The Sword of Justice

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘Yes, it bothers me too,’ her visitor agreed.

  ‘Okay,’ Lisa Mattei said. ‘Is there anything to suggest that they had any contact in connection to Eriksson’s murder?’

  ‘No,’ the superintendent said, shaking his head. ‘Nothing simple and unambiguous, anyway. What worries me about this, and here I’m talking about information I’ve received from colleagues in the regular force, is that there’s a witness who observed an individual at the crime scene, at the time the crime took place, who can’t be ruled out as being von Comer. And there’s good reason to believe that Åkerström and García Gomez have gone underground since Eriksson’s murder.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand,’ Lisa Mattei said, without elaborating on how. ‘Which leads us nicely to the second point on this little list you gave me.’

  ‘That they’re involved in Eriksson’s murder? If I understand you correctly?’

  ‘Yes. Affirmative,’ Mattei confirmed.

  ‘Well, that’s certainly what the investigating team out in Solna currently believes. The day before yesterday arrest warrants were issued for both of them in their absence, on suspicion of murder. In Åkare’s case as a potential perpetrator, or as an accessory. As for García Gomez, he has an alibi for the time of the murder, but there are both witnesses and forensic evidence linking him to the crime scene later that night. For that reason, if I’ve interpreted her decision correctly, the prosecutor has charged him with being an accessory to murder. There can’t really be any doubt that they’re at the top of the list of likely perpetrators. For the time being, at any rate.’

  Lisa Mattei contented herself with a nod and put a neat tick against the second point on the document on the desk in front of her. Which brings us to the third point, she thought. The one which explained her involvement in this sordid matter.

  ‘What do we know about von Comer’s relationship with the king?’ she asked.

  As far as contact between the head of state and von Comer and his family was concerned, it could be divided into two different categories. Firstly, contact on an official level, and secondly, contact of a more private nature.

  ‘As regards the official bit, we haven’t found anything odd,’ Mattei’s colleague summarized. ‘Comer appears to have had the level of contact that would be expected for someone with his involvement in the court’s art collections, his interest in Drottningholm Palace Theatre, and a number of similar activities and projects. In the past five years, he and his wife have been invited to official royal dinners on two occasions, and have met the royal couple at ten other official gatherings and receptions.’

  ‘While I’ve never even been to a ball at the palace. But what does that matter, who cares about a ball at the palace?’ Mattei declared with a slight smile.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ her guest said. But in my case I daresay it’s because I’m not smart enough, he thought.

  ‘What about private contact, then?’ Mattei asked. ‘What do we know about von Comer’s private contact with the king and his family?’

  Even that lay within anticipated boundaries, according to Mattei’s colleague. From their analysis of the king’s diary, and after talking to various people close to him, they had reached the conclusion that the king had met von Comer about twenty times in the past three years. These meetings mostly occurred when they were hunting together, and during the associated lunches and dinners. In almost every instance, the explanation to their meetings was to be found in the fact that one of the king’s oldest and best friends happened to be von Comer’s brother-in-law.

  ‘Without the brother-in-law, there probably wouldn’t have been anywhere near as much contact,’ the superintendent concluded.

  ‘Okay,’ Mattei said. ‘Let’s try looking at this from a different perspective for a moment. Suppose you were a journalist and knew more or less as much as you do now. Would you be able to persuade the newspaper you work for that von Comer is one of the king’s so-called mates?’

  ‘Without a doubt,’ the superintendent said with a smile. ‘There must be hundreds of them by now, if the papers are to be believed.’

  ‘How about his best mate, then?’

  ‘Possibly even that. If we ignore the facts and concentrate on the number of copies that would sell, and take into account the fact the palace spokesperson is hardly likely to enter into a debate on the subject.’

  ‘I’m assuming that there are pictures of them together, the king and von Comer?’

  ‘Any number of them,’ the superintendent confirmed. ‘Mostly from the gossip mags, of course, and the evening tabloids, but also some from the more serious papers.’

  ‘What sort of pictures?’ Mattei asked.

  ‘There’s one big article about some charity whose committee von Comer is on. A big report in Dagens Industri. The king and queen are in the same picture as von Comer, and the three of them seem to be getting on fine.’

  ‘Which leads me to the last point on your little list,’ Lisa Mattei said.

  ‘Everything seems calm on the media front for the time being,’ the superintendent said. ‘There hasn’t been a word about this in the traditional media. And, as far as the internet is concerned, von Comer is mostly notable by his absence.’

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest that that’s likely to change?’ Mattei asked.

  ‘I’ve spoken to both the aide-de-camp and people in the press office. Everything seems calm. No one’s put out any feelers, there are no papers lurking in the undergrowth, at least not right now, anyway.’

  ‘So things are calm?’ Mattei summarized.

  ‘Yes, very calm.’ The superintendent nodded emphatically.

  If only it weren’t for that fat little nightmare Evert Bäckström, Lisa Mattei thought, unable to feel remotely calm.

  96

  As Bäckström had no inkling of the thoughts inside Lisa Mattei’s head, he was in an excellent mood, and, if he had known about them, sad to say, he would probably have felt even better. Bäckström had more important matters to deal with. It was high time for a decent lunch and a bit of profitable financial activity. In this instance, these two birds could be hit with the same stone, happily enough, but he was entirely unaware of the fact that this stone would also reach Lisa Mattei’s desk. If he had known, he would doubtless have regarded it as a very well-deserved extra bonus.

  When he called his tame reporter at the larger of the two evening papers, the journalist had initially sounded as sour as vinegar, and asked if he was calling to discuss the news that their competitors had just put up on their website. This included a photofit picture of García Gomez and information from ‘a senior source inside the police’ who claimed that an arrest warrant had been issued for the man in the picture, on the grounds that he was suspected of the murder of Thomas Eriksson the lawyer. All things he had decided not to publish almost a week before, on Bäckström’s stern advice.

  ‘Never mind that now,’ Bäckström said. ‘It was the right thing to do. Bear that in mind. Always do as I say. If we can meet up at the usual place in half an hour, I’ll tell you what this is really all about.’

  ‘It better be good,’ the reporter said, still sounding bitter.

  ‘It’s even better than that. If I were you, I’d tell them to stop the presses. See you in half an hour, so make sure you’re there.’ That gave you something to suck on, he thought.

  ‘Okay,’ Bäckström said the moment he sat down at the table where his host was already waiting. ‘Three things.’ He nodded commandingly at the waiter who was standing behind his bar ten metres away, a questioning expression on his face as he held up a bottle of Russian vodka. ‘Three things,’ he repeated.

  ‘Okay,’ the reporter said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Number one,’ Bäckström said, holding up his first finger. ‘You can forget all that crap the other rag has put online. They got it from the muppets in the rabbit division. It’s complete bollocks. It wasn’t García Gomez that killed Eriksson. He was there a few hours later and cut
his dog’s throat, but that little detail can wait.’

  ‘Right,’ the reporter said.

  ‘Two: I’m about to tell you what this is really all about. This is a story that’ll have people storming every newsagent’s in the country, and you’ll be able to run with it all summer, probably until Christmas if you felt like it.’

  ‘What’s the catch? Why do I get the feeling that there’s bound to be one?’

  ‘Number three,’ Bäckström said. ‘This information isn’t free, as I’m sure you appreciate. I’m talking six figures and, if you’re interested in it, I’ll need at least an hour with you to make sure you can make sense of everything. Because this time all the “i”s really have to be dotted and the “t”s crossed.’

  ‘If we’re talking about a hundred thousand,’ the reporter said, ‘then I’m going to need a taster so I know what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning we’re going to be picking up an old boy who’s up to his neck in Eriksson’s murder. The prosecutor has already decided to remand him in custody, and the reason he’s being allowed to sleep in his own bed tonight is mostly because we need time to load our guns properly. This is no ordinary lowlife, you see.’

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ the reporter asked. ‘A hundred thousand is quite a lot of money, after all, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  ‘It is,’ Bäckström said. ‘But that’s only the starting price.’

  ‘Who is it, then?’ his host repeated. ‘Who are we dealing with here?’

  ‘The king’s best mate,’ Bäckström said.

  ‘Done,’ the reporter said, holding out his hand.

  During the following two hours Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström ate ham hock with mashed root vegetables – a true classic of summertime Swedish cuisine – which he rinsed down with three glasses of beer and three shorts, while he told the entire story of Eriksson and von Comer and their murky dealings with paintings and antiques worth millions.

  Oddly enough, he didn’t breathe a word about Pinocchio and his nose. Even more oddly, he didn’t mention who it was who had probably been tricked out of all this money. He was planning to keep shtum about Pinocchio until the end of time, if need be, and, as far as the king was concerned, he intended to save him until it was time for the next payment. Many a mickle, Bäckström thought. And for a successful entrepreneur who made his living out of other people’s misfortunes, timing was everything.

  97

  After the meeting with his tame reporter, Bäckström had gone home so he could fit the last details into place in peace in advance of the following morning’s raid. First of all, he put on his dressing-gown and mixed himself a stiff drink. Then he took out his little black book and made a list of everything that needed doing. Then he called his closest associate, Anchor Carlsson.

  ‘About tomorrow: there are a few things I want you to sort out for me,’ Bäckström said, not about to waste time on social niceties.

  ‘Thanks for asking, I’m fine. How about you?’ the Anchor replied.

  ‘Never mind all that crap now,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘I want us to bring the baron in at six o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Sounds early,’ the Anchor countered. ‘Why, if you don’t mind me asking? What’s the rush?’

  ‘So he has a couple of hours to sweat before we start questioning him,’ Bäckström lied, seeing as he had no intention whatsoever of saying it was at the request of the paper, who needed the additional time to get an extra edition published before lunch.

  ‘Noted,’ the Anchor said with a slight sigh.

  ‘I’m thinking of conducting the interview myself, so you can sit in if you want. I thought we could run the old classic.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Bad cop and even worse cop,’ Bäckström clarified.

  ‘No problem,’ the Anchor said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I want him to be in serious need of a shit when we bring him in. Start by sending in a couple of really scary constables to drag him out of bed. And they’re not to say a word to him on the way to the station, no matter how much he whines and begs. As soon as he’s in the building, I want him searched and a DNA sample taken. Remove his shoelaces, belt, all that stuff. Photographs, fingerprints, DNA, the full works. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I understand completely,’ the Anchor said with a sigh. ‘And do you have any particular wishes regarding the search of his house, Superintendent?’

  ‘No, except that I want them to turn the place upside down. You can sort the details out with Nadja.’

  ‘Noted. Turn the whole house upside down. Is there anything else you’d like?’

  ‘One more thing,’ Bäckström said. ‘Make sure the first officers he encounters make a careful note of everything he says, all that.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry on that score,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘I thought I’d take care of the arrest myself. When are you thinking of putting in an appearance, by the way? Before or after lunch?’

  ‘I’ll be there when I get there,’ Bäckström said. It was time for a little nap before dinner, he thought as he ended the call.

  As soon as Bäckström woke up from a couple of hours’ restorative sleep, he went and stood in the shower. Then he spoke to his tame reporter on the phone and gave him his final instructions. He put on some clean clothes and walked the perfectly comfortable distance to his beloved local hostelry, where he ate a simple evening meal served up by his very own Finnish waitress.

  As he ate, he occupied himself with thinking lofty thoughts about life and the way of the world. A simple bourgeois existence, in which he had just managed to secure the health of his household finances while he waited for the serious money to arrive. Many a mickle, he thought again, with a contented sigh, and raised a toast to himself. Then he ordered coffee and cognac, asked for the bill and brought the evening to a close. Once he was home again, he changed into something more comfortable before he went to bed and mixed himself the obligatory evening drink. There’s still something missing, though, he thought as he sipped it. Music, he thought. Time for a bit of evening music.

  So he took out little Pinocchio from his secure hiding-place. He got him out of his wooden box, nudged the key out of its hidden compartment, wound him up, put him on the table in front of him, then leaned back on the sofa to listen.

  Sounds fucking awful, he thought, shaking his head. The little haemophiliac twat must have been deaf as well.

  Fortunately, the whole thing was over in about twenty seconds. The noise suddenly stopped and the nose stopped growing. Little Pinocchio had evidently made all the noise he was going to make for this time. After another few seconds, just as GeGurra had promised, his nose retracted back into his head again. Leaving him with a perfectly ordinary, upturned nose, a bit like his neighbour Edvin’s, Bäckström thought as he put Pinocchio back in his black box.

  Before he fell asleep, he lay in bed with his pen and notebook, trying to make sense of the province that was evidently so vital in this context.

  Not an altogether simple matter, seeing as he may have drunk slightly too much over the course of the evening, and he had to keep one eye closed in order to see what he was writing.

  ‘Province,’ he wrote on the top line, then underlined it twice, just to make sure, seeing as that film director and the price of his sealskin slippers had just popped into his head.

  ‘Previous owners,’ he thought as he wrote, underlining this heading once, to be on the safe side. First Nicholas II, followed by Alexei and Maria Pavlovna. Then Prince Wilhelm. When he had done that, he numbered them from one to four and added the dates he had found on the papers GeGurra had sent him. He also made sure to add a bit of extra information for the benefit of anyone who wasn’t as historically knowledgeable. ‘Last Tsar of Russia’ after ‘Nicholas II’; ‘haemophiliac, probably retarded through inbreeding’ after ‘Alexei’; ‘the richest old bag in the world’ after ‘Maria Pavlovna’; and ‘also commander of
torpedo boat’ after ‘Prince Wilhelm’. So far, so good. That left a gap of almost fifty years between Prince Wilhelm’s death in the summer of 1965 and his own successful expedition just a couple of days before.

  Obviously, the little prince got the musical box when Prince Willy croaked. After all, he was the kid’s father’s uncle, or something, Bäckström reasoned, taking a large gulp of his bedtime drink as he completed his chain of ownership with the name of the most likely fifth owner: ‘His Majesty the King of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf,’ he wrote, thereby concluding the historical element of his endeavours.

  Which just left his own personage. ‘Current owner Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström,’ he wrote. Then he put the pen and notebook on his bedside table, let out a deep sigh of contentment at the imagined mountain of banknotes in front of him, folded his hands over his stomach and, just seconds later, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  98

  On Tuesday morning Annika Carlsson woke up at half past four. The sun was already high in the sky, the thermometer had passed fifteen degrees, and it looked as if it was going to be a proper summer’s day. Baron Hans Ulrik von Comer is lucky with the weather, at least, she thought, shaking her head.

  Then her usual routines took over, the ones that gave her the security and tranquillity she required to do a job that could sometimes be so tricky to deal with. Such as on a day like today, which looked likely to fulfil all the expectations of her boss, Evert Bäckström.

  First, some preliminary yoga practice, to soften up her muscles and joints, calm her mind and bring balance to body and soul. Then a shower, followed by a proper breakfast – important not to skip the first meal of the day. Clean clothes, practical clothes: in her case, jeans, a thin top, a summer jacket that stretched far enough below her waist to prevent any unnecessary flaunting of the service revolver she had brought home with her the night before. One last inspection in the hall mirror. Ready to go, high time to make the best of things, she thought with a wry smile.