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

by Leif Gw Persson

  “Ben Kader could be described as a sort of mentor to Farshad. Farshad was his favorite even though he wasn’t from north Africa but Iran. They’re both Muslim, by the way, and teetotalers,” Toivonen added for some reason.

  “Farshad arrived here as a refugee with his family when he was only three years old. His younger brother was born in Sweden. Ben Kader had no children of his own, and because little Farshad was made of the right stuff, he evidently took a liking to the lad. We know that they’re still in touch, because only a few weeks ago we received information from our French colleagues via Interpol that they met up on the Riviera as recently as March this year.”

  “Danielsson,” Holt prompted.

  “Ben Kader used him as his bookkeeper, accountant, and financial adviser for his legal activities. Among other things, he owned a grocery store in Sollentuna, a tobacconist’s and a dry cleaner’s out here in Solna. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t all that Danielsson did, but because it could never be proved, he was only ever questioned for information.

  “When Ben Kader returned to Morocco, Farshad both took over the grocery store and got Danielsson into the bargain. Farshad still owns the shop in Sollentuna. He has relatives working there, but he’s listed as the owner. Danielsson, on the other hand, has vanished from the paperwork.”

  “Akofeli,” Holt said. “How does he come into this? He could hardly have been involved in the Akalla raid, since he would have been, what, sixteen at the time?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea,” Toivonen said, shaking his head. “I don’t think he was involved with either Danielsson or the Ibrahim brothers. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and slipped into it all on a banana peel. I think we can forget any idea of him murdering Danielsson.”

  “What about the Ibrahim brothers and Hassan Talib, then? Could they have murdered Danielsson and Akofeli?”

  “No idea,” Toivonen said with a sigh.

  “Maybe it’ll work out,” Holt said, smiling. “Bäckström promised that it would be sorted soon. He said he just needs another week.”

  “I can hardly contain myself,” Toivonen snorted.

  Then Toivonen had gone home to his row house in Spånga. Prepared a meal for his two teenage sons, since his wife had gone up to Norrland to visit her ailing father. After the meal his boys had disappeared to meet their friends. Toivonen had poured himself a beer and a small whiskey shot and started the weekend in front of the television. When his younger son got home at eleven, his dad was lying on the sofa, dozing in front of the sports channel.

  “Aren’t you going to go to bed, Dad?” his son asked. “You’re looking a bit tired, if you ask me.”

  51.

  Messrs. Bäckström and GeGurra had met in the main dining room of Operakällaren just after eight o’clock in the evening, and an extremely obliging headwaiter had shown them to their discreet table out on the veranda. He had taken their drink order, bowed once more, and hurried away. As was traditional, GeGurra was picking up the tab.

  “Marvelous to see you, Superintendent,” GeGurra said, raising his large dry martini as he cautiously nibbled at an olive that had been delivered on a saucer alongside.

  “Good to see you too,” Bäckström chimed in, raising his own ice-chilled double vodka. Even though you’re becoming more like a standard ass-bandit every day, he thought.

  Then they had ordered. Bäckström had taken the lead and even GeGurra the faggot had gone along with his selection and chosen to eat like a normal person. More or less, at least.

  “To start I’d like Skagen toast with a side dish of salt salmon, the steak à la Rydberg with two egg yolks. Beer and schnapps throughout, and I’ll get back to you about the rest.”

  “And what sort of schnapps would monsieur le directeur like?” the headwaiter asked, leaning sideways another few inches.

  “Czech lager, Russian vodka. Do you have Standard?” What do you mean, directeur? Bäckström thought.

  “I’m afraid not,” the headwaiter lamented. “But we do have Stolichnaya. Both Cristal and Gold.”

  “Stalichnaya,” Bäckström corrected, with his newly acquired knowledge of Russian. “In that case I’ll start with a Gold with the fish and Cristal with the steak,” he declared, like a true connoisseur.

  “Single or double?”

  Is he pulling my leg? Bäckström thought. What’s he doing, handing out samples?

  “Large doubles,” Bäckström said. “All the way through. No half-measures.”

  GeGurra had concurred, and complimented Bäckström on his choice. He had abstained from the salt salmon and the extra egg yolk, and made do with a single shot with the starter and red wine with the main.

  “If you have a decent cabernet sauvignon by the glass?”

  Naturally they did, according to the headwaiter. They had a fine American wine from 2003, Sonoma Valley, ninety percent cabernet.

  “And just the slightest touch of petit verdot to give it a lift.”

  Queers, Bäckström thought. Where the fuck do they get all that shit from? A lift. Shirt lifters, maybe.

  But they had a pleasant evening. GeGurra was in an expansive mood. He thanked Bäckström for his latest assistance in informing him most admirably about the developments in the big art racket that the police had spent the whole winter investigating. Naturally Bäckström’s half-witted colleagues had made a mess of things again, but GeGurra hadn’t even figured on the preliminary investigation.

  It had been Bäckström’s last contribution as a lost-property cop, and because he didn’t himself have access to that sort of material, he had logged in, like so many times before, on a seriously mentally handicapped colleague’s computer, a former forensics officer who had had to cut his hours to part-time since he tried to poison his wife. He had taken a couple copies of the files on disc. One for GeGurra and one for himself, just to be on the safe side.

  “Don’t mention it,” Bäckström said modestly.

  “And our new payment arrangements are working?” GeGurra said, for some reason. “I hope you’re happy with them, my dear?”

  “It’s all fine,” Bäckström said, because in spite of his tragic proclivities, GeGurra was at least a very generous fag. Credit where credit’s due, he thought.

  “On an entirely different matter, now that I am fortunate enough to have you here,” GeGurra said.

  “I saw on television about that dreadful armed robbery out at Bromma Airport,” he went on. “Where they shot those poor guards. Those robbers seem utterly ruthless. It must have been a professional job, surely? From what I saw on television, one could almost get the impression that one of those military commando units had been involved.”

  “Not your usual queer bashers,” Bäckström agreed, remembering some of Juha Valentin’s early efforts in the parks and alleys of Stockholm.

  “I was talking to a good friend who owns a large number of shops here in the city center, and every day a number of his employees have to go to the bank with fairly large amounts of cash. He’s terribly worried,” GeGurra said.

  “It’s a jungle out there,” Bäckström agreed. “He’s probably right to worry.”

  “You don’t think you might be able to help him? Take a look at his routines, give him some good advice? I’m sure he’d be immensely grateful.”

  “Is he the sort who can keep his mouth shut?” Bäckström asked. “This sort of thing can be a bit sensitive, as I’m sure you appreciate.”

  “Of course, of course,” GeGurra said, emphasizing the point by holding up a blue-veined hand in a calming gesture. “He’s a most discreet man.”

  “You can always give him my cell number,” Bäckström said. He had a well-developed plan to revitalize his wardrobe before the summer.

  “He’s also extremely generous,” GeGurra added, raising his glass in a toast.

  They suddenly had company for the dessert course. GeGurra, true to his proclivities, had chosen fresh berries, whereas Bäckström made do
with a good cognac. Their company was “an old and very dear friend” of GeGurra’s, and, like him, in the art business.

  Old and old, Bäckström thought. Thirty-five at most, and what fucking hooters—it’s a good job the retarded folk dancer isn’t here, he thought.

  After the introductory kisses on the cheek between old friends, GeGurra had taken care of the formalities.

  “My very dear friend Evert Bäckström,” GeGurra said, “and this is my utterly delightful friend Tatiana Thorén. She used to be married to one of my old business contacts who didn’t always know what was good for him,” he clarified.

  What would people like you want with someone like her? Bäckström thought. He held out his hand for a manly handshake and gave her a taste of his Clint Eastwood smile.

  “Are you interested in art as well, Evert?” Tatiana Thorén asked as soon as GeGurra had pulled out her chair for her so that she could position her well-shaped rear at the right height for Bäckström to be able to enjoy her generous cleavage from exactly the right angle.

  “I’m a police officer,” Bäckström said with a stern nod.

  “A police officer, goodness, how exciting,” Tatiana said, her big, dark eyes opening wide. “And what sort of police officer are you?”

  “Murders, violent crime, superintendent,” Bäckström said. “I don’t get involved in the other stuff.” And Clint can kiss my ass, he thought.

  Then they had kept Tatiana company as she satisfied the worst of her hunger with a simple salmon sandwich and a glass of champagne, while devoting at least ninety percent of her attention to Bäckström.

  “Goodness, how exciting,” Tatiana repeated, smiling with her red lips and her white teeth. “I’ve never met a real murder detective before. Only seen them on television.”

  Bäckström had given her the usual selection of heroic deeds from his action-packed career as a legendary police officer. The super-salami had already started to move, and once everything was starting to happen, it all went like clockwork.

  GeGurra had made his excuses as soon as he had settled the bill. At his age he needed a good night’s sleep. Then Tatiana and Bäckström had looked in on the nightclub Café Opera, next door to the restaurant, where they had had a couple extra drinks to help them warm up. I don’t know why I should need those, Bäckström thought, since the super-salami had definitely woken up. A good thing I’m not standing here naked with some damn baseball cap on my head, Bäckström thought, as he leaned against the bar. I’d have looked like a fucking capital F, he thought, thrusting out his broad chest and sucking in his stomach.

  “Wow, Superintendent,” Tatiana said, running her hand over the front of his shirt. “I don’t think this is any ordinary six-pack, is it?”

  Tatiana lived in a small two-room apartment on Jungfrugatan in Östermalm. The girl’s got a sense of humor, living on “Maiden Street,” Bäckström thought. He lost his trousers in the hallway and removed the rest of his clothes on the way to her bedroom. He was in fine form once he had tipped her onto the broad bed. There he had given her a serious seeing-to, according to the usual routine for the first patrol on the scene. Bäckström had groaned and grunted and Tatiana had screamed out loud. Then he had shifted position and let her ride the salami lift up and down for at least a kilometer before it was time once again.

  Then he had fallen asleep, and by the time he came to again the sun was already high in the blue sky above Jungfrugatan. Tatiana had provided breakfast. Gave him her phone number and made him promise to see her again as soon as she got back from her holiday in Greece.

  52.

  On Friday afternoon Detective Superintendent Jan Lewin from the National Murder Squad returned from a murder case in Östergötland. He had gone straight home to his partner Anna Holt, and when he put the key in her door she was standing there waiting for him. She reached out her hand to his.

  “Good to have you home again, Jan,” Holt said.

  Partner and police chief, Jan Lewin thought, as he sat on the sofa and leafed through all the documents she had given him. Murder, attempted murder, armed robbery, the murder of one of the suspects, then the murder of an old alcoholic, and, just for good measure, the murder of the paperboy who found him. And what does this really have to do with Anna and me? he thought.

  “What do you think, Jan?” Holt said, moving closer to him.

  “What does Toivonen say?” Lewin asked.

  “That he hasn’t got a clue,” Anna Holt said with a giggle.

  “He’s probably right, then.” Lewin smiled at her. “I haven’t got a clue either.”

  “You don’t seem particularly interested,” Holt said, taking the papers from him and putting them down on the coffee table.

  “My mind’s on other things,” Jan Lewin said.

  “Your mind’s on other things?”

  “Well, I’ve been at home with the most beautiful woman in the world for almost half an hour now,” Lewin said, glancing at his watch to make sure. “I’ve had a kiss and a hug and a big pile of papers handed to me. We’re sitting on the same sofa. I’m reading. She’s watching me. Obviously my mind’s on other things.” Lewin nodded to Holt.

  “So what are you thinking, then?”

  “That I want to unbutton your blouse,” Jan Lewin said.

  53.

  At eleven o’clock that evening, Farshad and his brother Afsan had left the large detached house in Sollentuna where they lived with their parents, their three sisters, and their youngest brother, Nasir, twenty-five. Right now, though, the youngster seemed to have gone off somewhere. Not a trace of him for the past week, and Toivonen already had a few ideas of why this might be.

  They had driven off in Farshad’s black Lexus, and things couldn’t have been better, since it was already plugged in and ready. Earlier that evening Farshad had been sloppy and left it in the carpark of the NK department store while he and Talib had gone down to the delicatessen in the basement. Just five minutes, to get something nice for his beloved mother, no big deal.

  Linda Martinez’s colleagues had needed only a minute to attach a GPS transmitter to the car, so now they could follow Alpha 1—a red electronic arrow with the number one—on a computer screen from the peace and quiet of their surveillance vehicle.

  Afsan was driving, while Farshad spent most of the time on the phone. Outside a Lebanese restaurant on Regeringsgatan they had stopped to pick up Hassan Talib, who had also been sloppy. Before he got into the backseat of the Lexus he had opened the trunk of a silver-gray Mercedes that was parked in the street to take out a cell phone, which he put in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  The automatic cameras in the surveillance car following the Lexus clicked rapidly, keeping an eye on what was going on from behind.

  “Bingo,” Linda Martinez exclaimed, since they had just discovered a previously unknown car, and when she personally attached the transmitter five minutes later she was a happy woman. Alfa 3, Martinez decided, marking it off on her digital notepad.

  This is the life, she thought. What could the office offer compared to the street? Although that was probably where she should have been. Why the hell did I become a superintendent? she wondered. If her boss, Lars Martin Johansson, hadn’t already retired, she would have given him the finger, since it had been his idea.

  Her colleagues in the second car had followed the target. They ended up down at Café Opera in Kungsträdgården and watched Afsan double-park twenty meters from the entrance. Then saw the hearty slaps on the back that the three of them exchanged with the bouncers before they vanished inside the nightclub.

  Proper little ayatollahs. I’m going to hang those camel jockeys by their own balls, thought Frank Motoele, thirty, as he let his camera whirr.

  “Frank has a problem with Muslims,” Sandra Kovac, twenty-seven, explained to Magda Hernandez, twenty-five, who had nagged her way to a place in the passenger seat once she had obtained the instant approval of Linda Martinez and been transferred from patrol duty to the surveill
ance team.

  “Frank’s a proper little racist nigger,” Kovac said, nodding to Magda. “Big black man, hates everyone else—if you’re wondering why he looks so cross, I mean.”

  “Not you, Magda,” Frank said with a smile. “If you take off that red top I’ll show you just how much I like you.”

  “He’s sexist as well,” Kovac said. “Did I mention that? And he’s got a really tiny one. Africa’s smallest.”

  “If you stay in the car, Sandra, and stop talking shit, Magda and I will follow them,” Motoele decided. He really didn’t need to listen to that sort of crap, since his colleague Kovac had found out how things stood on that score after a work Christmas party some seventeen months before.

  In the world that Linda Martinez inhabited there weren’t any officers who could get into a celebrity nightclub just by flashing their badges to the bouncers. She had already dealt with that by other means, but Magda Hernandez hadn’t even had to make use of her assistance. She merely smiled her dazzling white smile and swept past the queue in her red top and short skirt.

  Frank Motoele, on the other hand, was stopped at the door, and everything went the way it usually did.

  “Sorry,” the bouncer said, shaking his head. “At this time of the evening we can only admit members.” One hundred and ninety centimeters, one hundred kilos of muscle, and eyes that he had fortunately never seen before. And it was all too likely to end up the way it all too often ended up when he was just trying to do his job, the bouncer thought. I’d give a million to have that nigger’s girl. She could stand here in slippers and pajamas while the rabble just stood round bowing, he thought.

  “Guest list,” Motoele said, nodding to the sheet of paper in the other bouncer’s hand. “Motoele,” Frank Motoele said. On some really cold, miserable day with the rain lashing the windows of Kronoberg jail, we’ll doubtless meet again, he thought, since—belying his outward appearance—he spent most of his free time writing poetry.