And, in almost every instance, they didn’t involve Bäckström at all. Bäckström worked with serious violent crimes. He had done that for the whole of his life as a police officer, and he intended to continue doing it until that part of his life came to an end. Murders, assaults, rapes and armed robberies. Plus all the other wonders hidden in among them, in the form of pyromaniacs and paedophiles, menacing behaviour, hooligans and various assorted lunatics. Even the occasional flasher or peeping Tom could be imagined to nurture more corporeal ambitions. There were also more than enough such cases. Thousands of reports each year, all ending up in the department for serious violent crimes. And it was all these cases that gave content and meaning to his life as a police officer, and if he was to be able to accomplish anything on that score, it was all a matter of distinguishing between the things that mattered and those that didn’t. On the Monday before the Monday that would be the best day of his life, he had, sadly, been less than successful in this regard.
In Bäckström’s department for violent crimes, the week always started with a morning meeting where they summarized the human misery that had taken place during the preceding week, bolstered themselves in advance for what was to come that week and chewed over a few old cases that had sat and mouldered for too long simply to be carried off to the archive and forgotten about.
To assist him, Bäckström had twenty or so co-workers, one of whom was both silent and fully functional and half a dozen who at least did as he told them. The rest were pretty much as could be expected, and if it hadn’t been for Bäckström’s firm hand and strong leadership, not least his ability to distinguish between the things that mattered and those that didn’t, then, obviously, the bad guys would have got the upper hand from day one.
A new week, morning meeting, high time for Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström to wield the sword of justice once again. He was happy to leave all that fiddling with the scales of justice to the large number of do-gooders and paper-shufflers higher up the police hierarchy.
3
‘Please, sit down,’ Bäckström said as he sank down in his usual place at the end of the long conference table. You useless, lazy bastards, he thought, looking round at his colleagues. Monday morning with empty eyes behind heavy eyelids, and considerably more coffee cups than notepads or poised pens. What’s happened to the force? Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström wondered. Where have all the proper cops like me gone?
Then he had handed over to his right-hand man, who, naturally, was a woman, Detective Inspector Annika Carlsson, thirty-seven. A terrifying figure who looked as if she spent most of her time in the gym down in the basement of Solna police station. Probably in other, more nocturnal basements as well, for that matter, but he preferred not to think about that.
She did have one advantage, though. None of the others dared argue with her, which was why they had quickly got through the list of what had happened the previous week and over the weekend. Resolved and unresolved, successes and misfires, new information and tip-offs, tasks and commendations that awaited them over the coming week. As well as all the other stuff of a more practical and administrative character that everyone in the department was expected to absorb.
The whole thing had gone swimmingly. Done and dusted in less than an hour, and Detective Inspector Carlsson was even able to crown her run-through by telling them that the murder that had occurred three days before had been cleared up, with a full confession, and handed over to the prosecutor.
The perpetrator had turned out to be an unusually accommodating drunk. On Friday evening he and his now deceased wife had started arguing about which television programme they were going to watch. Then he had gone out into the kitchen, fetched a carving knife and put an end to the discussion. After that he had rung at his neighbour’s door to borrow his phone to call for an ambulance.
The neighbour hadn’t been particularly helpful. Past experience had taught him not to open the door, and instead he had called the police. The first patrol arrived just ten minutes later, but by the time the uniformed officers had got into the flat there was no longer any need for medical intervention. Instead they had cuffed the newly widowed man and called in Forensics and detectives to deal with the more intricate aspects of the police work.
At the very first interview the following morning the victim’s grieving widower had confessed. He wasn’t particularly clear about the details, because, obviously, he’d had a few drinks that evening, but he was still keen to let the interviewers know that he was already missing his wife. She may have been stubborn, resentful and generally impossible to live with – largely because she drank like a fucking fish – but, in spite of all her faults, he still wanted to make it clear that he actually missed her.
‘Well, thanks for that,’ Bäckström said happily, and that was probably the point when he, caught up in the elation of the moment, made a mistake. Instead of simply concluding the meeting, withdrawing to his office and taking his time preparing for his impending lunch, he had nodded amiably to his right-hand man and asked the wrong question entirely.
‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘We’re pretty much done here, aren’t we? Unless you’ve got something to add before we get on with a bit of good, old-fashioned police work?’
‘A couple of things,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Both a bit odd.’
‘I’m listening,’ Bäckström said, nodding in encouragement. As yet, of course, he was in a state of blissful ignorance.
‘Okay,’ Annika Carlsson said, and for some reason she shrugged her broad shoulders. ‘The first case involves a rabbit. To start with, at least, if I can put it like that.’
‘A rabbit,’ Bäckström said. What the hell is the woman going on about? he thought.
‘A rabbit that has been taken into care by the county council, because its owner was maltreating it,’ she explained.
‘How the hell does anyone maltreat a rabbit?’ Bäckström asked. ‘Did our perpetrator put it in the microwave?’ Wasn’t that how budding serial killers usually started their careers? Microwaving rabbits and putting the cat in the tumble-dryer? This is getting better and better, he thought, and, evidently, he wasn’t alone, judging by the expressions on the others’ faces. Suddenly they were alert and interested, in contrast to their attitude when they were dealing with the human victims of crime and their various sufferings.
‘No,’ Annika Carlsson said, shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid it’s considerably more tragic than that.’
4
‘Our perpetrator is a 73-year-old woman. Mrs Astrid Elisabeth Linderoth, born in 1940, known as Elisabeth,’ Annika Carlsson began. ‘Single, no children, widowed five years ago, lives in a flat in Filmstaden in Solna. I looked her up out of curiosity. Her finances are sound, she seems to have a pretty generous pension from her late husband and she’s got no criminal record. No contact with us at all. Now she’s being investigated for maltreatment of an animal, plus a number of other offences that arose last week. If you ask me, that’s the reason she’s ended up here with us at Serious Crime.’
‘What’s she done, then?’ Bäckström asked.
‘Resisting arrest, violence against a public official, attempted bodily harm, two cases of making illegal threats.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Bäckström interjected. ‘I thought you said the old biddy was seventy-three?’
‘I did,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘She’s an old lady, basically, so it’s a very sad story. If you can bear to hear it, I’ll give you the short version.’
‘I’m all ears,’ Bäckström said, making himself more comfortable in his chair.
Approximately one month earlier, Stockholm County Council had decided to take the rabbit owned by the suspect into care. The background to this was a police report filed by a female neighbour just a fortnight before the council took its decision. It didn’t actually seem to be a matter of animal cruelty in any particularly active sense, more just maltreatment and neglect. Among other things, the rabbit’s owner w
as suspected of having gone away on holiday for several days and forgetting to leave it enough food before she left. On a number of occasions the rabbit was also said to have been found in the stairwell after its owner forgot to shut the door to the flat and it took the chance to escape. On one of these occasions it was also said to have been bitten by a dachshund owned by another neighbour.
‘I have an idea that the rabbit’s owner might be considerably older than official records suggest,’ Annika Carlsson said, for some reason making a circular gesture in the air with her right index finger close to her right temple. ‘The preliminary report ended up with our colleagues in the City Police, at the new animal protection unit. They seem to have responded with unusual speed, possibly because Mrs Linderoth had already been the subject of similar allegations in January this year. The same complainant, the same decision from the council, although on that occasion the animal in question seems to have been a golden hamster.’
‘Looks like the old girl was stepping things up.’ Bäckström chuckled. He was leaning back comfortably, and suddenly seemed to be in an excellent mood.
‘Stepping things up? How do you mean?’
‘Well, a rabbit must be at least twice the size of a hamster,’ Bäckström explained. ‘Maybe she’ll drag home an elephant next time. How the hell should I know? But what I still don’t understand is why she’s ended up with us.’
‘I was getting to that,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘On Tuesday last week – Tuesday, 21 May – when two of our colleagues from the animal protection unit of the City Police, accompanied by two officials from the council, went to enact the decision to remove the rabbit from Mrs Linderoth’s flat, at first she refused to open the door. After some persuasion she eventually opened it a crack, with the security chain on, and stuck a pistol out of the gap and told them to get lost at once. Our colleagues retreated and called in back-up.’
‘From the national rapid response unit?’ Bäckström was staring eagerly at Annika Carlsson.
‘No, sorry to disappoint you. We sent one of our own patrol cars. One of our colleagues apparently knows Mrs Linderoth – his mum’s an old friend of hers – so after a bit of persuasion she opened the door and let them in. She was agitated, but at least she wasn’t violent. The pistol turned out to be an eighteenth-century antique. According to our colleagues, it wasn’t loaded and doesn’t look as if it’s been fired in the past two hundred years.’
‘Okay,’ Bäckström said.
‘But that’s not the end of it.’ Annika Carlsson shook her head.
‘You don’t say!’ Bäckström said.
‘Everything was fairly calm until the female vet from the council went to put the rabbit in a cage. Then Mrs Linderoth rushed in, clutching a teapot, and threatened the vet. She was disarmed and placed on the sofa, and the officers from the City Police and the two council officials left the flat with the rabbit. Our own colleagues stayed behind to talk to her. According to the incident report, she was calm and collected when they left.’
‘Good to hear,’ Bäckström said. ‘One question. Where do all the charges come from?’
‘From our colleagues in the City Police,’ Carlsson said. ‘The following day. They filed the charges for their own sake, and on behalf of the two council officials: resisting arrest, violence against public officials, threatening behaviour and attempted bodily harm. A total of twelve different offences, if I’ve counted correctly.’
‘I daresay you have,’ Bäckström said. ‘The old bag is clearly a threat to the entire fabric of society. High time she was locked away.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, I understand what you mean, I’ve got no problem with that. What troubles me is a report of aggravated threatening behaviour that we received on Thursday evening. Filed directly with us. The complainant came down here in person. Spoke to one of the duty officers.’
‘Let me guess. Our colleagues at the rabbit and hamster unit wanted to add something they’d forgotten?’
‘No,’ Annika Carlsson said, again shaking her head. ‘The complainant was Mrs Linderoth’s neighbour. She lives in the same block, on the fourth floor. Mrs Linderoth lives at the top of the building, the seventh floor. The same person who reported Mrs Linderoth for maltreatment of animals, both the rabbit and the hamster, in case you’re wondering. She’s also filed complaints with the residents’ association on numerous occasions, but that’s a different story.’
‘So who’s she, then?’
‘Single woman. Forty-three years old. Works part-time as a secretary for an IT company out in Kista. No criminal record. She seems to spend most of her time doing voluntary work. Among other things, she’s the spokesperson for the organization Dare to Care for Our Smallest Friends. Apparently, they’re a more radical splinter group of the Animal Rights movement. She used to be on the committee of that as well, by the way.’
‘Who’d have thought it? Does she have a name?’
‘Fridensdal, Frida Fridensdal. With an “s”. The “valley of peace”, in other words. She changed her name; she was born Anna Fredrika Wahlgren, in case you’re wondering.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Bäckström said, feeling his blood pressure rising. ‘For God’s sake, Annika, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Frida Fridensdal with an “s”, and Dare to Care for Our Smallest Friends. She’s a nutter. I mean, Dare to Care for Our Smallest Friends? What’s she bothered about, lice and cockroaches?’
‘I hear what you’re saying, I understand the way you’re thinking. That was why I interviewed her myself. On Friday, at her workplace, seeing as she refused to come down to the station, if anyone’s wondering. According to what she said then, she daren’t live at home any more. She says she thinks her life is in danger and has moved in with a friend. But what the friend’s name is and where she lives, she didn’t want to say. She reckons she daren’t say. Says she doesn’t trust the police to protect her. Nor her friend, come to that. This friend is also supposed to have been married to a police officer who used to beat and rape her.’
‘Who’d have thought it?’ Bäckström snorted.
‘To start with, I don’t think she’s making it up. Apart from the usual human exaggerations that you and I have learned to live with. She’s genuinely frightened. Terrified, in fact, and when it comes to the threat she’s reported, it really doesn’t sound good. Aggravated illegal threats, without any doubt.’
‘Really?’ Bäckström said. ‘So what’s happened, then?’ I can hardly contain myself, he thought. Say what you like about Carlsson, but she doesn’t scare easily.
‘I’m coming to that, but the big mystery is actually something else entirely.’
‘What?’
‘It’s completely impossible to match what she says about the threat she’s received with old Mrs Linderoth, who seems to be a rather genteel old lady. None of it makes sense, but Fridensdal swears that old Mrs Linderoth is behind the threat against her.’
‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’m listening.’
5
On Thursday afternoon Frida Fridensdal had left work in Kista at five o’clock and had gone down into the garage, got into her car and driven off to Solna shopping centre to get food for the weekend. When she was finished she drove home to her flat in Filmstaden to have dinner, watch a bit of television, then go to bed.
‘According to what she’s told us, she gets home at about quarter past six. She makes dinner, eats, talks to a friend on the phone. Watches the news on television, and then someone rings on her front door. She thinks it must have been just after half past seven.’
‘She’d locked the front door?’ Bäckström asked, already guessing what was coming next.
‘Yes, it was locked. Before she opened it she looked through the peephole, seeing as she wasn’t expecting anyone and as she was generally pretty cautious about opening the door to people she didn’t know. The man standing outside looked like a courier of some sort; he was wearing a blue jacket and carrying a large bouquet of flowers. She assum
ed he was delivering flowers. And so she opened the door.’
Why don’t they ever learn? Bäckström thought.
‘Everything happens pretty quickly after that. He marches straight into the flat. Puts the flowers down on the hall table. Looks at her and puts his finger to his lips, tells her to be quiet, even though she isn’t saying anything. Then he points to the sofa in the living room. She goes in and sits down. The way she describes it, she’s suddenly feeling completely empty inside, just terrified. She daren’t even scream. She can’t breathe, she daren’t even look at him. She’s at her wits’ end, poor thing.’
‘So what was the message, then?’
‘At first he doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, and when he does eventually open his mouth he speaks very quietly, in an almost friendly way, like he’s trying to be persuasive, if I can put it like that. The television is on, so she has trouble hearing what he’s saying. But there are three main points. Firstly, she hasn’t seen him. Secondly, she must never say anything else about Elisabeth, and if she’s ever asked she must only say nice things about her, and especially Elisabeth’s love of animals and how good she is at looking after them. The third thing is that he’s going to leave shortly. But she must sit there for fifteen minutes after she hears the door close and not say a word about any of this.’
‘Elisabeth? He calls Mrs Linderoth Elisabeth? She’s quite sure about that?’
‘Quite sure.’ Detective Inspector Annika Carlsson nodded emphatically.
‘So does he say anything else?’ This doesn’t sound good, Bäckström thought.
The Sword of Justice Page 2
