The Sword of Justice

by Leif G. W. Persson

‘Eriksson evaded earthly justice, but divine judgement caught up with him,’ Bäckström declared. ‘For a simple godly soul such as myself, all that remains is to put the worldly details in place,’ he added with a deep sigh.

  ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ Holt said, and stood up. At best, he’s no worse than mad, she thought.

  In spite of Bäckström’s pious hopes, the police press conference fell apart almost immediately. The largest meeting room in the station had been booked, but it was already overflowing with journalists when the female press officer for the Western District police, head of the preliminary investigation, Lisa Lamm, and acting lead detective, Annika Carlsson, entered the room. The air was pregnant with unspoken questions which the three women were expected to answer the moment they assumed their places behind the long desk at the end of the room.

  The press officer began by welcoming them all and explaining that she and her colleagues were looking forward to taking their questions in an orderly fashion, and then she handed over to the head of the preliminary investigation and Chief Prosecutor Lisa Lamm. Lisa Lamm had thanked her and begun her statement by saying that, unfortunately, she didn’t have much to say.

  The investigation was still in its early, introductory stage. The police were working without any preconceptions and had secured various pieces of evidence at the scene, which had been sent to the National Forensics Laboratory in Linköping for analysis. According to her evaluation, the prospects were promising. The nature of the crime had been changed from suspected murder to murder, in line with the forensic medical officer’s initial report – but, sadly, she was unable to go into any details. Not at the moment, for the usual reason of not wanting to jeopardize the investigation. Then she had nodded to the press officer, who took over again and asked for questions.

  Annika Carlsson hadn’t said a word. She was leaning forward with her elbows resting heavily on the desk, her chin on her hands as she looked at the representatives of the fourth estate through narrow eyes and with a fixed expression. Perhaps that was why she was asked the first question by a reporter from the main television news channel.

  There were various contradictory accounts of how Eriksson had been murdered. He had either been shot, stabbed, strangled, beaten to death or subjected to several of these alternatives. What comment did she have on that?

  ‘Eriksson died as a result of another person’s actions, but I can’t say more than that,’ Annika Carlsson said, glowering at the man who had asked the question.

  ‘When did he die?’ someone in the audience wondered, kicking off the media feeding frenzy that everyone knew was coming.

  ‘When our first patrol arrived on the scene at approximately quarter past two on Monday morning, he was found dead in his residence. He was murdered sometime between Sunday afternoon and the time we found him dead,’ Annika Carlsson declared. She was unable to give them a more precise time of death. For the time being, anyway.

  ‘Are the police following any specific line of inquiry?’ one of the three journalists from the largest evening paper asked.

  ‘No,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘We’re working without any preconceptions.’

  ‘On the internet, there’s considerable speculation that this was a gangland killing. Someone who was famous for being the legal representative of various people accused of being involved in organized crime – surely the most likely explanation is that one of his clients’ enemies killed him?’

  ‘No comment,’ Annika said, shaking her head.

  ‘But you have to admit,’ the reporter persisted, ‘there’s a lot to suggest that this was basically some sort of dispute within the world of organized crime. According to police sources that are already being quoted in both the traditional media and online, there were several perpetrators, who arrived at the scene of the crime in an extremely expensive silver Mercedes, and the victim was a lawyer who, according to sources in the police, was shot several times with a pistol or automatic weapon. Classic signs of this sort of murder.

  ‘What do you say to that?’ the reporter concluded.

  ‘Nothing,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘I’m not interested in speculation. I’m investigating a murder.’

  Another fifteen minutes on the theme of gangland killings followed, and Lisa Lamm had taken over from Annika Carlsson, who leaned back and stared coldly out at the audience. A lawyer murdered by gangsters who were enemies of one of his clients? Or possibly one of his own clients who felt let down? Or someone who had fallen victim to one of his seriously criminal clients? Or someone related to one of their victims? No comment, Lisa Lamm said repeatedly, losing track of how many times she did so before the whole thing was finally over.

  Idiots, Annika Carlsson thought as she got abruptly to her feet. She was the first person to leave the room.

  52

  After the second meeting of the investigative team, Bäckström had temporarily handed the tiller to Annika Carlsson. He had to go to a long-arranged meeting with the National Police Committee but, in case of emergency, he could always be reached on his mobile, and he’d be back at his post as usual the following day.

  ‘See you then,’ Annika Carlsson said, smiling and nodding. Wonder if he actually believes that himself? she thought as Bäckström disappeared through the door.

  Bäckström’s afternoon had gone entirely according to plan. First, he took a taxi into the city centre and paid a visit to a discreet restaurant on Kungsholmen. It was only a couple of blocks away from the main police headquarters by Kronoberg Park, but it was still a safe bet, as the prices were aimed at a different clientele than those forced to survive on police wages. He had partaken of a fine lunch, then sat with coffee and cognac while he waited for his Finnish waitress to call him as soon as she had finished cleaning his flat on Inedalsgatan.

  Seeing as Bäckström was a generous employee, he had devoted a full quarter of an hour between lunch and his afternoon nap to making sure she got properly recompensed for her efforts, before she went off to her regular job at the bar, to scrape a living for herself and her useless, alcoholic Finnish bastard of a husband. Once he was in his broad Hästens bed, he had needed only five minutes before his White Tornado from Finland arched her back and screamed out loud as he fired off the super-salami.

  ‘Vojne, vojne, Bäckström,’ the Finnish woman said, her moist eyes twinkling as she drew a deep breath, but Bäckström contented himself with a grunt and a short nod, so she didn’t get any ideas in her pretty little head about lying there cuddling and slurping at his face.

  Finally alone, Bäckström thought, hearing his domestic quietly closing the front door behind her five minutes later. He even had ten extra minutes for the restorative sleep he so badly needed. Then he made himself comfortable and did a couple of trial squeezes before letting out a resounding blast and easing the pressure in his guts after his fine lunch of stuffed cabbage leaves with cream sauce and lingonberry preserve. The little things are crazy about you, Bäckström thought, and a minute later he was fast asleep.

  When he woke up after three hours he felt as splendid as he deserved to, and all that remained of the day was to follow carefully established routines. First an invigorating shower, then back in the saddle. Bearing in mind that it was already seven o’clock, it would have to be a late dinner in his local, before he spent the hour before bed possibly thinking about his current case, even though, in purely practical terms, there was nothing more to it than someone smashing in the skull of a nauseating little lawyer who had plagued Bäckström’s life on far too many occasions.

  It’ll work itself out, Bäckström thought philosophically, seeing as everything was running so smoothly at the moment that the days almost sorted themselves out without him having to think about it. Not just the days, in fact. Pretty much everything he did seemed to have gone like clockwork for ages. Apart from certain workaday administrative tasks, of course, which he sorted out as soon as he got out of the shower, put his dressing-gown on and mixed himself a soothing summer drink
containing three parts vodka and one part grapefruit juice and plenty of crushed ice.

  First, he had inspected the Finnish woman’s cleaning to see if there was anything he needed to remark upon when he looked in for a bite to eat later that evening. Nothing wrong with her, Bäckström thought five minutes later. The whole of his cosy little abode was shiny and clean, the shopping list had been actioned, the fridge and larder were full of all his favourites, including assorted delicacies. Even the special toilet paper he had found online – extra thick, extra soft and embossed with pictures of famous Swedish politicians – was in place.

  The account of her expenditure also appeared to be in order, Bäckström thought as he checked the receipts against the cash in the old-fashioned glass jar in which he kept his household spending money. But you mustn’t forget that she’s Finnish, Bäckström thought, so presumably she’s too daft to try to rip you off.

  Last but not least: she’d even polished the large, gilded cage to which Isak would hopefully never return. It was about time he put it up for sale online and erased the last traces of the little hooligan. Even though things had got off to such a promising start that Bäckström actually imagined he might have found himself a new companion equal to his dear, departed goldfish, Egon.

  No sooner said than done, Bäckström thought, logging into his computer and putting an advert for Isak’s final residence online. It had been standing there in front of his window for too long, like some caged omen, and every time he saw it he was reminded of one of the most traumatic experiences of his adult life. Far worse than the time he had been caught up in a struggle for life and death with a couple of the worst rogues in Swedish criminal history.

  Time to get shot of the bastard cage, he thought, and just to make sure he altered his advert to say it was free to anyone who wanted it, then he switched the computer off and sank into gloomy contemplation. Even though things had seemed so positive at the beginning, he thought, taking a deep gulp from his glass.

  During Isak’s preliminary instruction he had seemed even easier to train than the shop assistant had promised. He also had a fine voice, a cackling and slightly gurgling sound that cut through the silence like a knife, and not even the deaf could miss what he was saying. Within a week Isak had learned to say both ‘Bäckström’ and ‘Supercop’, and once those were out of the way it was time to move on to more serious matters.

  Because Bäckström was a man of considerable pedagogical insight – an essential quality if you wanted to be an efficient boss in the police – he had started slowly and began by teaching him the very simplest words, things like ‘poof’ and ‘dyke’, before it was time to take the momentous next step towards ‘arse-bandit’ and ‘miserable cunt’, ‘anal acrobat’ and ‘attack dyke’. Unfortunately, that was where things got snarled up, when it turned out that Isak had got the wrong idea about pretty much everything. The disaster reached its sorry climax when Anchor Carlsson had suddenly shown up at Bäckström’s flat without warning. All of a sudden she was standing there ringing his doorbell, and because he got it into his head that it must be an urgent police matter, he had been foolish enough to open the door.

  ‘Surprise, surprise, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said, smiling at her reluctant host through narrowed eyes. ‘How about sharing a couple of beers?’

  Bäckström simply nodded, given that he had no intention of trying to close the door again and risking ending up in A&E without a single organ worth donating to anyone else who had a chance of making it out alive.

  ‘Good to see you, Annika,’ Bäckström said with a forced smile. What fucking choice do I have? he thought as he let her in. Bäckström had gone into the kitchen to get glasses, some bottles of cold Czech lager and a litre of his Russian vodka, just to be on the safe side, and when he returned to the living room the Anchor had already stuck her hand inside the cage to tickle Isak under his chin.

  Maybe everything will work out okay after all, Bäckström thought, seeing as he had almost lost a finger when he tried the same thing. But not this time. Isak merely chuckled in delight and tilted his head.

  ‘God, he’s so cute,’ the Anchor said. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Isak,’ Bäckström said, without further explanation, because it was obvious to anyone with eyes in their head.

  ‘God, what a cute name. How did you come up with that?’

  ‘I named him after an old friend I went to school with when I was a lad,’ Bäckström lied. The Anchor isn’t merely stupid, he thought. She must be blind as well.

  ‘It’s one of those ones that can talk, isn’t it?’ Annika Carlsson asked, sitting herself down beside him on the sofa, far too close, reaching out her suntanned right arm and tensing all her muscles as she poured herself a beer.

  ‘Er, yes, he talks non-stop about all sorts of things,’ Bäckström confirmed, trying to move towards the corner of the sofa as discreetly as he could. Wonder if she’d be upset if I moved to the armchair? he thought.

  ‘Get him to say something, then,’ the Anchor said in a commanding voice.

  ‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘Who’s a clever boy, who’s a clever boy?’ he repeated, seeing as the shop assistant had stressed how important it was for a well-trained parrot to have different keywords so that it said the right things on the right occasion instead of just babbling a load of nonsense.

  First ‘who’s a clever boy, who’s a clever boy?’, followed by ‘Bäckström’, upon which Isak was expected to reply ‘Bäckström Supercop’, and over the past week he had delivered the goods promptly on each occasion. But not this time. All of a sudden it no longer seemed to work. Isak just sat there with his head tilted to one side, before he set about pulling the shell off a peanut he’d found among the detritus on the floor of his cage.

  ‘He seems to be the silent type. More interested in food. Like master, like parrot,’ Annika Carlsson declared, taking a deep swig of beer as she squeezed Bäckström’s knee with her free hand, observing him with eyes that were even narrower than when he had let her into the home which up to now had been his castle.

  What the hell do I do? Is it really that difficult to say ‘Bäckström Supercop’? Bäckström thought, but at that moment Isak finally decided to speak.

  ‘Bäckström poof, Bäckström poof,’ Isak cackled, while the Anchor gave Bäckström a look that was anything but ambiguous.

  ‘Really?’ Anchor Carlsson said, putting her glass down on the coffee table and sitting astride Bäckström’s legs as she pulled her black top over her head.

  ‘The hook-nosed little bastard’s lying,’ Bäckström protested, even though it was far too late, seeing as the Anchor was busy pulling the buttons off his expensive linen shirt.

  ‘Now’s your chance to prove the opposite,’ Anchor Carlsson declared, changing her grip and pulling the belt from his trousers.

  I should have risked slamming the door on her, Bäckström thought as he sat on the same sofa a month later, still obliged to fortify himself with a couple of deep swigs to stop his memories getting the better of him and flooring him. Creepy woman, a real psychopath, no inhibitions at all. In hindsight, considering everything that had happened, a month in intensive care would have been a picnic, he thought.

  Sexual assault of the most extreme kind, he thought as he stood in his bathroom brushing his teeth one month and several hours later. A horrible crime that still demanded some extra alcoholic support whenever he thought about it. The wounds were clearly very slow to heal. And it must have been planned in advance, seeing as the evidence suggested as much. The handcuffs, for instance – she must have brought those with her – and if there was any justice in the world, his colleague Anchor Carlsson would now be sharing a cell with the former head of the Police Academy in Norrtälje Prison’s special unit for particularly deviant sexual offenders.

  Why does it have to be so hard to have a normal fuck? Bäckström sighed as he settled down to get some sleep after a long day, hoping at last to regain some of the detached
calm that ordinarily reigned supreme inside him.

  53

  Sitting in front of a computer and shaking his head at all the pictures the police showed him had been easy enough, but on Wednesday morning things got rather more serious for Ara Dosti. That morning he had spent three hours in the company of the amiable Detective Inspector Ek, trying to come up with a photofit picture of the man the police were looking for, and the task had been so engaging that he soon dropped any pretence at caution and lying low and instead decided to see how close he could get to his memories.

  Back at school in Småland, the artistic subjects had always interested Ara most. He was best in his class at both painting and drawing, and when he left high school and moved to Stockholm he even thought about applying to art school and taking it more seriously. Instead he had ended up at an IT business and helping out part-time at a courier firm, and ten years later he was still earning a living in much the same way. Part-time jobs, extra hours, and for the past five years he had also been working as a taxi-driver. The days piled up, and the months and years passed, and he had long since set aside any artistic ambitions. But not that morning, when he found himself in the hands of an incredibly friendly police officer who also happened to be a real virtuoso when it came to photofit pictures.

  They had sat there side by side in front of the computer screen and, to start with, Ek used Ara’s description of the man he had seen to draw a rough pencil sketch on a sheet of plain paper. Then he had switched the computer on, and together they worked on fitting all the details in place. The shape of the face, the ears, nose, eyes and mouth, the distance between the different parts of the face. They sorted out the hair and hairline, chin, neck and throat. When they were finished a couple of hours later, the photofit picture was identical to the police photograph he had shaken his head at the day before.

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ Ara said. Wonder what makes an artist decide to join the police, he thought.