Backstrom: He Who Kills the Dragon (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Leif Gw Persson

“Cheers, Nadja,” Bäckström said, biting into a large slice of sausage and raising his glass.

  “Nazdrovje,” Nadja said, smiling with all her gold teeth, and then snapping her neck back and downing the vodka without so much as a blink.

  Fuck, Bäckström thought, a quarter of an hour later, after another sturdy Russian drink, a whole gherkin, and half a sausage. These Russian bastards have a lot of heart. If you just make a bit of effort and gain their trust, he thought.

  “What could be better than this, Nadja?” Bäckström said, pouring them a third glass. “All we’re missing is a balalaika and some Cossacks jumping about on top of the desk.”

  “This is good,” Nadja said. “I’m happy to skip the Cossacks, but a balalaika might have been nice.”

  “Tell me about yourself, Nadja,” Bäckström said. “How come you ended up here? In the bosom of Mother Svea, here in the High North.” A lot of heart, he thought. And he’d never tasted vodka that was anywhere near as good as this. Have to get hold of a crate of this, he thought.

  “Are you sure you want to hear it?” Nadja said.

  “I’m listening,” Bäckström said. He leaned back in his chair and smiled his warmest smile.

  So Nadja had told him. How Nadjesta Ivanova had left the disintegrating Soviet empire. How she ended up in Sweden and became Nadja Högberg and had spent the past ten years working as a civilian investigator for the crime unit in the Western District.

  Not that it had been altogether straightforward. After graduation she had worked as a risk analyst within the nuclear energy industry and had worked at several nuclear power stations in the Baltic region.

  The first time she applied for permission to leave her homeland was 1991, two years after the liberation of 1989. At that time she was working at a nuclear power station in Lithuania, not far from the Baltic coast. She never got a reply. One week later she was summoned by her boss, who told her she was being transferred to another nuclear power station some thousand kilometers farther north, just above Murmansk. Some taciturn men had helped her pack her meager belongings. They had driven her to her new workplace and hadn’t left her side for a moment during the two days the journey had taken.

  Two years later she didn’t bother asking for permission. With the help of some “contacts” she had got across the border into Finland. She had been met by new contacts, and the next morning she woke up in a house in the country somewhere in Sweden.

  “That was the autumn of 1993,” Nadja said with a wry smile. “I spent six weeks there, talking to my new hosts—I’ve never been so well looked after in my life—and one year later, as soon as I had learned Swedish, I became a Swedish citizen and got my own flat and a job.”

  Military intelligence. Good lads, not like those idiots in the Security Police, Bäckström thought, feeling his heart swell with patriotic pride.

  “What job did you get?” Bäckström said.

  “I forget,” Nadja said with a wry smile. “Then I got a different one, as an interpreter for the Stockholm Police. That was in 1995, I remember that.”

  The Security Police, Bäckström thought. Mean bastards who never worked out that Russians are mostly all heart if you know how to deal with them in the right way.

  “What about Högberg?” Bäckström asked, curious.

  “That’s a whole different story,” Nadja said with a smile. “We met on the Internet, then I divorced him. He was a bit too Russian for my liking, if you get what I mean,” she said, raising her glass.

  “Well, cheers, then,” Nadja said with another smile.

  “Nazdrovje,” Bäckström said. Nothing but heart, he thought.

  32.

  Detective Inspector Lars Alm and Sergeant Jan O. Stigson had spent most of the day interviewing a couple of Danielsson’s old friends, Halvar “Halfy” Söderman and Mario “Godfather” Grimaldi. Alm had been hoping that Annika Carlsson would go with him, considering what Söderman had got up to with that restaurant owner, but evidently other more important matters had come up and he had to make do with Stigson.

  They had started with Halvar Söderman, who lived on Vintergatan down in Gamla Solna, behind the football stadium and just a few hundred meters from the scene of the crime. They had called him first on his phone. No answer. Then they had gone to his flat and knocked on the door. After a series of unanswered knocks, Söderman had suddenly thrown open the door in the evident hope of hitting Stigson in the head with it. Alm had seen this before and recognized the danger in advance. As soon as he saw someone behind the peephole in the door he had pushed Stigson aside, grabbed the edge of the door, and given it an extra-hard tug. Söderman had landed on his backside in his own stairwell, and he wasn’t happy.

  “Whoops,” Alm said. “That could have been really nasty.”

  “What the fuck do you want, fucking idiots?” Söderman yelled.

  “Police,” Alm said. “We’d like to talk to you. We can do it here or we can take you down to the station. We can even lock you up first if you keep messing with us.”

  Söderman wasn’t that stupid. He made do with glaring at them, and two minutes later they were sitting around the table in his little dining room.

  “I recognize you, don’t I?” he said, staring at Alm. “Don’t you work in violent crime in Stockholm?”

  “Used to,” Alm said. “Now I work here in Solna.”

  “Ah, you must be an old friend of Roly’s,” Söderman concluded. “Can’t you have a word with those idiots that have him locked up?”

  “He was released an hour ago,” Alm said, without going into the details.

  “Is that so? Really, is that so?” he said with a grin. “Can I offer you anything?”

  “Thank you, no,” Alm said. “We won’t be long.”

  “But you could manage a quick cup of coffee? I’m going to have a java. The coffee machine’s loaded and ready to go.”

  “Coffee would be good,” Alm said.

  “What about you?” Söderman said, nodding in Stigson’s direction. “I suppose you’d like a banana?”

  “Coffee would be good,” Stigson said.

  “How long is it since you switched?” Söderman said, looking at Alm.

  “Switched?” Alm said. “How do you mean?”

  “From Alsatians to chimpanzees,” Söderman said with a grin.

  “It was a while back,” Alm said.

  Söderman had got out his best china. Sugar, milk, cream, even schnapps in case anyone was in the mood. He always had some in the house. But sadly there was no cognac left. But he did have a splash of banana liqueur in the cupboard.

  “In case I have women round,” he explained, nodding in Alm’s direction. “But it’s fine if the monkey wants some,” he went on, nodding in Stigson’s direction. “If it’s okay with his master, it’s okay with me.”

  “Black’s good for me, thanks,” Alm said. “The monkey will take his black too.”

  “Yes, there’s a lot of black these days,” Söderman sighed. “The other day I amused myself by counting them as I headed down to the Solna center to get some shopping. Do you know how many I saw? On a little walk of four hundred meters?”

  “Twenty-seven,” Alm said.

  “No.” Söderman sighed, pouring the coffee. “I gave up counting when I got to a hundred. Do you know how old I was before I saw my first proper Negro?” he went on.

  “No,” Alm said.

  “I was born in thirty-six,” Söderman said. “I must have been seventeen before I saw my first Negro. That was in 1953, down in the old Solna center, outside Lorry. The bar, you know the one. They’d only just opened earlier that year. It was like a street party. Everyone wanted to go up to him and slap him on the back and talk English—fucking weird English, mind—and ask him if he knew Louis Armstrong. I had a bird with me, name of Sivan. Sivan Frisk, and she wasn’t backward in coming forward, if you know what I mean. Fuck, she was wet, right down to her feet before I managed to drag her away from there.”

  “Another a
ge,” Alm said neutrally.

  “That’s the difference, though, isn’t it?” Söderman said with a sigh. “One is fine, two, even. Especially if you’ve grown up in a place like this. An old working-class district. All the old Solna boys of my generation. But three is too much. One is fine, two is fine, but three is too much.”

  “A completely different thing,” Alm said.

  “You want to know what I was doing on Wednesday evening last week?” Söderman interrupted. “The same evening some fucking madman beat Kalle to death?”

  “Yes,” Alm said. “What were you doing then?”

  “I’ve already told your lot,” Söderman said. “Some fucking simpleton from the cop shop phoned me up, going on and on about it. Yesterday, the day before? Don’t remember.”

  “What did you tell them?” Alm asked, without letting on that he was the one who had called.

  “I tried to explain that I had an alibi, but he didn’t want to hear it. So I hung up. I told him to go to hell too.”

  “So tell me, then,” Alm said. “Give me the names of people who can support your alibi.”

  “Sure, I could do that,” Söderman said. “But I’m not going to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Two weeks ago I was supposed to be flying up to Sundsvall to visit an old friend who’s in a bad way. He’s got prostate cancer, and doesn’t look too hot. So when I’m standing there, at the gate to the plane, about to get on, the girl at the desk starts going on about wanting to see my ID. And bear in mind, I was sober and smart, so it was nothing like that.

  “So I give her my ticket, but she doesn’t give up. Wants to see ID. I explain to her, I haven’t got any damn ID. Your mates took my driving license away ten years ago. My passport was in a drawer at home. Anyway, who the fuck takes their passport if they’re going to Sundsvall? But I try to keep calm. Explain that I’ve been a full Swedish citizen for seventy years or so. And as long as I’m in Sweden and not causing any trouble, I don’t have to show my ID. Not to fly to Sundsvall on an internal flight with a Swedish airline. It’s in the constitution if you care to look. But fuck me, two of them turned up,” he said, nodding in Stigson’s direction. “So there was no trip to Sundsvall.”

  “What a shame,” Alm said, shaking his head. “Those terrorists have really messed things up for us.”

  “Bullshit,” Halvar Söderman said. “How much do I look like fucking Osama bin Laden?”

  “Not much,” Alm said with a slight smile. “But—”

  “That was when I decided,” Söderman interrupted. “To play silly idiot right back. If you and your colleagues could find the slightest bit of evidence to say that I was the one who beat Kalle Danielsson to death, then you wouldn’t be sitting here going on about my alibi. I’d be sitting up in Crime if you had anything. Not for the first time either, but I’m sure you know that already.”

  “What makes you think he was beaten to death?” Alm said. “There are other ways to kill someone.”

  “From what I’ve heard, someone got hold of a saucepan lid and whacked him in the head with it,” Söderman said.

  “Who did you hear that from?” Alm asked.

  “I’ll give you a piece of advice,” Söderman said. “I’ve lived out here all my life. I’ve hung around Valla and Råsunda and all the bars out here, seven days a week, for as long as I’ve lived here. I’ve sold hot cars to policemen, I’ve sold white goods and television sets to policemen. I’ve shifted their stuff when their wives have thrown them out or they’ve just found a new piece of skirt. I’ve always given them the usual discount. How many cops do you reckon I know in the Solna station?”

  “Quite a few,” Alm said.

  “So I’m afraid we’re not going to get a lot further. I didn’t beat Kalle to death. Why would I? He had his moments, Kalle, but don’t we all? And if I’d wanted to put his lights out, I wouldn’t have needed any fucking saucepan lid. Anyway, I’ve got an alibi, but since I don’t have to tell you, I don’t feel like telling you. But if you all sort things out so I can get to Sundsvall without having to show my passport, you’re welcome to come back. Then we can talk like reasonable people.”

  Söderman had held his ground. Even though Alm had sat there for another half-hour, they hadn’t got any further. When they were sitting in the car, on their way to see Grimaldi, Stigson had broken the silence.

  “That’s insulting a public official,” Stigson said. “Calling someone a monkey.”

  “Chimpanzee,” Alm said with a sigh. “I was the one who said monkey.”

  “Yes, but we’re colleagues,” Stigson said, looking at him in surprise. “That’s completely different.”

  “You’ve never thought about changing your hairstyle?” Alm said for some reason.

  “We should have dragged the old bastard to the cells and twisted his arm,” Stigson said, apparently not listening.

  “If that’s what you really think, I suggest you change jobs,” Alm said.

  Grimaldi had been the exact opposite of Söderman. He answered his phone when they called to make an appointment. Opened the door on the second ring, shook them by the hand, and asked them into his well-kept home.

  They had sat down on the three-piece suite in the living room. Faithful to his roots, Grimaldi had offered mineral water, lemonade, Italian coffee, an aperitif. Or perhaps a glass of red wine? He had opened a bottle for lunch and most of it was still there, so it wouldn’t be any trouble.

  “Thanks, but we won’t be long,” Alm said.

  What had Grimaldi been doing on Wednesday evening last week, when his good friend Karl Danielsson was murdered in his own home? Just one kilometer from Grimaldi’s own home?

  “I don’t remember,” Grimaldi said. “If I had to guess, I’d say I was at home. I’m at home most of the time these days.”

  “You don’t remember?” Alm repeated.

  “Let me explain,” Grimaldi said.

  One year earlier he had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Since then he had been on medication to slow the development of the disease. In spite of the drugs, his short-term memory had deteriorated noticeably over the past few months. If they wanted to talk to his doctor, they were welcome to call the health center in Solna. But he had forgotten his doctor’s name. But he had the prescription and the pills. They were in his bathroom cabinet, and they were welcome to look.

  “You’ve never thought about keeping any sort of notes, like a diary?” Alm suggested.

  He hadn’t. If anyone had ever suggested it to him, he would doubtless have forgotten that as well. Would have sat there wondering what he was doing with pen and paper in his hand.

  “And there’s no one close to you who would know things like that?” Alm said. “How you spend your days, I mean?” he clarified.

  “Fortunately not,” Grimaldi said with a smile. “Fortunately I am entirely alone in life. Who would want to subject someone they love to the sort of person I’ve become?”

  They hadn’t got any further than that. On the way out they looked in his bathroom cupboard and made a note of the names on the boxes of medication and the name of his doctor from the prescription.

  “Some Godfather,” Stigson said as they were sitting in the car on the way back to the police station. “There’s nothing wrong with the old fart’s body at all. What was his name, that Mafia boss in New York? The one who tried the same trick, pretending to be crazy? Whatever was his name?”

  “Don’t remember,” Alm said.

  33.

  When Annika Carlsson and Felicia Pettersson arrived at Akofeli’s flat, Niemi and Hernandez were already there.

  “Come in, come in. We’re as good as finished,” Niemi said. “I tried to call you on your cell about an hour ago but it was switched off. Toivonen sent us. He doesn’t like it when important witnesses vanish from his murder investigations. Unless he’s just getting more human in his old age and is worried because of that.”

  “We had our phones switched off,” Annika sai
d. “Felicia and I wanted to be able to talk in peace and quiet.”

  “Girly talk, you know,” Felicia said, flashing her eyes at Chico Hernandez.

  “About me, I presume,” Chico said with a self-conscious shrug that didn’t seem entirely put-on.

  “About the loveliest officer in the whole station,” Felicia said with a sigh. “About Magda, your sister. Nice cap you’ve got there, by the way, Chico. Did you steal it from the supermarket deli?”

  The cap in question was disposable, made of white plastic. Obligatory headwear for every responsible forensics officer who didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene with his own hair and dandruff. Wearing it under any other circumstances, such as a night out in a bar when you fancied meeting someone, or if you were just taking part in one of all those incredibly popular television series about forensics officers, wouldn’t have done anything for either your appearance or expectations. You’d end up going home alone late at night or getting half the usual viewing ratings.

  “Well, it’s not the cap that’s the main attraction,” Chico said with an expressive shrug, then returned to examining the innards of Akofeli’s fridge.

  One room and a kitchen, with a corner table, a small hallway, and an unexpectedly spacious bathroom with room for a toilet, shower, bathtub, washing machine, and tumble dryer. Sparsely furnished and kept clean.

  In the single room, scarcely larger than an average student room, there was a bed, neatly made with a striped bedspread from IKEA, a wardrobe, a small sofa, a television and DVD player, a bookshelf that seemed to contain mainly university course books, a couple dozen paperbacks, DVDs and CDs, an exercise bench covered in green PVC, a barbell, a couple dumbbells, and a small stack of weights. But nothing to remind you of Akofeli’s African origins: no rugs, no leather, no tapestries, no statuettes, masks, or other ornaments. No posters or photographs on the walls.

  Out in the kitchen was a table with two chairs. On the floor beneath the kitchen table was a computer printer, but no laptop, nor a standard PC either. The kitchen table was presumably where he worked, and bearing in mind that the flat was on the ground floor, it would have been stupid to leave the computer on the table when he wasn’t at home. The window facing onto the courtyard was at the same level as the table. The only problem was that the computer wasn’t there at all.