He Who Kills the Dragon

14.

Bäckström had spent the morning trying to bring some order to the murder investigation that his colleagues were already in the process of messing up beyond all reason. He also felt considerably better than he had for a long time, because his sensitive nostrils kept smelling the heavenly scent of fresh rolls with lots of cheese and butter.

Those bloody weight watchers can fuck off, Bäckström thought. You can pretty much eat like a normal person as long as you don’t swill it all down with a load of liquid goodies. Then you stop for a while, fasting, drink like a fish and rinse out all the little blood vessels, and then you’re back to square one again.

Just after eleven his stomach had started grumbling in that pleasant and familiar way that told him that it was high time he got a bit more nutrition.

So he had gone down to the staff canteen in order to compose a well-balanced lunch that was completely in harmony with his own observations and conclusions.

First he had stopped at the salad bar and put together a pleasant little heap of grated raw carrot with a few sticks of cucumber and some pieces of tomato. He avoided all the elk and rabbit shit, and they didn’t seem to have any maggots, even though those had tasted almost like real food the only time he had tried them. Then he had sniffed at the various jugs of oils and dressings and eventually made up his mind. Rhode Island dressing it would be, Bäckström thought. He knew from experience that it was perfectly edible. He even used to buy it for himself, to pour over his homemade hamburgers with loads of cheese and mayonnaise.

Once he got to the counter he spent a long time choosing between the dish of the day, steak with fried potatoes, gherkins, and cream sauce; pasta of the day, carbonara with pork and a raw egg yolk; and fish of the day, fried plaice with boiled potatoes and gherkin mayonnaise. His strong and resolute character had won out and he had chosen the fish even though it was mostly faggots, dykes, and leftists who ate fish. Might still be worth trying anyway, Bäckström thought, feeling suddenly calm and strangely tranquil.

Which just left the choice of drink: tap water, juice, mineral water, or low-alcohol beer? He went for a small glass of low-alcohol beer as a simple and self-evident concession to the restraint he had already so convincingly displayed. Besides, it tasted so disgusting that it had to be good for you.

A quarter of an hour later he was finished. Which left coffee, and the chance to celebrate his triumph with a small almond cake. And maybe one of those little green marzipan cakes dipped in chocolate as well.

Think, Bäckström, think, Bäckström thought, and with almost stoical calm he put the marzipan cake back and made do with just a single almond one on his little plate. He had taken his coffee and gone and sat in a secluded corner to finish off his frugal meal in peace and quiet.