What the hell is happening to dear old Sweden? Bäckström thought. On such a joyous day as this, every right-thinking person ought to be celebrating. Then he got up, with some difficulty, went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, put on his neatly pressed silk pyjamas and went to bed.
And just as he was about to fall asleep he had suddenly seen the truth and the light, and solved the mystery of the strange bloodstain and the way things must have happened when the as yet unknown perpetrator beat the life out of Thomas Eriksson the lawyer. A logical end for an arsehole like Eriksson, Bäckström thought. Even if it didn’t match the recent eulogies. But it was a worthy conclusion to the best day of his own life, he thought. And this in spite of the fact that he had no idea that it was about to get even better still.
42
Ara Dosti didn’t need to call Annika Carlsson as soon as he woke up on Tuesday morning. She was the one who woke him.
‘Rise and shine, Ara,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘I’ve got some new pictures I’d like to show you.’
An hour later he was sitting in the police station in Solna. Annika Carlsson had given him another five-hundred-kronor note from the tip-off account and told him he was a clever boy. Then she handed him over to another officer.
‘This is my colleague, Johan Ek,’ Annika said. ‘He’s found some more pictures we’d like to show you.’
Weird-looking bloke, Ara thought. He’d never seen a police officer who looked or behaved like that. Short and fat, with thick, horn-rimmed glasses, kind eyes and a permanent friendly smile. Gentle, inviting gestures, body language to try to emphasize and underline what he said.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Ara,’ Ek said, holding out a chubby little hand. His handshake was just firm enough, a simple marker of trust and good intentions.
‘Sit down, sit down, please,’ he went on, making a sweeping gesture with his left arm as he pulled out the chair in front of the computer screen with his right hand.
Must be one of those civilian employees, Ara thought. He wasn’t anything like all the other cops he’d met, and when, quarter of an hour later, for the second time in eight hours, Ara was shown a picture of the man he had almost run over, he didn’t have any difficulty shaking his head once more and moving on to the next picture.
Not for a five-hundred-kronor note. Not if I have to testify against him and he’s the sort he looks like he is, Ara thought.
Two hours later it was over, and even though Ara had looked at another hundred or so pictures and had shaken his head at all of them, the man who had shown them to him still seemed happy.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ara said. ‘But I don’t recognize any of them. None of them clicked, if you know what I mean.’
‘I understand, Ara, I understand, of course,’ Ek said with a nod. ‘But the way I understood it, you said you’d recognize him if you saw him again.’
‘Yeees,’ Ara said, nodding. ‘I’m quite sure … I’m fairly sure I would.’
‘Of course, it might well be that we just don’t have any pictures of him,’ Ek said, leaning forward and patting him on the arm in a friendly way. ‘That sort of thing does happen, you know. It happens fairly often. If only you knew how often it happens!’
If only he weren’t so nice, Ara thought, but he merely nodded. That, and the consequent guilty conscience, was probably why he said what he did next.
‘Can’t we do one of those photofit pictures?’ Ara asked. ‘The sort they always have on Crimewatch?’
‘Funny you should mention that, Ara,’ Ek said. ‘That’s exactly what I was about to suggest to you. We’ll find a quiet corner, just the two of us, and put together a photofit picture of him.’
‘Yes,’ Ara said. ‘I’m up for that. The only problem is that I have to start work in half an hour. But tomorrow morning would be fine. I’m off then.’
‘Splendid, absolutely splendid,’ Johan Ek said, beaming as if he’d just won the lottery. ‘Well, let’s talk on the phone first thing tomorrow.’
43
At twelve o’clock on Tuesday the investigating team met for a second time. Bäckström bade them all welcome, then, once the introductory paper-shuffling and chair-scraping had died down, he handed over to Peter Niemi.
Niemi began by telling them that the written report from the medical officer would, unfortunately, take another day or so. In conjunction with the post mortem, a number of inconsistencies had come to light which demanded further examination and reflection. Nothing dramatic enough, however, to make him alter his preliminary finding that Eriksson had died as a result of a hard blow to the back of the head and neck with a blunt instrument.
‘The only thing I can add on that score is that we’ve had the results back about the blood sample,’ Niemi said. ‘Our murder victim appears to have had a fair bit to drink. That’s not to say he was really drunk when he died, but he was more than socially lubricated, seeing as he had 0.1 per cent alcohol in his blood.’
‘Really?’ Bäckström said, shaking his head in concern. ‘What about the dog, then?’ Was he on the piss as well? he thought.
As far as the murder victim’s dog was concerned, everything was done and dusted. There was also no doubt that it was Eriksson’s dog. The microchip that had been found under its skin also contained the dog’s name.
‘It appears to have been called Justice, for some reason,’ Niemi said with a wry smile. ‘A male Rottweiler, six years old. I got the report from the veterinary lab this morning. One cut straight across the throat, in line with the top edge of the collar he was wearing. The cut severed the carotid artery, the dog would have bled to death in less than a minute and, because the evidence suggests that our perpetrator was standing astride the dog’s back and holding it by the collar, he’s right-handed. He drew the knife across the dog’s throat from left to right, but before he did that it looks like he hit the dog on its back. Several times, very hard. There are numerous fractures of the lower vertebrae, and its pelvis was also broken. According to the vet who carried out the post mortem, that ought to have paralysed its back legs. Which might explain how the perpetrator was able to stand astride the dog when he cut its throat. It wasn’t a small dog, after all. Weighed about fifty kilos.’
‘It’s appalling that anyone could do that sort of thing to an innocent animal,’ Rosita Andersson-Trygg interrupted angrily. ‘What sort of monster could do something like that? And why isn’t there any mention of this in our opening charges? This is a clear case of aggravated animal cruelty.’
‘Yes, it’s extremely unpleasant,’ Bäckström agreed. ‘Do you have any ideas about the knife, Peter?’ he went on, to shut her up as quickly as possible. Really need to talk to Holt so I can get shot of her, the old bag’s utterly deranged, he thought.
‘That’s tricky,’ Niemi said, shaking his head. ‘To judge from the wound, it’s sharp, extremely sharp. I also have a feeling it’s double-edged, about three centimetres across and something like ten centimetres long.’
‘Why do you think that?’ Annika Carlsson asked in surprise. ‘How could you tell that from the wound? I thought you said it was just a straight cut from left to right?’
‘Supplementary evidence,’ Niemi said with a faint smile. ‘Not from the cut, seeing as you ask. The perpetrator wiped the knife on the dog’s coat. On the right-hand side, starting at the joint on the front leg and up towards the shoulder and back, so presumably the dog was already dead by then, and lying on its left side. The way we found it. Judging from the streak of blood on its fur, the knife-blade is approximately ten centimetres long and three centimetres across. And double-edged, in case anyone’s wondering, because it cut off hairs on both sides as it was pulled over the dog’s coat.’
‘Is that so?’ Bäckström said. ‘Is that so?’ he repeated. The bloke can’t possibly be a standard-issue Finn, Bäckström thought. Probably adopted. However the hell Finnish fuckers could be allowed to adopt Swedish children.
‘Could have been a flick knife or a stiletto,’ Annika Carls
son said. ‘They’re popular with crims, and they’re often double-edged.’
‘Well, I’m not so sure about that,’ Niemi said, shaking his head again and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘I think the blade’s a bit too broad to be one of those. A double-edged, short, broad blade. Doesn’t sound like the average stiletto or flick knife. And he doesn’t seem to have cut himself with it while he was using it, which in my world usually means it’s got some sort of guard, or at least a solid, non-slip handle.’
‘So what was the dog hit with, then?’ Bäckström asked. ‘Do you have any thoughts about that?’ Flick knife or stiletto? he thought. Where have I heard that? Bollocks, I’ll work it out, he thought.
‘Long, round and hard. Probably the same weapon that smashed in our murder victim’s skull.’
Who’d have thought it? Bäckström mused, and nodded.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
A fair amount of evidence had been secured at the scene and had already been sent on to the National Forensics Laboratory for the usual analysis. Shoe-prints, handprints, fingerprints, strands of hair, traces of fabrics and the other things that were always found whenever someone was murdered indoors. Generally a positive sign, but in hindsight they very rarely turned out to have anything to do with the murder.
But there were also three pieces of evidence that looked rather more promising.
An old-fashioned handkerchief containing traces of both blood and snot, a blue sofa cushion that – judging by the smell – might well turn out to contain traces of urine and excrement, and – best of all – some blood that was found on the terrace door.
‘It was right on the edge of the frame, on the outside of the door,’ Niemi explained. ‘A streak of blood, not much, but enough for us, so we should get a DNA fingerprint from it. It was about ten centimetres below the door handle and – as I happened to read the interview with that taxi-driver – I have a feeling that it might be from someone who had been bitten in the right leg. I’d say their trousers got torn and they were bitten in the thigh, to judge from the height of the streak. About one metre up.’
‘It sounds like you’re talking about our perpetrator,’ Annika Carlsson said, more as a statement than a question.
‘If his DNA’s on file, we’re sorted,’ Stigson said, unable to conceal his delight, seeing as he had planned to take some holiday that weekend, until Toivonen had put a stop to it.
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ Niemi said. ‘We’ll soon find out. Hernandez sent the sample down to Linköping this morning, and we’ve asked for it to be dealt with urgently. With a bit of luck, we’ll get the results back within a few days at most.’
‘Is that everything?’ Bäckström wondered, leaning back in his chair with an innocent expression.
‘Well, there might be one more thing,’ Niemi said, smiling and nodding. ‘And here I would like to express my own and my colleague Hernandez’s gratitude to our dear boss who, yesterday evening, when he revisited the crime scene, found the revolver that we hadn’t been able to locate. It was in a vase of flowers that was standing on a table in the downstairs hall, and all we can say in our defence is that we would have found it when we got that far. And that whoever put it there put the flowers back in the vase after he’d done so, which is why we didn’t find it straight away.’
‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ Bäckström said with a grin, as he noted a number of appreciative nods and surprised looks round the table.
‘From the registration number, it appears to be Eriksson’s revolver, the one he had a licence for. There are six cartridges in the magazine. Two have been fired, and the calibre matches the bullets we found in the ceiling and sofa on the upstairs landing. I took the liberty of comparing them before we sent them down to the National Forensics Lab. The bullet from the back of the sofa is in very good condition and, in my humble opinion, there’s no doubt that it was fired from Eriksson’s revolver.’
‘Excellent,’ Bäckström said. ‘Let’s have a five-minute break, then it’s time we got on with the really important stuff.’
44
Even though they had the opportunity to stretch their legs, most members of the investigating team had chosen to stay in the room, and only a couple of the most notorious smokers had needed more than the allotted five minutes. Bäckström had seen this before, and knew what the reason was. They could smell the scent of the perpetrator now, and things were hotting up. Every murder detective worth the name was taught to hate coincidence and, in this case, two witnesses had, independently of each other, and at two different times, observed a silver Mercedes in direct connection to the crime scene.
‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but our first witness, the female neighbour, saw the vehicle in question at half past nine in the evening, which fits pretty well with the time of Eriksson’s demise. Her statement is also partially supported by the other neighbour, who saw the white-haired man sitting on the steps in front of the house with the front door wide open at about the same time. Even if he didn’t notice a Merc, any white removal boxes or a younger, fitter accomplice, I interpret that to mean that our perpetrators are on their way out of the house. Have I got that right?’
Bäckström nodded inquiringly at Stigson, who nodded back.
‘Yes. And we mustn’t forget the probability that the strong-looking individual described by the female witness and the taxi-driver might well be the same person,’ Stigson said. ‘I’m even prepared to buy that old bloke with white hair, even if we’ve only got one witness who saw him. I mean … who’d bother to invent an old bloke with white hair leaving the scene of a murder?’
‘There’s always someone,’ Bäckström said with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘It usually works out. If we could get back to that taxi-driver who contacted us … What do we know about him? Have we found out anything else?’
‘Annika interviewed him yesterday, and I interviewed him again this morning,’ Detective Inspector Johan Ek said, leafing through his notes.
‘So what do we make of him, then?’
‘The timing seems solid, given that he’s got the print-out from the car to back it up. Eleven minutes past two in the morning, which is probably more than we have any right to demand. That’s when he almost runs over the person crossing the road right outside Eriksson’s house. I agree with Stigson, by the way. It could very well be the same man that our female witness sees at half past nine in the evening.’
‘Pictures? Have we got him to look at any pictures?’ Bäckström asked, for some reason glaring at his colleague Alm, who, for reasons unknown, had chosen to sit as far away from the lead investigator as possible.
‘Almost three hundred so far,’ Ek confirmed. ‘Hasn’t identified anyone yet.’
‘And he’s not holding anything back?’ Bäckström asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Johan Ek said, shaking his head. ‘He seems a decent bloke, no police record. I get the impression that he’s keen to help.’
‘In that case, we’ll let him,’ Bäckström said. ‘Show him more pictures. Sooner or later something will click. Well, I’d like us to—’
‘There’s one thing I’ve been thinking about,’ Rosita Andersson-Trygg interrupted, waving her notepad to add strength to her words.
Oh God, Bäckström thought.
‘I’m listening,’ he said.
Rosita Andersson-Trygg had been thinking about the poor Rottweiler that had been killed in the most bestial way and, if she was going to be completely honest, unfortunately, she seemed to be the only member of the investigating team to spare him a thought. This was probably also why none of their witnesses had recognized the man they were looking for, even though they had now looked at three hundred photographs. The man they were after was an unusually sadistic torturer of animals, and definitely not a first-time offender. But, of course, it was very sadly the case that no matter what cruelty you subjected animals to, the penalties were negligible and there was consequently a serious risk th
at there wasn’t a single photograph of the man they were looking for in the police database.
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Bäckström said. ‘So what do we do, then?’
‘I think it’s time we contacted our colleagues in animal welfare. After all, they’ve built up their own database of people who abuse animals, and I think that’s where we might find him.’
‘Excellent,’ Bäckström said. ‘Splendid,’ he added, for emphasis, bearing in mind who he was talking to. ‘Can you get on to that, Rosita?’ he asked. ‘Get them to pull out all the pictures they’ve got of the sort of people who could be thought capable of cutting a dog’s throat. It would be great if you could put together a psychological profile of him as well. Talk to the perpetrator profiling unit up at National Crime. I’m sure they’ll be able to help you. He certainly seems to be an unusually nasty character.’
‘I’ve already started—’
‘Splendid, absolutely splendid. It can be your special task. Drop everything else and get in touch with me at once, the minute you’ve got anything.’ Finally shot of the old bag, he thought.
‘Apart from that, I want us to prioritize the Merc,’ Bäckström went on. ‘And I want the identities of the people our witnesses saw. Nadja, you sort out the car, and Ek, you make sure we have IDs that we can match to it. Then I want another door-to-door session where we show pictures of the car to Eriksson’s neighbours. We’ve got nothing to lose, seeing as the information seems to have leaked on to the internet already. Might as well do it properly. It must be possible to identify the car.’
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