He Who Kills the Dragon

16.

Right, then, Bäckström thought, once he and his colleagues had settled back down again. Now all we need to do is tie things up, without getting too excited and rushing the job.

‘Nadja,’ Bäckström said, nodding genially at Nadja Högberg, ‘have you found out anything else about our victim?’

According to Nadja Högberg, most of her work was done now. Apart from Danielsson’s old limited company, which she was planning to look into over the weekend. But there also seemed to be a safe-deposit box that she hadn’t yet found. The keys fitted a box in a branch of Handelsbanken located on Valhallavägen in Stockholm, that much was straightforward. The problem was that neither Danielsson nor his company, according to the bank, had a box at that branch. The number of the box wasn’t clear from the keys, and because there were hundreds of boxes at that branch alone, finding the box wasn’t as simple as it seemed.

‘The bank and I are still grappling with that,’ Nadja Högberg said. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of it.’

One thing that she had already sorted out was the bundles of slips and receipts that the forensics team had found in Danielsson’s flat.

‘There are loads of them,’ Nadja said. ‘Winning slips from Solvalla totaling more than half a million; taxi receipts, restaurant receipts, and loads of other invoices for everything from office furniture to paintwork in an old storehouse out in Flemingsberg, south of the city. In total, the invoices and receipts come to more than a million, and they’re all dated from the last few months.’

‘The bastard must have been a demon with the horses,’ Bäckström said. He had been only half listening. Half a million in a few months, he thought.

‘I don’t believe that for a moment,’ Nadja said, shaking her head. ‘Betting on the horses is a zero-sum game. If you’re lucky and know a bit about horses, you might just break even in the long run. He was trading in winning slips, that’s all. It’s no more complicated than that, but I daresay a few of them are his own. He sold them on to someone who needed to explain to the tax office how he had been able to buy a new Mercedes even though he didn’t have any income. The same with the receipts. He sold them to people who used them as tax-deductible expenses for their businesses. Presumably he had the contacts from when he was active as an accountant and auditor, but it doesn’t really demand any particular skills.’

Better than collecting empties like all the other pissheads, Bäckström thought.

‘Excuse me,’ Alm said, with an apologetic gesture as his cell phone started to ring.

‘Alm,’ Alm said, then he sat and mostly listened for a couple minutes as Bäckström glared at him with growing anger.

‘Sorry,’ Alm said when the call was over.

‘Not at all,’ Bäckström said. ‘Don’t let us bother you. I’m sure it was vitally important.’

‘That was Niemi,’ Alm said. ‘I took the opportunity to call him during the break, to let him know about Roly Stålhammar.’

‘Are Stålhammar’s prints in the register?’ Bäckström asked. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this before?’

‘No,’ Alm said, shaking his head. ‘Stålhammar’s prints aren’t on file officially, but he did give Niemi a set of prints in conjunction with an old murder in Stockholm years ago. Stålhammar and his partner — wasn’t his name Brännström? — had gone to see an old junkie living on Pipersgatan, more or less next door to police headquarters. There was no one home, but they took the opportunity to go through his lodgings, since they were there anyway. Brännström thought there was a funny smell in the flat and pulled out the bottom half of an old sofa bed in the living room. And that’s where they found the tenant. Stuffed into his sofa bed with an ice pick in his skull. So when the forensics team arrived, Roly and Brännström had to provide a full set of prints so that theirs could be ruled out from the search.’

‘So you don’t think they were the ones who did it?’ Bäckström said with a grin. ‘I seem to remember that Brännström was fond of long-distance skiing and winter sports.’ Another fucking idiot, he thought. He and Stålhammar must have made a right pair. The blind leading the blind.

‘This was in July,’ Alm said. ‘The victim had been lying there for a week, so if you don’t mind...’

‘By all means,’ Bäckström said.

‘To get to the point,’ Alm said, ‘Niemi was calling to say that he had just compared Stålhammar’s prints with the ones they found on the glasses, bottles, and cutlery in Danielsson’s flat.’

‘And?’ Bäckström said.

‘Well,’ Alm said. ‘They’re Stålhammar’s prints.’

‘Would you believe it?’ Bäckström said. ‘Such a nice, decent man as well.’

‘Okay, this is what we’re going to do,’ Bäckström, who had just finished thinking, said. The fact that it had taken only thirty seconds showed that he was starting to feel like his old self again, he thought.

‘Annika,’ he said, nodding toward Carlsson. ‘Talk to the prosecutor about what we’ve got on Stålhammar. It would be great if we could just go and pick him up and lock him away for the weekend. Then we can start on him on Monday morning. Three days in a cell without a drop of alcohol usually works well on old pissheads.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Annika Carlsson said, without pursing her mouth at all.

‘Nadja, you keep trying to find the number of Danielsson’s bank box. It’s probably full of a load of old receipts and shit like that. Sort that out with the prosecutor as well, so we don’t have to deal with any crap later.

‘The victim’s old friends,’ Bäckström went on, nodding at Alm. ‘Get photographs of them and we’ll do another round of the neighbors and see if we can’t winkle out a few eyewitnesses as well. Preferably people who saw Stålhammar rolling round the neighborhood wearing slippers, washing-up gloves, and a blood-drenched raincoat.’

‘I’ve done that with eleven of them already,’ Alm said, digging out a plastic sleeve from his folder. ‘Driving-license shots or passport pictures of all of them. I’ve got address lists. We may have to finish that off later, but Stålhammar’s picture is already in there.’

‘Excellent. In that case I think I’m going to start by borrowing your pictures,’ Bäckström said without explaining why. ‘Full steam ahead now, Alm. Stålhammar is priority number one now, and everything else is no priority at all. Agreed?’

Alm contented himself with nodding and shrugging. Like all bad losers, Bäckström thought.

‘You’re coming with me,’ Bäckström said, pointing a fat finger at Sergeant Stigson. ‘We’re going to take a drive past Stålhammar’s house and have a discreet little look at what the bastard’s up to. Well, I think that’s everything, at least for the time being.’

‘What about me?’ Felicia Pettersson said, pointing at herself just to be sure.

‘Yes, you,’ Bäckström said with extra emphasis. ‘Have a think about that paperboy. That lad, Soot— Him, Akofeli. There’s something about him that doesn’t make sense.’

‘But what could he have to do with Stålhammar?’ Felicia looked questioningly at Bäckström.

‘Good question,’ Bäckström said, already heading for the door. ‘It’s worth thinking about, Felicia,’ he went on. There, that gave the pretty little darkie something to chew on as well, Bäckström thought. What the fuck did Akofeli have to do with their murderer? Not the tiniest little thing, if you ask me, he thought.

‘Get a car for us, Stigson,’ Bäckström said as soon as they had got far enough away from Annika Carlsson’s sensitive hearing.

‘Already sorted,’ Stigson said. ‘I’ve got Stålhammar’s address. Järnvägsgatan number—’

‘Later,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘Give that woman, Andersson, a call and ask if we can call in at Hasselstigen.’

‘Sure, boss,’ Stigson said. ‘Are you thinking of showing her the pictures of Stålhammar?’

‘I thought I might take a look at her boobs first,’ Bäckström said. He was starting to feel like his old self again. Everything in its own good time, including pictures of Stålhammar, he thought.

‘Boobs,’ Stigson said, sighing and shaking his shaved head disparagingly. ‘I promise you, boss. We’re talking melons here. Massive great melons.’