“The newspaper cart?”
“I didn’t have to ask. She said it was usually in there. Had been over the past few months at least. It used to annoy her, she said, because it was always in the way when she was trying to get her bike out. She said she’d even been thinking of leaving a note on it. She realized it belonged to the paperboy. She herself didn’t have a paper delivered. She got to read them for free at work.”
“So she didn’t have any reason to keep an eye on Akofeli’s timing?”
“No,” Annika Carlsson said. “She presumed their paths had crossed inside the building. And, like I said, it didn’t occur to me. Not then, anyway.”
“You haven’t talked to anyone in the building?” Bäckström said.
“What do you take me for?” Annika Carlsson said. “How would that look?”
“A wise colleague is worth their weight in gold,” Bäckström said.
“Akofeli was seeing someone who lived in the building,” Annika Carlsson said.
“Obviously,” Bäckström said. “I’ve suspected as much all along.”
85.
Anna Holt had woken up around seven that morning. She had been having a vaguely erotic dream, not at all unpleasant, and when she looked up she saw Jan Lewin lying in bed next to her, looking at her. He was resting his head on his right hand while the left played with her right nipple.
“You’re awake,” Holt said.
“Extremely awake,” Jan Lewin replied, smiling, and nodding for some reason in the direction of his own groin.
“Goodness,” Holt said as she stretched her hand under the sheets to feel. “I think we have an acute problem here.”
“What are we going to do about it, then?” Jan Lewin asked as he put his arm round her neck.
“Solve it,” Holt said. She pulled the sheets off and sat on top of him.
It’s best in the mornings, Holt thought half an hour later. And she felt energetic too. Always did afterward. In contrast, Jan seemed much more relaxed and close to falling back to sleep. Typical, she thought, just as her phone rang.
“What sort of fool calls up at this time on a Saturday?” Lewin groaned.
“I have my suspicions,” Holt said, picking up the phone. The county police chief, she thought.
“I hope I didn’t wake you, Anna?” the county police chief said. She sounded just as awake as Holt, and considerably angrier.
“I was already awake,” Holt said. Without going into the reason and pulling a happy face at Lewin.
“Have you read the papers?” the county police chief asked.
“No,” Holt said. “Which one?”
“All of them,” the county police chief said. “Bäckström,” she clarified. “He seems to have talked to all of them. Even that Christian rag where he takes the chance to declare his strong faith in God.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Holt said. Say what you like about Bäckström, but he’s not stupid, she thought.
“Thank you,” the county police chief said, and hung up.
“Now I’ve got something I need to do,” Holt said. “You, on the other hand, should try to get back to sleep.”
“I can get breakfast,” Jan Lewin said, sitting up in bed.
“You’re probably wondering …”
“No,” Lewin said, shaking his head. “I’m a police officer, have I ever mentioned that? I’ve already got a fairly good idea of the reason behind that call.” It’s always Bäckström, he thought.
Anna Holt had sat down at her computer, where she went onto the Internet to read the morning papers. It confirmed her fears. Then she called Bäckström. As usual, no answer. Then she spoke to Annika Carlsson.
If she can, then so can I, Anna Holt thought. The “she” in question was the county police chief, and the person she was calling was Toivonen.
“Toivonen,” Toivonen groaned.
“Holt,” Holt said.
“I’m listening, boss,” Toivonen said. “I was out late,” he explained.
“Bäckström,” Holt said, then spent the next two minutes explaining what this was about.
“In that case, I suggest we wait until Monday,” Toivonen said. “Since it’s the weekend and we’re talking about Bäckström here,” he clarified.
“He’s actually at work,” Holt said. “I spoke to Annika Carlsson a short while ago. She says he’s been there since early this morning.”
“If he is, then he’s only doing it to wind me up,” Toivonen said.
86.
“What do we do now?” Annika Carlsson asked.
“Now we take it nice and slow,” Bäckström said. “We don’t mess it up by rushing.”
“I’m listening,” Carlsson said.
“That list that Alm drew up of everyone Danielsson knew,” Bäckström said. “I’d like to take a look at it. Call him, tell him to get here at once and give me the list.”
“No need,” Carlsson said. “You can read mine. I’ve got a copy.”
“That’s a shame,” Bäckström said. “I was looking forward to having a chance to wind the idiot up.”
The old boys from Solna and Sundbyberg, Bäckström thought, as he read through Alm’s summary of Karl Danielsson’s acquaintances some fifteen minutes later. Halfy and Flash and Jockey Gunnar. Godfather Grimaldi and his former colleague Roly Stålhammar. Good old boys who’d spent the best part of fifty years drunk off their ass.
Then he called one of them.
“Detective Superintendent Bäckström, the nation’s hero,” Halfy Söderman said. “To what does a simple man such as myself owe the pleasure?”
“I need to talk to you, Söderman,” Bäckström said. Already wasted, and here I am stuck behind my desk, sober, gray, and underpaid, he thought.
“My door is always open to you,” Halfy said. “It will be an honor for me and my simple household. And would the Superintendent have any specific requests as far as refreshment is concerned?”
“Coffee will do fine,” Bäckström said brusquely. “Black, no sugar.”
Then he had gone into Nadja’s office and picked up Karl Danielsson’s pocket diary, then called for a taxi.
“Are you sure I can’t offer to drop you off?” Halfy Söderman asked, nodding toward the bottle of cognac standing on the kitchen table between him and Bäckström.
“I’m fine,” Bäckström said.
“You’re not just quick on the draw,” Söderman declared. “You’re a man of strong character too, Bäckström,” he said, pouring a decent splash into his own coffee cup.
“Ah, liqueur’s good,” Söderman said, sighing with pleasure. “And good for you. One million alcoholics can’t be wrong.”
Maybe not all of them, Bäckström thought.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you about,” Bäckström said, pulling out Danielsson’s black pocket diary.
“Well, because it’s you, just go ahead, Bäckström,” Halfy said. “If it had been one of your so-called colleagues, I’d have got into a three-round scrap with them by now.”
“Karl Danielsson’s pocket diary,” Bäckström said. “There are some notes in here that I can’t quite get my head round.”
“I can well imagine,” Söderman grinned. “Kalle was a crafty bastard.”
“There are certain notes that come up again and again. We think they mean that he was paying out money to three different people.”
“I can believe that,” Söderman said. “And without a stain on his character. What are their names?”
“They’re abbreviations,” Bäckström said. “Initials of their names, we think. Plus the amounts.
“The initials are HA, AFS, and FI. All in capital letters, take a look,” Bäckström said, holding the diary out to Söderman.
“What are they supposed to mean, then? The abbreviations, I mean. What are the names?”
“Hassan Talib, Afsan Ibrahim, and Farshad Ibrahim.”
“They’re those fucking bastards who tried to kill you, Bäckström,” Söderman said as he leafed thro
ugh the diary.
“Yes,” Bäckström said. “Can you remember if Danielsson ever talked about them?”
“He never talked about stuff like that. No matter how hammered he got. As to whether he was stashing money away for people like that? I can quite believe him doing it, but he wasn’t stupid enough to talk about it.”
“No?” Bäckström said.
“No,” Halfy Söderman said emphatically. “I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, Superintendent. Mind you, I’d be happy to do my bit if it would help get those camel jockeys locked up for so long that they chuck the key in a lake. But I’m sorry to have to tell you that they’re probably innocent, I’m afraid.”
“Really?” Bäckström said.
“Kalle Danielsson was a funny little shit,” Halfy said. “These notes are about something completely different, not those date pickers from Fuckknowswhereistan.”
“Tell me,” Bäckström said.
“It’s a good story,” Halfy Söderman said, shaking his head and smiling happily at his guest.
“Are you sitting comfortably, Bäckström?” he asked.
“Yes,” Bäckström said.
“Then I’ll begin,” Halfy said. “Hold onto your ears so they don’t drop off.”
87.
“What have you been up to, Bäckström?” Annika Carlsson asked when Bäckström returned to the office three hours later.
“I’ve eaten a nutritious lunch and solved a double murder,” Bäckström said. And bought some cough drops on the way, he thought.
“What have you been up to, then?” he asked.
“I checked out what you asked me to,” Annika said. “It seems to fit so far. I found the rental car you asked me to look for. Hired from the OK garage in Sundbyberg on Saturday, May seventeenth. Returned the next day.”
“Really?” Bäckström said. “So what’s the problem?”
“Toivonen,” Carlsson said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to him.”
“If he wants to talk to me, he knows how to find me,” Bäckström said.
“Some advice, Bäckström,” Annika Carlsson said. “If I were you, I’d go and talk to him, and keep a low profile when you do. I’ve seen him like this once before and it wasn’t pretty.”
“Really?” Bäckström said. So the fucking fox is throwing his weight around, he thought.
At least Toivonen wasn’t climbing the walls. On the contrary. When Bäckström came into his office he merely nodded amiably and asked him to sit down.
“Good to see you, Bäckström,” Toivonen said. “I’ve got some nice pictures I thought I might show you.”
What the hell is he sitting there saying? Bäckström thought.
“I thought we could start with these,” Toivonen said, handing over a bundle of surveillance pictures. “They’re from last Friday, when you were out on the town and met Tatiana Thorén. Before that I believe you had dinner with Juha Valentin Andersson-Snygg, or Gustaf Gustafsson Henning as he’s known these days. So I’m guessing he was responsible for the introductions.”
“What the hell is this?” Bäckström growled. “I’ve got an investigation that’s on its knees because I haven’t got enough bodies. And you waste surveillance staff harassing one of your own colleagues? I hope you’ve got a damn good explanation.”
“You always have to exaggerate, Bäckström,” Toivonen said. “We had surveillance following the Ibrahim brothers and Hassan Talib. They went off to Café Opera, and that’s where you and little Miss Thorén suddenly turn up in the story. Because Farshad seemed especially interested in you, we thought it might make sense to follow up that thread as well.”
“I’ve never met the idiot. Not until he showed up in my flat and tried to kill me,” Bäckström said.
“Listen to what you’re saying,” Toivonen said. “In part, I believe you. I think they turned up hoping to bribe you. Get hold of someone who could tell them what was going on in our armed robbery case. Presumably they were starting to feel the heat by then. Farshad’s a cunning bastard, and he clearly doesn’t lack money. And presumably Thorén got hold of the keys to your flat for them. You dropped your trousers pretty quickly, I gather.”
“She didn’t get any keys from me.”
“No,” Toivonen said. “But as soon as you passed out she sorted out a copy. She’s a whore, by the way. One of the expensive ones.”
“If you say so, Toivonen,” Bäckström said, shrugging. “I didn’t have to pay a penny myself. How much did she charge you? Five hundred Finnish marks, or what?”
“You can calm down, Bäckström,” Toivonen said. “I’m not going to try to get you for breaking the law on the purchase of sexual services.
“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid,” Toivonen went on. “We took this set of pictures the same evening you had your little shooting frenzy at home in your flat. You’re sitting drinking in your local bar. Beer and a large whiskey before the food, more beer and a couple shots with the food, coffee and a large cognac after the food. A police officer, out in his free time, goes to a bar, gets intoxicated, carrying his service revolver. I understand precisely why you met our colleagues with a glass in your hand when you finally let them in. What do you think of the pictures, by the way? Damn good quality, don’t you think?”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Bäckström said, holding up the first picture. “On this one I’m sitting with a glass of low-alcohol beer with a glass of apple juice alongside. You should try it, by the way.”
“Sure,” Toivonen said with a grin. “And then you had some extra water in a shot glass to go with your next low-alcohol beer. And you finished off with another apple juice. In a cognac glass this time. You’re very funny, Bäckström, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve already got hold of a copy of your bill, I’d probably give up and try to move on.”
“What’s your point?” Bäckström said.
“I have a little proposal,” Toivonen said.
“I’m listening,” Bäckström said.
“I don’t give a damn about our so-called colleagues over in internal investigations,” Toivonen said. “I’m not the sort to snitch on a fellow officer. If someone becomes too much of a problem I usually grab him by the ears. We sort that kind of thing inside the station. That’s the way we’ve always done things out here in Solna.”
“Your proposal,” Bäckström said. “You were saying that you had a proposal.”
“We have a growing number of colleagues who are starting to get fucking sick and tired of your comments in the media. We can probably put up with the rest of it if we have to. If you want to carry on taking a shit in the papers, I think you should change jobs. Maybe you could become a crime reporter, or replace that tired old professor on the National Police Board, that Persson bloke, the one who’s on Crimewatch, droning on every Thursday. If you keep your mouth shut, we’ll keep our mouths shut. But if you carry on shooting your mouth off, I’m afraid that both these pictures and the bar tab and all the other things that I and my colleagues have got in our bottom drawer will suddenly appear on the news desk of one of the really vicious newspapers. Wasn’t that one of the things you wanted, by the way? Greater openness toward the media from the police?”
“I hear what you’re saying,” Bäckström said.
“Good,” Toivonen said. “And since you’re not soft in the head, I presume we have an agreement. How are things going with your investigation, by the way?”
“Fine,” Bäckström said. “I anticipate that it’ll be all finished by Monday.”
“I’m listening,” Toivonen said.
“We can take it then,” Bäckström said, standing up.
“I can hardly wait,” Toivonen said with a grin.
See you at the press conference, Bäckström thought. He gave a curt nod and walked out.
88.
“How did it go?” Annika Carlsson asked. “I was almost starting to worry.”
“It’s fine,” Bäckström said.
“So what did he want? He was completely furious when he stormed in to see me. I was almost starting to worry.”
“My fucking old fox,” Bäckström said. “He just needed some advice and help from his old supervisor and mentor.”
“Glad to hear it,” Annika Carlsson said with a wry smile. “So what are we going to do with our case, then?”
“The usual,” Bäckström said. “We go out hard against the suspect, telephone surveillance, the whole works, silent, invisible, untraceable. Give Nadja a call as well; she can come in and help. I’ll sign for the overtime. I think we can manage without the youngsters, and I don’t think we want to drag Alm into this.”
“There doesn’t seem to be a phone,” Annika Carlsson said. “At least I can’t find one.”
“Oh, it’s there, all right,” Bäckström said. “That’s the cell phone that both Danielsson and Akofeli call. The one that only ever seems to get incoming calls. If we’re lucky it’s still around. And there has to be a landline as well.”
“I’ve already started on that,” Annika Carlsson confirmed.
“Well, then,” Bäckström said with a wry smile. “On Monday I think it’ll be time to get out the handcuffs.”
89.
Early on Sunday morning Hassan Talib suffered further bleeding in the brain. The doctor who saved his life less than a week before had to make another attempt. This time it didn’t go so well. The operation was abandoned after just a quarter of an hour and Talib was declared dead at half past five in the morning in the neurosurgical department of the Karolinska Hospital.
It was never good when people like Talib died. There were far too many people like him who might start to get ideas. Five minutes later Superintendent Honkamäki decided to increase security. He spoke to Toivonen and Linda Martinez. Toivonen had taken the formal decision and called in another six uniformed officers and six surveillance officers.
The uniformed officers would reinforce external security. The surveillance officers would roam the hospital precinct and buildings hoping to discover suspicious vehicles and individuals in time, or simply anything that seemed out of the ordinary.
Backstrom: He Who Kills the Dragon (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original) Page 34