‘Maybe you should give it a try, Jan,’ Annika said with a wry smile. ‘Watch Uncle Olle and see if you can pick up some tips, I mean. So what do you think, Nadja? Is this another area for investigation, or not? Or is he just like most men?’
‘Well,’ Nadja said, ‘in this particular instance it’s possible that he was the exact opposite. That he was doing it in the course of his work, so to speak. At least, if we’re to believe his associate, Danielsson. Our colleague, Bladh, has already questioned him about that. You’ll get a transcript of the interview by email later today.’
‘Eriksson was surfing for porn for work? Explain, before I die of curiosity,’ Annika Carlsson said.
According to the other lawyer, Danielsson, his colleague Thomas Eriksson had taken on a new client just a few days before he was murdered. The client was a well-known businessman and entrepreneur who had been accused of harassing his ex-girlfriend, who was half his age, by hacking her computer and sending her vast quantities of pornography that he had downloaded from the internet.
‘Her computer, her website, her Facebook page, everything,’ Nadja said, shaking her head. ‘But there’s nothing to suggest that his legal representative, Eriksson, shared his client’s special interests. It looks like he was ticking things off the list that was included in our own preliminary investigation into his client. We’ve been through his hard drive, and there are no traces of previous porn-surfing. And he hasn’t got any software installed that would automatically erase any traces of visits to that sort of site. If you ask me, I think we should forget about this angle. The whole thing seems to be work-related – however strange that might seem.’
‘Have you found anything else, then?’ Annika asked.
‘Various notes that are proving difficult to interpret, but they’re probably financial in nature,’ Nadja said. ‘Plus traces of similar material on his hard drive that he seems to have deleted after a relatively short time. Eriksson appears to have been a cautious man in that regard, but I promise to get back to you if I find anything that’s worth telling you about. But I don’t think you should hold your breath. Eriksson seems to have been the sort of person who relied on his own memory when it came to keeping secrets.’ Just like you, who picked that up with your mother’s milk, she thought to herself.
Then Peter Niemi had taken over the run-through, but he didn’t have much new information to add either when it came to the technical side of the investigation. He expected the search of the victim’s home would be concluded early the following week, and that the first results from the National Forensics Lab concerning the DNA traces, fibres and prints they had found at the scene would be coming through at about the same time. They still hadn’t been able to find the murder weapon. Which was something that concerned him a lot.
‘When it comes to the classic blunt instrument, we usually find it at the crime scene, which, nine times out of ten – as in this case – is either the victim’s or the perpetrator’s home. They’re almost always unpremeditated crimes, and when things kick off they grab whatever happens to be to hand. A hammer, a poker, a piece of piping, a frying pan, a candlestick. Anything that’s solid enough, easy to hold and will do to smash someone’s head in.’
‘But not this time?’ Annika Carlsson said.
‘Not this time,’ Peter Niemi confirmed. ‘And that bothers me. This time I’m fairly sure the perpetrator had already decided to do away with Eriksson when he arrived and that he’d planned to make a good job of it. He brought the instrument with him, and if I had to guess I’d say we’re talking about something wooden, like a baseball bat or a cudgel. I’m inclined to think it’s wood rather than metal because of the way the injuries to the skull look.’
‘But by the time he arrived, Eriksson was already dead,’ Felicia Pettersson said.
‘Exactly,’ Niemi said. ‘He’d been dead for several hours, there’s absolutely no doubt about that. He must have seen that at once, yet this individual still attacks him and smashes his skull in, and this is where I start to have serious concerns.’
‘How do you mean?’ Annika said.
‘Why would he do that if he knew he’d already killed him a few hours earlier? By then, surely he ought to have calmed down a bit? Why return at all?’
‘To look for something he missed the first time. Because he’s figured out that Eriksson tricked him,’ Annika suggested. ‘And that makes him so furious that he’s even prepared to attack a corpse.’
‘Quite possibly,’ Peter Niemi said, throwing his hands out expressively. ‘And nowhere near as unlikely as the idea that’s got stuck in my head, even though it most definitely complicates things.’
‘Go on,’ Annika Carlsson said with a smile. Peter’s good, she thought.
‘That he had no idea that someone else had already killed Eriksson when he turned up to give him a serious going-over. But he’s still furious enough to attack the body.’
‘I agree with you,’ Annika Carlsson said, smiling even more broadly. ‘It sounds very, very unlikely. Almost as if our victim should have organized an orderly queue down in the hall for all the visitors who were planning to turn up on a perfectly ordinary Sunday evening with the express intention of beating the shit out of him.’
‘I know,’ Niemi said with a thin smile. ‘It does sound a bit unlikely.’
‘Well, we’ll work it out,’ Annika said with a shrug. ‘There’s nothing else you wanted to add?’
‘One more thing. We’re finished with the ballistic analysis. The two bullets we found both come from Eriksson’s own gun. But of course that’s what we’ve been assuming all along.’
‘So you can’t offer us any sort of breakthrough in the case, then?’ Annika Carlsson concluded.
‘No. No breakthrough,’ Niemi conceded, shaking his head. ‘Just the awareness that comes from realizing that you’re only getting more confused. But I agree with you. Sooner or later everything will fall into place.’
‘Does anyone else have anything?’ Annika Carlsson said, looking round the room. Judging by the unanimous headshaking, it was time to draw the meeting to a close.
‘Okay,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Another meeting tomorrow, Friday at ten o’clock, and our absent boss has promised to join us.’
As soon as Annika Carlsson got back to her desk she called Bäckström’s mobile to give him the promised report of how things had gone in the meeting.
‘We’re making progress, but I haven’t got anything special to tell you,’ Annika Carlsson said.
‘No, how could you have?’ Bäckström replied.
‘We’re missing you already,’ Annika said. ‘How’s your poor tummy, by the way? You don’t want me to come over with some chicken soup and mineral water?’
‘That’s very kind of you, Annika. But to answer your question: no. I don’t want any chicken soup. Nor any mineral water.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Annika said. ‘Promise you’ll let me know if you change your mind.’
Bäckström refrained from making any such promises. Instead, he simply ended the call by switching off his mobile.
Creepy woman, Bäckström thought, shaking his head. Just to be on the safe side, he went out into the hall to check that he’d put the security chain on the door. However unlikely it was that a feeble little chain would be able to keep out someone like Anchor Carlsson, he thought with a shudder.
62
After his conversation with Anchor Carlsson, Bäckström had decided that it would perhaps be safest to leave the flat until he had got hold of a locksmith who could reinforce the entrance to the home that was, after all, supposed to be his castle.
After a late but substantial breakfast, he had therefore taken a walk around the city. Yellow sun, blue sky, twenty degrees in the shade, exactly what every true Swede had a right to demand on a day like today. Bäckström had walked along the shore of Norr Mälarstrand before stopping at a strategically located outdoor bar, where he quickly ordered a cooling vodka and tonic, and he r
emained there for a couple of hours, deploying his surveillance sunglasses to watch all the little ladies walking past as he made a note of all the ideas that popped into his head in advance of the following day’s visit to Little Miss Friday.
You’re a lucky man, Bäckström, he thought. You’re a mover as well as something of a shaker. Women are all mad about you, more and more of them, all the time. The super-salami was in good shape before the next day’s exertions, and Eriksson the lawyer had finally got what he deserved. But it was high time for him to return home for a rest before his various forthcoming evening engagements. After a quick look at his watch, he finished his fourth vodka and tonic and told the girl who had served him to order him a taxi. Naturally, he received a blinding smile in return.
That evening, as he was sitting in front of his computer, nurturing the large and growing multitude that made up his online fan club, his phone had rung. Not his usual mobile, but the one he used only to handle external contacts, and this particular call was from the man who was undoubtedly the most profitable of them all, his old friend and compadre Gustaf Gustafsson Henning. Successful art dealer, famous from antiques programmes on television and known among his closest friends by the nickname GeGurra.
GeGurra started by apologizing for not having been in touch for a while. He had been abroad on business for several weeks and had only returned to his beloved homeland and its royal capital the previous evening.
‘Our National Day,’ GeGurra declared emphatically. ‘Every right-minded Swede knows that you have to celebrate in Sweden itself. Anything else would be unthinkable. It’s an obligation. I’ve spent the day with a business acquaintance who has a place out in the archipelago. Herring and vodka, music by Evert Taube and Jussi Björling on a marvellous wind-up gramophone. He’s even preserved the old outdoor privy in case one feels the need to experience such old-fashioned necessities.
‘Sweden’s National Day has to be celebrated in Sweden. That’s an obligation for every right-minded Swede,’ GeGurra repeated.
Evidently also an obligation for the odd gypsy, Bäckström thought, seeing as many years ago he had personally helped GeGurra to remove the last traces of his Roma origins and the reckless adolescent behaviour that had led to Juha Valentin Andersson Snygg having a file of his own in the archives of the crime division of the Stockholm Police.
‘What can I do for you?’ Bäckström asked. He was in a splendid mood, even though the contents of the brown envelope he had been given by his property-developer friend had diminished considerably within the space of just a few days.
‘To start with, I was thinking of inviting you out for a nice meal,’ GeGurra said. ‘Tomorrow evening, if you can spare the time. I have a little business proposal that I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘That sounds excellent,’ Bäckström said. He could already see a properly old-fashioned GeGurra envelope in front of him. Of a thickness that miserly property developer would never dare to imagine. ‘How can I be of assistance?’ Bäckström asked.
‘For once, I have a feeling that the assistance might be mutual. That we might be able to help each other,’ GeGurra said. ‘But I suggest we deal with that tomorrow. What do you say to Operakällaren, eight o’clock tomorrow evening?’
‘Sounds good,’ Bäckström said. Help each other? he thought as soon as he ended the call. In what way could GeGurra possibly help him?
63
Unlike Bäckström, Dan Andersson had spent Sweden’s National Day in his office in the headquarters of the Security Police in the main police building on Kungsholmen. He had been sitting there since early that morning, making sure that the thirty or so subjects who were under his protection that day made it home in one piece. Top of the list, as usual, were the king, the queen, the crown princess and another four members of the royal family.
As on so many occasions before, it looked as though he had been worrying in vain. As the day went on, he was able to tick his charges off his list one by one, and, as far as the royal couple was concerned, he was able to do this by two o’clock in the afternoon. They had left the celebration of Sweden’s National Day at the open-air museum of Skansen in order to attend a late lunch reception within the relative safety of Stockholm’s Royal Palace.
By five o’clock in the afternoon most of the day’s activities were over. Nothing unusual had happened, and he had decided to make his way home, go for a run, sit in the sauna and conclude the day with a light dinner in the company of his dear wife. But that wasn’t how things had turned out. Instead, he had had to stay at work for another couple of hours as a result of the response he had received from the intelligence division regarding Jenny Rogersson’s information about Baron Hans Ulrik von Comer, who had apparently been assaulted by an unknown assailant in the car park outside Drottningholm Palace seventeen days before.
Good grief, Dan Andersson thought, even though he very rarely thought things of that sort. Then he sent an email to his ultimate superior, Deputy Police Commissioner Lisa Mattei, requesting a meeting with her the following day.
He received a response on his mobile just five minutes later as he was stepping into the lift to go down to the garage, get in his car and drive home to his house out on the islands of Lake Mälaren. ‘14.00. Yrs LM’. There’s really no need to say more than that, Dan Andersson thought as he acknowledged receipt of her message. Not if you were Lisa Mattei and were constantly on duty, no matter where you happened to be.
64
When Ara and Omar finally went their separate ways late on Wednesday evening, Omar had already walked home to Ara’s flat with him, and before he left he had given him a hug and told him to lie low. Omar had given him a mobile number to call if anything happened. He had also suggested that they meet the next morning, and he would try to sort out a few practical details on behalf of his old friend.
‘What do you think?’ Omar asked. ‘I’ll come by and pick you up at eight o’clock tomorrow and we can start by having breakfast together?’
‘Okay,’ Ara said. ‘I’m off tomorrow, so that’ll be fine.’
Before Ara fell asleep, he switched his phone on and listened to the new messages he had received earlier that evening. All three were from the reporter from the newspaper, and each time Ara hadn’t answered he sounded more and more annoyed.
The first message was left just before eleven that evening. He wanted Ara to call him immediately because ‘problems had arisen regarding their earlier conversations’, and the sooner they could solve them, the better it would be for both him and Ara.
When he recorded the first message he sounded more stressed than annoyed, but when he called again half an hour later he sounded both seriously angry and more than a little drunk. Just like all the other Swedish men who bolstered their feelings by pouring drink all over them, quite regardless of whether they were happy, sad, or usually just pissed off. There was something ‘seriously fucked’ with the tip-off that Ara had given him and, considering all the ‘dough’ Ara had received, it was urgent that they talked to each other at once. He could be reached at any time of the night.
The third call was made just after midnight, and the reporter’s message was now loud and clear.
‘Okay, Ara. I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at, but if you’re trying to rip me and the paper off, you need to have one thing really fucking clear. You can forget about getting any more money. Forget it, man. That’s history, unless you’ve got a fucking good explanation. If you haven’t, we want the twenty-five you’ve already been given back. Otherwise, things will get seriously fucked up, yeah? So, for your own sake, Ara, call me as soon as you get this.’
Trying to rip the paper off? Ara thought, then switched his phone off again, to be on the safe side. Even so, he lay awake for several hours before falling asleep. He mostly just lay there, tossing and turning, listening out for the slightest sound in the stairwell and hall outside his flat. When he did finally fall asleep he had nightmares, and in the middle of the night he sat u
p in bed, soaked in sweat and wide awake, because he had got it into his head that someone was trying to break his door open. He crept out into the kitchen, armed himself with the biggest kitchen knife he could find, then padded over to the front door and peered through the peephole.
The stairwell was quiet and deserted. But he still stood there for several minutes, listening and watching, just to make sure, and before he went back to bed he checked the lock and the security chain a couple more times. Even though he had phone numbers for the cops, the evening paper and his old best friend from school, all of whom he could call if he felt the slightest bit worried. Shit, man, you got to stop being paranoid, Ara told himself before he finally fell asleep.
Just after eight the next morning, Omar showed up. He seemed to be in an excellent mood and had brought both breakfast and half a dozen pictures that he spread out on the kitchen table between them.
‘Take a look at these two,’ Omar said with a smile. ‘Do you recognize either of them?’
Knowledge is evidently power, Ara thought as he nodded, having recognized both the men in the pictures. One was the man he had almost run down a few days ago, and the other he recognized because he’d had him in his taxi on numerous occasions. Knowledge is definitely power, and Omar had always been the one who knew most and made best use of his knowledge.
‘Do you recognize either of them?’ Omar repeated.
‘This one,’ Ara said, holding up the picture of the man with the narrow eyes. ‘He was the one who almost ended up on the bonnet. Who is he? What’s his name?’
‘He’s a crazy fucking Chilean guy. Came over here with his mum when he was a kid. Angel García Gomez. He’s completely mad. Known as the Madman, El Loco in Spanish. And that’s what his friends call him. He’s a big wheel in the Hells Angels.’
‘Sounds like a great guy.’ Ara sighed.
‘What about this one?’ Omar said, pointing at the photograph of the other man on the table.
The Sword of Justice Page 23
