Free Falling, As If in a Dream

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

  Quite certain, according to the colleague his cousin had talked with. You see, he’d been responsible for security during the celebrity visit and had personally seen to smuggling the prime minister in through the hotel staff entrance, to be as discreet as possible.

  Definitely crazy perverse, thought Bäckström.

  After that Bäckström proceeded to external surveillance, which he initiated with a visit to private banker Theo Tischler. Bäckström had met Tischler in connection with an old case he’d been in charge of. True, that was almost twenty years ago, but their meeting at that time had ended in the best manner and Tischler still remembered him.

  “Sit yourself down, Bäckström,” said Tischler, pointing to the large rococo armchair where he usually placed his visitors. “What can I help you with?”

  Danger in delay, thought Bäckström, and chose to get right to the point.

  “Friends of Cunt,” said Bäckström. “Tell me about it.”

  “No foreplay, just right to it,” said Tischler, smiling. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” said Bäckström. “Everything that may be of interest,” he clarified.

  “Sure,” said Tischler. Then he told him. Just like he always did, and often without even having been asked.

  “That little pathological liar Claes Waltin was expelled. He brought the society’s name into disrepute, so I was forced to kick him out.”

  “So how did he do that?” asked Bäckström, even though he already knew. “Did he beat up the ladies he hit on?”

  “No, hell no, it was worse than that. He had a prick the size of Jiminy Cricket’s,” said Tischler. “What the hell do you think the ladies thought about that? What the hell would they think about the rest of us in the society? So he was thrown out on his ears. Clearly I couldn’t associate with someone like that. Do you know what my buddies called me, by the way? When I was in the Sea Scouts?”

  “No,” said Bäckström.

  Then Tischler told him about the Donkey, and even though Bäckström had asked to know everything, he was forced to stop Tischler an hour later.

  “I think I have a clear picture,” said Bäckström.

  “Impossible,” said Tischler. “Then you must have seen it.”

  “This Thulin,” said Bäckström by way of diversion. “Do you have anything interesting about him?”

  “You mean the Apostle of Aquavit,” said Tischler. “Back then he drank like a Russian, and when he was loaded he started raving about his strong faith in God. Though now he has become a fine fellow.”

  “I’ve understood that,” said Bäckström. “There seems to have been a trophy too,” he said, looking slyly at his interview victim.

  “Trophy? What could that have been?”

  “One of those prize trophies that you awarded to the one who hit on the most ladies. Cuntmaster of the Year I think you called it.”

  “No,” said Tischler, shaking his head. “What would we do with something like that? I guess we didn’t need a trophy. I was always the one who won. Why should I award an expensive trophy to myself? All the bar tabs I had to pay were enough.”

  He got no further than that, and as soon as he was outside on the street again he hailed a taxi. On the way home he made a detour to the usual greasy spoon because his empty stomach was echoing seriously.

  High time to put a little something in my craw, thought Bäckström, ordering a sausage with red beets and fried eggs, double pilsner and an ample shot, for the sake of his digestion. Then one thing led to another, and when he finally got home to his cozy pad he lay down on the couch in front of the TV and started flipping between all the new and interesting channels he’d acquired.

  Everything has its time, said Bäckström, like the philosopher he was, and the internal surveillance on the members of the Friends of Cunt Society could profitably be put off until the morrow.

  84

  Bäckström was used to having to toil like a dog. Strictly speaking he’d done it his whole life as a policeman, even though he seldom got any reward for his efforts. Mostly shit, actually, from all his envious, feeble-minded colleagues. During the last week it had been worse than that. He had been tossed between external and internal detective work. Forced to sneak around in the basement of the police building and then at the next moment sit for hours in front of his computer, hold discreet meetings out in town where he had to carry on whispered conversations and pick up the tab; he was even forced to visit the archive at Swedish Radio to get a copy of an old TV program in which one of his suspects was standing in a gravel pit in Sörmland shooting wildly in all directions with a Magnum revolver.

  He had exploited all his contacts, convinced, persuaded, threatened, begged, and pleaded. Called in services and return favors and was even forced to bribe an unusually corrupt colleague with a bottle of his best malt whiskey.

  On Wednesday evening it was finally done, and as he stood there with his Magnum Opus in hand—the bundle of papers still wafting their agreeable aroma from his computer printer—it was as if some force, even stronger than himself, touched his great heart.

  “The murder of Olof Palme. Crime analysis, perpetrator profiles, and possible motives. Memorandum prepared on September 26 by Detective Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström,” Bäckström read out loud.

  Finally done, thought Bäckström. And if he’d only been able to take care of the whole thing from the very beginning, all of the nation’s innocent citizens would not have needed to hover in uncertainty for more than twenty years.

  A conspiracy with four members. He had been clear about this early on, as soon as he got on the trail of that secret society. True to his systematic disposition it was also there that he started. By mapping out the roles that the various perpetrators had played. That Claes Waltin was the brain behind the murder was apparent. A high-ranking policeman with SePo who had full knowledge of what the murder victim was involved in. Who had been able to more or less plan the deed in every detail.

  Once that part was finished, the others had been allowed to do their bit. Prosecutor and member of parliament Alf Thulin, who had full insight into what the Palme investigators were doing the whole time, could even manage them for long periods and take necessary misleading or evasive maneuvers as needed. That was also where the wealthy Theo Tischler came into the picture, to put out smoke screens and also dole out a lot of money as needed to the first investigation leader so that he could continue chasing the life out of a lot of crazy Kurds. Then he too had been fired.

  Which left the well-known business attorney Sven Erik Sjöberg. What had been his task when Palme was murdered?

  According to reliable witness reports from the crime scene, which were also supported by various technical investigations, the perpetrator who shot Palme was definitely at least six foot one.

  Claes Waltin was too short. Only five foot eight, apart from everything else that burdened a legal queen like him. Theo Tischler was even shorter, five foot seven, the same height as the victim. Squarely built and bald besides. It was even worse with Thulin, who according to the information in his passport could almost be described as a tall, stately dwarf at all of five foot five.

  Sven Erik Sjöberg remained. A giant at five foot ten compared with the rest of the society, and both physically fit and powerful besides. Remarkably like the man that the witnesses described, and though he’d been dead for almost fifteen years, it was here that Bäckström made the first thrust. As always his intuition led him in the right direction.

  Sjöberg had evidently been a diligent society brother and club joiner. Not just as a young law student in Friends of Cunt, for that was only a modest beginning. The introduction to a long career in social life that extended from the local Conservative association in Danderyd to the Employers Association in Uppland, the Friends of the Countryside Association, the Shareholders Association, the Taxpayers Association, the Association Against Employee Funds, the gentlemen’s society Stora Sällskapet, Lilla Sällskapet, the New So
ciety, Society for a Free Sweden, Rotary…And so on, and so on. All the way to the Swedish Hunters Union, the “Sneseglarna” sailing society, the Polar Bears winter swimming club, and the Magnum Boys shooting association.

  The Magnum Boys, thought Bäckström, licking his lips, and by the next day he knew everything worth knowing about this illustrious confederation. Fifty-some men, marksmen, gun collectors, hunters who met regularly at a gravel pit in Huddinge, where they then passed the time by shooting at cardboard figures and empty gasoline cans with Magnum revolvers and automatic weapons.

  When Bäckström read through their annual report for fiscal year 1990 he also found an item that reported that the vice chairman, Sven Sjöberg, had evidently made an appearance as the guest of honor in the noteworthy TV program The Boys at Fagerhult in October that fall. The very next day Bäckström acquired a copy of the program from the TV archive, and it was then that he ran across yet another vein of purest gold. Thick as his thumb this time.

  After that there had been dinner, and it was then that the decisive piece fell into place. Sjöberg was invited to appear on the TV program not only in his capacity as a hunter, marksman, and society brother. In reality he was there to discuss the Bofors arms deal with India. In his capacity as member of the board of directors and the company’s attorney for many years.

  There was no doubt that you should buy your cannons from Bofors, if you asked Sjöberg, and if you had such a product to offer bribes were wholly unnecessary. Not much more had been said either; instead they proceeded to make a toast to the deal and discuss more essential things, such as how best to kill innocent animals.

  In light of this new information Bäckström revised his previous analysis of motives. Not just sex, although there seemed to be strong bonds that united the perpetrators with their victim. Besides, he had found evidence for the second classic motive. Money. Lots of money, which Bofors paid out in bribes to both Indians and others. Not least to the murder victim, if you were to rely on the dozens of allegations in that direction that Bäckström had found on the Internet.

  Sex and money. Perpetrators and victim who had a common past. A victim who had been murdered because he had a falling out with the others. With the brain Waltin, the mole Thulin, the financier Tischler, and the marksman Sjöberg.

  The same Sjöberg who regrettably had died almost fifteen years ago and therefore could not be questioned. A completely natural death as it appeared. At the Santa’s Elves Association annual Christmas dinner he rose to give the customary thank-you speech and started by opening his mouth, which he’d done his whole life. But instead of beginning to talk one more time he suddenly had a stroke, collapsed like an empty sack, taking a grilled pig’s head with him in his fall, and died on the spot.

  After a long period of illness. Jeez, Louise, thought Bäckström, who’d read his obituary in Svenska Dagbladet but was not as easily fooled as all the others.

  85

  It was time to move from words to action and confront the two perpetrators who were still alive, thought Bäckström as soon as he was done with his restorative Thursday breakfast of pancakes with fried ham, applesauce, toast with extra-salty butter, a big cup of strong coffee, and a gulp of Jägermeister to top it off. Then he ordered a taxi and rode down to the Parliament Building. Upon entering the reception area he handed a business card to the security guard and asked to see member of parliament Alf Thulin, on a matter that was both urgent and sensitive.

  “Do you have an appointment, Inspector?” asked the security guard.

  “Unfortunately there wasn’t time for that,” said Bäckström. “Win or lose, I took a chance and came here.” Now suck on that, you little desk jockey, he thought.

  It was a win, obviously. As always when he tugged hard on the reins. Five minutes later he was on the couch with the Apostle of Aquavit. Nowadays a fine, respected fellow, so it was crucial to be careful with the knife as you drew it against the whetstone. At least to start with, he thought.

  “You wanted to see me, Inspector,” said member of parliament Thulin, forming his short, thin fingers into a little church arch.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” said Bäckström. “Even if my business is somewhat delicate.”

  “Be my guest. I’m listening,” said the member of parliament, making an inviting gesture with his right hand.

  “Friends of Cunt,” said Bäckström, sticking out his round head toward the one being questioned to inspire added respect. “Isn’t it high time you unburdened yourself on this point? Let’s start there.” Then we’ll take the rest as we go along, thought Bäckström, who’d done more interrogations than most.

  “Excuse me,” said the member of parliament, looking at Bäckström with astonishment.

  “I’m talking about the Friends of Cunt. A little society of comrades of which you were a member during your happy student days. I’m sure you remember it.”

  “I don’t recall that we’ve dropped formalities,” said the member of parliament, glancing at the closed door to his office for some reason.

  Okay, thought Bäckström. If you’re going to be that way. “Stop fooling around now, Thulin,” said Bäckström, giving him the classic police stare. “I want you to tell me. Be my guest, Thulin. I’m listening. Or would you prefer that I call you the Apostle of Aquavit and take you with me to the confessional up at police headquarters?”

  “Excuse me a moment, Inspector,” said the member of parliament, smiling wanly. “I’m afraid I have to wash my hands. I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure,” said Bäckström. Before you wet your undies, he thought, and if he’d ever seen an interrogation victim who was soon going to be as docile as a sacrificial lamb, it was the Apostle of Aquavit.

  Damn, he’s taking a long time, thought Bäckström as he looked at the clock ten minutes later. Wonder if the bastard shit his pants? Best to check, he thought. He got up and reached for the door to see where he’d gone.

  Locked. What the hell is going on? thought Bäckström, trying the door one more time to be on the safe side. Still locked.

  What the hell is happening? thought Bäckström again fifteen minutes later. Dead silence on the other side of the door. From time to time he was able to perceive extremely faint sounds, even though he stood with his ear pressed against the door, and there had been a lot of running around in the corridor when he arrived. Stealthy footsteps, something heavy being dragged along the floor. Now there’s some real shit going on, thought Bäckström, for suddenly it was so silent you could hear how silent it was. Damn it anyway, thought Bäckström. I should have brought little Sigge with me, he thought, feeling inside his jacket to be on the safe side. Empty. Who the hell would drag around a shoulder holster and a lot of scrap iron when you were only going to tongue-lash a dwarf? he thought.

  That was also more or less the last thing he remembered when he finally awoke the following morning and gradually realized that he was still alive. Despite everything. Despite the Friends of Cunt, who evidently had tentacles that reached all the way to the top of police administration. Who evidently only needed to pick up the phone so the Lapp bastard up at the bureau could sic his own death patrol on Bäckström.

  86

  “How’s it going?” said Johansson as soon as Lewin came into his office.

  “It’s rolling along slowly,” said Lewin, nodding inquisitively at Johansson’s visitor’s chair before he sat down.

  “Is he alive?” asked Johansson.

  “I think so,” Lewin replied. “I get that feeling, at least,” he added with a cautious throat clearing. “In any event we don’t have anything that indicates the opposite.”

  “His sister then? Runs out to the bar all the time and drinks champagne with all the interest on her accounts.”

  “She seems to live a very quiet life,” said Lewin, shaking his head. “Judging by the records from her home phone she seems to socialize mostly with an old co-worker and a few neighbors in the area where she lives. Plus she’s secreta
ry of her condominium association. Not really any extensive socializing. She makes at most a few calls a day. I haven’t located any cell phone. She doesn’t have an account with any Swedish provider. But she does have a computer and an Internet account with Telia.”

  “She probably has one of those prepaid cell phones, like all the other crooks. A leopard never changes its spots,” said Johansson as a police siren started sounding in the pocket of his jacket. “Excuse me,” he said, fishing out his red cell phone.

  “Yes,” said Johansson as he always had the habit of doing when he answered the phone.

  “You don’t say,” he continued. “Come here on the double so we can set out the shooting line.

  “I see then,” said Johansson, nodding. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, Jan. I’ve got something else on the program, but I promise to be in touch.”

  Wonder what’s happening? thought Lewin as he stepped out into the corridor from Johansson’s office and was almost run over by the head of the national SWAT force and two of his bald-headed co-workers, on their way in at a fast march.

  “What’s happening?” said Johansson without nodding at his visitor’s chair. Full battle regalia and grim faces. What the hell is happening? he thought.

  “We seem to have a hostage situation down at the Parliament Building,” said the SWAT chief. “At the office of the Christian Democrats. One perpetrator. Probably armed and dangerous.”

  “Do we know who he is?” said Johansson.

  “The boys who are at the scene say it’s Bäckström,” said the SWAT chief. “Bäckström from lost-and-found. That fat little bastard. He seems to have taken one individual hostage and barricaded himself in his office. It’s that Thulin. Do you know who I mean, Chief?”

  “Bäckström, I know who that is,” said Johansson. “Thulin? Are we talking about that sanctimonious bastard who’s always on TV harping about all the wicked people he runs into all the time? Former prosecutor Alf Thulin?”