He Who Kills the Dragon

34.

When Bäckström got home from work it was already eight o’clock in the evening. He was in an excellent mood and had with him a half-empty liter of the finest Russian vodka. He and Nadja had consumed the other half in his office, in pursuit of the truth that could be found only at the bottom of the bottle.

The search continues, Bäckström thought, and as a first gesture he had gone into the kitchen and poured another large shot, then took a pilsner out of the fridge and made himself a sandwich with a lot of liver pâté and gherkin mayonnaise. He prepared a tray that he placed on the coffee table in front of the television. I must tell the Russian to take some pilsners to work, he thought.

Then he took off all his clothes and took a shower, then put on some deodorant and brushed his teeth. Often when he brushed his teeth he thought about his mother. It happened again this time, and he never really understood why. Ah, well, Bäckström thought calmly. He went and settled down on the sofa, turned on the television news to enjoy all the domestic and foreign horrors that had occurred over the past twenty-four hours, while partaking of his simple repast.

Then he must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up it was already two o’clock in the morning and someone was ringing his doorbell.

It must be that damn neighbor, who had probably finished all the drink he tricked him out of last week, Bäckström thought. He already knew what he was going to say. He could forget about buying any more, and if he tried to touch his Russian vodka he was a dead man.

It was his colleague, Annika Carlsson. Fully dressed and wide-awake, apparently.

‘I’m sorry if I woke you, Bäckström,’ she said. ‘But your phone is off and we don’t have your home number at work, so I decided to risk it and came round.’

‘No problem,’ Bäckström said. ‘I was about to get up anyway. I usually go for a run early in the morning.’ But you haven’t come round to get my phone number, have you? he thought.

‘I realize that you must be wondering—’

‘Don’t say anything,’ Bäckström said, interrupting her, raising his hand just to make his point.

‘I’m not stupid,’ he added. ‘Let me put some clothes on.’