Leif Persson - He Who Kills the Dragon

‘You or me, Lars?’ Annika Carlsson had asked, nodding to Alm.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Alm said.

‘Thanks, Lars,’ Annika replied.

A child in a grown man’s body, Alm thought, as he concluded the interview and left Laurén. At least ten centimeters taller than him, at least ten kilos heavier, with broad shoulders and long, gangly arms. A grown man. Apart from the long fair hair that kept falling over his forehead, which he kept pushing back with his left hand and a toss of the head; the naïve look in his eyes — a child’s eyes, they were blue as well; his ungainly body, his awkward posture. A child in a grown man’s body, a pretty wretched state to be in, Alm thought, as he left him.

At four o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, May 14, Karl Danielsson had returned home to his flat at number 1 Hasselstigen in Solna. He had got out of a taxi, paid, and had bumped into Seppo Laurén, twenty-nine, in the doorway.

Laurén, who was in receipt of a state pension in spite of his young age, was living alone at the time. His mother, who he usually shared his flat with, had suffered a stroke and had been in a convalescent home for a while. Danielsson had told Laurén that he had been in to the city, where he had been to the bank and done a few other errands. Then he had given Laurén a couple hundred-kronor notes and asked him to go and buy him some food. He was heading off to Solvalla that evening and didn’t have time to do it himself. Pork chops, two decent packs of ready-made kidney beans in sauce, some cans of tonic, Coke, and soda water. That was all, and he could keep the change.

Laurén had run similar errands for Danielsson for many years. When he returned from the local ICA shop Danielsson was just getting into another taxi and seemed to be in good spirits. He had said something about it being time for ‘Valla, and some serious money.’

‘Do you remember what time it was then?’ Alm asked.

‘Yes,’ Laurén said, nodding. ‘I remember exactly. I look at my watch a lot.’ And he had held out his left arm to demonstrate.

‘What time was it, then?’ Alm said, smiling amiably.

‘It was twenty past five,’ Laurén said.

‘What did you do after that?’ Alm asked.

‘I hung the bag of groceries on his door, then went up to my place and played computer games. I do that a lot,’ he explained.

‘This all fits well with other information that we’ve received,’ Alm stated, leafing through his notes. ‘Danielsson placed a bet on the first V65 race out at Solvalla, which started at six p.m. It can’t take more than fifteen minutes to get there by taxi, and he would have had plenty of time to place his bet before the race started—’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘Reading between the lines, I get the impression that this Laurén is a few sandwiches short of a picnic.’

‘He’s got learning difficulties,’ Alm said. ‘But he can tell the time. I’ve checked.’

‘Go on,’ Bäckström grunted. What a meeting of minds, he thought. Woodentop’s first witness is another nutcase, and they’re both saying they can tell the time.

In the first race Danielsson had put five hundred kronor to win on horse number six, Instant Justice. A rank outsider that would pay out forty times the initial stake, and the forensics team had found the winning slip in the drawer of his desk.

‘We’re absolutely certain of that?’ Bäckström went on. The bastard could just as easily have been given it or stolen it, he thought.

Absolutely certain, according to Alm. He’d spoken to an old friend of Danielsson’s, who said Danielsson had called to tell him. He had been the one who tipped him off about Instant Justice. A former rider and trainer out at Valla, now retired, Gunnar Gustafsson, who had known Danielsson since they were at primary school together.

‘Apparently Gustafsson is something of a legend out at Solvalla,’ Alm said. ‘According to colleagues who know about racing, he’s known as Jockey Gunnar, and he’s not known for handing out tips, so it’s probably true that he was a good friend of Danielsson. Danielsson is known as Kalle the Accountant among his old childhood friends from Solna and Sundbyberg.

‘Anyway,’ Alm went on, as he ticked off points in his notes, ‘Gustafsson said that he was sitting in the restaurant at Solvalla with a few friends when Danielsson suddenly appeared, in an extremely good mood. That was at six-thirty or thereabouts. Gustafsson invited him to join them but Danielsson declined. He was going to head home. He had asked another old school friend over for dinner later on. And this friend had good reason to celebrate as well, since he and Danielsson had shared the bet.’

‘So what’s his name, then?’ Bäckström said. ‘The one Danielsson had invited to dinner?’

‘You and I both know him,’ Alm said. ‘He went to the same school in Solna as Danielsson. Exactly the same age as Danielsson, sixty-eight. When you and I knew him he worked in surveillance in the old violent crime division in Stockholm. Roland Stålhammar. Roly-Stoly, Iron Man, or just plain Stolly. Well, we give the things we love lots of names.’

There we go, Bäckström thought. Roland ‘Stolly’ Stålhammar, caught as good as red-handed, an iron man with a load of rust in his pants, in Bäckström’s opinion.

‘Well, then,’ Bäckström said. He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his stomach, and smiled with satisfaction. ‘Something tells me that this case is finished,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you explain for the benefit of our younger colleagues? Tell them about our former colleague Roland Stålhammar,’ Bäckström went on, nodding benevolently toward Alm.

Alm didn’t seem particularly keen, but he told them anyway.

‘Roland Stålhammar was one of the legendary figures from the old violent crime division. He worked in the division’s own surveillance unit. He knew every single ruffian in the entire county. And even they were fond of him, despite the fact that he must have locked up hundreds of them over the years. He retired in 1999. Taking advantage of the option that older officers had in those days to take early retirement.

‘Well,’ Alm said, sighing for some reason. ‘What else can I add? He was born and raised in Solna. Lived here all his life. Keen on sport. First as a participant, then as a coach. Extrovert. Dynamic. Found it easy to get on with people. He made things happen, you could say—’

‘But that’s not all, eh?’ Bäckström interrupted with a sly look on his face. ‘There was quite a bit more to him than that, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ Alm said, nodding curtly. ‘Stålhammar used to be a boxer. One of the best in Sweden in his day. Swedish heavyweight champion several years in a row in the sixties. On one occasion he was up against Ingemar Johansson for a charity gala out in the old Circus building on Djurgården. Ingemar Johansson, Ingo, as he was known,’ Alm clarified, nodding for some reason toward Felicia Pettersson.

‘Hearing you describe what a decent old fellow he was almost brings tears to my eyes,’ Bäckström said. ‘I can hardly recognize Roly-Stoly from your description. One meter ninety tall, one hundred kilos of muscle and bone, and with the shortest fuse in the entire force. Used to get reported for violent conduct more than the rest of us put together.’

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Alm said. ‘But it wasn’t quite as simple as that. Stålhammar made things happen, like I said. He’d saved a lot of young kids who were on the slide from getting themselves into serious trouble. If I’m not mistaken, he was the only one of us who did voluntary work as a probation officer on his own time.’

‘When he wasn’t drinking like a fish, because that was still his best event,’ said Bäckström, who could feel his blood pressure rising. ‘And still is, from the looks of it...’