Bäckström had almost immediately seen about instilling some manners and style into his so-called support person Little Frippy. He was even getting sort of fond of the bastard, though he looked like a painful animal experiment and sounded like a bad book.
Reminds me a little of Egon, after all, thought Bäckström. Though not as taciturn, of course.
Egon was his dear goldfish, which an unusually malevolent colleague unfortunately had taken the opportunity to put to death when Bäckström was out in the countryside on a murder investigation. Then the colleague got rid of the body by flushing it down Bäckström’s toilet. Although that fate probably won’t befall Little Frippy, I hope, thought Bäckström. Because he—as stated—was starting to get attached to him.
After only a few days Little Frippy had asked Bäckström to stop calling him Little Frippy.
“Okay then,” said Bäckström. “If you’ll stop calling me Eve, I promise that your name will be Fridolin in the future.”
“I thought you were called Eve,” said Little Frippy with surprise. “Don’t all your buddies call you Eve?”
“I lied. I’ve never had any buddies,” said Bäckström. He shook his head and knocked back a little good malt.
“That’s sad,” said Fridolin, sipping his beer and sounding like he meant what he said.
“Do you want some good advice, Fridolin? From a wise man.”
Fridolin nodded.
“Whatever you do, don’t ever get yourself any buddies. You see, in this fucking world you can’t rely on a single fucking person.”
With that the ice had been broken, and together with his now faithful squire Bäckström discussed how they would get his message out to the general public, whom all the shady powers that be had kept in the dark for more than twenty years.
Fridolin got straight to the point and suggested that he should speak with the provincial police chief in Stockholm. He “had her ear” and was pretty sure he could arrange a meeting in which Bäckström could make a presentation about the truth behind the Palme murder.
Nice to hear it’s not a more vital body part, thought Bäckström.
“What’s the point of that?” he asked.
According to Fridolin it was well worth trying. There were three good reasons. People like Waltin and his companions were at the top of Ms. Police Chief’s own political agenda. Fridolin had—as stated—her ear, and besides it was an open secret that she was being considered as the next national police commissioner.
“Okay then,” said Bäckström. If it’s war, then so be it, he thought.