36

The following day Bäckström decided it was time to get cracking, which is why he started work in good time before lunch.

First he turned on the computer to go through his e-mail. Nothing from that lazy ass at the tech squad, even though the hottest lead in Swedish police history might very well be sitting at the tech squad getting cold.

How the hell can someone like that be a cop? thought Bäckström, sending yet another e-mail.

Then he called Johansson’s secretary and asked to speak with her boss.

“Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström,” said Bäckström. “I want to speak with the boss.”

“He’s not in,” his secretary answered in a reserved tone. “What does this concern?”

“Nothing I can talk about on the phone,” said Bäckström curtly. In any case not with you, you little cunt lips, he thought.

“Then I suggest you e-mail a few lines and mention what it’s about.”

“Not that either,” said Bäckström. “I have to see him.” Even her jaw must sit perpendicular, he thought.

“I will convey your message and ask if he has time.”

“Do that,” said Bäckström, hanging up before she had time to. What the hell do I do now? he thought. It was only eleven-thirty. Too early to eat lunch if you wanted to have a real pilsner with your food. Even too early to punch out of prison, because his so-called boss was roaming around in the corridor, like an eagle eyeing his meagerly allocated time. Wiijnbladh, he thought suddenly. It was time to put the squeeze on that little fairy and see what he had to offer.

Not very much, it appeared. Wiijnbladh was on all fours under his desk, and it looked like he was searching for something.

“How’s it goin’, Wiijnbladh?” said Bäckström. “Are you inspecting the cleaning, or what?”

Wiijnbladh twisted in place, shaking his head and giving Bäckström a shy glance.

“My pill, I’ve lost my pill.”

“Pill,” said Bäckström. What the hell is he babbling about? he thought.

“My medicine,” Wiijnbladh clarified. “Right when I was going to put it in my mouth, it fell on the floor, and now I can’t find it.”

“Have you thought about switching to suppositories?” Bäckström suggested. Try to stay alive until I’ve had time to talk with you, he thought.

That little half-fairy is completely gone, thought Bäckström as he closed the door on Wiijnbladh.

For lack of a better alternative he returned to his office. First he thought about calling a relative who worked at the police union and knew most everything about all his so-called colleagues. Upon further thought, however, he decided not to. Despite the blood ties that united them, his cousin was a little too curious and much too unreliable for Bäckström to dare approach him in such a sensitive matter.

Because it was now the stroke of twelve, with room for a quick walk between the police building and his usual lunch place a few blocks away, it was time to see about putting something in his craw. Especially as his own hawk had evidently changed territory. Best to take the opportunity to keep starvation away from your own door, thought Bäckström. He punched in code zero—as in lunch—on his phone and quickly left the building.

It turned out to be a short mealtime. Before two hours were up, he had returned to the building and still had time to purchase some invigorating breath mints en route. Though still no e-mail from the tech snail and nothing from the Lapp bastard either.

He must have his hands full with reindeer sorting, thought Bäckström.

Then the good Henning called and wondered how it was going. Because almost everything in Bäckström’s life these days concerned keeping him in a good mood, he laid it on a little. It looked rather promising, Bäckström assured him. He reported that he was fully occupied with internal surveillance of both person and object.

“There are a number of interesting leads, actually,” Bäckström observed.

“Anything you can talk about on the phone?” asked GeGurra.

Unfortunately not. Much too sensitive. On the other hand Bäckström himself had a question.

“You said he bought a Zorn from you. How did he come up with the money for that? That’s not like anything policemen usually hang on the wall. Mostly things like those crying children, I would think,” said Bäckström. Personally he also had one that he hung in the bathroom in his apartment. Right above the privy so the little crybaby could at least enjoy the Bäckström super-salami the few times they met.

“Rich parents,” Gustaf G:son Henning said. “Both his mom and dad and then several generations back. The great mystery is perhaps that he chose to become a police officer. Not an ordinary police officer fortunately, but a policeman nonetheless.”

“So what do you mean?” What do you know about real police officers? thought Bäckström.

“He seems to have had his faults, if I may say so. Rather special faults, if you understand what I mean.”

“No. Explain,” Bäckström persisted.

It was not something one discussed on the phone, and because he had customers waiting GeGurra suggested they be in touch after the weekend.

You stingy bastard, thought Bäckström. What’s wrong with meeting and having a bite to eat?

Then he called Johansson again. It was already past two, and because it was Friday it was presumably much too late. Someone like Johansson had surely already slipped away from work.

“Bäckström,” said Bäckström urgently. “Looking for the boss.”

“Unfortunately he’s not available,” answered Johansson’s secretary. “But I promise to convey your message as soon as I have a chance to talk with him.”

“That’s probably best,” said Bäckström.

“Excuse me?”

Shit your pants, you little sow, thought Bäckström and hung up.

For lack of a better plan he punched himself out with a code four. A short business trip to look at the crime scene twenty miles north of the city, and as soon as he was at a safe distance from the building he went straight home.

In some respects the weekend was more or less like it usually was. Some decent boxing on the sports channels and at least one memorable match where a giant palooka hacked a banty rooster half his size down to chicken feed, and the ringside audience looked like they had a case of measles after the first round.

Just wonder if life can get much better than this, thought Bäckström with a happy sigh. Here you sit on your new leather couch with an ample whiskey and a cold beer while two blacks pound the shit out of each other on your own big screen.

The weekend’s porno offerings had unfortunately been the usual. The endless bobbing, hopping, and moaning, and at last he got so sick and tired of it that despite all the malt whiskey he made a serious attempt to find something more interesting on the Internet. He did too. A red-haired babe from Norrköping who posted a tape of her own efforts on her home page. Cheap besides. Red-haired for real, judging by her mouse, and definitely a natural talent. Not to mention her dialect. Unbeatable, considering the lines, thought Bäckström, being the connoisseur he was.

On Saturday he had dinner at the usual greasy spoon, even though he now had the means to do much better. Just as usual it turned out to be too much of most everything, and basically he spent all of Sunday in his checkered bed from Hästens. In the early hours he’d had the company of an insolent little lady he had dragged home from the bar. Then she got as tedious as all the other hags his age, but because he was a decent fellow he gave her money for a taxi before he kicked her out. So he was finally able to sleep off a hard week. With revived energies he concluded the weekend with a long walk to a better restaurant down in City. Returned at a humane hour and went to bed early. Now damn it, thought Bäckström when at ten o’clock on Monday morning he was already back at work.

No sign of life from the colleague at the tech squad, and as a first measure he called the Lapp bastard’s secretary to give her a little reminder. This time the bastard was sitting in a meeting and could not be disturbed. If possible she herself sounded even snippier than usual. Wonder if it’s her mouse she talks with, thought Bäckström. Perseverance wins the day, he thought an hour later and called again. Although she sounded exactly the same, it seemed as though the message was finally about to get through.

First that weak dick Lewin had called. Evidently he had had to interrupt his archival studies down in the Palme room for his boss’s sake. Bäckström made the session brief. Then Lewin evidently trotted over to Flykt and asked for help. Ass licker Flykt, of all people. A retarded golf player who had evaded honorable work for at least twenty years by hiding behind his fine murder victim. Bäckström was even briefer.

Then he called Johansson’s secretary again to give her yet another little reminder. Called her on Monday, on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, when his bottle cap popped off and he told her a thing or two she needed to hear. The only result was that his own little office fool and so-called boss came charging into his office and threatened first one thing and then another, and then suddenly Bäckström was going to be granted the favor of meeting Anna Holt.

From weak dick to ass licker to that anorexic dyke whose ribs you can count through her jacket. We’re taking giant steps here, thought Bäckström as he put his best foot forward in the corridors that led to Police Superintendent Anna Holt.

Clearly he was the target of a conspiracy. They had recorded his calls in secret, and Holt threatened first one thing and then another. First he only intended to give her some general advice and tell her to stick her opinions up her anus, but because this still was about the murder of a prime minister he tried to make an effort and give her everything GeGurra had given him. Decent fellow that he was, case-oriented as he was too, and considering the great values that were at stake.

What the hell is happening with the police? thought Bäckström as he left her office. Where the hell are we headed, really?