“Most of the male officers I know who live alone usually live in pigsties,” Carlsson said.
“Filthy sods,” Bäckström said indignantly. You should be grateful, he thought. Who the hell can be bothered to clean after someone like you has come along and stolen their girlfriend?
“You’re a man of hidden talents, Bäckström,” Annika Carlsson concluded, smiling at him.
The rest of the drive had passed in silence. Carlsson had crossed the bridge over the Karlberg Channel and carried on beside the shore toward Ulvsundasjön. They must have driven a good couple kilometers along the footpath by the lake. Up a steep, winding hill. Cordons, vehicles, floodlights, the first curious onlookers already in place although it was the middle of the night.
“This is it,” Annika Carlsson said as they got out of the car to join the others sent by the emergency control room.
“Is it the same distance from the other side?” Bäckström asked. “If you’re coming from Huvudsta?”
“Yes,” Annika Carlsson nodded. “I see what you’re thinking,” she said.
Gravel paths, hills, several kilometers on foot—the perpetrator must have had a car, Bäckström thought. This isn’t the sort of place you’d drag a bag containing a body, he thought.
37.
Bäckström had started by looking at the body. That checks out, Bäckström thought, once he had reassured himself that some other, entirely unconnected sooty hadn’t turned up in the middle of his murder investigation. The right sooty, Bäckström thought, and he looked even more miserable than he had when Bäckström had seen him sitting on the landing outside Danielsson’s flat.
Then he spotted Toivonen, who was standing some way off, staring at him with his hands deep in his pockets. Bäckström walked over to him to give him something to chew on.
“What do you think, Toivonen?” Bäckström said. “Murder, suicide, accident?”
“You talk a lot of shit, Bäckström,” Toivonen said. “Try to do something useful for once. Tell me how the lad ended up here,” Toivonen said, glaring first at Bäckström, then at the bag containing the body.
“I think you’re on the wrong track there, Toivonen,” Bäckström said with an amiable smile. “Surely you’re not suggesting that our poor victim might have been mixed up in any funny business, possibly even something criminal?”
“What do you think?” Toivonen said, nodding toward the bag down by the shore.
“There’s nothing to support that,” Bäckström said, shaking his head. “All the evidence suggests that Sooty Akofeli was a decent, hardworking young man. His main job was as a bicycle courier. He delivered papers in the middle of the night to earn some extra money. In spite of his impressive qualifications. You almost get the impression that he had philanthropic tendencies.
“Akofeli could have gone on to do anything he wanted,” Bäckström continued. “If he’d only had the chance to carry on for another twenty, thirty years, I bet you anything you like that he could have got himself his own moped to ride around on.”
“Unless you feel like taking a swim, Bäckström, I suggest you shut up,” Toivonen said. “A young man’s been murdered and you’re standing here talking shit about him.”
“Okay, we’ve seen all we need to,” Bäckström said to Annika Carlsson a quarter of an hour later. “What do you say about driving me home?”
“Of course, Bäckström. I can understand that you’re eager to go for your run.”
On the way back to his cozy abode they talked about this latest development.
“Get Niemi and Hernandez to take another look at the lad’s flat,” Bäckström said. “Tell them to do it properly this time.”
“I understand what you mean,” Carlsson agreed. “Considering that he was found inside his own newspaper bag, you mean?”
“You’re smart, Annika,” Bäckström said with a grin. “I find it hard to believe that he dragged the cart with him to the courier office. He must have gone home in between and dropped it off.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking too,” Annika Carlsson said. “He usually finished delivering papers by about six o’clock. And he started work as a courier at nine o’clock. He could even have had time to get an hour or so’s sleep in between.
“So how about inviting me in for a cup of coffee, then?” Annika asked as she pulled up outside Bäckström’s door. “Besides, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” Bäckström said. They’re crazy about you, he thought. Even a notorious carpet muncher like Annika Carlsson is trying it on.
38.
While Bäckström was in the kitchen tinkering with his newly acquired Italian espresso machine, Annika Carlsson had asked if she could have a look around the flat.
“Make yourself at home,” said Bäckström, who had nothing to fear. Over the weekend his Finnish bartender friend had used her day off to go through his flat like a blond tornado.
“I’ll give you the guided tour,” Bäckström said.
First he had shown her his freshly tiled bathroom and the new shower cabinet with a steam-bath option, a stereo, and a little folding seat where you could sit and think as the water streamed down and refreshed your body and soul.
“You program the pressure of the water on that panel there,” Bäckström said, showing her.
“Not bad,” Annika Carlsson said, with an almost envious look in her eyes.
Then he had led her to the holy of holies, the little workshop where he most recently over the weekend had paid for the cleaning by giving the blond tornado a serious going-over in his bed from the Hästens bed factory.
“That’s a Hästens bed, isn’t it?” Annika Carlsson asked. “They cost a fortune,” she said, feeling the mattress just to be sure.
“You’ve got it really good, Bäckström.” Annika sighed when they sat down five minutes later in Bäckström’s living room to enjoy freshly brewed cappuccinos and biscotti. “This coffee table alone must have cost an arm and a leg,” Annika said, running her hand over the black top. “It’s marble, isn’t it?”
“From Kolmården,” Bäckström said.
“But how on earth can you afford all this on a police salary?” Annika Carlsson said. “A bed from Hästens, a plasma television—two of them at that—and a leather sofa and a Bang and Olufsen stereo. Proper carpets on the floor, and then there’s that watch of yours. It’s a real Rolex, isn’t it? Did you get a big inheritance, or have you won the lottery?”
“Well, if you look after the pennies,” Bäckström said—he had no intention of going into the other sources of income he had alongside his monthly salary. Least of all with Annika Carlsson. “There was something you wanted to talk about?” he reminded her, to get her to change the subject.
“Yes, I’m sitting here trying to pluck up the courage to say it,” Annika Carlsson said, smiling amiably at him. “Some things are difficult to talk about, as you know.”
“I’m listening,” Bäckström said, smiling his most masculine smile.
“Just listening to you, it’s easy to get the impression that you’re another one of those burned-out, prejudiced officers. You know, the way a lot of us sadly end up in this job.”
“I understand what you mean,” Bäckström said, already aware of what tactics he was going to employ.
“But it can’t be that straightforward,” Annika Carlsson said, shaking her cropped head energetically. “I’ve seen you in action. You’re the most professional detective I’ve ever come across. Alongside all the boorishness. Like with Akofeli, for instance. You were the only one of us who realized from the outset that there was something not quite right about him. And when we were down in the bank vault and you opened the safe-deposit box, I got the feeling that you were almost clairvoyant. Is there anything like that in your family, Bäckström?”
“Maybe a bit on my mother’s side, if I’m honest,” Bäckström lied. At any rate, she was the most mixed-up old bag on Södermalm, he thought.
; “I thought so,” Annika Carlsson said with a nod. “I thought so.”
“But I also have my strong faith in God as well,” Bäckström said with a sigh. “Nothing special, you know. Just a simple, childish faith that I’ve carried with me through life since I was a small boy.”
“I knew it, Bäckström,” Annika Carlsson said, looking at her host and boss with excitement. “I knew it. That’s what gives you strength. That completely unshakable strength that you’ve got inside you.”
“But I understand what you mean, Annika,” Bäckström said, raising a hand in an almost pleading gesture to get her to stop. “When you talk about my view of the world, I mean. Sadly it’s very true that all of us in this job get burned-out at some point. It’s starting to take its toll on me too. That why I sometimes, and all too often, speak without thinking first.
“I’m so glad I managed to see beyond the surface,” Annika Carlsson said somberly.
“While we’re on sensitive matters,” Bäckström said, “there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“I’m listening,” Annika said.
“I don’t think you should be so hard on young Stigson,” Bäckström said.
“Yes, but you heard what he was like, going on about that woman like that, about her breasts, I mean,” Annika Carlsson said, pointing at her own for the sake of clarity.
“I know,” Bäckström said. “Pure sexism. One of the worst examples I’ve heard in the force. But I’m sorry to say that I think there’s probably an explanation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m afraid our colleague Stigson has been the victim of incestuous abuse. At an early age, sadly.”
“Good God,” Annika said, looking at Bäckström, wide-eyed. “Is this something he’s talked to you about?”
“No,” Bäckström said. “They very rarely talk about things like that, you know. But I recognize all the obvious signs, and after hearing him talk to that neighbor of Danielsson’s, that Andersson woman, I’m pretty sure that it was his mother who abused him. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Stigson’s mom turned out to be a carbon copy of our witness, Mrs. Andersson.”
“What can we do?” Annika Carlsson asked.
“We hold off,” Bäckström said. “We bear it in mind, we stay alert and ready to help, but we hold off.”
39.
Where the fuck do they all come from? Bäckström thought, as he closed the door behind his guest. All these crazy women, each one madder than the last.
At roughly the same time as Bäckström was saying goodbye to his colleague Annika Carlsson, Hanna and Axel were seeking solace in each other and had ended up in Hanna’s bed.
Axel ejaculated as soon as he entered her. Not because it was the first time, or because Hanna was at the very least an eight. Axel had got past that stage of life when he was thirteen. It was more complicated than that. Even though it was the first time with Hanna, the only thing in Axel’s head for the past few hours was a young female police officer called Magda Hernandez. The first eleven he’d ever seen in his life, even though there weren’t supposed to be any of those on a ten-point scale.
He had tried to pull himself together for another attempt, but his thoughts of Magda Hernandez and his proximity to Hanna plunged him back into the icy water again.
“I don’t get this,” Axel said. “It’s never happened before,” he said, feeling like nothing more than bursting into tears and running away.
“It doesn’t matter,” Hanna said, running her nails down his naked, sweaty back. “You must still be suffering from shock.” Poor thing, she thought, since it wasn’t the first time for her either.
“D’you know what?” she went on. “Let’s go to sleep now, and we’ll do the other stuff in the morning. It’s not the end of the world.” I wonder how many times that’s ever been said, she thought.
Axel had only pretended to sleep, and as soon as Hanna had fallen asleep he crept up, got dressed, and slunk out the front door.
Maybe that was for the best, Hanna thought, as she heard the door click shut. Life would go on, with or without Axel, and she had school to think about in just a few hours’ time.
Must remember to call Magda, she thought before she fell asleep. To talk about that debriefing she wanted me to go to.
40.
On Thursday morning, eight days after the murder of Karl Danielsson, Lars “Sneaker” Dolmander got in touch with his confessor, Superintendent Toivonen.
Sneaker had appeared in person in the police station. He refused to talk to anyone apart from “my old friend Toivonen.” He had a hot tip to pass on about the armed raid out at Bromma, and Toivonen was the only officer in the entire force whom he trusted.
During the past ten years of the life of an addict in free fall, Sneaker had supported himself as an informant. There wasn’t a single criminal in the whole Western District that Sneaker hadn’t grassed up more than once, and with that in mind it was fortunate for him that he had taken an early decision not to deal with anyone but Toivonen.
These days he was too run-down to make a living from his own crimes. His pension was usually gone the day after he got it, and if he was going to survive until the next one, he had to sell out other people. New, and always “hot,” tips, and since some of them really were as hot as Sneaker claimed they all were, he still had Toivonen’s confidence.
“You’re looking lively, Sneaker,” Toivonen said. Tattooed like a Brussels rug over his whole body. Thirty-three years old, and the fact that he was still alive was a minor miracle, Toivonen thought.
“I’ve left off the heavy stuff,” Sneaker said. “For the past year or so I’ve done nothing but smoke. Well, that and the drink, of course, but that counts as health food compared to all the shit I’ve put in my system over the years.”
“Is that so,” said Toivonen, who mainly subsisted on meat, fruit, and vegetables. When he and Niemi and the other blokes in the Finnish cavalry weren’t out asserting their roots, of course. Mind you, that was a while ago now, he thought.
“I’ll keep it short,” Sneaker said, with a businesslike nod. “You know that raid at Bromma? On Monday last week when they took out those two Securitas blokes?”
“I’ve heard of it, yes,” Toivonen said with a wry smile.
“That evening someone killed Kari Viirtanen out in Bergshamra. Mad Kari, or Tokarev, as he was known. You know, after that Russian gun, Tokarev. The ten-millimeter automatic pistol he was always waving about.”
“We have many names for the things we love,” Toivonen said.
“Anyway,” Sneaker said, “there’s a link between Viirtanen’s murder and the raid out at Bromma.”
“I’ve heard that too,” Toivonen said with a smile. “Come on, Sneaker. Haven’t you got anything new for me?”
“Well, it’s like this,” Sneaker said, not about to give up. “Viirtanen was involved in the robbery out at Bromma. When the blokes from the security firm let off the dye capsules in the bag, he went mad. He told the driver to go back, then he gunned the guards down. Then him and the driver took off, abandoned the car and the money. No red notes to fuck up their lives. The heavies, the ones behind the raid, get mad at Tokarev and get rid of him that same evening. The driver’s probably joined him by now, and if I was you I’d have a look at that colored bloke you fished out of Ulvsundasjön last night.”
“Yesterday’s news, Sneaker,” Toivonen said, looking pointedly at the time. And he probably hasn’t got a clue who Akofeli was, he thought.
“I thought as much,” Sneaker said. “But now I’m getting to the point.”
“I can hardly contain myself.” Toivonen sighed.
“You know that old accountant who lived on Hasselstigen? Danielsson, that was his name, Karl Danielsson, the one they did the saucepan dance with last Wednesday. There’s a connection between his murder and the raid out at Bromma.”
“What makes you say that?” Toivonen said. “Anyway, how come you know Danielsson?
”
“Met him out at Valla,” Sneaker said. “He used to hang out with Roly Stålhammar. Stolly, you know. Your old colleague.”
“So you know him?” Toivonen said.
“Do bears fuck in the woods?” Sneaker snorted. “The first time he arrested me I was fourteen years old. I was dealing up on Karlavägen in the middle of town. Suddenly a car stops. And out pops a man big as a house. Grabs fourteen-year-old Sneaker by the ear and chucks me in the car. Ten minutes later I’m sat in Crime in Stockholm waiting for the old hag from Social to come and get me out. Fuck, I had an unlocked car waiting for me out in Östermalm. Mind you, I’d lost my stash, but that was easy enough for someone like me to sort out.”
“So you remember Roly Stålhammar?” Toivonen said.
“One of the most decent cops I ever ran into. He even took me boxing a couple times when I was a lad. But that got all fucked up as well,” Sneaker said with a shrug.
“So you met Stålhammar and Danielsson out at Solvalla,” Toivonen prompted.
“That’s right,” Sneaker said. “Last Wednesday. At about six o’clock or so. Just a few hours before Danielsson had a close encounter of the third kind with his own saucepan. Stolly told me I looked like shit. That I looked so bad that he didn’t even want to introduce me to an old school friend. That was Danielsson, of course. But even then he had a twinkle in his eye. The way he said it, I mean. Stolly and Danielsson seemed to be pretty cheerful, and Danielsson held out his hand and introduced himself.
“ ‘Kalle Danielsson,’ the old boy said, and it was pretty obvious that he’d had a few over the course of the day. If I’d been on the wagon myself, I would have fallen off just from him breathing on me. There was a lot of drink inside that man.”
“So what did you say?”
“ ‘Sneaker,’ ” Sneaker said. “What the fuck would you have said? If you were me, I mean?”
Backstrom: He Who Kills the Dragon (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original) Page 18