‘So does she, this Linderoth woman, have one of those peepholes in the door?’ Must be the vodka, Bäckström thought.
Annika Carlsson suddenly looked pleased.
‘Good, Bäckström,’ she said. ‘I recognize you again now. No, she hasn’t, because she had it blocked up. It looks like she’s got one, but you can’t see out of it, so she wouldn’t have seen any ID, and no one had told her in advance that she was going to be having a visit.’
‘The neighbour, how certain is she?’
‘She lives on the same floor. Her door is right opposite Mrs Linderoth’s, and is fitted with a working peephole, in case you’re wondering, and as soon as things started to get noisy out there she stood by her door with her eye glued to the peephole. Somehow, she also managed to record them on her mobile. The picture’s pretty useless, but the sound quality is good. She played it to me over the phone, and our colleagues were making a hell of a racket. Anyway, she didn’t have a clue about what was going on either. Says she was thinking of calling the police. She thought they were criminals picking on pensioners and trying to get into her neighbour’s flat. Two women and two men, and she’d only just read an article in the local paper saying that gangs like that usually contain both women and men.’
‘You’ve spoken to her? The neighbour, I mean?’
‘Yes, what the hell do you think? I interviewed her over the phone, to see if it was worth bringing her down here.’
Now she’s back to her normal self again, Bäckström thought. Open, positive, not holding back on the aggression.
‘Interesting,’ Bäckström said. Play it cool, he thought.
‘Yes, isn’t it? So you can get all that crap dropped.’ Carlsson pointed at the bundle of case-notes, then stood up abruptly. ‘On a completely different subject … our latest recruit, little Rogersson, I don’t suppose she happens to be your best friend’s daughter?’
‘How do you mean?’ Play it cool, he thought again.
‘She’s still wet behind the ears. She’s still a child, Bäckström. In spite of those massive tits that you and the rest of the blokes in the department can’t stop drooling over the whole time.’ Annika Carlsson drew big circles in the air in front of her own chest to show what she meant.
‘It’s hardly the end of the world.’ Bäckström shrugged. ‘There are considerably worse places to be dry than behind the ears,’ he clarified with an innocent expression. That was a good one, he thought.
‘What the hell do you mean by that? What sort of worse places?’
‘Well, the mouth, for instance. When you realize you’re talking complete rubbish and your mouth goes completely dry. That can’t be much fun,’ Bäckström said. ‘What did you think I meant?’
That gave the bull-dyke something to suck on, he thought as he discreetly moved his right hand closer to the alarm button under his desk. Just in case.
‘You need to be seriously fucking careful, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said, looking at him with extremely narrow eyes as she pointed her hand at him.
‘Thanks,’ Bäckström said. ‘It was good to see you too. You make sure to have a good day, Annika. Always a pleasure.’
They’re crazy about you, he thought as soon as she’d marched out and slammed the door behind her. Even one like his dear colleague Carlsson, even though she played both open entry and mixed doubles.
After precisely one minute there was another knock on his door, more discreet this time. And just before he had time to take out his key and unlock the desk drawer again.
‘Come in,’ Bäckström yelled, seeing as there was no way – judging by the sound – that it could be Annika Carlsson deciding to pay another spontaneous visit.
Even worse, he thought when he saw who it was. Detective Inspector Rosita Andersson-Trygg, well over fifty, none of which years had passed without trace, the department’s very own stormcloud, so it was a good job he already had his phone in his hand.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, Rosita,’ Bäckström said, waving his hand apologetically. ‘We’ll have to deal with it tomorrow. I’ve just received an important call,’ he went on, covering the receiver.
‘Tomorrow? Can you make it first thing tomorrow? It’s quite important.’ Andersson-Trygg gave him a look that was simultaneously suspicious and pleading.
‘By all means, by all means.’ Bäckström waved again, slightly more firmly this time, as he demonstratively held the phone up to his ear.
Need to get a lock for that bloody door, he thought as soon as she’d gone. In the absence of any better options, he turned the red light back on and, to make certain, moved the visitor’s chair and jammed the back up against the door, then went and sat down again and unlocked the desk drawer.
Time for a serious drink now, he decided. And it was raining. An unremitting summer drizzle that streaked the windows of the office that was his prison. What sort of life is this? he thought with a deep sigh.
8
On the evening of Monday, 27 May, Bäckström had given a lecture to pensioners out in Solna about how they could best protect themselves against the increase in violent crime. This had surprised his colleagues in the police station when it eventually came to their attention, seeing as Bäckström usually avoided anything of that sort and was also known in the station for his dislike of both pensioners and small children, for similarly demonstrable reasons. They were whiney, unreliable and generally incomprehensible, while at the same time demanding far too much attention from hard-working and entirely normal people. They also smelled bad. Both pensioners and small children were simply an unnecessary expense. Every thinking person knew that, not least Bäckström himself. But on this occasion he was making an exception.
A month earlier he had been called by one of his many acquaintances outside the police world. This particular external contact was a property developer and local magnate, and Bäckström had previously had the opportunity to help him with numerous and diverse problems, to their mutual satisfaction and, naturally, with the very greatest discretion.
‘I was thinking of inviting you out to dinner, Bäckström,’ his acquaintance began when he called. ‘I have a modest proposal that I think might interest you.’
‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ said Bäckström, who was careful to keep on top of his personal liquidity, and just a couple of days later they had met in the back room of one of the better class of city-centre restaurants to eat and drink and discuss matters of business.
The property developer needed help with his latest project, which was aimed specifically at pensioners. A housing development with a hundred exclusive apartments, on a waterside location on the banks of the Karlberg Canal, all that sort of thing, as well as an entirely secure environment to protect residents against becoming the victims of crime. The future residents weren’t just any old pensioners. They could best be described as extremely well-off senior citizens who divided their time between sailing and golf, wine-tasting, concerts, foreign cruises and long lunches in the Tuscan countryside surrounded by all their children and grandchildren.
Bäckström was still dubious, because the description didn’t really match his own view of the ridiculously large group of excessively old and now utterly superfluous citizens who were nothing but a burden to ordinary, decent people. Well-off senior citizens? In his book, they were a great horde of disabled, mentally deficient old crocks with badly fitting false teeth, walking frames and hearing aids, all surrounded by a faint but unmistakable smell of urine. And they were always moaning that they wanted more money and yet another hip operation, their short-term memories resembled ramshackle fencing, and they usually managed to leave their wallets at home. Only a blind and retarded criminal would ever think of picking on them.
‘If only you knew how wrong you are on this occasion, Bäckström,’ his acquaintance said as he poured yet another stiff Russian vodka into Bäckström’s glass.
‘I’m listening.’ Bäckström nodded, and downed half his drink.
His host repeated that these weren’t ordinary pensioners. The ones he was talking about were the approximately one hundred thousand citizens over the age of sixty who controlled more than half the country’s assets and who devoted a considerable proportion of their time to worrying about the likelihood of being the victims of crime. Assaults, muggings, burglaries or just someone scratching the paintwork of their Mercedes, and after his much publicized achievements in fighting crime and his appearances in the media, Bäckström was at the top of their wish list when it came to people who could give them sensible advice on such matters.
‘And that’s where you come in, Bäckström,’ his acquaintance declared, emphasizing his remark by raising the glass, which contained eighteen-year-old malt whisky. ‘You have no idea how popular you are. This is all about scaring them just enough, and then reassuring them by stressing how important secure accommodation is. That bit, the secure accommodation, is my responsibility. I’ll make sure you receive a complete script that you can stick to – simple as that. I can assure you, Bäckström, that if anyone tries to break into that building, it can only be because he’s got suicidal tendencies.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Bäckström said. ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ he repeated, for safety’s sake.
But there was still a catch, and not exactly a minor one either. According to the rules that Bäckström was governed by, he wasn’t able to accept payment for this sort of activity, and because he spent pretty much the whole of his waking life working as a police officer, he was very particular about how he spent the few hours of private life that remained. The only thing his employers usually offered for someone taking on duties of this nature was some time off in lieu. And when would he be able to take that, given his already overloaded schedule?
‘That’s bloody ridiculous, Bäckström,’ his acquaintance said with a wink. ‘I have no intention of subjecting you to anything like that. Why don’t we do what we’ve always done in the past? So as far as the practical details go, there’ll be nothing for you to worry about. We’re talking about a brief introduction, just fifteen, twenty minutes or so, which I was thinking I’d get our PR department to write for you, and then another fifteen minutes for questions. What do you say to that?’
‘Sounds good,’ Bäckström said, already visualizing the brown envelope in front of him.
‘Let’s agree on it then,’ the property developer said. ‘And I’ll treat you to a better dinner once we’re done.’
Then they had shaken hands and drunk a toast to the deal, and one month later the day had arrived.
9
The meeting took place in the property company’s head office, right next to the National Arena out in Solna. The sweet, measured smell of money had struck Bäckström the moment he walked into the large, marble-clad foyer. The members of the audience, about a hundred of them in total, also matched his acquaintance’s description fairly well. The women were wearing cashmere jumpers, pearl necklaces and colourful French silk shawls, while the men wore blue blazers, coloured trousers and shoes with little leather tassels on them. There was a lot of air-kissing, chirruping and nasal consonants, and the whole lot of them had jumped the gun with the champagne. The white-clad staff who were laying the vast buffet table in the background clearly indicated that no one was going to go short of lobster tails, vendace caviar or duck liver pâté once Bäckström had delivered his speech. When he had made them see the truth and the light and, above all, realize the importance of secure accommodation and signing up to express their interest in the new apartments on the lists that were already laid out.
Not ordinary pensioners, Bäckström thought, and really there were only two of them who spoiled the image. Two local celebrities, and not least in the police station where he worked. A pair of old friends who had featured on the periphery of a murder investigation he had worked on a few years earlier, Mario ‘Godfather’ Grimaldi and his brother-in-arms Roly ‘Stolly’ Stålhammar.
The same Mario ‘Godfather’ Grimaldi who was rumoured in the police station to own half the district, despite the fact that he was a notorious tax-avoider who had spent a couple of decades at the top of Economic Crime’s wish list. All their efforts were in vain, however, because Godfather Grimaldi hadn’t picked up so much as a parking ticket throughout the course of his long life, and they had lost interest in him years ago, seeing as he had several medical certificates stating that he was suffering from Alzheimer’s and declaring that he was incapable of being interviewed. Bearing in mind his non-existent assets, it was difficult to see what he was doing there.
His health and finances may have been in a poor state, but none of this seemed to have affected his appearance. He was as suntanned and distinguished as any other mafia boss in his black suit and white linen shirt, with not the slightest hint of a tassel on his shiny black shoes.
‘I recognize you,’ the Godfather said, putting a well-manicured index finger on the chest of the evening’s speaker. ‘Hang on, don’t tell me,’ he continued, smiling to show teeth that were as white as the sink in Bäckström’s bathroom as he wagged his finger at him. ‘I’ve got it! Beck, Superintendent Beck, that’s who you are. Superintendent Evert Beck. I knew it. I often watch that programme you’re in on telly.’
You need to be seriously fucking careful, you slippery little organ-grinder, Bäckström thought, giving him the Clint Eastwood glare.
‘Good to see you here, Beck,’ the Godfather went on. ‘Dare I hope that we might be neighbours, you and I? Apparently, there’s a one-room apartment on the ground floor available at a manageable price, if you’re …’
‘Bäckström’s here to give a talk,’ Roly Stålhammar interrupted. He had once been a detective with the crime unit in the centre of Stockholm. Swedish heavyweight boxing champion several times, renowned for his physical strength, as the several thousand crooks he had single-handedly thrown in the cells during his forty years as a cop could attest. Roly ‘Stolly’ Stålhammar was a man with a good reputation in both camps.
He’d been retired several years now. Born and raised in Solna, a childhood friend of Mario Grimaldi, who had arrived in Sweden with his parents as part of the first wave of workforce immigration in the fifties, and since then his faithful follower. He was also a regular at the races out at Solvalla but, seeing as he was said to be as poor as a church mouse, the only thing that could explain his presence here was that his best friend had finally taken the plunge and employed him as his assistant – in spite of the jeans, checked shirt and shabby leather jacket that marked him out from the rest of the audience.
‘You look perky, Roly,’ Bäckström said with an amiable smile. ‘Have you stopped drinking, or what?’
‘Perkier than ever,’ the legend agreed, looking at Bäckström with eyes that were suddenly as narrow as the proverbial arrow-slits. ‘Thanks for asking, and if you feel like going three rounds with someone just get in touch. I promise to make it quick.’
He’s not right in the head – pretty lethal, in fact, Bäckström thought, and contented himself with a thoughtful nod, seeing as he had no intention of letting Roly or his ham-like fists come between him and the brown envelope that was waiting just round the corner.
Then it was time. The company’s head of press and hospitality introduced the evening’s speaker, and the audience applauded to welcome him, applause that was both protracted and encouraging, without ever threatening to become effusive.
Bäckström carried out his mission to the letter. He scared them all just enough by telling them a few horror stories, selected from his own wealth of personal experience on the front line of policing. And then he calmed them down by mining the same rich seam to give them his opinion of how crime could most effectively be tackled. In conclusion, he emphasized the general need for prominent members of society – those who had the necessary resources, many of whom were present in the audience – to protect themselves from becoming victims of crime. In this regard, he felt obliged to place particular st
ress on secure accommodation.
‘You should never compromise when it comes to crooks,’ he concluded, giving the audience the full Clint. ‘If you give them a finger, they’ll grab your whole arm, it’s as simple as that,’ he declared, and the final round of applause was perhaps a little too effusive in its enthusiasm for his message.
Then there were questions from the audience, which Bäckström handled with aplomb, and on the way out he was greeted with handshakes, pats on the back and words of gratitude. Even his old acquaintances Godfather Grimaldi and Roly Stolly had expressed their appreciation. Mario also happened to have female company, who would have met with the super-salami’s approval if she’d shown up thirty years ago. An imposing blonde, slightly taller than Mario, who appeared to be considerably younger than her gentleman friend, but in every other respect she was exactly like her sisters who went out with the men over sixty who evidently owned Sweden.
‘Allow me to introduce my beloved to you, Martin,’ Mario said, flashing both rows of sparkling teeth. ‘You’re one of Pyttan’s great favourites. She always watches you when you’re on television.’
‘Have you ever considered going into politics, Superintendent?’ Pyttan said, holding up a slender, suntanned right hand that was weighed down with jewels the size of hazelnuts.
‘No,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’ve got more than enough to do as it is.’ It’s as simple as that, really, he thought, as he looked at the smiling old rogue squirming at her side. Pyttan’s the one wearing the trousers here. I must be sure to let my colleagues in the fraud squad know about that.
The Sword of Justice Page 4