“What about the recipient? Location?” Bäckström asked.
“Here in Solna,” Pettersson said. “Solna, Sundbyberg. Always the same towers.”
“Have you checked police records, then?”
“Of course,” Felicia said. “The number isn’t listed on the county’s cell surveillance register. It’s there now, but only because I put it on there.”
“Okay,” Bäckström said, stroking his chin. “There’s something odd about … Akofeli.”
“You haven’t worked out what it is that’s been worrying you, boss?” Felicia said.
“I’m starting to get old,” Bäckström said. “With a bit of luck, sooner or later the penny will drop. We’ll stick to our plan. Sooner or later we’re going to crack this. Carry on with Akofeli, Felicia. I’ve just got a feeling. I wish I could be more precise, but for now it’s just a feeling.”
That gave them something to chew on, Bäckström thought. He was starting to feel like his usual self again. Honestly, what feeling? And how the hell am I going to get rid of Carlsson so I can have a decent drink? he wondered.
73.
That afternoon the county police chief had held an extraordinary meeting with her staff. The pressure from the media was immense. The people were demanding to see their hero, Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström. In fact, she couldn’t recall anything similar since the murder of Anna Lindh, and then it wasn’t her they were after but the head of the county crime unit at the time. Nowadays he had been given other, less public responsibilities, but it had taken a lot of time and effort to ensure that he wasn’t plagued by unnecessary exposure in the mass media.
The new head of the human relations department had kicked off the brainstorming session with an interesting suggestion. He had previously worked for the Moderate Party’s policy think tank and had once worked as acting press secretary to the prime minister. Only a month ago he had taken part in a confidential and extremely interesting weekend conference at Gimo Herrgård Manor. And within this closed circle he saw no problems with lifting the veil a bit.
The popular demand for ostentation and vanity was immeasurable. A wealth of opinion polls provided evidence of this. In fact, the “self-affirmation coefficient” had never been so high in all of the thirty years that similar polls had been conducted, and the trend was heading inexorably higher.
The military and the police—even ordinary customs officers, coastguards, and firemen—wanted more distinctive grading, more titles, epaulettes, insignia, medals, and awards. Ordinary people wanted the royal family to have a more prominent role in Swedish society; they wanted the reinstatement of the public honors system, and a qualified majority demanded that it be massively expanded to include citizens such as themselves rather than just a load of culture vultures and generals.
And the prime minister, who had attended the last day of discussion, had come up with an extremely interesting suggestion. A daring suggestion worthy of a great political thinker like him, and among the most thought-provoking the HR head had ever heard. Honestly.
“So what was it?” the county police chief asked.
“The nobility. The prime minister wanted to raise the idea that we should reinstate the nobility. Apparently they’ve already done the number crunching in Finance, and we’re talking about billions that could be saved in wages, bonuses, and golden handshakes.
“Today everything is about chasing dreams. And what are fifteen minutes of fame compared with the chance to flash your backside in a reality show?” the head of HR said.
“So what exactly are you thinking, in practical terms?” the county police chief’s top legal adviser asked. She was a thin woman of the same age as her boss, who had been well-disposed toward their marketing maestro from the day he first started his new job.
“The Great Gold Police Medal,” the head of HR said. “The most prestigious honor in the police force, and largely forgotten about for generations.”
The last time there had even been any discussion of awarding it was almost thirty-five years ago. It was after the hostage crisis in the bank on Norrmalmstorg, when the two “heroes of Norrmalmstorg,” Detective Inspectors Jonny Johnsson and Gunvald Larsson, had freed the hostage being kept down in the vault and hauled out the perpetrators in handcuffs with perfect timing for the newspapers’ print deadlines and the serious evening news broadcasts, to be met by a veritable wall of microphones and pyrotechnic flashbulbs.
Nothing came of it on that occasion. The then chief of police, an old compromise candidate from the People’s Party who only got the job in the absence of anyone better, simply didn’t have the guts to go through with it.
“It was in the middle of an election campaign, Social Democratic government and all that, Palme was going crazy, and the chief of police bottled it. Didn’t have the balls, basically,” the head of HR concluded.
The last time the medal had actually been awarded was almost sixty years ago. The recipient was the then police inspector of Stockholm, Viking Örn, and the reason why he was deemed worthy of the honor was his decisive contribution during the so-called Margarine Riots of November 1948.
“The Great Gold Police Medal,” the county police chief said, sounding as if she was trying out the taste of the words. She had been thinking of something else entirely but had decided to keep that to herself. For the time being, at least.
“Do you think you could look into this, Margareta?” she asked her legal adviser. “Put together some notes, and we’ll have another meeting early tomorrow morning.”
“I’d be happy to,” the legal adviser said, and for some reason she smiled warmly at the new head of HR. “It’ll be a pleasure,” she added.
Who was Viking Örn?
What were the Margarine Riots?
74.
Who was Viking Örn?
Viking Örn was born in 1905, in Klippan, down in Skåne. He was the son of mill owner Tor Balder Örn and his wife, Fidelia Josefina, née Markow. A policeman and a legendary wrestler. In the Berlin Olympics in 1936 he had won the heavyweight gold medal in Greco-Roman wrestling, and it was said that he gained his herculean strength as a lad by running up and down the steep stairs of the mill at home in Klippan, carrying ninety-kilo sacks of flour.
When Viking Örn was taken on as a trainee by the Stockholm Police in 1926 there was much grieving in Klippan and throughout Skåne. Klippan was the home of Swedish wrestling. Viking Örn had already brought home countless titles to his club, and now he was going to leave it for the wrestling community in Stockholm.
In the legendary Olympics final of 1936, in the Berliner Sporthalle, he had beaten the Third Reich’s great hero, the wrestling baron, Claus Nicholaus von Habenix. After just one minute Örn had forced von Habenix onto the mat, changed his grip, got his opponent in an inverted waistlock, and stood up with the baron hanging upside down in his massive arms. Then the Swedish Viking let out an almighty roar, threw himself backward, and tossed von Habenix into the third row of the audience.
Twelve years later he was awarded the Great Gold Police Medal.
Viking Örn was by this time a police inspector and the acting head of the Stockholm Police riot squad, and when the squad had been set up fifteen years earlier, its first boss had described it as the Swedish Police’s equivalent of the German storm troopers, the SA. In the years after the war their work had taken on a new direction and they largely had two tasks: the transportation of particularly dangerous prisoners to and from the country’s prisons and other institutions, and the protection of important “buildings, institutions, and other valuables” in the Royal Capital.
They also possessed the police force’s first specialist vehicle. It was a black, extended Plymouth V8, which could carry up to ten officers and their driver. Burly officers at that, since Örn recruited almost exclusively from the Stockholm Police wrestling club. Their van was known popularly as the “Black Maria,” and those it carried were known as the “Cauliflower Brigade” after the shape of their ears.
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On the third day of the Margarine Riots, at a critical moment in the nation’s history, when things were hanging in the balance, Viking Örn had finally put an end to a chain of events that could have ended in tragedy. As a reward, he had been awarded the Great Gold Police Medal.
What were the Margarine Riots?
The Margarine Riots were for a long time a neglected chapter of Swedish social history, and it wasn’t until much later that the historian Maja Lundgren, in her dissertation about the rationing policies of the Swedish government after the Second World War, was able to provide a thorough analysis of the event (Fat Fathers and Meager Mothers, Bonnier Fakta, 2007).
The riots began on Thursday, November 4, 1948. The cause of the demonstrators’ anger was that the Swedish government was still rationing margarine even through it was three and a half years since the end of the war in May 1945. The demonstrators were working-class housewives, and to start with the demonstration was extremely modest in size. Fifty or so women, of whom perhaps half a dozen were carrying placards.
For reasons that were initially unclear, they had decided to demonstrate outside the Trade Union Confederation headquarters on Norra Bantorget instead of the government offices in Gamla stan. Prime Minister Tage Erlander and the minister in question, Gustaf Möller, got off lightly, since the demonstrators’ anger was directed instead at the chairman of the TUC and his right-hand man, the confederation’s treasurer, Gösta Eriksson.
For the first time in Swedish history a working-class party had its own parliamentary majority. Every right-thinking Social Democrat was perfectly aware that the government was now simply the mouthpiece of the TUC. Hence the decision to demonstrate outside the TUC citadel rather than government offices.
The fifty or so women who had gathered outside the entrance to the TUC building handed over a list of their demands to a TUC representative and were told to address their concerns to the government. But generally they had done nothing much apart from stand there.
On the second day the tone had hardened considerably and the number of women had multiplied. A couple hundred mothers demanding “Margarine on the bread of working-class children,” “The rich eat butter, we eat rations”—lots of chanting and shouting. On the third day, Saturday, November 6, the situation was critical. “Fat fathers and meager mothers” was the text on one of the most offensive placards, which also depicted both Strand and Erlander enjoying a drink.
The day before the weekend, and also the anniversary of the death of the great warrior king, Gustaf II Adolf. It was a particularly unfortunate choice of day on which to protest in such a fashion.
Working-class women had come by train from the whole Mälar region, and the number of demonstrators passed five hundred that morning. The police of the Klara district of Stockholm had turned to the chief of police, Henrik Tham, and asked for help, since the local force could no longer guarantee public order and safety. Tham had ordered out the riot squad under the command of the legendary Viking Örn, who arrived personally in the Black Maria, accompanied by a number of ordinary patrol cars. He had pushed his way through the angry crowd and stood at the top of the steps of the TUC, surrounded by his awe-inspiring wrestling colleagues. No one had even needed to draw their saber.
“Go home, old women, or else you’ll get a thrashing,” Örn roared, raising his right hand threateningly, a hand that was as big as the ham served at His Majesty the King’s Christmas dinner table.
And because this happened in the bad old days, when practically all women did what their men told them, they had shuffled off. Besides, most of them had children to look after, and on top of everything else it had also started to rain, a cold, lashing November rain.
Overnight Viking Örn became the hero of the ruling middle class, and was awarded the Great Gold Police Medal, and praised by the chief of police and in the leader columns of all the right-wing newspapers in the country. Unfortunately he also made a number of comments that, sixty years later—in the pale glow of history’s night light—appear rather questionable.
In a radio interview—Stockholm-Motala—he had even talked down his contribution. Much ado about nothing, whereas the wrestling baron had been quite a different matter. What sort of weaklings were these men who couldn’t make a gaggle of hysterical women shut up and do what they were supposed to—cooking, cleaning, washing, and looking after their kids instead of running round the streets causing trouble for him and his men, and for all decent people in general? He at least didn’t have any problems with discipline at home.
One dissenting voice had been heard in the otherwise martial tone of the media. The female reporter known as Bang, who declared concisely and in summary that Viking Örn was the natural leader of Stockholm Police’s very own Cauliflower Brigade, and if he hadn’t existed for real then they would have had to make him up.
The county police chief’s staff read the senior legal adviser’s memo in silence. For a brief second the county police chief had imagined that Evert Bäckström was tailor-made for this particular honor, then she had come to her senses.
The head of HR had made the usual attempt at saving face.
“What about the others who were awarded the medal in the past?” the HR head asked. “They can’t all have been the same as Örn.”
“Of course not,” the senior legal adviser said in an unusually silky voice. “That particular medal was even awarded to famous figures in world history.”
“Really?” the head of HR said. He was fundamentally an optimistic soul and happily took the chance to feel his hopes rise.
Most famous of all was the German SS general Reynhardt Heydrich. In 1939 Heydrich, at the initiative of the Swedes, had been appointed chairman of the International Police Organization. The following year he was awarded the Great Gold Police Medal for his “exemplary contribution to maintaining law and order in a Czechoslovakia hit hard by the winds of war.”
“Would you like to hear any other examples?” the senior legal adviser asked with a gentle smile.
We’ll have to do what we usually do, the county police chief thought, as she hurried off to her next meeting. There was no way of avoiding a press conference with the little fat disaster, sadly. With a bit of luck, Anna Holt was enough of a woman to keep it within reasonable bounds. Speaking for herself, she knew of at least one person who wouldn’t be attending. There’d have to be the customary cut-glass vase, of course, she thought.
75.
That same day Bäckström had held a press conference with his boss, police chief Anna Holt. Also on the podium was his immediate superior, Superintendent Toivonen, as well as the county police chief’s own press secretary. Because a large crowd was expected, the county police chief had put the auditorium of police headquarters on Kungsholmen at their disposal.
Regrettably she was unable to attend herself because she was obliged to attend a series of important meetings. At least that was what she told Holt, but in reality, in the world where nothing is ever really concealed from eyes that can see and ears that can hear, she was sitting alone in her office, following proceedings on TV4’s live broadcast.
Anna Holt had kicked it off, giving a brief summary of what had happened. Almost no questions, even though the room was packed with journalists.
Then Toivonen had explained what was happening in the investigation into the armed robbery out at Bromma and made it clear that the main suspects were now in custody. Later that day the prosecutor would propose the formal arrest of Farshad Ibrahim, Afsan Ibrahim, and Hassan Talib for murder, attempted murder, and aggravated robbery.
But as far as the two perpetrators of the armed robbery itself were concerned, Toivonen said little. The situation was sensitive and for that reason he didn’t want to comment. This was a view that the journalists didn’t appear to share, because almost all of their questions had been on that particular subject. They also appeared to know most of the details already.
Kari Viirtanen, Nasir Ibrahim? Did he have anything to say abou
t them?
No comment.
Kari Viirtanen had been shot outside his girlfriend’s flat in Bergshamra. The perpetrators were the men behind the armed robbery who wanted to take revenge on him for messing things up and shooting the guards, wasn’t that true?
No comment.
Nasir Ibrahim had been driving the getaway car at the raid in Bromma. He had abandoned it outside the Hells Angels’ clubhouse, five hundred meters from the scene of the crime. Then he was found murdered in Copenhagen. The Hells Angels getting their revenge?
No comment.
Somewhere around then the press secretary had broken off the questions in order to let Superintendent Bäckström speak. None of the journalists objected.
Could Bäckström tell them what had happened on Monday evening in his own apartment?
Suddenly there was complete silence in the room. The journalists even shushed the photographers who were trying to take pictures of him.
Bäckström surprised everyone who knew him. He was reserved, concise, almost brusque. On the few occasions when his mouth twitched in an approximation of a smile, he looked rather like a Swedish version of Andy Sipowicz, the hero of the television series NYPD Blue. Nor did this fact escape either the reporters or the headline writers. But it was still a toss-up. Either Andy Sipowicz or Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry Callahan.
“There’s not really much to say,” Bäckström said. “They got into my apartment, and the minute I walked in they attacked me and tried to kill me.”
Then he nodded and smiled a crooked smile.
His audience took this to be a dramatic pause, and that there was more to come. Bäckström merely shrugged again, nodded, and looked almost uninterested.
Backstrom: He Who Kills the Dragon (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original) Page 30