Leif Persson - He Who Kills the Dragon

Farshad Ibrahim had also spent the night on the operating table even though the only bullet to hit him had struck exactly where police regulations demanded, just below the left knee. First it had broken both of the bones in the lower leg, the tibia and fibula, which was only to be expected and exactly as intended. Then several unexpected things had happened. The bullet was the new sort that expanded when it hit its target, the intention being to minimize the risk of the bullet going straight through or ricocheting, against the surmountable price of a larger hole in the body of the person who was shot. This time the casing had splintered and a fragment had travelled along the thighbone and damaged the femoral artery. By the time Farshad Ibrahim arrived at hospital he had lost three liters of blood. His heart had stopped twice in the ambulance. Ten hours later he was lying in intensive care. Prognosis unclear.

His younger brother had been subjected to a quick diagnosis on the street outside Bäckström’s door. Broken nose, possibly broken bones and fingers in his right hand. Nothing that prison medical staff couldn’t handle. During the short journey to police headquarters in the riot squad’s van he had fainted and collapsed on the floor. To start with, they thought he was playacting, then decided to take him to Karolinska as well, and within an hour Afsan was also lying on an operating table. Several broken ribs on his right side, a punctured and collapsed lung, but in considerably better shape than his older brother and cousin.

‘He’s definitely going to make it,’ the surgeon who spoke to Honkamäki confirmed. ‘Unless anything unexpected happens, of course,’ he added, the way doctors usually do.

Nasir Ibrahim was dead, tortured by what looked like an ordinary soldering iron. His skull had been crushed by the classic blunt object, although precisely what sort was used on this occasion was unclear. Just to make sure, he had also been strangled with the cord with which the address label had been tied to his neck. The body was expected to arrive at the Solna forensics lab later that day. In case the Swedish coroners wanted to take a look at what their Danish colleagues at Rigshospitalet’s forensics department had already taken care of.

Just to be on the safe side, arrest warrants for Farshad Ibrahim, Afsan Ibrahim, and Hassan Talib had all been issued on the grounds of probable suspicion a couple hours earlier. Two cases of the attempted murder of Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström and Detective Inspector Frank Motoele, weapons offenses, and more to come. Considerably more.

Even though none of the three could move without help, even in their hospital beds, they were under an impressive amount of police guard. Twenty uniformed officers from the National Rapid-Response Unit, the riot squad, and the ordinary force. Half a dozen detectives who suddenly had time on their hands.

Chief Superintendent Toivonen wasn’t happy.

‘Explain to me how that fat little bastard managed to shoot an entire police investigation to shreds,’ Toivonen said, glaring at his boss with bloodshot eyes. ‘Are we living in Sweden, or what?’

‘Well,’ Anna Holt said, ‘we’re still living in Sweden, and it isn’t quite as simple as you’re suggesting.’

‘Nasir has been murdered, Farshad and Talib and Afsan are all in intensive care,’ Toivonen said, counting them off on his fingers just to underline his point.

‘Well,’ Holt repeated, ‘to start with, our colleague Bäckström didn’t have anything to do with the murder of Nasir.

‘It sounds like you should talk to Mr. Åkare and his friends about that,’ Holt suggested.

Is she fucking with me? Toivonen thought. During a long career in the police he had had a large number of completely meaningless conversations with Fredrik Åkare and his friends in the Hells Angels. The last time, Åkare had even patted him on the shoulder before vanishing in the company of his slick-haired lawyer.

‘You’re a bastard Finn, aren’t you, Toivonen?’ Åkare said.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Toivonen said, trying to outstare the visitor’s scornful smile.

‘You probably know our old chairman,’ Åkare said. ‘He’s a bastard Finn as well. He sends his greetings, by the way. Get in touch if you fancy a ride and a beer.’

Toivonen hadn’t got in touch. Now he was obliged to, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

‘According to Niemi,’ said Toivonen, who wasn’t going to give in that easily, ‘Farshad had a key to Bäckström’s apartment in his trouser pocket.’

‘A recently cut copy, if I’ve understood correctly,’ Holt said. She too had spoken to Niemi.

‘It’s still very odd that it just happens to fit Bäckström’s apartment,’ Toivonen said.

‘I can see what you mean, and I’m aware of Bäckström’s reputation, but if it’s simply a case that they were bribing him, then they just had to knock on the door. And if that was the reason why they were there, then the negotiations don’t seem to have gone particularly well. And I say that with a great deal of reluctance,’ Holt said, being a proper police officer.

‘Maybe they hadn’t got enough money with them,’ Toivonen said. ‘According to Niemi, Farshad didn’t have a penny on him.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Holt said. ‘Maybe we should take it easy and not get carried away. Everything that has emerged so far suggests that Farshad and Talib, entirely without Bäckström’s knowledge, got into his apartment and took him by surprise. To murder him, threaten him, blackmail him, force him to help them. Or to try to bribe him. We just don’t know. It looks like Bäckström was fully justified in defending himself. And the shot to Farshad’s leg was entirely in accordance with regulations.’

‘So what about the other five bullets, then? The ones Niemi pulled out of his walls and ceiling?’

‘Presumably things were chaotic. According to Bäckström they threw themselves on him as soon as he entered the apartment. Talib with a drawn pistol and Farshad with a knife. Bäckström managed to draw his pistol. Shots were fired. What’s the problem?’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Toivonen said, taking a deep breath to stop the top of his head from blowing off. I’m calm, he thought to himself.

‘Bäckström wrestles Talib to the ground, disarms him, and knocks him out. His pistol just happens to go off a few times as he does so. As soon as Talib is out of the picture he shoots Farshad in the leg, a perfect shot, just below his left knee. Because Farshad is trying to stab him with his knife. Have I got that right?’ Toivonen asked.

‘More or less,’ Holt said with a shrug. ‘According to our colleague Carlsson, who had breakfast with Bäckström this morning, he says he felled Talib with some mysterious trick with his legs that he picked up when he was learning judo as a kid. According to Bäckström, he was pretty good at it while he kept up with it. Unfortunately Talib fell backward and hit his head on Bäckström’s coffee table, but under the circumstances we can hardly hold Bäckström responsible for that. Then, when Farshad rushes at him to stab him with his knife, Bäckström shoots him in the leg.’

‘According to Bäckström, that is.’

‘I’ve spoken to both Niemi and Hernandez. According to their forensic examination, there’s nothing to contradict Bäckström’s version. They both accept the bit about Talib without question. The shots in the walls are also distributed in such a way that they couldn’t have been fired by someone standing still and shooting. It might well match what Bäckström says.’

‘Forensic investigation, right,’ Toivonen snorted. ‘You saw what it looked like. There must have been at least fifty people traipsing through that flat.’