The Sword of Justice

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘What about the king himself?’ Bäckström asked.

  ‘Thinking of the provenance, that would undeniably be a true blessing,’ GeGurra said with a happy smile. ‘But no, to be honest I don’t think we can hope for that. As far as I am aware, His Majesty has never sold anything from his private collections, and I don’t believe he’s under any pressing need for money. If we assume, just for the sake of it, that that was the case, I have great difficulty imagining that he would turn to Eriksson and Baron von Comer.’

  ‘He’s got quite a few kids, though,’ Bäckström suggested. Might be time to check out that bloke from Ockelbo, the one who married the crown princess, he thought. Before he became a prince he used to own an old gym of some sort, and that business is crawling with jokers, he thought.

  ‘Like I said, there are plenty of Bernadottes to choose from, and most of the evidence seems to suggest that one of them is involved in this,’ GeGurra agreed. ‘If I could have just one wish,’ he went on, ‘naturally, it would be for you to find that musical box I’ve told you about. It is an artistic artefact of global importance, after all. Compared to all the rest of it, which is somewhat lacking in interest.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Bäckström said, stroking his nose. ‘Well, we shouldn’t throw in the towel just yet. I promise to do what I can. I don’t suppose you’ve got a picture of the musical box, so I know what I’m supposed to be looking for?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ GeGurra said, opening his brown briefcase and taking out two photographs, then passing them to Bäckström.

  There you are, Bäckström thought. The same pointed red hat, yellow jacket and green trousers as that character he’d shaken so carefully, thinking it was an enamelled carafe containing an incredibly exclusive type of whisky. One picture with the nose retracted, like when he had held it in his hand, and one with the nose out. At full length, once Pinocchio had finished lying on that occasion.

  ‘One question, out of curiosity,’ Bäckström said. ‘How much is the musical box worth?’

  ‘It’s priceless,’ GeGurra said. ‘Quite priceless,’ he repeated, throwing his hands out.

  ‘You couldn’t be a bit more specific?’ Bäckström said. You old rogue, he thought.

  ‘If you could find the right buyer … ideally one of those Russian oligarchs … somewhere in the region of two hundred million. Swedish kronor, that is.’

  What the fuck did he just say?

  ‘Two hundred million,’ GeGurra repeated, nodding once more to underline his words.

  Two hundred million, Evert Bäckström thought. What the hell am I going to do now?

  85

  After the end of the meal, Bäckström had taken a taxi straight home to his cosy abode on Kungsholmen. He had abandoned any thought of concluding the evening by contacting one of all the yearning women who had gathered on his very own online fansite. For the time being, they would just have to join the growing queue for the super-salami and simply wait for a better opportunity. Far too much was at risk financially, and what he needed right now was a bit of seclusion, some peace and quiet so he could think.

  As soon as he had walked through the door, dumped his clothes and put on his dressing-gown, he mixed himself a proper summer drink, vodka and tonic, to wash away the veils of cognac that were obscuring the view inside his head. High time for a bit of thinking – serious thinking – and to save time he didn’t even bother to count the contents of the brown envelope that GeGurra had forced on him as they parted. He merely checked the denomination of the bundle of notes, squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger and made a rough estimate. Practice makes perfect: these days, he was usually within a few thousand kronor and, considering how much little Pinocchio and his nose were worth, it was like farting outside a sulphur factory. Any more accurate calculations could wait until later, he thought, once he had tucked the envelope away in his secret hiding place, where it could stay until the next departure to the quite excellent money laundry operated by little Edvin’s taciturn father.

  Time to do some serious thinking, he thought, having taken the precaution of lying down on his bed and getting out his little black notebook and a pen to aid his mental processes. As always when it came to thinking properly and seriously, it was basically a question of separating what mattered from what didn’t matter, and, in this particular instance, of taking care of the smaller elements of his supplementary income before concentrating on Pinocchio and the really serious money.

  Many a mickle, Bäckström thought with a contented sigh. The specific person he was thinking about at that moment was Baron Hans Ulrik von Comer and his extremely improbable involvement in the murder of Thomas Eriksson the lawyer. The motive was already obvious. The baron had tried to trick the lawyer out of at least a million in conjunction with the sale of a painting. The same man who had been found out, confronted and beaten up by the future murder-victim, who had also reclaimed all the other pictures and little Pinocchio. And so he decided to have his revenge. Brought in some paid muscle and made a visit to the lawyer to accomplish a fairer division of the spoils. And at that meeting everything – as so often happened – had gone straight to hell. The lawyer had started shooting wildly, the baron had crapped himself, and his hired thugs had beaten the lawyer to death while he was trying to call SOS Alarm for help. Then they had taken their haul and fled the scene of the crime. And, in the general confusion, the musical box had been left behind, and Bäckström had no intention whatsoever of making a fuss about that little detail. Just to be on the safe side, he had also made a note about it in his little black book.

  That just leaves a couple of smaller practical issues, he thought. First, making sure that the baron and his accomplices got locked away, and then calling his tame journalist to give him the factual basis for another brown envelope from the larger of the two evening papers. ‘Baron arrested for murder of famous gangster lawyer’, and at least a five-figure sum in the brown envelope, Bäckström thought happily, taking a large mouthful of his refreshing summer drink.

  On the other hand, there was reason to hope for considerably more than that, seeing as von Comer demonstrably lived next to the king in a house that was owned by the crown estate. There was also the fact that he was a baron, and quite probably one of the king’s friends. Why else would the king sort out a house for him? Might even be the king’s best friend, if he was going to indulge in rather more tenuous social speculation. ‘King’s best friend arrested for murder of famous gangster lawyer’. A shiver of excitement ran through Bäckström.

  At least a six-figure sum. Definitely six figures, he thought. Plus all the other envelopes containing similar amounts he could count upon as soon as it became clear that His Majesty himself was involved in the murky business that lay behind Eriksson’s murder. And in the role of innocent crime-victim as well, which left the way open for the whole of the international gossip-magazine world, and the seven-figure sums which he had come to realize were more or less standard within that sector of investigative journalism.

  This could be seriously fucking good, Superintendent Evert Bäckström thought, seeing before him the approaching summer’s customary news drought being replaced by an unending torrent of media revelations and analysis linked to the Swedish head of state and those closest to him. When he reached this point in his thoughts he suddenly fell asleep, and when he woke up eight hours later he was wide awake from the moment he opened his eyes, brimming with confidence and ready to grapple with the practical problems that still remained to be solved.

  86

  Once Bäckström had woken up and eased the pressure from the previous day, he got in the shower. As he stood there letting the hot water pour over him, he thanked his creator for giving him a brain that worked at top speed even while he was asleep. Have to proceed with caution now, he thought. Let sleeping bears lie, while simultaneously and as quickly as possible securing the little musical box that would at a stroke, and in absolute secrecy, transform him into Sweden’s wealthiest p
olice officer of all time. Maybe even as rich as some of his Colombian and Mexican colleagues, he reasoned. Or the growing crowd of uniformed, crime-fighting millionaires on the other side of the Baltic Sea.

  As he ate a fortified breakfast, he made a few more notes about all this, before getting out his secret pay-as-you-go mobile and calling his accomplice, GeGurra, to find out a few more facts before he made a decision. GeGurra sounded surprisingly alert as well, considering how little he had actually drunk. Even though any delay could be costly, he was as long-winded as usual. He started by enquiring about Bäckström’s health and all that nonsense that only women and pensioners wasted time on.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to do,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘But I wanted to ask a favour, and I’ve also got a few questions I’m hoping you can help me with.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ GeGurra said.

  ‘Good,’ Bäckström said bluntly, to avoid any further verbal digressions. ‘In that case, I’d like your help with the following. Firstly, could you let me have a bit of factual background to what we discussed yesterday? Pictures of the items, when they were sold, all that?’

  ‘Of course,’ GeGurra said. ‘It will be delivered within an hour, without a return address, of course. I’m assuming that everything we talked about will stay between us.’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ Bäckström snorted. ‘There are no cracks in this wall,’ he assured him.

  ‘You had some questions?’ GeGurra prompted.

  Three, to be precise, Bäckström told him. Firstly, he was wondering if Eriksson had appeared to know how much the musical box was worth.

  ‘According to the valuation he was given by that joker von Comer, they were talking about a few thousand.’ GeGurra sighed. ‘And our dear baron appears to have got it into his head that it was manufactured in Germany.’ He sighed again.

  ‘And there’s no chance that Eriksson was just saying that to check your reaction?’ Bäckström asked.

  ‘No,’ GeGurra said. ‘Unfortunately, von Comer, as on so many previous occasions, got it completely wrong. If he had seen Fabergé’s mark, no doubt he would have reacted, but I think he simply missed it altogether. It’s supposed to be on the inside of the musical box, not on the outside and, if you don’t know where it is, it can be a bit tricky to locate it.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything to Eriksson? About how much it was worth, I mean?’

  ‘I said as little as possible, for very understandable reasons,’ GeGurra said. ‘I offered to take a look at both the musical box and all the other pieces so I could give him a standard valuation. Because I harboured a degree of hope that I might be able to take over responsibility for the sale, I did say that I was sceptical about von Comer’s valuation. That the musical box might be worth considerably more than that but that I would have to examine it before I could give a definite evaluation.’

  ‘How did he react to that?’

  ‘With a fair degree of interest, seeing as I had just told him what Versjagin’s painting was worth.’

  ‘But you didn’t mention anything about two hundred million?’

  ‘No, I certainly didn’t,’ GeGurra said forcefully. ‘I’m almost insulted that you feel the need to ask.’

  ‘That takes me to my next question,’ Bäckström continued. ‘You mentioned something about an old acquaintance of yours tipping you off about the painting of the fat monk. That it was going to be sold at auction, I mean.’

  ‘In that case, you misunderstood me,’ GeGurra said. ‘I already knew that Sotheby’s were going to be selling it in their auction. I spend something like half my time keeping an eye on the auction market. No, he called me to express an interest in the painting. That must have been a few days after I’d already seen it in the catalogue. Of course I was already aware of Versjagin’s picture, and I remember being surprised that it had suddenly appeared again after all these years. But that was before my acquaintance contacted me.’

  ‘Did he ask you to buy it for him?’

  ‘No,’ GeGurra said. ‘But I realized that he was interested in it.’

  ‘Did he have any idea of what it was worth?’

  ‘A rough idea,’ GeGurra said. ‘The guide price was listed in the catalogue, of course. In the end, it reached twice that, but I remember telling him that there was a chance it could fetch considerably more.’

  ‘So you weren’t actually commissioned to buy it?’

  ‘No,’ GeGurra said. ‘I’m curious – why do you ask?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I just thought it was an interesting coincidence,’ Bäckström lied. ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me his name? Your acquaintance, I mean?’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ GeGurra said. ‘If you want to survive in this business, you learn not to talk about things like that very early on. Anyone who doesn’t learn that lesson usually ends up going hungry.’

  ‘Okay, well, give it some thought,’ Bäckström said. ‘I daresay it isn’t important.’

  ‘You had one more question?’ GeGurra said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’m wondering how our current king is related to that Prince Wilhelm.’

  ‘Let me think,’ GeGurra said. ‘Prince Wilhelm was the son of Gustaf V, which must mean that he was the uncle of our current king’s father. Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘Uncle of the king’s father.’ That makes three generations, doesn’t it? he thought. Three generations of the same family. Wasn’t that what Eriksson had said?

  ‘Was there anything else you were wondering, my dear friend?’ GeGurra asked.

  ‘No, that’s the lot. Don’t forget that background information you promised me,’ Bäckström said. Two proper questions and one smokescreen will have to do for the time being, he thought.

  ‘It’s on its way,’ GeGurra said. ‘You’ll have it in fifteen minutes.’

  GeGurra seems to be on the ball, Bäckström thought as he ended the call. Wonder how much he thinks I’m going to give him for helping me with the sale? He can forget all about that twenty per cent, he thought.

  87

  Half an hour later Bäckström was sitting in a taxi on his way to the police station, leafing through the bundle of papers GeGurra’s anonymous courier had delivered through his letterbox fifteen minutes earlier. On the seat beside him he had his trusty old briefcase, the one he had inherited from his mentor, Superintendent Pisshead, and in his mind he now had a detailed plan of how to proceed. All that remained was to find a suitably cretinous colleague who could accompany him as an alibi, he thought.

  They’re not just stupid, they’re lazy too, he thought as he gazed at the meagre number of officers tapping away at their computers in the main office. With the exception of Anchor Carlsson, of course, who seemed to live there. Which was probably just as well, given the sort of thing she got up to otherwise. The moment he caught sight of her he suddenly knew how he was going to solve the last remaining detail. Who could be better than Anchor Carlsson, the Solna Police’s very own law-and-order dyke?

  ‘Bäckström,’ the Anchor said, holding out her hands. ‘What are you doing here? You haven’t forgotten it’s Saturday, have you?’

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ Bäckström said, nodding at the empty desks around them.

  ‘The overtime ban, time owing, a few out in the field,’ the Anchor said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was thinking of picking up the keys to Eriksson’s house. I’ve received some interesting information,’ Bäckström said. ‘There’s something I need to check.’

  ‘You’re making me very curious,’ the Anchor said, smiling at him. ‘The last time you showed up at the weekend, we managed to close the case the next day.’

  ‘I need someone to come with me.’

  ‘In that case I’ll volunteer,’ the Anchor said. ‘I could do with getting out and stretching my legs. I’ve been sitting here since seven this morning.’

  ‘That�
�s good of you, but I don’t want to—’

  ‘Don’t try to stop me,’ the Anchor said, with another smile.

  ‘Well, it’s very good of you,’ Bäckström said. ‘If you grab the keys to Eriksson’s pad and sort out a car, I’ll see you down in the garage in fifteen minutes. I just need to print out some material for us to take along.’

  This is going like a dream, Bäckström thought as he printed out copies of all the interior photographs Niemi and his colleagues in Forensics had taken of the crime scene. He stuffed the bundle of pictures in his brown briefcase, then took the whole lot into his office for one last look in peace and quiet.

  No messing up, he thought, taking out the list he had written before leaving for work. Absolutely no messing up, he thought five minutes later, once he’d ticked off all but two of the points on the long list in his little black book. Then he tucked it away in his desk drawer, the same drawer where he kept his finest Russian vodka, and hesitated for a moment before deciding that that would have to wait. He locked the list away, secreted the key in its usual hiding place and took the lift down to the garage.

  ‘So, tell me,’ Anchor Carlsson said as soon as he was sitting in the passenger seat.

  ‘I’ve received a tip-off,’ Bäckström said, opening his briefcase wide so she could get a good look, then handed her the pictures of all fifteen icons that GeGurra had sent him, while the photographs of little Pinocchio were safely tucked away in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Annika Carlsson said, shaking her head.

  ‘An anonymous source,’ Bäckström said. ‘But this particular one usually comes up with the goods. I have a feeling that this could be our motive.’