The Sword of Justice

by Leif G. W. Persson

Evert, Egon, and now little Edvin, that was how Bäckström usually thought about himself and those closest to him. That way of thinking came naturally to a good, Christian soul like him.

  The fact that Edvin was called Edvin was something of a mystery, because his mother was called Dusanka and his father was called Slobodan, and they were both immigrants from Yugoslavia. In spite of their origins and the fact that they had not had the good fortune to be born Swedish, there wasn’t really much wrong with either of them. Edvin’s parents ran a betting shop up at Odenplan, and his dad, Slobodan, had, after only a very short acquaintance with Bäckström, been able to help him clean up his variously acquired extra income through the use of betting slips and profitable internet games hosted by mysterious foreign poker sites. In short, he was a quiet and creative member of Bäckström’s growing financial network.

  Mind you, there had obviously been problems during the early stages of his and Edvin’s association. To start with, for instance, little Edvin had saluted every time he encountered him, until Bäckström told him to stop that nonsense. Only the gorillas of the rapid response unit and other lesser mammals did that sort of thing. Homicide detectives were governed by different rules of etiquette, and in little Edvin’s case it was quite enough for him to address Bäckström by his title and call him Superintendent. This was what happened, and the great breakthrough in their acquaintance came when little Edvin came up with a good suggestion as to how he could discreetly and effectively get rid of Isak.

  One morning in early spring, when Isak had already begun to show his true nature, Bäckström and Edvin had shared a lift up to the floor where they both lived, and Edvin had told him that he was a member of a group called the Field Biologists. On his very first day he had been elected to the committee in charge of the section primarily responsible for studying the various forms of birdlife in the country.

  ‘Field Biologists,’ Bäckström said. What’s wrong with surfing the internet looking at porn? The lad’s ten years old, after all, he thought.

  ‘That led me to think of your parrot, Superintendent,’ Edvin went on.

  ‘So what did you think, then?’ Bäckström said.

  ‘You must make sure he doesn’t fly out through the window, Superintendent,’ the lizard in glasses said. ‘If he were ever allowed to fly around the apartment, I mean.’

  ‘Why not?’ Bäckström asked. Not a bad idea, he thought. Just open the window, shoo the bastard out and hope for a serious cold snap that night.

  ‘The other birds in the yard would probably attack him,’ Edvin said. ‘It could end very badly.’

  ‘Very badly? How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, there are magpies and crows and seagulls out in the yard. And some birds of prey, even though we live in the middle of the city. I saw a sparrow-hawk catch a magpie the other day, even though it was really too large to be suitable prey for such a small hawk.’

  Is that so? Bäckström thought, but made do with a nod. Is that so?

  The next morning the first warm rays of spring sunlight had sought their way into Bäckström’s flat, and the good Lord could hardly have sent a clearer signal. Before Bäckström went to work he had opened Isak’s cage, left the balcony door wide open and, just to make certain, he had left a large pile of peanuts on the balcony table, so he was full of anticipation when he returned home after his usual long lunch.

  No sooner had he walked in through the door than his hopes were dashed. Isak had returned to his cage, taking the opportunity to shit on anything he chanced upon on his way back, and of course he greeted Bäckström with the usual noise, cackling, croaking, but with some sort of synchronous descant that cut right to the core of his already hard-pressed landlord and owner.

  As if that weren’t already more than enough, he had also left some obvious signs of his marauding in the yard in Bäckström’s absence. Two dead magpies with bloody holes in their chests made by a particularly sharp hooked beak, as well as a crow twice its size, which had evidently escaped with its life but was now staggering about on one and a half legs and with one wing dragging on the tarmac. He had also received an anonymous letter from a neighbour, advising him in the very strongest tones to keep his pet under better control. According to the letter-writer, Isak’s first action that morning had been to execute a massacre of the usual visitors to the bird table that the residents’ association had installed out in the courtyard.

  What the fuck happened to that hawk I was promised? Bäckström wondered. Oh well, if at first you don’t succeed. He had repeated the procedure for a whole week, tossing the rapidly growing pile of anonymous letters into the rubbish chute unread and refining his tactics by keeping watch on Isak until he had flown out of the flat and then rushing over and closing the balcony door so as to render any return to the flat during the day impossible.

  For the first few days, things didn’t go well. As soon as it got dark Isak would return to the windowsill outside Bäckström’s bedroom and start making his usual unpleasant noises, as well as trying to peck a hole in the glass with his hooked beak, until Bäckström would give up in the middle of the night, open the balcony door and let him into the now tragic remains of what had once been his home.

  Things had gone on in much the same vein day after day, until the seventh day, when his hopes had finally been realized. At this point in his recollections, Bäckström had fallen asleep. For the past fortnight he had been – hopefully, and if the good Lord really had heard his prayers – once again a free man and, as he dozed off just before midnight on the eve of Sweden’s National Day, he knew that when he woke up it would be to a better life than before, now that his tormentor, Isak, no longer shared his abode.

  59

  At roughly the same time that Bäckström was sitting in the bar with his reporter, Ara and Omar took the opportunity to celebrate their own unexpected reunion by having dinner at a smart Lebanese restaurant in Kista shopping centre. Omar had offered generous amounts of food and drink, and Ara had unburdened himself and talked about the problems he had been suffering over the past few days. It was a very pleasant evening, a fine reunion. So pleasant, in fact, that Ara forgot to ask Omar how the police appeared to have a photograph of him which they had also chosen to show his old schoolmate in connection with him trying to help them solve an extremely violent crime.

  ‘Nasty business,’ Omar said, shaking his head sympathetically. ‘I can understand that you’re worried. Was that why you practically jumped out of your skin when I appeared behind you outside your door?’

  ‘Yes, what do you think?’ Ara said.

  ‘In that case, you’ve come to the right man,’ Omar said, patting his arm reassuringly. ‘That bloke you recognized. Could you describe him?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Ara said with a nod. ‘He’s not the sort you forget.’

  ‘Good,’ Omar said, taking a little black notebook out of his jacket pocket. ‘I don’t suppose the journalist happened to mention his name?’

  ‘No,’ Ara said, shaking his head. ‘No name, just that I should lie low. I was thinking of going away. Thailand or Dubai,’ Ara went on. ‘Until things have calmed down, I mean.’

  ‘Wise move,’ Omar agreed. ‘But I think we should start by finding out who he is.’

  But going abroad until everything settled down again was an excellent idea, according to Omar. He was fully in agreement, but before Ara left the country there were a few practical issues that had to be sorted out. And problems that he promised to solve for him.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Omar said, patting his arm again. ‘I promise to fix this for you. Before you go away for a bit of a holiday. Not because you have to run away. Running doesn’t solve anything.’

  ‘You reckon you can fix this for me? I thought you studied to be a chemical engineer?’ Wonder what they actually teach at the Institute of Technology? Ara thought.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Omar repeated with a smile. ‘Knowledge is power. Surely you know that?’<
br />
  Ara made do with a nod. Knowledge is power, he thought. Is that why the cops have a photo of you in their files?

  60

  Bäckström had spent the majority of Sweden’s National Day in bed at home on Kungsholmen. His first act that morning had been to send an email to his right-hand man, Anchor Carlsson, to tell her that she would have to take command of that day’s meeting of the investigative team, for three reasons.

  Firstly, he needed privacy and time alone in which to be able to think about the case. A case which also – and this was the second reason – was rapidly approaching its solution, when most of the work involved sorting out the details and making sure everything was in the right order. He intended to return to this point during Friday’s meeting. The third and final reason – and this was something he hoped would stay entirely between him and his most trusted colleague – was that he had sadly come down with ‘some sort of stomach bollocks’ and, because it would be against his nature to risk the health of his fellow workers, it would obviously be best if he were to stay at home. If anything of importance were to happen during that day’s meeting, he of course assumed that the Anchor would contact him at once.

  Whatever that might be, Bäckström thought, shaking his head and pouring himself a large Fernet from the bottle on his bedside table, before he once again returned to leafing through his almost magical memories of the last twenty-four hours before he and Isak had parted ways. Hopefully for good, the way things were looking.

  The day before Isak had left him, Bäckström had finally worked out what to do, and when he left the police station in Solna to go home he had stopped at the shopping centre on the way and bought a large roll of plastic and a rubber hose that was long enough to reach from the gas-tap next to the cooker in the kitchen to Isak’s cage.

  When he got home, he fortified himself with a stiff vodka before getting to grips with the practical matters, but even as he was attempting to wrap the cage, and Isak inside it, in plastic, things had got out of hand. Using his sharp beak, Isak had ripped off the plastic as fast as Bäckström could put it in place, and there was no question of switching the gas on, as Isak had evidently decided to take Bäckström with him on his final journey.

  In the end, Bäckström had given up. He sat there on the sofa with a third stiff drink and contented himself with giving Isak the evil eye as he considered other alternatives.

  If gas isn’t going to work, maybe electricity would do the trick, wondered Bäckström, seeing as he was a practical man by nature. The only problem with that solution was that he lacked the necessary technical skill that would be required to actually put it into practice. It would mean hiring an electrician, which was out of the question, he reasoned, with a deep sigh. How can it be so hard to murder a parrot?

  Isak himself no longer seemed to care. He had gone back to ripping the shell off yet another peanut, and in the absence of any better ideas Bäckström had opened the balcony door and let him out into the yard. After sleeping on the matter, he had taken himself off to the local bar for a decent meal, during the course of which he thought matters through once more. He ended up sitting there for several hours, submerged in gloomy thoughts and with no ideas, and by the time he eventually returned home it was already dark outside.

  As soon as he had shut the front door behind him, he padded silently through the darkened flat before cautiously peering out at the balcony windowsill, where Isak would usually be waiting at this time of day, tapping at the window to be let in.

  But not this time. No Isak as far as the eye could see, and Bäckström suddenly felt his hopes rise. Maybe he’s fallen victim to an owl, he thought, seeing as little Edvin had informed him the previous week that even Isak wasn’t safe during the darkest hours of night. In the middle of the great stone city where Bäckström lived, there were owls, and they hunted at night. On silent wings and with deadly precision, even if everything was utterly pitch-black around them.

  When Bäckström eventually fell asleep he was in a good mood. Finally, someone up above must have heard his prayers. It wasn’t until he woke up to a new day that his dreams were crushed. Going by the noise, Isak was sitting on the other side of the roller-blind and the protective window as he sharpened his beak against the glass.

  Fuck it, you’re going to die, Bäckström thought, and pulled Siggy from his hiding place under the mattress, pulled back the bolt and made sure there was a bullet in the chamber, before getting out of bed with some difficulty and padding over to the window to let the blind up to give him a clean shot at the little fucker. When he reached out for the cord of the blind he suddenly heard a terrible thud against the glass which made the whole window shake.

  What the fuck’s going on? He released the blind, opened the window and peered down at the tarmacked inner courtyard.

  Isak was lying in the yard. He had evidently encountered a new friend, of a slightly tougher variety than his usual black and white colleagues. Something brown, twice his size, with a beak that was even more hooked than Isak’s, was sitting there pecking holes in his chest. In the midst of the general confusion in which he found himself, Bäckström unfortunately happened to squeeze little Siggy’s trigger.

  Shit! He shut the window and pulled the blind down. The empty cartridge had fallen on the floor of his bedroom, which was at least some consolation, seeing as he had no desire to rush out into the courtyard in the middle of the night to look for it.

  Instead he crept out into the hall, where he stood by the door and listened. Everything seemed quiet, and he padded back to his bedroom, nudged the blind aside and peered out. Isak was still lying down there, on his back, with his feet sticking up in the air, but his brown, speckled assailant seemed to have fled the field.

  At last, Bäckström thought. The little fucker must be stone dead, he thought, and went back to his lovely, soft Hästens bed.

  A couple of hours later he had been woken by someone evidently getting their finger stuck to his doorbell.

  Edvin, Bäckström thought as he looked out through the peephole. He looked sad as well. Just like a ten-year-old young man might be expected to look when he had to pass on news of a tragic death to Isak’s closest relative.

  ‘Has something happened?’ Bäckström asked.

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Superintendent,’ Edvin said, nodding solemnly. ‘It was the hawk that got him, just like I said last week.’

  ‘Is Isak dead?’ Bäckström said, clutching his forehead.

  ‘Fortunately not,’ Edvin said. ‘I think there’s a chance he might recover. We must hope for the best, Superintendent.’

  What the fuck’s the little lizard saying? Hope he gets better?

  About an hour earlier, when little Edvin went down to the yard to get his even smaller mountain-bike and ride off to school, he had found Isak lying in the courtyard, unconscious. At first he thought he was dead, but then he discovered that he was still breathing, and could even hear his little bird-heart beating and tapping away, so he wrapped him up in his jacket. He dashed back up to the flat and his dear mother had called a taxi and gone off to the animal hospital.

  ‘We didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily,’ Edvin explained.

  ‘What are they saying then? The animal doctors, I mean,’ Bäckström clarified.

  ‘We mustn’t despair, Superintendent,’ Edvin said, patting Bäckström’s hand consolingly. ‘While there’s life, there’s hope.’

  As long as there’s life, there’s hope, and judging by the first bills that had already started to arrive, Isak was evidently determined to fuck with him for as long as he possibly could. Almost a fortnight in parrot intensive care, while ordinary people die like flies the whole time. What the hell’s happening to Sweden? he thought, shaking his head disconsolately.

  61

  When the Thursday morning meeting of the investigative team began, Annika Carlsson had told the others present that she was temporarily taking over from their boss, but that Bäckström was expecte
d to be back the next day. She intended to keep the reasons for his absence to herself for the time being, and handed over to Nadja.

  ‘How are you getting on with the Mercedes, Nadja?’

  ‘Slow but steady,’ Nadja said. ‘We’ve got about a hundred vehicles left to check. But I don’t think he’s slipped through the net so far.’

  ‘When do you think we might be finished with the ones you’ve got left?’

  ‘Difficult to say,’ Nadja said, shaking her head. ‘We’re going to need another week, at least. And I’m afraid we’re getting to the point where we’re going to have to talk to some of the owners before we can rule them out. But we’re getting there.’

  ‘Good,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Have you got anything else to tell us?’

  One more thing, according to Nadja Högberg, as she had decided to take the opportunity afforded by Bäckström’s absence to talk about what she and her colleagues had found on their murder victim’s computer. To save time, if nothing else, and also bearing in mind the persistent rumour within the police service that Bäckström was responsible for opening up the so-called sex angle in the investigation of the Palme murder, and was still believed to be convinced that that was the key to the prime minister’s murder.

  ‘The day Eriksson was murdered he seems to have spent over nine hours looking at online porn,’ Nadja said. ‘The sites he visited are rather unusual, even in this context. A lot of violent pornography, sex with animals, sex with dwarfs, and a whole load of other peculiar things that you probably wouldn’t want to ask Uncle Olle about.’

  ‘Uncle Olle? Who’s that?’ Detective Inspector Jan Stigson said. On the rare occasions he watched television, he seldom strayed from the sports channels.

  ‘That psychologist who’s got a sort of sexual advice programme on Channel 5,’ Nadja said. ‘His name’s Olle. Looks a bit like a fat old lady,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Stigson said. ‘One of those.’