He Who Kills the Dragon

20.

When Bäckström arrived in his office he found a note on his desk from one of the cell phone surveillance team. Bäckström’s nuisance call to Stålhammar on Friday afternoon had made its way to a phone tower on the other side of the Öresund, in the center of Copenhagen.

‘I fucking knew it,’ Bäckström growled, as he called Annika Carlsson on her cell.

‘Good morning, Bäckström,’ Carlsson said.

‘Never mind about that,’ Bäckström replied in his most polite manner. ‘It looks like that bastard Stålhammar has run off to Copenhagen.’

‘Not anymore,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘I’ve just had a call from reception. Apparently he’s sitting downstairs and wants to talk to us.’

Ten minutes later Bäckström, Carlsson, and Stålhammar were sitting in one of the crime unit’s interview rooms. Stålhammar looked like he’d had a hectic weekend, to judge by his clothes and general appearance. Three days’ stubble; sweaty, unwashed clothes; and the smell of old and new drinking. But otherwise he was much the same. A large, thickset man, with sharp, furrowed facial features and without an ounce of fat on his muscular body.

‘This is an awful business, Bäckström,’ Stålhammar said, rubbing the corner of his eye with his right knuckles. ‘What sort of bastard would go and kill Kalle?’

‘We were hoping you might be able to help us with that question,’ Bäckström said. ‘We’ve been looking for you for several days.’

‘I headed off to Malmö on Thursday morning,’ Stålhammar said, rubbing his red eyes. ‘That must have been when it happened, if I’ve understood correctly?’

‘What were you doing in Malmö?’ Bäckström asked. I’m the one who asks the questions here, he thought.

‘I’ve got an old flame down there. Damn fine woman, so when Kalle and I picked a winner on Wednesday and I suddenly had ten thousand in my pocket, it wasn’t a hard decision. I got the train down. Can’t stand planes. Way too fucking cramped. You have to be Japanese with no legs to fit in those seats. And no cart service either. I caught the morning train. Got there just after lunchtime.’

‘Has she got a name?’ Bäckström asked.

‘Who?’ Stålhammar said, looking at Annika Carlsson in surprise.

‘Your old flame down in Malmö,’ Bäckström clarified.

‘ ’Course she has,’ Stålhammar said. ‘Marja Olsson. Lives at number four Staffansvägen. She’s in the phonebook. She works as a staff nurse at the hospital down there. She picked me up from Malmö Central. You’re welcome to call her if you don’t believe me.’

‘What did you do after that?’ Bäckström asked.

‘After that we didn’t leave the house until Friday, when we went to Copenhagen for a proper lunch. We carried on all day and half the night.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, then we came back. Sometime early in the morning. To Malmö, I mean. Back to Marja’s, and we carried on as usual again. Went out and got supplies before the shops shut. Then we got going again.’

‘You got going again?’

‘Sure,’ Stålhammar said with a sigh. ‘She’s in seriously good shape, that girl, and my dander was up. I don’t suppose we got out of bed until Sunday evening when Flash called on my cell to tell me what had happened.’

‘Flash?’

‘Björn Johansson. Another old friend from school. You probably know him? He’s fairly well known around these parts. An old Solna character. Used to run Flash Electricals down in Sundbyberg, but now his boy’s taken over. So he told me what had happened, and it didn’t feel right to hang about in Malmö, so I got the night train up to help you find the bastard who killed Kalle.’

‘That was kind of you, Roland,’ Bäckström said. Looks like old Roly did some thinking somewhere in all that drinking and decided to put up a bit of resistance, he thought.

‘Well, what the hell. Of course I’m going to help. So here I am,’ he clarified.

It had taken two hours to work out what Stålhammar had been doing since Thursday morning, when he suddenly headed off toward Copenhagen, until Monday morning, when he showed up in the Solna police station. Then they’d taken a break for lunch.

Bäckström had stocked up seriously because he realized this was going to be a drawn-out business. Meatballs and mashed potatoes, cream sauce, and both almond and marzipan cakes this time. Annika Carlsson had taken a quick pasta salad and a mineral water before going off to make sure that Alm and the others had started to check the information that Roland Stålhammar had given them about his visit to Malmö and Copenhagen. Stålhammar had made do with a sandwich and a cup of coffee that Annika had fetched for him from the cafeteria.

We’re getting close, Bäckström thought, when they were back in their seats again. Stålhammar had started sweating in a promising way, and when he raised the coffee cup to his lips he had to use both hands.

‘You were at Solvalla on Wednesday last week, Wednesday, May fourteenth,’ Bäckström said. ‘What can you tell us about that?’

He had got there at about four o’clock that afternoon to watch the warm-up, and then go round and listen to his old friends for a bit.

‘Warm-up?’ Annika Carlsson asked. She hadn’t said much before lunch.

Stålhammar had explained. When you took the horses out onto the track before the race to get them warmed up.

‘Like doing exercises, you know. Warming up. Before you go out and race properly,’ Stålhammar said.

An hour or so later Kalle Danielsson had turned up. They had talked to Gunnar Gustafsson, who reassured them that the tip he had given them the day before still stood. Instant Justice had behaved impeccably during the first warm-up. His old injury seemed to have healed well.

‘According to Gunnar, he was like a completely new horse,’ Stålhammar said. ‘Not so impetuous anymore, but still with the same phenomenal physique. If you ask me, he’s like a fucking train, Bäckström.’

‘How did you find each other out at Valla?’ Annika Carlsson asked. ‘Had you agreed where to meet up or what?’

‘He must have called me,’ Stålhammar said, shaking his head. ‘At least I presume he did,’ he said.

‘So Kalle had a cell?’ Annika said.

‘Everyone does these days, don’t they?’ Stålhammar said, looking at her in surprise.

‘Have you got his number? The number of his cell phone?’ Bäckström specified.

‘Don’t think so,’ Stålhammar said, shaking his head. ‘Why would I? I used to call him at home, or else we just bumped into each other out somewhere. If he wasn’t home I used to leave him a message on his answering machine. Then he would call back. Anyway, he had my cell number.’

‘Hang on a minute, Roland,’ Bäckström persisted. ‘You must have had Danielsson’s cell number.’ There’s something that doesn’t make sense here, he thought.

‘No,’ Stålhammar said. ‘Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?’ he said, glowering at Bäckström.

‘Did you ever see Danielsson with a cell phone?’ Carlsson asked. ‘Are you sure about that?’ There’s something that doesn’t make sense here, she thought.

‘Now that you come to mention it, I don’t think I ever did,’ Stålhammar said.

Shit, Bäckström thought, exchanging a glance with his colleague and deciding to change tack.

‘We’ll deal with that later,’ Bäckström said. ‘So you and Danielsson won a whole load of money?’ he said.

He and Danielsson had put five hundred to win on the born-again Instant Justice, sharing the bet, and two minutes after the race started they were some twenty thousand kronor richer.

‘And then?’ Bäckström asked.

‘Kalle cashed out the money,’ Stålhammar said, ‘and then he took a taxi home to get dinner. We were going to meet up back at his for a bite to eat, so I thought that made sense. That way you can’t be tempted. When you’re close to seventy you have a fair idea of what you’re like,’ he explained.

‘It was the right decision too,’ Stålhammar went on, ‘because after the very next race I was completely broke. I had to borrow a hundred off an old friend to save me having to walk back to Kalle’s. It was already almost eight o’clock, and you don’t want to be eating in the middle of the night. Unless we’re talking supper, of course.’

Shit, Bäckström thought.

‘Has he got a name?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ Stålhammar said, shaking his head in surprise. ‘Kalle?’

‘The man you borrowed the hundred from?’

‘Flash,’ Stålhammar said. ‘I thought I’d already said that. Didn’t we talk about him before lunch?’

‘You took a taxi back to Danielsson’s. To number one Hasselstigen?’ Bäckström asked, who had Britt-Marie Andersson’s testimony fresh in his mind.

‘That’s right,’ Stålhammar said with a nod.

‘You’re absolutely certain of that?’ Bäckström said.

‘Well, hell, no, now that I come to think about it. That hundred wasn’t enough and the money-grabbing Iraqi who was driving kicked me out on Råsundavägen. Not the end of the world, admittedly, since it was only a couple hundred meters from Kalle’s door, but I had to do the last bit on foot.’

‘Did you get a receipt?’

‘I would have,’ Stålhammar said. ‘I used to give all my receipts to Kalle. He used to sell them on to some old pal who deals in white goods. But the bastard just drove off.’

‘So you walked the last bit?’ Bäckström clarified. He’s not that stupid after all, the old drunk, he thought.

‘What happened next?’ Bäckström asked.

First they had divided the money. More or less. Stålhammar got 10,300 in his hand, ten thousand-kronor notes and three hundreds, but because Danielsson didn’t have any change Stålhammar let him keep the last ten.

‘My old mate, it’s hardly the end of the world,’ Stålhammar had said with a shrug.

Then they had eaten, drunk, and talked. They started sometime around half past eight with pork chops and kidney beans, a few lagers and chasers. When the food was finished Kalle had mixed himself a vodka and tonic, whereas Stålhammar preferred his neat. They had talked some more, both of them in an excellent mood, and Kalle had put on some old Evert Taube albums.

‘He knew his stuff, that man,’ Stålhammar said with feeling. ‘Hell, there hasn’t been a decent song written in this country since Evert cashed in his chips.’

‘How long were you playing music for?’ Annika Carlsson asked.

‘Quite a while,’ Stålhammar said, looking at her in surprise. ‘It was one of those old vinyl things, an LP, and I suppose we played it through a couple times. “Old Highland Rover, a boat from Aberdeen, she lay off San Pedro and took on gasoline,” ’ Stålhammar sang quietly. ‘You hear how good he was, Carlsson? The words are still in there, like a comfy pair of shoes,’ he declared.

‘How long were you singing for?’ Bäckström asked.

‘Until some mad old crone knocked on the door and started shouting and yelling. I was standing in the living room listening to Evert, so I didn’t see her, but I couldn’t help hearing her, the way she was carrying on.’

‘What time was that?’ Bäckström persisted.

‘I haven’t got a clue,’ Stålhammar said, shrugging. ‘But I know what time it was when I got home and called Marja, because I looked at my watch first. You don’t want to call people in the middle of the night, after all.’

‘What time was that, then?’

‘Half past eleven, if I remember rightly,’ Stålhammar said. ‘I remember thinking that it was a bit too last-minute, but by then I’d got the idea in my head. So I plucked up courage and gave her a call. Mind you, I did a bit of private celebrating at home first. Had a bit left in the cupboard, and I suppose it must have been while I was drinking that I got the idea of heading down south.’

‘What time did you leave Danielsson, then?’ Bäckström said. How the hell do we check that last bit? he thought.

‘As soon as the old crone started shrieking I realized it was time to go home and get some sleep. So I said goodbye to Kalle and set off home. It couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes, allowing for a couple wrong turns on the way,’ Stålhammar said, smiling and shaking his head. ‘The party had fallen a bit flat, if I can put it like that, and Kalle had got the hump and had phoned the old woman who had been down shouting at us. He was standing there arguing with her when I left.’

‘Danielsson was on the phone shouting at his neighbor when you left?’ Bäckström repeated.

‘Exactly,’ Stålhammar agreed. ‘So it felt like the right time to head home for some peace and quiet.

‘God, it’s a wretched business,’ Stålhammar went on, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles again.

‘While I was lying there having sweet dreams about Marja, some mad bastard is breaking into Kalle’s and beating him to death.’

‘What makes you think someone broke in?’ Bäckström asked.

‘That’s what Flash said,’ Stålhammar said, looking in surprise first at Bäckström, then at Annika Carlsson. From what he had heard, the door of Kalle’s flat was hanging off its hinges. Some bastard had broken in and robbed him. Beaten him to death as he was lying there asleep.

‘When you left,’ Bäckström said, to change the subject, ‘do you remember if Kalle locked the door?’

‘He always did. Kalle was a cautious man,’ Stålhammar said. ‘Not that I gave it a second thought, but I’m absolutely sure he would have done. I used to tease him about it. The fact that he always locked himself in. I never use the safety lock when I’m at home.’

‘Was he afraid of anyone?’ Bäckström asked. ‘If he always locked the door?’

‘I suppose he didn’t want anyone to break in and steal his things. He had some valuable stuff, after all.’

‘Such as?’ Bäckström asked. He had been in the flat and had seen it in all its shabby glory. Here we go, he thought.

‘Well,’ Stålhammar said, and it looked like he was thinking hard. ‘His old record collection must have been worth quite a bit. And that desk he had, that was valuable.’

‘The one in his bedroom?’ Bäckström said. How the hell could anyone ever have lifted that? And how the hell could anyone like Stålhammar ever have made it into the police? he thought.

‘That’s the one.’ Stålhammar nodded. ‘Antiques. Kalle had a few things like that. Genuine old carpets, loads of really nice old things.’

‘I have a few problems with what you’re saying,’ Bäckström said. ‘When we found him, the door was unlocked and there were no signs of forced entry on it. From the inside you can lock it either with the key or the catch. From the outside you can only lock it with a key. When our colleagues got there it was wide open, but there were no marks on it. The forensics team think that when the culprit left he pulled the door shut behind him, but because the balcony door in the living room was ajar, the draft pulled the front door open again. How do you explain that?’

‘Explain?’ Stålhammar said in surprise. ‘If that’s what forensics say, then it must be right. Don’t ask me what the hell I think about it. I’m an old detective. Not a forensics expert. Ask Pelle Niemi or one of his guys.’

‘My colleagues and I are working another line of thought,’ Bäckström said, with a nod toward Annika Carlsson. ‘We believe that Kalle Danielsson must have let the perpetrator in because it was someone he knew and trusted.’ Try that on for size, he thought.

‘You’re on the wrong track there, Bäckström,’ Stålhammar said, shaking his head. ‘Which one of our old friends would have any reason to murder Kalle?’

‘You don’t have any suggestions?’ Bäckström said. ‘I and my colleague Carlsson here were rather hoping you might have.’

‘Well, the only one of our old friends who I can think of would probably be Manhattan. From the old gang, I mean. He was the only one who had a grudge against Kalle.’

‘Manhattan? Manhattan as in New York?’

‘Hell, no,’ Stålhammar said. ‘As in that disgusting bloody drink made from whiskey and liqueur. How the hell could anyone ever get the idea of pouring liqueur into whiskey? Ought to be against the law.’

‘Manhattan,’ Bäckström repeated.

‘Manne Hansson,’ Stålhammar explained. ‘Known as Manhattan among his friends. Used to be a bartender at the old Carlton when he was still working. Could be a mean bastard when he’d had a few. He put some money into some company on Kalle’s advice and evidently it all went to hell. So he wasn’t happy.’

‘Manne Hansson,’ Bäckström repeated. ‘Where can we get hold of him, then?’

‘That won’t be so easy, I’m afraid,’ Roland Stålhammar said with a smile. ‘Your best bet is Solna Cemetery. Apparently his kids scattered his ashes in the memorial grove there to keep costs down.’

‘And when was that?’ Bäckström said. What have I done to deserve this? he thought.

‘A fuck of a long time ago,’ Stålhammar said. ‘Must be a good ten years, if you ask me.’

‘There’s one thing I’m wondering, Roland,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘You used to be one of us, so you know as much about the whole business of checking phone records as I do.’

‘I can still remember a few of the old tricks,’ Stålhammar agreed, looking self-conscious.

‘When you left Kalle Danielsson he was on the phone shouting at his neighbor. We’ve checked that call. He made it just before ten-thirty. Then you say you walked home and that it took you something like ten minutes. Which would mean that you got home at about twenty to eleven.’

‘That makes sense,’ Stålhammar said with a nod.

‘Then you say you called your friend in Malmö at half past eleven or so.’

‘Yes, I’m sure of that. Because I looked at the time just before I called. Didn’t want to call too late, like I said.’

‘So what did you do before that? You get home at twenty to eleven, and call her at half past eleven. That’s fifty minutes. Almost an hour. So what were you doing?’

‘I told you,’ Stålhammar said with a look of surprise.

‘In that case I must have forgotten,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Would you care to jog my memory?’

‘I had a drop or two left in the cupboard. And I had something to celebrate, so I started by drinking that. Then I called Marja. And, well, I suppose the blood started to flow a bit while I was sitting there having a little drink,’ Stålhammar said with a crooked smile.

‘Fifty minutes,’ Annika Carlsson repeated, exchanging a quick glance with Bäckström.

‘Must have been a fairly serious drop,’ Bäckström said.

‘Don’t be like that, Bäckström,’ Stålhammar said. ‘I suppose I was just sitting there thinking about things.’

‘On a completely different subject,’ Bäckström said, ‘do you happen to remember if Kalle Danielsson had a briefcase or attaché case? One of those smart ones, leather, brass locks?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Stålhammar said, nodding. ‘Light brown leather. A proper director’s briefcase. The last time I saw it was when I was there to eat with him, the evening before he got murdered. I definitely saw it.’

‘You definitely saw it?’ Bäckström said. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘He’d put it on top of the television,’ Stålhammar said. ‘In the living room where we were eating. A fucking weird place to put a briefcase. Okay, I haven’t got a briefcase like that, but if I did, I don’t think I’d put it on top of the television. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s missing,’ Bäckström said.

‘Oh,’ Stålhammar said with a shrug. ‘It was there when I left. It was still on top of the television.’

‘When we got there the next morning it was gone,’ Bäckström said. ‘You haven’t got any ideas about where it might have got to?’

‘Come on, Bäckström, give it up!’ Stålhammar said, glaring at him with his deep-set eyes.

‘I think we’ll take a break now,’ Bäckström said, nodding toward his colleague.

‘Fine by me,’ Stålhammar said. ‘I could do with going home and getting a shower.’

‘You’re probably going to have to give us a few more minutes, Roland,’ Annika Carlsson said with a friendly smile. ‘We’re going to have to have a word with the prosecutor before you get out of here.’

‘Okay,’ Roland Stålhammar said, shrugging.

One hour later the chief public prosecutor, Tove Karlgren, had decided to remand former detective inspector Roland Stålhammar in custody. Bäckström and Carlsson had persuaded her, and although there had been a fair amount of muttering she had eventually agreed with them. Stålhammar would have had plenty of time to beat Karl Danielsson to death and get rid of the clothes and so on while he was on his way home. He had a lot going against him, and there were still plenty of things to chase up. So he was justifiably suspected of murder, and while the investigating team checked what he had told them and searched his apartment, it was best for all involved if Stålhammar remained behind bars.

Just before Bäckström left for the day, Peter Niemi telephoned him. The first results from the National Forensics Lab about the bloodstained clothes had just come through on Niemi’s fax.

‘Danielsson’s blood,’ Bäckström said, as a statement of fact rather than a question.

‘Yep, no doubt about it,’ Niemi said.

But nothing that didn’t come from Danielsson himself, according to both the lab and Niemi. No fibers, no strands of hair, no fingerprints. There was a possibility that they might find some traces of DNA, but that would take longer to look into.

Who gives a fuck? Bäckström thought, calling for a taxi.