Leif Persson - He Who Kills the Dragon

In the conversation with Svenska Dagbladet that followed he had revealed his concerns about various deficiencies in the rule of law.

‘Our fight against crime must be conducted openly,’ Bäckström said, looking intently at the paper’s representative. ‘Too many of my fellow officers have far too lax a view of the rule of law.’

Finally, Dagens Nyheter , where he contented himself with agreeing with all the leading questions put to him.

‘I completely agree with you,’ Bäckström repeated, for the umpteenth time. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself. It’s absolutely terrible. I mean, where on earth are we heading as a constitutional state?’

On his way home he paid a visit to GeGurra for an openhearted conversation between just the two of them. GeGurra wasn’t merely perplexed, he was utterly mortified now that he realized how the crooks had got hold of the keys to Bäckström’s apartment.

‘I can assure you, my dear Bäckström,’ GeGurra said. ‘That woman has deceived you and me alike. All I told her when she called and asked if I would like to take her out to dinner was that I was already engaged. That I was going to have dinner at Operakällaren with a very dear friend who happened to be a police officer. I had no inkling that she had questionable intentions when she appeared. As I understood it, she simply appeared to be quite captivated by you.’

Right, Bäckström thought.

‘So what are we going to do about the coffee table, the carpet, and all the bullet holes in the walls?’ Bäckström asked.

On that point he didn’t have to worry himself at all. GeGurra had all the contacts and resources necessary to put everything right. Straightaway, no less.

‘I insist that you let me do that, Bäckström,’ GeGurra said. ‘The fact that I was entirely ignorant does not release me from my obligations in the slightest. After all, I was an unwitting accomplice to your being placed in mortal danger.’

‘The coffee table, the carpet, the walls,’ Bäckström said, not about to let himself be sidetracked by fine words.

‘Of course, my dear friend,’ GeGurra said. ‘What do you think of that coffee table, by the way?’ he asked, gesturing toward the coffee table in his own office.

‘Antique, Chinese lacquerwork — the colors would match your sofa perfectly,’ GeGurra cajoled.

‘Nice carpet,’ Bäckström said, nodding toward the carpet that the table was standing on.

‘Another antique from China,’ GeGurra said. ‘An excellent choice, if you were to ask my opinion.’

The police officers stationed at Bäckström’s door had been replaced by two contracted guards from Securitas. They helped him to carry up the coffee table, the carpet, and the various packages that had arrived during the course of the day.

Bäckström had prepared a simple meal from the things in his fridge. Then he had gone through the day’s haul. E-mails, letters, parcels, and presents. Everything from a knitted tea cozy in the shape of a hen and a handwritten letter containing one hundred kronor to a considerably larger amount that an anonymous benefactor had transferred into his account.

He threw the tea cozy in the bin.

He read the letter. A ‘Gustaf Lans, eighty-three, retired bank director’ wrote, ‘May God protect you, Superintendent. Thank you for all your hard work.’

Thanks yourself, you mean old bastard, Bäckström thought. He put the hundred-kronor note in his wallet and threw the letter in the bin.

Just as he was done with these administrative tasks there came a knock on his door.

‘Hello, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said with a smile. ‘I thought I’d look in on you before you went to bed.’

Hello, Bäckström thought.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ he asked.

Annika Carlsson admired his new coffee table and his new carpet. And even the bullet holes in the walls and ceiling.

‘If I were you, I think I’d leave them as they are,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘They’re seriously cool. Think about all the girls you must have here. Wow, this guy’s got bullet holes in his walls,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘It even makes me—’

‘Sorry, Annika,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘A personal question?’

‘Sure,’ Annika said with a smile. ‘Go for it. I’m listening.’

‘And you promise not to be offended?’ Because who wants to get their jaw broken before they go to bed? he thought. He’d had quite enough with Talib and the other wretched prick.

‘You’re wondering if I’m a dyke?’ Annika said, looking at him in delight.

‘Yes,’ Bäckström said.

‘There’s so much talk,’ Annika Carlsson said, shrugging. ‘My most recent partner was a female police officer who worked in domestic crime in the city. That ended six months ago. But the last sex I had, if you want to know — if we’re not counting the sort you make for yourself that is — was with a guy. Not even a fellow officer. He was some sort of salesman. I picked him up in a bar.’

‘Any good?’ Bäckström asked.

‘No,’ Annika said, shaking her head. ‘All mouth, no trousers. Almost exclusively mouth, actually.’

A woman, talking like that. Where the hell are we heading? Bäckström thought, but contented himself with a nod.

‘I like to keep an open attitude. Don’t want to restrict the field, if I can put it like that,’ Annika Carlsson clarified. ‘Were you wondering anything in particular, Bäckström?’

‘I was actually thinking of going to bed,’ Bäckström said. What the hell is happening to Sweden? he thought. To me and all the other normal, decent, hardworking men? What’s going to happen to us?

The first thing Bäckström did on Friday morning was to decide to disperse the last remaining cloud in his otherwise clear blue sky. He went straight to Toivonen’s office and asked for a new service pistol, since his own was evidently stuck with forensics until the lazy sods in internal investigations pulled their fingers out.

‘What do you want it for?’ Toivonen said, glaring at Bäckström.

None of your fucking business, Bäckström thought, but contained himself. When you had to deal with complete idiots like Toivonen, it was best to stick to a formal manner of address.

‘I’m a police officer,’ Bäckström said. ‘I have the right to a service weapon. It’s your duty to see that I get one.’

‘Who were you thinking of shooting this time, Bäckström?’ Toivonen said, evidently feeling a bit brighter.

‘I want it for my personal protection while I’m on duty, and for other requirements in the line of duty,’ Bäckström said. By now he knew the routine.

‘Forget it, Bäckström,’ Toivonen said, shaking his head. ‘Just be honest. You’ve got a taste for it. Running round and shooting people.’

‘I demand a new weapon,’ Bäckström repeated, with steely resolve in his voice.

‘Okay, Bäckström,’ Toivonen said with a friendly smile. ‘I’ll try to make it clear. So clear that even you can understand. I am not going to give you another service weapon. Not even if you invite me personally to shove it up your fat ass when I hand it over.’

‘You’ll be getting a written request,’ Bäckström said. ‘Copied to management, for their files. And to the officers’ association.’

‘Go ahead,’ Toivonen said. ‘If management wants to let you have a gun, it’s up to them. But I don’t want anyone else’s blood on my hands.’

That was as far as they got.

That evening Toivonen, Niemi, Honkamäki, Alakoski, Arooma, Salonen, and several other Finnish brothers in the force had gone to the Karelia restaurant. Even Superintendent Sommarlund was allowed to go along, even though he really only came from the Swedish-speaking Åland Islands. Men with their roots in Finnish soil, men of the right stuff, with their hearts in the right place, and, as far as Sommarlund was concerned, he could very easily have been born on the Finnish mainland. But to celebrate or to lick their wounds? Who cared? Any reason was good enough, and the intention had been the same as usual.