The Sword of Justice

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘In that case, I have a better suggestion,’ Bäckström said.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Pyttan Hamilton didn’t have a clue about either the musical box or the amount of money she was sitting on. Her short-term memory was like a very small child’s and, as far as the rest of her mental faculties were concerned, it was doubtful that she could even tell the time.

  The simplest solution would be for GeGurra to dig out one of the many collectors who might conceivably be prepared to buy Pinocchio straight off, then take him off to their private bank vault and sit there looking at him in splendid isolation for the rest of their lives. They could even let him have a discount if necessary. And content themselves with sharing the two hundred million, where GeGurra could keep all of twenty per cent while Bäckström made do with the remaining eighty. Considering the division of labour between them, that seemed an entirely reasonable share of the spoils.

  Not entirely unexpectedly, GeGurra had a rather different view on the matter. The problem with a deal of this nature was comparable to trying to sell the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel by putting an advert on eBay. Which was just as irrelevant to the current situation as Pyttan Hamilton’s mental state.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because tomorrow she’s getting married to my old acquaintance Mario Grimaldi. He called me himself yesterday to tell me about their impending nuptials. From what he told me, she’s the love of his life and, because Mario never lies, we can only assume that this is indeed the case.’

  ‘I know they’re getting married,’ Bäckström said with a shrug. With a bit of luck, little Isak will have them both packed off to the madhouse within a couple of weeks, he thought.

  ‘But what you don’t know is that he was the person who commissioned me to ask you to find the musical box for him. He did that as early as Monday, 3 June, the day you opened your murder investigation. He and Stålhammar evidently missed it when they were there to pick everything up. All being well, the forensics team would find it. But if they didn’t, I was to talk to you and make sure that you found it for us. The main concern was to make sure it didn’t go astray during the disposal of Eriksson’s estate.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Bäckström said. ‘In that case, I suppose I could always find someone else to help me.’

  If Bäckström were to decide to do that, naturally, it would be a decision that GeGurra would find deeply regrettable. The reason wasn’t just that he had promised to call Mario after his meeting with Bäckström and tell him how it had gone. Quite regardless of whether or not he chose to keep the truth from him, it would only be a matter of time before Mario worked out what was really going on. GeGurra might as well sign his own death sentence, quite literally. And as he was extremely happy with his life the way it was, he wouldn’t have any trouble sticking to the truth.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any danger of him filing charges against you with the police,’ GeGurra said.

  ‘No,’ Bäckström said. ‘If I understand you correctly, you’re telling me that he’d kill me.’

  ‘Of course. But I’m not sure that’s what you should be worried about.’

  ‘So what should I be worried about, then?’

  ‘The manner in which he would do it. But I’ll spare you the details. Mario isn’t the figure of fun that you and all your colleagues have decided to regard him as. He and his brothers are members of the Neapolitan mafia and, if anyone can keep their Sicilian colleagues awake at night, it’s men like Mario.’

  ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘Before we part, I will give you a receipt stating that I have taken delivery of a musical box made by Carl Fabergé, in the shape of Pinocchio, so that I can – on the instructions of the police – ascertain whether it is the musical box identified on the list of artistic artefacts that former lawyer Thomas Eriksson was commissioned to sell on behalf of Countess Elisabeth Hamilton. I’m quite convinced that you’ll manage to sort out your paperwork in good time. Before we part and I take the musical box with me, I thought we might shake hands on the deal. Hopefully, you will soon be in possession of twenty-five million kronor for your efforts. And I promise to help you with the practical details so that we don’t have to trouble either the tax office or your employers on that score.’

  IX

  Have you heard the true story of Pinocchio’s nose?

  147

  Bäckström began his Midsummer celebrations at work. He made sure he filled in all the records of property seized and other documentation in such a way that he, if it proved necessary, could cover his back by blaming his inhuman burden of work if anyone were to comment on the delay in recording what he had done. As he did so, he swore without interruption about the crooks in whose company he had ended up. He concluded by calling Nadja, the only one he could trust, to ask her to check there wasn’t anything he had missed. Then he went home and made a concerted effort to get back into his usual routines. To get back to a decent life.

  Lunch functioned the way it always did. After that, he suffered one blow after another, found himself stabbed in the back and, towards the end of the night, was the victim of an occurrence that shook his entire worldview.

  When, after a sufficiently long walk at a comfortable pace, he was standing outside the door of Little Miss Friday’s physiotherapy establishment, he was confronted with a note saying that the business had stopped trading for the foreseeable future. Who the note had been written by and why was not clear but, because Bäckström could think of more than one possible candidate whom he had no desire to encounter, he walked away without any fuss.

  In the absence of any better options, he went home. He sought consolation in perhaps rather too many emergency drinks, before finally falling asleep on his sofa. When he woke up it was already eight o’clock in the evening, the situation was desperate, good advice was expensive, and – as on so many previous occasions – he had a brilliant idea and called the female accountant he had met the previous weekend.

  He didn’t even get through to her voicemail. The number was no longer in operation, and the only remaining option was to seek solace among his online fanclub.

  If it comes down to it, I could always have a randomly selected member brought over by taxi, he thought as he read through the latest contributions to the forum.

  There was one that stood out. It had been posted by someone using the name ‘number-cruncher’ who now had personal experience of the Bäckström super-salami, which – in the interests of consumer information and sisterly solidarity – she wanted to share with a wider audience. In terms of volume, she had no conclusive opinion to offer. Notwithstanding customary male exaggeration, the bearer of the super-salami was much like any other Tom, Dick or Harry. Well, perhaps a smaller than average Tom, Dick or Harry, as far as his nether regions were concerned.

  The problem was that there were other similarities. The choice between the Man with the Super-Salami and the equivalent product from a delicatessen wasn’t difficult. From experience, if she had to choose again, she would prefer the latter, because then she wouldn’t have to deal with the bearer of the item in question. She had no intention of going into his view of women. Considering his views on humanity in general, this was sadly only a tiny detail in a far larger context.

  One hour later Bäckström was sitting at the bar of one of the floating hostelries down at Norr Mälarstrand. He ordered several cold beers, large vodkas and toasted sandwiches so that he would not, at least, fall down dead from hunger and thirst. For safety’s sake, he was also wearing his surveillance sunglasses, to avoid attracting too much attention.

  When he left the bar a couple of hours later he came close to missing the gangplank and, when he was finally back on solid ground again, it was swaying alarmingly. He didn’t manage to get hold of a taxi, and was slowly making his way unsteadily up the road when things took a serious turn for the worse. Further down the street a huge black man appeared, shouting and gesturing at him. He was black a
s soot, big as a house, quick as a gazelle, and obviously out to mug him. When Bäckström bent over to get a bit of assistance from little Siggy, he ended up falling flat on his backside.

  There he remained for several seconds until the black mugger came over and helped him up, brushed him down, handed him the note-clip that he had managed to leave behind him in the bar, and asked if he should call for an ambulance, or would an ordinary taxi be okay?

  Bäckström ended up spending most of the weekend in bed, trying to make some sense of the thoughts that kept flashing like summer lightning through his aching head, but without really succeeding. He even conducted an empirical experiment and carried the portrait of Saint Theodore into the bathroom, put on his surveillance sunglasses and turned out the light in order to find out if the fat, pasty-skinned Theodore would change his skin colour as a result of the fact that they were surrounded by pitch-blackness. All to check if the man who had come to his aid that night was a perfectly ordinary Swede, and he had fallen victim to an optical illusion.

  Theodore shone like a candle in the darkness.

  It’s quite unbelievable, Bäckström thought, shaking his head and returning to bed.

  On Sunday his tame reporter called to ask for his help. The palace press office was on a war footing. They were denying all involvement with organized crime, assorted Russian artworks and an art expert who had previously been employed on a freelance basis. They also had the support of the newspaper’s hitherto becalmed competitors, who had suddenly changed tack, had the wind in their sails and had filled the whole paper with the usual royal stories.

  ‘So what do we do?’ the reporter asked.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’m not a journalist. I’m a police officer.’

  148

  On Monday he arrived at work to find that a report had been filed against him. The report was in his pigeonhole. It was from the Animal Protection Unit of the City Police, and informed him that he was under suspicion of aggravated animal cruelty. According to an anonymous complainant, Bäckström had been ‘neglecting and tormenting’ a parrot that had been in his care for the past two months. As a result, they wanted him to contact the investigating officer as soon as possible, acting Detective Superintendent Rosita Andersson-Trygg, to arrange a time for the inspection of the crime scene – his flat on Inedalsgatan in Stockholm – as well as an interview with him.

  Must be little Edvin, Bäckström thought. After the weekend that had just passed, he was fully aware of the extent of the evil surrounding him. Forget it, he thought, and pressed the quick-dial number for Anchor Carlsson and asked her to come to his office.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ the Anchor asked.

  ‘Give them a call, say hello from me, and explain to them that I don’t own a parrot, then tell them to shove the complaint where the sun doesn’t shine.’

  ‘Of course,’ the Anchor said. ‘Is that all? You don’t want me to break any bones?’

  ‘Feel free,’ Bäckström said.

  The Anchor barely had time to close the door behind her before the next visitor knocked on it. It was Jenny Rogersson, looking the same as ever, keen to discuss their latest case. What case? Bäckström thought, gesturing to his visitor’s chair. It was time to find something for little Jenny to do before she disappeared on holiday, with all the risks that involved for a young woman, he thought.

  ‘Was I right or was I right?’ Jenny said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘About our case, I mean. If I’m allowed to say what I think, I was on the right lines right from the start. The connections between that old lady, Linderoth-Hamilton, and von Comer and Eriksson. The Godfather was behind it all. I had a word with Dad. He congratulated me, and said to say hello, of course. How about going out to celebrate? Discreetly, of course.’

  ‘Let me think,’ Bäckström said. Is it possible to have more than ten points on a ten-point scale, and how do I avoid attracting more misery by ending up in bed with old Rogersson’s daughter? he thought.

  ‘Say hello back,’ Bäckström said. ‘On an entirely different subject, and please don’t take offence, but are you absolutely sure that he’s your father? I mean, there’s not much resemblance between you, if I can put it like that.’

  It wasn’t the first time Jenny had heard that suspicion. She was only ten years old the first time it happened. Her dad was refusing to pay child maintenance and was using the same argument. So her mum, Gun, had taken him to court and forced him to provide a blood sample and have his paternity verified with a DNA test.

  ‘How did that go?’ Bäckström asked, refusing to give up hope of a better world, even though he already knew the answer.

  No doubt at all. The possibility that it could have been anyone but him was pretty much zero.

  ‘But I do see what you mean,’ Jenny said. ‘So, what about grabbing a bite to eat? Before I go off on holiday at the weekend.’

  ‘That would have been nice,’ Bäckström said, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass. Bit too much going on at the moment.’ I suppose we could always do another DNA test. Technology is improving all the time, he thought.

  That afternoon he had a call from the second largest evening paper, asking if they could interview him. From what they had heard, Bäckström had got to the bottom of the false accusations that had been levelled at the king.

  ‘In that case, you’ve come to the right man,’ Bäckström said. Time to change sides, he thought.

  That evening GeGurra called Bäckström at home, sounding almost high, and hissed something incomprehensible about ‘the circle being closed’. He happened to be in St Petersburg, where he had just concluded the quickest deal in art history. He would rather save the details until they were alone.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Bäckström asked. The circle is closed, he thought. What circle?

  ‘From the last tsar, Nicholas II, to the latest little daddy of all Russians,’ GeGurra said. ‘If you understand what I mean?’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Bäckström, who had no idea.

  ‘What do you say to lunch tomorrow? Have a bite to eat, celebrate our victory, sort out the details.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Bäckström said. As long as he didn’t get mugged before then, he thought as he hung up.

  149

  On Tuesday Bäckström was the lead story in Sweden’s second biggest evening paper. In an exclusive four-page interview, ‘the country’s most famous homicide detective’ gave a detailed account of the circumstances surrounding the art fraud perpetrated by a ‘now deceased celebrity lawyer’. There was no indication of any connection to the king or any of his relatives. The artworks in question had been inherited by an elderly female Swedish pensioner and, because she wanted to remain anonymous, obviously Bäckström was prohibited from revealing her identity.

  Towards the end of the interview, Bäckström addressed the fundamental principles by which the free press acted and survived in a democratic country like Sweden.

  For him, the freedom of the press was sacred, and the anonymity of sources its most important foundation. But, naturally, he lamented the fact that poorly supported articles could harm individuals, and, as a long-time supporter of the Swedish monarchy, it had saddened his heart when he saw that this had now afflicted even the King of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf.

  While the country’s newspaper readers were enjoying the fruits of Bäckström’s wisdom, he himself was having lunch with GeGurra as the latter told him about the deal he had concluded in St Petersburg the previous day with the representative of a very prominent Russian buyer who wished to remain anonymous.

  To start with the financial side of things, after tough negotiations they had agreed a price of two hundred and fifty million Swedish kronor. As soon as GeGurra had completed the formalities, he would of course ensure that Bäckström received the twenty-five million that he and GeGurra had shaken hands on. So that he didn’t have to suffer any hardship in the meantime, he had arranged
a small cash advance of one million, in case Bäckström was wondering why the brown envelope on the table in front of him looked so much fatter than usual.

  ‘The circle is closed,’ GeGurra declared, winking and raising his glass.

  The new buyer, the latest daddy of all Russians, wasn’t actually intending to hide little Pinocchio away in his private bank vault. In the autumn, he and Pinocchio would be appearing in front of all the art-lovers of the world at a special exhibition at the Hermitage in St Petersburg. Bäckström could count on being invited as one of the guests of honour.

  ‘Is there anything you’re wondering about?’ GeGurra asked, as Bäckström had sat in silence more or less throughout.

  ‘No,’ Bäckström said, shaking his round head. ‘Should there be?’

  150

  While Bäckström was having lunch with his old acquaintance GeGurra, Lisa Mattei was reading that day’s edition of the country’s second largest newspaper, and became aware that she was suddenly losing control of herself. That man defies all description, she thought, standing up with a jolt, grabbing the paper and marching straight into her boss’s office.

  ‘Please, sit down, Lisa,’ the general director said with a friendly smile. ‘If you’re wondering if I’ve read today’s paper, the answer is yes.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the general director said, shaking his head. ‘Don’t let’s underestimate Superintendent Bäckström. If you were to ask me for my personal opinion, I might even concede that the man has a certain entertainment value. Such as that photograph in today’s paper, where he’s standing on the bridge leading to Lovön, with Drottningholm in the background, holding up his hand in a stop sign towards the camera. Like an old-fashioned traffic cop determined not to let anyone cross the bridge.’