Leif Persson - He Who Kills the Dragon

‘A female double murderer,’ Bäckström said. ‘Right now we don’t have a single woman serving a life sentence for that,’ he declared. ‘Actually, we haven’t had one for forty years,’ he added. ‘The last time it was a Finnish prostitute. And this time it’s her Swedish counterpart.’

At that very moment she struck. Probably out of anger and as a reflex following what he had just said, and because she must have realized that the game was up. She grabbed the knot of his tie. Pulled as hard as she could and fell backward onto the floor when the little plastic clip holding it came away.

The classic police tie, he thought, even though it had cost him ten times as much as the one his alcoholic father always used to wear. Always the ready-knotted blue one on duty, to stop crooks from being able to strangle him when he was knocking them about and locking them up in the Maria district’s old police box. He used to wear it at home at weekends too, since he had forgotten how to tie an ordinary knot.

‘Okay, Bea,’ Bäckström said, pulling out the handcuffs from his pocket and taking hold of her hands to cuff her. ‘Nice and easy does it.’

Not the least bit nice and easy. She spun round on the floor. Kicked his legs out from under him, sat astride him, and took hold of his tieless neck. And squeezed with hands that were both bigger and stronger than his.

Her little dog had leapt out of its basket and come to the aid of its mistress, chewing and snarling at his expensive yellow trousers. Then Britt-Marie Andersson, a woman, over sixty, and — from a criminological perspective — an impossible criminal, grabbed the cognac bottle from the table and smashed him in the face with it.

‘Fuck, Annika!’ Bäckström roared, as lightning and darkness alternated inside his head. And he’d rather die than scream for help even if a woman was trying to kill him.

Detective Inspector Annika Carlsson came racing into the room with the speed of a cannonball from the olden days. She kicked Little Sweetie, launching him across the room, then set about his mistress with her extending baton, twice over her shoulders, twice on her arms. Then she put a pair of handcuffs on Britt-Marie Andersson. She grabbed her by the hair, pulling her face up, to give her the only message that counted in a tricky situation between women.

‘Okay, bitch, behave yourself or I’ll kill you,’ Annika Carlsson said, sounding neither like a true sister nor a female police officer.

Then she turned her tender attentions to her boss, Superintendent Evert Bäckström.

‘I’m afraid the bitch has broken your nose, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said while Felicia Pettersson and Jan O. Stigson led Britt-Marie Andersson out of her flat.

‘That’s okay.’ Bäckström sniffed as blood streamed from both nostrils. He felt beneath his shirt and pulled out the tape recorder he had taped to his stomach under his well-cut yellow linen jacket.

‘That’s okay, as long as the tape recorder’s still working,’ Bäckström said. ‘Just get me a plaster so we can get back to the station,’ he said, pinching his nose between his chubby fingers.

Bäckström had hardly had time to put a plaster on his broken nose and get back to his own office before his colleague Niemi came rushing in.

‘What the hell happened to you, Bäckström?’ Niemi said. ‘You look like someone’s dragged you through a thornbush.’

‘Never mind that,’ Bäckström said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘A breakthrough in the case,’ Niemi said. ‘Our colleagues at the National Forensics Lab have just called to say that they’ve found DNA traces in the washing-up gloves that Polish bloke found in the trash bin. A woman’s DNA,’ Niemi said.

‘Danielsson’s cleaner?’ Bäckström suggested. He had known better for several days now.

‘I thought that too,’ Niemi said.

The poor Finnish bastard must be soft in the head, Bäckström thought. He’s spent several days in Danielsson’s flat, and who the hell would employ a blind cleaner? he thought.

‘Until we found the same DNA under Akofeli’s fingernails,’ Niemi said. ‘The only problem is that we aren’t getting any matches on the database. We don’t know who she is.’

‘Yesterday’s news, Niemi,’ Bäckström said, leaning back in his chair even though his nose was hurting like hell. ‘We’ve got her locked up,’ he went on. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Can you pop down and get a sample from her? Then I want you and your South American partner to go and examine her apartment. Because that was where she killed Akofeli. And if you have any spare time after that, the car she used to get rid of his body is down in the garage.’

‘What the hell are you saying, Bäckström?’ Niemi said.

‘I’m a police officer,’ Bäckström said. ‘So I already worked it out a fortnight ago.’

And then Toivonen.

‘Congratulations, Bäckström,’ Toivonen said. ‘I’m starting to think that if you can manage to keep your mouth shut, we might even be able to have a civilized relationship.’

‘Thanks,’ Bäckström said. ‘You should know that you’re warming the cockles of an old constable’s heart,’ he said.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Toivonen said with a grin, then walked out.

I’ll kill you, you fucking little fox, Bäckström thought.

Then the prosecutor rang.

‘Hello, Bäckström,’ the prosecutor said. ‘I’ve just heard that you picked up our perpetrator.’

‘Yes,’ Bäckström said.

‘Then I spoke to Niemi,’ she went on. ‘So I was thinking of pushing through the formal arrest procedures tomorrow morning. We’ve got sufficient grounds now.’

‘That’s nice for you,’ Bäckström said, and hung up.

Anna Holt had even come down to his office.

‘Congratulations, Bäckström,’ Holt said, nodding and smiling. ‘You’ve killed the dragon for me.’

‘Thanks,’ Bäckström said. ‘Are we doing a press conference?’

‘I think we’ll hold back,’ Anna Holt said, shaking her dark cropped hair. ‘There’s been a bit too much of that lately. I think we’ll make do with an ordinary press release. Tomorrow, after the formal arrest procedures.’

Of course, Bäckström thought. First you take the honor away from me. Then you take the glory away from me. And I’ve got a pair of shredded linen trousers, a smashed coffee table, a blood-soaked carpet, and bullet holes in the walls and ceiling of what was once my home. As a thank-you I’ve been given a cut-glass vase that I’ve given to my alcoholic neighbor and an old police badge that’s supposed to have belonged to a mad old ass bandit who wasn’t even man enough to come out of the closet and was forced to wrestle other singlet-wearing trolls to stay happy.

‘What do you think, Bäckström?’ Anna Holt said.

‘Fine with me,’ Bäckström said, giving her the full Sipowicz as she left. Run away, now, you scrawny little nightmare, he thought.

‘What the hell are we going to do about Seppo Laurén?’ Alm said. His face was deep red, and it was just two minutes after Holt had left the room.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Alm,’ Bäckström said. ‘This is what we’re going to do. Now listen carefully.’

‘I’m listening,’ Alm said.

‘First I want you to gather together everything you’ve written about little Seppo. Then I want you to roll it all up and put some elastic bands round it. And then I want you to shove it up your ass.’

Not only is he soft in the head, Bäckström thought, as he watched Alm leave. The bastard hasn’t even got a sense of humor.

‘Respect, boss,’ Frank Motoele said. He turned his gaze outward and nodded to Bäckström.