The Sword of Justice

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘What a shame,’ Pyttan declared. ‘I’m convinced you’d make an excellent minister of justice, Superintendent. God knows, in these turbulent times Mother Svea needs all the help we can give her. Promise you’ll think about it,’ she added, and patted him on the arm.

  ‘I promise,’ Bäckström said. Another one. There’s no end of them.

  ‘You’re definitely suited to politics, Bäckström,’ Roly Stålhammar agreed, winking at him and rubbing his nose with his right index finger. ‘You only have to listen to you for a couple of minutes to understand that you’ve got natural talent. Just say the word and I’ll drag myself to the ballot box. That’s one vote you’ll get, at any rate. And there’s Pyttan here. That’s two votes, if I’ve got my sums right.’

  The man had to be a psychopath, and who really fancies standing around chatting to one of them? Bäckström thought. So he made do with nodding at Mario and Roly and planted a gentle kiss on Pyttan’s already extended, extremely cool right hand. On his way out he declined another invitation to the impending buffet from the master of ceremonies. He had important work that required his urgent attention at the police station in Solna, and as he stepped out on to the street the big black limousine was already waiting for him.

  ‘Welcome, Superintendent,’ the chauffeur said, holding the back door open for him.

  ‘Success, Bäckström,’ his host declared as soon as he and Bäckström were seated at the same table they had sat at one month earlier. ‘I’ve just spoken to one of my colleagues, and he was beside himself. But, of course, who would have doubted it?’ he added, proposing an introductory toast.

  ‘Thanks,’ Bäckström said, raising his glass as he picked up the thick brown envelope that was discreetly tucked under his plate and transferred it to safe-keeping in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘There’s one thing I was wondering about, actually,’ he said, as Mario and Roly had just popped into his head.

  ‘I’m all ears,’ his host replied.

  ‘I ran into an old acquaintance, Mario Grimaldi. Apparently, he’s one of the speculators interested in your secure housing.’

  ‘The Godfather,’ his host said, smiling weakly and nodding. ‘I understand exactly what you mean, and if you check your computer at work I’m sure it will tell you that he’s both completely penniless and mentally unwell these days.’

  ‘More or less,’ Bäckström said. ‘So what’s the real deal?’

  ‘The exact opposite,’ Bäckström’s host answered, turning his glass. ‘Besides, he’s done me one or two favours over the years. The sort you can’t very easily turn down.’

  ‘Mario had a former colleague of mine, Roly Stålhammar, with him. He’s always hanging around with him. What do you know about him?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ his host said. ‘A former policeman, you say? Well, of course Mario knows absolutely everybody, and presumably that includes a number of your colleagues.’

  ‘No matter,’ Bäckström said, shrugging his shoulders. Time will tell, he thought. I wonder who those other colleagues might be?

  When Bäckström went to bed a few hours later he opened the envelope and counted the contents. How the hell could anyone afford to become minister of justice? he thought, shaking his head as he tucked the envelope under his pillow. Then he fell asleep, and slept soundly and dreamlessly until he was woken by the rain drumming on the sill of his bedroom window.

  10

  Felicia Pettersson was twenty-eight years old. She had been a police officer for five years, and would have been working on the beat if she hadn’t torn one of her ligaments during an indoor bandy match a few months earlier. It turned out to be a complicated injury, and not one that could easily be reconciled with front-line duty as a beat officer. So she had ended up on the reception desk in the police station, and had been there about a month when Bäckström caught sight of her. It was Friday afternoon, when he was already in an excellent mood, because he was on his way to Kungsholmen for an important lunch meeting.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Bäckström said in surprise, and one week later Felicia had been transferred to his serious crime unit.

  Bäckström had something of a weakness for Felicia, which shouldn’t have been the case, considering her background and the vicious tongues that lay behind his reputation in the force. Felicia was born in Brazil. She was in a children’s home in São Paolo, and when she was just a year old she was adopted by a Swedish couple who were both in the police, and lived just outside Stockholm, on one of the islands in Lake Mälaren.

  A few years ago, when she was doing her preliminary training with the crime department in Solna, she had helped Bäckström investigate a double murder, and had won his approval by differentiating herself from her cretinous colleagues, thanks to her ability to understand what he actually meant, and always doing what he told her to. This in spite of Bäckström’s conviction that a real police officer also ought to be a real man, while a real woman was better suited to considerably gentler tasks, although what the latter might consist of in more definite detail was something he was wise enough to keep to himself these days.

  After Monday’s meeting Felicia’s immediate superior, Annika Carlsson, had decided that she and Felicia should conduct another interview with Frida Fridensdal to see if she could identify the man who had forced his way into her flat and threatened her.

  As a result, Felicia had spent the rest of the day picking out potential perpetrators who matched the woman’s original description. It was a dispiriting task, and by the time she had finished she had downloaded over a hundred pictures into her computer, all men in the Stockholm region who, according to police records, could very well be thought to have done precisely what the man they were looking for had done to their victim.

  In the meantime, Annika Carlsson had spoken to an extremely reluctant Frida Fridensdal, and it had taken a great deal of persuasion to convince her to agree to be interviewed again.

  Eventually, she agreed: nine o’clock the following morning, as long as the meeting took place in her office and lasted no more than half an hour.

  11

  ‘How about this one, then?’ Felicia asked as they sat in the car on Tuesday morning.

  ‘She’s not happy,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Not happy at all, so we’ll just have to hope for the best. Make the best of it, you know,’ she said, nodding at her younger colleague, smiling and nudging her gently in the side.

  ‘What do you think about me showing her the pictures while you watch her reaction?’ Felicia suggested.

  ‘Exactly what I had in mind,’ Annika said. If you’re lucky, you can see it in their eyes before they start shaking their head, she thought.

  Quarter of an hour later they walked into Frida Fridensdal’s workplace, and Annika, who had been there once before, noted that as well as the receptionist there was now a Securitas guard, who nodded and smiled at them when they went in.

  ‘We’re from the police,’ Annika Carlsson said, holding out her ID. ‘We’re here to see Frida.’

  ‘She’s expecting you,’ the receptionist nodded and smiled. ‘The corridor to the left, third door,’ she went on, pointing. ‘Help yourselves to coffee and water, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Annika said.

  None of them wanted coffee or water. Least of all their victim. She just shook her head when Annika suggested it.

  ‘No, I just want to get this out of the way so I can be left in peace,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ Annika said, patting her arm gently. ‘We’ll get it sorted,’ she added.

  Then they had sat down at the conference table, Felicia in front of her laptop, their victim at her side, so close that she could hear her breathing and feel the fear radiating from her body. Annika Carlsson was sitting at the side of the table so that she could see both the expression in Frida’s eyes and the photograph she was looking at.

  How would I describe you? Felicia thought as she unfolded the screen and turned
the laptop on. Middle-aged, thin, ordinary, in both appearance and clothing. But not now, she thought. Not now, when the only thing visible is a woman who’s on the brink of going completely to pieces.

  ‘Okay,’ Felicia said. ‘Let’s get started. Try to look as carefully as you can. There’s no pressure, and all you have to do is shake your head and I’ll go on. If there’s anyone you recognize or want to get a closer look at, just say so.’

  ‘Okay,’ Frida said, pressing the knuckles of her left hand to her mouth.

  The first pictures had been met with rapid head-shakes, but the more pictures Felicia brought up, the harder it became for their victim to look at them.

  How the hell is she going to cope with a hundred and twenty? Annika Carlsson thought, but just as she was thinking it she saw it in the woman’s eyes. She had also said it out loud.

  ‘It’s him!’ Frida Fridensdal exclaimed, putting her hands over her face. ‘Oh God, get rid of him. Get rid of him, do you hear!’ she shouted, standing up and turning away from the computer, then she burst out crying so hard that her shoulders and back shook.

  Number 25, Annika Carlsson thought, and because she was who she was, she didn’t need Felicia’s laptop to identify the man in the picture. Angel García Gomez. If this had been a lottery, he would probably have been the very worst ticket to draw.

  Felicia had also recognized him. Not because she’d ever seen him in real life, but because of her work the previous day, combined with her excellent memory. Angel García Gomez. He had emigrated to Sweden from Chile with his mother as a political refugee in the seventies, and he was known as El Loco, the Madman, in the circles in which he moved.

  Wonder why he’s called that? she had thought as she added him to her laptop, because there was no obvious explanation in their database. Besides, he was good-looking, and was even smiling slightly in the pictures they had taken of him. Compared to the others, he didn’t have much of a criminal record, in a purely formal sense. Almost every charge against him had been dropped.

  It had taken them half an hour, numerous paper handkerchiefs, some sisterly sympathy and a lot of soothing words to get anywhere close to sorting their victim out. As soon as they had managed that, they realized that their investigation had just come to an end.

  Frida Fridensdal had taken a few deep breaths. Then she had looked at Annika Carlsson, right in the eyes, and nodded to emphasize what she was about to say.

  ‘I want to withdraw my complaint,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anything to do with this any more. I want to be left in peace.’

  ‘There’s no need to be frightened,’ Annika Carlsson said. She crouched down in front of Frida Fridensdal and took her hands, squeezing them between her own. As if the woman were a little child.

  ‘I don’t give a damn. I want to be left in peace. I’m not doing this, not for a second longer. I’ve talked to a lawyer. He says you can’t force me to cooperate.’

  Then she had started crying again. Sobbing hopelessly this time, shaking her head the way someone does when they’ve already made up their mind.

  12

  At roughly the same time as his colleagues Carlsson and Pettersson were trying to instil fresh courage into their victim, Bäckström had arrived at his office after eight hours of reinvigorating sleep and a nutritious breakfast. Even the taxi-driver who had driven him to work had behaved. He hadn’t said a word throughout the entire journey. Not until he stopped outside the police station in Solna and Bäckström started digging through his pockets to find the money to pay him.

  ‘You’re Detective Superintendent Bäckström, aren’t you? You’re the one who shot those bastard Iranians. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Who are you, then?’ Bäckström asked. To judge by his accent and appearance, he was pretty much your standard-issue Arab, he thought. If he had any funny business in mind, he could always make little Siggy’s acquaintance.

  ‘I’m from Iraq, so you can have this trip on me, Superintendent,’ the driver replied with a broad grin, saluting Bäckström with a clenched fist before driving off.

  At least Tuesdays were better than Mondays, Bäckström thought as he settled down behind his desk with the red light switched on and a cup of freshly brewed coffee in his hand. And he had something to deal with, and it was high time he got to grips with it if he wasn’t to jeopardize the lunch he was already looking forward to.

  So he had called the head of the animal welfare unit, Superintendent Love Lindström. To judge by his name and job title, he was another one of the old women who, gender notwithstanding, were undermining the force and its sacred mission.

  ‘Bäckström,’ Bäckström said, seeing as that was more than enough of an introduction when you were the country’s most famous and respected police officer.

  ‘Good to hear from you, Bäckström,’ Lindström replied. He sounded genuinely pleased. ‘I understand why you’re calling. How can we help you? That really was a terrible business, what my colleagues here at animal welfare were subjected to.’

  ‘Well,’ Bäckström said. ‘The question is more what I can do for you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll give you the short version,’ said Bäckström. Not sounding quite so pleased any more, he thought.

  First, he had described their perpetrator. An old lady who lived on her own, a confused old dear who already had one foot in the grave, and then he had gone on to describe the actions of Lindström’s two colleagues and their two friends from the council.

  ‘Four young people, not even half her age, shouting and banging on her door. None of them in uniform, all in plain clothes, not one of them who even tries to show her their ID. Perhaps it’s not so strange that she thinks they’re a gang targeting old people and trying to force their way into her flat. Because that’s what she thought was happening.’

  ‘But hang on a moment. Of course they showed their IDs. My officers would have identified themselves as police. That goes without saying.’

  ‘So you say,’ Bäckström said. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Can you hold on a minute?’ Lindström replied, sounding worried.

  ‘Of course,’ Bäckström said. This is just getting better and better, he thought.

  ‘Sorry it took so long,’ Lindström said five minutes later. ‘I’ve just spoken to the two officers who were there, and they both say that they identified themselves. So if Mrs Linderoth is claiming anything different, I’m afraid she’s lying.’

  ‘So you say,’ Bäckström responded. ‘Tell me, how did they do it? When they identified themselves, I mean.’

  ‘According to Borgström, Thomas Borgström, he held his police ID up in front of the peephole in her door while he loudly and clearly explained that they were from the police, and why they were there. The other officer, who also works here with us – Bodström, Claes Bodström – confirms that that’s exactly what happened.’

  ‘Through the peephole in the door? Borgström showed his ID through the peephole in Mrs Linderoth’s door? And Officer Bodström confirms that this is what happened?’

  ‘Yes. You know, these days they’re fitted as standard in all new buildings. And the place she lives in is only a few years old.’

  ‘In that case, I’m afraid we have a problem,’ Bäckström said.

  ‘A problem? What do you mean?’

  ‘Mrs Linderoth doesn’t have a peephole in her door. Not one that works, anyway. When the housing association wanted to put one in, she said no, and when they went against her wishes and refused to remove it she had it blocked up. She didn’t want anyone to be able to see into her flat. Like I said, she’s starting to go a bit funny, the way old people often go.’

  ‘Really. You’ve been there? To the scene, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid that’s the lie of the land,’ Bäckström declared, without going into specifics. ‘There’s also a witness. A witness who lives on the same floor and saw the whole of this so-called intervention, and for some reason her
account matches Mrs Linderoth’s exactly.’

  ‘Their word against my officers’. That’s what you’re really saying. That it’s their word against my officers’.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bäckström said, ‘but this time it isn’t quite that straightforward. I don’t want to pre-empt any eventual preliminary investigation into your officers for misuse of office, but I’m afraid I can only conclude that things are rather worse than that. Much worse, actually, if you get my meaning? Did I mention that I’m calling you on my mobile? They’re not bad these days. This one’s got a video camera and a microphone and can make sound-recordings, if you understand what I mean?’ That gave you something to think about, you silly little poof, he thought.

  ‘Yes, I hear what you’re saying, but—’

  ‘I have two suggestions,’ Bäckström interrupted. Before you really crap yourself, he thought.

  ‘Okay, I’m listening, I hear you.’

  ‘Obviously, the simplest thing would be for me to get your officers over here with the other two and interview them.’

  ‘Oh, surely that won’t be necessary?’

  ‘I hope not. Because I’m thinking of dropping the investigation. The whole investigation, in case you’re wondering. Your officers, that pair from the council, our witness, and even Mrs Linderoth.’

  The sort who crumbles instantly, Bäckström thought as he ended the call. Just as he put his hand in his pocket to take out his key and open his special desk-drawer to pour himself a few well-earned drops, there was a knock on his door. Not a feeble knock, either – it sounded more like a fist banging on the door. It was just as well he hadn’t had time to put the key in the lock, because she’d probably have kicked the door in.

  ‘Please, have a seat, Annika,’ Bäckström said, gesturing to the visitor’s chair.

  ‘Shit!’ Annika Carlsson said, throwing her arms out. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Bäckström said, even though he had already worked out what had happened with their complainant, Frida Fridensdal, and the report which would have been a shoo-in for a guilty verdict for making unlawful threats if she had the energy to pursue it all the way to court.