He Who Kills the Dragon

17.

Oh, for fuck’s sake! Bäckström thought, as soon as she opened the door. Britt-Marie Andersson was an old crone! She had to be at least sixty, he thought. This from a man in the prime of life, who wouldn’t be fifty-five until the autumn.

Big blond hair, porcelain-blue eyes, red mouth, teeth that were so white that they probably were porcelain, sunbed brown, her flowery dress a fair way above her knees, a generous neckline, and there was no way she was ever going to sleep on her front. What a fucking fate, Bäckström thought. At least sixty, and as a result she’d missed her chance at the Bäckström super-salami way back before the turn of the millennium.

To complete the picture, she also had a little dog that ran round yapping. One of those Mexican cockroaches that you could drown in a teacup. Just to underline the point, his name was Little Sweetie.

‘There, there,’ his owner said soothingly, picking up the wretched creature and kissing it on the nose.

‘Little Sweetie always gets jealous when Mommy has gentlemen callers,’ Mrs. Andersson explained, blinking and smiling with those red lips.

You should probably take care not to end up in a threesome with him and little Stigson, then, Bäckström thought. He seldom missed a chance to think along those lines.

After that he had quickly pulled out the pictures of Danielsson’s friends to put an end to this farce and get away from there. Their hostess had sat down on a low pink plush armchair and had directed her guests to the flowery sofa opposite. And all the while Little Sweetie ran around yapping until his owner took pity on him and lifted him onto her lap.

The folk dancer had been in a state of bliss. Reverse pedophilia, Bäckström thought, and when old crone Andersson leaned over the table to get a closer look at pisshead Danielsson’s pisshead friends, little Stigson’s eyes had gone completely vacant.

‘I recognize almost all of them,’ Mrs. Andersson said. She straightened up and took some deep breaths just to make sure, as she flashed a broad smile at her guests. ‘They’re Danielsson’s old friends. They’ve been coming and going all the years I’ve lived here, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them sober. Isn’t that one supposed to be an old policeman?’ she asked, putting her long red fingernail on Roland Stålhammar’s passport photo.

‘That’s right,’ Bäckström said. ‘Retired.’

‘I daresay he was the one in Danielsson’s flat when all that noise was going on, the evening before he got killed.’

‘What makes you say that, Mrs. Andersson?’ Bäckström asked.

‘I saw him when I was out walking Little Sweetie,’ Britt-Marie Andersson said. ‘He was walking down Råsundavägen. It was around eight o’clock. He could well have been on his way round to see Danielsson.’

‘But you never saw the person who was inside Danielsson’s apartment?’ Bäckström asked, simultaneously giving Stigson the evil eye.

‘No, I never saw who it was,’ Mrs. Andersson said. ‘But I don’t know how many times I’ve seen that Roly, I think that’s his name, coming and going to Danielsson’s place.’

‘Anyone else?’ Bäckström said, gesturing toward the heap of photographs.

‘That one’s actually my ex-brother-in-law, Halvar Söderman,’ Mrs. Andersson said, pointing at the photograph of a former car dealer, Halvar ‘Halfy’ Söderman, seventy-one years old. ‘I was married to his older brother, Per Söderman, Per A. Söderman,’ Mrs. Andersson clarified, placing particular emphasis on the A.

‘He was a completely different sort of person to his younger brother; he’s a real waste of space. I can assure you of that, but sadly my husband died ten years ago.’

Probably died when a heavy weight landed on him, Bäckström thought. He glanced one last time at Britt-Marie Andersson’s undeniably remarkable assets, thanked her for her help, got the reluctant Stigson to his feet, and said goodbye. Stigson looked as if Bäckström had just torn his heart out, and against all the rules, he had leaned forward and given the old crone a hug before they finally got out of there.

‘What a woman, what a woman,’ Jan O. Stigson said, and sighed as he got in behind the wheel to drive them to Järnvägsgatan so that they could take a discreet look at where Stålhammar lived.

‘It hasn’t occurred to you that she’s old enough to be your grandmother?’ Bäckström asked.

‘Maybe my mother,’ Stigson corrected. ‘Think about that, Bäckström. Having a mother with a body like that.’

‘You’re obviously very fond of your mother,’ Bäckström said slyly. The same mother who must have exposed him to incestuous abuse at an early age, he thought.

‘Isn’t everyone?’ Sergeant Stigson said, looking at his boss in surprise. ‘I mean, doesn’t everyone love their mom?’

Definitely a victim of incest. Poor bastard, Bäckström thought, but contented himself with a nod.