The Sword of Justice
Page 53
‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ Lisa Mattei said. ‘It’s hard to avoid, to put it mildly.’
‘Or perhaps like a latter-day Sven Dufva, coming to the rescue of the Crown,’ the general director declared, chuckling happily at his literary reference. ‘But there’s one thing you ought to know about. For the time being, for your knowledge alone.’
‘I’m listening,’ Lisa Mattei said.
A few hours ago their contact in Moscow had got in touch to inform him of rumours that the Russian president, Vladimir Putin, was planning to award the Pushkin Medal to Superintendent Bäckström.
‘The Pushkin Medal?’
‘The Pushkin Medal is the highest honour that Russia can give to a foreigner.’
‘To Bäckström? What for?’
‘The Pushkin Medal is awarded to people who have made a unique contribution in the field of art, culture and the humanities. Only contributions that are of definitive significance to Russia and its people are considered. To date it has only ever been awarded on a very few occasions, and this will be the first time it has been given to a foreign citizen. And the first time that the president himself has awarded it. From Vladimir Putin to Evert Bäckström. We ought, perhaps, to ponder the reason why.’
‘From Vladimir Putin to Evert Bäckström?’
‘Yes.’
Or vice versa, Lisa Mattei thought, but just nodded.
151
When Bäckström opened the door of his flat on Wednesday morning to go to work, he discovered that someone had hung a plastic bag on his door-handle. A white plastic bag, no writing, and inside it was a white shoebox, also without any writing. If it had contained a bomb detonated by the usual motion detector, Bäckström would have been dead by now.
Instead, he let his curiosity get the better of him, and weighed the bag carefully in his hand before carrying it into the flat, putting it down on the hall table and lifting the lid. Inside the box lay little Isak. Lying peacefully on his back, his tongue sticking out of the side of his hooked beak, a wire noose pulled tight around his throat and a neatly handwritten note on his chest.
‘Parlava troppo,’ Bäckström read.
Bäckström put the bag, box and Isak in the briefcase in which he had secreted various sensitive items over the years. He asked Nadja to come to his room, showed her the contents of the box and asked if she could help him interpret the message on the note.
Of course she could. Parlava troppo was a common expression within the Neapolitan mafia.
‘Italian,’ Nadja said. Translated, it basically meant that he talked too much.
Bäckström had received a message from someone who, in all likelihood, knew what he was up to. If he wanted to put a positive spin on it, at least it wasn’t Bäckström himself lying there, so it was more a friendly exhortation to keep his mouth shut from now on.
‘Do you want to file a complaint?’ Nadja asked.
‘No.’ Bäckström shook his head. ‘I want you to get rid of the body.’
‘You’ve come to the right person.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m Russian,’ Nadja said with a smile. ‘I thought I might do it the Russian way. In five minutes there won’t be any parrot, nor any box or plastic bag, and this conversation between you and me never happened.
‘Thanks,’ Bäckström said.
‘On one condition,’ Nadja said.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Non parlerai troppo.’
‘I promise.’
152
Bäckström spent the rest of the day behind his carefully barricaded door.
He ate both lunch and dinner in the company of little Siggy, as he tried to sort out the new financial situation in which circumstances had left him. To be on the safe side, he used paper and pen to list all the practical problems that occupied the everyday life of a multimillionaire. The new company that GeGurra had promised to help him with, Slobodan’s suggestion of discreet partner ownership of a highly profitable betting shop, perhaps even some new teeth for Nadja.
Bäckström was sitting there with a list that just kept getting longer and longer, and he only interrupted his work when Anchor Carlsson phoned him.
‘Are you at home?’ the Anchor asked. ‘There’s something we need to talk about.’
‘No, I’m on my way to my local to have dinner,’ Bäckström lied. He was still waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night from having nightmares about the Anchor’s last visit to his home.
‘See you there, then,’ the Anchor said, and because she ended the call immediately it was too late for further excuses.
Bäckström more or less had to shovel his food down and, when the Anchor showed up an hour later, he got away with only having to offer her a beer.
‘How did you get on with the complaint from the Rabbit Unit?’ he asked.
‘Sorted,’ the Anchor said. ‘The charge has been dismissed.’
‘How did you sort that out, then?’
‘I explained to them that you’d got rid of the bastard. And I gave them a few choice words of advice, so I don’t think it will be happening again.’
‘Thanks very much. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.’
‘Okay,’ the Anchor said with a nod. ‘That’s actually why I’m here.’
‘Go on,’ Bäckström said, leaning back and sipping the modest glass of cognac that had just appeared in front of him.
Anchor Carlsson was going to move house. She wasn’t happy in her cramped two-room flat out in Bergshamra, and a few days ago a friend whose family had just grown got in touch, wondering if she would like to buy their flat in Filmstaden, in Solna. It was twice the size of hers, good location, its own balcony, as good as new, walking distance from work, and all she needed was three million.
‘I don’t understand,’ Bäckström said. ‘What does this have to do with me?’ Three million, he thought.
‘I was thinking you might like to lend me the money,’ the Anchor said.
‘You were, were you?’ Bäckström said. ‘Just one question. What rate of interest were you thinking of?’
‘Zero per cent,’ Anchor Carlsson said, giving him a friendly smile.
‘Zero per cent,’ Bäckström repeated. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Have you heard the true story of Pinocchio’s nose?’ Anchor Carlsson said.
About the Author
Leif G.W. Persson is Scandinavia's most renowned criminologist and a leading psychological profiler. He has also served as an advisor to the Swedish Ministry of Justice. Since 1991, he has held the position of Professor at the National Swedish Police Board and is regularly consulted as the country's foremost expert on crime.
He is the author of ten bestselling crime novels including three featuring the irrepressible Evert Bäckström. He is also the recipient of many prestigious awards including The Piraten Award, The Glass Key for Best Scandinavian Crime Novel, The Swedish Academy of Crime Writers' Award (three times), The Finnish Whodunnit Society's Annual Award for Excellence in Foreign Crime Writing, The Petrona Award for Best Scandinavian Crime Novel, and The Danish Academy of Crime Writers' Palle Rosenkrantz Prize.
Also by Leif G.W. Persson
The Story of a Crime series
Between Summer’s Longing and Winter’s End
Another Time, Another Life
Falling Freely, as if in a Dream
The Bäckström series
Linda – As in the Linda Murder
He Who Kills the Dragon
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Leif G.W. Persson 2013
Translation copyright © Neil Smith 2016
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Originally published in Sweden as Den sanna historien om Pinocchios näsa
in 2013 by Albert Bonniers Förlag
Leif G.W. Persson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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