He Who Kills the Dragon

18.

Bäckström had done everything by the book. First he got Stigson to do a few turns around the block where Stålhammar lived. No sign of him.

Then they had gone inside the building he lived in and listened to his apartment through the mail slot. Not a sound.

Then Bäckström had called him on his landline. They heard the sound of the phone ringing inside the apartment but no audible human activity in response.

Then he had called him on his cell phone.

‘Roly,’ Stålhammar grunted, but Bäckström didn’t say anything. ‘Hello. Hello?’ Stålhammar repeated. Then Bäckström had ended the call.

‘I’m convinced he’s scarpered,’ Bäckström said, nodding toward Stigson as Stålhammar’s next-door neighbor opened his door and stood there staring at them. A sinewy little old man, circa seventy years old, Bäckström thought.

This sort of thing didn’t often happen in the book’s versions of events, but naturally Bäckström had solved the situation that had arisen.

‘Do you know where Roly’s gone?’ Bäckström asked amiably. ‘He’s an old friend of ours and we’d like a word with him.’

‘Yes, you don’t have to be a genius to work that out,’ the old man hissed, and stared at Bäckström’s Hawaiian shirt and Stigson’s shaved head.

But he didn’t have anything he could tell them, and if they didn’t get out of there at once, he’d call the police.

On their way back to the station Bäckström had explained all the usual, obvious stuff to Stigson. That he should talk to surveillance and get them to keep an eye on Stålhammar’s address, and let Annika Carlsson know at once if he showed up. Then give Stålhammar’s cell number to the team who dealt with phone surveillance and see if they could locate the tower closest to Stålhammar when he had taken the call.

‘You made a note of when I called?’ Bäckström asked.

‘Fourteen forty-five and twenty seconds,’ Stigson nodded. ‘No worries, boss,’ he assured him.

When Bäckström got out of the car down in the garage he had bumped into Annika Carlsson, who had asked for a private chat with him and given Stigson the evil eye.

‘What can I do for you, Annika?’ Bäckström said with a gentle smile.

‘I’ve spoken to the prosecutor. They’ve given it to Tove. She’s good,’ she reassured him.

So you’ve been there as well, Bäckström thought. But it would have been unwise to say it out loud. Don’t want to start the weekend by getting my skull fractured, he thought.

‘Do you want me or you to keep an eye on things over the weekend?’ Carlsson went on.

‘It would be great if you could,’ Bäckström said. ‘Things got a bit out of whack in my last post. I had to put in way too much overtime toward the end, and — because I want to be around if things heat up — I thought I might take this weekend off,’ Bäckström lied.

No problem, according to Carlsson.

When Bäckström returned to his office to pick up the bare essentials and make his escape, Niemi suddenly stuck his nose in and seemed to have a lot on his mind.

‘Can I sit down?’ Niemi said, and since he’d already sat down, Bäckström had made do with a nod.

‘What can I do for you, then?’ Bäckström said. Bastard Lapp, he thought.

Not much, according to Niemi. The question was more what he could do for Bäckström.

‘A piece of advice in good faith,’ Niemi said.

‘I’m listening,’ Bäckström said.

‘I think you should take it easy with Roly Stålhammar,’ Niemi said. ‘He isn’t the type who needs a saucepan lid to put the lights out on someone like Danielsson. And they were friends. He just feels wrong for this.’

‘Really?’ Bäckström said, smiling happily. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but first Danielsson and Stålhammar sit and get blitzed and have a high old time until circa quarter past ten that evening. Then the neighbor comes down and tells them to shut up. Shortly after that, Danielsson is beaten to death. But not by Stålhammar, because he has already lumbered off home to get his beauty sleep. Instead, more or less immediately an unknown perpetrator appears out of nowhere, invisible and soundless and without leaving any evidence, because neither you nor Fernandez seem to have found the tiniest little trace of him, even though he was evidently the one who beat Danielsson to death. Have I got that right?’

‘I know it sounds odd,’ Niemi said, ‘but—’

‘Have I got that right?’ Bäckström repeated, glaring sourly at Niemi.

‘Yes, because I don’t believe Roly would do something like that to a friend, so that must be what happened. However unlikely it might sound.’

‘Well, I don’t happen to believe that,’ Bäckström said. ‘Now, you’ll have to excuse me.’

Niemi had shrugged, wished him a good weekend, and walked out. Bäckström had made do with a curt nod. Then he had left the madhouse that was his current place of work and walked all the way home.