Leif Persson - He Who Kills the Dragon

‘You haven’t talked to anyone in the building?’ Bäckström said.

‘What do you take me for?’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘How would that look?’

‘A wise colleague is worth their weight in gold,’ Bäckström said.

‘Akofeli was seeing someone who lived in the building,’ Annika Carlsson said.

‘Obviously,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’ve suspected as much all along.’

Anna Holt had woken up around seven that morning. She had been having a vaguely erotic dream, not at all unpleasant, and when she looked up she saw Jan Lewin lying in bed next to her, looking at her. He was resting his head on his right hand while the left played with her right nipple.

‘You’re awake,’ Holt said.

‘Extremely awake,’ Jan Lewin replied, smiling, and nodding for some reason in the direction of his own groin.

‘Goodness,’ Holt said as she stretched her hand under the sheets to feel. ‘I think we have an acute problem here.’

‘What are we going to do about it, then?’ Jan Lewin asked as he put his arm round her neck.

‘Solve it,’ Holt said. She pulled the sheets off and sat on top of him.

It’s best in the mornings, Holt thought half an hour later. And she felt energetic too. Always did afterward. In contrast, Jan seemed much more relaxed and close to falling back to sleep. Typical, she thought, just as her phone rang.

‘What sort of fool calls up at this time on a Saturday?’ Lewin groaned.

‘I have my suspicions,’ Holt said, picking up the phone. The county police chief, she thought.

‘I hope I didn’t wake you, Anna?’ the county police chief said. She sounded just as awake as Holt, and considerably angrier.

‘I was already awake,’ Holt said. Without going into the reason and pulling a happy face at Lewin.

‘Have you read the papers?’ the county police chief asked.

‘No,’ Holt said. ‘Which one?’

‘All of them,’ the county police chief said. ‘Bäckström,’ she clarified. ‘He seems to have talked to all of them. Even that Christian rag where he takes the chance to declare his strong faith in God.’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Holt said. Say what you like about Bäckström, but he’s not stupid, she thought.

‘Thank you,’ the county police chief said, and hung up.

‘Now I’ve got something I need to do,’ Holt said. ‘You, on the other hand, should try to get back to sleep.’

‘I can get breakfast,’ Jan Lewin said, sitting up in bed.

‘You’re probably wondering...’

‘No,’ Lewin said, shaking his head. ‘I’m a police officer, have I ever mentioned that? I’ve already got a fairly good idea of the reason behind that call.’ It’s always Bäckström, he thought.

Anna Holt had sat down at her computer, where she went onto the Internet to read the morning papers. It confirmed her fears. Then she called Bäckström. As usual, no answer. Then she spoke to Annika Carlsson.

If she can, then so can I, Anna Holt thought. The ‘she’ in question was the county police chief, and the person she was calling was Toivonen.

‘Toivonen,’ Toivonen groaned.

‘Holt,’ Holt said.

‘I’m listening, boss,’ Toivonen said. ‘I was out late,’ he explained.

‘Bäckström,’ Holt said, then spent the next two minutes explaining what this was about.

‘In that case, I suggest we wait until Monday,’ Toivonen said. ‘Since it’s the weekend and we’re talking about Bäckström here,’ he clarified.

‘He’s actually at work,’ Holt said. ‘I spoke to Annika Carlsson a short while ago. She says he’s been there since early this morning.’

‘If he is, then he’s only doing it to wind me up,’ Toivonen said.

‘What do we do now?’ Annika Carlsson asked.

‘Now we take it nice and slow,’ Bäckström said. ‘We don’t mess it up by rushing.’

‘I’m listening,’ Carlsson said.

‘That list that Alm drew up of everyone Danielsson knew,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’d like to take a look at it. Call him, tell him to get here at once and give me the list.’

‘No need,’ Carlsson said. ‘You can read mine. I’ve got a copy.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Bäckström said. ‘I was looking forward to having a chance to wind the idiot up.’

The old boys from Solna and Sundbyberg, Bäckström thought, as he read through Alm’s summary of Karl Danielsson’s acquaintances some fifteen minutes later. Halfy and Flash and Jockey Gunnar. Godfather Grimaldi and his former colleague Roly Stålhammar. Good old boys who’d spent the best part of fifty years drunk off their ass.

Then he called one of them.

‘Detective Superintendent Bäckström, the nation’s hero,’ Halfy Söderman said. ‘To what does a simple man such as myself owe the pleasure?’

‘I need to talk to you, Söderman,’ Bäckström said. Already wasted, and here I am stuck behind my desk, sober, gray, and underpaid, he thought.

‘My door is always open to you,’ Halfy said. ‘It will be an honor for me and my simple household. And would the Superintendent have any specific requests as far as refreshment is concerned?’

‘Coffee will do fine,’ Bäckström said brusquely. ‘Black, no sugar.’

Then he had gone into Nadja’s office and picked up Karl Danielsson’s pocket diary, then called for a taxi.

‘Are you sure I can’t offer to drop you off?’ Halfy Söderman asked, nodding toward the bottle of cognac standing on the kitchen table between him and Bäckström.

‘I’m fine,’ Bäckström said.

‘You’re not just quick on the draw,’ Söderman declared. ‘You’re a man of strong character too, Bäckström,’ he said, pouring a decent splash into his own coffee cup.

‘Ah, liqueur’s good,’ Söderman said, sighing with pleasure. ‘And good for you. One million alcoholics can’t be wrong.’

Maybe not all of them, Bäckström thought.

‘There’s something I wanted to ask you about,’ Bäckström said, pulling out Danielsson’s black pocket diary.

‘Well, because it’s you, just go ahead, Bäckström,’ Halfy said. ‘If it had been one of your so-called colleagues, I’d have got into a three-round scrap with them by now.’

‘Karl Danielsson’s pocket diary,’ Bäckström said. ‘There are some notes in here that I can’t quite get my head round.’

‘I can well imagine,’ Söderman grinned. ‘Kalle was a crafty bastard.’

‘There are certain notes that come up again and again. We think they mean that he was paying out money to three different people.’

‘I can believe that,’ Söderman said. ‘And without a stain on his character. What are their names?’

‘They’re abbreviations,’ Bäckström said. ‘Initials of their names, we think. Plus the amounts.

‘The initials are HA, AFS, and FI. All in capital letters, take a look,’ Bäckström said, holding the diary out to Söderman.

‘What are they supposed to mean, then? The abbreviations, I mean. What are the names?’

‘Hassan Talib, Afsan Ibrahim, and Farshad Ibrahim.’

‘They’re those fucking bastards who tried to kill you, Bäckström,’ Söderman said as he leafed through the diary.

‘Yes,’ Bäckström said. ‘Can you remember if Danielsson ever talked about them?’

‘He never talked about stuff like that. No matter how hammered he got. As to whether he was stashing money away for people like that? I can quite believe him doing it, but he wasn’t stupid enough to talk about it.’

‘No?’ Bäckström said.

‘No,’ Halfy Söderman said emphatically. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, Superintendent. Mind you, I’d be happy to do my bit if it would help get those camel jockeys locked up for so long that they chuck the key in a lake. But I’m sorry to have to tell you that they’re probably innocent, I’m afraid.’