fairy manage to shoot Palme, and how did someone like that have the money for a Zorn? thought Bäckström, shaking his round head before downing an ample dose of Estonian vodka and fruit soda. Besides, there was definitely someone else he knew who always used to bang on about the fact that he had been a good friend of the same man.

  Now who the hell was that? thought Bäckström, and never mind, for it would certainly come back to him. Must be that fucking Baltic vodka, he thought before he fell asleep. Like an eraser on an otherwise perfectly functioning brain like his.

  34

  On Thursday, August 31, contrary to habit Bäckström had been dutifully active the whole day, because there were big things going on. Not bicycles, waste drums, or worn-out office furniture. Likely this was a matter of future Swedish crime history that for once had ended up in the right hands and not with one of his more or less retarded fellow officers. For once it was also so expedient that he had access to all the information he needed in his own computer. Even the police lost-and-found warehouse had been mobilized in the hunt for the revolver used to shoot the prime minister. A hunt that had gone on for as long as the hunt for the murderer himself. Which had required tens of thousands of man-hours over the years and still with no results.

  As early as Sunday, two days after the murder, the leader of the investigation at the time, Hans Holmér, held his first press conference, and the murder weapon had been the media headliner. The large conference hall at police headquarters, hundreds of journalists, packed to the rafters with people, TV cameras from all over the world, and a police chief who was positively quivering with desire to meet his audience. He leaned on his elbows, his upper body swaying like a boxer as he sat at a table on the high podium, silenced the audience with a hand gesture, and nodded seriously but nonetheless smiling toward the hall of attentive listeners.

  After a well-considered stage pause, he held up two revolvers in front of him while he was met by a veritable cascade of flashbulbs, wave after wave of lights that streamed toward him, and personally he had never felt as strong as right then.

  From that day on the investigation leadership had also decided that this “in all probability concerned a U.S.-manufactured revolver of the brand Smith & Wesson with a long barrel.” Partly because this
was possibly true, but mostly because this was not a time for provisos and reservations.

  How could he be so sure of that? Bäckström thought, who knew better because he had been there from the beginning and was a real police officer in contrast to Holmér and all the other legal fairies who barely knew where the trigger was.

  That it concerned a revolver and not a pistol seemed highly probable. The half a dozen witnesses who had seen it in the perpetrator’s right hand described it exactly that way. Like a “typical revolver,” “one of those Western pieces with a long barrel,” or even like “the real Buffalo Bill thing.”

  Their observations had also been supported by the few technical clues that had been secured—or not secured—at the crime scene. No bullet casings had been found, and because pistols in contrast to revolvers eject the casing when fired, this argued for a revolver. The caliber of the two bullets found at the crime scene was .357 Magnum, and almost all guns in that caliber were revolvers. There were exceptions, such as the Israeli army’s Desert Eagle service pistol, but these were uncommon and did not tally with the bullets that were found. The bullets at the crime scene were somewhat special and manufactured only for revolvers.

  The first one had been found early in the morning after the murder. It was on the sidewalk on the other side of Sveavägen, about fifty yards from the crime scene. The second one was found a day later at lunchtime and was in the line of fire less than six yards from the place where the prime minister had been shot.

  It had been possible to trace the bullets to the manufacturer. The make was Winchester Western .357 Magnum, metal piercing. Lead bullets supplied with an especially hard mantle consisting of a layer of copper and zinc, which therefore could also break through metal. The reason for manufacturing them was that the American highway patrol expressed a desire for a bullet that was sufficiently hard and resistant so that for example it could be shot through the engine block of a car.

  How many had then been used was uncertain. At the same time this was of minor importance because the metal piercing bullets quickly became popular among regular Magnum shooters and especially among those engaged in so-called combat shooting, a practice in which a certain type of adult male runs around shooting at most everything from paper figures to empty gas cans.