Just wonder if life can get much better than this, thought Bäckström with a happy sigh. Here you sit on your new leather couch with an ample whiskey and a cold beer while two blacks pound the shit out of each other on your own big screen.
The weekend’s porno offerings had unfortunately been the usual. The endless bobbing, hopping, and moaning, and at last he got so sick and tired of it that despite all the malt whiskey he made a serious attempt to find something more interesting on the Internet. He did too. A red-haired babe from Norrköping who posted a tape of her own efforts on her home page. Cheap besides. Red-haired for real, judging by her mouse, and definitely a natural talent. Not to mention her dialect. Unbeatable, considering the lines, thought Bäckström, being the connoisseur he was.
On Saturday he had dinner at the usual greasy spoon, even though he now had the means to do much better. Just as usual it turned out to be too much of most everything, and basically he spent all of Sunday in his checkered bed from Hästens. In the early hours he’d had the company of an insolent little lady he had dragged home from the bar. Then she got as tedious as all the other hags his age, but because he was a decent fellow he gave her money for a taxi before he kicked her out. So he was finally able to sleep off a hard week. With revived energies he concluded the weekend with a long walk to a better restaurant down in City. Returned at a humane hour and went to bed early. Now damn it, thought Bäckström when at ten o’clock on Monday morning he was already back at work.
No sign of life from the colleague at the tech squad, and as a first measure he called the Lapp bastard’s secretary to give her a little reminder. This time the bastard was sitting in a meeting and could not be disturbed. If possible she herself sounded even snippier than usual. Wonder if it’s her mouse she talks with, thought Bäckström. Perseverance wins the day, he thought an hour later and called again. Although she sounded exactly the same, it seemed as though the message was finally about to get through.
First that weak dick Lewin had called. Evidently he had had to interrupt his archival studies down in the Palme room for his boss’s sake. Bäckström made the session brief. Then Lewin evidently trotted over to Flykt and asked for help. Ass licker Flykt, of all people. A retarded golf player who had evaded honorable work for at least twenty years by hiding behind his fine murder victim. Bäckström was even briefer.
Then he called Johansson’s secretary again to give her yet another little reminder. Called her on Monday, on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, when his bottle cap popped off and he told her a thing or two she needed to hear. The only result was that his own little office fool and so-called boss came charging into his office and threatened first one thing and then another, and then suddenly Bäckström was going to be granted the favor of meeting Anna Holt.
From weak dick to ass licker to that anorexic dyke whose ribs you can count through her jacket. We’re taking giant steps here, thought Bäckström as he put his best foot forward in the corridors that led to Police Superintendent Anna Holt.
Clearly he was the target of a conspiracy. They had recorded his calls in secret, and Holt threatened first one thing and then another. First he only intended to give her some general advice and tell her to stick her opinions up her anus, but because this still was about the murder of a prime minister he tried to make an effort and give her everything GeGurra had given him. Decent fellow that he was, case-oriented as he was too, and considering the great values that were at stake.
What the hell is happening with the police? thought Bäckström as he left her office. Where the hell are we headed, really?
37
Holt was not impressed by the little that Bäckström had to tell. It sounded too much like other weapons tips that had come into the Palme investigation over the years. For the sake of orderliness she had nonetheless done such checking as she could with the help of the case files. It took her almost two days. With the greatest probability two wasted days, she thought as she put the last paper aside.
During more than twenty years the investigators had received close to a thousand tips that entirely or partially concerned the weapon that was supposed to have been used to shoot the prime minister. In addition over six hundred .357 caliber Magnum revolvers had been test fired. Practically all of them Smith & Wessons and legally owned. Nothing of what had been done had yielded any results. A few tips had seemed promising, because it was always like that. None of them led the police closer to the weapon or the perpetrator who had used it.
All of this information was collected in over sixty binders. For once at least the majority of this information had been transferred to computers. What disturbed Holt was that the police’s follow-up of the weapons leads almost exclusively concerned Smith & Wesson revolvers, even though right from the start it was clear that it was fully possible that the bullets could have been fired by half a dozen Magnum revolvers of different makes, and that the Ruger revolver was one of them.
The explanation seemed to be historical. As early as fourteen days after the first press conference, the investigation leadership decided to focus on Smith & Wesson revolvers, and what was a statistical estimate to start with turned into absolute truth and a direct order.
Holt was an excellent shot. She shot better than most of her fellow police officers. She could take apart and put together her service pistol blindfolded, but at the same time she was also completely uninterested in weapons and almost considered them a necessary evil that came with the job. Fortunately less and less often, in her line of work.
To be on the safe side she called a colleague she had met at a conference during the spring. He was a forensic technician and an even better shot than Holt. Weapons were his life’s interest and his livelihood, but he still had left room for other things. The only time they met each other they wound up in the same bed the first night of the conference, and it had been really nice. The silence that followed afterward she had first explained by the fact that he worked at the crime lab in Linköping and she in Stockholm. That he probably fiddled with his beloved weapons both day and night. That perhaps he didn’t dare call a colleague of such a high rank. Thoughts she had let go of rather quickly.
So I’ll have to ask for a little positive special treatment, thought Holt, dialing his number.
Nice of her to call. So why haven’t you called yourself? thought Holt.
Sure, the weapon that shot Palme could just as well be a Ruger of the model she described, as for example the corresponding model from Smith & Wesson. It wasn’t really the weapon that shot Palme that we’re after, but the person who used it, thought Holt.
Then she asked the decisive question.
“Assume that you found the right weapon. Would you then be able to link it to the bullets that were found on Sveavägen? With the certainty required in a courtroom?” she clarified.
“Well, assuming it’s in the same condition today, then it ought to be possible.”
“If we assume that,” said Holt. Stored in the lion’s own den and in excellent condition, she thought. At least according to the little fatso Bäckström. Or more correctly stated, according to the little fatso’s own anonymous, obviously completely trustworthy source.
“Today I believe that the probability with which you can testify is a little over ninety percent,” he answered. “If you had asked me five years ago, I would have said it was at maybe eighty percent, and that’s probably the bare minimum.”
“How’s that?” asked Holt.
“Both bullets are damaged. What’s messed them up the most is that they got a little bent and twisted around their own longitudinal axis, if you understand what I mean. But today we have access to software that means that someone like me can reconstruct them to almost original condition in my little computer. So with a little luck, then—”
“Can you link them together?” asked Holt. I recall that you were extremely handy, she thought.
“Excuse the question, but it’s not the case that—”
“Absolutely not. Forget tha
t,” interrupted Holt. “My top boss has asked me to go through the Palme material, and as I read through the weapons part it struck me that they seem to have almost entirely disregarded all revolvers that didn’t come from Smith and Wesson.”
“Yes, that was sloppy of them,” he sighed. “In my job you have to be extremely meticulous.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Holt. Not only at work, she thought.
“If you happen to be in the area then perhaps we…”
“I promise to think about it,” said Holt. Besides, I seem to recall that you have my number, she thought.
Guys, she thought as she put down the receiver. What is it that’s actually wrong with them?
Bäckström was so wrong in all human respects that she couldn’t even hate him. Could barely manage to dislike him. Preferably avoided thinking about him. A fat little guy who had certainly been bullied by his classmates from the very first day at school. Who was sufficiently thick-skinned and good at fighting to be able to pay back in kind. Who had almost never been liked as the person he really was. Who to be on the safe side responded by disliking everything and everyone.
Then there was Lars Martin Johansson. Who could be as merciless as their fellow officer Berg maintained. Whom she herself could dislike intensely until he said something or did something that hit her right in the gut. Even though she had never loved, hated, or even feared him. Johansson, whom she mostly disapproved of nowadays. Because he affected her and because she thought about him far too often. Because of his gray eyes that assessed most of what came into his vicinity.
Her very temporary lover she had just been talking with. This handsome, physically fit, and handy man who couldn’t even manage to pick up the phone to call her. Who at the same time made no secret of the fact that he could imagine another encounter. Casual and without reservations. Just like all the firearms he took apart, put together again. And fired off.
Or Lewin with his complete presence and his shy gaze. Who seemed to have understood most of both his own and others’ lives but would never dream of talking about it. Not since that time when he was only seven years old, had just lost his dad, and it was as if the bottom had gone out of him. If it hadn’t been for those scared eyes. If only he had a little more of Johansson’s unreflective self-confidence. If…
Oh for Christ’s sake, Holt, thought Anna Holt. Pull yourself together.
On Friday Bäckström received an e-mail from his lazy, incompetent colleague at the tech squad. Not because he understood what Bäckström was after, but mostly because Bäckström had nagged him so much and he himself was a decent, helpful colleague who unfortunately had far too much to do. There was Bäckström’s old office furniture, for example, that he and his colleagues still hadn’t had time to tackle.
According to the picture of the revolver that he sent with the same e-mail, it was chrome, had a long barrel, and a butt of checkered wood, which might very well be walnut. Exactly like the weapon Bäckström was asking about.
According to the accompanying text it had been test fired the week after it had been confiscated. A search in the police registry had not produced anything. They had not been able to connect it with any previous crimes. It had not been found in the Swedish weapons registry of legally owned weapons. Nor was it on any lists of weapons that Interpol, Europol, or the police in other countries were searching for.
In order to possibly get an answer to the question of how it could end up behind a refrigerator in Flemingsberg, a routine inquiry had been sent through Interpol to the American manufacturer. Six months later an answer was received. The weapon in question was more than twenty years old. This was evident, in part, from the weapon’s manufacturing number. In the fall of 1985 it had been sold, along with fifty other pistols and revolvers, to their German general agent in Bremen, in what was then West Germany. This was evident from the manufacturer’s own delivery lists, which, according to federal and state legislation, they had to archive for at least twenty-five years. On the other hand if the Swedish police wanted to know more about the weapon’s continued fate, it was the general agent in Germany who should be contacted.
Hell, thought Bäckström excitedly. It was probably so simple that they neglected to compare it with the bullets from Sveavägen simply because it was a Ruger and not a Smith & Wesson. What could you expect from Wiijnbladh and his old colleagues who couldn’t find either their mouth or their ass when they were going to take the daily dose of medicine that they so badly needed? The same colleagues who would doubtless rob him of both the glory and the money if he gave them the chance.
The description of the weapon matched what GeGurra’s informant had said to a T, and it was surely no coincidence that it had been delivered only a few months before it had been used. What the hell do I do now? And here it’s a matter of thinking clearly, thought Bäckström.
A minute later he was already sitting at his computer writing a memo that to be on the safe side he dated the day before he met GeGurra. A little more than a week before he met Holt, and at least one full day before he talked with the tech squad. First a description of the weapon and then a little, but not unessential, addition given the money and the glory. The weapon number that the incompetent lazy ass at the tech squad had just sent him.
What remained was a credible explanation to his female colleague, who would have to carry him on her raised arms into police department glory. A little addition with a few personal, explanatory lines between colleagues.
Dear Holt. At my first meeting with my informant information also emerged in the sense that the informant could remember portions of the referenced weapon’s manufacturing number. After exhaustive searches in the registry, I have decided that it is highly probable this must concern the revolver described in the attached memo. The complete manufacturing number is enclosed. According to my investigations the referenced weapon was confiscated in a house search in Flemingsberg on April 15, 2005. A copy of the initial report is enclosed. The weapon in question has since been stored at the technical squad in Stockholm where unfortunately they seem to have missed doing a ballistic comparison with the bullets that were secured at the crime scene at Sveavägen and Tunnelgatan on the first and second of March 1986. Considering the sensitive nature of the matter I assume that the information I am now giving you is covered by heightened confidentiality and that only I personally will be kept informed on an ongoing basis of the measures that the national bureau carries out. With best regards. Detective Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström
Now you’ve got something good to suck on, you skinny little wretch. Now make sure you take care of yourself, and kind uncle Evert will buy a pair of real knockers for you, thought Bäckström contentedly.
What remained was to figure out how the revolver could have ended up behind a refrigerator out in Flemingsberg with a common thug who had nothing but consonants in his surname, and who was only six years old when Palme was shot. That’s worth thinking about over the weekend, and the old poisoner Wiijnbladh surely has a thing or two to contribute, thought Bäckström. High time to go home as well.
A few hours later, about the same time that Bäckström was deep in thought on his couch with a whiskey and a cold beer nearby, Anna Holt was going through her e-mail as a final task before she took off for the weekend.
Goodness. Now Bäckström has really gone crazy, she thought as she read his memo. Because she still intended to talk with her boss before she went home, she printed out a copy for him.
So Johansson too gets something good to suck on, thought Anna Holt based on a familiar example, as she turned off her computer.
38
On Saturday morning Mattei woke up in the overly large apartment on Narvavägen she’d been given by her kind dad. Personally she would have preferred to live on Söder, but her father just shook his head. Either Östermalm or nothing at all. He would have preferred to see her move home to Bavaria. The Bavaria that was the Mattei family’s homeland. Not like Sweden, which was only a temporary
stopping place on the way through life.
What’s wrong with Söder, and what is it that happens to all old radicals? thought Lisa Mattei as she laced up her running shoes.
She ran her usual end-of-the-week circuit on Djurgården. It went better than expected, considering that lately she had started noticeably neglecting her exercise. It’s like there’s no reason to work out, thought Lisa Mattei as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror and squeezed her flat stomach. A pale, thin blonde, thought Mattei, shaking her head at her mirror image.
It had been three months since anyone had kissed her, and that had happened when she made her annual visit to her dad. Because it involved one of her father’s many assistants, she could not rule out that dear old dad had ordered him to do it.
She got dressed. Had a late breakfast. Took a mineral water, an apple, and a banana and went to work. In reception there was a new guard, whom she didn’t recognize. That much too common type, with a shaved head, bulging shoulders, and upper arms as thick as her waist. She nodded curtly, held up her ID, and made a beeline for the entry passage. Then he called out after her.
“Hello! May I look at that,” he said, pointing with his whole hand at her ID.
“Mattei, national bureau,” said Lisa Mattei, holding up the card about a foot in front of his eyes.
“Okay,” he said, suddenly smiling. “I’m new here. Just been at a course for two days, and the only thing they talked about was what would happen to me if I let the wrong person in.”
“It’s cool,” said Mattei. Smiled and nodded. Seems relatively normal even though he looks the way he does, she thought.
Stuck-up lady, thought the guard, watching her as she went in. That cool, blonde type that always played the leading role in his daily dreams of a better life. What would someone like that have to do with someone like him? A moonlighting student. Shaved head to conceal the baldness that had started to appear even in high school. Could bench-press four hundred pounds. A workout buddy had suggested he should moonlight as a guard. Better than student loans. Plenty of time to read. Get paid while he did it.
Free Falling, As If in a Dream Page 27