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

by Leif Gw Persson

  “Sorry, stupid question,” Toivonen said. “But what’s this got to do with the armed raid on the security van? What’s the connection between Danielsson and the raid?”

  “The blokes behind the raid. I don’t mean Tokarev and the one who did the driving. I mean the heavies. The ones who’ve already got rid of Tokarev and the driver because they fucked up so badly. Have you got any idea who they are?”

  “Yes, I daresay we’ve all got our ideas of who they might be,” Toivonen said. “I’m listening.”

  “Farshad Ibrahim,” Sneaker said.

  Right, Toivonen thought.

  “His crazy little brother, Afsan Ibrahim.”

  Right again, Toivonen thought.

  “And then their fucking nasty cousin. That big bastard, Hassan Talib,” Sneaker said. “Farshad Ibrahim, Afsan Ibrahim, Hassan Talib,” he repeated.

  Three out of three correct, Toivonen thought.

  “What makes you think they were behind the raid?” he asked.

  “There’s talk,” Sneaker said. “There’s talk, if you’re prepared to listen,” he clarified, cupping his hand behind his ear.

  There’s talk, Toivonen thought. He had already heard the same voices and could also work out one or two things for himself.

  “I still don’t get where Danielsson comes into the picture,” he said.

  “Him and Farshad knew each other,” Sneaker said.

  “You’re grasping at straws there, Sneaker. What the hell makes you think that?” he said. What the fuck is the fucker saying? he thought.

  “I’m getting to that,” Sneaker said. “So, when Roly and his mate Danielsson said goodbye, after we’d met out at Valla, I mean, I suddenly remember that I’d seen him earlier that day. Around lunchtime. I was coming down Råsundavägen, minding my own business, thinking I might go and grab a bit of pizza. And who do I see thirty meters down the road, standing talking to some old bloke at the corner of Hasselstigen? Twenty meters from where I’m standing?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Farshad Ibrahim,” Sneaker said.

  “And you know him?”

  “Do I know him! We’ve done time in the same place. Shared a corridor in Hall ten years ago. If you don’t believe me I’m sure you can look it up on your computer. The very same, Farshad Ibrahim, and there isn’t a worse fucker alive than that man.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I turned on my heel,” Sneaker said. “Farshad’s the type who kills people just to be on the safe side, and if he was up to his usual shit, then I didn’t want to get mixed up in it just because I wanted to get a bit of pizza.”

  “You’re sure the man he was talking to was Kalle Danielsson?”

  “A hundred and twenty,” Sneaker said, nodding. “A hundred and twenty percent,” he clarified.

  “How can you be so sure?” Toivonen persisted.

  “Because that’s how I make my money,” Sneaker said.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Toivonen said. How the hell I am going to escape Bäckström if this is true? he thought.

  “What do you say about a thousand?” Sneaker said.

  “What do you say about a twenty?” Toivonen said.

  “Meet you halfway,” Sneaker suggested, apparently not hurt by this.

  “That makes two hundred,” Toivonen said.

  “If you say so,” Sneaker said, shrugging.

  41.

  While Toivonen was having his confidential chat with Sneaker, Bäckström was holding an extra meeting with his investigating team as a result of the murder of Septimus Akofeli.

  As usual, Niemi had begun the meeting. He had accompanied the body to the Institute of Forensic Medicine while Chico Hernandez took another colleague back to Akofeli’s flat to do the forensic examination. Now they were both in the room.

  “He was strangled,” Niemi said. “That was the single cause of death. Otherwise there are no injuries to the body. He was completely naked, by the way. Strangled with a noose that was tied at the back of the neck, the marks from the knot are still there. If you ask me, I’d say he was conscious and was taken by surprise when it happened.”

  “Why do you think that?” Annika Carlsson said.

  “He’s got marks on his fingers. The sort you get when you’re trying to untie a noose. For instance, a couple of the nails are broken, even though he had very short nails.”

  “What sort of noose do you think it was?” Bäckström said.

  “As far as the noose is concerned—and we haven’t found it, of course—it seems to have been fairly narrow. It could be anything from a sturdy shoelace, a washing line, maybe a standard electric cable, even the cord from some blinds. Personally I’d say the thinner type of electric cable.”

  “Why?” Annika Carlsson asked.

  “Because that would be best,” Niemi said with a wry smile. “Easiest to tighten. You just pull it tight and knot it, and it stays tight, and you’re done.”

  “You mean this was done by a professional?” Alm said.

  “Don’t know,” Niemi said, shrugging. “But I don’t really think so. How many professional stranglers have we got in this country? All the commandos and Special Forces, and the Yugoslavs who made such a mess of the Balkans. Well, according to them, anyway, but they seem to be able to keep their fingers under control here at home.

  “The perpetrator is seriously strong. He’s taller than Akofeli, I can tell you that much,” Niemi said.

  “Like whoever killed Danielsson,” Bäckström said.

  “Yes, the same thought struck me,” Niemi said.

  “What about time of death?” Bäckström said.

  “I’d guess the same day he disappeared,” Niemi said. “In other words, Friday, May sixteenth, sometime that morning, afternoon, or evening.”

  “Why do you say that?” Bäckström said.

  “Not that we have any evidence on the body to confirm that. But that’s the way it usually is these days. When they stop using their phones, when they don’t turn up for work, don’t use their bank cards, when their usual routine is broken. That’s when something’s happened. It’s nearly always like that,” Niemi said, nodding emphatically.

  So the bastard Finn isn’t entirely stupid, thought Bäckström, who had been using the same rule of thumb for thirty years.

  “The body’s in good condition,” Niemi went on. “Strangled, naked, folded up, wrapped in black plastic and sealed up with ordinary duct tape, then stuffed into his own newspaper cart. The plastic is from three different bags, normal black bin bags. The duct tape is standard issue, about five centimeters wide. I think it all happened at once. Before rigor mortis set in. The bag was also weighted down. Four barbell weights, five kilos each, twenty in total, taped together with the same duct tape. Since Akofeli weighed about fifty kilos, the weights twenty, and the bag about ten—you’ll get an exact weight as soon as it’s dried out—we’re talking about a total weight in the region of eighty kilos.”

  “Car,” Alm said. “The body was driven by car from the scene of the crime to where it was found.”

  “Anything else is extremely unlikely,” Niemi agreed. “I read an interesting little article the other day, in the Journal of Forensic Science, about perpetrators who dump their victims in the open. It’s very unusual for anyone to carry or drag a body more than seventy-five meters.”

  “What about if they have a cart or wheelbarrow?” Bäckström asked.

  “A few hundred meters at most,” Niemi said. “For longer journeys, the cart and body are usually both transported in a vehicle.”

  “What about the crime scene, then?”

  “You mean Akofeli’s apartment at seventeen Fornbyvägen?” Niemi said, exchanging a quick glance with Hernandez.

  “We were there again this morning,” Hernandez said. “We didn’t find anything this time either, but considering the way he was killed, it could still perfectly well be the scene of the crime, even though we can’t find any evidence. Besides, there are
other circumstances that suggest that.”

  “Such as?” Alm said.

  “The newspaper cart, which in all likelihood belonged to the victim, and the weights, which were used as ballast. We’re pretty sure they belonged to the victim. He’s got one of those exercise benches, a barbell, and a pair of dumbbells. But surprisingly few weights for the barbell.”

  Bäckström nodded.

  “Well, I never.”

  “Left in the apartment, I mean,” Hernandez clarified.

  “Distance,” Bäckström said.

  “From the victim’s apartment to where he was found it’s about ten kilometers, and you can drive almost the whole way. Right up to those rocks at the edge of the shore. The ones at the top of that hill. From there there’s a gravel track down to the shore, thirty meters. A drop of thirteen meters.”

  “But you aren’t allowed to drive there,” Annika Carlsson said.

  “Not unless you’re a police officer or work for the highways agency or the parks authority, or you’re a laborer there on a job. But if you come from the southeast—from the direction facing Kungsholmen, that is—driving is permitted almost the whole way to where the body was found. Apart from a walk of a hundred meters. Uphill, admittedly, but even so.” Hernandez shrugged demonstratively.

  “Have you found any tire tracks, then? Above the spot where he was found, I mean?” Annika Carlsson asked.

  “Loads,” Chico said with a smile. “So we haven’t been able to come up with anything useful there.”

  “Chico,” Bäckström said. “Tell an old dolt like me what you think happened.”

  That gave you something to chew on, you little strutting tango dancer, thought Bäckström, who had already received a supporting nod from his colleague Carlsson.

  Hernandez had some difficulty hiding his surprise.

  “You want me to tell you what I think happened?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Bäckström said with an encouraging smile. Just as stupid as they always are, always having to ask more than once, he thought.

  “Okay,” Hernandez said. “With the proviso that this is only my personal opinion. As far as the way it started is concerned, I agree completely with what Peter said. The victim was taken by surprise, strangled from behind, undressed, folded in half—he’s thin and in good shape, and I bet he could stand with both palms flat on the floor without bending his legs. When the body was folded in half, the perpetrator secured it with tape round his ankles, across his back, round his shoulders, and back again. The tape was fastened back where he started, around the ankles.

  “Then he was wrapped in plastic cut into sheets from plastic bags, then the parcel was sealed with more of the same silver tape. Then the bundle was stuffed into his newspaper cart. It’s a fairly tall cart, two wheels and two handles, held together by a rectangular metal frame. On the front is a large sack made of canvas, a slightly thicker, waterproof fabric, a bit like tarpaulin. There are also laces or straps sewn into the sack, so that it can be fastened shut or held open. At the top there’s a lid made of the same material, which is sealed with another strap.”

  “How long would all this take, then?” Bäckström said. “From when he was strangled to sealing him inside the bag?”

  “If you’re strong enough and agile enough, and if you’ve got everything you need at hand, it wouldn’t take more than half an hour,” Chico said. “If there are two of you or more, then you could do it in a quarter of an hour.”

  “You think there could be more than one perpetrator?” Alm said.

  “We can’t rule it out,” Hernandez said, shrugging. “One would be enough, two would be twice as quick. Any more than that and you mainly just get in each other’s way. But sure, there could be more than one.”

  Which everyone but a Woodentop could work out perfectly easily, Bäckström thought, giving Alm the evil eye.

  “Then what?” he asked.

  “First he’s taken out of the apartment in the cart. Probably by the elevator to the ground floor. From there to the nearest place you can park in the street is ten meters. Into the car with the cart and off you go. A total of an hour or so, but since this sort of trip is nearly always done at night and Akofeli was probably murdered in the morning—that’s when he stops showing any sign of life, isn’t it?—then presumably they waited until it was dark before throwing him in the lake. Killed him, wrapped him up, got him ready to go. Then they either put the cart in the car and drove off and waited until it got dark. Or they returned the same evening to fetch him. But I doubt they would have wanted to leave him in his own apartment any longer than necessary.”

  “When did they dump him in Ulvsundasjön, then? The next night, or what?”

  Bäckström looked questioningly first at Hernandez, who shook his head, then Niemi, who merely turned his.

  “It’s difficult to say,” Niemi said. “The body was so well packaged that it’s impossible to tell. He could have been dumped on Friday, but it could also have happened considerably later than that. By the way, we’ve had divers there since this morning searching the bed of the lake. They haven’t found anything.”

  “Anything else?” Bäckström asked.

  “Not at present,” Niemi said, shaking his head. “We’ll let you know as soon as we find anything. Or don’t find anything,” he added with a thin smile.

  “Okay,” Bäckström said, desperate for coffee and biscuits. “So we repeat the door-to-door, and this time Akofeli is at the top of the list. The building at number one Hasselstigen, and Akofeli’s place on Fornbyvägen. Everything about Akofeli and any contact he may have had with Danielsson, plus anything else that might be of interest. Have we got enough people?”

  “The neighborhood police team in Tensta have said they’ll help with Fornbyvägen,” Annika Carlsson said. “It’s their patch, after all, and they’ve got good contacts with the people who live there. It looks like we’ll have to deal with Hasselstigen ourselves. I thought I could take care of that.”

  “Good,” Bäckström said.

  Then he had asked Stigson to stay behind, and as soon as they were alone he had patted him amiably on the arm and pulled another Bäckström classic, the one Carlsson had prompted the previous night.

  “Okay, Oedipus,” Bäckström said. “No hugs this time, right?”

  “You mean her with …,” Stigson said, cupping his hands over his chest.

  “Her with the melons,” Bäckström confirmed.

  “I’ve talked to the Anchor about that,” Stigson said, his cheeks already coloring.

  “Excellent,” Bäckström said. “Just out of interest, is she a lot like your mother?”

  “Who? The Anchor?”

  “The witness, Andersson,” Bäckström said. “You know who I mean. Her with the huge melons.”

  “Not at all,” Stigson said. “My mom’s quite slim, actually.”

  Typical, Bäckström thought. The surest sign of them all. Denial. Complete denial.

  42.

  The neighborhood police in Tensta and Rinkeby had throughout their history devoted the majority of their resources to fostering good relations with the people living in the area. Ninety percent of them immigrants from every hard-pressed corner of the world. The majority of them were refugees from countries where they were not allowed to think or even live. It hadn’t been easy, and the fact that ninety percent of those working for the neighborhood police were ordinary Swedes hadn’t made it any easier. Swedes going back generations, or possibly second- or third-generation migrants. Well established in Swedish society, already rooted in Swedish soil.

  Crime fighting had got caught in the middle. All the usual business of policing had slipped behind. Here it was a question of building bridges between people, creating relationships, confidence. A question of the very simplest things, like just being able to talk to another.

  “We’ll get this sorted,” the head of the neighborhood police said when he discussed the situation with Annika Carlsson. “We have good relationshi
ps with each other.”

  Then he and his colleagues had spent two days talking to Akofeli’s neighbors. A total of a hundred people. They had put up posters of his face all the way from his flat on Fornbyvägen to the closest underground station. They had put posters up in entrance halls, on walls, lampposts, and notice boards within a wide radius. They even set up their mobile police station in the squares in both Rinkeby and Tensta, with murder victim Septimus Akofeli as special offer of the week.

  No one had seen anything, no one had heard anything. The few who had actually talked just shook their heads. Most of them didn’t even understand what they were saying.

  The door-to-door at number 1 Hasselstigen had gone relatively well in comparison. Pettersson and Stigson, led by Annika Carlsson and with backup from a couple uniformed officers from Solna, had spoken to everyone who lived in the building. With two exceptions, there was no one who recognized Akofeli. No one had seen or heard anything. A lot of them had had questions, a lot of them had been worried. Did they actually dare live in the building anymore?

  The first exception was widow Stina Holmberg, seventy-eight.

  Stina Holmberg was an early riser. She was convinced it was because of her age. The older you got, the less sleep you needed. The closer to death you got, the more you had to make the most of your time awake. She had seen Akofeli coming and going on a number of occasions over the past year. Between half past five and six o’clock in the morning. Unless something unusual had happened, like sudden heavy snow or problems on the underground.

  She had even spoken to him on one occasion. It was the day after her neighbor had been murdered.

  “It was because I still hadn’t received any copies of Svenska Dagbladet,” Mrs. Holmberg explained.

  The week before Mrs. Holmberg had switched from Dagens Nyheter to Svenska Dagbladet, and she had been promised her new paper from the Monday of the following week. For the first four days she had continued to receive Dagens Nyheter. On that Friday she had got up early to be able to intercept the paperboy and talk to him directly. Naturally, she could have called the subscription departments of both DN and SvD, but because she didn’t have a push-button phone she had never been able to get through, and eventually she gave up.