The Friday meeting of the investigating team. Bäckström had begun the way he always did. The same body language, the same thoughts, the same words. He sat down at the end of the long table, made himself comfortable, leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, hands under his chin, and surveyed the team gathered around the table. With these introductory gestures out of the way, his message was perfectly clear.
The day after Sweden’s National Day the number of team members was significantly depleted, and the reasons that had been supplied as usual seemed to cover everything except the fact that they wanted to take an extra day off between the national holiday and the weekend, thus securing a break that stretched from Wednesday evening to Monday morning. You lazy, useless bastards, a whole week fucked, Bäckström thought. But seeing as the absentees included both Alm and Andersson-Trygg, he decided not to make a big deal of it.
‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘Has anything happened?’
‘Yes, actually,’ Peter Niemi said. ‘We’ve had a reply from the National Forensics Lab, believe it or not. It arrived an hour ago. It concerns the DNA in the blood sample we found by the terrace door.’
‘García Gomez,’ Bäckström said, recalling the photofit picture.
‘The very same,’ Niemi concurred. ‘A match for Angel García Gomez, and for once we can ignore the possibility that it might be someone else, because the chances of that are less than one against the entire population of the planet. Not that this comes as too much of a surprise, considering the photofit picture and what our taxi-driver witness told us about the limping man.’
‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘In that case I’d like some good ideas about how his blood came to be on Eriksson’s terrace door.’
‘I’m inclined to believe the following scenario,’ Niemi said. ‘García Gomez and his driver, who at a guess was one of his biker friends and, if you were to ask me, I’d put my money on Fredrik Åkare … Well, anyway, García Gomez and his driver appear at Eriksson’s house at two o’clock in the morning. García Gomez enters the house, alone or with company. The front door is unlocked and Eriksson is already dead. García Gomez is furious. So he smashes in his skull anyway. The dog, which is outside on the terrace, starts barking like mad and García Gomez goes out to shut it up. He beats the dog over the back with the same instrument he used on Eriksson and finishes the job by cutting the dog’s throat. In the process he gets bitten in the thigh. He leaves the house pretty much immediately. No sign he searched for anything.’
‘That leaves a number of problems,’ Bäckström said, leaning back in his chair and arching his fingers. ‘Give me the usual objections that we can expect him to come up with.’
‘His blood ended up there on a previous occasion when he was visiting Eriksson,’ Felicia Pettersson said. ‘Which is obviously a lie, but that can’t be proved beyond reasonable doubt, because our DNA sample isn’t date-stamped.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Annika Carlsson agreed. ‘And there’s always the possibility that we planted his DNA at the scene. I’ve heard worse from people like him.’
‘Of course,’ Bäckström said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘But the biggest problem still has to be that García Gomez … in all likelihood, at least … has an alibi for the time of the crime. Any injuries that he may have, when we get the chance to take a look at them, could have been inflicted during that martial arts competition he was involved in while someone else was busy with our unfortunate murder victim.’
‘Mind you, biting isn’t allowed,’ Stigson interjected, being something of an expert on televised martial arts contests. ‘In martial arts, I mean. Maybe we could actually match the dog’s teeth with a wound in García Gomez’s thigh—’
‘But he still has an alibi for the murder itself,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘And García Gomez, if he actually admits to being inside Eriksson’s house, could simply have been defending himself against a crazy dog that suddenly flew at him. What’s wrong with a charge of aggravated cruelty against an animal? That it isn’t enough in this case! Give me something better,’ he went on, glowering at Stigson.
‘If you like, I can put out a warrant for his arrest,’ Lisa Lamm said, nodding amiably at Bäckström. ‘If for no other reason than to give him the opportunity to express the excuses that I’ve just listened to. I’ve had to hear a fair amount of that sort of thing.’
Quite attractive, Bäckström thought. Definitely not stupid either, considering that this was practically the first thing she had said during the course of their meetings.
‘I’d be grateful for that,’ Bäckström said. ‘If I could keep that pending for a day or two, it would be even better. I’d like to have a bit more on him before we lock him up.’
‘I can see to that,’ Nadja said.
‘Sometimes it’s important not to rush things,’ Bäckström said, sighing to emphasize his point. ‘And someone like García Gomez is unlikely to run away from us. Pull out everything we’ve got on him so we’ve got something to talk about when we do lock him up. By the way, does he happen to own a silver Merc?’
‘Nyet,’ Nadja said with a smile. ‘That means “no” in Russian, if anyone wasn’t sure – and we’ve already checked that out. He doesn’t, nor does his good friend Fredrik Åkare. We looked them up when we ran the first check of potential suspects against the list of possible cars. As I’m sure you all remember, Åkare cropped up early in the investigation when we were talking to Eriksson’s work colleagues, and just to be sure we checked out everyone around him who was in the intelligence service database, and Angel García Gomez was one of them. As far as the vehicles go, we’ve got just less than a hundred to look at, and we’ve switched to manual checks. We’ve also started to look at Eriksson’s finances. Our colleague, Bladh, is dealing with that.’
‘Have we got anything else?’ Bäckström asked.
‘Things are moving,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘If you ask me, I’m fairly sure Fredrik Åkare and García Gomez know what’s going on here. In spite of García Gomez’s so-called alibi.’
‘All the more reason to come up with something we can throw at him,’ Bäckström said, by now eager to get out of there. He was keen to get on with his usual Friday routine: a restorative lunch, Little Miss Friday, then a long nap before it was time for a nice dinner with GeGurra. A worthy end to a week that had been full of hard police work – a better world, basically, he thought.
‘What are we doing over the weekend?’ Anchor Carlsson asked.
‘How do you mean?’ Bäckström said. ‘I’m going to be working.’ Suck on that, he thought.
‘With our meetings, I mean.’
‘Next meeting on Monday,’ Bäckström said. ‘If anything happens we can always talk on the phone and change that.’
‘Monday, nine o’clock?’ Annika asked. ‘How about that?’
‘Sure,’ Bäckström said with a shrug. ‘Don’t let me stop you if you want to get up in the middle of the night. But there is one thing I want us to sort out right away. Our witness, the taxi-driver. Bring him in, confront him with some photographs and make sure he finally identifies García Gomez.’
‘What makes you think he’d do that?’ Annika Carlsson asked. ‘I mean, we’ve already spoken to him four times.’
‘Just get him to change his mind then,’ Bäckström said. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard, bearing in mind the photofit picture he gave us. The man he saw was obviously García Gomez. He just daren’t identify him, that’s all. That’s what the problem is.’
‘There’s nothing else I can do to help things along?’ Lisa Lamm asked.
‘You could call that medical officer and ask what the hell he’s playing at,’ Bäckström said.
‘I’ve already done that, actually,’ Lisa Lamm replied. ‘He and his colleagues are still grappling with the issue. But his preliminary report still stands, at least for the time being. Eriksson died as a result of another person’s actions, from being struck at the back of the head and neck with a blunt inst
rument. Because the injuries are complex, with a number of them being inflicted several hours after death occurred, he’s asked for a second opinion from a colleague. That’s the short version, and he’s promised that we’ll get a definitive report after the weekend. So, basically, no news on that front yet.’
‘Okay,’ Bäckström said, looking round the table. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go and get some work done!’ You lazy, useless bastards, he thought.
68
At the same time that Bäckström was leading the meeting with his investigative team, Dan Andersson was fully occupied with his own concerns. First, he had condensed Jenny Rogersson’s effusive account to half a page of key points. Then he sat deep in contemplation as he compared the photofit picture of the possible suspect with the photographs taken by his colleague Kovac. Even though he wasn’t a great fan of photofit pictures, he had still been struck by the obvious resemblance, and called Kovac on her mobile to ask if she had time to come and see him. Preferably immediately.
‘I’m on my way in. My partner and I just need to change vehicles, then I can be with you in half an hour,’ Kovac said.
While he was waiting, he called Jenny Rogersson to find out if anything new had emerged during that morning’s meeting of the investigative team.
‘We’ve had a reply from the National Forensics Lab this morning,’ Rogersson said. ‘About the DNA in the blood found on Eriksson’s terrace door, which turns out to belong to someone in our database. His name’s Angel García Gomez, and his DNA definitely links him to Eriksson’s house. I can send over what we’ve got on him. You’ll have it within an hour.’
‘That’s good of you,’ Dan Andersson said. ‘I look forward to reading it.’
‘Then of course there are all the usual complications.’
‘I’m listening,’ Dan Andersson said.
Quarter of an hour later, he ended his call to Rogersson and, just as he started to write down what she had said, Kovac knocked on his door. Two minutes later she was on her way out again, and all she had to do in between was take a quick look at the photofit picture Dan Andersson showed her.
‘That’s definitely García Gomez,’ Sandra Kovac confirmed. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘The usual,’ Dan Andersson said, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Okay, then,’ Kovac said. ‘Things usually work out.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Dan Andersson said with a smile. ‘Well, thanks for stopping by.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Kovac said. ‘Have a good weekend.’
Dan Andersson’s summary in the latest version of his memo included four points and, hopefully, he would get to see Mattei before anything else cropped up that required him to rewrite it yet again.
On Sunday, 19 May the lawyer Thomas Eriksson had assaulted Baron Hans Ulrik von Comer. Twelve days later, around ten o’clock on the night of Friday, 31 May, Hans Ulrik von Comer met García Gomez and Åkare at his home near to Drottningholm Palace. Two days after that Eriksson was murdered in his home in Bromma. There was evidence linking García Gomez to the crime scene just hours after the crime was committed. Partly a witness, and partly through DNA. The prosecutor had decided not to issue an arrest warrant yet, for the usual investigative reasons, and the question facing Dan Andersson as a natural consequence of this required a decision, or at least an answer, that was above his own level of responsibility.
Then he had emailed his memo and asked for another fifteen minutes of her valuable time. The answer came just a minute after he sent it – ‘You can come now. Yrs LM’ – and five minutes later he was sitting in the visitor’s chair in front of Mattei’s very big desk.
69
As soon as the meeting was over, Bäckström had disappeared into his room. It was already almost noon, and it was high time he dealt with the last pieces of work before leaving the police station for a more civilized existence.
First, he rearranged the piles of paper on his desk. Then he spread out the latest bundle across the desktop in front of his chair. Bäckström nodded in contentment when this was done. Even the fifth columnists that the police hierarchy were bound to have placed in his vicinity ought to understand that this was a desk belonging to a very busy man, he thought, just as he heard the characteristic knock on his door that could mean only one thing.
‘Please, take a seat, Annika,’ he said, pretending to read some papers, even though she had already sat down on his visitor’s chair.
‘What can I do for you?’ he added, pushing the papers aside and nodding amiably to her.
‘Our witness, the taxi-driver,’ Annika Carlsson said.
‘What about him?’ Bäckström said.
‘We’ve been trying to get hold of him for two days now. We haven’t heard a squeak from him even though he promised Ek he’d turn up for another interview. I’m getting bad vibes, fucking bad vibes,’ Annika Carlsson concluded.
‘Let’s take it one piece at a time,’ Bäckström suggested.
For the past two days, their colleague Ek, and other members of the interview team, had been trying to contact Ara Dosti. They’d called his mobile at least a dozen times and left the same number of messages without receiving any response at all. So they had contacted his work, where they were told that Dosti had reported in sick that day but that he had promised to get in touch after the weekend if he felt better. According to what he had told his employer, he was suffering from a bad cold and, out of consideration for his own health as well as that of his customers, he had decided to stay at home for a few days.
‘What’s the problem?’ Bäckström said with a shrug. ‘Sounds like he’s alive, at least. Or was alive yesterday, anyway.’ Might even be true, considering all the bastards who went round coughing and sneezing and jeopardizing his own health, he thought.
‘The problem is that I’ve got a feeling he’s done a runner,’ Annika Carlsson said, glaring at him.
‘I asked Stigson and his partner to pay a visit to his flat out in Kista,’ she went on. ‘They were there yesterday evening and got the impression that the flat’s empty. Same thing when they were there this morning. No sign of Ara Dosti. His flat was quiet, no lights on.’
‘Which doesn’t preclude the possibility that he might have gone to stay with his dear old mum, or maybe his girlfriend, while he gets better,’ Bäckström persisted.
‘I don’t think so,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘We’ve already talked to his dear old mum and she hasn’t heard from him for almost a month. She didn’t even ask if there was any reason for her to be worried. He doesn’t seem to have a girlfriend. But Stigson spoke to one of his neighbours, who says he saw Ara yesterday morning. He was getting into a car with a man the same age as him, no one the neighbour recognized. Then they drove off, and our little taxi-driver had two holdalls with him, which he put in the boot of the car. He didn’t appear to be particularly ill. Not according to the neighbour, anyway. But we haven’t got the registration of the car he went off in.’
‘One possible explanation is that he’s talked to one of the papers, got a few thousand for his trouble, has bought a last-minute ticket and gone off to warmer climes until things calm down,’ Bäckström suggested.
Which would explain why his tame crime reporter had evidently known that Angel García Gomez had been seen at the scene of the crime, he thought. And also why he didn’t seem to know much else.
‘I don’t think so,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Eriksson’s murder has been all over the front pages for a week now and, if any of those bastards knew about García Gomez, they’d have run with it the moment they found out.’
‘Possible,’ Bäckström said. ‘Perfectly possible. Unless they haven’t got that far yet. Checking out the information, I mean. Unless they have checked, and came up with the same alibi that we found. The fact that García Gomez was taking part in that martial arts contest on Sunday evening. And got cold feet.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘My problem is th
at I have a feeling there’s a different explanation, which isn’t quite as pleasant.’
‘Which is what, then?’
‘I’ve spoken to both Taxi Stockholm and the owner of the taxi Ara drives. I talked to Taxi Stockholm yesterday, our usual contact there, and she said that she had been called a couple of days before, which would have been Tuesday, by one of our colleagues, who wanted the name of the person driving one particular taxi early on Monday morning. And, for some reason, that vehicle had the same registration number as the car our witness was driving.’
‘What did she say?’ Bäckström asked. Not good, he thought.
‘She referred them to the company that owned the taxi,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘I’ve just spoken to them. They were called about it on Wednesday morning.’
‘What did they say?’
‘The same thing, as well as giving this so-called police officer the driver’s name and address.’
‘This police officer, does he have a name?’ Bäckström asked.
‘No,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Not that anyone remembers, anyway. Our contact at Taxi Stockholm is fairly sure he didn’t give his name. But, otherwise, he sounded like we usually do, according to her.’
‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘It couldn’t just be a mix-up, and one of our many colleagues did actually make that call? In the general confusion that followed the blessed news of the abrupt demise of lawyer Eriksson?’
‘No,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘I’ve asked everyone. They all just shake their heads. Anyway, why would they have done that? This is the witness who contacted us of his own accord, after all, and he did that on Monday afternoon. Which means that someone else is looking for him and, on this occasion, I get the feeling it isn’t just some journalist sniffing about, pretending to be a police officer. I get the impression that it’s considerably worse than that this time.’
‘García Gomez? Åkare?’ Bäckström suggested.
‘Of course,’ Annika said. ‘I think that’s more likely. If the person who was sitting in the Merc when our witness almost ran down García Gomez thought to put the headlights on full beam as he was driving away, then he probably had time to make a note of the taxi’s registration number as well. Or the taxi number on the roof, even. That was probably lit up, seeing as he was free and available for a new job.’
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