‘Bound to have been,’ Bäckström said. Not good. Not good at all, he thought. Not that it had anything to do with him, seeing he would soon be having a decent lunch and then celebrating the start of the weekend in the usual way. As soon as this bull-dyke had left him, he’d be able to sneak out.
‘So what do we do?’ Annika Carlsson said.
‘What we usually do,’ Bäckström said. ‘We talk to the prosecutor so we can bring our little witness in. Put a search out for him, of course, arrest the little fucker, preferably immediately. He needs to be brought in for questioning, without prior warning, and the sooner the better. Tell surveillance to check known addresses and also to keep a close eye on our two suspects and their associates. To make sure he doesn’t come down with anything worse than a cold. If things start to heat up, we can always bring in Åkare and García Gomez.’
‘Just what I was going to suggest,’ Annika Carlsson said, now in a considerably brighter mood.
‘Now, you’ll have to excuse me, but I have to dash off to a meeting up at the National Police Board,’ Bäckström said, glancing at his watch and shaking his round head to underline the point.
70
Wonder what she’s like to live with? Detective Superintendent Dan Andersson thought, and the woman he was thinking about was sitting just a couple of metres away from him, on the other side of her big desk. Lisa Mattei wasn’t the sort that he or any other man would turn round and look at if she passed them on the street but in the situation in which he now found himself, she was more tangible than any woman he had ever met.
A pale blonde, skinny, very fit, neatly dressed down to the smallest detail, in that indefinable age somewhere between thirty and forty. Then there were her blue eyes, registering interest, curiosity even – focused in a way that told you she was inside your head the moment she looked at you and that, if she was going to let you inside hers, even for the briefest moment, it would be entirely her decision.
‘Thanks for the summary you sent me,’ Lisa Mattei said. ‘I read it with great interest. Especially the latest version.’
Which you evidently did in the two minutes it took me to walk from my office to yours, Dan Andersson thought, but because she was who she was, he made do with a nod.
‘Almost all crimes involve some form of marginal activity, in the human and moral sense. We break the rules, or we stretch their boundaries, with the intention of gaining some advantage and, in the simplest cases, this involves money, sex or power. But, in your case, Dan, I think it’s rather more complicated than that,’ Lisa Mattei declared, and smiled at him. ‘I get the impression that you came here mainly to assuage your own anxiety. Regardless of the fact that your motives are both honourable and human.’
‘You’ll have to forgive me, boss, but I don’t quite follow,’ Dan Andersson said. What’s she saying? he thought.
‘If we start with the purely factual aspect, we’re talking about a probable connection between von Comer and two individuals who can on relatively good grounds be thought to be involved in the murder of a well-known lawyer. I’m choosing to disregard García Gomez’s so-called alibi for the time being. Neither he nor Fredrik Åkerström are particularly pleasant people and I’m sure that you regard the likelihood of their committing further offences as high – as indeed do I. What concerns me, in purely concrete terms, is that our colleagues in Solna are unaware of the contact between von Comer and the other two, and because you are, in heart and soul, an honourable, old-fashioned police officer, you would like to help them clear up their murder, as well as removing the potential for further regrettable incidents. For that reason, you want me to consent to us contacting the Solna Police and telling them what we know and, up to that point, I have every understanding for your way of thinking. It’s both human, empathetic and perfectly correct in a purely professional sense. Unfortunately, there is a problem, even if we disregard the fact that we would be breaching our operational code if we told them what we know. No, the problem is actually quite different.’
‘The fact that we don’t at present know with any degree of certainty that von Comer was involved in Eriksson’s murder,’ Dan Andersson said. ‘On that point, I’m in complete agreement with you, boss.’
‘And don’t forget that the lawyer’s murder isn’t actually our business. That notwithstanding, let us look at the cost if we were to stretch our own rules and tell our colleagues in Solna about von Comer’s contact with Åkare and García Gomez, and then in hindsight were to realize that we were wrong,’ Mattei said, still with the same friendly smile.
‘Yes, I daresay that the risk of information leaking to the media in this particular case is somewhat greater than usual,’ Dan Andersson said.
‘Bearing in mind the fact that Evert Bäckström is leading the investigation, it would doubtless only be a matter of hours before the evening papers declared that the police had arrested, quote, “the king’s best friend”, end quote, because he had, quote, “murdered Sweden’s most famous gangster lawyer”, end quote. Or, to take a slightly milder version from our very own press mouthpiece, Svenska Dagbladet: “Close friend of king suspected of involvement in murder of famous lawyer”,’ Lisa Mattei concluded, indicating the quotation marks with the first two fingers of each hand.
‘Which would be the worst-case scenario. I understand precisely what you mean, boss,’ Dan Andersson said. A bit too creepy for my taste, in spite of the smile and gentle manner, he thought. How could anyone ever lie to Lisa Mattei, when she’s already inside your head?
‘Unfortunately, it’s only the second from worst,’ Mattei said, shaking her head. ‘If you’re right, and von Comer was involved in Eriksson’s murder, and we help them sort it out, then we would in all likelihood be forced to tell our political masters that it’s high time for them to start considering changing the constitution and abolishing the monarchy. Bearing in mind our mission, that might not be a particularly happy development.’
‘No,’ Dan Andersson said. You don’t argue with someone holding a razor blade to your tongue. Even if she looks harmless, he thought.
‘So what do we do instead, Dan?’ Mattei asked, looking at him curiously.
‘If I were to suggest anything, it would be to carry on as usual,’ he answered. She’s really enjoying this, her eyes are practically twinkling, he thought.
‘Then we’re in complete agreement, you and I,’ Lisa Mattei declared. ‘We carry on as usual. For your information, and strictly yours alone, I can also tell you that I have already dealt with the purely practical aspects.’
71
After the investigating team’s Friday meeting, Detective Inspectors Jan Stigson and Felicia Pettersson had put their ears to the ground and gone out to talk to their usual contacts in the area. All their informants had been heartwarmingly unanimous. According to the word on the street, it was the Hells Angels out in Solna who had seen to it that Thomas Eriksson the lawyer had shuffled off this mortal coil. Payback for previous injustices, quite simply, and, considering the identity of the victim, it wasn’t the end of the world. Various versions of the same story, but no one could deliver any hard facts. The only advantage to this was that they had been able to keep a close rein on the police authority’s cashbox for paying informants.
‘It was Åkare and his mate. Everyone knows that …’
‘Those boys in the Hells Angels were behind it … Åkare and that crazy Chilean who’s in charge of the dog-fights out in Rinkeby …’
‘It was Bogdan and Janko who did for Eriksson. On Åkare’s orders …’
‘It’s been bubbling away since that security van raid out in Bromma a few years ago. This is a Hells Angels job. I heard Grislund was driving the car, and that they took a few things with them when they left …’
‘I don’t know who did it, only that Åkare was behind it. He’s had it in for Eriksson for years …’
And so on, and so on …
‘If this was a vote among the lowlifes, it would be sorted by now,’
Stigson sighed, after turfing the fifth grass out of the back seat of their car.
‘What do we do now?’ Felicia asked. ‘Call it a day, or what?’
‘I could do with picking up some drink,’ Stigson said.
‘Okay,’ Felicia said with a smile. ‘I’ll head back to work and write the reports. Seeing as I don’t drink.’
‘Great, sounds like a fair deal,’ Stigson agreed. She’s all right, Felicia, he thought.
Fifteen minutes later Stigson was standing in the queue of the state-run alcohol shop, Systembolaget, in Solna shopping centre. Nothing excessive, six cans of beer and a quarter bottle of whisky, but in the absence of anything to celebrate it felt about right. But if there had been any justice in the world, he and his girlfriend would have been sitting on a plane heading for Spain right now, for their long-planned holiday. If only things had turned out differently, and their as yet unknown perpetrator hadn’t beaten Eriksson to death. Early that morning his girlfriend had flown off with one of her friends instead. They had also spent the previous evening arguing. One thing had led to another, and neither of them knew when to stop.
Fuck the lot of them, Stigson thought. The people he had in mind were, in order of priority, Eriksson, who could have chosen a better time for his abrupt departure, Toivonen, who had put together the detectives’ rota, and his own boss, that fat little bastard Bäckström, who was pretty impossible generally and had probably been sitting in the pub for the past few hours as he geared up for the weekend, leaving Stigson and the others to work their arses off.
‘How’s it going, son? You seem a bit low,’ someone said behind his back, putting his large hand on Stigson’s shoulder.
Behind him in the queue stood Roly Stålhammar. A former officer, and a legend among police and lowlifes alike.
‘Stolly,’ Stigson said. ‘How are you? Good to see you, by the way.’ Must be over seventy, two metres tall, one hundred and twenty kilos of muscle and bone, jet-black hair, Stigson thought. Mind you, that hair must be dyed.
‘Buying drink on a Friday,’ Roly Stålhammar said, shrugging his broad shoulders. ‘This is the best place to meet police officers these days, both those who’ve already left the force and those like you. Still running about as if you had ants in your pants. How are you getting on with Eriksson, by the way?’
‘If you’re not busy, I could tell you about it over a beer,’ Stigson suggested. If anyone had heard anything, it would be Roly, he thought.
Ten minutes later they were sitting in a Chinese restaurant in Solna shopping centre. More or less the same beer as in the local pub next door to Systembolaget, but empty at this time of day, which made the choice easy if you wanted to talk in confidence.
‘I remember my last murder case, before I disarmed and handed in my badge and weapon,’ Roly said. He had ordered a large beer and a little whisky chaser the moment he sat down at the table. ‘It was a poof over on Södermalm. Must be more than ten years ago. Miserable business.’ Stålhammar shuddered and gave a crooked smile. Then he nodded and raised his glass.
‘Cheers,’ Stigson said, as he had evidently also been brought a whisky, however that had happened.
‘We never did make any sense of it,’ Roly Stålhammar said. He sighed and washed the whisky down with a few deep gulps of beer. ‘Not that there was any fucking hope of that happening with that fat little bastard Evert Bäckström in charge of the investigation.’
‘Things have gone pretty well for him out in Solna. Really well,’ Stigson said. I don’t think he’s fucked up a murder since I arrived. And he is still my boss, he thought.
‘Okay, I hear what you’re saying. I remember the time he banged me up when he got it into his head that I’d murdered Kalle Danielsson, my best mate. That man defies all description.’
‘Yes, but that got sorted out in the end. And it was Bäckström who solved it,’ Stigson said.
‘Okay, maybe it was. What I mean is that you should probably think twice before letting someone like Evert Bäckström investigate a murdered poof. You know what he thinks of poofs? And Eriksson, come to that. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it Eriksson who defended that little camel-jockey Afsan Ibrahim when he was accused of attempting to murder Bäckström? All that crap that came out in court about Evert taking bribes from Afsan’s older brother, Farshad. There’s no way in hell that Bäckström would forget something like that. Whatever happened to the old rules about bias and prejudice?’
‘So what do you think, then? Who did for Eriksson?’ Stigson asked, feeling a strong urge to change the subject.
‘If you talk to the local lowlifes, they seem to be pretty unanimous on the subject,’ Roly Stålhammar said with a smile, holding up his empty beer glass and showing it to the waitress. ‘If you ask me, though, I’d say that’s complete crap.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The idea that Fredrik and Angel did it,’ Roly Stålhammar explained. ‘You know that as well as I do, anyway, because García Gomez was fighting in the Globe at the time Eriksson was murdered.’
‘So you know. Just out of curiosity: how do you know?’ Stigson said.
‘Once a police officer, always a police officer,’ Stålhammar said with an expressive shrug. ‘But I’m afraid I’ve forgotten which of your colleagues it was who told me,’ he added, raising the full glass that had just arrived. ‘Christ, sitting here talking and talking, it really makes your throat dry.’
‘Cheers,’ Stigson said. Once a police officer, always a police officer. There’s probably no more to it than that, he thought.
‘No,’ Roly Stålhammar said emphatically as soon as he put his glass down. ‘If you’re interested in what I think, I reckon you can forget Åkare and García Gomez and all their associates. Not because they lack the ambition to get rid of Eriksson. That’s not what I mean.’
‘What do you mean, then?’
‘There’s no way in hell that they’d go round his place and beat him to death where he lives. Forget it,’ Roly said with a nod. ‘The place was a fortress. Cameras and alarms everywhere. Åkare’s not stupid, not like that. If he’d wanted Eriksson dead, it would have happened years ago.’
‘As far as we know, Åkare has no alibi for the time of the murder,’ Stigson said. Good job Bäckström can’t hear you, he thought.
‘If he wasn’t at the Globe watching García Gomez, he was probably at home with his girlfriend,’ Roly said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘He’s got a weakness for girls, dear old Åkare. He’s said to be as fond of them as they evidently are of him.’
‘Regional Crime reckon they’re on top of that. They’re saying he didn’t pay a visit to any of his women. Not that evening, anyway,’ Stigson said.
‘How the hell can they know that?’ Roly snorted. ‘According to what I’ve heard, he’s got a new one. Danish, got to know her through his Danish colleagues. That’s all there is to it.’
‘What’s her name, then? This new girlfriend? The Danish one?’
‘No idea,’ Roly said, shaking his head. ‘You know that well enough, Janne. A real man doesn’t talk about that sort of thing. You never talk about the women you’re seeing.’
‘Okay. Forget her. Who was it then? Who did it, I mean?’ Stigson asked.
‘Wrong question,’ Roly retorted. ‘Who didn’t do it? Who didn’t have a reason to kill that little shit, Eriksson? There must be plenty who did. Neighbours, old girlfriends, former friends, clients, crime victims, and several hundred criminals he’s rubbed up the wrong way over the years. Eriksson was a gangster. Just a gangster with a law degree.’
‘Do you want another one, Roly?’ Stigson said, in order to distract him, nodding at Stålhammar’s almost empty glass.
‘I’m good,’ Roly said, shaking his head. ‘Time to make a move. I’m supposed to be having some food later with an old friend. Do you want anything else? One for the road? If you’re going home, that is.’
‘No,’ Stigson said. ‘Enough beer. Let me get these.’
‘Forget it,’ Roly said. ‘It’s on the house,’ he explained, nodding to their waitress, who smiled and nodded back.
‘On the house? Why?’
‘I was in here the day before yesterday, after the match at the arena. The one where AIK thrashed IFK Gothenburg. Unfortunately, a few silly fuckers got lost on their way home to Gothenburg and were messing with the staff when I came in for one last beer before bed.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Stigson said, nodding towards the legend on the other side of the table. He must be over seventy, surely?
‘So they got chucked out on their backsides,’ Roly said. ‘The owner let me have one beer for each one I chucked out. Valid for a week. I’m not like Bäckström, if that’s what you’re thinking. No bribes, no cop discounts. But I don’t have a problem taking payment for a job well done.’
‘In that case, thanks,’ Stigson said. No, you’re not much like him, Stigson thought. Someone else was bound to tell him that they’d found García Gomez’s blood on Eriksson’s terrace door. Once a police officer, always a police officer.
72
Friday, at last!
First, a long lunch at one of his favourite places, the tapas bar on Fleminggatan, which lay just a few blocks from the next stop on his itinerary.
Bäckström had ordered a generous selection of assorted delicacies – ham, sausage, meatballs, shellfish, cheese, little omelettes and various fried titbits – which he washed down with Spanish beer and a few sturdy vodkas, even though the owner, whom he knew well from previous visits, had tried to force a glass of dry sherry on him.
‘Don’t drink that sort of stuff,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head. ‘But you’re welcome to offer me another vodka.’
The Sword of Justice Page 26