The Sword of Justice

by Leif G. W. Persson

  ‘Bäckström, Bäckström,’ the reporter sighed, now at a complete loss for words.

  ‘Trust me,’ Bäckström said. ‘This is only the beginning. Revenge nurtures revenge, as you know, and before the summer is over there’ll be plenty more murdered, tortured and maimed on both sides. And we mustn’t forget that entirely innocent people are going to suffer. Not just witnesses who are only trying to do their civic duty but also members of the public who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘How do you want to be quoted?’ the reporter asked. ‘Is it okay for us to carry on with a senior source in the police hierarchy?’

  ‘With full knowledge of the investigation,’ Bäckström corrected. Such as that Finnish pisshead, who was welcome to a taste of the shit he was trying to smear Bäckström with.

  ‘Well, speak to you again tomorrow,’ the reporter concluded. He was going to have his work cut out trying to pull together the following day’s paper, what with the veritable summer massacre that Sweden’s organized criminal gangs had just embarked upon.

  ‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘Oh, there was one more thing,’ he added, as he had been struck by the same thought as when Nadja told him about that Merc they were looking for. ‘You don’t happen to have anyone at the paper who’s good with films?’

  ‘Of course, you need to talk to one of the photographers. Is there anything—’

  ‘Not a photographer,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘Someone who knows about films, films at the cinema, I mean.’

  ‘Film Ronny, our cinema reporter.’

  ‘Film Ronny?’

  ‘Yes, or Ronny the Reel. That’s the name he uses on his blog and on Twitter. Where he recommends more unusual films. Ronny the Reel, as in old porn reels, basically.’

  ‘So he’s good at films?’

  ‘Good at films? He’s world class, Bäckström. If Ronny doesn’t know the answer, it’s because what you’re asking about has never been committed to film. He can even recite the credits by heart. You’ve probably seen him on our TV channel. Ronny the Reel’s Best Reels. Big guy in a Hawaiian shirt. You’re fairly similar, actually. Superficially, I mean.’

  ‘You haven’t got his number?’ Bäckström said. Sounds like a reliable bloke, he thought. He never missed an opportunity to dress that way as soon as the weather allowed.

  ‘Sure,’ the reporter said. ‘You can have his private number if you promise not to tell him who gave it to you. What do you want him for, anyway? Anything we need to put in the paper?’

  ‘If it is, you’ll be the first to know,’ Bäckström said.

  As soon as Bäckström ended the call, he phoned Ronny the Reel and left a message on his answer-machine.

  ‘My name is Bäckström,’ he said. ‘I’m a police officer, and there’s something I think you might be able to help me with.’

  Definitely time for an afternoon nap, he thought, as his favourite Finnish waitress had promised to look in and take care of the cleaning, washing up and laundry, and generally tidy up before starting her evening shift at his local bar.

  Yes, definitely time for a bit of rest, he thought, just as someone rang his doorbell.

  124

  At first he thought his Finnish cleaner had arrived three hours early because she was so keen she couldn’t wait, but it turned out to be his neighbour, little Edvin, who was standing there with a serious expression and his neatly parted hair at the same level as the letterbox in Bäckström’s door. He’s come to tell me that Isak has finally fluttered off to the other side, Bäckström thought, and hurried to open the door.

  ‘Come in, Edvin, come in. Has something happened?’ Bäckström asked, making an effort to look suitably concerned.

  Little Edvin was the same as usual. A serious little fellow who began by expressing a hope that he wasn’t disturbing the superintendent. Before he rang the bell he had listened through the letterbox, as Bäckström had taught him, and that had told him that Bäckström was at home and up and about, but you could never be entirely sure.

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t you worry about that, lad,’ Bäckström said, patting him on the head. ‘I daresay there’s something you want to tell me.’ Good job he didn’t just crawl through the letterbox, he thought.

  ‘I’ve got good news for you, Superintendent,’ Edvin said, nodding steadily.

  At last, Bäckström thought, raising his eyes towards the ceiling.

  Edvin had come to tell him that Isak had recovered. He was still a little subdued, but he had been discharged from the animal hospital before the weekend, and the fact that Edvin had waited a week to share this happy news depended on two things. Firstly, he had realized from the newspapers that the superintendent was fully occupied with a serious murder investigation, and for that reason was perhaps unable to give Isak the care he required. Secondly, he had consciously chosen to wait until he was sure Isak was going to make a full recovery, so as not to raise Bäckström’s hopes in vain.

  ‘Where is he now, then?’ Bäckström said quietly. What the hell’s the bespectacled little lizard saying?

  Isak had spent the past week of his convalescence in Edvin’s bedroom. It had been a successful period of recuperation and, apart from the fact that he was still traumatized, there was good reason to hope that Isak would soon be back to his usual self. What Edvin wanted to know was whether he should hold on to Isak for a bit longer, considering Bäckström’s immense burden of work.

  There’s still hope for the little sod, Bäckström thought, thinking of Edvin rather than Isak.

  ‘Why don’t we talk about it?’ Bäckström suggested. ‘Can I get you anything? A glass of juice, perhaps?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Edvin said. ‘I never say no to a nice glass of juice.’

  Bäckström went into the kitchen and was hunting through his fridge and cupboards when he suddenly realized that no normal adult male kept juice in his home. Instead he got out a can of Coca-Cola for Edvin and a cold pilsner for himself.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m out of juice,’ Bäckström lied. ‘I hope Coca-Cola will be all right?’

  His guest assured him that Coca-Cola would be absolutely fine. Both his mother, Dusanka, and his father, Slobodan, used to have large glasses of Coca-Cola when they sat to watch television in the evenings, and Edvin had realized that drinking Coca-Cola made you happy. Even if he himself preferred raspberry juice.

  ‘What are we going to do, Superintendent?’ Edvin said, looking at him through his thick glasses. ‘Should I keep Isak for a bit longer, or would you prefer me to give him back straight away, Superintendent? I can write a note of all his medications. To make it easier to look after him, I mean.’

  Considering Bäckström’s currently incredible burden of work, he definitely preferred the first option. Even though he was of course longing to see his dear little Isak.

  ‘A wise decision, Superintendent,’ Edvin agreed. ‘Let’s agree that he should stay with me for the time being. You only have to let me know when things are a bit easier at work.’

  Before Edvin left, Bäckström peeled a satisfactory wad of notes from his money-clip and pressed them into Edvin’s hand.

  ‘For food and so on,’ Bäckström explained.

  ‘That’s far too much,’ Edvin said, wide-eyed at the sight of all the money he had just been given.

  ‘Maybe, but parrot medicine can’t be entirely free of charge,’ Bäckström said, patting Edvin on the head. ‘Get in touch when you need more.’ He ought to be able to work out the message behind that, he thought.

  Before Bäckström slid into the peaceful depths of his afternoon nap, he found himself thinking positive thoughts about his little neighbour. If he was used in the right way, someone like Edvin would be very useful within the police, he thought. Skinny as a piece of dental floss, little more than a hand-span tall and as nimble as a grass snake. If they needed someone to search confined spaces, little Edvin would be a genuine asset alongside the dogs the police used for sniffing out bombs, he
was thinking as he was lulled off to the land of Nod.

  When Bäckström returned from his customary dinner at his local bar that evening, GeGurra called to ask how the search for Pinocchio was going.

  Bäckström expressed cautious optimism, and before the short conversation ended they agreed to meet the following evening to discuss their ongoing plans in more detail.

  ‘What do you say to meeting at mine for a bite to eat?’ GeGurra suggested. ‘So we won’t be disturbed, I mean. I have an excellent catering firm who usually take care of the practical details, so there’s no cause for concern, my dear friend.’

  Bearing in mind the fact that the work was already done and they were talking about a couple of hundred million, Bäckström didn’t have any objections.

  ‘Excellent,’ GeGurra said. ‘In that case, I’ll expect you at my home on Norr Mälarstrand at eight o’clock.’

  125

  It turned into a late night, because Bäckström ended up sitting at his computer until after midnight, but he compensated for this by calling work as soon as he woke up and cancelling the morning meeting of the investigative team. When he walked into the office he bumped into Anchor Carlsson, who looked so angry that he decided he’d rather talk to her in his room, and preferably about something other than cancelled meetings and cretinous colleagues who could only benefit from having to take care of themselves and leaving him in peace.

  ‘Have you heard anything more about Rosita?’ Bäckström asked, as a suitable and introductory diversionary manoeuvre. ‘Are there any grounds for serious concern?’

  However, Annika was unable to provide an answer to this question. And she wasn’t able to go into why. But it was her decided opinion that their colleague Rosita Andersson-Trygg was likely to be off sick for some time.

  ‘She hasn’t caught bird flu or some shit like that, has she?’

  ‘No, why would she have?’ Anchor Carlsson replied, unable to conceal her surprise.

  ‘Oh, I was just thinking that she’s so interested in animals, of course, and there are loads of weird things that animals like that can infect us with. Impetigo, rabies, foot and mouth, parrot fever, you know,’ Bäckström said, shrugging his shoulders. Or rabbit fever, he thought. Why the hell would anyone want to stroke a rabbit?

  ‘Take it up with Holt,’ the Anchor said, shaking her head dismissively. ‘If you ask me, it’s got more to do with everything that’s been in the papers. The fact that the photofit picture ended up in the media wasn’t terribly smart, considering what happened to our witness, because we can’t really assume that both Åkare and García Gomez were entirely illiterate.’

  ‘No, those journalists are terrible, they’re just vultures,’ Bäckström sighed. ‘I solve that problem by never reading the papers.’

  ‘No, why would you need to?’ Anchor Carlsson replied, for some reason. ‘Well, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a lot to do.’

  The Anchor was evidently having one of her special days, and it was time he himself got something done, Bäckström thought with a contented sigh as he contemplated the activities that lay ahead of him. Tapas for lunch, he thought. Followed by Little Miss Friday, an afternoon nap and a decent dinner with GeGurra as a suitable conclusion to a week that had been full of hard work.

  Time for a taxi, he thought. He stood up with a jerk and pressed the quick-dial button for Taxi Stockholm.

  While Superintendent Evert Bäckström was sitting in a taxi on his way to have lunch, his colleague Detective Inspector Annika Carlsson got in touch with Superintendent Jan Lewin at the National Murder Unit, the officer leading the preliminary investigation into the triple murder down in Södermanland. Lewin began by apologizing for the fact that he hadn’t been in touch himself, but that he’d simply had too much to do, as was usually the case in the opening stages of a murder investigation. Not least when it was an investigation of this size.

  Then he thanked her for the information that she and her colleagues in Solna had passed on to them. He shared her belief that there was a lot to suggest that their witness, the taxi-driver, was the link between the other two victims, Åkare and García Gomez, and the most likely perpetrators, Afsan Ibrahim and those in his circle. The motive would have been the several-years-long blood feud that had arisen between the Hells Angels and the Brotherhood of the Ibrahims. And the opening shot would have been the murder of Afsan Ibrahim’s legal advisor, Thomas Eriksson.

  ‘Most of the evidence would seem to suggest that Åkare was the one they really wanted to get,’ Lewin said. ‘According to our forensic medical officer, they hung him from a wire noose, then, while he was still alive, entertained themselves with taking pot-shots at him and stabbing and cutting him.’

  ‘What about García Gomez and the taxi-driver? Have you found out any more about them?’

  ‘They were lying in the hall on the ground floor of the house. Both shot in the head, from very close range, execution-style, as our American colleagues say. The evidence suggests that García Gomez was shot first. Our taxi-driver Ara is covered in his blood, so García Gomez was probably shot while he was attacking Ara. After which Ara was also shot.’

  ‘Same weapon?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Lewin said. ‘Nine-millimetre, hollow-tipped bullets, pistol by the look of the cartridges, but we’ll get a definite answer on that this afternoon. We’ll email you as soon as we know.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing, except that I think the same as you,’ Lewin said. ‘That your witness was used as bait to lure Åkare and García Gomez and, as soon as they’d been dealt with, he went the same way. There’s no other explanation that makes sense, given everything that’s happened.’

  Omar ben Kader seems to be a charming sort, Annika Carlsson thought. A really good mate.

  126

  First the tapas bar on Fleminggatan. A concluding cognac out in the sun on the terrace.

  Then Little Miss Friday, where Bäckström pulled out a little surprise and commenced by shaving her before embarking on the usual downstairs picnic and finishing with the traditional salami ride.

  Finally, a gentle stroll home in the sunshine to his cosy abode, his nice wide Hästens bed, but as soon as he stepped in through the door his phone rang.

  ‘Listening,’ Bäckström grunted.

  ‘Am I speaking to Superintendent Bäckström?’ the voice at the other end asked.

  ‘That depends,’ Bäckström said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ronny,’ Film Ronny said, ‘aka Ronny the Reel. You left a message for me. You said there was something you wanted help with?’

  ‘Good,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’m assuming that this will stay between us.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ronny said. ‘Discretion, a matter of honour,’ he added.

  ‘If I say the name Genco, what does that make you think?’

  ‘The best movie in film history,’ Ronny said. ‘Swedish premiere 28 July 1975, simultaneously at Rigoletto, Draken and Spegeln in Stockholm. The American premiere was 12 December the previous year. In New York.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Bäckström said. What the fuck’s he going on about?

  ‘Genco Olive Oil, import and export. That was Vito Corleone’s first business after he emigrated to the USA. He was born Vito Andolini in the village of Corleone on Sicily, and the best film in the world is the story of his life.’

  ‘The Godfather,’ Bäckström said, practically able to hear the penny drop inside his head.

  ‘The Godfather: Part II,’ Ronny corrected.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Bäckström said. Must have been a class monitor when he was at school, he thought.

  ‘Can I ask why you wanted to know?’

  ‘You can,’ Bäckström said. ‘But it’s probably best not to expect an answer. Anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Maybe that Hawaiian shirt you were wearing when you were on the summer series of Crimewatch?’ Ronny said.

  ‘By all means,’ Bäckström said. ‘Where s
hould I send it?’

  ‘My name, to the newspaper’s office,’ Ronny said.

  ‘It’s in the post,’ Bäckström lied, seeing as even someone like Film Ronny ought to know that postmen stole like magpies these days, and that something as valuable as that would be lost the moment you put it in the post box.

  ‘Thanks, thanks very much,’ Film Ronny said, sounding like he really meant it.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Bäckström said. Evidently, he didn’t know, he thought as he ended the call.

  That evening’s dinner at GeGurra’s turned into a fine conclusion to the day. First, they imbibed some light refreshments, with a mixture of hot and cold canapés. Then there was a traditional, bourgeois three-course dinner in GeGurra’s dining room, before they concluded with coffee and cognac in the library as they discussed their mutual business project.

  ‘How is it going with the search for Pinocchio and his nose?’ GeGurra inquired with a look of curiosity.

  ‘Things are happening,’ Bäckström said with a heavy nod. ‘Even if it’s far too early to be talking of any kind of breakthrough.’

  ‘But I understand from the newspapers that the trail is leading towards the court and His Majesty the King,’ GeGurra persisted. ‘Even though I have to steel myself at the very thought that His Majesty would have had any dealings with a character like Eriksson.’

  ‘Absolutely, that’s right,’ Bäckström assured him. ‘Sadly, it’s all too often the case that people end up in the hands of men like Eriksson when it comes to business of a more sensitive nature. So you probably don’t have to worry about the province. Unfortunately, the problem is that the trail goes cold in the home of the ghastly Eriksson.’

  ‘Let us hope that that isn’t the case,’ GeGurra said, looking like he really meant it. ‘That would be a catastrophe for the whole of Western art history.’