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

by Leif Gw Persson

  “How did that work out?” Alm asked.

  “No problems,” Stålhammar said. “Never any problems. He’s a demon with numbers, that lad. He’s not so good at talking.”

  “He’s a demon with numbers,” Alm repeated. He must be drunk, he thought.

  “I remember once, it was one of the races before the big Elitloppet race and Kalle had dragged Seppo along with him. He can’t have been very old. Before one of the races I happened to say that it was completely open. That any of them could win. Ten horses, one favorite and two second favorites. Odds of winning between two and five to one. The other seven would give you better than twenty to one. The one that would give the best return would have paid out more than a hundred to one.”

  “I see,” Alm said. Definitely drunk, he thought.

  “The lad, he can’t have been more than ten, asked if he could borrow seven hundred off Kalle. Kalle was in a good mood, a bit drunk. He’d won on an outside bet in the previous race. He hands Seppo a thousand-kronor note. Seppo asks me to put one hundred and forty-two kronor and eighty-six ore on each of the seven horses with the longest odds. He was too young to bet then. He could hardly reach the counter in those days. I explained to him that you couldn’t bet with the two kronor and eighty-six ore.”

  “ ‘One hundred and forty, then,’ Seppo says. Okay, I did as he said. One of the seven won. Night Runner, that was his name. Paid out eighty-six to one. Do you know what the lad says?”

  “No,” Alm said. What does this have to do with anything? he thought.

  “ ‘Give me my twelve thousand and forty kronor,’ he said.”

  “I don’t actually understand what you mean,” Alm said.

  “That’s because you’re soft in the head. Seppo isn’t soft in the head. He’s different. He talks like a muppet and he looks like a muppet. But he’s not soft in the head. And why do I suddenly feel like punching you in the face?” Stålhammar said.

  “You don’t think Kalle might have had something going on with his mother?” Alm said, thinking it was high time to change the subject.

  “I’ve got no ideeeaa about that,” Stålhammar said with a grin. “How about asking her? If she had something going on with Kalle, I’m sure she’d remember.”

  So it’s like that, is it? Alm thought.

  “You don’t think Kalle could have been Seppo’s dad?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Stålhammar said, grinning. “Not the lad, because he doesn’t say much. But maybe you and Bäckström could ask Kalle. Fix up one of those mediums they have on television. A real window licker who could help you get in touch with the other side. Ask Kalle, why don’t you? If you’re lucky, maybe you could squeeze him for some back payments of child support.”

  So it’s like that? Alm thought, and before he had time to thank Stålhammar for the conversation, he had already turned on his heels and left.

  57.

  Early on Monday morning Linda Martinez had told Toivonen how things had gone with their surveillance of the Ibrahim brothers and their cousin Hassan Talib.

  It had all gone according to plan, actually better than they had hoped. They had already attached transmitters to three of the Ibrahim family’s cars. They had found a previously unknown Mercedes that was evidently being used by Hassan Talib. And if the eagle-eyed god of surveillance was merciful, Martinez reckoned they should be able to crack two of their cell numbers later that day.

  “They headed off in different directions. Talib chatted up a girl in Café Opera and went back to hers by taxi. She lives out in Flemingsberg. Farshad and Afsan left the club soon after and went home to Sollentuna. When Talib got out of the taxi outside the girl’s house he made a call, and a few seconds later, when Farshad was standing outside the house in Sollentuna, his phone started to ring. The lads in phone surveillance are busy checking the cell tower, and because they know their positions and have got an exact time, they think it’s going to work.”

  “Of course it’s going to work,” Toivonen said. If this is war, it has to work, he thought.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “We might have a problem,” Linda Martinez said. “Take a look at these pictures and you’ll see what I mean,” she said, handing over a folder of surveillance photographs.

  A quick glance at the photograph on top was enough. I’m going to kill that fat little bastard, Toivonen thought.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  Farshad and Afsan had left their home in Sollentuna at eleven. They picked up Talib from Regeringsgatan twenty minutes later. Then the three of them drove on to Café Opera.

  “At half past eleven exactly they disappear into the club,” Linda Martinez said. “Two of my team follow them. Inside, one of them sees our colleague Bäckström standing at the bar with a girl. The Ibrahim brothers and Talib are standing farther inside the club, and according to my guy, Frank Motoele, actually, it was quite obvious that they were checking out Bäckström. Motoele says he got the impression that Farshad was trying to get eye contact with the woman who was with Bäckström. But there’s nothing to suggest any contact between Bäckström and our three subjects. Bäckström seems to have been completely oblivious, focusing all his attention on his female companion.”

  Half a dozen photographs of Bäckström and his companion. Considerably more of their three subjects. Two pictures in which Bäckström and his companion are visible in the background, with Farshad Ibrahim in the foreground, back to the camera.

  Bäckström leaning on the bar. Smiling and making extravagant gestures toward the beautiful woman by his side. A broad smile from her, laughter; she seems utterly absorbed by his company.

  “Do we know who she is?” Toivonen asked.

  “Yes,” Martinez said. “Sandra Kovac went in and recognized her immediately from her time with the Security Police. Her name is Tatiana Thorén. Originally from Poland, Swedish citizen, married and divorced Thorén. A kept woman by profession. One of the most expensive, by all accounts. Between ten and twenty thousand per night. Flat on Jungfrugatan on Östermalm. Hardly ever takes clients there. Mostly hotels.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “Soon afterward Thorén and Bäckström leave Café Opera. They take a taxi from the street outside. Go home to Thorén’s flat, where they spend the night. Bäckström doesn’t leave until ten o’clock the next morning. The minute after Bäckström and Thorén leave the club, the Ibrahim brothers follow suit. They go directly home to Sollentuna. Farshad’s car. The black Lexus, and as usual it’s Afsan driving. No attempt to follow Bäckström. Talib leaves half an hour later. He has company in the form of a young woman. Takes a taxi back to hers, like I said. We’ve identified her too, Josefine Weber, twenty-three, works in a shop selling jeans on Drottninggatan. Nothing remarkable about her. She seems to hang about in bars, socializing with people like Talib. It would be great if we could get hold of her phone number. I get the feeling it wouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “So what’s your interpretation of this, then?” Toivonen said.

  “That they went to Café Opera to take a look at Bäckström. That it was Thorén who made the move on Bäckström, and told them where the two of them were. Looks like a standard recruitment attempt, and if you ask me I think they’ve already got their hooks into our so-called colleague, Evert Bäckström. It can hardly be a coincidence that they picked him out. Not considering the man’s reputation.”

  “I think pretty much the same as you,” Toivonen said. I’m going to kill that fat little bastard, he thought.

  58.

  Since Bäckström had no idea what was being discussed in Toivonen’s office, he was in an excellent mood when he arrived at work. He was also unusually early due to the fact that he had made an appointment that day to pick up his service revolver at last. The very weapon the powerful forces ranged against him had tried to deprive him of in order to be able to kill him the easiest way.

  Bäckström hardly ever carried a service revolver. A man
with a super-salami like him didn’t need a cock extension, and besides, the holster and handle chafed horribly, no matter whether you wore it under you left armpit or by your waist. What changed his mind had been the National Rapid-Response Unit’s attempt to kill him during a so-called raid some six months earlier. He had visited the parliament building to question a member of parliament who was deeply involved in the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme. But instead he had been accused of trying to take the man hostage.

  Bäckström was a blameless and irreproachable knight and had no intention of taking his weapon into the Swedish parliament, and he walked with his visor open, which was more than his opponents did. When they attacked him with bombs and grenades, he had only his bare hands to defend himself with.

  When he was eventually permitted to leave Huddinge Hospital, he had immediately requested the return of the service revolver that his crafty opponents had taken off him while he was confined to his sickbed. He had also applied for permission to carry his weapon in his free time and had provided a well-composed justification for this.

  All he had received was a firm rejection on the most peculiar formal grounds. In their assessment of the matter, his employers had discovered that Bäckström had never attended the annual shooting tests that were a requirement of bearing a service weapon, not since he had left his post at the National Murder Unit three years before. While he was there he had undergone the tests punctually every year, and the fact that it had actually been his old friend and colleague Detective Inspector Rogersson who took care of the practicalities for him was none of his employers’ business. It was between him and Rogersson, and as far as their so-called checks were concerned, he knew where they could shove them.

  So Bäckström had to do his shooting again. He had passed with flying colors on only the third attempt, just before he moved to the Western District. His employers had nonetheless tried to delay things, and it wasn’t until he called in the Police Officers’ Association that they backed down. The notification that he was once again a full police citizen, with the right to bear arms and even to kill if the situation demanded it, had arrived the previous week, and Bäckström hadn’t delayed for a second. He had called at once and booked a time to collect his revolver, and now the time had come.

  He had also made certain preparations. From a gun dealer he had bought a so-called ankle holster with his own money, the same sort his American colleague Popeye had worn in the classic old police film The French Connection. Then he got hold of a cool linen suit from his tailor, with a loose-fitting jacket and trousers with wide legs. Wearing shorts went against the whole idea of an ankle holster, and since the summer was expected to be warm and sunny, he didn’t want to have to walk around sweating unnecessarily.

  Dressed in a well-cut yellow linen suit, his holster already in place below his left calf, he had shown up at the weapons department of the Western District.

  “Service revolver, a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer—standard magazine, fifteen rounds—one box of service ammunition, twenty rounds,” the assistant said, lining up the items on the counter. “Sign here,” he added, sliding over a receipt for him to sign.

  “Hang on, hang on,” Bäckström said. “Twenty rounds? What sort of crap is that?”

  “Standard issue,” the assistant said. “If you want more, I’ll need written authority from the head of police.”

  “Forget it,” Bäckström said. “And you can keep this piece of crap,” he said, handing back the holster. He tucked the pistol, magazine, and ammunition into his jacket pocket, since he had no intention of revealing where he was planning to carry his weapon.

  That bastard Bäckström seems completely unstable, the assistant thought, as he watched the yellow linen suit leave. And he dresses like some fucking Mafioso. Maybe I should phone and warn the guys in the rapid-response unit, he thought.

  Once he had closed the door of his office Bäckström did some practicing. He holstered his weapon, shook his trousers so that they hung loose, then quickly slid onto his right knee, pulling up the left trouser leg with his left hand as he pulled out his weapon with a well-judged movement of his right hand, aimed, and fired.

  Suck on this, motherfucker, Bäckström thought.

  Practice makes perfect, he thought, and repeated the process. Quickly down onto one knee, his confused opponents missing and firing over his head, Bäckström draws his weapon, takes careful aim, smiles his most crooked smile.

  “Come on, punk! Make my day, Toivonen,” Bäckström snarled.

  “Christ, you scared me, Bäckström,” Nadja Högberg said, coming into his room with her arms full of papers.

  “Just practicing,” Bäckström said with a manly smile. “How can I help you, Nadja?”

  “The papers you wanted,” Nadja said, putting the piles on his desk. “About the Ibrahim brothers and their cousin Hassan Talib. And I promised to remind you that we’re having a meeting of the team in a quarter of an hour.”

  “Right,” Bäckström said. He slung his left foot onto the desk and holstered his pistol.

  Nadja refrained from shaking her head until she closed the door on him. They’re like children, she thought.

  Before Bäckström went off to the meeting he loaded a full magazine. Fifteen rounds, one in the chamber. The other four were in his right pocket just in case, and as soon as he got the chance he was going to buy a whole case to keep at home.

  As he walked past Toivonen’s closed door he almost had to stop himself from tearing open the door and firing off a salvo into the bastard’s ceiling. Shooting him in the head would probably be going a bit far, but a few shots in the ceiling would at least be enough to make sure the bastard Finn shit himself, and that was no more than he deserved, Bäckström thought.

  59.

  “Welcome, everyone,” Bäckström said, marshaling his troops, smiling his warmest smile, and sitting down at the head of the table.

  Still in a very good mood, and now armed as well. Secretly armed, Bäckström thought, seeing as none of his half-witted colleagues would be able to work out what he was carrying under his well-cut yellow trousers.

  “I thought we might start by throwing some ideas around,” Bäckström said. So that it didn’t go to hell from the outset, he gave them a little clue to chew on.

  “Connections,” Bäckström said. “Is there any connection between the murders of Karl Danielsson and Septimus Akofeli?”

  “Of course there is,” Nadja Högberg said. “The murder of Karl Danielsson must have triggered the murder of Akofeli,” she said.

  Nods of agreement from the Anchor, the pretty little darkie, and the retarded folk dancer. More hesitant squirming from the team’s very own Woodentop.

  “You seem hesitant, Alm,” Bäckström said. “I’m listening.”

  Alm still had some difficulties with Seppo Laurén. He had actually admitted hitting Danielsson on two previous occasions. Then there was their shared background and the obvious violence of Danielsson’s murder.

  “The perpetrator more or less beat him to a pulp,” Alm said. “Like he was trying to wipe out all traces of him. I think Seppo fits that picture very well, especially if he got the idea that Danielsson was responsible for the fact that his mom is in the hospital. A typical case of patricide, if you ask me.”

  “And then?” Bäckström said with a sly smile. “What happened after that?” Alm must look like a perfect bird feeder if you were a woodpecker, he thought.

  “Well, I buy the simplest explanation,” Alm said. “Akofeli snoops round Danielsson’s flat. Finds the briefcase full of money. Takes it home with him and gets murdered. And you’re probably wondering who killed him?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Bäckström said with an amiable smile. “Who killed him?” Feeding time all day long, as soon as Woodentop opens his mouth, he thought.

  “I don’t think we should make it more complicated that it need be,” Alm said. “The simplest explanation, considering the area he lived in, which really is craw
ling with serious criminals, and the calls he made, is that he had an accomplice, if you ask me. They met in Akofeli’s flat to share the takings. An argument arose, they fought, Akofeli was killed, the killer dumped the body.”

  “I see,” Bäckström said. Hesitant body movement from one Anchor, one pretty little darkie, and one tragic incest victim from Dalarna, while Nadja Högberg looked at the ceiling and, just to make sure, sighed out loud. “You don’t seem too sure, Nadja.” The Russian’s going to carve his whole head off, he thought.

  “I get the impression Akofeli was taken by surprise, from behind. Besides, Seppo Laurén couldn’t have killed Danielsson because he’s got an alibi. He was sitting at his computer when the murder was committed. Seppo Laurén has what’s known as an alibi. It’s Latin, and means ‘in another place’—in other words, that Seppo Laurén was sitting in front of his own computer in his and his mom’s flat at the top of the building. Meaning that he wasn’t in Danielsson’s flat on the first floor of the same building.”

  “A so-called alibi. Which I don’t think much of, to be honest,” Alm said. “How do we know it was him sitting there? All we actually know is that someone was sitting at his computer. Not that it was necessarily Laurén.”

  “So who else could it have been?” Nadja said. Alm must be a complete idiot, which is a rarity even in this building, she thought.

  “Anyone he knows,” Alm said. “He planned it in advance, got hold of some friend who could provide his alibi, and here we can’t actually rule out that it could have been Akofeli who helped him—”

  “He spoke to him once when Akofeli was delivering papers,” Nadja interrupted.

  “According to him, yes,” Alm said. “If we find the person who was sitting at Laurén’s computer, then we’ve solved this,” Alm said.

  “I’ll have a serious go,” Nadja said, taking a deep breath to gather her strength.