13
‘Our victim is out of the picture,’ Annika Carlsson sighed, shrugging her shoulders in resignation. ‘But before she backed out, at least she identified him. That was when it all fell apart.’
‘So who was it, then?’ Bäckström asked.
‘Angel García Gomez.’
Oh, he thought, that lunatic. Bearing in mind the connection to old Mrs Linderoth – Elisabeth, as he ought to call her – it all seemed extremely unlikely.
‘How sure is she about that, then?’
‘No doubt at all. You should have seen the way she reacted when she saw his picture. You’d have believed her on the spot.’
Angel García Gomez, Bäckström thought. Not exactly the sort you’d choose to ask in for a cup of tea.
‘And now she doesn’t want to play any more?’
‘Refused point blank and, just to make sure, her lawyer called a little while ago and demanded that the preliminary investigation be dropped immediately.’
‘Well,’ Bäckström said, ‘that isn’t down to him, of course.’
‘What do we do?’
‘We find out what the connection is between our old dear and someone like García Gomez.’
‘Well, I haven’t found anything.’ Annika Carlsson sighed. ‘It’s unbelievable.’
‘Yes, and that’s what makes this profession so appealing,’ Bäckström replied philosophically.
‘The easiest thing would be to ask her – Mrs Linderoth.’
‘Nope,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head. ‘First, we need to figure it out. Then we might be able to talk to her. Have you spoken to our colleague, Axelsson? Wasn’t it his mother who knew the old bag?’
‘Yes, I just have. He had no idea. Just as bemused as us.’
‘Strange,’ Bäckström said. This is completely fucking unbelievable, he thought.
‘Okay. How are you getting on with those complaints, by the way?’ Annika Carlsson asked, nodding towards the plastic folder on Bäckström’s desk.
‘Done and dusted,’ he said. ‘A simple misunderstanding, that’s all. That sort of thing happens. What did you expect?’
‘You’re not all bad, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said with a smile, then got to her feet.
They’re crazy about you, Bäckström thought as she disappeared through the doorway. It must be high time for lunch. Or it would have been, if it weren’t for all the idiots who kept knocking on his door.
‘Come in,’ he shouted.
14
In spite of a restorative lunch, in spite of the fact that he had fended off the threat of dehydration and made sure his blood-sugar levels were okay, Bäckström still felt so out of sorts that he couldn’t even manage to sign out of work and go home for a few hours of life-enhancing sleep.
What sort of life are we living? he thought as he returned to his office and all the colleagues seeking help and advice who were constantly cluttering up his doorway. Even the thugs seemed to have lost their impetus and had stopped contributing to crime-reduction programmes by conducting regular purges of their own ranks. It was almost six months since he had had a proper murder to investigate, and what had he been given instead? A mad old dear who had forgotten to feed her rabbit, and an anal acrobat who had tried to kill another bum-bandit with an auction catalogue. It was also raining, for the third day in a row, and he’d evidently forgotten to switch off his phone, because it had started to ring.
‘Bäckström,’ he said. Dear old Sweden’s heading straight down the dumper, he thought.
It was Felicia Pettersson. ‘Hello, boss, I hope I’m not disturbing you. Have you got five minutes?’
‘Sure,’ he answered. ‘As long as you bring a double latte with you.’ Same colour as you, he thought.
‘Yes, boss. Coming right up.’
Where does she get the energy to sound like that? he thought. Even if she was from Brazil, and presumably had it in her blood.
Felicia didn’t really want anything in particular. At least, nothing to do with work. She mainly just wanted to thank him.
‘I spoke to Annika, boss,’ Felicia said. ‘I heard that you’d written off those silly complaints against Mrs Linderoth.’
‘Oh, it was nothing,’ Bäckström said. Quite sweet really, he thought. But far too suntanned for his taste.
‘That sad business with Mrs Linderoth reminded me of my old grandad. He was very fond of animals as well, even if he wasn’t always completely clear up top. If you’ve got five minutes, boss?’
‘Sure,’ he said. Wonder what the old bastard did? Probably managed to flush his puppy down the toilet. Or he tried to wipe his backside on it. There were several promising possibilities, and Bäckström felt instantly much brighter.
For the past few years, Felicia’s old grandfather had been in an old people’s home on one of the islands out in Lake Mälaren. She usually visited him a couple of times a week, but over the past year, unfortunately, he had been getting more and more depressed.
‘No, it can’t be easy for him.’ Bäckström sighed. Surprise, surprise, he thought.
‘But for the past couple of months he’s been like a different person. Happy and cheerful. Just like he was before. He even remembers my name when I go to see him.’
‘How lovely,’ Bäckström said. ‘How come?’ What the fuck am I supposed to say? he thought.
‘He’s a completely different person since they got a care dog for the home he’s in.’
‘A care dog?’ What the fuck’s she going on about? In his mind’s eye at that moment he could see a big St Bernard waving its tail, with a huge barrel of cognac round its neck.
A couple of months ago the staff at the home had bought a care dog for the old people who lived there. A suitably sized dog with a soft coat that ran round the wards while the residents patted him and scratched his neck.
‘It’s completely brilliant,’ Felicia Pettersson said. ‘When I was there on Sunday he jumped up on Grandad’s bed while he was in it, and just lay there while my grandfather stroked his coat. You should have seen the look on Grandad’s face, boss. He was like a little kid. It was wonderful.’
Sweet Jesus, Bäckström thought. Is she trying to kill me? When that day eventually came, he was planning to take matters into his own hands with a final conversation with little Siggy. Not try to get help from a mutt that left hair all over his silk pyjamas and drooled on his face as he lay there breathing his last with no chance of defending himself.
‘It does sound wonderful,’ he said. What the fuck am I supposed to say? he thought.
‘That was what made me think of old Mrs Linderoth,’ Felicia said. ‘When we checked her out, I saw that she’s an outpatient at a clinic specializing in patients suffering from dementia and showing signs of early onset Alzheimer’s. It’s here in Solna – seems to be a private clinic, but they haven’t got any animals there. I called to check. I thought I might call them again and suggest that they buy some. A dog, maybe, or a cat, or a couple of rabbits would probably work too. Considering old Mrs Linderoth and the other old people who go there, I mean. And she wouldn’t have the responsibility of looking after them on her own.’
What the fuck’s going on? Bäckström thought. I thought I worked at a police station. Unless I’ve ended up in a vet’s instead. Pretty little darkie’s obviously completely mad.
‘Do you know what, Felicia?’ he said, smiling benevolently and glancing at his watch, just to be on the safe side. ‘That sounds like a wonderful idea. Like I just said.’
‘Thanks, boss,’ Felicia said. ‘Thanks, I knew you’d understand what I meant, boss.’
As soon as she closed the door behind her Bäckström leapt up from his desk, threw his coat on and made a run for it. In the nick of time, clearly, seeing as Rosita Andersson-Trygg was already on her way towards his office.
‘Bäckström, I need to talk to you! You did promise.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Bäckström said. ‘It’ll have to be tomorrow,’ he repeated. He sho
ok his head and waved his hand to fend her off.
Emerging on to the street, he managed to grab a free taxi that was about to pull away.
‘Where do you want to go?’ the driver asked, switching on the meter.
‘Give me a minute, just get me out of here,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head in despair. What’s happening to dear old Sweden? he thought. Where are we heading?
15
On Wednesday, 29 May, Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström managed to stay away from work almost all day. This was thanks to some careful planning the previous evening, when he judiciously used his mobile phone to announce that he would be ‘working from home’ until eleven o’clock, and then ‘attending a meeting of the National Police Board’ from one o’clock in the afternoon. Which meant that pretty much all he had to do was show up at the office then turn round at once, and take his time enjoying a nice long sleep in the morning, before having a long lunch and letting his food settle afterwards. If it hadn’t been for Rosita Andersson-Trygg, that is, who had evidently been standing around waiting for him all morning and more or less forced herself into his office the moment he opened the door.
So now she was sitting there on his visitor’s chair. Watery eyes, skinny, boring and grey.
‘I’m listening, Rosita,’ Bäckström said with a nod of encouragement. ‘I understand that you must want to get something very important off your chest.’
Detective Inspector Rosita Andersson-Trygg had come to express her dissatisfaction at the way Bäckström led the department’s work, and, to back her up, she had brought a sheet of notes which she used to help her get through what she wanted to say.
To begin with, she deeply disliked the patronizing attitude towards their colleagues in the animal welfare unit and the important work they did which she considered Bäckström had displayed during the meeting on Monday. She also wished to make clear her own opinion. The police devoted far too much attention to human beings and all of their so-called problems, which in turn harmed all the innocent animals, which were always, both as individuals and as a collective, being subjected to incomprehensible suffering.
‘I’m listening, I’m listening,’ Bäckström said. ‘Go on, go on.’ He nodded encouragingly again. He smiled amiably and waved his right hand invitingly. Time for the Bäckström confusion strategy, he thought. This is going to be easy.
Rosita Andersson-Trygg had trouble concealing her surprise at first, but took a deep breath and carried on. Secondly …
The actions taken by their colleagues in the animal welfare unit as a result of the decisions of the council were, in her firm opinion, well founded. Mrs Linderoth was clearly unsuitable to care for animals. Unlike her boss, she had taken the trouble to immerse herself in the material on which the council had based its decision, and had carefully read the six complaints that their witness, Frida Fridensdal, had filed with the police and the council over the past six months. Including the horrifying occasion on which the rabbit could have been attacked and killed by a dachshund that lived in the same building if the dog’s owner hadn’t had the good sense to intervene and rescue the situation.
‘Yes, I hear what you’re saying,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head sadly. ‘Terrible. Simply terrible.’
‘Right, okay, but I don’t really understand why—’
‘You should know that I share your opinion entirely,’ Bäckström interrupted, nodding emphatically now. ‘You’re saying that it was Fridensdal’s dachshund that almost killed the little rabbit.’
‘No, that’s certainly not what I’m saying. Fridensdal hasn’t got a dachshund. That’s why she left the Animal Rights movement. Because of their almost unhealthy interest in cats and dogs and horses and all the other four-legged furry creatures that only exist to fulfil the peculiar needs of their owners. That’s why she and a few of the other members founded Dare to Care for Our Smallest Friends.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Bäckström said with a deep sigh of relief. ‘Good to hear. I got it into my head that it was Fridensdal’s dachshund.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘I share her attitude, as I’m sure you realize,’ Bäckström said. ‘As a child, I grew up with both dogs and cats, but as soon as I left home and got pets of my own, I found it was different animals altogether that I took to my heart.’
‘Such as?’ Rosita Andersson-Trygg was glaring at him suspiciously.
‘All sorts of things,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’ve had lots over the years. I had a goldfish called Egon, for instance. He was an excellent little rascal. Bloody good at swimming. Right now I’ve got a parrot called Isak. We can spend whole weekends talking, him and me. Yes, I’ve had lots of little friends over the years. I’ve got a stick insect as well.’
‘A stick insect?’
‘Yes, they’re such strange creatures. I call him Sticky. What do you think of that?’
‘Sticky?’
‘Yes,’ Bäckström said. ‘Sticky. You know what? I’m convinced he understands what I’m saying when I talk to him. It looks like he pays more attention when I call him Sticky. I usually put him on the table when I’m having breakfast each morning. He lives in one of those little glass cases, you know. So there are three of us sharing the flat, Isak, Sticky and me.’
At first she sat in silence for almost a minute. Then she started to flap her hands in front of her face. She cleared her throat several times, as if to get her breath back before going on.
‘I understand, Bäckström. It’s not that I think you’re lying to my face, it’s just that I can’t make it fit with what you said at the meeting the day before yesterday.’
‘How do you mean?’ he asked innocently.
‘Well, if I remember correctly, you called our witness, Frida Fridensdal, a nutter. At the meeting on Monday.’
‘Yes, but that was all a misunderstanding,’ Bäckström said, looking affronted. ‘I’d got completely the wrong idea of her organization. Dare to Care for Our Smallest Friends. I thought she’d given up on animal welfare in order to protect a load of shitty little brats. That that was why she’d left the Animal Rights group. Not because of their unhealthy obsession with dogs and cats.’
‘What do you mean? What brats?’
‘Oh, those little bastards who spray graffiti all over tube trains and pull the legs off Jiminy Cricket. If you know what I mean?’
Evidently, she was having some difficulty. Her head looked like a bird-box, and if he piled it on just a bit more there was a chance he’d experience a miracle. For the first time in the history of humanity, he might be able to see someone’s eyes fall out of their head in sheer surprise.
‘Do you know what?’ he said, raising his hand in an almost inviting gesture but to stop her before she had time to gather her thoughts. ‘You know Cajsa, don’t you? Our Chief of Police, Cajsa with the rat?’
‘Yes, we’re part of the same network, Female Police Officers for Animals.’
‘I can imagine. I’ve always been a great admirer of Cajsa. I’d even go so far as to say that when she set up our new animal welfare unit, it was the most significant reform in the history of the Swedish police.’
‘Really? Well, we’re in complete agreement on that.’
‘Of course. And our dear chief of police has an interest that I most certainly share. As I’m sure you do as well. Obviously, you’re aware of her deep love of rats?’
Rosita Andersson-Trygg simply nodded.
‘Just like me,’ he continued, leaning back in his chair and raising his hands towards the ceiling as if he wanted to embrace the whole world. ‘I’ve loved rats all my life. Rats and mice. Big rats, little rats, naked Japanese rats – those ones with no fur, as I’m sure you know. Not to mention mice, fieldmice, shrews, dancing mice, and the ordinary house mouse, of course.’
Bäckström lowered his hands and smiled broadly at his visitor. Even shaved rats, he thought. Nothing to complain about there when it comes to dining out in lady gardens, and on var
ious other delicacies that you and your chum Cajsa have no idea about, he thought.
‘Well, enough of that,’ he said, stressing every syllable as he folded his hands on his lap and nodded piously.
‘Now that I’ve got you here, there’s something I’ve been thinking about for some time. As you’re no doubt aware, there are plans to appoint a dedicated animal welfare officer here in the Western District. Someone who would liaise and cooperate with our colleagues in the City Police. And do you know what, Rosita? I think you’d be perfect for the role.’
‘That’s good to hear, Bäckström. I was thinking of applying for the post.’
‘Then I’ll have a word with our chief of police. That’s the first thing I’ll do. I promise.’
‘Thanks, Bäckström. Thank you. I owe you an apology. Clearly, I misunderstood completely …’
‘Oh, forget it,’ he said. ‘Anna Holt can be a bit tricky, but I know for a fact that she listens to me. Not long ago, she told me she was thinking of getting a cat. Her bloke works in National Crime, so I suppose she spends a lot of time alone. Probably needed the company.’
‘What advice did you give her?’
‘Obviously, I advised against it. How can you doubt that? Considering what cats do with rats and mice?’
‘Thanks, Bäckström, thanks very much indeed.’ Rosita Andersson-Trygg nodded and looked at him with sparkling eyes.
As soon as the biggest lunatic in his department had left, he called his superior officer, Anna Holt, and asked to see her as soon as possible.
‘What about?’ Anna Holt asked.
‘It’s not something I can tell you over the phone,’ he replied. ‘But it’s something that’s vitally important if I’m going to get my department to work properly.’
‘Okay, then. See you in five minutes. You can have ten minutes.’
‘It’s about the post of animal welfare officer here in the Western District,’ Bäckström said as soon as he walked into Police Chief Anna Holt’s room, so as not to waste any more time, bearing in mind his impending lunch.
The Sword of Justice Page 6
