Leif Persson - He Who Kills the Dragon

On the second day the tone had hardened considerably and the number of women had multiplied. A couple hundred mothers demanding ‘Margarine on the bread of working-class children,’ ‘The rich eat butter, we eat rations’ — lots of chanting and shouting. On the third day, Saturday, November 6, the situation was critical. ‘Fat fathers and meager mothers’ was the text on one of the most offensive placards, which also depicted both Strand and Erlander enjoying a drink.

The day before the weekend, and also the anniversary of the death of the great warrior king, Gustaf II Adolf. It was a particularly unfortunate choice of day on which to protest in such a fashion.

Working-class women had come by train from the whole Mälar region, and the number of demonstrators passed five hundred that morning. The police of the Klara district of Stockholm had turned to the chief of police, Henrik Tham, and asked for help, since the local force could no longer guarantee public order and safety. Tham had ordered out the riot squad under the command of the legendary Viking Örn, who arrived personally in the Black Maria, accompanied by a number of ordinary patrol cars. He had pushed his way through the angry crowd and stood at the top of the steps of the TUC, surrounded by his awe-inspiring wrestling colleagues. No one had even needed to draw their saber.

‘Go home, old women, or else you’ll get a thrashing,’ Örn roared, raising his right hand threateningly, a hand that was as big as the ham served at His Majesty the King’s Christmas dinner table.

And because this happened in the bad old days, when practically all women did what their men told them, they had shuffled off. Besides, most of them had children to look after, and on top of everything else it had also started to rain, a cold, lashing November rain.

Overnight Viking Örn became the hero of the ruling middle class, and was awarded the Great Gold Police Medal, and praised by the chief of police and in the leader columns of all the right-wing newspapers in the country. Unfortunately he also made a number of comments that, sixty years later — in the pale glow of history’s night light — appear rather questionable.

In a radio interview — Stockholm-Motala — he had even talked down his contribution. Much ado about nothing, whereas the wrestling baron had been quite a different matter. What sort of weaklings were these men who couldn’t make a gaggle of hysterical women shut up and do what they were supposed to — cooking, cleaning, washing, and looking after their kids instead of running round the streets causing trouble for him and his men, and for all decent people in general? He at least didn’t have any problems with discipline at home.

One dissenting voice had been heard in the otherwise martial tone of the media. The female reporter known as Bang, who declared concisely and in summary that Viking Örn was the natural leader of Stockholm Police’s very own Cauliflower Brigade, and if he hadn’t existed for real then they would have had to make him up.

The county police chief’s staff read the senior legal adviser’s memo in silence. For a brief second the county police chief had imagined that Evert Bäckström was tailor-made for this particular honor, then she had come to her senses.

The head of HR had made the usual attempt at saving face.

‘What about the others who were awarded the medal in the past?’ the HR head asked. ‘They can’t all have been the same as Örn.’

‘Of course not,’ the senior legal adviser said in an unusually silky voice. ‘That particular medal was even awarded to famous figures in world history.’

‘Really?’ the head of HR said. He was fundamentally an optimistic soul and happily took the chance to feel his hopes rise.

Most famous of all was the German SS general Reynhardt Heydrich. In 1939 Heydrich, at the initiative of the Swedes, had been appointed chairman of the International Police Organization. The following year he was awarded the Great Gold Police Medal for his ‘exemplary contribution to maintaining law and order in a Czechoslovakia hit hard by the winds of war.’

‘Would you like to hear any other examples?’ the senior legal adviser asked with a gentle smile.

We’ll have to do what we usually do, the county police chief thought, as she hurried off to her next meeting. There was no way of avoiding a press conference with the little fat disaster, sadly. With a bit of luck, Anna Holt was enough of a woman to keep it within reasonable bounds. Speaking for herself, she knew of at least one person who wouldn’t be attending. There’d have to be the customary cut-glass vase, of course, she thought.

That same day Bäckström had held a press conference with his boss, police chief Anna Holt. Also on the podium was his immediate superior, Superintendent Toivonen, as well as the county police chief’s own press secretary. Because a large crowd was expected, the county police chief had put the auditorium of police headquarters on Kungsholmen at their disposal.

Regrettably she was unable to attend herself because she was obliged to attend a series of important meetings. At least that was what she told Holt, but in reality, in the world where nothing is ever really concealed from eyes that can see and ears that can hear, she was sitting alone in her office, following proceedings on TV4’s live broadcast.

Anna Holt had kicked it off, giving a brief summary of what had happened. Almost no questions, even though the room was packed with journalists.

Then Toivonen had explained what was happening in the investigation into the armed robbery out at Bromma and made it clear that the main suspects were now in custody. Later that day the prosecutor would propose the formal arrest of Farshad Ibrahim, Afsan Ibrahim, and Hassan Talib for murder, attempted murder, and aggravated robbery.

But as far as the two perpetrators of the armed robbery itself were concerned, Toivonen said little. The situation was sensitive and for that reason he didn’t want to comment. This was a view that the journalists didn’t appear to share, because almost all of their questions had been on that particular subject. They also appeared to know most of the details already.

Kari Viirtanen, Nasir Ibrahim? Did he have anything to say about them?

No comment.

Kari Viirtanen had been shot outside his girlfriend’s flat in Bergshamra. The perpetrators were the men behind the armed robbery who wanted to take revenge on him for messing things up and shooting the guards, wasn’t that true?

No comment.

Nasir Ibrahim had been driving the getaway car at the raid in Bromma. He had abandoned it outside the Hells Angels’ clubhouse, five hundred meters from the scene of the crime. Then he was found murdered in Copenhagen. The Hells Angels getting their revenge?

No comment.

Somewhere around then the press secretary had broken off the questions in order to let Superintendent Bäckström speak. None of the journalists objected.

Could Bäckström tell them what had happened on Monday evening in his own apartment?

Suddenly there was complete silence in the room. The journalists even shushed the photographers who were trying to take pictures of him.

Bäckström surprised everyone who knew him. He was reserved, concise, almost brusque. On the few occasions when his mouth twitched in an approximation of a smile, he looked rather like a Swedish version of Andy Sipowicz, the hero of the television series NYPD Blue . Nor did this fact escape either the reporters or the headline writers. But it was still a toss-up. Either Andy Sipowicz or Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry Callahan.

‘There’s not really much to say,’ Bäckström said. ‘They got into my apartment, and the minute I walked in they attacked me and tried to kill me.’